I went out to the VW and snagged the 35-millimeter camera I keep in the rear well. I had part of a roll of film left and I snapped off as many photos of the place as I could. I didn't think Irene Gersh was going to "get it" otherwise. She had talked as if her mother might retire here in her golden years.

Before I popped the padlock into place, I bundled up the gremlins' sleeping bags and miscellaneous belongings and left them by the front step. Then I went across the road and told Marcus what I'd done. As I returned to the trailer, I spotted a slice of crawl space underneath, makeshift storage, where a few items had been crammed. I got down on my hands and knees, reaching back among the bugs and spiders, and pulled out a couple of dilapidated cardboard boxes. One was open and contained a motley collection of rusted garden tools: trowels, a spade, a short hoe. The second box had the top flaps closed, sections interlocked to secure the contents without anything actually being sealed shut. I pulled the flaps back and checked inside. The box contained numerous pieces of china wrapped in newspaper, a child's tea set. It didn't even look like a full set to me, but I thought Irene or her mother might like to take a look. Certainly, I wasn't eager to leave the dishes for the gremlins to raid. I closed the box up again. I snapped the padlock shut on the trailer door. I had no hope whatever of keeping the little buggers at bay, but I'd tagged the necessary bases. I toted the box to my car and shoved it in the backseat. It was still light when I left the Slabs, but by the time I picked up my tire and headed back into Brawley, it was fully dark.

In my pocket was the .38 slug the mechanic had removed from the tire. I really wasn't sure what it signified, but as I'm keenly aware of the obvious, I had a fair idea.

6

I went back to the Vagabond and got cleaned up. I made a wad of my overshirt and tucked it in the duffel, pulled on a fresh T-shirt and buckled on my shoulder rig. I put my briefcase on the bed beside me while I took out a box of PMC cartridges and loaded my .32, which I tucked snugly under my left arm. A threat on your life is a curious thing. It seems, at the same time, both abstract and absurd. I didn't have any reason to disbelieve the facts. I was on Tyrone Patty's hit list. Some guy in a pickup had shot out my tire on an isolated stretch of road. Now, it could have been a wholly unrelated prank, but I suspect if the flatbed full of farmworkers hadn't pulled up behind me, the guy in the pickup might have circled back and plugged me. God. Saved by a truckload of Mexicans making obscene digital remarks. I might have been abducted or killed outright. Instead, providentially, I was still in one piece. What I was having trouble with was figuring out what to do next. I knew better than to go to the local cops. I couldn't tell them the make, the model, or the license number of the truck itself and I hadn't gotten a good look at the driver's face. Under the circumstances, the cops might sympathize, but I didn't see what they could offer in the way of help. Like the Santa Teresa police, they'd be long on concern and short on solutions.