Gonzalez studied his face. "I'd really like to take a look around this place so I can scratch it off my list. I'd like to take a look in your barn, and in that house across the lot there. I want to make sure I wasn't hearing things when I drove up."

"You were," Jess said.

For a moment, a tense silence hung in the air. Jess shot a glance at the window. Gonzalez noticed it, and looked behind him. Thank G.o.d, William was gone.

"Let me get this straight," Gonzalez said, turning back around. "Are you denying me the opportunity to look around here? I'm here to clear you off my list as a kidnapper. Do you understand how suspicious this sounds?"

The word kidnapper hit Jess hard, and he tried not to flinch. Could he let Gonzalez look around? The man would find nothing in the barn because he probably didn't know what to look for-the missing hay hook and horse blanket, the arrangement of bales on the top of the stack-but how could he let him inside of his house? Even if the kids were hiding, there would be telltale signs: shoes in the mudroom, too many dishes in the sink, unmade beds.

"That's what I'm saying," Jess said. "You're trespa.s.sing on my ranch without a warrant. I didn't even get a call from the sheriff saying you were coming out. This is my place, and my family's had it for three generations. n.o.body has the right to trespa.s.s on my ranch."

Gonzalez laughed harshly. "You're a f.u.c.king piece of work, old man. If we were in L.A...."

"We aren't," Jess interrupted. "We're on my ranch. Now get off, and don't come back without the sheriff and a piece of paper that says you can search here."

The wide, insincere smile faded. "You could make your life a lot easier if you let me look around, compadre."

"I'm used to a hard life," Jess said. "Now get off."

Something flashed in Gonzalez's eyes, and for a second Jess expected the man to bolt off the porch and jam the gun into his face. He wished he was armed himself. But the moment pa.s.sed, and Gonzalez looked up at the rain clouds forming over the rancher's head.

"I'll be back here," Gonzalez said, stepping off the porch and walking slowly to his pickup. "You and me are going to tangle. You could have avoided it, but you had to go get all f.u.c.king cowboy on me."

Jess said nothing. He kept his palms firmly on the hood of the truck so they wouldn't shake.

Gonzalez opened his truck door and looked back. "You people. You're too stupid to know what you've just done, old man," he said, and the smile came back, which chilled Jess to his boot soles. "I'll be seeing you."

"Don't threaten me," Jess said, his voice firm and low.

"I don't threaten. I advise."

"Close the gate on the way out this time," Jess said. "I've got cattle. If they get out, I'll press charges."

"You'll press ..." Gonzalez said, but didn't finish the sentence because he was chuckling.

Jess watched the pickup drive up the road and into the trees. Slowly, he withdrew his hands from the hood, leaving long wet streaks.

"HE WAS one of them, wasn't he?" Jess asked, unpacking the groceries in the kitchen.

Annie and William stood in the doorway to the living room, their faces pale white. They had obviously heard the exchange.

"Yes," Annie said. "We thought he was going to come in and find us."

Jess swung around and pointed a trembling finger at William. "You nearly got yourself hurt and your sister hurt along with you by looking out that window like that. When I tell you to stay inside and not look out, I mean it!"

William stood still, but mist filled his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, his mouth curling down, even though he was fighting it.

"Ah, man," Jess said, walking across the kitchen and pulling Annie and William into his legs. "I'm just glad you're all right. It's okay, Willie. It's okay."

"William," the boy said, his voice m.u.f.fled by the hug.

"Is he coming back?" Annie asked.

Jess released them and squatted so he could look at both children in the eye. "I think so, yes."

"What are we going to do?"

"I don't know yet," he said. "I'm thinking it over."

"You could show me how to shoot one of those guns in there," William said. "You could show me and Annie."

Jess looked at him, about to argue. Then he didn't.

"For right now, let's get you two something to eat," he said instead.

Sunday, 4:03 P.M.

JIM HEARNE sat in a recliner with the newspaper opened on his lap and a Seattle Mariners game droning on in front of him. He didn't know the inning, the score, or who they were playing. Instead, he stared at something between where he sat and the television set, a wall he could not see through, a wall he had invented, a wall that seemed to get thicker and harder to ignore since that morning, when it came to be.

The wall-he started to think of it as a barrier to everything else-began to grow while he and Laura were in church. It wasn't the minister's sermon that triggered it, and it wasn't the surroundings. It was the fact that for the first time in two and a half days, his mind was empty, partially due to the ma.s.sive hangover from which he was suffering. The void was filled with thoughts of his meeting with Eduardo Villatoro and what he had read in the newspaper about the effort to find the missing Taylor children. About the ex-cops from L.A. who were heading up the task force. About his own role in everything, his responsibility.

As if seeing things for the first time, Hearne looked around the room he was in. It was a magnificent living room, with high ceilings, slate tile floors covered with expensive rugs, an entertainment center so advanced that he had no idea what it was capable of. Through the huge picture window was a long, sloping lawn that led down to a small tree-bordered lake, his wooden fishing boat turned upside down on the bank. He could hear Laura in the kitchen, cooking and talking to her mother, who was in a controlled-living complex in Spokane. The aroma of Sunday dinner filled his home. She was frying chicken, his favorite, doing it the old-fashioned Southern way by soaking the pieces in b.u.t.termilk first, then coating them, then chilling them in the b.u.t.termilk again. It took all afternoon. He wished he could get excited about it, but eating was the last thing on his mind.

Hearne felt like an imposter in his own home. A real businessman should live there, he thought, not him. Someone who would not feel the conflict he felt about what was happening in the valley, someone who could justify his partic.i.p.ation in it. Hearne, despite the home, the lake, the property, and his status, felt like a p.i.s.s-poor rodeo cowboy who had made a pact with the Devil. He needed to stop fretting, and do something about it.

He stood up and stretched, heard his back pop like a string of m.u.f.fled firecrackers. The old injuries set in when he remained still for too long, as he had today, and it took a moment of painful stretching to loosen up. There were three telephones in the house: one in the kitchen where Laura was, one in the bedroom, and one in his home office. Tucking the folded newspaper under his arm, he leaned into the kitchen and breathed in the full brunt of the meal in progress until Laura turned from the stove and saw him. She had the telephone clamped between her shoulder and jaw so that her hands were free. She raised her eyebrows as if to say, "Yes?"

"Will you be much longer?"

"My mother," she mouthed.

"Tell her h.e.l.lo from me," he said. "Will you be on the line much longer?"

Laura shot an impatient look at him and covered the receiver.

"She's on a roll about a dance they had at the center last night," she said. "We talk every Sunday afternoon, as you know. What's the crisis?"

"No crisis," he said, lying. "Don't worry about it."

He heard her call after him as he walked back through the living room, grabbed his cell from where he'd left it on the bookcase, and went outside.

Afternoon rain clouds were moving across the sky, blocking out the sun, and he could sense the moisture coming. The pine trees smelled especially sharp, as if their bite was being held close to the ground by the low pressure.

The article in the newspaper listed a telephone number to reach the task force to report any information regarding the Taylor children. Hearne had nothing to report, but he a.s.sumed it would be the best way to reach who he needed to talk with. He punched the numbers into his cell phone, and the call was answered after three rings by a female receptionist.

"I'd like to speak to Lieutenant Singer, please."

"Please hold while I put you through."

Hearne was placed on hold for a moment, listened to a scratchy rendition of "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down," then: "This is Singer." The man's voice was flat and businesslike.

"Lieutenant Singer, this is Jim Hearne," he said.

No response.

"Your banker," he reminded, after a beat.

"I know who you are." Deadpan, slightly annoyed.

"I was hoping we could have a few minutes to talk."

"Why? I'm busy right now, as you can imagine."

"It's about a retired detective from California. From Arcadia, wherever that is. He was in my office asking about cash deposits and certain bills that have surfaced that apparently were marked. The bills were traced back to my bank."

The cold silence on the other end of the call unnerved Hearne. "Lieutenant Singer?"

"I'm here."

"I think we should get together and talk about this situation."

"Why?" Singer said quickly, his voice dropping.

"Well ..." Hearne wasn't sure what to say.

"Well what?"

"I'm sure he'll be back. It won't take him long to identify certain accounts, and he'll want to know about them." Hearne didn't like how he sounded, like a weak coconspirator. He wanted Singer to say something to a.s.sure him there was nothing to worry about.

Finally: "Listen to me carefully, Mr. Banker," Singer said, almost whispering. Hearne found himself clicking the volume b.u.t.ton on his cell phone so he could hear. "Do not say a thing to that man right now. Not a thing."

"But ..."

"But nothing, Mr. Banker. As far as you're concerned, you don't have any idea what he's talking about. Or better yet, you're simply unavailable for a meeting. He can't hang around here forever. He'll go away."

Hearne couldn't get past the words, He'll go away.

"We'll talk when this is over," Singer said. "We'll get everything straightened out. Is that a deal?"

Hearne looked at his cell phone as if it had switched sides and turned against him. Then he closed it, ending the call.

WHEN HE turned back to the house, Laura was standing in the doorway.

"Since when do you make calls out on the lawn?" she asked.

He shrugged and tried to shoulder past her, but she stepped in his way. "Jim?"

Enough, he thought. Enough holding things in. He reached up and grasped her gently by the shoulders, looked straight into her eyes. He could see that she was prepared for anything but scared at the same time.

"I've put us in a situation," he said. "At the bank. Now it's coming back to kick me in the a.s.s. I may be in a lot of trouble."

She searched his face for more.

"Actually," he said, sweeping a hand around the grounds, "I may have put us both and all we have in trouble."

"What did you do, Jim?" she asked.

"It's not what I did," he said. "It's what I didn't do. I looked the other way when I knew better, which is just as bad. I let something happen without stopping it, without asking the right questions. I did it because I knew if I looked away, deliberately, it would lead to a lot more business, and that's what happened. But I knew better. I knew something wasn't right."

She slowly shook her head. Would she press him for details?

"Jim," she said, "that's not like you." It hurt more than anything else she could have said.

He dropped his head, couldn't look into her eyes. "Laura, I need your permission to try and square this, knowing that I might not be able to do it. What's at risk is my job and our reputation."

She sighed, which surprised him. "You've always cared a lot more about our status than I have," she said. "I'd be just as happy in our old house, with the valley more like the way it was when we grew up. I know I can't turn the clock back, and neither can you. But I wouldn't mind if we weren't always in the middle of making it grow bigger and inviting everyone in. I'm not sure it's worth it. It doesn't matter how nice our house is in order to cook Sunday dinner."

He slowly raised his head, amazed at her, in love with her.

"Do what you need to do to make things right," she said.

"Then I'm going to miss dinner," he said.

"It'll keep 'til you get back."

Sunday, 5:15 P.M.

WHILE ANNIE AND WILLIAM ate at the table, Jess thumbed through the phone book in the Federal Government listings and found the number for the FBI office in Boise. He looked at his watch. Five-fifteen on Sunday night. Would anyone even be there? Turning his back on the Taylor kids, he dialed and got a recorded message: "You've reached the Boise District Office for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Our normal office hours are eight to five Monday through Friday. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911 to contact local authorities. If it isn't an emergency, please stay on the line and leave a message. A special agent will return your call as soon as possible."

When he heard the beep, Jess hesitated for a moment. Then, in a hushed voice, he gave his name, number, and said he knew something about the missing Taylor children.

He hung up, not at all sure he had done the right thing. Would the agent call him back directly, or contact the sheriff and the ex-cops first? If the latter happened, everything could go to h.e.l.l. He stared at the receiver, wishing he could retrieve and erase the message somehow. He should have hung up and waited until tomorrow, when he could talk to a real person. This wasn't like him, being impulsive. But he had to do something. Gonzalez on his own porch had unnerved him. They would suspect him now, and he was sure they'd come back.

THE CHILDREN seemed to be as comfortable as they'd been since they arrived, Jess thought. They sat in the living room, surfing through television channels. He found himself staring at them from the doorway in the kitchen, wishing he could be as carefree. Annie looked over and smiled at him, then turned back to the television.

Something had happened, he thought. Because they had overheard the exchange with Gonzalez, the children trusted him completely now. They thought he could take care of them. Jess wasn't so sure about that. He needed help, and some kind of plan. He didn't know where to turn.

He thought of the man he'd had breakfast with, Villatoro. Jess could tell Villatoro had connections, knew people in law enforcement on the outside. Maybe even their home telephone numbers. Perhaps the ex-detective could put him in contact with a friendly FBI agent who could circ.u.mvent a call to the sheriff? Jess dug the card out of his pocket again, called the motel, and again got voice mail. Jess cursed to himself, and left a message asking Villatoro to call him whenever he got back to his room.

Who else could help? Buddy?

He looked up the deputy's number and called. The phone was busy. Probably off the hook, Jess thought, while the man slept.

Jess paced his kitchen, washed and dried the dishes, stared at his watch and the telephone that didn't ring.

Maybe, he thought, Sheriff Carey would believe him if he could talk to the man without the ex-cops around. Maybe. He would need to try, and he couldn't chance waiting until morning. By that time, the ex-cops might be coming back to his house or the FBI might be in contact with them. It would need to be tonight.