Decker concentrated to conceal his apprehension. It was alarmingly obvious to him that the threat against him had not been canceled merely because he'd killed the four men who had attacked him. He had to find out why they'd been sent and who had sent them. For all he knew, another hit team was already keeping him under surveillance. As a TV news van pa.s.sed the police car, presumably having taken footage of Decker's house, Decker decided that it would seem natural for him to turn and watch the van recede along the road. That tactic was a good way to check to be certain he wasn't being followed, without at the same time making Esperanza any more inquisitive.

"One ridiculous possibility would be you're a drug dealer who's had a falling-out with your friends," Esperanza said. "You haven't kept your promises to them. You haven't delivered money you owe them. So they decide to make an example of you and send four guys to blow you away. But you're a resourceful guy. You get them first. Then you arrange things to look as if you're an innocent man who barely managed to save his life."

"Including getting my friend shot."

"Well, this is merely a hypothetical possibility." Esperanza gestured offhandedly. "It's one of a variety of theories the judge will want to make sure I've considered and eliminated." The detective stopped the police car on the road outside Decker's house, unable to park in the driveway because a van and two other police cars blocked it. "Looks like the forensics team isn't finished. That shower you said you wanted will have to be postponed a little longer."

"For a couple of reasons. I just remembered-one of the men who broke in shot the water heater apart. You'd better drive me down to the next house."

Esperanza looked puzzled for a moment, the creases in his forehead adding to the leathery grain of his handsome face. Then he nodded with understanding. "That's right-you mentioned your friend lived next to you."

"I have a key," Decker said.

As they drove past several curious bystanders who had gathered at the side of the road and showed obvious interest in the police car, Decker couldn't help wondering, his muscles rigid, if any of them was a threat to him.

"When you were living in Alexandria, Virginia, what was the name of the real estate company you worked for?" Esperanza asked.

"The Rawley-Hackman Agency."

"Do you remember their telephone number?"

"I haven't used it in more than a year, but I think so." Decker pretended to jog his memory, then dictated the number while Esperanza wrote it down. "But I don't see why it's necessary to involve them."

"Just a standard background check."

"Sergeant, you're beginning to make me feel like a criminal."

"Am I?" Esperanza tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "If you think of anything you've forgotten to tell me, I'll be at your house."

6.

Exhausted, Decker locked Beth's front door behind him and leaned against it. Tense, he listened to the adobe-smothered stillness of the house. At once he went into the living room and picked up the telephone. Under normal circ.u.mstances, he would have waited until he had a chance to get to a pay phone, but he didn't have the luxury of waiting, and, as he kept reminding himself, nothing was normal any longer. In an attempt at security, he reversed the charges, preventing a record of the call from showing up on Beth's telephone bill.

"Rawley-Hackman Agency," a smooth male voice said. "I have a collect call from Martin Kowalsky," the operator said. "Will you accept the charges?"

Martin Kowalsky, the name Decker had given the operator, was a code for an emergency.

"Yes," the voice said immediately. "I'll accept."

"Go ahead, Mr. Kowalsky."

Decker could not be sure that the operator wasn't continuing to listen. "Does your console show the number I'm using?" he asked the voice on the other end.

"Of course."

"Call me right back."

Ten seconds later, the phone rang. "h.e.l.lo."

"Martin Kowalsky?"

"My identification number is eight seven four four five." Decker heard what sounded like fingers tapping numbers on a computer keyboard.

"Stephen Decker?"

"Yes."

"Our records show that you severed your employment with us a year ago in June. Why are you reestablishing contact?"

"Because four men tried to kill me last night."

The voice didn't respond for a moment. "Repeat that." Decker did.

"I'm transferring you."

The next male voice had a sharp edge of authority. "Tell me everything."

With practiced economy, Decker finished in five minutes, the details precise and vivid, his urgent tone reinforcing their effect.

"You believe the attack was related to your former employment with us?" the official asked.

"It's the most obvious explanation. Look, there's a chance the shooters were Italian. My last a.s.signment was in Italy. In Rome. It was a disaster. Check the file."

"It's on my monitor as we speak. Your connection between last night's attack and what happened in Rome is awfully tenuous."

"It's the only connection I can make at the moment. I want you to look into this. I don't have the resources to-"

"But you're not our responsibility any longer," the voice said firmly.

"Hey, you sure thought I was when I quit. You were all over me. I figured your security checks would never stop. d.a.m.n it, two months ago, you were still keeping me under surveillance. So drop the bulls.h.i.t and listen carefully. There's a detective in charge of investigating the attack on me. His name is Esperanza, and it's obvious he thinks something isn't right about my story. So far I've managed to distract him, but if something happens to me, if another hit team manages to finish the job the first bunch started, he'll be that much more determined. He might find out a h.e.l.l of a lot more than you think is possible."

"We'll see that he backs off."

"You'd better," Decker said, adding with force, "I've always been loyal. I expect the same from you. Get me some backup. Find out who sent those men after me."

The voice didn't answer for a moment. "I have the number you're calling from on my monitor. Is your location secure enough for me to call you there?"

"No. I'll have to call you back."

"Six hours." The man hung up.

Decker immediately set down the phone and was surprised when it rang. Frowning, he answered it. "Yes?"

"I gather you haven't had a chance to take your shower." The caller's cadenced voice, almost musical, was instantly recognizable-Esperanza.

"That's right. How did you know?"

"Your line's been busy. I've been trying to get in touch with you."

"I had to contact some clients to cancel some showings."

"And are you finished? I hope so-because I want you to meet me at your house. I have some information that will interest you."

7.

"The IDs of the men you shot indicate they came from Denver," Esperanza said.

He and Decker were in the living room. In the background, the investigating team was leaving, carrying equipment out to the van and the two police cars.

"But Denver's five hundred miles from here," Esperanza continued. "That's an awful long way for them to have come just to break into a house and steal. They could have done that in Colorado."

"Maybe they were pa.s.sing through Santa Fe and they ran out of money," Decker said.

"That still doesn't explain the automatic weapons or why they opened fire so quickly."

"It could be they were startled when they realized someone was in the house."

"And it could be Denver's a false trail," Esperanza said. "The Denver Police Department did some checking for me. No one using any of the names on those IDs is a resident at those addresses. In fact, three of the addresses don't exist. The fourth is a mortuary."

"Somebody had a grim sense of humor."

"And access to authentic-looking bogus credit cards and driver's licenses. So we have to dig deeper," Esperanza said. "I've sent their fingerprints to the FBI. It'll take a day or two before we know if the feds can match the prints with any they have on file. Meanwhile, I've alerted the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. The serial numbers on the two Uzis and the MAC-10 had been burned off with acid, but ATF has ways to try to bring back the numbers. If they can, maybe the numbers will point us in a direction. Where the guns were bought, for example. Or, more likely, stolen. But that's not why I wanted to talk to you."

Decker waited, apprehensive.

"Let's take a walk. I want to show you something in back of your house."

Show me what? Decker thought. Uneasy, he went with Esperanza along the corridor past the entrance to the master bedroom. The bodies had been removed. The stench of cordite still hung in the air. Sunlight blazed through the corridor's solar-gain windows, one of which had been shattered by a bullet. The sunlight made vivid the considerable amount of blood that had congealed, turning black, on the corridor's tiles. Decker glanced toward the bedroom and saw the bullet-gutted mattress and pillows. Black graphite fingerprint powder seemed everywhere. It rubbed off on Esperanza's hand as he turned the k.n.o.b on the door at the end of the hallway.

"You heard them pick this lock." Esperanza stepped out into a small garden of yuccas, roses, and low evergreens. "That was after they climbed over the wall to this courtyard." Esperanza gestured for Decker to peer over the chest-high courtyard wall. "See where the scrub gra.s.s on the other side has been crushed? There are numerous footprints in the sand beyond the gra.s.s. Those footprints match the outline of the shoes the intruders wore."

Esperanza moved farther along the wall and climbed over where he wouldn't disturb the tracks he had pointed out. He waited for Decker to follow.

Squinting from the brilliant sunlight, Decker jumped down near two lines of yellow crime-scene tape that the police had strung among pinon trees to isolate the footprints.

"You have a good-sized lot." Esperanza's boots made a crunching sound on the pebbly ground as he walked parallel to the tracks, leading Decker down a steep slope. They pa.s.sed among yuccas, pinons, and a dense swath of waist-high chamisa bushes, their seeds having turned a mustard color typical of them in September.

All the while, Esperanza kept pointing toward the tracks. He and Decker climbed down past junipers on the increasingly steep slope. At the bottom, they followed the tracks along a ditch and onto a poplar-lined road that Decker recognized as Fort Connor Lane. The footprints were no longer in evidence, but wheel grooves were dug into the gravel, as if a vehicle had sped away.

"That walk took us longer than I expected," Esperanza said. "A couple of times, we almost lost our footing."

Decker nodded, waiting for him to make his point.

"In daylight. Imagine how long and difficult it would have been at night. Why did they go to all the trouble? Take a look along this road. The houses are expensive. Widely separated. Easy targets. So why would those four men drive here, get out of their vehicle, refuse to make life easy for themselves, and instead decide to hike all over G.o.d's creation? From down here, we can't even see if there are any houses above us."

"I don't get your point," Decker said.

"Your house wasn't chosen at random. It was exactly the one they wanted. You were the intended target."

"What? But that's crazy. Why would anybody want to kill me?"

"Exactly." Esperanza's dark gaze intensified. "You're holding something back."

"Nothing," Decker insisted. "I've told you everything I can think of."

"Then think about this. Someone drove their vehicle away. Suppose he comes back with another group of men to finish the job."

"Are you trying to scare me, Sergeant?"

"I'm putting a policeman on guard at your house."

8.

Decker had never felt so naked as when he took off his clothes and stepped into his shower. Not wanting to be outside his house any more than was absolutely necessary, he had abandoned the idea of returning to Beth's place so he could clean up there. He would have to make do with the cold water coming from his shower, a small discomfort compared with his urgent need to rid himself of the sticky feel of sweat and death that clung to him. Shivering, he washed his hair and body as fast as he could. His muscles were painfully tense.

Quickly, he shaved, the cold water making the razor irritate his face. He put on loafers, khaki pants, and a camel shirt, the colors chosen because they were muted and wouldn't draw attention to him. Wishing that the police hadn't confiscated his pistol, regretting that he hadn't bought two, he picked up a shopping bag of clothes that he had taken from Beth's bedroom closet after he had made his phone call at her house. He tried not to look at the dried blood on his hallway floor as he carried the bag into his living room, where Officer Sanchez was waiting.

"I need to go to the hospital to visit my friend," Decker said.

"I'll drive you."

The stocky policeman went past the courtyard and into the driveway. After looking around, he gestured that it was all right for Decker to come out and get in the police car. Troubled by a group of curious onlookers who were gathered on the road, pointing toward his house, Decker didn't feel rea.s.sured, but Sanchez's precaution was better than nothing. If only I had a gun, Decker thought.

He wasn't fooled by the explanation that Esperanza had given for putting Decker under police guard. Sanchez wasn't staying with Decker only to provide protection; the policeman's presence also guaranteed that Decker wouldn't suddenly leave town before Esperanza got some answers. Six hours, Decker thought. The intelligence official whom Decker had spoken to on the phone had said to call back in six hours. But six hours seemed an eternity.

As Sanchez steered onto St. Michael's Drive, heading toward the hospital, Decker glanced through the rear window to see if anyone was following.

"Nervous?" Sanchez asked.

"Esperanza has me jumping at shadows. Aren't you nervous? You seem a little heavier than when I first saw you. It looks to me like you're wearing a bullet-resistant vest under your uniform."