"No, I don't want any shit coming down on you — you two guys are witnesses. I'm buying this shotgun. Three traveler's checks, three hundred dollars. What about the shells and the hacksaw? And a wood rasp and some electrical tape."

"Here's all the bullets I've got. The hacksaw's down in my tool box, in my car..."

"How about..." Jefferson filled his pockets with twelve-gauge shells, then crossed the room to a plastic basket of dirty clothes. Pulling an old pair of Peter's jeans from the laundry, he slipped the shotgun's barrel and magazine into one pant leg, the stock into the other leg. "This'll do it."

"What's going on, Floyd?" Peter asked again.

"You see David Holt on the news last night? Talking about Ricardo Marquez?"

"Yeah. He said there's some kind of cover-up..."

"He disappeared this morning. And now I got Salvadorans dropping by my apartment. See you three later. Have a good time."

Floyd Jefferson left them in stunned silence. Going down the stairs, he kept his eyes on the street. He looked down into the interiors of cars and trucks. He saw no one in the parked cars. No one loitered in the quiet shadows.

As he crossed the street, he slipped out his keys. If they hit him, it would be as he opened the security gate. The colored decorative lights tinting the modern stucco apartment house also illuminated the shrubbery. Jefferson saw no one near the entry. His right hand gripped the shotgun; the key was ready in his left. He jogged to the gate and opened it fast.

The courtyard glowed with soft green light from the pool. Jefferson paused to scan the walkways. He heard stereos and televisions. Someone closed a window.

Jefferson ran to his apartment. He unlocked the door and threw it open, but did not enter. His back to the wall, he listened for movement inside. Finally, he reached in and flicked the light switch.

They had ransacked the apartment. Every drawer had been emptied, every closet searched, every envelope of photos and negatives opened. Black-and-white prints, color prints, strips of negatives and contact sheets littered the floor. They had pulled the framed prints from the wall and torn off the backings in their search.