A dirt trail capped the top of the dam. Thicker trees— more eucalyptus, gnarled sycamore, wild oak that enjoyed the drought, evergreens that didn’t. Plenty of opportunity to exit at paved paths feeding to Burbank and Victory but we stayed on the dirt. Twenty yards in, the planting thickened even further and the trail blackened and Milo’s penlight cast a sickly beam that died three feet in front of us.

Rocks and dirt and scampering bugs.

“You came well-prepared,” I said.

“Boy Scout days,” he said. “Made it all the way to Eagle. If they’d only known.”

* * *

We’d traipsed halfway through the reserve, finding nothing. The excitement that had pinged my chest when we’d found the Jeep began to fade.

We were just about to turn back when the sound gave it away.

Low, insistent buzzing, nearly drowned out by freeway roar.

Flies.

Milo made use of his long legs and was there within seconds.

When I caught up, the penlight was focused on a forty-foot sycamore tree.

Stout-trunked thing, with spavined, mottled branches. Unlike the surrounding evergreens and wild oaks, bare of all but a few desiccated brown leaves.

Drew Daney, dressed in dark sweats and sneakers, hung from a low branch, feet dangling two inches off the ground. His head was twisted to the side, his eyes bulged nearly out of their sockets, and his tongue was a Japanese eggplant protruding from a lopsided mouth.

Milo aimed the light at his head. Single gunshot to the left temple. Stellate entry wound. Larger exit. Tiny, hyperkinetic ants crawled in and out of both openings. The flies seemed to favor the exit.

It took awhile, but he found the hole in the tree where the slug had lodged.

Daney’s eyes and tongue said he’d been hung first. I said, “Overkill.” Thinking about Daney dangling, just short of safety. Clutching at the rope, trying to hoist himself up.

Using his big upper body. Maybe he’d managed for seconds, even minutes.

Failing, inevitably. Feeling the life force slip away.

Milo lowered the beam. “Look at this.”

Daney’s crotch was a busy place. Mangled cavity, ragged around the edges where the cotton of the sweatpants had been blasted away.

Here the flies ruled supreme.

Milo got closer and inspected. A few of the insects scattered but most of them stayed on-task. “Looks liked gunshots . . . a bunch of them.” He stooped and checked the tree trunk, lower down. “Yeah, here we go, looks like . . . four, no five slugs . . . yeah, five.”

“Emptying the six-shooter,” I said. “A cowboy gun.”

“Something else in there.” He lit and peered and pointed. “Couple of rings.”

I stepped in and saw two white gold bands specked with tiny blue gems. Same rings I’d seen at the jail eight years ago.

Thumbtacked to what was left of Daney’s organ.

“Drew’s and Cherish’s wedding bands,” I said. “She made her statement.”