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“Stop taunting my brother and drink the water,” John said.

“I’m not taunting him. I just—”

“Drink it.”

Romero fumbled for the jug, raised it to his lips, and swallowed, not caring about the sour taste from having been sick, wanting only to clear the mucus from his mouth and the gravel in his throat.

John pulled a clean handkerchief from his windbreaker pocket and threw it to him. “Pour water on it. Wipe the blood from your face. We’re not animals. There’s no need to be without dignity.”

Baffled by the courtesy, Romero did what he was told. The more they treated him like a human being, the more chance he had of getting away from here. He tried desperately to think of a way to talk himself out of this. “You’re wrong about the police not being involved.”

“Oh?” John raised his eyebrows, waiting for Romero to continue.

“This isn’t official, sure. But I do have backup. I told my sergeant what I planned to do. The deal is, if I don’t use my cell phone to call him every six hours, he’ll know something’s wrong. He and a couple of friends on the force will come here looking for me.”

“My, my. Is that a fact.”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you call him and tell him you’re all right?”

“Because I’m not all right. Look, I have no idea what’s going on here, and all of a sudden, believe me, it’s the last thing I want to find out. I just want to get out of here.”

The barn became terribly silent.

“I made a mistake.” Romero struggled to his feet. “I won’t make it again. I’ll leave. This is the last time you’ll see me.” Off balance, he stepped out of the corner.

John studied him.

“As far as I’m concerned, this is the end of it.” Romero took another step toward the door.

“I don’t believe you.”

Romero stepped past him.

“You’re lying about the cell phone and about your sergeant,” John said.

Romero kept walking. “If I don’t call him soon—”

John blocked his way.

“—he’ll come looking for me.”

“And here he’ll find you.”

“Being held against my will.”

“So we’ll be charged with kidnapping?” John spread his hands. “Fine. We’ll tell the jury we were only trying to scare you to keep you from continuing to stalk us. I’m willing to take the chance that they won’t convict us.”

“What are you talking about?” Mark said.

“Let’s see if his friends really come to the rescue.”

Oh, shit, Romero thought. He took a further step toward the door.

John pulled out Romero’s pistol.

“No!” Mark said.

“Matthew, help Mark with the trapdoor.”

“This has to stop!” Mark said. “Wasn’t what happened to Matthew and Luke enough?”

Like a tightly wound spring that was suddenly released, John whirled and struck Mark with such force that he knocked him to the floor. “Since when do you run this family?”

Wiping blood from his mouth, Mark glared up at him. “I don’t. You do.”

“That’s right. I’m the oldest. That’s always been the rule. If you’d have been meant to run this family, you’d have been the firstborn.”

Mark kept glaring.

“Do you want to turn against the rule?” John asked.

Mark lowered his eyes. “No.”

“Then help Matthew with the trapdoor.”

Romero’s stomach fluttered. All the while John aimed the pistol at him, he watched Mark and Matthew go to the far left corner, where it took both of them to shift a barrel of grain out of the way. They lifted a trapdoor, and Romero couldn’t help bleakly thinking that someone pushing from below wouldn’t have a chance of moving it when the barrel was in place.

“Get down there,” John said.

Romero felt dizzier. Fighting to repress the sensation, he knew that he had to do something before he felt any weaker.

If John wanted me dead, he’d have killed me by now.

Romero bolted for the outside door.

“Mark!”

Something whacked against Romero’s legs, tripping him, slamming his face hard onto the floor.

Mark had thrown a club.

The three brothers grabbed him. Dazed, the most powerless he’d ever felt, he thrashed, unable to pull away from their hands, as they dragged him across the dusty floor and shoved him through the trapdoor. If he hadn’t grasped the ladder,