“¿Qué pasa, José? ¿Hay algún problema?”

“Un problema, sí, Miguel. Tengo aqui a unas personas. Se acercaron mucho a las plantas.”

“¿Es la policía?”

“No, no la policía. No creo. Nomas gente, excursioneros. Pero nos encontraron, Miguel. ¡No sé qué hacer!”

“Mierda. Mierda. ¿Cuantos?”

“Cuatro.”

“¡Cuatro!” A pause. “Tienes que dispararles. No podemos dejar que la gente sepa en donde queda el jardín.”

The boy’s eyes filled with tears now. “No sé si puedo, Miguel. Dos son mujeres.”

“What is he saying?” Todd whispered tersely to Oscar, who looked pale as a ghost.

“He’s saying . . . the other guy is telling him to kill us.”

Todd knew he had to rush the kid now, whether or not there was a clear opportunity. He heard the voice on the other end, louder now, insistent. “Hágalo.”

The kid’s head jerked back suddenly, and Todd thought he was reacting to the voice on the phone. But then he saw there was a perfect dark hole in the boy’s forehead, just above his right eyebrow. The boy dropped the phone and stared at them open-mouthed. But he didn’t really see them, his brain was already shattered. His body was still moving, though, flailing to hold on to life.

“What the—?” Tracy said, and then they heard the report, echoing back from the other side of the canyon.

The boy’s legs had buckled and he slumped sideways and fell, his left arm pinned beneath him, right arm flung in front of him, legs extended—right leg forward—as if they were trying to lead him to safety.

“José? José?” came the voice through the phone—which had landed on the rock just in front of them.

Tracy stepped forward to pick it up but Todd held her back. She was all action and reaction, impulse and nerve. Jesus, didn’t she ever think?

“Don’t,” he said. “We don’t know where the shot came from.” He thought it had come from above them and possibly from the left. Was it a ranger, maybe? The police? Whoever it was, Todd felt a wave of relief. Their captor had been shot; he was lying dead in front of them. Maybe now their endless awful day could finally be over. Oscar was right—they never should have taken this trail. But no matter. They were safe now, or at least on their way to safety. They could end this goddamned trip and go home.

Gwen was breathing hard, almost hyperventilating, and when Todd looked at her, he saw that she was crying. Oscar just stared at the dead kid, fingering the GPS unit still attached to his belt as if it could somehow help them. Tracy, despite Todd’s warning, had stepped out farther on the ledge and was scanning the ridgeline above them, and now she pointed somewhere to their left. “I think it came from up there.”

“Someone’s a damned good shot,” Todd said.

And then they heard a new voice shout, “Stay right there! I’m coming down!”

Todd allowed himself to lean against the granite wall and close his eyes for a moment. Now, the images of his children appeared, and he was flooded with joy and relief. They were saved. In front of him the voice still crackled from the satellite phone.

“¡José! ¿Qué está pasando, José? ¿Estás bien?”

“This creeps me the fuck out,” Tracy said. “Let’s at least get the phone.”

“Let’s not,” Todd countered. “It’ll have fingerprints. Maybe that’ll help the police identify the kid and catch the rest of these bastards.”

Gwen sat down beside him, and he could feel that she was shaking. “Hey,” he said, putting his arm around her. “Hey, it’s okay now. We’re going to get out of here.”

“I can’t believe this,” she said, voice shaking too. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I know. But it’s over now. We’re going to go home.” Looking out, Todd noted absently that they could make out the small canyon into which they’d accidentally wandered, the thick expanse of forest. Most of it was in shadow now, but the tops of the trees on the opposite ridge were lit bright orange, as if dipped in fire. How crazy that this pristine and gorgeous place could be the scene of what happened today. How sad that John Muir’s paradise had become home to a giant pot farm.

They heard branches breaking, someone coming down the slope on the far side of the wall, and they all stood up to greet whoever had rescued them.

It was a man, young, sliding with a rifle strapped over his shoulder, moving surprisingly fast. A flash of white fur accompanied him, zigzagging down the slope. In another moment the man stepped down the last few feet and stood squarely on the shelf, pulling the rifle and a backpack off his shoulder. A rangy, coyote-sized dog jumped down after him. It was mostly white, spotted, half its face covered with black, as if it were wearing an eye patch. It kept its distance, skirting the edge of the cliff.

The man was in his twenties, white, about 5'9", with close-cut light brown hair. He wore a dirty white T-shirt, worn blue jeans, brown work boots, and wire-rimmed glasses. Todd heard Gwen’s sharp intake of breath, and sensed Tracy standing up straight, ready to fight. He was confused by their alarm. This guy had shown up to save their asses—from Mexican drug runners, no less. Now he walked over to the dead boy on the ground, picked up the fallen gun, and shoved it into his own waistband. He turned toward the four of them and flashed a broad grin.

“Howdy do,” he said.

Chapter Ten

Gwen

When the man turned and offered his weird, off-pitch greeting, Todd said, “Jesus, are we glad to see you!”

Gwen was silent and he seemed oblivious to this, as well as to Tracy’s hanging back, to Oscar’s hostility.

The newcomer looked at Todd as if talking to a slightly retarded child. “Yeah, you got yourself into quite a jam.”

“It was crazy,” Todd said, and now a flood of words came out. “We were just minding our own business, and suddenly that little shit comes out of nowhere and corners Oscar with a gun.” He gestured at Oscar. “And then he took us back to a pot field, of all things, and he was trying to reach someone on his phone, but I guess there was no reception, so he brought us here.”

“I know,” the man said. “I was watching you from up on the ridge. But I couldn’t get a clear shot at him until he stepped to the edge.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and readjusted his glasses. His arm, like the rest of him, was wiry and thin. His movements were quick and jerky, as if all of his nerves ran close to the surface. Several tattoos were half-obscured by his shirt sleeves. “No reception, huh? You gotta know which phones actually work out here.”

Just then the phone crackled again and the voice called out, “José? José?”

The man walked over, picked it up, and yelled into it, “José can’t come to the phone right now!” Then he turned and flung the phone off the ledge; it traveled fifty feet before hitting a tree.

The dog, seeing the flying object, rushed over to the edge and barked. Except what came out of its mouth wasn’t a bark at all, but a choked-off, stifled wheezing sound that died in its throat.

“Stop it!” the man yelled, kicking her in the chest. “Be quiet, you stupid furball, you mangy stray, you useless bitch!” The dog cried out and slinked away, back over to where she’d been. She lay down and put her head on her paws, still whimpering.

Gwen’s stomach turned, and even Todd seemed taken aback. Still, he said, “Well, buddy, that’s one way to end a phone call.”

The man looked off at the ridge in the distance, as if he were just another hiker enjoying the view. “It won’t be long before his greaseball cronies show up and find him. And the beauty of it is, they’ll think you did it.”