Which was good because nothing was what he was going to get. Jacob swallowed hard. It was impossible for Peter to imagine how drugs could distort perception. But being stoned had its paradoxical effects. Some things from that night had been indelibly etched in his mind, as unique as his thumbprint. The eucalyptus tree, for instance, its trunk bent and cracked from what had been recent canyon winds. It had reminded Jacob of a hunchbacked crone holding a walking stick, a role he had cast for Ruby even after they had been intimate. Even as her life hung in limbo, Jacob couldn’t help but demonize her.

His eyes scanned the clumps of mountainside, hunting for the unusual shape. During the summer, everything was in full bloom, the clumps of fertile fauna casting silhouettes against the charcoal sky. Branches danced in short breaths of wind. He hadn’t told his father about the broken trunk, because then Dad would have asked him every ten seconds if this one or that one was the correct tree. For the integrity of his own psyche, Jacob couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes.

Where was that tree? Did it even exist?

The car inched along its path. Webster spoke. “Is this place on Herald Way?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Jacob answered.

“So we should be looking for a side street?”

“I guess.”

“Trouble is, there aren’t any listed side streets.”

“I remember turning…” Jacob licked his lips, now cracked from habit and heat. He took out a stick designed for chapped lips and smeared it over the raw areas. “It was a long time ago.” And I was flying at mach speed. “It could have been just a twist in the road.”

“There are certainly enough of them,” Martinez said.

And then he saw the crone. Son of a gun, it was still there, walking stick and all. Jacob said, “We’re on the right pathway. That broken tree…” He pointed. “I remember seeing that. I bet there’s a turn—”

“There it is.” Martinez brought the car to a standstill. “On the left.” The roadway wasn’t much bigger than a hiking trail, but seemed wide enough to accommodate a car. In the gleam of the headlights, he could make out thin tire tracks—a lightweight motorcycle or a mountain bike. “Should we go up, Loo?”

“We’re getting into tricky territory.” Decker was staring at the narrow passageway. “We’ve got to think about an escape route. If he came after us on a motorbike, we’d have some maneuvering problems.”

“But he’d be out in the open,” Webster said. “We’d be protected by the car.”

Martinez said, “But he could also run rings around us, pick off a tire or two while we couldn’t get near him. We should go up on foot.”

“Then we’d be sitting ducks,” Webster said.