Meaning that they thought someone in his family was a dedo, a finger-an informer.

Because I led them to believe that.

God forgive me.

He searches through the bodies until he finds the one he’s looking for.

When he does, his stomach lurches and he has to fight back the vomit in his throat because the young man’s face has been peeled like a banana; the strips of flesh hang obscenely from his neck. Art hopes that they did this after they shot him, but he knows better.

The bottom half of his skull has been blown off.

They shot him in the mouth.

Traitors get shot in the back of the head, informers in the mouth.

They thought it was him.

Which was exactly what you wanted them to think, Art tells himself. Face it-it worked just the way you planned.

But I never envisioned this, he thinks. I never thought they’d do this.

“There must have been servants,” Art says. “Workers.”

The police have already checked the workers’ quarters.

“Gone,” one of the cops says.

Disappeared. Vanished.

He forces himself to look at the bodies again.

It’s my fault, Art thinks.

I brought this on these people.

I’m sorry, Art thinks. I am so, so sorry. Bending over the mother and child, Art makes the sign of the cross and whispers, “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”

“El poderdel perro,” he hears one of the Mexican cops murmur.

The power of the dog.

Chapter One