“How far out are you?”
“Yeah, about that …”
He sighs and says, “What happened?”
I’m quiet for a moment, but that moment is all Atticus needs.
“You went back for them, didn’t you?”
I close my eyes, not wanting to get into it. Instead, I try to change the subject.
“Scout Dry Cleaners. That’s pretty clever. I didn’t know you were a Harper Lee fan.”
Atticus says, “Holly, I may not know you very well, but I knew your father quite well, and despite what you want to believe, you are your father’s daughter. So please don’t waste my time any further than you already have.”
It’s true—Atticus doesn’t know me very well, just as I don’t know him very well. The only reason our paths crossed was because, despite being retired, Atticus is still somehow wired into the system. And when my father—who I thought was dead—needed me to steal something, he sent me to Atticus, the man who had once trained my father to kill, and Atticus, because children’s lives were at risk, agreed to help me. And then, when it was clear my own family’s lives were at risk, Atticus had agreed to help me again. So really, when you come right down to it, I have no reason not to tell this man the truth.
“I’m sorry, Atticus.”
“What happened?”
“Like you said, I went back for them.”
“And?”
“And”—I swallow, clear my throat—“and they were dead. Murdered. Burned to death, actually. Can you believe that, Atticus? Burned to death.”
He says nothing.
“So yeah, I’m still in Culiacán. Which means James is right now wasting his time heading to the rendezvous point. I would have called you sooner but this was the first chance I had to get away and find a disposable phone. But I want you to know I had planned to head straight for the border—I was even driving in that direction—but I just … I couldn’t leave them like that. I wanted to make sure they were in a better place before I took off. But then I saw smoke from the highway, and when I got there …”
I trail off, not sure what more I want to say. I glance at the phone to check the battery life. Ten percent remaining.
Atticus says, “I’m sorry about what happened, Holly, I truly am. And I know for some reason you blame yourself for what happened. But right now you—”
I cut him off.
“No, Atticus, you don’t get it. I took them there. I left them there. I practically delivered them to whoever the fuck killed them.”
Atticus says nothing.
“And this isn’t about some kind of guilt on my part. Yeah, I do feel guilty about what happened, but that’s not all. From what I’ve been able to figure out, the person who did this has done it before. Several times. He’s a serial killer, Atticus. Do you understand me? There’s somebody out there killing the wives and children of cartel families.”
Atticus says, “Yes, about that.”
I realize I’ve been stationary too long and start up the block.
“About what?”
“Something about this morning didn’t feel right to me and I couldn’t put my finger on the reason why. I had done as much research as possible on Ernesto Diaz, so I had believed I had all my bases covered.”
I pause for a beat.
“But you didn’t?”
“Not necessarily. It’s just, well, based on Ernesto Diaz’s status, he seemed to have had an abnormally large number of guards protecting him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You said that this serial killer is going around killing the mothers and children of cartel families, correct?”
“Yes. Only the woman wasn’t Javier’s wife. She was the children’s nanny.”
“Then what happened this morning to the woman and children you left behind really doesn’t make sense. The Diaz family is not part of the cartels. They don’t do much in the drug trade, only the sex trade.”
“Maybe this guy is branching out. Assuming it’s even one guy.”
“Yes, well that’s not what has been bothering me.”
“Then what has?”
“How many men did you take out at the compound? Almost twenty? It would make sense that Ernesto would have some guards—your surveillance of the compound the last two days proved that—but this morning there were just too many.”
“He knew something had happened to his son, Atticus. He wanted to protect himself. Maybe he hired additional guards for a couple days.”
“That’s my thought. He must have hired additional men. The question now is who did he hire those additional men from, and will there be retaliation?”
I pause again, now two blocks from Gabriela’s house, and ask, “Retaliation on whom?”
“I haven’t a clue, and right now that’s what concerns me the most.”
Twenty-Two
Fernando Sanchez Morales stepped out onto the patio to find his wife and seven-year-old son in the yard. His wife sat at the table, paging through a magazine, while his son kicked a soccer ball across the grass.
His first impulse was to shout at them, tell them to hurry inside. Blood started pounding in his ears. He wasn’t aware his hands had curled into fists until he felt his nails digging into his palms.
Two of the bodyguards stood close by, sunglasses propped on their faces, rifles strapped over their shoulders. They kept their attention on the fence and the trees beyond it.
His wife glanced up at him and smiled.
“Do you hear them?”
He paused, the blood still pounding in his ears.
“Hear what?”
“Church bells.”
She nodded toward the fence and the trees and the town down the hill. It took him a moment but then he heard them past the blood singing in his ears. Distant church bells.
His wife smiled again.
“There must be a wedding. Which reminds me, our anniversary is next month. What will you get me?”
Out in the yard, his son kicked the soccer ball a bit too hard. It sailed through the air and struck the fence. His son started running after the ball, but Fernando called after him.
“Ignacio, come here!”
The boy paused at the intensity in his father’s voice.
His wife noticed it too, and the smile faded from her face.
“Why
