They followed the arroyo along the hillside and found a horse trail leading up. They kept low to the ground and tried to stay as quiet as possible, stopping often to listen.

It took them about fifteen minutes to traverse the distance. They reached the blacktopped area where Tess had first seen Michael’s expensive Fisker Karma. It must be garaged now. Jaimie Wolfe’s ranch truck was parked closest to the gate. Poole and his hostage hadn’t been here long.

They worked their way toward the side of the house. The only noise was the sound of crickets. A bat fluttered past them and dipped down into the pool and up. Tess saw low decorative lights at intervals through the sparse mesquite limbs. They followed a dirt path along the ridge, lighted occasionally from recessed lamps set into the low wall of the pool area. The pool reflected the lights from the house. Across the way, screened by a garden and a royal palm, the guest house was dark. Tess wondered if Michael’s estranged wife and children were in residence. It was a little early to be asleep. They might be out somewhere.

They duckwalked along the desert side of the house and under a massive eucalyptus tree. Two windows were lighted on the far end, casting rectangles of light on the bushes and cactus. There was a space of about two and a half feet below the window, so they crawled under, careful of the thorns. They reached the corner and followed that around. No windows on that side. On the far side was an entrance—locked, and a porch overlooked the city lights. They went from dirt to flagstone paving and came upon a kitchen entrance. Tess checked the door: unlocked.

She looked at Moran and he looked at her. She tilted her chin in the direction of the city, and he gave her a curt nod: they would wait for SWAT.

They followed the porch around to the garden entrance, with steps down to the pool.

The house had been large for its time but not by modern standards. The buildings followed the profile of the ridge. Everything was quiet. No movement across the long pool area or at the guest house. The wife’s house was still dark. Tess hoped she was gone.

The only sound was the hum of the pool filter. The adobe walls to the house were probably two feet thick.

They circled the house again. Heard voices from one of the rooms on the east side.

Getting louder. Garbled. Angry?

Tess and Moran looked at each other. Weapons at the ready, drawn and at their sides.

“Possible cause.” It had been a joke, but now it wasn’t.

Then they heard a crash, echoing through the thick walls—

A gunshot.

They couldn’t wait. They were going in.

CHAPTER 53

Michael had been in his study looking at his bank accounts online when he heard a door open and close.

He almost called out Martin’s name.

But Martin had wanted to go to a show at the convention center in downtown Tucson, and Michael hadn’t felt like it. He was too tied up in knots. He looked at his watch. The show had only been going for about thirty-five minutes—no way it could be Martin unless he decided not to go at all.

He thumbed his phone and tapped in Martin’s number.

“How’s the show?” he asked when Martin answered.

“It’s okay. The production values need some work—”

“Something’s come up,” Michael said. “Got to go.”

He kept quiet, his ear tuned to the front door. It was the front door. Jaimie knew the combination to the keypad by heart. Maybe Poole had been lying. Maybe Jaimie was fine, and maybe she’d run here so he could protect her.

But he didn’t think so.

He could feel his stomach tighten. Could almost feel his organs shrink, as if they were clenched in gelid fingers—fingers of the dead. Blood seemed to race from his extremities, and adrenaline poured through him. An electric river of fear.

He’d never been afraid before.

Even when his father raped him.

Even when, a couple of times, he thought someone might catch on to what they were doing. There was always that danger of slipping up. Which made it scary, but also fun.

But now he knew that the man called Wade Poole was in the house. He had Jaimie and he was creeping around, looking. Opening doors—he heard one creak—and coming his way. Seeing the light under the door. The light to his office.

Part of him yelled Run!

But he was no coward. He’d killed people and watched the light die in their eyes. He wasn’t going to run now.

Not many people could summon up the wherewithal to kill. He was one of them. He could look in someone’s eyes and kill them—and enjoy it.

He got up slowly. His Ruger .44 was in the locked drawer of his desk. He got the key out and wriggled it into the lock. Had trouble with it. Felt the first stirrings of panic. His hands weren’t shaking, exactly, just a little tremor—

The door burst open.

Of course he hadn’t locked it.

And there was Jaimie—her face a white fright mask, mascara running down her cheeks. Looking like she’d been unearthed out of a fresh grave. Like a zombie. His sister, the zombie.

All these thoughts ribboned through his mind, and he saw the black hole of a very-large-caliber gun. Pointed right at his face.

And he saw the man behind the gun. The man who held Jaimie as if she were a rag doll. The man was strong, brutish, and stupid.

Stupid.

Like a guy who fell off the proverbial turnip truck.

An ox.

A rancher type, the kind Jaimie fucked. Blue work shirt. White straw cowboy hat. Round face. Sunburn. Blue eyes. Local yokel grin. Graying blond hair.

Except his eyes were like blue marbles. Cold.

Suddenly, it occurred to him that he might have underestimated the man.

He understood that when the man shoved Jaimie facedown on the desk and pushed the gun muzzle into her hair.

Smiling as he did it.

“Here’s how it’s gonna go, friend.”

He was the cowboy he’d seen outside the general store. The Okie.

“I’m gonna kill her right in front of you. It’s gonna make a big mess. This is a large-caliber weapon. She’ll blow chunks and so will you. She’s gonna mess up the nice finish on your desk. All that blood’ll soak into the grain. Now I know you’re not afraid of blood or killing. But you’re gonna see her close up, and then, being human nature and all, you’ll picture what you’ll look like. Just remember, friend, dead’s forever. There’s now, and then there’s nothing.”

Michael steeled himself. “Go ahead and kill her.”

“Look, bud, all I want is you to wire that money to my account. You can do it in two minutes tops. Don’t you care about your sister at all?”

“No.”

He shook his head. “Okay, then.”

And he pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER 54

Tess checked the kitchen door—unlocked. She said, “I’ll go low right. You go high left, okay?”

“Roger.”

They took their positions on either side of the door, weapons at the ready. Moran’s pointing to the left, Tess’s to the right. Moran turned the knob and pushed the door open with his foot.

Nothing greeted them.

The shot had come from the right. Moran went left, Tess went right, and they cleared the rooms immediately in front of them. Tess, the kitchen, Moran, the parlor. They zeroed in on the room where they’d heard the shot.

Noise—a commotion—someone banging into furniture, the screech of wood against tile, and then the loud shock of something repeatedly hitting the floor.

Michael’s study.

The sound of a gourd breaking. Again and again.

The door was open and Tess could see a woman’s body sprawled facedown over the desk, blood oozing out from under her head, a clot of it burrowed into her slightly upturned cheek.

Long dark hair with blonde highlights.

Jaimie.

But the horror was so much worse. Michael DeKoven was crawling on his hands and knees, his head a bloody mess. A man in Wrangler jeans and a blue denim shirt bent over him, slamming his head repeatedly into the floor.