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It was crazy to think this, downright Zionist-conspiracy-paranoid, but . . . what if there was no actual rockslide on the pass? What if the roadblock was a ruse, to get them out here, with poor Mr. Floyd?
    A chill crawled up his spine and lingered between his shoulder blades. If it had been a ruse, it had worked beautifully. These two California liberals were out in the wilderness now. Red rock and prairie under an unsympathetic sun. Spiny plants and animals with fangs and stingers. Salty wind and gunpowder rock. No phones, no weapons, and a two-man local sheriff’s department apparently in the business of employing nineteen-year-olds. If anything, anything at all, seeing another car out here would be a bad thing because, to use Deputy Doogie Howser’s own math, it would most likely be driven by whoever blew that hole in Glen’s head.
    So in that case , he thought, thank God we haven’t seen anyone.
    She tapped his shoulder. “A car’s coming. Fast.”

4
    He saw it. A red Acura, maybe. Something low and sporty, burning with sunlight and chugging up toward them from the darkened center of the valley. Behind the approaching vehicle rose a rooster tail of dust.
    James knew this was either very good – or very, very bad. No middle ground existed here.
    Glen sat cross-legged with his head limp, staring between his knees. He had fallen into an uneasy trance, neither awake nor asleep. A crimson inkblot about the size of a fist had formed on the makeshift bandage. Worried for a moment that Glen had quietly slipped away, James squeezed his collarbone and the man grunted painfully.
    He looked back up at Elle. “Someone did this. Gunshot or not, someone did this.”
    “And there’s no one for miles.”
    “Except that car.” He pulled his multitool from his back pocket – a junky Korean Leatherman clone that had come free with his climbing shoes last year – and retracted the blade between his thumb and finger. It was a slim, two-inch paring knife. It was probably the closest thing to a weapon that James the pacifist had ever owned. He tested the point against his thumb, with increasing pressure, and failed to break the skin. He exhaled, feeling unprepared and useless.
    “I thought you were an optimist,” she said.
    “I am.”
    She forced a smile. He wanted to kiss her but didn’t.
    The Acura closed to two hundred yards and hit the slope with everything it had. The engine roared. Fiery sunlight danced on its tinted windshield and James could make out the silhouette of a crowded interior against rising dust. At least two, maybe three, or even four heads. His stomach turned.
    “The Soviet Cowboy.” Elle brushed her hair for the fiftieth time.
    “That’s not his car.”
    “He was on the radio with someone—”
    Something snapped beside them, like a towel whipping a tile floor. Elle jumped and gave a yelp. He looked to the low brush beside the road and saw a small, yellow flag quivering on a twelve-inch wire post.
    “What’s that?” he asked her.
    Dumbstruck, she pointed down Shady Slope Road. Every fifty yards or so was marked with a little yellow flag. Some hissed and snapped in updrafts and others hung motionless. Like golf flags. He hadn’t noticed them before. Again, he felt like he was on a stage, blinded by God’s million-watt key light. The entire world suddenly felt alien to him and he wondered with a squirt of acidic panic – what the hell did we just drive into?
    She shrugged. “The flags follow the road, both directions, as far as I can see.”
    “Why?”
    She shrugged again.
    The Acura pulled up close and growled. The gears changed. Now he could discern three heads, bobbing in soundless conversation. He supposed three was better than four. The brakes whined, the tires stuck and cut ruts in the earth, and the dust cloud caught up and swept past.
    “Get behind me,” he told her, as if that would make a difference.
    She moved behind him and squeezed his hand. “I love you,” she whispered behind