The Harder They Come

21

STEN WAS AT THE gas station, pumping gas and working the squeegee over the broad glass plane of the Prius’ back window, seven-thirty in the morning, sun shining, on his way down to the harbor with a spinning rod to fling a lure across the mouth of the channel there and see if anything cruising in from the sea would like to take it in its scaly jaws. All the years he’d been working he told himself he loved fishing the way he had as a boy, nailing steelhead and salmon in the Noyo, Big River, the Ten Mile and out on the ocean too, told himself that as soon as he had time he was going to fish till he dropped. But he didn’t. Or hadn’t. In fact, this was the first time he’d touched the rod in longer than he could remember, and he wasn’t fooling himself — he knew he’d put his gear in the car and come out here this morning just to do something, just to get out of the house and shake the rust off. If he caught anything, so much the better — that would be a bonus — but the real deal was to kill a couple of hours before he went back home to see if the bushes he’d trimmed yesterday had grown back or the caulk he’d replaced in the kitchen a week ago needed replacing again.

He was thinking of another gas station, one that was long gone now, where he’d worked the summer before his senior year in high school. Three young Italians — or maybe one of them wasn’t Italian — had pooled their resources to open the place. They were in their early thirties, he guessed, but back then they seemed old to him, and they were enthusiasts, full of jokes and high spirits, their own bosses now and sure to rake in a fortune. One of them, the one who might not have been Italian — Gene, his name was Gene — did bodywork and the other two, Tony and Rico, were mechanics. What they needed him for was to pump gas, check tires and oil and coolant, and to dole out Green Stamps against their eventual redemption. Different times then. He’d worked seven a.m. to seven p.m. and every day at noon Rico would go to the sandwich shop and bring back subs for all of them — and beer, a can of which they would let him have instead of soda though he was underage. They made him feel good. Made him feel like a man.

Where were they now? he wondered. Dead, he supposed. Dead and buried and rotted away to nothing, the casket collapsed on itself, their bones bare and gray and losing heft by the day. People asked him what his philosophy was, as if by being principal — having been principal — he was schooled in the thoughts of the great thinkers, and what’s more, was a great thinker himself. Well, he had no philosophy. He just lived and drew breath like any other creature, more acted upon than acting. There were Jesus, Santa Claus and God when he was little, but they’d gone the way of slingshots and training wheels, the apprehension of death — the first intimation of it — canceling out everything else. What was his philosophy? Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten. Or no, that was too harsh. Just be, that was all. What was coming was coming and there was no sense or comfort in worrying about it. Other people went to church, other people played golf, served on committees, ran charities. He went on a luxury cruise. He went fishing. And if Carolee should die before him, he faced a world of woe so deep and catastrophic he didn’t think he’d be able to see himself through. Definitely not. No way in the world. He kept a gun in the house, a Glock 9mm he’d always prayed Adam would never find when he was a squirrelly kid and into everything, and that gun would have its use sometime down the line. Retirement plan? Sure, the good and giving Glock Firearms Company would see to that.

So he was morbid, so he was bored, so he was pumping his own gas and letting his mind tick through the past and present like one of the mutating tapes of the home movies he’d made when Adam was a kid before he saw the utter futility of it because who was ever going to watch them and how could you hope to stop time? There was a breeze. It lifted the hair around his ears and laid it back down on his shoulders, the lightest part of himself, but heavy all the same. Then a GMC Yukon, fire-engine red, slid up on the other side of the pump, and Art Tolleson’s face was there, suspended behind the sheen of the window like an old towel hung up to dry.

Art didn’t say hello and he didn’t smile. He looked like somebody carrying an armful of raw eggs as he eased out of the car and climbed up onto the island separating the pumps. “Did you hear?” he asked.

“Hear what?”

“They shot Carey Bachman.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think — the Mexicans.”

Art stood there blinking at him, the tentative expression gone now, subsumed in something harder. He looked pained, looked angry, as if he’d been shot himself, Art Tolleson, friend, neighbor, former colleague, a lifelong bachelor in his early fifties who taught English at the high school, and whether his sexual orientation had been a matter of conjecture in the faculty lounge or not never factored into the school board’s perception of him because he drew students like a magnet, male and female alike, and never a complaint or even the hint of one. He had a high nasal English teacher’s voice and a slack body, but as if in compensation — and to still rumors — he dressed as if he’d been born and raised in a logging camp, workboots, jeans, plaid shirts, and made a point of attending the full range of sporting events at the school. He hunted in the fall. Fished in the spring. And he’d done Sten a huge favor by taking the house off his hands, though the day he took possession was a disaster, every window in the place smashed out, glass everywhere, the coffee table staved in and the toilet in the guest room — Adam’s room — shattered in porcelain fragments that lay scattered across the floor like unearthed bones, the water three inches deep and flowing out under the door. Sten had cleaned up the place himself, paid for everything, and he and Carolee had put Art up in the guest room at their place till the glazier got done because it was the least they could do. As for Adam, he hadn’t laid eyes on him since — or heard from him — and that was a month ago. “He needs help,” was what he said to Carolee, but what he was thinking, exhausted now, fed up, terminal, was Goodbye and good riddance; there’s no paternal or even human sympathy left because the well has run dry. It’s dried-up and blown away.

“What are you talking about? What Mexicans?”

Art should have been wearing glasses but he wasn’t — contacts, had he gotten contacts? Or what, laser surgery? Art gave him a strained look, ever so slightly myopic. “They found him last night, up on the north logging road — you know, the one where there were all those downed trees last spring?”

He didn’t have anything to say to this. He was picturing the Mexican with the pistol tucked in his waistband, the Don’t-Fuck-With-Me clown with the scooped-out face. That picture went gray and broadened out till it was like a shovel whacking him in the back of the head. His blood pressure rocketed. Here it was, right in your face. The only surprise was that it hadn’t come sooner.

Art, myopic Art, was studying him out of his dull brown eyes, expecting some sort of response, but Sten was thinking about Carey, trying to picture him, and drawing a blank. All he could see was the Mexican, duplicated over and over again.

“They shot him twice is what I hear and left him there to die. That was night before last so there’s no telling how long he suffered. And then”—he hesitated, his eyes jumping in their sockets—“the animals got to him. After he was dead, I mean. Or I think. I hope.”

There was nothing to say but he had to say something so he said, “All right,” and what that meant—I’ve heard enough or I feel your outrage or The tank’s full—he couldn’t have said himself.

Art said, “We’ve got to do something.”

“Yeah,” Sten said, or heard himself say because he wasn’t all there yet, “definitely. Definitely we have to do something.”

“You have a gun?” Art’s tone was nasal but elevated with emotion, and he might have been reading out a line from David Mamet or Arthur Miller to his drama class. You have a gun?

Sten didn’t answer him, or not directly, because he didn’t want to go down that road because that road led to people getting shot in the woods, led to poor Carey with his hot head and thumping knee getting it not once but twice until he was dead, dead, dead. Take Back Our Forests. Fine. Sure. But not that way. “They ought to call out the National Guard,” he said. “Sweep the whole fucking forest.”

“That’s an idea. Really. That’s what they ought to do.” A pause, a look, direct, eyeball to eyeball. “But Carey’s dead. And they’re still out there. Right now. Laughing, probably laughing about it.”

Sten got his receipt out of the metal slot, tucked it in his wallet, swung open the door and settled into the seat. “We’ll talk,” he said before slamming the door, starting up the engine and edging out onto the highway. A quick glance for Art in the rearview, and there he was, looking small and lost, the big red truck looming over him. Somebody waved from a passing car, somebody who looked familiar, though he couldn’t place him, and he actually started toward the harbor, driving along like anybody else on the way to a morning’s fishing on a day of precious sunshine under a sky lit bright and without a cloud to cast a shadow, before he put on his blinker, swung round and headed back home. The fish would be relieved, at least there was that.

Carolee was in her nightgown still, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the crossword puzzle out of the Chronicle, and she barely glanced up when he came in. “Back so soon?” she murmured. She was wearing her glasses and staring intently at the page before her, trying to break the code, and this was her way of staving off the boredom and filling the hours when she wasn’t enjoying world-class indulgence aboard a cruise ship in the sunny crystalline waters of the Caribbean. Her hair shone in the light through the picture window, outside of which, in the intermediate view, birds flapped and clustered at the feeder, while in the longer view the sea sparked distantly under the sun. She was barefoot. The flesh bunched at her chin as she compressed the muscles there in concentration. “What’s a seven-letter word for earthworm?”

The answer—annelid—sprang into his head, cribbed from a mimeographed sheet of multiple-choice questions in Bio 101 a thousand years ago, but he didn’t give it to her, didn’t say anything in fact. He just stood there, shaken more than he cared to admit — and now he was seeing Carey’s face, the excitable face, the anxious one, the face he’d worn on the day they’d chased the Mexicans halfway across the county. He tried to picture him dead, but he drew a blank. Hard to picture anyone dead because there was a spirit there, a soul, the animating principle, whether you believed in God the Father and all the ministering angels or not, and that spirit was more specific even than the body that contained it. Carey was dead. There’d be a funeral. The community would come unglued. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Maybe so. But not this time.

“Sten?” Looking up now, the glasses at half-mast on the flange of her nose. “Did you hear me?”

What he said was, “They got Carey.”

She gave him a numb look, her pale wondering eyes riding up above the frames.

“Carey Bachman. The Mexicans. They shot him.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying he’s dead, what do you think? He’s dead. Carey’s dead.”

She wasn’t indifferent, or not exactly — he could see the alarm germinating in her eyes and unfolding its petals across her face, color there, blossoming — but she didn’t jump up from the table and tear out her hair or set up a wail of grief or even, and he couldn’t help noticing this smallest detail, let go of the pencil gripped neatly between her thumb and first two fingers. The requisite questions dropped from her lips—How? When? Where? How had he found out? Had they caught the killers? Was there no place safe anymore? — and yet there was no shock in her tone, no outrage, no engagement. And why was that? He knew why. Adam. Adam was why.

She’d spent the previous afternoon at the Burnsides’, helping Cindy and Gentian with the animals and the tours they gave daily. But it wasn’t only Cindy and Gentian: Sara had been there. She came down on a regular basis, every six weeks or so, to shoe Cindy’s horses and file their teeth, and there she was, in her boots, jeans and a no-nonsense T-shirt, her hair tied back in a ponytail and her hands roughened by the work. Carolee had said hi, uneasy, maybe a little embarrassed because of the scene out front of the house the last time they’d seen each other, Adam attacking his own father and his own father down there on the ground, but she was aching for news of Adam and here was her chance to get it.

Cindy, always the gracious hostess, had set out a platter of tuna- and egg-salad sandwiches for them, late lunch, with a scoop of homemade potato salad and carrot sticks and a drink of her own concoction, two parts cranberry, one part each of sparkling water and diet 7Up. Nice. A nice lunch. Cindy was always going out of her way like that. They were sitting there, she and Cindy, talking about the antelope and Cindy’s hope for a mating pair of giraffes one of the zoos was offering them, when Sara came out of the bathroom where she’d been cleaning up. She looked good. She’d combed out her hair and put on some makeup and if she was forty she didn’t look it. More like thirty.

There was some business talk — the horses, the antelope, the fact that the vet was doing the hooves on the zebras, sable and kudu now and Cindy hoped Sara didn’t mind but it was just easier that way since he had to be there to dart the animals in any case — and then Cindy excused herself to go to the kitchen and put on the water for tea and Carolee and Sara had a moment to themselves. “How are you?” Carolee asked. “Everything okay?”

The other woman tugged at her fingers for a minute as if to loosen the joints — she worked hard and had the calluses to prove it — then gave a smile so fleeting it was dead on arrival. “I’m not getting laid, if that’s what you mean.” She picked up her glass, rattled the ice cubes, drained what was left in the bottom. “So things could be better, yeah. A whole lot better.”

Carolee was puzzled. And maybe a bit offended too — she’d never been a fan of that kind of talk — but she forged on because she had no choice and if this woman with the flaring eyes and low habits and mad theories was going to wind up with Adam she needed to be understanding, needed to give her the benefit of the doubt, needed, above all else, to pump her for information. “But what about Adam? How’s he doing? Is he helping out, is he okay?”

“Adam? I haven’t seen Adam since that night, that time, I mean — at the house?”

This information came down on Carolee like a rockslide, just buried her, the way she told it. They’d both assumed he was with her, and the news came down hard on him too — if he thought he’d washed his hands of his son he was fooling himself. Adam was there, always there, as persistent as a drumbeat in the back of your mind, the rhythm you can’t shake, the tune you can’t stop humming — he was his father, still and forever, and he’d tried to be as good a father as he could through all these years no matter how hard he rubbed up against Adam’s will and his delusions and his pranks, if you could call them that. He was Adam’s father. He loved him. And here he’d been entertaining his own delusion of Adam living in a kind of half-cracked (which meant half-sane) parity with this woman, Sara, who at least dwelled on Mother Earth and had a job and could cook for him and feed him and be his mother and lover rolled in one. I fucked her. Isn’t that right, Sara? Didn’t I fuck you? It was like throwing coins in a wishing well. He’d made his silent wish, the wish he couldn’t say aloud because then it wouldn’t come true. And what was it? That Adam was somebody else’s problem now.

Carolee had been stunned silent, sitting there with her mouth open. “You mean,” she said, “he isn’t with you?”

Sara, piggy Sara, Sara with her flaccid cheeks and fat thighs, too-old Sara, slutty Sara — no suitable lover for her son, not even close — had shaken her head emphatically and her eyes had moistened. “And I want to apologize — for that night, I mean. I stayed there till like ten or eleven, waiting for him? And when he came back I tried to stop him smashing things up, but he wouldn’t listen.” A catch in her voice, and in that moment, just for an instant, Carolee softened again. “And he wouldn’t come. Believe me, I tried”—and here was Cindy with the teapot nestled in its cozy—“I tried so hard I had bruises up and down my arm for a week after. But he wouldn’t listen. And he wouldn’t come.”

Now, in the kitchen, with the birds at the feeder and the newspaper folded down flat on the table, Sten felt nothing but anger. Carey was dead, the gangs had taken over, there’d be beheadings next, corpses hanging from the bridges like in Tijuana, the forests lost and all hope of peace and tranquility flown out the window, and all she did was tack up a checklist of questions, as if she cared, and then went back to her crossword. “Annelid,” he said, snapping out the syllables as if each one had a flail attached to it. “Seven letters for earthworm.”

“Oh, Sten,” she said, shaking her head side to side. “I know, I know. I’m just worried, that’s all. Where is he, that’s what I want to know—”

“He’s at the funeral home. Or the morgue.”

“Maybe we should call Cody’s parents — maybe he’s with Cody.”

“I’m talking about Carey. Carey Bachman. He’s at the morgue. Can’t you get that through your head?”

It was a pointless conversation and it ended, as if at the bell between rounds in a prizefight, with the ringing of the telephone, which happened to coincide with the feverish buzz of the cell in his pocket. He was the ex-principal, the ex-Marine. He was the hero. The one they gave the thumbs-up to and bought unwanted drinks for. And now they were calling to see what they should do, everybody, the whole town buzzing and stirred-up and scared, and they would keep on calling through the rest of the morning and on into the afternoon.

22

THE MEETING — THERE HAD to be a meeting — was scheduled for seven the next night in the high school auditorium, Gordon Welch presiding. Over two hundred people showed up. The initial meeting, the one that got Take Back Our Forests off the ground, had been held in Gordon’s den (his man cave, as he liked to call it, with a kind of rote obnoxiousness he seemed not even dimly aware of), and there were exactly eight people in attendance, all male but for Susan Burton, who owned the coffee shop on Main Street and who supported any and all causes that had to do with salvation, whether of stray cats, Romanian orphans or the land we trod, the water we drank and the air we breathed. As Sten remembered it, they talked a whole lot of nothing for two solid hours, Carey giving speeches and Gordon taking over when he ran out of breath, the stuffed heads of big-game animals from three continents staring incongruously down on them from their vantages on the paneled walls. Sten wasn’t exactly sure what a kudu was, but he had a feeling that the one with the twisted black horns must have been a kudu — or was that a sable? — and couldn’t help wondering how the Burnsides would feel about its presence there amongst them. But the Burnsides weren’t there. And neither was Carolee.

What was resolved? The color of the T-shirts they were going to give out at the coffee shop by way of drumming up support and the configuration of the Take Back Our Forests logo that would grace the breast pocket and the back too (a clever melding of the letters T, B, O and F to represent a tree-spiked hillside Carey had devised with the aid of Photoshop). And a vague promise of future meetings, a letter-writing campaign and the involvement of law enforcement. There was no urgency. They were operating on rumors. On the sightings of Mexicans at the supermarket and the hardware store. On statistics. The only real evidence was the dead zones the growers had left behind, to which Sten was an eyewitness and said as much.

But this was different. Now Carey was dead, shot down and murdered, and people were out for blood. If it felt strange walking down the corridor and stepping into the auditorium, Carolee on his arm, Sten tried not to show it. He’d been back a few times since he retired, easing the transition for the new man, John Reilly, clearing out his things, saying his goodbyes after a lifetime, but here he was in the very auditorium where he’d called so many meetings and assemblies himself, where he’d been in charge and was in charge no longer. That was all right with him. He was fine with that. He was here to bear witness and lend his stature to the moment and the cause and whatever was to come. They were not vigilantes, that was the thing to remember, and that was what he was going to emphasize when it was his turn to speak because he knew where violence took you, knew better than most, and if he thought of Carey he thought of that day in the car and the rage that had come over him. Whether the man with the gun had been guilty or not, he’d been ready to take him on, ready to snap, a heartbeat away — it was the Mexican who had the sense, who was cool enough to suss out the situation and back down. For the moment. But then he was out there still, wasn’t he?

John Reilly brought the meeting to order and said a few words about Carey, about how much he was loved and how much he would be missed — clichés, but necessary clichés, the very same ones that had been on his own lips through all the afternoons and early evenings he’d had to preside over public chest-barings like this, the accumulated grief, juniors and seniors struck down in auto accidents, a girl with a sweet teardrop face who played the violin dead of leukemia, colleagues gone in an eyeblink. This was for the students, who were sober-faced and attentive for a change, the first three rows congested with them, shining with them, their heads glossy with reflected light. Their parents and the rest of the townspeople filled the rows behind them, their faces anything but sober. They looked angry, vengeful, looked like vigilantes. He saw that Carey’s widow, Sandra, wasn’t there, her grief too raw and unconstrained to make a public show of it, and that was a small mercy. This wasn’t a memorial. That would come at the funeral home later in the week, as soon as forensics did what they had to do and released the body. Carolee would send a card and they’d be there, both of them. He’d be expected to say words and he would, the same words John Reilly was saying now.

Next was Gordon. He wore a suit and tie, his dyed hair left gray at the temples by way of lending him gravitas — he was a banker after all, and Sten didn’t grudge him the artificial touches, though he was something of an attitudinizing ass and tended to think a little too much of himself. What he talked about, and he was shrewd enough to keep it brief this time, was the ecology. The resources the north country had been blessed with — timber, water, fish and game — and how they belonged equally to all citizens, rich and poor. They were our legacy and they had to be preserved, for the generation sitting here tonight and the generations to come. Right before he sat down, he delivered the kicker: “And we’re not going to let anybody take them away from us — not the criminals or their gangs or anybody else.” The applause was thunderous.

Sten was up next and he was to be followed by the real draw of the night, Rob Rankin, the county sheriff, who was going to have to do a whole lot of explaining and lay down a soft smooth wrinkleless carpet of reassurances. And then take questions. Which, judging from the mood of the crowd, could be an occasion for some real bloodletting. At any rate, Sten took the podium to a groundswell of applause and after eulogizing Carey in a way he hoped went beyond the usual — Carey truly cared, not just about the environment but about democracy and the legacy we were leaving our children, and he’d actually gone out and done something about it, patrolling the woods to make us all safer — and then reminded everybody present that nothing had been established yet aside from the fact that whoever had committed this crime was armed and dangerous and not to be trifled with. The sheriff was doing his best to identify the perpetrators and bring them to justice. In the meanwhile, it was imperative — he’d actually dredged up and dusted off the word, his officialese come back to him like a second language — that everybody just stay calm.

He’d paused at that point and gazed out on the crowd. “We are not vigilantes,” he said, “and we are not going to fly off the handle and take matters into our own hands because that’ll do nobody any good, least of all Carey Bachman. Respect him. Respect his memory.” Another pause. Nobody believed him, he could see that. Senior Citizen Kills Tour Thug. All right. He’d done his best. He wasn’t principal, he wasn’t mayor, he wasn’t the sheriff. What he was was an American citizen, a senior citizen, and he felt immeasurably tired all of a sudden. The auditorium seemed to swell and recede. His back ached. He felt a headache coming on. The thing was, everything just seemed so hopeless, so utterly, blackly, irremediably hopeless.

“And now,” he said, his voice echoing in that acoustic desert till it came back to him as the last desperate gasp of a man withering under the sun that wasn’t the sun at all but the 1,500-watt theatrical spotlight installed by Rainier Holcomb, the deaf electrician, now dead, under Sten’s own mandate, “I’ll hand the mike over to Sheriff Rankin.” He nodded at the radiant bald head and glittering badge of the loose-limbed man in uniform sitting amongst the twelfth graders in the front row. “Who’ll say a few words and then take your questions.” Then, gathering himself up, he went on back to find his seat beside Carolee.

The rest turned into a kind of drowsy meditation, the auditorium overheated, the sheriff droning on in a sleepwalker’s voice, the questioners by turns timid and outraged but performing their roles just exactly as expected, Should we keep our doors locked? Is it safe to be out at night? Why don’t you arrest them at the supermarket, tell me that? You want perpetrators, I’ll show you perpetrators! Twice he felt the sharp reminder of Carolee’s index finger probing his ribs and realized he’d drifted off, an embarrassment at any time but doubly so now, here in the high school auditorium with Carey dead and people looking to him to provide guidance and support. Problem was, he didn’t want to provide guidance and support. He just wanted to go home. To bed.

Finally, as things were winding down — the sheriff had been asked the same question for the sixth or seventh time and gave the same tired answer, to wit, “We’ll know more when the facts are in,” and somebody said, “So you don’t advise going out in the woods right now, for any purpose?” and the sheriff said, “No, not really, not until we clear this thing up”—Sten felt himself come awake in a way he’d never been awake before, as if he was an animal seized in the jaws of a bigger animal and shaken helplessly. The woods. Out in the woods. He’d actually placed a call to Cody Waters’ parents — yesterday, with Carolee fretting and all the shit raining down around them — and got Cody’s cellphone number and gone outside where she wouldn’t hear and punched it in. A voice answered—“Digame”—and he thought he had the wrong number but persisted anyway. “Cody?” he’d said. “Is that you?”

“Who’s this?”

“Sten. Adam’s father?”

A silence. Then, “Yeah?”

“Was that Spanish you were talking?

“I guess.”

Another silence.

“Listen, I was calling because I wanted to ask if you’ve seen Adam lately. You know he moved out of the house by the river, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“We just, well we haven’t heard from him and we were wondering if maybe he was up there with you—”

“No, no, he’s not here. I haven’t seen him in like a month maybe.”

There was static on the line, a faint sizzling in the background. “Did he say what his plans were? Where he’s living?”

He could picture the boy on the other end of the line, the sharp slash of his nose, the sloped shoulders and Don’t-Even-Ask look, the dreadlocks he and Adam used to wear before they gave up reggae for rap and then death metal and shaved their heads, before they went military and developed attitudes and started pushing the buttons of the police and everybody else too. When they were kids. Just kids.

A sigh. The sizzle of static. “I don’t know,” Cody said finally. “In the woods, I guess.”

23

THERE ARE THE NAMELESS fears and there are the named ones too. When he was a child his nightmares weren’t of ghouls or monsters or people chasing him with knives and axes and decapitated heads, but amorphous things, neither human nor animal, the fear that sat in your stomach, inside you, and you couldn’t define it or shake it either. That was what this was like. He didn’t say a word to Carolee, but the morning after the meeting he was up early, earlier than usual — first light — and he didn’t bother with breakfast because if he started fussing around in the kitchen she’d wake up and ask him where he was going and he’d just have to lie to her. His daypack — water in a bota bag, granola bars, binoculars, Swiss Army knife, matches stuffed in a plastic pill container to keep them dry, foil space blanket and GPS beacon for emergencies — was hanging on the coat tree where he always put it when he came in from one of his surveillance hikes. He pulled on a baseball cap — Oakland A’s, how about that? — patted down his pockets to make sure he had his wallet, keys and cellphone, and then headed out the door.

He drove up the north road, slowly, rolling over pinecones, fist-sized rocks, sticks and twigs and scraps of vegetation that had been pulverized by the tires of the emergency vehicles, looking for the spot where it had happened. Art had told him it was by the spring up there, no more than a thousand yards off the road, just follow the creek on up and you can’t miss it. Well, he couldn’t have missed it anyway because the tracks of the ambulance and the sheriff’s four-wheel drive came together there, crosshatching the road where they’d had to make their three-point turns to return with the body and whatever evidence they’d discovered. Which thus far was being kept secret. He’d tried to get Rob Rankin to tell him but Rob just shook his head. “Can’t disclose that. Sorry, Sten. Ongoing investigation.”

There would have been shell casings. And the bullets themselves, the ones they dug out of Carey’s dead flesh. That would have been something, at least. But what he wondered — and here he was, following a wide beaten path uphill through the bracken at the feet of the trees, the morning still, nothing moving and nothing sounding off, not even birds — was just what caliber those casings and bullets had turned out to be. Were they from a handgun? A revolver? An old wood-grip.38 or.45 some scoop-faced son of a bitch kept tucked in his waistband like a Hollywood cliché? Badges? We don’t need no stinking badges. Or something else. Something else altogether.

The only sound was the trickle of the stream, no wind in the trees and that eerie absence of birdcall, as if the place had been poisoned, as if the Zetas were just over the next rise with their human mules and their booby traps and their carbofuran. He never had found out what happened that day when they’d lost sight of the white truck and Carey phoned 911—there was nothing in the paper and he could only assume the Mexicans had gone off on a side road somewhere and waited an hour or two before doubling back. It was nothing to the cops. They had a whole lot on their hands and if every 911 call about people brandishing weapons didn’t have a scripted ending, so much the worse. But it was quiet. Too quiet. Quieter than any forest he could remember. He pricked up his senses. The air was damp with a funk of rot, of moss and mold and things breaking down, and underneath it the smell of water bubbling up out of some dark place. He forced himself to move slowly, step by step, studying the shadows where they deepened in clots of vegetation, listening hard, as if the perpetrators would be anywhere within ten miles of here — what did he think, they were going to kill somebody and then come back and lick the blood off the rocks? After a moment he went down on one knee to peer into the stream and see if he could detect any life there, nymphs, water boatmen, minnows as dull and gray and natural in these waters as the brick-red platys were in theirs. The water was pellucid. He saw nothing, not even a water strider.

He continued on up, the trees standing silent, the bushes increasingly beaten down and the ground raked over as he came closer to the dun scallop of rock where the spring emerged from the side of the mountain. There was a tree down just in front of the pool the spring made, cover for anyone lying in ambush, but then why would there be an ambush in this place? There was no plantation here, that was obvious. The trees were dense, closed in, the sunshine minimal. It was a water source, of course — they needed water, and they were known to divert whole streams as well as run drip lines hundreds of yards out into their makeshift clearings where they’d sacrificed the trees for the greater good of profit and criminality. What if — and he was speculating now — Carey had come upon a couple of them checking out the location or even laying out plastic tubing to take the water down to the road, to a catchment there or a tank in the back of a brand-new white Ford XLT pickup with all-terrain tires?

But no, that didn’t make any sense. They wouldn’t have shot him — that would only bring attention to themselves, bring the heat. They might have cursed, might have made a crude gesture or two and spat out a garble of Spanish and English — Spanglish — to proclaim their innocence, We are hikers, señor, only hikers, and then gone on their way. To avoid the confrontation the way they had the day he and Carey had followed them to a standstill. They didn’t want to kill anybody, not unless someone got too close to the growing operation, either by design or accident, and even then the better part of them — the mules — would just melt away into the undergrowth when the DEA or the sheriff’s department pulled a raid. Who wanted to be a hero? Who wanted the attention?

No, that wasn’t the answer, that wasn’t the answer at all. He was standing there on the very rock, the smooth clean water-burnished slab of granite where they’d found the body — the chalk marks there still — and if he was studying the grain of the rock for bloodstains it wasn’t out of idle curiosity or morbidity or even a desire to mourn a friend. There was a mystery here, a puzzle he had to solve for himself before Rob Rankin and his forensics team did, and it was tied up with that fear, the nameless fear that was mutating now into a named fear, named and punishing and inadmissible.

Suddenly, and he didn’t quite know why, he was calling out his son’s name. “Adam?” he shouted, obliterating the silence. “Adam, are you out there?”