Four Live Rounds

“Please. If this is some kind of ransom—”

“No, no. You’ve already been purchased. In fact, right now, there isn’t a safer place in the world for you to be than in my possession.”

A gang of coyotes erupted in demonic howls somewhere out in that empty dark. Rachael thought they sounded like a woman burning alive, and she began to scream until the drug took her.

FIVE

They started arriving after four o’clock in the afternoon. By five, Rachael’s disappearance was the lead story on all the local news stations, even in Tucson and Phoenix. When six rolled around, there were more cars parked along No-Water Lane than when the Hasslers had hosted their last Fourth of July barbecue.

Come 7:15 P.M., more than forty people had crowded into Will and Rachael’s modest adobe home in Ajo, Arizona. They packed the den, the living room, the kitchen, even spilling out onto the deck. It was a strange assembly, all these people drawn to a tragedy in the making. The ambience mirrored the hushed formality of a postfuneral gathering, with the glut of food and alcohol, whispered conversations, the absence of laughter. And it struck Will as he sat on the sofa holding Devlin, surrounded by those he loved, friends he’d not seen in years, neighbors he rarely spoke to, that these people had come to hold vigil with him. They were waiting to hear that she’d been found, though everyone knew that people weren’t found alive when they went missing near the border, if they were ever found at all.

“Will?” He broke from his trance and looked up at Rachael’s mother standing by the built-in bookshelves, a glass of bourbon in her hand.

Debra bore a strong resemblance to her daughter, right down to her trim figure and black hair. From across the room, they could’ve been mistaken for sisters. Closer up, her silver roots showed and the added decades of living in these desert borderlands and the punishment of the sun became evident in the leathering of her face, which more resembled hide than skin.

“I couldn’t remember if you took ice or not,” she said.

“Yeah, I do. That’s perfect.” She handed him his fourth Maker’s of the evening.

“Can I take her?” Debra motioned to her granddaughter, who had fallen asleep in Will’s arms, and he’d have let her, but she was near bulletproof with Valium and vodka.

“I need to hold her, Mom.” As he sipped the whiskey, his face flushed with heat and he theorized through the bourbon-embroidered fog that maybe Rachael’s funeral had already happened and he’d blocked everything out—the eulogies, the stern-faced pallbearers, his daughter in hysterics as she watched her mother’s casket being lowered into the ground.

He staggered to his feet and carried Devlin back to her bedroom. She was beyond exhaustion now. So was he. He tucked her in, knelt on the floor, spent several moments watching her sleep, feeling a sharp pinch in his gut every time he breathed. After awhile, he got up, headed for his bedroom. His and Rachael’s bedroom. He shut and locked the door after him, opened the sweater chest that stood at the foot of their bed.

He found it near the bottom—a tattered sweatshirt that Rachael wore religiously when the weather turned cooler. It was navy blue and had years ago evinced the name of her alma mater, the washing machine having long since stripped away the white lettering.

He brought the sweatshirt to his face and smelled his wife.

On his way back to the den, he stopped at the guest room. Someone sobbed loudly behind the door. He opened it. There were no lights on, but as his eyes adjusted, he discerned the ponderous form of Rachael’s sister, Elise, curled up in the corner beside a dresser.

“You all right?” he asked. It took her a moment to catch her breath. Looking out the window above her head, he noticed strange lights in the front yard.

“She’s dead, Will. I can feel it.” He shut his eyes and braced against the concussion of her words, could have struck her for giving voice to the malignant prediction on all of their minds. “Can’t you feel it, Will?” He closed the door and went back into the den, grabbed his whiskey from the end table.

One giant swallow and he’d reinforced that beautiful cushion that was padding him from reality, the room humming now, just a few sips shy of spinning.

He was en route to the front door to investigate those lights in the yard when someone caught him under the arm.

“Hey, Will. You hanging in there, guy?” He couldn’t recall the man’s name, and then he realized why. It was a neighbor, but they’d never met. Will recognized him only because the man was usually washing a white Lexus in his driveway on Saturday mornings whenever Will and Rachael drove past his house on the way to the gym.

He was Will’s age, Latino.

“I’m sorry, what’s your name?” Will asked.

“Miguel. We always exchange waves when you and your wife pass by my house. I saw the news, all the cars out there. Thought I should come by. If there’s anything I can do. . . .”

Will could feel his eyes welling, and whether it was prompted by the whiskey or the totality of this terrible day, he was suddenly overwhelmed by the kindness of this man he knew only through gestures.

“Thank you, Miguel.” He wiped his eyes, cleared his throat. “Why don’t you go get something to eat, something to drink. They’ve got a whole buffet thing going in the kitchen.”

When Miguel was gone, Will opened the front door and stepped onto the porch.

He whispered, “Oh God.” The cushion evaporated. The crushing load of Rachael’s absence ripped the breath out of him and he crumpled down on the steps, thinking, So this is really happening. It had become a parking lot out in the street. He spotted a news van one block over, a large satellite dish perched on its roof. And in the long grass of the front lawn, a dozen people stood in a circle between the yuccas and saguaros, their faces lighted by the candles in their hands, flames quivering in the evening wind blowing in from the desert.

He sat watching the circle of flames, the sky deepening into dusk, his stomach hurting so much that he could manage only the shallowest of breaths as he strained to hear their words.

A woman’s voice reached him: “Dear Lord, You say that where two or more are gathered in Your name that You are present. Well, here we are Lord, and we’re asking for the deliverance of Rachael Innis.”

He struggled to his feet and stumbled toward them through the grass. He hadn’t prayed in years, since they’d found out their daughter was sick. A standoff f**koff with God. That ended tonight.