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wires, so he slipped off the padlock and slowly opened the door. The place was almost empty. There were a few medium-size plants right inside the door, so few he could grow that number legally with a prescription and permit. But, all the equipment was there for a large grow—pots, irrigation tubing, lights, fertilizer. The guy obviously bought what a grower would need for a large operation, but there was no real crop. So, he looked like a grower, but he wasn’t growing.
    Jesus, Mike thought. The guy was a narc. He was eitherundercover police or a confidential informant. He’d set up something to look like an illegal grow, but it was a ruse. There was only one reason to establish oneself as a grower when you weren’t—to search for other growers.
    It took a long time to form even a nodding acquaintance with other growers, and even when they got friendly, they kept a safe distance unless they were doing business together, and they never showed each other their hidden grows. They spotted each other at the hardware store, the nursery, buying supplies, carrying around bags of chicken shit in the back of pickups. But they didn’t have dinner parties with each other at their grow-sites.
    The other reality was that local law enforcement couldn’t keep up with the illegal crops; their resources and manpower were limited. They let a lot of cases slide when they were too small to make an impact, or to get a conviction. When a call came in about a hairdresser who was driving a Hummer and had a generator behind the house and a couple of windows blacked out, it was pretty obvious what she was doing, but the cops had bigger fish to fry—they were looking for over a thousand plants to press for a conviction or ten thousand plants to drive it into a federal crime, otherwise it was a waste of their precious time.
    So—this guy, planting himself in the area, making himself known as an illegal grower… He must be looking for something. Mike slowly exited the trailer and once outside, looked around cautiously. Then he looked at the padlock. It had obviously been an oversight on the part of his buddy, the guy in the truck. If he didn’t think it would compromise his operation, he’d find him, tell him he understood what was going on and to be more careful. Instead he removed the lock and pocketed it. He’d think about all this for a while before taking any action.
     
    Paul sat in a small Italian restaurant in Grants Pass, staring into a cup of coffee, waiting. He looked up to see Terri enter the restaurant and he frowned slightly; there was no reason not to be attracted to her. She was a beautiful, tenderhearted girl. She had a very attractive figure that would soon blossom with motherhood.
    When they connected eyes, he smiled and began to rise. Yes, she was a lovely girl, but she just didn’t do to his blood pressure what Vanni did to him. The chemistry between them was nice, but it wasn’t explosive.
    He held a chair out for her to sit down. “Everything all right, Paul?” she asked a bit nervously.
    “Sure,” he said. “Fine. We haven’t talked since last week. I apologize for that—I meant to get in touch sooner.”
    “That’s all right. What’s up?”
    “I thought we should have a conversation. I think the shock and tears kept us from getting anything resolved the last time we saw each other.” He reached across the table and gave her hand a pat. “I don’t know how we could have avoided that.”
    “Resolved?” she echoed.
    “You haven’t really explained what you think I can do for you right now.”
    “Well,” she said, “I just found out myself, so I haven’t given it much thought, either. I mean, the best-case scenario didn’t work out for me.”
    He held his tongue, not willing to go there again, but he looked down uncomfortably. Even if things never worked out with Vanni, which was what he feared, he didn’t have the kind of passion for Terri that was required to take on marriage—it would rob them