Son of the Morning

She was reluctant to go in, though of course she would have to; she couldn’t stand out there in the dark waiting for whoever it was to leave, which could be hours. She edged to the right, trying to see if she recognized the visitor’s car, hoping that it belonged to one of Bryant’s friends. If so, she could signal her brother to take his friend into his side of the house.

Her familiar Buick sat in the carport, and beside it was Bryant’s black Jeep Cherokee. Ford’s scratched and dented Chevrolet four-wheel-drive pickup, which was used for field work, was parked off to the side. No other vehicle occupied their driveway.

That was strange. She knew they had company, because the man she’d so briefly glimpsed had had sandy-colored hair, and both Ford and Bryant were dark-haired. But unless it was a neighbor who had walked over, she had no idea how he had arrived. She knew most of their neighbors, though, and none of them fit the description of the man she’d seen.

Well, she wouldn’t find out who he was until she went inside. She took a step toward the house and suddenly stopped again, squinting through the darkness. Something had moved between her and the house, something dark and furtive.

A chill ran down her spine. Icy shards of alarm ran through her veins, freezing her in place. Wild possibilities darted through her mind: a gorilla had escaped from a zoo… or there was a really, really big dog in her backyard.

Then it moved again, ghosting silently up to her back door. It was a man. She blinked in astonishment, wondering why someone was skulking around in her yard, and going to the back door instead of the front. A robbery? Why would any thief with half a brain break into a house where the lights were still on and the occupants were obviously at homer

Then the back door opened, and she realized the men must have knocked on it, though softly, because she hadn’t heard anything. Another man stood in the door, a man she knew. There was a pistol, the barrel long and curiously thickened, in his hand.

"Nothing," the first man said, his voice low, but the night air carried the sound.

"God damn it," the other man muttered, stepping aside to let the first man enter. "I can’t stop now. We’ll have to go ahead and do it."

The door closed behind them. Grace stared across the dark yard at the blank expanse of her back door. Why was Parrish Sawyer there, and why did he have a pistol? He was their boss, and if he’d called to let them know he was coming over, for whatever reason, Ford would have called her to come home. They were on cordial terms with Parrish, but they had never socialized; Parrish played in the more rarefied stratosphere of the rich and well connected, qualifications Grace’s family didn’t have.

"Do it" – that was what he’d said. Do what? And why couldn’t he stop?

Puzzled and uneasy, Grace left the shadows of theMurchisons ‘ yard and walked across her own. She didn’t know what was going on, but she was definitely going to find out.

While she had been cooking earlier she had opened the kitchen window so she could enjoy the freshness of the spring day, and it was still raised. She plainly heard Ford say, "Damn it, Parrish, what’s this about?"

Ford’s voice was rough, angry, with a tone in it she’d never heard before. Grace froze again with one foot lifted to the first step.

"Where is she?" Parrish asked, ignoring Ford’s question. His voice was indifferent and cold, and the sound of it made the hairs lift on the back of her neck.

"I told you, the library." A lie. Ford was deliberately lying. Grace stood still, staring at the open window and trying to picture what was happening on the other side of the wall. She couldn’t see anyone, but she knew there were at least four people inside. Where was Bryant, and the man she’d seen enter the kitchen?

"Don’t give me that shit. Her car’s here.." "She went with a friend."

"What’s this friend’s name?" " "Serena, Sabrina, something like that. Tonight’s the first:’; time I’ve met her."

Ford had always thought fast on his feet. The names were enough out of the ordinary that it gave the lie a bit of credence, where a plain Sally wouldn’t. She didn’t know why Ford was lying, but the fact that he was doing it was enough for Grace. Parrish had a pistol, and Ford didn’t want him to know where Grace was; something was very wrong.

"All right." It sounded as if Parrish exhaled through his teeth. "What time will she be back?"

"She didn’t know. She said they had a lot of work to do."

"When the library closes, I guess. And she carried all of the documents with her."

"They were in her computer case."

"Does this Serena-Sabrina know about the documents?";:

"I don’t know."

"It doesn’t matter." Now Parrish sounded a little bored. "I can’t take the chance. All right, stand up, both of you."

She heard chairs being scraped back, and she moved silently to the right, so she could see inside the window. She was careful to stand back, so if anyone glanced out the window she wouldn’t be framed in the pool of light.

She saw Bryant, shirtless, his hair damp; he must have just gotten out of the shower, which told her that Parrish and the other man had arrived not long before. Her brother’s face was drawn and pale, his eyes curiously blank. Grace moved another step, and saw four more people.

There was Ford, as pale as Bryant, though his eyes glittered with a kind of anger she’d never seen before. Parrish, tall and sophisticated, his blond hair expensively styled, stood with his back to the window. The man she’d seen earlier stood beside him, and another man stood just inside the interior kitchen doorway. The man at the doorway was armed; his pistol, like Parrish’s, was silenced. The third man would also be armed, Grace thought, since the other two were.