Might be better to hike in from up the coast, with a chopper standing by offshore to dart in for a fast pickup.

Depending on the guards, of course. How many, how close, how good.

Faroe looked around. Nobody visible but the three Mexican cops around Lane’s cottage. Two were armed with pistols and assault rifles. The third carried a twelve-gauge riot shotgun. Pistoleros, professional gunmen. They handled their weapons like gardeners handled rakes, no thought required.

The men had been warned to expect the guests. One stepped out in front of Faroe and stopped him with a raised hand.

“What?” Faroe asked.

The guard motioned that he wanted Faroe to raise his hands. Faroe shook his head as if he didn’t understand. The guard brought the muzzle of his shoulder weapon up. Faroe looked surprised, then shrugged and raised his hands.

The guard patted Faroe down, then looked at Grace speculatively.

“Don’t even think about it,” Faroe said coldly.

The guard looked startled. He wasn’t used to taking orders from civilians.

“Show him your purse,” Faroe said to Grace. “That’s as much of a giggle as he gets.”

She opened her purse and handed it over. The guard grinned at her breasts, glanced into the leather bag, and waved them through.

Grace pushed open the door to the cottage and stepped in. The little house once had held four residents, with a small common area and individual bedrooms. But now, only one of the bedrooms was occupied. The beds in the other rooms had been stripped.

“Lane? It’s Mom. Are you here?”

A muffled sound came from the occupied bedroom.

“Jus’ a min’,” Lane said. He sounded like he’d been sleeping. Hard.

She went quickly to the bedroom door and looked in. Lane was stumbling out of bed, moving with a lack of coordination that frightened her. He looked at her groggily.

“Wha’ you doin’ here?” he asked, slurring the words.

Faroe joined her in the doorway and measured Lane.

“I had to make sure you were okay,” Grace said.

Lane Franklin lurched across the bedroom and picked up a pair of green shorts. He hopped on one foot and then the other, nearly falling as he dressed. Then he straightened up and pushed his shaggy hair out of his eyes.

Faroe saw a handsome teenager, lean and athletic, a boy just growing into a man’s body, just beginning to show evidence of peach fuzz on his young jaw. He had his mother’s long torso and a pair of strong legs that were well proportioned and suggested speed.

But at that moment, Lane’s legs weren’t much good for anything. He could barely stand up.

Loaded, Faroe thought. Screwed up to the max.

Lane stared at his mother and mumbled something.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Grace asked.

She’s not used to seeing him like this, Faroe thought. He didn’t know whether that was good or bad. It just was. He glanced around the living space.

“I’m fine…I guess.” Lane’s tone was as uncertain as his balance. “Haven’t felt…good…since just after you left.”

Grace hugged her son close. Then she held him out at arm’s length, inspecting him. His skin was pale and his grin was lopsided. Everything about him was lopsided. She sniffed his breath and gave a relieved sigh. No alcohol.

Unlike Ted, who had become way too fond of booze through the years.

Faroe looked past the boy to the surrounding room. The walls were covered with posters, mostly of soccer players. The exception was one of a musician, Johnny Cash. The country and rockabilly legend was holding his guitar like a machine gun and saluting the photographer with a raised middle finger.

Defiant, maybe, Faroe decided, but at least he isn’t into the usual doper fare of headbanger rock and nihilist roll. Or worse, the narco-corridas making heroes out of drug traffickers.

In one corner several Huichol death masks watched over the desk where Lane did his homework.

Faroe grinned. He’d felt the same way about school.

A blanket covered something underneath the table like a hasty shroud. Faroe lifted the blanket and found a laptop computer.

Lane lunged toward Faroe. “That’s mine!”

Faroe turned, catching the boy before he fell. “Take it easy. I’m not hurting anything.”

The boy stepped back and squinted at Faroe. “Oh. Sorry. Thought you were one of my pistolero babysitters. They’re not allowed to come in the cottage. The coach told me.”

“Father Magon?” Faroe asked.

“Yeah. Who are you?”

“Lane, this is Joe Faroe, an old friend of mine,” Grace said. “Joe, this is my son, Lane.”

Lane finally remembered he had manners. He pulled himself together, stepped forward, and offered his hand.

“Hi, uh, Mr. Faroe,” he said. “Sorry. I was just…taking a nap.”

“Nice to meet you, Lane,” Faroe said, looking at the boy’s eyes. Clear, but the pupils were too dilated. “Where are your roommates?”

“Huh? Oh…they all moved…three weeks ago. I don’ know…maybe I have body odor or something.” He laughed weakly at his own joke.

“How about those dudes outside?”

“They showed up at the same time.”

Faroe nodded. “But they don’t come inside?”

“Not allowed.” Lane frowned and fought to focus his fuzzy thoughts. “They sit on the benches out there, playing with their guns, talking about girls, smoking cigarettes, eating pork rinds.” He grinned. “Their hearts must look like cans of Crisco. I call them the Chicharrones Brigade.”

Faroe laughed out loud. Like his mother, the kid was smart and had a wicked tongue.

“Your average Mexican security guard dies before he’s old enough to worry about heart disease,” Faroe said.

“Of what?”

“Silver or lead. Both can be fatal.”

Lane’s eyes narrowed. “Plata o plomo. That’s the slogan of the narcotraficantes.”

“It sure is. Makes a man wonder, doesn’t it?”

Faroe glanced over at Grace. She was watching him, her eyes wide and intent. When she saw that Faroe had noticed her, she looked back at Lane.

“Are they taking care of you?” she asked.

The boy shrugged. “I can’t leave the cottage.”

“If you can’t go to the cafeteria, what have you been eating?” she asked.

“Whatever they bring me. Alfredo, the jefe of the guards, says it’s safer for me to eat here.”

“What do you think?” Faroe asked Lane. “Is it safer?”

“It’s boring.”

“So is safety.”

Lane grinned, but it quickly faded. “I want out of here.”

Grace put her arm around her son’s shoulder. “That’s why-”

Faroe shook his head sharply. Then held his finger to his lips and pointed to the walls.

Lane stared at Grace, then at Faroe, then at the walls. Faroe put his finger to his lips again and raised an eyebrow. Lane tried to stand straight, but his eyes were almost unfocused. Then he visibly got a grip on himself, held a finger to his lips, and nodded.

Grace brushed her lips against the side of her son’s face and whispered, “Trust Joe. We both have to trust Joe.”

Lane swallowed, nodded, and drew himself up to his full height. Now he was inches taller than she was.

“Let’s go out in the fresh air,” Faroe said to Lane. “The Pork Rind Brigade lets you do that, don’t they?”

“Most of the time,” Lane said. “But wait. I need something to drink. My mouth is dry all the time.”

He went to a small bar refrigerator and pulled out an unopened carton of orange juice. Before he could break the seal and drink, Faroe took the carton.

“Hold on,” Faroe said. “I’m not a big fan of liquids packaged in Mexico.”

Lane opened his mouth, closed it, and waited.

Faroe inspected the waxed carton carefully. The fold-back ears on the “open here” side were still sealed. When he looked inside the fold at the other side of the top, he spotted a tiny hole where someone had slipped a hypodermic needle through the paper. He showed the hole to Grace and to her son. Lane looked confused.