"No. My car." He inclined his head and she saw the Xterra he'd driven to the ranch a half a block down the street.

"I-I need a car seat. I don't have ID."

"Get in the f.u.c.king car!"

Tucker had stopped trying to get past her. He clung to her back, now made aware of the danger.

"He needs a car seat," she repeated. Sean had died because Jonathan had let him unbuckle himself and lie down on the seat. She'd demanded that they stop until he was rebuckled, but Jonathan said they were almost home. She'd yelled at him but all he'd done was race with the woman behind them . . . Teresa, she realized now. "Leave him here. I'll go with you."

"Nooo," Tucker whispered behind her.

"Can't do that." Andre slowly shook his head, a spasm crossing his face. "Get him in the car."

"I'll get the car seat."

"I will shoot you and then him, if you don't get in the car right now."

Tears filled Callie's eyes. "Okay . . . okay . . ." She half-turned. "Tucker, can you grab my hand?"

He gazed up at her with huge blue eyes, slipping his small hand within hers.

They walked across the street with Andre following them. At the Xterra, she saw the keys were still in the ignition. If she could get in and drive away before he rounded the car . . .

But the gun was now aimed at Tucker, so she was helpless to do anything but get Tucker buckled into the backseat. He looked so small and scared. She felt completely responsible for this, for taking him away from Martinique and the life he'd known.

She slid into the driver's seat and buckled up as Andre got in the pa.s.senger side, the gun now unerringly on her. Callie started the ignition. Her cell phone was in her purse, which was still sitting on the dining table, but Andre's was lying on the console. If she could just reach West. Find a way to call him. Andre looked like he was d.a.m.n near close to collapse and if she could just get an open line . . .

"Turn around," Andre said to her.

"What?"

"Turn the car around."

She edged the SUV forward and pulled into the neighbors' drive, hoping they would come outside and see, but they were never home. As she reversed back onto the road, she ventured to ask, "Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you both home," he said.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

It's showtime, folks. All the work's been done and now I get to reap the benefits. And I'm just an innocent bystander. No one knows about me, and that's the way I want to keep it. Of course, I do have a partner in crime, but hey, if they all want to blame someone they should look at Andre and Teresa. They're the ones who put the whole plan in motion. It's endgame time now, and all I've done is pick up the ball and run with it. Now it's time to clean up the remaining mess. Can't wait to see the looks on their faces as they realize they're all doomed.

West drove north on the 101, fighting rush-hour traffic. Half an hour earlier he'd said, "I'm out of here," to Dorcas as he got up from his desk and stretched his back. It was going on six o'clock and it was looking like Mike Theron wasn't going to call him back today. He'd put a call in to Bibbs, too, but had learned the detective was on vacation. Since Osbirg was no longer on active duty with the LAPD, he was stuck with the case notes on the Cantrell homicide and they weren't all that enlightening. But if Theron didn't return his call, he might have to chase down one or the other of the two detectives who'd handled the case.

Through Bluetooth, he punched in Callie's cell number, but was sent straight to voice mail. He wanted to text her, but that would necessitate pulling over and he didn't feel like wasting a minute. He would be at her place soon enough if traffic didn't get any worse.

With time on his hands, he next phoned the Coalinga hospital, hoping to talk to Victoria's doctor directly. After being directed and redirected a couple of times, he finally connected with the man who told him Victoria had woken up briefly and seemed to know who she was and where she was. Encouraged, West thanked him, aware how relieved he was that Victoria would live. It was something of a revelation that he felt so protective of her when all she'd ever done was try to deny his existence-that is, until she'd needed him.

Freeway traffic was moving steadily, if at a snail's pace. He had to contain his impatience and was doing a p.i.s.s-poor job of it when his default ringtone trilled. s.n.a.t.c.hing up the phone, he didn't recognize the number. He almost didn't answer, but finally clicked on and said, "Detective Laughlin."

"I believe we were cut off earlier. This is Diane Cantrell," she said snappishly.

Dorcas had given out his cell number to her, he realized. His partner wanted nothing to do with the Cantrell case, especially since he'd learned West was involved with Callie. Though Dorcas had been amused at that, he'd also warned West to watch himself. Getting involved with anyone connected to a case was asking for the kind of trouble West didn't need.

"Was there something else?" West asked her.

"I'm trying to help you, Detective," she said, exasperated. "Callie has now suddenly found a key to a security box of some kind and she lured my brother to her house but she won't let him see what's inside. She's playing some kind of game, and she's unstable. Did you know she spent over a month in a mental hospital? I know you're trying to find out what happened to Jonathan and Sean, but you're looking far afield when she's right there!"

"Are you suggesting Ms. Cantrell had something to do with the accident?" West asked in a dangerous voice.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, no." Diane backed off immediately. "But she's hiding money, and I would hope the LAPD would consider that a crime."

"What you've described sounds more like a legal issue. You might want to consult a lawyer."

"We already have," she said, ruffled. "But you need to investigate Callie. There's a pattern here, that you people seem to be missing. That's all I'm saying."

West heard a beep in his ear, signaling another call. He just managed to stop himself from saying, "We people will look into it," instead, ending their conversation by politely a.s.suring her he had noted her concerns before clicking off from her and on to the next call. "Detective Laughlin," he answered.

"This is Michael Theron. You called me earlier?"

"I sure did," West said. Quickly, he explained what Bob Vincent had told him about feeling one of Theron's other employees had stolen his car, which had then been used in a homicide a little over a year earlier.

"I thought that was ruled an accident," Theron said.

That was...o...b..rg's fault, West thought, annoyed. The detective had a.s.sumed it was a random theft and had let the case languish because he thought digging further was a waste of time. "It's an open investigation. Mr. Vincent said he didn't know the employees' real names."

"Look, I hire men on the spot when construction is going and blowing. Sometimes they have ID, sometimes . . . well, I just need bodies, y'know?"

West understood that he was saying he hired illegal aliens among others. "Do you remember any of the names? He called three of them by nicknames it sounded like he'd given them himself."

"I know who he meant." Theron snorted. "Bob drinks too much, but he's a good worker. I'd still hire him. You can tell him that, but he might not believe you. He got all wrapped up in the insurance problems and tried to sue them and me, and I was pretty p.i.s.sed for a while. Those three, though. They didn't really want to work. Especially the one who thought he was G.o.d's messenger, or some such thing."

"Preacher?" West put in.

"Yessirree, that's what Bob called him. The guy spent way too much time on his cell. He never had wheels of his own. Got dropped off by a couple different women. Mostly pretty good-lookin'. He could draw 'em in like a magnet. Actually, now that you reminded me, I think I did see him lookin' at Bob's car once while he was on the phone. Thought he was gonna offer to buy it."

"What's Preacher's real name?" West asked, wondering if there might be something to Bob Vincent's accusations after all.

"Mmmm . . . Andrew Something. Can't remember." He hesitated a moment, then said, "Oh, yeah. That's right. Wanted us to call him Andre."

West jerked. "Andrew Laughlin?" he asked sharply.

"Mighta been," Theron allowed, rolling that over. "I think you might be right. He didn't work for me long, and he didn't work much when he was there. He was the first one to leave of those three. Huh. Like your name."

West's mind was reeling. Had to be Andre, from his description. Andre . . . the stolen vehicle . . . Teresa's fingerprints . . . the Cantrells . . . "You have an address for him?" West asked without much hope. Transient workers didn't often give out accurate information, and he'd already heard how strange and secretive Andre was. Callie sure hadn't liked him. . . .

He had a moment of cold fear, a premonition of sorts that made him itch to call Callie again.

"Actually, I do, sort of," Theron said thoughtfully. "I heard him on the phone once, complaining about the neighbors and he mentioned the address. Carmella Lane, Laurel Canyon somewhere. I remember 'cause it's my aunt's name."

"Thanks," West said hurriedly. He hung up and immediately called Callie. Once again he went straight to voice mail.

Where was she?

He next put a call in to Dorcas. When his partner answered, he asked, "You still at work?"

"Just leaving, pal. Don't ask me to do anything."

"Can you look up Carmella Lane? Laurel Canyon somewhere. Just give me a general idea. I don't want to stop and look for it."

"This the Cantrell homicide?"

"Can you just do it?" West shot back.

Muttering beneath his breath, Dorcas went silent for a few minutes, then gave West the location, which West pinpointed in his mind. "It's a small, dead-end street," Dorcas said. "What's there?"

"I'm following a lead on the stolen car that pushed the Cantrell Mercedes over the cliff."

"You got something?" He was interested.

"I'll let you know soon. I'm going there now."

"Thought you were going home."

"Have to check on this first."

He hung up, attempted to reach Callie one more time, then tried to tamp down a bad feeling that persisted. He should have listened more closely to her complaints about his dark-horse cousin.

The house Andre guided Callie toward was a dark brown bungalow with a steep driveway that rose from the sloped street below. The place looked like it could use a coat of paint or two and one eave dipped down toward the hedge that ran along the north side.

"Turn around, then stop on the street," Andre said. The first words he'd uttered in several miles.

Callie had to jockey the Xterra to get it facing down the street toward the exit. Then she pulled over to the curb and squeezed into a parking spot. She set the parking brake automatically, aware that her hands were shaking on the steering wheel.

"Get out and get the boy," Andre ordered.

He waited until she'd climbed out and opened the back door, then levered himself from the vehicle and came around to her side, all the while pointing the gun at her head. Full night had fallen while they'd been driving.

Callie clasped Tucker's hand and they walked across the road together. Tucker was shivering. She wondered if it was because he was in a short-sleeved shirt or if it was from fear. Probably both. She was shivering too.

There were houses crouched on both sides of the street. She hoped someone would look out and see that Andre had a gun. He wasn't really trying to conceal the weapon. He was too concerned that she should understand the threat . . . and she did.

He'd taken the keys from her and now he put them back in her hand and showed her which was the one to the house. She unlocked the front door, her mind spinning. He was sick. There was no doubt about that. If she could use that to her advantage, maybe she could somehow get his phone and contact West. Andre had picked up his cell from the console and tucked it in his pocket, but she could see the end of it, as if it hadn't been pushed down far enough and could fall out.

But most important was to keep Tucker safe. Find a way to get him free.

A faint putrid scent reached her nose as she stepped inside and into a darkened hallway. Tucker squeezed her hand even tighter.

"What is that?" Andre asked, sounding like the smell was a surprise to him, too.

She'd stopped short but he prodded her in the small of her back with the gun.

She stepped forward reluctantly, almost dragging Tucker as he didn't want to move. She didn't either. Something was dead here.

She moved slowly down the hall. Doors were closed on either side and it was cool inside, almost cold. There was no heat. The smell grew stronger and Callie stopped short at a room near the end of the hall. Faint light showed from beneath its closed door.

Andre hesitated, then said loudly, "I am The Messiah!"

He moved past Callie and threw open the door. Callie got a glimpse of a large room with robed bodies lying on the floor. Staring eyes. Bruised throats. Pools of blood. Ashes poured over them. And the smell!

She made a retching sound, grabbed Tucker, and turned around, pushing him ahead of her. She didn't even have to yell for him to run. He tore for the front door, racing back down the dark hallway and directly into the woman who had suddenly thrown open one of the bedroom doors and jumped in front of him.

Tucker staggered backward and said in a scared, confused voice, "Aimee?"

Callie was almost upon them and Andre was breathing down her neck. She parroted Tucker blankly, "Aimee?"

In perfect English Aimee answered, "You're going to both have to turn around. Tucker, go in there." She pushed open a door to one of the bedrooms.

"No . . . Callee . . ."

"Get in there," she ordered tautly. She held something in her hand. Callie realized in shock that it was a hypodermic needle.

"Yes, go," Callie said faintly, and Tucker reluctantly moved into the room. As soon as he was inside, Aimee locked the door from the outside. The k.n.o.b had been turned around to make the room a prison.

"What have you done?" Andre rasped, before Callie could even form a question.

"They're a sacrifice for you, Messiah."

Callie's heart was pounding so hard it deafened her. Was that sarcasm in her voice? Why was Aimee here? Had she killed those women and that man?

"What the f.u.c.k, Aimee," Andre muttered.

"I told you to come home, but you shouldn't have brought them here," Aimee retorted. "The boy. This woman? You shouldn't have done that."

"Don't tell me what to do!" he roared.

"I love you!" Aimee shrieked back at him. "I told you when you came to Martinique that I would handle things."

Callie was between them. She felt faint . . . ill . . . could sense the fog trying to creep in. No. She had to save Tucker....

"But it was always Teresa," Aimee continued her rant. "Is that why she's here?" She hooked a thumb toward Callie. "Because she looks like her?"