Meyer straightened. “You do that and you won’t believe the wrath that will come down on your family.”

Vaughn slid his body forward, getting up near Meyer’s face. He’d move his parents to Canada if he had to, but there wasn’t a threat Meyer could levy that would derail this, Vaughn’s only hope of recovering Rachel. “You drive to the jail with me right now or I make the call to move Junior out of solitary. Your choice.”

Meyer’s lips twitched into a vicious grin. “If you want my help”—he spit the p out, spraying Vaughn with spittle—“it’s going to cost you.”

Vaughn looked into the eyes of the man he’d hated for twenty years, an abuser of people, animals, and power—the man who’d given orders to arrest Vaughn’s mother and father. None of it mattered anymore. “Name your price.”

“If Junior cooperates, he pleads out on the assault charges. Parole, no jail time.”

Vaughn curled his hands into fists. “Fine, but only if you drop all charges against my parents.”

“All right. Then I should add that you’ll need to drop the other charges against Junior while you’re at it.”

“Okay.”

Meyer licked his lips. “One more thing. After you find the girl, you’re going to resign.”

Vaughn didn’t hesitate. “Done.”

Meyer grinned, satisfied. “I’ll get my keys.”

* * *

Vaughn phoned Binderman on his way to the jail, so by the time he arrived, Junior was set up in an interview room.

Acutely aware that forty-five minutes had passed since Kellan had called him about Rachel’s disappearance, he watched with mounting nerves through the one-way mirror while Meyer talked to his son. Angela Spencer, the district attorney, slid up next to him, dressed to the nines like she was fresh from a hearing at the courthouse, despite the fact that it was four-thirty in the morning.

“Hey, Angela. Sorry to put you in this position. I didn’t have a choice.” It hadn’t been Vaughn’s place to bargain for a plea agreement. He’d banked on her support by virtue of the professional camaraderie they’d cultivated over the years.

She offered him a sympathetic smile. “Glad it doesn’t happen all the time, but I’ve got your back.”

“Thank you.” Vaughn turned his focus to the interview room. The dynamic between Meyer and Junior caught him off guard. Junior didn’t once make eye contact. His whole body, from his eyes to his feet, turned into stone the way teenagers did when lectured to. Vaughn had expected smugness, maybe even a celebratory hug. But the hostility Junior exuded had Vaughn making a one-eighty with his interview strategy.

When Meyer gave the signal that they were done, Vaughn brushed by an exiting Meyer and settled into a chair, working hard not to appear as terrified as he felt about Rachel’s fate.

“Did your father tell you the deal? Help me find Elias Baltierra and El Diente, along with the woman they kidnapped, and you plead out.”

Staring vacantly at the table, Junior’s lips twitched into a hateful smile that made Vaughn’s stomach drop. He’d staked Rachel’s life on Junior’s cooperation, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Junior wasn’t going to make it easy. It was all he could do not to glance at his watch.

“Let’s start with the Parillas Valley shootout. Where did you get the rifles?” he asked, to test Junior’s veracity.

“Dealer in Chaves County.”

So far, so good. “Was it El Diente?”

Junior’s chest trembled with a silent chuckle.

Vaughn’s patience was unraveling fast. “You can tell me. Remember? You help us and we’ll cut you a plea deal. Tell me where I can find El Diente.”

Junior turned his smirking face up to Vaughn. “You’re looking at him. I’m El Diente.”

Vaughn wanted nothing more than to smack the smile off Junior’s face. Instead, he punched the table. “Stop it with the bullshit answers. If the woman El Diente and Baltierra kidnapped isn’t found alive, the deal’s off. You’ll rot in jail for the rest of your life as some prisoner’s bitch. Start talking.”

Junior sat up a little straighter. “I told you, El Diente’s my street name. I set it up for myself four years ago when I started dealing weed. If somebody was kidnapped, must have been Elias who did it.”

“How’d you decide on a name like that?”

The smirk returned. He looked Vaughn straight in the eye. “Because when people cross me, I take a tooth as payment.”

The way Junior said it—the boastful gleam in his expression, the conviction in his tone—convinced Vaughn he was telling the truth.

Mother of God. Wallace Meyer Junior was no junkie or small-time dealer or petty criminal. He was a mass murderer. And all those cold cases and unsolved murders bearing El Diente’s signature that Vaughn had pulled to reexamine had a new number one suspect. He rolled his gaze up to the one-way mirror, knowing Angela was conducting her own mental search of past cases.

He could interview Junior about past crimes all day long, but it wouldn’t get him any closer to saving Rachel. “I’m confused. If you’re El Diente, then who killed Shawn Henigin? Elias?”

“How should I know?”

“Because Shawn was missing a tooth when he died. And Elias is the only one of your gang who could’ve done that. I’m betting he’s running the El Diente show, and you’re riding his coattails. Know how I’m so sure?” He fell forward over the table and drilled Junior with a glare. Time to go for the jugular. “Because your daddy didn’t raise no leader. Even tonight, he was certain you’d do whatever he told you. He pulls the strings and you dance like a puppet.”

Junior waved his hands. “That’s not true. I’m El Diente.”

Vaughn painted a look of skepticism on his face and drummed his fingers on the table. “My first memory of you was the day you were bucked from that horse, when you were five. Do you remember?”

Junior scrubbed a hand over his face, the air of superiority wiped clean away. “Don’t talk about that.”

“Your horse threw you, and your daddy was all over that. Took you aside, real fatherly-like, and told you it was time for you to learn how to command respect from those you governed. You remember what happened next?”

“Shut up.”

“He put a whip in your hand. You cried, and he slapped you, called you a girl. Told you if you wanted to be a man like him, this was what you had to do. I left and called the sheriff, hoping to save that horse’s life, but the sheriff told me to shake it off because no one crossed the Meyers, especially a nobody like me. You liked whipping that horse, didn’t you? Felt real powerful—just like your daddy.”

Junior leapt to his feet. “I hated doing that. Dirt Devil was my best friend.”

Vaughn set his palms on the table and pushed to standing. “Don’t kid yourself. You’re daddy’s puppet through and through.”

Junior kicked the leg of his chair. “I am not!”

“When I told your old man you could help me find the kidnapped woman, he said, ‘My son, the screw up? No way.’”

Something triggered inside Junior. Shaking, tears sprang to his eyes. He looked like a kid again—the scared, angry son of a monster. “He doesn’t know anything about me. He only sees what he wants to.”

“He doesn’t see how smart you are.”

Junior whirled around and glared at the mirror. “He never has.”

“He thinks Elias is in charge. He figures you’re too stupid to run a business. Daddy’s puppet—you’re probably Elias’s puppet too.”

“That’s bullshit. I’m El Diente. Just me.”

“A fucked-up daddy’s boy like you? If you’re El Diente”—he added air quotes to the name—“you need to prove it to me. I want to see this jar of teeth. Tell me where to look.”

Junior turned away from Vaughn and stalked to the mirror. A growling rumble emanated from his throat, then he spit a gigantic wad of phlegm at it. He stood, watching it drip, sneering at his reflection. “Corner of Troy and Allison. In Devil’s Furnace. Used to be a Laundromat. The teeth are in the dryer nearest the back door. Elias will be there too, if he took the girl.”

There was nothing left to say. Vaughn shot toward the door. He had a hand on the knob when Junior asked, “I get to plea out, right? That was the deal.”

Vaughn looked at him over his shoulder. “Sure. You can plea out on the Parillas Valley charges. That was the deal. Then again, my deputy’s going to arrest you right now for Gerald Sorentino’s murder, so we don’t care so much about the other charges anymore.”

He hustled into the hallway, his walkie-talkie at his lips. Before he could signal Stratis on where to meet him at Devil’s Furnace, Meyer intercepted him, his expression pained. Vaughn had to give him credit; at least he had enough humanity to look disturbed by the revelation that his progeny was a mass murderer.

“Change of plans, Meyer. I’m not resigning.” He kept moving, thumping Meyer’s shoulder hard with his own as he ran past. He turned and walked backward, affording Meyer one last flinty look. “Oh, and congratulations on singlehandedly creating a sociopath. Way to go, Dad.”

Meyer stared after him with an expression of utter despair. Vaughn turned forward again and sprinted to the exit. Rachel, I’m coming for you.

* * *

The crumbling Laundromat in which Rachel sat, her wrists tied behind the chair back, was coated in a thick layer of yellowish dust, most likely from the shredded insulation spilling from the ceiling. The dust swirled through the air like toxic snowflakes as her captor paced. She recognized him as one of the four who’d shot at her—Elias Baltierra.

Hard to say what part of her hurt the worst. Her skull throbbed. Her arm was wet with blood. Somewhere along the line, the scab from her bullet wound had ripped clean off. And her heart ached so bad she couldn’t see how it was still beating. Amy might well be dead. Kellan, Sloane, and Ben too. With a house as old as theirs, who knew how fast the frame and roof would burn? At least Jenna and Tommy lived far enough away to escape the blaze. That is, if Baltierra hadn’t paid them a visit first.

“Oh, Christ,” Baltierra muttered. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with you? Oh, hell.”

Rachel twisted her arms and slipped her thumb into the knot of the rope around her wrists. She’d had her wrists bound enough times to know when a knot would hold, and this one was as unsophisticated as they came.

Hope, wild and ridiculous, sizzled through her. If Baltierra left the room, she’d have herself free in seconds. Maybe she could find a phone and call to get help to the farm before it was too late. But scrambled as her brain was after the battering she’d endured, coming up with a plan to get him out of the room wasn’t revealing itself easily to her.

“I’ve got an ATM card in the wallet in my back pocket. If you need cash, I’ll tell you the code. There’s got to be an ATM around here.” Every word clawed at the inside of her parched throat.

“Nice try, bitch. But the money I need is a lot more than I can take out of your bank account.”

“Is that what you were looking for at my house? Drug money? Is that the reason for the graffiti too? You wanted us out of the way of your drug operation?”

He whirled around and pounced on her, his hands on the chair back, his body odor flooding around her like a fog, his funky breath on her face. “What do you know about that?”

“I know my dad was cooking meth. Were you one of his customers or his business partner?”

He pulled back, his body tense, hands fisted. Rachel braced herself for a punch, but instead he resumed his agitated pace. “Gerry cashed out of our arrangement before we was ready to let him. Junior got mad. He don’t like to be told no. We was still cooking in Gerry’s lab until the oil people came around, and then your stupid, fuckin’ dude ranch screwed everything up.”

She grew cold all over. Her father was murdered. “Junior’s your leader?”

“Was. Didn’t have no choice at the time. Junior was the only one who knew how to cook meth. He and Gerry had it all worked out. But it’s changed now. I’m in charge.”

“What about Shawn Henigin? Is he still your partner?”

He offered a wheezy laugh and rubbed the knuckles of his right hand as he prowled. “Shawn’s not doing nothing anymore. He was getting twitchy, was going to turn himself in and blab to the police. But from now on, I’m El Diente, and there ain’t nothing him or Junior can do about it. I saw to Shawn, and I guess I have you to thank for taking care of Junior.”

Rachel had never heard the name El Diente before. Didn’t much care who he was, or what Baltierra had done to Shawn Henigin, as long as they weren’t a threat to her family. “How about you thank me by letting me go?”