He’d gone up a gravel drive that continued for two hundred feet, then angled to the left and vanished behind an unruly hedge of agave—the same spiky plants that fronted his own house. No building in sight. Once again, I parked and continued on foot, hoping the wagon’s destination was measured in yards, not miles. Staying off the gravel for quiet’s sake, and walking on the bordering greenery.

I spotted the Chevy another hundred feet up, stationed haphazardly in the dirt lot of a tin-roofed, green-boarded house. Larger than a cabin, maybe three rooms, with a sagging front porch and a stovepipe chimney. I edged closer, found myself a vantage point behind the continuing agave wall. The house was nestled by forest but sat on a dry-dirt clearing, probably a firebreak. Diminishing sunlight spattered the metal roof. A poorly shaped apricot tree grew near the front door, ungainly and ragged, but its branches were gravid with fruit.

I stayed there for nearly half an hour before Bert reemerged.

Pushing a man in a wheelchair. I recalled the chair in his living room.

Keeping it for a friend, he’d said.

Dr. Harrison gives.

Despite the mildness of the afternoon, the man was wrapped in a blanket and wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. Bert pushed him slowly, and his head lolled. Bert stopped and said something to him. If the man heard, he gave no indication. Bert locked the chair, went over to the apricot tree, picked two apricots. He handed one to the man, who reached for it very slowly. Both of them ate. Bert held his hand to the man’s mouth and the man spit the pit into his palm. Bert examined the seed, placed it in his pocket.

Bert finished his own apricot, pocketed that pit, too.

He stood there, looking up at the sky. The man in the wheelchair didn’t budge.

Bert unlocked the chair, pushed it a few feet farther. Angled the chair and allowed me to catch a glimpse of the passenger’s face.

Huge mirrored sunglasses below the straw hat dominated the upper half. The bottom was a cloud of gray beard. In between was skin the color of grilled eggplant.

I stepped out of the trees, made no attempt to muffle the crunch of my footsteps on gravel.

Bert turned abruptly. Locked eyes with me. Nodded.

Resigned.

I came closer.

The man in the wheelchair said, “Who’s that?” in a low, raspy voice.

Bert said, “The fellow I told you about.”

CHAPTER

37

Craig Bosc lay prone on his living room carpet, smiling again. Plastic tie-cuffs from Milo’s cop kit bound his ankles together, and another set linked to the metal cuffs around his wrists secured him to a stout sofa leg.

Not a hog-tie, Milo had pointed out, just a nice submissive position. Letting the guy know that any resistance would result in something more painful.