Kidnapped

CHAPTER 1

Tuesday, May 9

8:07 A.M.

FLETCHER GRAPHIC DESIGN

LAS PIERNAS

CLEO SMITH firmly believed that neatness counted, especially if you were going to get away with murder. Which was why she now stood completely naked, save for a pair of plastic booties and a pair of thin rubber gloves, in the office of the man she had just killed.

She calmly gathered the clothing she had worn to do the job and placed it in a plastic bag, along with the trophy used as the weapon. The trophy was a heavy, curving metal shape, about ten inches in height. An award her victim, Richard Fletcher, had won for excellence as a graphic artist.

A second bag contained the hypodermic needle she had used in the first few moments of the proceedings. To this bag she added the gloves.

She placed both bags inside a large canvas duffel. This she took with her as she went back to the studio area, admiring but not touching the works in progress in the large, open room. She walked quickly past the windows (blinds closed at this hour) and into the bathroom off the back of the studio.

Richard had designed everything about this office and studio, including the full bathroom and changing area. He had needed a place where he could clean up and change clothes before meeting clients or heading home for the day. This worked admirably for her purposes as well. Taking her own soap, shampoo, and towels from the duffel, she stepped into the shower. She removed the booties, placing them in the plastic bag that held the gloves and needle. She turned on the water, unfazed by the initial coldness of it, and began to cleanse off the inevitable biological debris that resulted from the chosen method of murder. Soon the water warmed. She leaned into the hard spray.

She did not fear interruption. Richard had been a free spirit in many ways, but his days followed a set, personally defined routine. His first three hours of the workday never included any appointments, and he was known for not answering the phone during those hours. She had placed a portable locking and alarm device on the front door, just in case. She had altered it slightly-if someone should try to get past it, it wouldn’t screech the kind of high-decibel alarm that would draw unwanted attention. Instead, a remote, much quieter but audible alarm would sound in her nearby bag.

She scrubbed her long, lean, and muscular body. She prided herself on her peak physical condition. Her light brown hair was no more than half an inch long anywhere on her head; she had completely depilated the rest of her body. Her breasts were small-she would readily agree that she was flat-chested, had anyone had the nerve to say so to her face. Her nails were cut very short.

She was proud of the fact that she could easily imitate a male gait or stance, and with the slightest bit of disguise could fool anyone who was not a trained and attentive observer that she was male. With almost equal ease, she could signal femininity. These were just a few of her gifts.

She contemplated the murder, trying to identify any imperfections. One of the highest priorities had been that the victim feel no pain.

He had certainly not felt the blows that killed him. The last sensation he had known while conscious was most likely bewilderment. Perhaps a little stinging at the time of the injection, but there had been so little time for Richard to react before the drug took effect, he did not register much more than surprise. And maybe a bit of dismay.

Cleo Smith frowned and silently conceded that there were moments of anxiety-he did try so hard to move toward the door and did manage to say, “Jenny.” Cleo had tried to calm him, but of course, at that point, he mistrusted her. Belatedly mistrusted her.

Still, he was unable to give more than minor resistance as Cleo steered him back to the desk. A second wave of worry came over Richard just after that, but the drug took full effect-he passed out cold while trying to stand up. It was Richard’s final act of courtesy-there would be no need to reposition him.

So. Anxiety, to some degree, but not pain.

Cleo had made sure the blows demolished the point of injection. There was some chance that a toxicology report would be ordered, but even if the tests included the substance she used (highly unlikely), the result would not lead anyone back to her. The clothing she had worn during the murder did not belong to her.

Cleo stepped out of the shower and dried herself, put on a pair of men’s socks, then used a new set of towels-never before used by her-to wipe down every surface of the shower and anything she might have touched in here.

She dressed in a new set of male clothes. The towels went into the plastic bag with the needle, gloves, and booties. A few necessary moments were spent examining the scene, ensuring that only the appropriate evidence remained.

She checked the time. Another two hours before discovery would most likely take place. One should never, she knew, rely on everything going smoothly.

She retrieved her portable lock and alarm. One last look back at Richard. She said a silent good-bye and pulled the door shut. She locked it, using a key she had taken from Richard’s key ring. The clients would not expect to find the door locked at the time of their appointment. If they became angry rather than worried, and stormed off thinking Richard had forgotten their appointment, she would gain a little more lead time.

Eventually, though, the body would be discovered.

No time to linger. She had a busy day ahead of her.

Besides, she wanted a cigarette. She was not, in general, a smoker, but murder always made her want to light up.

She was perfectly aware of what a psychiatrist might have to say about that.

CHAPTER 2

Tuesday, May 9

9:05 A.M.

LAS PIERNAS

EXCUSE me, Dad,” Giles Fletcher said, and stood to take a cell phone call.

“That’s incredibly rude,” his sister Edith muttered.

Graydon Fletcher merely sat back in his soft, overstuffed armchair in the sunniest of the many rooms of his mansion, and considered the two adult, middle-aged children who were in his company now.

Through the French doors just opposite the chair, he could see one of the most beautiful gardens on his estate. Giles said, “Just a moment,” to his caller and stepped outside. He closed the door behind him, looking tense as he resumed his conversation.

Edith was the designer and keeper of the garden just beyond where Giles paced. Designer, Graydon thought, was not the right word. Originator, perhaps. The garden had been her idea.

A wild hodgepodge of plants, it was the children’s garden. Over the years of its existence, any of Graydon’s children, grandchildren, or great-grandchildren were free to plant a flower or a vegetable or any other plant they might choose, with very few restrictions to inhibit them: They could not harm another child’s plant, nor could they plant anything illegal or anything that might easily prove poisonous to the children and pets of the Fletcher family.

The children’s garden flourished in colorful chaos, a chaos that required more work of Edith than the estate’s more orderly gardens and greenhouse, and yet she never complained. To Graydon’s eye, plants that would have been viewed as rather unattractive on their own somehow added to the beauty of the whole. Edith, who neither had children of her own nor had adopted, gave the same loving care to each plant in this garden.

Graydon found her company restful.

Far more restful than that of his eldest son, Giles. Unusual to see him so agitated. Giles, so bright, so driven, capable of achieving anything to which he set his mind. Graydon knew that the family meant everything to Giles, but watching him now, he worried that Giles’s devotion was placing him under a strain.

“If he didn’t look so nervous, I’d swear he arranged that call to get out of his argument with you,” Edith said, setting aside a gardening magazine she had been pretending to read during that disagreement.

Graydon smiled. “I think Giles knows escape would not be so easy. He doesn’t get his way in everything, you know.”

She looked as if she might respond, then went back to her magazine.

Neither of them were his biological children. None of the twenty-one children whom he had embraced as his adopted sons and daughters, nor any of the uncountable others who had lived here over the years as foster children or on a less official basis, were his biological children.

Both Graydon and his late wife, Emma, had been the only children of wealthy parents. After Graydon and Emma married, in keeping with ideals they shared on the subjects of education and child welfare, they established an innovative private school-Fletcher Academy. The school was widely held to be the best private school in the area and ranked among the top five in the state. The Fletchers always made room within it for promising students who could not have otherwise afforded such an excellent education.

When Emma and Graydon Fletcher discovered they could not have children of their own, they became foster parents. Those children who stayed with them without the prospect of finding another home, they adopted. Others came to them less formally-children, Emma said, who had houses to live in, but not homes. Graydon and Emma showered them with affection and attention, listened to their worries and calmed their fears, taught them to care for one another when no one else might care for them. They challenged each child to discover his or her own talents and kept their lively family busy with projects and activities.

Children abandoned or labeled hopeless became achievers who learned the benefits of cooperating with others. No one could blame Graydon and Emma for their pride in them. Given the lost children of Las Piernas, they had returned successful leaders, business owners, and professionals. The Fletchers used their wealth and growing family connections to help these children find places in the world, to pursue dreams, to be of use.

The Fletchers had been amply repaid for their generosity, Graydon believed. While a few of his children had chosen to be independent of the family and settled elsewhere, most were in close contact with him and lived nearby. Every house on this street was now owned by one of his children. They took care of one another, helped one another with problems, invested in one another’s businesses. They generously donated to the academy, adopted children in addition to their own, took in foster children. Graydon smiled, thinking of how pleased his late wife would have been to see their dreams being carried forward.

After Emma died, he found he wanted to spend more time with his grandchildren and less with paperwork. He handed over the day-to-day administration of many of his business and charitable interests to his children. Which was why Giles was here now. Giles was in charge of Fletcher Academy.

Giles finished his call and continued to stand outside, looking at the garden. When he turned to come back in, he was frowning.

“Do sit down, Giles,” Graydon said as he reentered the room. “I hope you haven’t received any bad news?”

“No, no…just business.” He sat on the edge of a nearby chair. “It’s a busy day.”

“You’ve done great things for the academy. I hope you know how much I appreciate that.”

Giles seemed to relax a little. He looked at Graydon earnestly. “I am going to do so much more. As you know, in the last five years, the Fletcher Day School has helped us to identify preschoolers who are especially promising. That means that more and more students of the academy are going to be the best and brightest in the area, and when others see how well its graduates are doing, we’ll get the best students not just in Las Piernas or California, but in the nation.”

“Is that your goal?”

“That’s one goal. Don’t you see, Dad? We already have graduates who have become politicians, architects, CEOs, lawyers, doctors, researchers-”

“Gardeners,” Edith said dryly, earning a scowl from him.

Graydon smiled. “Yes, and construction workers, waitresses, plumbers-”

“Yes, yes. But more important-”

“My dear Giles, if you think a plumber is not important, I can only pray the pipes in that old house you’ve bought are in better shape than I imagine they are. What have I taught you?”

“That everyone is important, all jobs are important. And I agree. All I’m saying is that I want to help children whose potential would allow them to flourish if they were given the kind of education they can receive in our school.”

“Rich kids,” Edith said.

“Not at all!” Giles said, clearly stung. “That’s not the issue. The issue is the intelligence of the child, the child’s potential.” He paused. “And being poor isn’t a virtue. Some parents don’t deserve to have children. My own didn’t. My birth parents, I mean.”

Graydon stayed silent. Giles rarely talked about the years before he came to live with Emma and Graydon. Graydon hadn’t been sure that Giles remembered his childhood before he was brought to this house, forty years ago-a thin, bruised, frightened six-year-old.

“I think quite often,” Giles said, “of what my life would have been like if you hadn’t taken me in.” He paused, and seemed to shake off his mood. “You gave a fortune to your children, all to help them become better members of this society than they might have been on their own. But instead of going broke, the family is wealthier today than it was when you and Mom began. Because you offered those children a way to make the most of their potential, and they gave back to the family.”

“What concerns me, Giles,” Graydon said, “is that we are only catering to the best and the brightest these days. The late bloomer, the child of average ability, the child who needs extra help-those children seem no longer to be welcomed at the academy.”

“Dad, as great as our resources are, they aren’t unlimited. We have to focus.” He glanced at his watch.

“I promise I won’t keep you much longer,” Graydon said. “And since you seem to have the support of other members of the advisory board-Dexter, Nelson, Roy, and the others-I’m not going to interfere with how you run the school. I simply wanted to ensure that you understood my position.”

Giles stood. “You know I respect you, Dad. I promise I’ll try to work something out that will make you happy.”

“Oh, I’m happy with you, son.” He also stood, and hugged Giles.

Giles was almost to the door when Graydon said, “Oh, one other thing…”

Giles looked back over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“About Caleb, Richard’s son.”

He saw Giles’s back stiffen, and the color drain from his face. “Yes?”

“I understand that one reason Richard stopped having contact with us a few years ago is that he felt pressure to send Caleb to the academy.”

Giles shot a quick, angry look at Edith, then said, “I gave up trying to talk Richard into that a long time ago. Caleb is in a public high school now, where I’m sure he’s getting an inadequate education, but that was Richard’s choice to make.”

“Edith,” Graydon said, “why would Giles think you told me something about that?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I always figured Richard simply got tired of Nelson mooning over his wife.”

Giles said, “I don’t have time for an old maid’s nasty remarks,” and left.

Edith smiled and went back to her magazine.

CHAPTER 3

Tuesday, May 9

1:25 P.M.

LAS PIERNAS

CALEB was in his chemistry class, believing at that moment that his biggest problem was how to keep his friends from guessing that he was getting an A in this subject. And every other class he was taking. Thankfully, his brother Mason let Caleb hang out with him just enough to keep Caleb’s friends in awe. Mason was an artist and a musician in a popular local band, and five years older than Caleb. Caleb never let on that Mason was as strict and protective of him as his parents were.

He saw Mrs. Thorndike’s gaze fall upon him, and knew she would call on him and that he’d either have to answer or feign ignorance, when a skinny redheaded girl came into the room.

The girl stiffened at the smell the room got from the experiments, then glanced around until she saw Caleb.

“Yes?” Mrs. Thorndike said testily, drawing the girl’s attention from him-for which he was grateful, because it had been an unsettling look. A look of pity-but why? The girl handed his teacher a slip of paper, glanced at Caleb again, blushed, and hurried out of the room.

Mrs. Thorndike read the note, then walked over to Caleb and quietly told him that he needed to report to the office.

“Don’t stop anywhere along the way,” she said.

He was puzzled but grabbed his backpack even as his friends laughed and hooted and made remarks like “Yes, Fletcher!” as if he had achieved something great.

“Shut up, you idiots!” Mrs. Thorndike told them sharply, which wasn’t like her at all, and everyone fell silent, probably more out of shock than desire to obey.

ALL the time he walked across the campus, he argued with himself. He had done nothing wrong, had nothing to worry about. It was probably just Mom coming by to give him an assignment he’d left at home. Or asking him to stay home this afternoon and watch Jenny, his three-year-old sister. Or, to loan her his car, because hers wouldn’t start.

Then he remembered the way that redheaded girl looked at him.

Just a mistake, he told himself. He didn’t get called to the office. It just never happened.

Don’t stop anywhere along the way.

Why did Mrs. Thorndike say that?

THE moment he stepped through the door, the people in the office were giving him pitying looks. He went cold. Mr. Rogers, the principal-students hummed “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” behind his back-met him at the front desk and asked him to come back with him to his office, please.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re not in trouble, Caleb.”

Caleb didn’t feel much relieved by that. When he got to the interior office, the principal opened the door but didn’t go into the room with him. Two men waited there. One was a stranger, who stood just inside the door. The other was seated, and Caleb recognized him immediately, although his presence only increased Caleb’s puzzlement.

What was Uncle Nelson doing here?

In the next instant, he saw that Uncle Nelson was crying-sobbing, really. That made Caleb feel kind of dizzy. It was like seeing your house on someone else’s street-familiar, but out of place.

“What is it?” he heard himself ask.

“Are you Caleb Fletcher?” the other man said.

Caleb turned to look at him. He was tall. Taller than Caleb, who was five-eleven and still growing. The man had short brown hair and regarded Caleb steadily from gray-green eyes. He was as calm as Uncle Nelson was upset. Something in his calmness quieted the riot of questions and anxieties in Caleb’s head.

“Yes, I’m Caleb. Who are you?”

“I’m Detective Frank Harriman. I’m with the Las Piernas Police Department. Why don’t you have a seat?”

“No thanks.” His palms were sweating, and he felt an urgent desire to escape the room, because he knew that whatever was coming wasn’t going to be good. He found himself watching this big cop, waiting, somehow knowing the answers would come from him.

Harriman said quietly, “I’m so sorry, Caleb. There’s no easy way to tell you this. Your father died at his studio this morning.”

His voice was calm and sincere, but the words made no sense.

“Died?” Caleb said, thinking back to breakfast early this morning, his dad alive and well. No. He wasn’t dead.

Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.

“Murdered!” Uncle Nelson choked out.

“What?” Caleb felt the room spin. “No-there’s some mistake-”

“Your dad and Jenny, too!” Uncle Nelson said.

“Jenny…?” None of this made sense.

Harriman quickly said, “Your sister is missing, so it is far too early to jump to any conclusions about what has happened to her.”

Caleb’s mind rapidly issued refusals, denying that any of this could be true. He made himself ask, “What happened to my dad?”

“Some sick fuck beat him to death!” Uncle Nelson shouted.

Caleb got that dizzy feeling again. Beat him to death? No…Think of something else! Why was Uncle Nelson here, and not his mom? Oh, she must be telling Mason. Or looking for Jenny…

Detective Harriman said, “Mr. Fletcher, please.”

Uncle Nelson buried his face in his hands.

Harriman put a hand on Caleb’s shoulder, watched him for a moment, and said, “Maybe you should sit down. Why don’t I get you a glass of water?”

“Thank you,” Caleb said, feeling as if he had stumbled into the wrong room after all, that any moment now the red-haired girl would come by to guide him out of this impossible universe.

The chair was close to Uncle Nelson’s, and his uncle pulled him into a rough hug. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say…Oh, Caleb…” But the rest was lost in heaving sobs. As Caleb felt the force of his uncle’s distress, something in his own mind started to accept how possible this universe was after all.

When Detective Harriman came back, Caleb still hadn’t completely found his way out of disbelief.

“Who did it? Who hurt my dad?” Hurt. That sounded better.

“We’re working on the answer to that,” Harriman said.

“You don’t know? You haven’t arrested anyone?”

“It’s very early on in the investigation.”

Caleb took a drink of the water. Somehow he managed to swallow it.

“My dad…no one would want to hurt him. He’s a graphic artist, for God’s sake. He never hurt anyone. He’s good to everyone. He’s always helping people, he’s…he’s…no one would want to hurt him.”

“Do you have any idea where your brother is?” the detective asked.

“Half brother,” Uncle Nelson murmured.

“Pardon?” Harriman asked.

“Technically, Mason is my half brother,” Caleb said, feeling irritated. “But I call him my brother.”

“So do you know where he is?”

“Isn’t Mom telling Mason? I thought that might be why-” He glanced at Uncle Nelson.

“No,” Harriman said. “No, she doesn’t know where he is, either. She’s working with the detectives who have charge of this case. I’m just helping them out. They’re doing all they can to locate your sister and your brother. We want to make sure everyone else in the family is safe. We’re hoping Jenny is with him.”

“Yes!” Caleb said, latching on to this. “Yes, he might have stopped by the studio and taken her so that Dad could get some work done.”

“That’s what your mom thought, too. So you don’t know where he might have taken her?”

Caleb named some places-the park, an ice-cream place, a beach-and Detective Harriman wrote them down but said, “I think these were on your mom’s list, too. Can you think of any other places? Maybe ones your mom wouldn’t think of?”

Caleb frowned but shook his head.

“Friends that he might be hanging out with?”

Caleb shook his head again. “He never takes Jenny around to his friends’ places. He’d never do that. He’s like-you know, protective of her.”

Detective Harriman wrote that down, which Caleb thought was a strange thing to write. Uncle Nelson reached over and patted Caleb’s hand. Caleb pulled his hand away.

Uncle Nelson wasn’t crying so hard now, he noticed.

Caleb wondered why he wasn’t crying himself. What was wrong with him?

Because this isn’t happening, he told himself. This is not happening.

Detective Harriman asked a few more questions and then asked Caleb if he needed to go to his locker for anything.

He felt an urge to lie and say yes, just to flee the room, to get as far away as possible. But he said, “No, not really.”

Harriman’s pager went off, and the detective silenced it and read the display. He excused himself and stepped out into the hall to make a call on his cell phone. To Caleb’s relief, Uncle Nelson didn’t try to converse.

When Harriman came back in, he said, “Your mom’s back home now, so if you’re ready to go, I’ll give you and your uncle a ride there.”

“But my car-”

“Probably best to come back and pick it up later.”

Caleb didn’t argue. His resistance was failing him, leaving him hollow and numb. He didn’t want to try to drive.

Caleb worried about his uncle Nelson as they walked. When they got to Detective Harriman’s sedan, Harriman opened the door on the passenger’s side of the front seat. But Uncle Nelson ignored him and got into the back. Feeling awkward, Caleb sat up front.

“Are you okay back there, Uncle Nelson?” Caleb said, but his uncle didn’t answer him. He seemed lost in thought.

As they drove away from the school, Caleb turned to the detective. “Are you sure…” he started to say, then fell silent.

“That it’s your dad?” Harriman asked. “The coroner’s office will make absolutely certain, but in the meantime, your mom has identified the victim as your father.”

After another silence, Caleb said, “Can I see him?”

“Not just now, but maybe later.”

“I need to see him.”

Harriman hesitated, then said, “Your mom will have to make that decision. She seems like someone who would understand why it’s important to you.”

Why can’t I cry? Caleb wondered, disturbed by the thought and yet half-relieved that he wasn’t losing control in front of this stranger.

Caleb looked back at his uncle, who was still staring out at nothing in particular.

“Why did you bring Uncle Nelson?” he whispered to Harriman.

“You’re a minor. Your mom agreed that I could come by to pick you up and talk to you in your uncle’s presence.”

Something in that confused him, but everything was confusing and out of place. His dad was dead. One moment he felt certain it was true, the next moment that there had been some fuckup on the part of the police. Let it be a mistake. I won’t be mad at anyone. I’ll forgive anyone anything. That’s okay. Just let my dad be alive…

He wanted the car to stop so that he could get out. He didn’t want to go anywhere. Stop right here, he wanted to say.

“You okay?” Harriman asked.

He shook his head.

“Feeling sick? You want me to pull over for a minute?”

Now that it had been offered to him, he suddenly didn’t want it. He needed to know. He shook his head again.

Harriman asked him questions about school, and Caleb answered knowing the detective was just trying to distract him, but appreciating it even so. The man was just…calm. A kind of calm that made Caleb feel a little steadier, too.

“I wish you were in charge of the case,” Caleb said.

Harriman smiled a little. “Thanks. But the detectives who have it are good at what they do, and they’ll have lots of help. You’ll like them.”

“But if I need to talk to you?”

Harriman pulled out a business card and handed it to him. “Any time, day or night.”

They turned down his street and the whole neighborhood looked incredibly normal, which didn’t seem right. Harriman pulled to the curb in front of Caleb’s house. Two sedans that looked a lot like the one Detective Harriman drove were parked in front. Uncle Nelson’s car was in the driveway, next to his mom’s. I have to be strong for Mom, he thought. She’ll need me to take care of her.

“No press yet, so at least you don’t have to cope with that,” Harriman said.

Caleb went into the house. He saw his mom rise to her feet from where she had been sitting with two other detectives, saw her trying so hard to be brave for him, and suddenly, of all the rotten times, he began to weep as if he were two instead of seventeen.

CHAPTER 4

Wednesday, May 10

12:03 A.M.

LAS PIERNAS

THE call came later than expected. The interior of the car parked on the hill and the silhouette of its lone occupant were dimly illuminated as the cell phone rang.

Dexter Fletcher let the disposable cell phone ring three times.

It never did any good to rush these things. He thought of the three brothers he was closest to in the Fletcher family, pictured them in this same situation. Giles would have waited, perhaps even forced a second call. Nelson would have answered in the middle of the first ring-although he doubted she had ever called Nelson. Roy? One never knew what Roy would do.

“Yes?” Dexter answered. “Remember-”

“The line is not secure. I know.” Cleo was always so sure of herself.

“The situation?”

“Just as you wished.”

He sighed. “Not exactly…wished.”

“No, of course not. But…taken care of.”

“Thank you. Any trouble?”

“I could hardly describe it on a cell phone, now, could I?”

He waited.

“Sorry. Long day,” she said.

“Yes, it has been. For all of us. Someday I’ll have to tell you where-”

“No names or places,” she said sharply.

“Yes. Thanks. Anyway, after I was sure you were on your way, I made my call, and you’ll never believe where he was. Apparently, he was summoned this morning. Rather unnerving.”

She laughed. He had known it would amuse her.

“So,” he said, “your report is all we lack.”

“In my opinion, as you know, we took an unnecessary risk here, and I object to not…completely settling the issue. But I followed your instructions. It’s damned cold, though, so I may get my own way after all. It would be easier on everyone.”

“You may be right. But thank you for indulging us.”

“No problem. Where would I be without you?”

“Likewise. See you soon.”

Dexter sat staring out at the city lights for a good ten minutes after the call ended. He felt a mixture of weariness and exhilaration.

Cleo was so good at her work. Really, he had nothing to worry about.

He started the car and drove home carefully. He couldn’t afford an accident. There was much yet to be done.

CHAPTER 5

Wednesday, May 10

1:10 A.M.

SAN BERNARDINO MOUNTAINS

THREE months and seventeen days.

San Bernardino County Deputy Sheriff Tadeo Garcia had been saying this to himself throughout his shift. Three months and seventeen days from now, no more putting up with the bullshit. He’d retire and get out of this cruiser. Out of these mountains. He could feel the cold and damp in his bones. At home, down in Redlands, his wife was probably running the A/C. She would have the windows open, at the very least. Up here, it was damp and foggy and he was freezing his huevos off.

At this stage of his career, Tadeo had hoped to be sitting behind a desk and not a steering wheel. Which only went to show that you could piss off a supervisor at any point in time. The union rep said they were working on it.

Right. What the hell. If he was careful, he should be okay. And for the most part, his assignment, cruising around these roads in this mountain resort area, wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.

He tried to think of warm places he would be spending his time in after he retired. He smiled. Probably at home, fixing up the place-his wife already had a list. Hell, she always had a list. That was okay. She’d put up with a lot over the years.

A strange light in the trees caught his attention. Headlamps, at the wrong angle.

If its headlights hadn’t been left on, he might not have noticed the car, down in a ditch just off a private road. At first Tadeo figured this was just another moron who had partied a little too much and gotten himself lost up here. Happened all the time. People came to these mountain resorts, thought they were out on the frontier or something, went crazy. Idiot was lucky his wrong turn had just taken him into a ditch off a private road and not over a cliff. Foggy night like this-had to be nuts. Now, to see if the fool had injured or killed himself.

He lit up the patrol car’s spotlight and got a better look. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. He checked the plate number-sure enough, it was the one. He called in to let everybody know that he had just found the car that had been searched for in seven counties. The one that might reveal what had happened to the missing family members. He manipulated the spotlight so that its bright beam shone into the interior of the car. He was disheartened to notice that the driver was slumped over the wheel and not responding to the sudden light. Tadeo quickly became more concerned-Jesus, on a damp night when it was barely forty degrees out and the temperature was dropping, was the kid naked? Tadeo, still in radio contact, let them know there might be need of medical assistance; the dispatcher verified that paramedics were on the way. He hoped the kid wasn’t hurt badly-they’d never be able to send a chopper with this fog.

Cautiously but quickly, he approached the vehicle, coming at it from behind the passenger side. It was a little difficult getting to it, since it was resting at an angle in the ditch.

The kid was wearing nothing but white boxers and socks. He didn’t move. Tadeo let his flashlight play over the interior of the car. No one else in it. A bottle of expensive scotch lay on the floor on the passenger’s side, open and mostly empty.

The doors were unlocked; he moved around to the driver’s-side door and opened it. He was immediately struck by the smell of alcohol. The kid reeked of it. Tadeo remembered the names from the bulletin-Mason and Jenny. He called “Mason?” several times, but the young man was unresponsive. Tadeo touched a bare shoulder. Mason’s skin was ice cold. Dead? No-he touched the boy’s neck and found a pulse, and could see now that he was breathing, but neither sign of life seemed likely to last. Tadeo sent in a second call, confirming the need for an ambulance. The dispatcher connected him with the desk sergeant, who quickly passed him along to a captain, for God’s sake, who asked him a few quick questions about where he was and what he was seeing, then told him to get a blanket for the kid and then start looking for the little girl.

Tadeo kept calling, “Jenny?” in a loud voice as he made his way back to the cruiser. He hurried back with a blanket and wrapped it around the kid as best he could. Mason didn’t even moan. He thought of starting the car up and turning on the heater, and reached for the keys, but they weren’t in the ignition.

He played the flashlight around again but didn’t see them. A horrible thought occurred to Tadeo. He felt a renewed sense of urgency now and found a button on the dash that released the trunk.

He rushed back, half afraid he’d find the little girl’s body there. Instead, he saw an odd and disturbing set of objects. Bloodstained shoes and clothing, fitting the description of what Mason Fletcher had last been seen wearing. A metal object of some kind-a trophy?-that looked as if it was matted with tissue, blood, and hair. He hadn’t seen any blood on the young man when he wrapped him in the blanket.

What he saw confused him. He closed the trunk. He noticed, for the first time, that footprints other than his own were in the soft, damp earth. They were near the trunk and led up from the ditch and on to the dirt drive. He saw a cigarette stub there. He didn’t touch it.

He went back and looked at the boy’s socks. They were clean, even on the underside.

He shook himself. He wasn’t a detective. This was not his job. And when the detectives arrived, they’d be pissed off at him if he started spouting theories. He’d already learned that lesson the hard way. “This is what put you up here in the cold, zurramato,” he muttered to himself. He cheered up a little at the thought that even the captain of homicide wouldn’t handle this one. The crime began in Las Piernas’s jurisdiction, which meant the LPPD would be in charge of the investigation.

So Tadeo tried to keep his mind from forming theories and began calling the girl’s name again, and looking in the nearby brush for any sign of her. The more he thought about what he’d seen so far, the less optimistic he felt about her fate, and the louder he shouted in defiance of his own fears for her. Someone opened a window in a nearby cabin and yelled, “Shut the fuck up, asshole! People are trying to sleep!”

Cabron. He considered going up there and making sure that stupid ass didn’t get any sleep, just to vent some of his own frustration, but he was distracted by the sound of approaching vehicles and the red flashing beacon of the ambulance.

I found one of them, he thought fiercely. At least I found one of them. He wondered if anyone would care about that, or if they would feel-just as he did-too worried about the little girl to find it much of a victory.

Three months and seventeen days.

CHAPTER 6

Fourteen Months Later

Tuesday, July 16

3:20 P.M.

LAS PIERNAS

CALEB had learned to stop asking himself if it could get any worse. It could. It did.

In just a moment, it would get worse again.

The jury had reached a verdict, they had been told, and now everyone but the jury had crowded back into the courtroom. His brother-Mason Delacroix Fletcher, the defendant-and the attorneys and the judge had taken their places. The jury would come in soon, and this nightmare would enter its next phase.

Caleb sat to the left of his mother in the hot and stuffy courtroom. She swayed against him, leaned her head against his shoulder. He was easily a head taller than her. He worried that she might feel faint, and put an arm around her shoulders to steady her. She trembled. He felt her quiver, grow still, quiver again, felt the fear course through her in strange, arrhythmic waves. He reached across with his left hand and took her right, as if somehow he could shield her from the watching eyes, the cameras. Her hand was ice cold. She held so tightly to him, he thought she might break his fingers.

She was not a weak woman. Elisa Delacroix Fletcher had surprised those who had seemingly watched her every move over the last year. Maybe they didn’t understand what it took for a teenaged mother to raise a child alone, as she had Mason until she met Caleb’s dad. No one who was weak could survive what she did before she turned twenty-one.

Maybe the television commentators had expected his mother to be unable to go on after losing a husband and daughter under such horrible circumstances. Perhaps her appearance had fooled them-she was pale and almost waiflike-but anyone in her family could have told them there was determination and courage to be seen on a closer look. Trouble was, there were too few members of her family left. Her parents didn’t count, Caleb decided, refusing to acknowledge Grandmother Delacroix’s attempt to catch his eye. Unforgivably, they sat on the other side of the courtroom. They had never looked upon Mason as anything but a source of shame, which in turn made Caleb feel ashamed of being related to them.

Nelson Fletcher sat there, too, behind the Delacroixes and next to Caleb’s other grandfather, Graydon Fletcher. A dozen of Richard Fletcher’s other foster siblings were in attendance as well, “aunts” and “uncles” Caleb barely knew. A few of them had attended throughout the trial.

What a jumbled-up family they all were, anyway, he thought. Caleb’s father hadn’t been related by blood to Uncle Nelson or any of the others. Richard and Nelson had grown up together in a foster home, two of twenty-one children taken under the wing of the famously selfless Fletchers.

Caleb stole a glance at Grandfather Fletcher. The old man was impeccably dressed, as always. Caleb was not especially close to him, but he still felt admiration for him.

Caleb’s family hadn’t visited Grandfather Fletcher more than once or twice after his grandmother died, and not at all in recent years. Although he thought he understood the reasons his dad had wanted to be independent of the family’s influence-his dad thought they got into one another’s business way too much, and were kind of like a cult-Caleb felt bad about that distance now. They didn’t know Mason, so why should they doubt his guilt?

As if he had felt Caleb’s attention, Grandfather Fletcher turned and looked at him, and gave a little nod in his direction.

Caleb nodded back, wishing that somehow there had been no need for people to feel that they must take sides. If Grandfather Fletcher believed whatever Uncle Nelson told him about Mason, Caleb couldn’t blame him for that.

The press loved to talk about the “tragic irony,” of course. A man who was an orphan gets a lucky break and grows up in a great foster home. Becomes a successful graphic artist. Marries a woman who is struggling as a young single mother. Adopts her five-year-old boy. Loves and cares for him, and has two other children with her. And the ungrateful boy he adopted, Mason, returns his loving care by allegedly murdering him and his youngest child. Little Jenny.

If there was one word members of the press didn’t mean when they said it, that word was allegedly. But Caleb didn’t believe any of the charges against Mason. Mason might have argued a lot with his dad, but he loved him. And he would never, ever harm Jenny. Mason said that he could not remember anything between a party with some friends the night before the murder and waking up in the hospital almost two days later. His friends vouched for him, and said he had not been drinking, but they had, and admitted their own recollections of the evening weren’t all that clear. Caleb believed someone had set his brother up, but who-and why?

At first, Caleb had considered calling Detective Harriman about it. But Caleb didn’t really have any ideas to offer the police, and couldn’t explain away the evidence in any satisfactory way. DNA evidence. A bottle of scotch taken from his father’s office. A trophy his father had won in a design competition-the murder weapon.

Caleb and his mom had a great many other worries by then, too. The relief of Mason being found, the fear that he would die in those first chancy hours after he was discovered, the growing terror over Jenny, the shock of Mason’s arrest-all compounded their grief over his father’s death. The many arrangements to be made in the wake of his father’s death occupied them as well.

His dad’s business had become almost immediately worthless, since it depended entirely on his father’s talents. Fortunately, there was insurance coverage that allowed outstanding debts to be settled and the return of fees on contracts that would now never be completed. Nothing to speak of was left in assets.

Richard Fletcher’s personal life insurance policy and other investments were intended to pay off the house and studio mortgages, and to leave enough for the rest of the family to live on for a couple of years-or would have, if it had not been necessary to hire a criminal defense attorney.

Caleb didn’t believe that Mason would ever hurt his father or Jenny, but his reasons for believing Mason was being framed went beyond brotherly faith. When Caleb mentioned them to Mason’s attorney, though, the man shuddered and asked him to please not talk to anyone else about his brother’s “former” drug and alcohol problems. When Caleb said that he thought the attorney should talk to Detective Harriman, he got a long lecture about the police not being their friends, and was strictly forbidden from having any contact with the detective.

Caleb didn’t like the attorney his mother had chosen, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that. The man seemed to make an honest effort at defending Mason, which wasn’t easy, given the prosecution’s case.

Two clients, partners in a firm that had hired Richard Fletcher, testified that the day before Richard’s death they had overheard Mason Fletcher in a violent argument with the victim.

His mom wanted to testify that Richard Fletcher obviously hadn’t thought much of this argument, because he hadn’t mentioned it to her that evening, their last together. But the defense attorney decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to put her on the stand, fearing other questions about Mason the prosecutor might ask.

She had been strong throughout the ordeal of this trial. Most of the time, anyway. She had a bad moment when the prosecution showed the jury the oversized photographs of the fatal damage done to Richard Fletcher. Another when they showed the photographs of Jenny Fletcher-alive and well in those photos, three years old then, almost four. A reminder that none of them knew if she was alive or dead. He refused to believe she was dead, no matter what the prosecutors said. She was just five now-her birthdays had been terrible, grief-filled days for Caleb, Mason, and their mother. Did Jenny miss them?

That was the most innocent question he could ask himself about Jenny.

He thought about the less innocent ones all the same, and knew the prosecutors’ insistence that Jenny was dead had undermined his mother’s hope. Even when they had shown the photos of Jenny, though, his mother had summoned her courage and managed to regain her composure.

She was falling apart now.

THE jury came in and was seated. They avoided looking at his brother.

They reached the moment when Mason was asked to stand.

Caleb’s mom was looking at the jury, but Caleb was watching Mason. Mason Delacroix Fletcher. Mason Delacroix, the prosecutors insisted on calling him, even though Caleb’s father had adopted him.

Mason stood next to his attorney, just beyond Caleb’s reach, pale and stone still, and Caleb supposed the reporters would say that as the verdict was read, the defendant showed no emotion. But Caleb could see that he was scared, as scared as he had ever been. Caleb was scared, too.

The judge was talking to the jury foreman, but Caleb already knew what the verdict would be. Caleb thought Mason and his mother knew, too.

Caleb couldn’t hear the words, not over the part of his mind that wanted to reach Mason, to tell him he would always believe in his innocence, that he would keep fighting for him.

He knew that even his mother didn’t believe in that innocence, not completely. He knew the things the police and prosecutors said made her uneasy. Maybe Uncle Nelson’s certainty of Mason’s guilt, and the certainty of her parents, had damaged her faith in Mason more than Caleb knew.

Her parents had wanted her to give Mason up for adoption, all those years ago, but she had refused.

She didn’t abandon him now, either. She sat here dutifully every day, and paid for the defense lawyer out of her already strained resources, and never breathed a word of the doubts she felt about Mason’s innocence to anyone but Caleb, who steadfastly argued that being a problem child didn’t make Mason a murderer.

Caleb could tell that for all the trouble between his mother and Mason, she was hoping for the impossible now, hoping that when the verdict was read, the foreman would say, “Not guilty.”

But that wasn’t what he said, of course. Caleb’s mother made a sound, low and harsh, as if the air was being forced from her lungs by a blow, then half-fainted against him.

Even as he caught her, Caleb looked up at his brother, who turned and gave him a soft smile. Cameras flashed, and the guards pulled Mason away.

CHAPTER 7

Tuesday, July 16

4:12 P.M.

LAS PIERNAS

NELSON FLETCHER didn’t like publicity, but he understood the need to give the jackals of the press a little snack, something to tide them over until some other wounded animal came along and drew their attention. His siblings would make sure their father was able to get away from here, but now, on the courthouse steps, at a bank of microphones, Nelson must take this task on.

He would also try to keep the media away from Caleb and Elisa as long as possible. He was proud of Caleb, who had handled himself well in there. To Nelson’s surprise, Detective Harriman had been there, and helped Caleb get his mother away without letting anyone shove a microphone at her. If he hadn’t known her so well, Nelson would have suspected that Elisa’s fainting was a ploy, but she wasn’t the type to do something like that. He worried, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it now. Caleb would watch over her.

He carefully unfolded his prepared statement. “I’m sure you can understand that this is an extremely difficult time for the family-” he began, but was interrupted by a shouting reporter.

“Did your brother ever express fears about his adopted son?”

He had told himself that he wouldn’t let them distract him from reading the statement, but this question was one he would not let pass. “Richard always referred to Mason as his son. And that wasn’t a matter of hiding anything-we’ve never hidden the fact that Richard and I were adopted together and raised as brothers. I do not believe having the same biological parents could have possibly made us any closer, allowed us to love each other more, made me miss him any more than I do now…” He paused, took a shaky breath, and went on. “Richard Fletcher was a genius. A bright and creative and kind man. A good man. My brother.”

He paused again, pinched the bridge of his nose, set his thumbs hard into his tear ducts. “I see how loyal Caleb is to his own brother, Mason, and I think that would have made Richard very proud. While I believe that the jury made the right decision, I…I am not happy about this. Nothing makes this a happy occasion. I understand completely why Caleb and his mother stood by Mason. Just as I had to stand up for Richard and for Jenny, who could not speak for themselves…”

He drew another breath.

“This family is my family. That’s all I have to say.”

More shouts followed, but he didn’t respond to them.

HE hardly remembered the drive home. He left another pack of reporters at the gates of the exclusive community where he lived. He pulled into his garage, turned the car off, hit the automatic garage-door control, and waited until the automatic light overhead clicked off.

He sat in the darkness and remembered.

RICHARD, the youngest of the boys, was crying. When Graydon Fletcher came into the bedroom, he was pleased to see that Nelson was trying to comfort the four-year-old.

“He had a bad dream, Daddy,” Nelson said.

“You’re a good boy to take care of him. I’ll sit with him now. You go on back to bed.”

“Mommy!” Richard cried. Nelson wished he could help him.

“Mommy’s asleep right now, Richard.”

“Not her! I want my real mommy.”

“She’s in heaven, Richard. You know that. But we love you and we’ll take care of you and keep you safe.”

The sobbing went on for a while, then subsided.

“Can you sleep now?”

Richard shook his head.

“Would you like to play with one of your puzzles for a little while? Would that help you feel sleepy again?”

The boy nodded.

“That’s a good boy. Put your slippers and robe on. Come on, let’s play the math game.”

“Yes, please!” Richard eagerly searched for his slippers and, with a little help, donned his robe. He glanced at Nelson. “Can Nelson play, too?”

“Oh, I suppose he can miss a little sleep tonight. Sure.”

While Nelson put on his own robe and slippers, Richard looked up at his adoptive father and raised his arms. The man lifted him and carried him easily. Nelson knew that Richard wouldn’t have wanted to be carried if he hadn’t still felt frightened.

“Ready?”

“Yes!”

“Such a bright little boy.” Their father smiled as he looked back at the sleeping figures in the other beds, then reached down and ruffled Nelson’s hair. “All my boys are bright little boys.”

N ELSON rubbed his hands over his face and then opened the car door. The dome light went on, and the motion detector in the garage quickly snapped the overhead on as well.

He thought of Elisa. Should he call her?

No, he decided. Be patient.