by Nina Revoyr
“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.”
Something shifted, there was a sudden intensity, like the feeling Gwen sometimes got in South LA when a strange car turned the corner, moving slowly, windows inching down.
Todd asked, “Hey, who are you, anyway?”
The man turned back toward them, a grimace on his face. Small red blotches appeared on his pale cheeks. His eyes were the color of ice. “I’m a concerned citizen, and a farmer. My brother Gary and I have some interests up here, and we don’t appreciate anyone interfering with them. Especially not Mexican nationals.”
“You’re a farmer?” Todd asked, and Gwen wanted to kill him. Could he really be that stupid?
“Yeah. My family’s
had a ranch in the Central Valley for three generations. My other brother still runs it. But cattle are a drag. So Gary and I branched off, since I need income for my other activities. We’ve been growing our most lucrative crop up here.”
Now even Todd seemed to understand what he meant; he sat down, deflated.
“Look, man,” Oscar said, “we weren’t looking for any trouble.”
“Well, you sure did find it, though, didn’t you?” The man scratched his head suddenly, as if something had bitten him. Then he stopped. “I gotta thank you, though. We knew the Mexicans had some gardens up in the mountains but we didn’t know where. We didn’t think anyone came back here anymore on account of the bear dump. So when I saw you all turn off at that old abandoned road, I figured you must have known something, or that you might even have a grow back here yourselves.”
“The bear dump?” Todd asked.
“Yeah, the place where they used to get rid of problem bears.” The man lifted his rifle slightly, as if preparing in case he saw one. “Back in the day, the tourists in the park used to feed the bears like pigeons, and so the bears got used to helping themselves. They’d go up to people and lift the backpacks right off their shoulders. One of them attacked a little kid once. When it got bad, the Park Service would shoot them—and then they’d bring them out here. That road you took, there’s another turnoff about halfway down that leads to a cliff. The rangers would dump the bears over the edge.”
Behind her fear, Gwen felt a wave of revulsion. She remembered the other dirt road they’d passed. She remembered the ranger’s hesitation when he first brought up the trail. Could this story be true? Silently, she started to pray.
“Some hikers discovered the dump maybe thirty years ago,” the guy continued. “And then all hell broke loose. There were a couple hundred bear corpses hanging out of trees, smashed on rocks. Some of them had been skinned for their fur.” He spat out a stream of brown spit, chewing tobacco. “My dad saw it, said the skinned ones looked like huge naked men covered with muscle. I wish I had seen them.” He sounded momentarily wistful. “Anyway. After that they shut down the road.”
“That’s explains why no one comes back here,” said Todd. “And why the road’s not even on the topo map.”
“Exactly. Which makes it pretty convenient for other purposes, I guess. Fucking Mexican bastards. So when I saw your car turn off the road at that old abandoned exit, I figured I’d just tag along behind you.”
He looked out at the view again, ran his hand down the barrel of his rifle. “It’s pretty country up here. Glad to see it. And you’ve made the trip easier on me, thanks. That fire pit at the trailhead was real nice. Didn’t use it since I didn’t want you to see the smoke, but it was a beautiful spot to camp. The lakeside spot was pretty too. But that river crossing was a bitch.”
Now he looked right at Gwen, and her blood ran cold.
“You probably needed some help, didn’t you? You don’t look like you can carry much of a load. But that’s how it is in general, isn’t it? You people not carrying your load.”
Oscar took a step forward and said angrily, “Hey, shut up, man.”
The man casually brought the rifle up to his shoulder. “Not so fast, brown boy.”
Oscar stopped in his tracks. “Fucking asshole.”
“Be careful now. I’ve already shot one Mexican today. I shoot another, and I’ll probably get a prize. Hell, if I shot you and the black one here, my friends would probably throw me a parade!” He chuckled, then swept his rifle back and forth across the group of them, and Gwen instinctively drew back.
“Whoa,” said Todd, jerking her toward him. She looked behind her—there was a drop of at least a hundred feet. Six more inches and she would have stepped right off the cliff.
She closed her eyes—her heart beat wildly—and took several deep breaths. Fear built on top of fear. Todd had just kept her from falling to her death, but was that any worse than what she faced now? She had come here to get away from the threat of violence and danger. But as scared as she’d been of José, he was just a kid, as freaked out as they were. This guy was different. This was a scary murderous man who seemed delighted to have them in his sights. She noticed his tattoos again—the number 14 on one arm, and what looked like the bottom of a swastika against a red and black flag on the other. The man lowered the rifle but still held it diagonally across his chest. Please, God, she prayed, please help us get out of here.
“Actually, my name’s not Asshole,” he said, sounding jaunty again. “And it’s not Buddy either. You can call me A.J. And this here’s Timber. I just got her a couple weeks ago, at a rodeo. Someone had taken her and given her back already, and now I know why. She steals everything that’s not tied down and she’s pretty useless as a sheep or cattle dog. And she barked too damn much, so we had to get that taken care of.”
The dog sat alert, the tips of both ears falling forward. Little black spots were scattered across her white coat; she looked like cookies-and-cream ice cream. Despite A.J.’s dismissals, she gazed up at him, awaiting a kind word, a gentle touch.
“Look, man,” Tracy said now, stepping forward. She’d been quiet, and Gwen had seen her trying to read the situation, the calculation almost visible in her eyes. “Oscar’s right. We’re not trying to cause any trouble. We don’t care what you’re doing up here. Hell, we didn’t care what he was doing.” She gestured at the dead youth between them. “We’re on vacation, on a backpacking trip. We just want to get our stuff and go home.”
A.J. turned toward Tracy as if seeing her for the first time. He looked interested, even amused, and Gwen prayed that she wouldn’t do anything stupid, lunge at him or curse him and get them all killed. He faced her squarely and shook his head. “Sorry, it’s a bit more involved than that. Hey, are you a Mex too?”
Tracy glared at him. “I’m half Japanese and half Irish.” Gwen was glad she didn’t add the usual finishing touch: And 100 percent trouble.
“Half Jap!” A.J. grinned, seeming genuinely pleased. “Well, this is my lucky day! Where are you all from anyway, the United Nations?”
“No, genius,” Oscar said. “We’re from LA.”
“That hellhole. Well, that explains it. Too bad you didn’t stay there.” He lifted the rifle now and brushed some dirt from the barrel. “Because as I was saying, the situation here’s kind of involved. See, we need to get rid of that garden, let the Mexicans know they’re not welcome. And now I’ve told you about our garden too. Do you know where it is?”
They all looked at him, confused. “N-no,” said Todd.
“Well, I’m not going to tell you!” He laughed loudly.
Gwen looked at his eyes, which were almost colorless, but with a spark of something, anger or insanity, that ran through his body too, providing a jerky, stilted energy. It was like he’d been plugged into an electrical outlet. She had seen this kind of look two or three times over the years, in the eyes of the occasional people she’d met who were truly psychopaths.
“I’ll tell you this, though. Gary came up the morning after you left and he’s on the trail a half-day behind me. He’s probably at the lake by now and he’ll be here in the morning. Then we’ll figure out what to do with you. Well, most of you anyway . . . You! Stanford!” he said, gesturing at Todd with his rifle.
“Me?” Todd responded, lifting his head, absently touching his cap.
“Yeah, you. What’s your story? What are you doing with these people?”
Todd drew himself up straight, looked at him warily. “They’re my friends.”
“I guess you’re some kind of colored-people lover, huh?”
“I guess I am.”
They glared at each other and Gwen thought for a moment that A.J. might shoot. But then he laughed, a burst of sound that was more like a curse. “I thought so,” he said. “Fucking traitor.” He shook his head in disbelief, then spat on the ground. “All right, then. All of you. Let’s get down to that garden. I want you to show me where those fuckers
were camped.” They all stared at him until he lifted the gun again. “Come on, now. Let’s get moving down this slope.”
And so they reversed their course of earlier. Oscar stepped off the ledge and headed down first, followed by Gwen, Tracy, and Todd. Tracy was looking all around, as if trying to find a path of escape.
“Don’t you try to run off now,” A.J. warned, but it wasn’t possible, because just getting down the hillside with its unstable steep dirt and loose rocks, its slippery pine needles, took all of their concentration—and because this man, unlike José, seemed perfectly comfortable moving around in the wilderness with a gun in his hand.
Gwen glanced back a couple of times and saw him stepping confidently down the slope, sideways and balanced, as if he’d been making his way down wooded slopes his whole life. The dog ran ahead of them, her spotted white body flashing between the trees, her long, fringed tail acting like a balancing force. As they entered tree cover again, Gwen felt claustrophobic, worse because the light was now failing. There were trees, trees everywhere, some that had fallen into each other, dead branches and living ones reaching out and entangling her, making her feel like she would never get loose. Within a few minutes they’d reached the spot with the horrible smell. The dog ran off to the right and sniffed at something crumpled and brown.
“Timber, leave it!” A.J. commanded, but she lowered her shoulder and then flipped onto her back, rolling with joy and abandon.
“Damnit, you nasty-ass dog!” A.J. yelled. He stepped over, never taking his eyes off Gwen and the others, kicked the animal hard in the side, and yanked her up by the collar. Her shoulders and back were covered with a sticky brown substance; on the ground the source of it was unrecognizable.
“Fucking dead deer. Probably died from the rat poison.” A.J. shoved the dog along with his foot, not saying another word until they reached the edge of the grow. When he saw it, he let out a low whistle. “Nice crop,” he said, admiringly. “Bastards.”
He plucked a single leaf off a plant and held it to his nose, then shook his head. “If these were a little further along, we’d think about taking them.” He threw the leaf down. “We need to put these fuckers out of business.”
