CHAPTER ONE

     They park down the street where they can watch the house. Cut the engine, roll down the windows because of the heat. Sit there waiting.

     “It’s that one there, right? The one with the winding driveway?”

     “That’s right, college-boy.”

     “What if someone sees us parked here?”

     “So fuckin’ what?”

     “So, what if someone sees us and asks what we’re doing?”

     “Then we say you’re droppin’ me off ‘cause I’m goin’ to work. I do their fuckin’ lawn.”

     “Are you going to use the gun or your knife?”

     “Knife. Already told you that.”

     The sunlight through the parted lace curtains is warm on her face and she closes her eyes against it. She stays there like that, elbows on the windowsill, knees on the sofa. After a while she slowly opens her eyes, as if coming out of a dream. She looks through the window, down a street lined with lush green trees guarding houses and manicured lawns. She imagines what it would be like to own one of the houses, to call it hers.

     There is no sound in the McGreggor house, only a thick afternoon silence. Rosa Bernal Gonzalez is alone; Mr. McGreggor is at work, Mrs. McGreggor is long dead, and the children are at school. The silence and stillness and sunlight keeps Rosa at the windowsill.

     Some time later she makes a cup of tea and drinks it in the kitchen, leaning against the imported marble countertop. Copper-plated pots and pans hang obediently on hooks above the grills and ovens. The cook will arrive at five and change into his uniform and the kitchen will be filled with fire and the clanging of utensils on stainless steel. The cook will leave when he’s done and Rosa will serve dinner, and after that she’ll clean the kitchen. Then she can go home. Her own house is small and noisy and has seven people living in it. She’s usually only there at night.

     But for now the McGreggor house belongs to Rosa. These moments are important to her. 

     After her tea she sits in the chair she favors in the first-floor living room. She often rests here when she’s alone in the house. It’s her secret and no one has ever seen her sitting here, not even the other help. 

     At two-forty she leaves to pick up the children. She goes out the back door so she can walk around the house and through the garden. It has a little pond, a little walkway. When she started working at the McGreggor house four years ago it was the first garden she’d ever seen that wasn’t for growing vegetables. She’d once written about it in a letter to her mother and her mother wrote back asking why they didn’t grow vegetables. She suggested Rosa plant corn.

     It’s a ten minute walk to the school and Rosa looks forward to it each day. The streets in Mr. McGreggor’s neighborhood are wide and clean and silent. Tall, healthy trees along the sidewalk keep the sun away. Four streets down she turns to follow the shortcut she always takes, through a shady stone-walled alley lined with vines.

     “Ms. Garcia!”

     Rosa turns and sees a man jogging down the alleyway towards her. He calls her name again and waves and she recognizes him. It’s one of the White landscapers, Byron. He’s worked at the McGreggor house for several months and Rosa doesn’t like him at all. She knows he drinks beers and buries the cans under the grass, knows he smokes marijuana behind the shed. She doesn’t like how he looks at Maddy McGreggor; no man should look at a child that way, slack-jawed and hot-eyed, leaning over a forgotten shovel or rake.

     Byron runs over and stops in front of her and puts his hands on his knees, panting. He smiles and holds up a hand, like he’s trying to catch his breath. Then he pulls out a knife from somewhere. It’s big and looks like the one her nephew has, the one who went into the Marines.

     Rosa backs up but she’s not fast enough. Byron thrusts the knife into her stomach. It doesn’t go very deep so he grabs her around the neck and pushes it all the way in. He pulls it out and does it again. Rosa opens her mouth to scream but the blade is in one of her lungs and there’s no air. She chokes on blood. Byron lets her fall to the ground. He bends down and stabs her again and she weakly holds onto the blade as he pulls it out. It slices through the soft insides of her fingers. 

     Byron straightens up and looks around to make sure no one has seen them. He looks both ways down the alley and sees Chris at one end, watching from around the corner. Spying. Their eyes meet. Chris turns to see if anyone is coming but there’s no one. He turns back and peeks around the wall at Byron and the woman on the ground.

     Byron spits and bends down to finish the job. He stabs and chops. He thinks he feels the knife scrape her backbone.

     When he’s done he looks himself over and sees he didn’t catch much of the blood. He wipes the knife on a clean part of her dress, leaving a dark red streak, and hawks and spits again.

     In the car Byron takes off his cap and runs his hands through his sweaty hair and wipes them on greasy jeans. He scratches his neck and watches Chris drive. The kid is nervous and Byron likes that.

     At the school they sit and wait in the car and Byron knows his part is done, the rest is up to Chris. They keep their eyes on the entrance. Chris keeps checking his watch. 

     Children begin to trickle out and down the steps in small groups. Matching uniforms, designer bookbags.

     “Isn’t there supposed to be some kind of bell or something?” Chris says. 

     “Looks like there ain’t no fuckin’ bell is there?” Byron says, enjoying himself immensely. “Looks like you better get to it, college-boy. And don’t be fuckin’ it up none, either.”

     Chris gets out of the car and puts on his sunglasses. He’s twenty-six but looks younger. He wears slacks and leather sandals and a pink golf shirt with the collar turned up. He has an air of education and privilege about him that blends in with the primped mothers and nannies waiting by the entrance to the school. 

     Chris watches the children come out. They all look the same and he starts to worry he won’t spot Maddy McGreggor. Then he sees her. Recognizes her from the picture Byron gave him earlier. He goes to her. 

     “Maddy, I’m Chris,” he says, squatting down and taking off his sunglasses. “Rosa had something to do so your father sent me to pick you up.”

     “Oh, okay,” Maddy says. 

     Chris smiles at how easy it is. “Can I hold your backpack for you?”

     “Okay.”

     A few minutes later Dylan comes out. He sees his sister, walks over.

     “Hi Dylan,” Chris says. 

     Dylan notices Chris for the first time. He’s startled. Unsure in the face of a stranger calling him by name.

     “Rosa’s busy so your father sent me to pick you up.”

     “Why couldn’t Rosa come?”

     “I don’t know. Your dad just called me up and said to come get you guys. We have to hurry, too. Maddy’s piano teacher is coming at three-thirty.”

     “It’s okay. We live really close,” Dylan says.

     “Well I brought my car for just in case,” Chris says, ruffling Dylan’s hair. 

     They walk down the sidewalk to where the car is parked. Some of the mothers watch them go; Chris knows it’s because he’s young and handsome. He smiles and takes Maddy’s hand.

     When Byron sees them he gets out and opens the back door. Dylan looks at him, puzzled.

     “He also works for your father,” Chris says.

     Dylan starts to get in the back seat but Byron stops him. 

     “Whoa there, little man. You sit up front.” Byron crouches down so he’s the same height as Maddy. “Why don’t you sit back here with me, little girl?”

     Chris drives them to a gas station and parks down the street. 

     “Where are we?” Dylan asks. 

     “I just have to call your father really quick,” Chris says.

     “Can I have some juice?” Maddy says from the back seat.

     “Soon, honey,” Chris says.

     “What kind of juice you like?” Byron says.

     “Apple. And grape.”

     Chris gets out and walks to a phone booth. He’s holding a small piece of paper with a phone number. He dials it. The receptionist answers.

     “I need to speak to Mr. McGreggor,” Chris says. His hands are cold and sweaty on the receiver.

     “May I ask who’s callin’, sir?”

     “I’m from the Pierson Academy. His children go here.”

     “One moment please.”

     A man’s voice. “Hello?”

     “McGreggor?”

     “Nope. This is Barry Kellogg.”

     “I need to speak to Mr. McGreggor.”

     “I’m Mr. McGreggor’s executive assistant. How can I help ya?”

     “I’m from the Pierson Academy.”

     “What’s that?”

     “It’s where Mr. McGreggor’s children go to school.”

     “Uh-huh.”

     “And I need to speak to Mr. McGreggor.”

     “Well he ain’t here right now. What can I do ya for?”

     “We’ve had a problem with his son and I need to speak to Mr. McGreggor immediately. This is the number we were given for emergencies.”

     “It’s an emergency?”

     “Yes.”

     “Can you tell me what the emergency is, son?”

     “No. You’re not his father.”

     A pause. “You’re sure this is an emergency?”

     “Yes.”

     “And you can’t tell me what about?”

     “No.”

     The man sighs. Then: “All right. Mr. McGreggor is at a site right now. I’m gonna locate him and have him call y’all right back. Gimme your number there, son.”

     Chris reads the number off the pay-phone.

     “Okay, got it. He’s gonna call y'all right back but this could take ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Gimme your name, son.”

     “Mike Davis.”

     Chris hangs up and stands there not knowing what to do. The call didn’t go the way he imagined. He waits outside the phone booth, nervous and jumpy. He wants it to be done with.

     Five minutes later the phone rings. 

     “Mike Davis there?” a man’s voice says. 

     “Is this McGreggor?”

     “Yes.”

     Chris takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He recites from memory and practice: “Listen to me and don’t say anything. We have both your children. Do not go to the police or we kill them. If you think about going to the cops, you should ask Ms. Garcia what she thinks about that. Talk to her before you talk to the police. There’s a note in your mailbox.”

     Chris hangs up the phone and walks back to the car.

     They’re renting rooms at a motel on the edge of town by the desert. It’s a run-down L-shaped strip, dusty and mostly vacant. Their rooms are on the tip farthest from the main office. They’ve stayed two nights already. Before that Chris was living out of his car. It was his idea that they should stay in motels once the plan was in motion. Switch every two days, stay on the move. Don’t get caught. 

     He pulls into the parking lot and drives to the far end of the line of rooms and parks in front of 114 and 115. He has a bad feeling. He can’t place it and that makes it worse.

     “What if someone sees us bring them in?” he says, partly to Byron, partly just thinking out loud.

     “I don’t see no one,” Byron says.

     “I’m worried about someone seeing the kids. Not us, Byron. The kids.”

     Dylan is looking around. “Where are we?” he asks.

     “We’re going to see your dad,” Chris says. To Byron he says, “We should have brought them at night.”

     “Well, college-boy, we ain’t got much choice now, do we? Less you gonna sit here ‘bout three, four hours. I know I ain’t.”

     “Where’s my dad?” Dylan asks.

     “I have a piano lesson at three-thirty,” Maddy says. “It’s with Mrs. Crenshaw. She comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

     Dylan is twisting and turning in his seat, looking out the windows for his father. 

     Chris points to his room, 115. “Your daddy’s in that room right there. Let’s go see him, okay?”

     They get out of the car. Chris goes to his room with Dylan following and puts his key in the lock. He sees Byron has brought Maddy to 114 and is unlocking the door. Chris curses under his breath and grabs Dylan by the hand and pulls him over to Byron and Maddy. 

     “Hurry up,” Chris says. He feels exposed, aware that they’re out in the open when they should be hiding.

     Byron turns and looks at him. “You guys are in your room,” he says.

     “Just get them inside before someone sees us,” Chris says impatiently.

     “You guys go to your room.”

     “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

     Byron just looks at him and doesn’t open the door.

     Chris glances around and lowers his voice. “The plan was, we keep them together and one of us watches them.”

     Byron pokes Chris’ chest with a finger. He speaks slowly. “Well this is the new plan. You and him are in your room, and me and her are in mine.”

     Chris looks at Byron for a long time and the ex-landscaper holds his stare. Chris looks down at Maddy, back to Byron.  

     Chris pulls Dylan into 115 and locks the door behind them. The room is small and cheap and smells. Faded carpet with cigarette burns everywhere.

     Dylan’s voice is shaky. “Where’s my dad?” he asks.

     “Sit down there on the bed,” Chris says.  

     “Where did Maddy and the other man go?”

     “Just sit down.”

     Dylan sits down on the bed. He starts to cry.

     Chris goes to his bag and takes out rope and duct tape. 

     “You’re going to see your father real soon,” Chris says. “But first I need to tie you up. You’re going to be a brave little guy, right?”

     Dylan keeps crying.

     Chris sighs and sits down next to him on the bed and says, “If you have to go to the bathroom, do it now.”

     The sun is low and the sky is red when Byron walks out to the road. To the right is the highway and then the highway meets the desert. To the left, the city. There are no cars and the only sound is the sound of crickets. Byron walks in the direction of the city, down a few blocks to the bar he’d found yesterday. It’s nearly empty. Fans hanging from the ceiling spin slowly, rocking on their wires.

     He orders a shot and a beer and takes a long look at a university-aged couple at a table. A boy and a girl. Byron mutters something and downs his shot. When he turns back he catches the boy’s eye. 

     “Fuck you lookin’ at?” Byron says, loud enough for the bartender to turn around. The boy looks away quickly. “Fuckin’ faggot,” Byron says and takes a long pull from his beer.

     He’s charged and feeling good. He signals for another beer. He has six hundred dollars in his pocket and it only has to last a week or so. No reason to hold back. He orders two more shots.

     When he leaves he’s slightly drunk. He walks to a Mexican restaurant down the street and has another beer with his food. It’s dark when he starts back to the motel. 

     He stops at a convenience store and buys candy bars, baby oil and a six-pack of beer. “Y’all got any bubble bath?” he asks the clerk.

     “What?”

     “Bubble bath. Got any?”

     A funny look from the clerk. “No.”

     Byron walks back down the isles looking for scented soaps or anything that will lather.

     When he goes back to the room Maddy is gagged and tied to the radiator where he left her. Byron opens a beer. Drinks half of it standing there looking down at her. Then he goes to the bathroom and starts filling the tub with warm water.