When commanded to place our hands on our heads, we do and the cops approach.

Our guns are secured. We're separated to tell our stories. I have no doubt they'll be remarkably alike. Dan and I came to save Sylvie from an abusive ex-husband. She has fresh bruises on her cheeks and her father and injured uncle to back up her story that she feared for her life. The question of who shot Alan, though, is the big mystery. The fact that none of us were in a position to pull off the shot, or had a rifle, pretty much lets us off the hook, at least for now.

During his interrogation, Dan hardly glances my way. I keep waiting for him to say something about the ferocity of my attack on Alan, but maybe he's too busy feeling grateful that I didn't do the same to him last night. I have a feeling it will be a long time before Dan beds a strange woman.

Darkness has fallen. Lights are set up so that the ME can finish his work. When it's finally my turn to tell the story, I'm handed off to a uniform from El Centro PD. Not considered important enough, I guess, to warrant either of the detectives who questioned Dan and Sylvie. The cop is short and built like a box, square shoulders, square jaw, squat little legs. He's abrupt and listens only perfunctorily to my answers. He's heard the story from Sylvie and Dan and I'm hardly more than a bystander in the drama. The fact that I was fighting Alan at the time he was shot and could very well have been killed, too, is pretty much ignored. In fact, the only detail I'm asked to clarify is my occupation and if I have a license for the gun. I tell the cop yes, that it's in my purse back in the car. He passes that information to the detective who tells the cop to escort me back to the parking lot and verify the license. Noticing the blood on my thigh, the cop does ask if I want a doctor to look at it. It's long since stopped bleeding, I can feel the skin repairing itself. I tell him it's just a scratch and he doesn't push.

Then he says that once he verifies the information on my carry permit, I'll be free to go.

Go where?

But I don't have time to dwell on that detail. About the same time I'm being excused, the press shows up. With lights and cameras and microphones. How they got wind of what happened out here so quickly, I can't even guess. Maybe the hikers. In any case, the detective in charge turns livid with anger. He circles the troops and orders them out. My cop friend and I get rounded up with them and herded back toward the trailhead.

Halfway to the ranger station, someone from the press notices the ragged tear in my jeans, the blood stains. All of a sudden, I'm a target for questions and cameras. The officer with me manages to deflect most of the attention. He directs me to sit in the back of Dan's car while he secures the area. I watch as the media people, still protesting, are loaded into their vans, wondering who I can call now for a ride home.

I power up my cell phone. It chirps that I'm getting a text message. Puzzled, I flip it open. There's just enough battery left for the message to come through.

"Feeling lucky? You should be. I could have killed you, too, but this is much more fun. Say thank you, Anna."

THIS GAME IS GETTING OLD. SAY THANK YOU? MY "unknown" messenger has just announced that he is the one who shot Alan. The message is written out, no text-speak. Could definitely have come from Foley. He doesn't strike me as cool enough to know how to compose a message the way anyone under thirty would. But he's made a serious mistake. How does he think he can get away with the shooting?

Any reservation I may have had about the veracity of Max's claim vanishes. Foley is in league with Martinez but he's on my trail now, which means he's not on Max's. But being so blatant about it is puzzling. What does he hope to accomplish with this cat-and-mouse game? And he's just killed a man and not come forward to acknowledge it. How is he going to spin that?

The cop comes back to the car and opens the door, an invitation to step out. He dutifully notes that it's my name, address, phone and license numbers on the gun permit. I'm just about to ask him for a ride into town when another car pulls into the lot.

It's not a police car, but a dark, late-model Chevy with tinted windows. The cop starts toward it, undoubtedly ready to order it out of the park, but the driver's door opens and a familiar figure steps out.

"It's all right," I tell the cop. "I think it's my ride."

A uniformed Ortiz approaches. "SDPD," he says, holding out a hand. "If it's okay, I'll take Ms. Strong home."

The cop looks puzzled but shakes Ortiz' outstretched hand and doesn't object. As we walk toward the car, I open my mouth to ask Ortiz how he knew to come after me.

I never get the chance. He opens the back door and motions me inside.

"Get in, Anna."

The voice comes from the backseat. A familiar voice. I lean down to look in.

It's Williams.

And he's pissed.

WILLIAMS' EYES FLASH RED IN THE DIM INTERIOR of the car. His anger is palpable, radiating outward in a burst that I feel like heat on my skin.

"Get in."

For just an instant, I consider turning around and beating it back into the canyon. But Williams would probably send Ortiz after me and what would that accomplish but to delay the inevitable? I toss my purse inside before folding myself into the backseat.

Williams doesn't wait for me to get settled or for Ortiz to get the car back on the road before he starts in.

"Tell me something, Anna, do you have a death wish? Could you have called any more attention to yourself? How the hell did you get involved in a kidnapping in El Centro?"

He's speaking quietly but with great agitation. The softness of his voice makes his anger more intimidating than if he'd been yelling. He stops abruptly and waits. I swear he's growling, he's so furious.

"Well," he snaps when I don't reply quickly enough. "Are you going to answer me?"

I feel like a kid who's a hairbreadth away from being smacked if she gives the wrong answer. The fact that he's completely shut me out of his head confirms how close I am to unleashing the beast. I let a few seconds go by to give Williams a chance to cool off.

When his shoulders become less rigid and the frown lines around his mouth retreat from exasperation to mere annoyance, I ask, "What would you like to know first?"

"How did this happen?"

The version I offer Williams is sanitized. No mention of a drunken tryst. I compose my words as carefully as my thoughts to give nothing else away.

When I'm done, he says, "You want me to believe you ran into this 'old friend' by chance in a bar last night and he told you his daughter was in trouble and you rushed to her aid."

"That's my story and I'm sticking to it."

He doesn't appreciate my attempt at humor. Watching his face is like watching an approaching storm. There may be blue skies overhead now, but you know trouble is coming.

Since he's not asked another question, I venture a few of my own. "How did you find out about it? How did you get here? Why didn't you let the local cops know who you were?"

He passes a hand over his face. I suspect the gesture is a delaying tactic. I sense his anger boiling again to the surface. I don't push.

Finally, he says, "The report of a suspected kidnapping is broadcast statewide. An alert was issued as soon as that girl's uncle spoke to the police. He said you and her father were going after her. He named you, Anna. It is all over the news. The press will be waiting for you at the cottage, at the office. David has called me a dozen times already."