Immediately he crept toward bushes at the back of the house and stooped beneath a dark window, listening for voices, music, a television show, anything to indicate that someone was inside. Silence. Satisfying himself that a hedge and some trees concealed him from the house in back of this one, he emerged from shadows and warily listened at Green’s back door. No sounds from within. He approached the illuminated window and listened beneath it. Nothing.
He assessed the situation. If Green lived alone, the empty garage suggested he had gone out. But what if Green shared the house with others and not everyone had left? Or what if Green didn’t have a car and that was why he had rented the Cavalier on September 1?
Damn it, I don’t have time to rethink everything, Decker told himself. I’ve got to find Beth! In his former life, he would have backed off and maintained surveillance on the house, waiting until he had a chance to confront Green under controllable circumstances. But this was Decker’s present life, and his heart pounded with the certainty that Beth was in danger, that she needed his help. There had to be an explanation for why she had lied to him. For all he knew, at this very moment she was about to be killed in Green’s house.
He hadn’t seen any signs warning potential intruders that the house was equipped with a security system. Usually, such signs were displayed in prominent areas. None of the windows in back had a PROTECTED BY sticker. On the off chance that Green had forgotten to lock the back door, Decker tried it. No luck. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the packet of lock picks, and in thirty seconds had freed the lock. He could have done it much quicker, but he had to work cautiously, making as little noise as possible so as not to alert anyone who might be inside. He was suddenly conscious of the irony that last night someone else had tried to be cautious while picking his lock.
Drawing the Beretta, he crouched, opened the door, and aimed toward what he discovered was a small kitchen. The light he had seen was above the sink. As quickly as soundlessness would allow, he crept through the otherwise dark house, checking every room, grateful that there was only one level and that the house didn’t have a basement. He found no one.
He went out through the rear door, emerged onto the murky front sidewalk without being noticed, and in five minutes was back inside, this time accompanied by Hal and Ben. The moment Decker locked the door behind them, he said, “So let’s find out who the hell Randolph Green is. When I searched earlier, I didn’t find any children’s clothing or toys. I didn’t find any dresses. Green lives alone or with a man.”
“I’ll search the master bedroom,” Hal said.
“If there’s another bedroom, I’ll take it,” Ben said.
“There is,” Decker said. “And I’ll take the study.”
“Maybe not.” Hal frowned.
“What’s wrong?”
“Headlights coming into the driveway.”
2
Decker felt a shock. Through a side window in the kitchen, he saw the gleam of approaching headlights and heard a car engine. The vehicle wasn’t close enough for anyone inside it to have a direct view into the kitchen, but it would be that close in a matter of seconds. Decker, Hal, and Ben ducked below the window and peered around hurriedly.
“Let me handle this. Don’t let anyone see your faces unless it can’t be avoided,” Decker said. “If this turns out to be nothing, I don’t want you identified for breaking and entering.” He retreated through an archway on the right, concealing himself in the darkness of the living room. Hal and Ben took a hallway on the left that led to the study and the bedrooms.
Outside, what sounded like a garage door made a rumbling noise. A few seconds later, the car engine stopped. The garage door made another rumbling noise.
Pressed next to a bookshelf in the living room, Decker felt sweat trickle down his chest as he listened to the sound of a key in the back door’s lock. The door was opened. A single pair of footsteps came in. The door made a scraping sound as it was shut. The lock was twisted back into place—and Decker stepped into the kitchen, ready with his handgun.
His reaction to the person he saw was a mixture of relief, confusion, and anger. Decker was well aware that his determination had led him to take risks that he never would have considered in his former life. There was every possibility that Randolph Green was a perfectly law-abiding citizen, that it was only coincidence that the man had rented a blue Chevrolet Cavalier from the Albuquerque airport on September 1. In that case, what if Green panicked at the sight of Decker’s handgun? What if something went horribly wrong and Green was fatally injured? Even if Green wasn’t injured, Decker had broken the law by invading Green’s home, and Decker didn’t have his former employer to convince the local police to overlook the crime if he was caught.
His misgivings vanished as the man who had just entered the kitchen swung in surprise toward the sound of Decker’s footsteps. Stunned by the sight of Decker’s pistol, the man lunged his right hand beneath the navy blazer he wore. Decker got to him before he had a chance to pull a revolver all the way free. Kicking the man’s legs from under him, Decker simultaneously yanked the man’s right hand toward the ceiling, twisted the man’s wrist sharply, and pried the revolver from his grasp.
The man grunted in pain as he hit the floor. Decker slid the revolver away and hurriedly searched the man while pressing the Beretta against the man’s forehead. Reassuring himself that the man had no other weapons, Decker took the man’s wallet and stepped back, continuing to aim the Beretta down at him. At the same time, he heard urgent footsteps in the corridor at his back as Hal and Ben rushed into the room. “Are you okay?” Ben aimed his own Beretta.
“As okay as I can be, considering how pissed off I am.” Decker gestured down toward the slender fiftyish man with soft features and thinning partially gray hair. The only detail that had changed since Decker had last seen him was that the man’s skin had been pale ten days ago but now had some color from the desert sun. “Let me introduce you to the art dealer who claims to sell Beth’s paintings—Dale Hawkins. Long time no see, Dale. How’s business?”
Hawkins glared up from where he was sprawled on the floor. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you have any idea—”
Decker kicked him. When Hawkins finished groaning, Decker said, “I asked you a question, Dale. How’s business? It must not be too good if you had to leave your gallery in New York? Or is your real name Randolph Green? I’m really confused about all this, Dale, and when I get confused, I get angry. When I get angry, I—”
Decker pulled out a kitchen drawer and dropped its heavy contents on him, making Hawkins groan and clutch his arm. “Talk to me, Dale. Eventually you will, so you might as well save yourself a world of hurt in the meantime.”
“You don’t know what—”
When Decker threw a toaster at Hawkins, it struck his thigh. The man contorted his face in pain, not knowing which part of his body to clutch.
“Don’t make me impatient.” Decker poured water into a pot, set it on the stove, and turned on the burner. “In case you’re wondering, that isn’t for coffee. Ever had a third-degree burn? They say scalding is the worst. I’m really serious about this, Dale. Pay attention. What ... is ... your ... connection ... to ... Beth ... Dwyer?”
Hawkins continued to hold his thigh in pain. “Look in my wallet.”
“What?”
“My wallet. You’ve got it in your hand. Look in it.”
“There’s something about Beth in here?” Not wanting to take his eyes off Hawkins, Decker tossed the wallet to Ben. “See what he’s talking about.”
Ben opened the wallet, studied its contents, and frowned. “What’s the matter?” Decker asked. “He lied? There’s nothing about Beth?”
“Not that I can find.” Ben looked extremely troubled. “But assuming that this ID isn’t bogus, Randolph Green is his real name.”
“So? What’s the problem?”
“According to this”—Ben held up a badge—“he’s a United States mars
hal.”
3
“A marshal?” Decker’s thoughts swirled. “No. That doesn’t make sense. What would a U.S. marshal have to do with—”
“Quiet,” Ben said.
“What’s—”
“I heard something.” Ben stared toward the window in the back door. “Jesus.” He raised his pistol. “Get down! Someone’s outside!” In that instant, he jerked backward, his forehead spraying blood from the force of a gunshot.
Decker flinched, his ears ringing from the blast that shattered the window on the back door. Sensing Hal dive to the floor, Decker did the same, aiming toward the back door, frantically shifting his aim to the window above the kitchen sink, then to the windows on each side of the room. Shocked, he couldn’t allow himself to react to Ben’s death. Grief would come later, strong grief, but for now, training controlled him. He had only one imperative—to stay alive.
Squirming fiercely backward, hoping to seek cover in the darkness of the living room, Decker shouted at the man whom he still thought of as Dale Hawkins. “Who’s shooting at us? Tell them to hold their fire!”
But Hawkins had a look of absolute incomprehension.
Decker heard angry voices beyond the back door. He heard glass shatter at the front. As he spun to aim in that direction, intense detonations threatened to burst his eardrums. One, two, three, four. Almost passing out, Decker shoved his hands to his ears and then his eyes, desperate to shield them, because the concussions were matched by blinding flashes that seared past his eyeballs into his brain.
Moaning reflexively, unable to stop his nervous system’s automatic response to such intense pain, he fell to the floor, powerless against the flash-bang grenades that were intended to disable without permanently harming. In a turbulent recess of his mind, Decker knew what was happening—he had used flash-bangs on many occasions.
But knowledge was no defense against primal panic. Before he had a chance to overcome his pain and reacquire his presence of mind, his gun was kicked from his hand. Deaf and blind, he was grabbed and yanked to his feet. He was shoved out a door. He fell on a sidewalk and was dragged to his feet. Hands pushed him off a curb. Suddenly weightless, he was thrown to the right. He landed hard on a metal floor, felt other bodies being hurled in with him, and vaguely realized that he must be in a vehicle. A van, he thought, dazed. The metal floor tilted as men scrambled in. With several jolts, doors were slammed. The van sped away.
4
“You searched them?” a gruff voice demanded.
“In the house.”
“Do it again.”
“But we’ve got all their weapons.”
“I told you, do it again. I don’t want any more surprises.” Disoriented, Decker felt hands pawing over him, rolling him over, pressing, probing. His traumatized vision had begun to correct itself. His ears rang painfully, so that the voices he heard seemed to come from a distance.
“He’s clean,” another gruff voice said.
“So are the others.”
“Okay,” the first voice said. He sounded as if he had gravel stuck in his throat. “It’s time for show-and-tell. Hey.”
The van made a swerving motion, presumably turning a corner. Its engine roared louder. Decker had the sensation of increased speed.
“Hey,” the gravelly voice repeated.
Decker felt movement beside him.
“That’s right. You. I’m talking to you.”
Decker scrunched his eyelids shut, then opened them again, blinking, his sight improving. Bright spots in his vision began to dissolve. They were replaced by oncoming headlights that glared through a windshield—a lot of headlights. Freeway traffic. Decker saw that he had been right to believe he was in a van. The rear compartment in which he lay had no seats. Three men with handguns faced him. They were crouched at the front end of the vehicle. Beyond them were a driver and a man in the passenger seat, who had his head turned, staring back.
“Yes, you,” the man with the gravelly voice repeated. Flanked by gunmen, he was husky, with thick dark hair and a sallow complexion, olivelike. In his thirties. Wearing expensive shoes, well-cut slacks, a designer shirt, and a tailored windbreaker, all of them dark. Decker noted that the other men in the van had a similar appearance.
Ready with his weapon, the man leaned forward and nudged someone lying next to Decker. When Decker looked, he saw that it was the man he thought of as Dale Hawkins.
“You, for Christ sake,” the man said. “Sit up. Pay attention.”
Dazed, Hawkins pushed himself to a sitting position and slumped against the side of the van.
Although the ringing was still painful, Decker’s eardrums felt less compromised. He was able to hear the driver complain, “Another one! Jesus, these drivers are nuts. What are they, drunk? They think this is Indianapolis. They keep cutting in front of me. Any closer, they’d have my front bumper as a souvenir.”
The man who seemed in charge didn’t pay attention to the driver; instead, he kept staring at Hawkins, who was on Decker’s left. On Decker’s right, Hal sat up slowly.
“So this is how it works,” the husky man said. “We know Decker has no idea where the woman is. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be running around trying to find her. But he must think you know where she is.” The man gestured forcefully toward Hawkins. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have driven all the way from Santa Fe to Albuquerque to break into your house and question you when you came home.”
The roiling, breathless effects of adrenaline seized Decker’s body. Everything was happening terribly fast, but despite the light-headedness and nausea that resulted when neither a fight nor flight response was possible, Decker struggled to keep his presence of mind, to pay attention to as many details as he could.
He continued to be struck by the man’s dark eyes, strong features, and olivelike complexion. Italian, he decided. The group was Italian. The same as last night. Rome. This all goes back to what happened in Rome, he thought with a chill. But how?
“I’ll make it simple for you,” the man in charge told Hawkins. “Tell me what Decker wanted you to tell him.” With a curse, the van’s driver swerved sharply as another car cut in front of him.
“Where is Diana Scolari?” the man in charge asked.
For a moment, Decker was certain that his traumatized eardrums were playing tricks on him, distorting the sound of words. Beth Dwyer. Surely that’s what the man had asked. Where is Beth Dwyer? But the movement of the man’s lips did not match Beth’s name. Diana Scolari. That was the name the man had used. But who the hell was Diana Scolari?
“I don’t know,” Hawkins said. His skin had turned gray with fear. His speech was forced as if his mouth was dry. “I have no idea where she is.”
The man in charge shook his head with disappointment. “I told you I wanted to make this simple for you. I asked you a question. You’re supposed to give me the answer I need. No muss, no fuss.”
The man picked up a tire iron, raised it, and whacked it against Hawkins’s shin.
Hawkins screamed, clutching his leg.
“And if you do what you’re told, no pain,” the man in charge said. “But you’re not cooperating. Do you honestly expect me to believe that the U.S. marshal”—he held up Hawkins’s badge—“assigned to make sure that Diana Scolari settles herself into Santa Fe doesn’t know where she’s run to?” The man whacked the tire iron near Hawkins’s other leg, causing the floor to rumble, making Hawkins wince. “Do you think I’m that stupid?”
Hawkins’s throat sounded parched as he insisted, “But I wasn’t the only one. There was a team of us. We took turns checking in with her, so none of us would stand out. I haven’t seen her since the first of the month.”
The husky man again whacked the tire iron against the metal floor. “But you knew she ran off today.”
“Yes.” Hawkins swallowed with difficulty.
Whack! The tire iron struck the floor yet again. “Which means you’ve been in contact with the rest of the team. Do you expect me to
believe you weren’t told where the rest of the team has got her holed up?”
“That information is on a need-to-know basis. They told me I didn’t need to know.” Hawkins’s voice sounded like sandpaper.
“Oh, did they really? Well, that’s too bad for you, because if you don’t know anything, you’re useless, and I might as well kill you.” The man pointed his handgun at Hal. “I know who Decker is. But who are you?”
“Nobody.”
“Then what good are you?” The man’s weapon had a sound suppressor. The pistol made the muffled report of a hand striking a pillow.
Hal fell back and lay still.
Decker’s heartbeat lurched.
The sudden silence in the van was emphasized by the roar of traffic outside. The driver swerved, avoiding a car that changed lanes without warning. “These jerks. I don’t believe it. They think this is a stock-car race. They’re out of their minds.”
The husky man continued to ignore the driver, concentrating hard on Hawkins. “Do I have your full attention now? One down. Next comes Decker. And after that, guess who?”
“You’ll kill me, anyway,” Hawkins said. “Why should I tell you anything?”
“Hey, if you cooperate, we’ll tie you up and stick you in a shed somewhere. We need to keep you quiet only until Monday. After that, it won’t matter.”
“How do I know I can believe you?”
“Look at this face. Would it lie to you?”
“What happens Monday?” Decker asked. He remembered that Beth had planned to fly east on Sunday.
“Did I ask you to butt in?” the husky man demanded.
Decker shook his head.
“You’re already on my list,” the gunman said. “If it hadn’t been for you, we would have gotten the bitch last night. We would have been back in Jersey by now. The boss wouldn’t have gone ballistic with us for missing her again this afternoon. We wouldn’t have to be spending our Saturday night driving around goddamn Albuquerque with you two.”
The reference to New Jersey increased the burning in Decker’s stomach. It was absolutely clear to him that the gunman would not have revealed any personal detail unless, despite his promises to the contrary, he had every intention of killing Decker and Hawkins.