In the clearing I was a target. I slipped behind a gray marble headstone that stood at the edge of the trees near the lake. I wanted to move toward the area closer to Santa Monica Boulevard. I didn’t want to be caught or pressed between where I was and the wall that ran along the back of the property. With my left hand I balanced myself against the headstone, pressing close to it and holding my breath. The stone was cold where it had been out of the sun. It felt wet, but that was just my hand sweating against it. It didn’t seem possible that the cemetery could get any quieter. Then I heard a quick, sharp scraping sound from somewhere off to my right, somewhere down toward where Lupe’s car was. Maybe she had decided to do as I had told her and she was leaving. Praying she was, I ran across the little clearing to a tall marble marker that was in a line with the spot where I had seen the black Trans Am park.

Up ahead I could see the gray primer side of the Fiat but no Lupe moving toward it. With ragged breath I crouched down to make sure I couldn’t be seen above the marker. I heard the scraping sound again. It was still to my right, east. It sounded like a heavy foot trying to be light. It dragged slightly across the gravel. I edged toward the next marker, looking at the ground before stepping forward. It was like mountain climbing, looking for the footing, putting the foot down lightly, testing it, then putting weight upon it.

It took a long time to move from one marker to another this way. Heading in the direction of the road from which I thought I had heard the gravel sound, I was about twenty yards from it when I heard a snapping sound like a branch breaking.

He was off the road and he was close.

I pulled back against the headstone that sheltered me.

“Faithful friend, brave companion,” it read.

Had Lupe gone for help? What would Lupe tell the police about why we were here? What would she tell them about herself? I caught the toe of my high heel in a vine and stumbled slightly as I pulled myself upright by grabbing at the headstone. The crunch sound I had heard was close; then I heard two of them in rapid succession as though he were moving toward me quickly now. I dodged and threw myself behind the closest headstone. Then I heard a moan, a muffled voice nearly behind me. I moved back a couple of headstones and peered around.

It was Armando Diaz. He wore the black pants and the white guyabera shirt in which I had first seen him. He was hunched over and clutching Lupe to him.