The silence in the room went thick.

“Delaney.”

She swallowed, struggled to tuck away the unfamiliar tide of emotion that threatened to flood her. It was so much easier not to feel at all, to avoid feelings that brought pain more often than anything else. How had she forgotten that? And why?

Slowly, she met his gaze.

“I can go.”

It’d be better if he did. Better if they both had time to recall all the reasons this was to be kept casual. Emotionless.

But the thought of sending him out that door, alone, didn’t leave her feeling casual or emotionless. Whatever the cost, she realized, she’d made her choice the first night she’d slept with him. All she could do was hope that the cost wouldn’t be too great. “I want you to stay.”

His dark gaze searched hers, but when she went to him, smoothed her hands over the bunched muscles in his shoulders, the tension seemed to seep away.

He pulled her closer, spread one large palm on her bottom while his other hand slipped under her shirt. “You sure?”

Already desire was trumping doubt. A thousand tiny flames flickered to life beneath the skin where he touched her. She pressed her lips against his and whispered, “No. But I’m willing to be convinced.”

“I told you before, I’m done talking to you.” Mary Barlow raised her chin mutinously, but her gaze kept darting beyond Joe to the street in front of her motel.

“And I told you I know you were lying about not being aware of Oree’s activities. You were there when many of his drug transactions went down. I’ve got people who will testify to that. Makes you an accessory, Mary. I can charge you with that.”

She licked her lips, and for a moment he almost felt sorry for her. The days since he’d last seen her had not been kind to the woman. She looked as if she hadn’t slept, and it was obvious someone had used her for a punching bag. Her lip was split and there was a multi-colored bruise beneath one eye.

“Do what you gotta do.” Her attempt at bravado fell flat. “I don’t believe you can get anyone to testify. They’re all just as scared as I am.”

Interest piqued he leaned forward. “Who are they afraid of, Mary? The same person who did that to your face?”

“I ran into a door,” she muttered.

“Must have had a fist attached to it. You could file a report, you know. Whoever did that could be brought in and charged.”

She made a derisive sound. “As if you guys could get anything to stick to him. His daddy’s money would have him on the street in an hour and an hour after that I’d be dead.”

Stunned, Joe just stared at her for a moment. “Are you saying Graywolf did that to you?”

“I’m done talking. Didn’t have anything to say to you last time, but that didn’t stop me from getting this.” She fingered the bruise beneath her eye.

Adrenaline spiked through him. “If you’ve got information about Brant Graywolf we can protect you. If you just tell me what you know, I can make sure…”

“No one can be protected from Brant.” A car driving by seemed to spook her, and she bolted by him, heading for her vehicle. “If you don’t believe me, ask those three kids they found a few weeks back.” She yanked open her door but before she got inside she sent him a bitter smile. “Oh, that’s right. You can’t. They’re dead.”

“They’re waiting for you in the captain’s office.”

Joe looked from Vicki Smith to the area she indicated, but the blinds covering the office window were closed. “Any idea what’s going on?”

Vicki shook her head, the action sending her brunette bob swaying. “All I know is someone from Border Patrol walked in asking for you, and five minutes later Captain was telling me to get on the radio, and get you in here.”

Border Patrol? Joe immediately thought of Bernie Silversmith, and his step quickened. Maybe he’d discovered something about the tread he’d faxed him.

But the man with Tapahe wasn’t Bernie Silversmith. He was a white man, short, balding and stocky, with a permanently rosy complexion. Ruddy skin met pale in a horizontal dissection across his broad forehead, where constant hat-wearing had protected his scalp.

“Joe.” Tapahe greeted him. “This is Border Patrol Supervisor Clint Dawson.” Dawson rose. He had a white man’s handshake, firm, held a trifle too long, as opposed to the Navajo preferred manner of only a light touching of the hands. “I spoke to Bernie Silversmith about you. He says you’re a good cop.”

Joe lifted a shoulder. “He has to say that. He still owes me money from the last time we played poker.”

Dawson smiled briefly. “I’ll remind him of that the next time I see him.” He reseated himself. “Bernie posted that tread you’d faxed him on an interagency Web bulletin board and it drew some immediate interest. I was just telling your captain here that we’ve run across that same tread a couple dozen times in the last few years.”

“Have you matched it to a make and model?”

The man’s blue eyes glinted. “We’ve done better than that. We’ve gotten a description of the vehicle it belongs to. A 1998 Econoline four-wheel drive van that’s been seen in the vicinity of known crossing points. The coyote smuggles the illegals across the border on foot, the van picks them up and they vanish.”

Joe digested the bit of news. “Coyotes,” or guides who took money from people wishing to enter the United States illegally, were known for their ruthless cunning. With nearly two thousand miles of southern border for the Border Patrol to protect, they were too often successful at finding ways to get their clients across. It wasn’t uncommon to hear of the guides taking the money and then beating or killing their customers. “When you say they vanish…”

Dawson looked grim. “I mean their families never hear from them again. We haven’t found any bodies. They just disappear. The Mexican government has looked into it, but they haven’t found any unidentified remains, either.”

“A coyote wouldn’t take them over the border, just to kill illegals here,” Joe interjected. “So what does that leave? Slavery?” It was one thing for the criminals to take a few thousand dollars for sneaking people into the country. It was quite another to bring them in and then hand them over to human traffickers to be exploited in the sex trade, farm fields or as household labor.

“Possibly. And there have always been coyotes offering reduced fees for clients willing to act as mules. But in the last year we’ve been hearing of one getting the illegals to carry loads of a purified form of crystal ice purchased from a cartel down there. And the last time we saw that tread, we found traces of ice at the crossing nearby.” Dawson shrugged. “Right now that’s all we’ve got.”

Excitement rose, simmered. This was the connection, finally, to Quintero, Graywolf and Lee. Joe could feel it. He remembered the bottled water, blankets and food wrappers that had littered the cave. Exactly what would be needed to hide a bunch of illegals until the next stage of their journeys. “Maybe it’s time to flag that syringe as a priority,” he said to the captain. He was willing to bet that they’d find traces of Rohypnol or some other tranquilizer used to render the aliens helpless before transporting them to their captors.

“You read my mind,” Tapahe replied. “I’ll call the lab. You contact the other members of the task force and see how quickly you can get them here.”

The table around the conference room was crowded, despite it being a Sunday evening. John Honani, the Hopi DEA agent, sat silently amidst the buzz in the room. FBI agent Delmer Mitchell was trying, unsuccessfully, to add creamer to his coffee without it splashing on his stained suit. Dawson was back, along with Manny Lopez, a Customs Service supervisor coordinating that agency’s cooperating officers. Quentin Tarken was another fed, apparently working with Mitchell. Joe had never met him before.