The Trade

He picked up the phone, punched out the number for the animal shelter in Agoura, identified himself to the woman who answered, described his two horses, the small gentle Andalusian mare he’d bought for Ginn, his own buckskin quarterhorse gelding, and asked how soon he could pick them up.

“The sooner the better,” she said. “We’re like Noah’s ark over here. If you can tell me what time you’ll be here, I’ll have them brought in from the pasture.”

“I have to make a couple of calls, see if I can borrow a trailer. Probably be around one, is that okay?”

“Sure. See you then,” she said and hung up.

Margie Little’s place had been burned out, so he called the Malibu Riding Club, agreed to pay double the usual boarding fee—the stable manager made sure he was aware she was doing him a favor, that space was tight after the fire, and he had, after all, removed his horses from the club for no reason she had been able to fathom. But as a courtesy, he could leave his Range Rover at the club, use one of their trailers and a pickup to get his horses from Agoura. If he were still a member, she’d waive the rental fee, but since he wasn’t, of course, there would be a charge.

He loaded Barney into the Range Rover and took the Pacific Coast Highway north. The roadblocks at Topanga and Trancas had been removed, but traffic was still sparse. By tomorrow, if the rain held off, Sunday drivers would be out in force inspecting the damage—the chimneys still standing surrounded by rubble, the blackened beams from collapsed roofs, the burned-out armchairs and sofas that had once enclosed celebrity bottoms.

He slowed at the sign for Encinal Canyon Road. The girl’s body had been found less than a mile from the PCH. On impulse, he turned right onto the canyon road, a tortuous two-lane ribbon of asphalt that switchbacked across the Santa Monica Mountains down into the San Fernando Valley on the other side.

A quarter mile up the narrow gorge was a different world. The erratic wind-driven fire had skipped the entire lower canyon. Sycamores were still in fall yellows and russets, branching over the roadside tangle of willow and toyon and wild tobacco.

For Matt, the Santa Monica Mountains with their latticework of canyons and ravines were as much a part of Malibu as the ocean. When they were kids, he and Bobby Eckhart had camped all over these hills. They’d seen bobcats and mountain lions, rattlesnakes and redtailed hawks, even eagles soaring above bare rocky crags. They’d found traces of Chumash Indian pictographs in caves, and they knew where the virgin creeks were that ran all year, tumbling over rocks into pools deep enough to swim in. They’d also seen their share of abandoned vehicles and rusted-out discarded appliances. They’d never seen an abandoned body, but the canyons of Los Angeles were notorious for all kinds of murder and mayhem and they’d heard the stories.

Matt pulled into the clearing in front of the wide metal gates to the old archery range. According to Bobby, the dead teenager had been found about three hundred feet beyond this point.

He left Barney in the Range Rover—there was no shoulder to speak of, and the edge dropped off sharply on the creek side, dangerous if a vehicle hurtled around a curve, too many people used these mountain roads as raceways. Barney would be safer locked up. Matt crossed the road and walked toward a strip of yellow plastic police tape sagging between a couple of coastal oaks.

That was all there was to mark the place. There should be more, Matt thought. But what? Maybe crime scene tape’s as good as anything. Maybe it doesn’t really matter. But he couldn’t shake the barren feeling he had standing in this empty spot along the road.

On the ground at his feet he noticed a scattering of desiccated wildflowers. He knew them from Boy Scouts, yellow tree tobacco, white virgin’s bower, red California fuschia, purple rosemary. Bobby had told him the body had been covered in flowers. He sat on his heels, picked up a spray of canyon sunflower, held it to his nose, breathed in the faint scent. He twirled the spray gently in his fingers, then realized there was moisture on his skin. Sap from the stem.

The flowers in his hand were fresh. He looked around. The road was empty, quiet.

He stood and peered over the edge of the steep cliffside that fell off down to the creek. His eye caught a flash of blue. He squinted, made out a crouched form hidden in a tangle of toyon and manzanita.

“Hey!” he called. “Can I talk to you?”

The figure bolted upright, plunged through the brush in a wild crashing descent.

“Wait a minute.”

Matt started after him, grabbing branches, using his boot heels as a brake, half sliding, half running.

The flash of blue disappeared, reappeared and disappeared again. Part way down, another figure, long straight brown hair, broke cover and took off headlong down the hillside.

Girls, he thought. A couple of girls. He hit the canyon bottom, raced after the two of them toward the dry creek bed. They jumped from rock to rock, scrambled up the other bank.

Matt followed across the creek, leaping the same boulders. He stopped short as the figure in blue suddenly turned in a small clearing in front of a grove of wild walnut trees, blocking Matt’s way, teeth bared in a snarl, eyes blazing and wild. With a jolt, Matt realized he was looking at not a girl but a teenaged boy. He was an astonishing apparition in blue silk shirt, torn and soot stained, an open blue velvet vest, matching blue velvet pants, worn tight, the knees ripped. He’d armed himself with a long, heavy stick, and stood protectively in front of four young girls. They appeared to be no older than sixteen, and white, except for a black child who was maybe ten.

Matt held up his hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to talk to you.”

The boy lifted his chin, fixed fierce narrowed eyes on Matt. He was trembling, Matt saw, but not from fear. This kid would kill if he had the chance.

Matt looked at the girls huddled together under the walnut trees, a bizarre little group, dressed in a strange assortment of garments in brilliant parrot colors, green, yellow, scarlet. Torso-hugging, skinny strapped tops, silky loose-fitting pants. The fabric looked rich, heavy silk, torn and stained. Their feet were clad in matching soft leather boots. They could have been a circus troop still in costume.

“What are you doing here?” They were sure not on a camping trip, not in that gear. They all had sun-damaged skin, huge welts on arms and chests caused by the poison oak that grew all over these mountains. Their lips were dry, cracked and bleeding.

He looked at each girl in turn. Their faces were filthy with mud and ash, their bodies shivering in the cool air of the canyon, even cooler on a day like this with rain clouds hanging low. They looked traumatized. No one spoke.

“Okay, you don’t have to talk to me. But you’re going to have to talk to someone. A girl was found up on the road. Did you know her?”

His questions were greeted with silence.

“Who are you? How long have you been here in the canyon?”

Every eye was locked on Matt, watching his every move, the girls looking as if they were ready to run. Or maybe fight. They stared at him, no glimmer of understanding in their eyes. They either didn’t understand English, or they were deaf. Matt touched his fingers to his cheeks and arms, made small circling motions and then pointed to the group’s faces and bare arms.

“Poison oak,” he said slowly. “You need to have that treated. I’ve got salve in my car. And water, you look like you need some water.” No one moved and Matt said, “Look, I want to help. Why are you here?” He looked around at the canyon. “You shouldn’t be here dressed like that. The weather is going to change, it’s going to rain and turn colder.”

One of the girls started to cry. She appeared to be the oldest, the longhaired girl he’d been chasing.

Matt took off his denim jacket, held it out to her.

“Come on, you need it. It will protect you.” He patted his own shoulders to show her what he meant.

The girl moved to reach for it. The boy spoke sharply.

In spite of her distress, the girl responded just as sharply. Nothing wrong with their hearing, Matt thought. For a moment, they argued in a language he had never heard before.

The girl accepted the jacket and said something to him. Matt thought she was asking a question. It could be English, but the accent was so heavy he couldn’t make it out.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Please, speak slowly.” He watched her lips. It sounded as if she were saying “eye eeder.”

“Eye eeder.” Her voice broke on a sob. “Eye eeder.” The boy yelled at her. The other three girls started to cry.

“Eye eeder?” Matt started to shake his head, then realized she was saying a name. Matt gestured toward her. “Your name is Aida?”

She shook her head.

“She was the girl on the road?”

In a soft voice, she answered, “Yes.”

Her eyes darted toward the boy. Screaming, he lunged at her, the heavy stick raised. Matt grabbed him before he could strike, shook the menacing club out of his hand, spun him around so that the boy’s back was against his chest. Holding him was like trying to control an octopus, limbs everywhere. The kid was frantic, explosive, strong beyond his slight frame. It took a few minutes before Matt was able to pin both arms to his sides and swing him off his feet. Gradually the boy stopped struggling.

“Listen,” Matt said against his ear. “I’m not going to hurt you, any of you. A girl died. Tell me how she died.”

“You bring police,” the boy said.

He could speak English. Now maybe they could get somewhere. “No one’s going to bring in the police, so you just relax, all right?” The boy said nothing. “Okay?” Matt said again. “I’m going to let you down now. Just stay quiet, nothing is going to happen to you.”

It was a long time coming but finally the boy nodded. Carefully Matt allowed the boy’s feet to touch the ground and as soon as he thought the kid would stay put, released him. The boy turned quickly. Tears of rage wet his eyes.

“You’re a good man,” Matt said. “You’re okay. What is your name?”

The boy clenched his lips together as if to prevent Matt from seeing that they were trembling.

“Hasan.” The older girl answered for him, and the boy spat what sounded like a curse.

Matt looked at him in surprise. The Arabs Matt had met or seen were dark-eyed, dark-haired, olive-skinned. This Arabic boy was blue-eyed, had dark blond hair, neat small features. Matt kept his eyes on the boy. “That’s you? Hasan?”

The boy did not answer.

“Okay,” Matt said. “Hasan. Good. And Aida was the girl who died. How did Aida die?”

No answer.

He tried a different question. “Where do you come from?”

The older girl said an indecipherable word. She pointed to herself and the two other white girls. She repeated the word. Matt still couldn’t understand her.

Matt looked more closely at the little black girl. “What about you?” he asked gently. “Where do you come from?”

The child refused to meet his eyes, and the older girl, the only one who had so far spoken, put an arm around her protectively.

“Africa,” she said. “She from Africa.”

CHAPTER 7

Matt took off the flannel shirt he had on over his T-shirt and stepped forward to wrap it around the child. All he could see was the top of her small dark head. She flinched as he touched her, and the older girl murmured a crooning sound of comfort. She took the shirt from Matt’s hand, knelt and wrapped it around the African child’s body.

“What’s happened to her?” he asked softly. And to the rest of you, but he left those words unsaid. What kind of disaster had brought this strange band into Encinal Canyon?

Darting fearful looks at Matt, the girls exchanged a few words among themselves, until Hasan spoke sharply, driving them back into silence.

“She want mama,” the boy said.

Yes, Matt thought, of course she does. Matt had the sudden image of himself at that same age, watching his mother’s flower-blanketed coffin being carried from St. Aidan’s Church. He took a breath, and the image faded, leaving him feeling as if he had been hit by a two-by-four.

He fumbled in his pants pocket for the energy bar he always kept handy and offered it to the child, but she would not look up. He passed it to the older girl, who unwrapped it, lifted the child’s hand, and pressed her fingers around it until she was sure it would not fall from the child’s grasp. The child broke off a corner, put it into her mouth and handed the rest back. The older girl divided it up, handing a fragment to each of the others, including Hasan who ignored the piece she held out to him. After a moment, she gave it to the little one.

“This little girl needs help,” Matt said. “All of you need help. I will take you to my house, get you some food and clothes.” He looked at Hasan, making a point of including him. “We will talk, and we will decide what to do.”

“Kanita,” the older girl said. She pointed to herself. “Kanita,” she said again. She then pointed to Matt.

More progress, he thought. They were communicating. “You are Kanita.” He enunciated each word carefully. “I am Matt.” He glanced at the closed, hard face of the boy, and turned back to the girl. “Kanita, you cannot stay here.” He pointed to the sky, gestured rain with his hands, hoping she understood. “Rain. Rain is coming. You must get shelter. Come with me. I’ll get help.” And maybe these kids could tell the authorities what they knew about the dead girl, Matt thought, and remove the cloud of suspicion hanging over his head.

Kanita slid a nervous yet defiant look at Hasan then beckoned to Matt and started toward a cluster of large granite boulders. Matt glanced at the boy, then went after her. She led him between the rocks and into a sheltered crawlspace created by a tangle of roots and the limbs of canyon oak trees. Matt peered inside.

A slight solitary figure lay motionless on the ground. Also a teenager, she was dressed similarly to the others, in a beaded tank top and gauzy loose-fitting lavender pants. She lay on a makeshift bed of brown paper grocery sacks spread out on the bare ground.

Matt’s throat tightened and he fought back a wave of panic. Another dead girl? He crawled into the shelter and touched the girl’s hand, and started to breathe again. Her skin was an unhealthy grayish white and clammy, but warm, maybe too warm. Her eyes were closed, her face framed by a mass of dirt-encrusted black hair tangled with bits of leaves and twigs.

“How long has she been like this?”

Kanita frowned and he repeated the question slowly.

“Today, yesterday, tomorrow.” Kanita shrugged as if an explanation of time was beyond her.

He patted the unconscious girl’s hand, hoping to rouse her. He’d have to carry her out and she would be a dead weight to pick up. He turned to Kanita. “What’s her name?”

Kanita shook her head. Matt pointed to himself, to Kanita, repeating their names as he did so. Then he indicated the girl. Kanita patted her mouth, pointed to the girl and shook her head again.

This was getting them nowhere. Matt slid an arm around the girl to lift her into a sitting position.

The girl opened her eyes, deep black eyes that widened in terror at the sight of him. She shoved hard at his chest, scrabbled to get away but managed only a few yards. A long high-pitched keening ripped from her throat.

The skin on the back of Matt’s neck shuddered at the sound. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He managed to quell the instinct to raise the pitch of his own voice and kept his tone low and reassuring. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s okay.”

Matt quickly ran through his limited options. The girl needed medical treatment. He could go for help, but as as soon as Matt was out of sight, the boy would be gone, dragging the girls with him. And the Santa Monica Mountains were wild enough to swallow up anyone who didn’t want to be found. These kids were a line to the dead girl, and if she were the mother, to the dead newborn. He could not lose track of them.

Kanita was speaking softly to the sick girl, insistently, the same words over and over, in the same unrecognizable language. Kanita held her until she quieted and her agitation softened into a rhythmic rocking motion.

“No immigration. No police,” Kanita said suddenly as if reading Matt’s mind. “No immigration, no police,” she said again, repeating the universally understood words.

“Okay, right, no immigration.”

“No police.”

Matt smiled at her. Brave girl, he thought. Kids shouldn’t have to be this scared. He knew there were children in the world who lived in daily fear, including a primal fear of the authorities, but he’d never seen it up close and raw.

“No police,” he conceded. “No immigration.”

The sick girl continued lying quietly in Kanita’s arms. If he wanted to learn anything more from the older girl, now was the time to ask, with Hasan out of earshot. He leaned toward her. “What happened to Aida?”

Kanita shook her head. “She die.”

“A baby, then die?”

Kanita’s eyes stared unblinkingly into Matt’s before sliding to a point over his shoulder. He turned his head. Hasan stood just feet behind him. Matt hadn’t heard a thing, not the crunch of a twig or the rustle of footsteps through leaves. The kid had approached in absolute silence as if trained in guerrilla warfare.

Kanita motioned to Matt to take the girl in her arms, then scrambled to her feet. Eyes lowered, she scurried past the boy and disappeared around the edge of the rocks. With Hasan watching, Matt put an arm around the limp body, another under her knees and maneuvered her out of the shelter and into the open.

“I’m taking her to a doctor,” Matt said the boy. “I want you all to come with me.”

The boy stood squarely in the narrow defile between the boulders, barring the way.

“If Aida died after giving birth, Hasan, I promise you won’t get into any trouble. It wasn’t your fault, man.” Matt wasn’t sure about the legalities of child abandonment—hell, he wasn’t sure about anything anymore—but that would have to wait. “If you come with me, I’ll explain what happened. I’ll get you all the help you need.”

Hasan stood unmoving.

“Okay, your call,” Matt said.

He squeezed past the rigid figure, made his way back along the path, into the clearing. If they were illegal, they’d need a lawyer, child services, some kind of help. He could feel how tired they were, how much they wanted some relief, someone to care for them.

“Tell them it’s going to be okay, Kanita.” Although he wasn’t sure himself exactly how. “Tell them they should come with me now.”

The slight, slim figure of Hasan appeared in the clearing. His voice, filled with the biting power of rage, swept over the small group of girls.

Matt looked at Kanita. “What did he say?”

She gestured to the girl in Matt’s arms. “Okay, she go.”

“What about you and the others?”

She shook her head.

“Hasan, rain is coming. Let them come with me, man.”

The boy stared without speaking, hatred seeming to emanate from every part of his body.

Matt could feel the girl becoming heavier. He’d hit a dead end, at least for now.

“I’ll be back with food.” He included Hasan in his glance. “No police, no immigration. Stay here. We’ll talk. We’ll work it out, whatever has happened. Whatever it is, Hasan, it can be fixed.”

No one spoke.

One of the older girls put an arm around the ten-year-old and drew her closer.

At least that was something, Matt thought. He turned to go.

CHAPTER 8

As soon as they were out of the canyon, Matt picked up his cell phone, tapped out Phil Halliburton’s private number. He threw a quick glance at the girl, wondering why Hasan had let her go with only a token show of obstruction, unlike the others who needed help almost as urgently. Her eyes closed, she was still leaning against the door of the Range Rover, covered by the blanket he kept in the back for Barney.

“Phil, it’s Matt.”

“Hey, Matt, how are you doing? And that’s strictly a social question. If you have symptoms, take two aspirins and call the office on Monday. Whoops, I forgot. How’s the arm?”

Matt dispensed with a laugh at Phil’s standard joke. He’d known Halliburton since Phil opened his practice in internal medicine in Malibu ten years ago. Their relationship was mainly social, but Halliburton was the guy he saw on the rare occasions he needed a doctor.

“It’s okay, thanks. Phil, can you meet me at my house? I need some help.”

“What’s up?”

“I can’t say right now. I’ll explain when you get there.”

“If it’s a medical emergency, Matt, really, you’re better off calling 911. The paramedics have everything at their fingertips. All I’ve got is my little black bag.”

“No, I need a private doctor. Can you make it?”

A moment of silence. “You’re being very mysterious. Annie and I have plans for tonight.”

“Phil, this won’t take long. Please.”

Another silence. Matt waited him out.

“Okay, but this had better be good.”

“Bring the black bag. I owe you one, Phil.”

He hung up then called the Agoura shelter to tell them something had come up, he’d have to reschedule a time to pick up his two horses. Ten minutes later he drove into his garage. The girl had not moved since he had placed her in the seat and her eyes were still closed. He got out, opened the tailgate for Barney. Before he could go around to the passenger door, the girl slammed it open and was out of the garage, across the road, narrowly missing a passing car.

Shouting at Barney to stay, Matt tore after her. He dragged her off the bank, scooped her against his chest, started back across the street. A few houses away the car had slowed almost to a stop. He put his mouth to the girl’s ear, the words soothing and simple. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Matt crossed the road without looking in the direction of the car, the picture, he hoped, of a young father and his playful teenager, their ecstatic Labrador jumping around them in greeting. He ran along the deck by the side of the house, got the kitchen door open, kicked it closed behind him, and set the girl on her feet.

She backed away, dark hair tangled with leaves and twigs hanging in her eyes, lips bared in a snarl. Dressed as she was in flimsy silk she had to be freezing.

Matt held his hands out to the side. “It’s okay, you’re safe here. I’m not going to hurt you. A doctor is coming, you understand, a doctor?” Keeping his distance, he went to the hall closet, pulled out a blanket, held it out to her. “Put this around you.”

She kept her eyes on him without moving and he tossed the blanket on the back of the sofa that separated the living room from the kitchen. He turned the thermostat up to eighty, then knelt and touched a match to the fire. The gas lighter flared, caught the kindling, flames curled around the logs. He went back into the kitchen, filled the kettle, put it on to boil, keeping up a running commentary to reassure her.

“It will be warmer in here soon. Do you like peppermint tea?” He was completely out of his depth.

He picked up the telephone on the kitchen counter, tapped out Ginn’s number. His heart hammered in his chest while he waited, then her voice, her real voice, was in his ear.

His mouth was suddenly dry. “Ginn, it’s me.”

“Matt, I am going to hang up. Goodbye.”

“No, don’t. Ginn, listen. Please. I need help—”

“Then call your brother, or your father in Palm Springs, or Bobby. Why call me?”

Because I love you. “Because you’re a lawyer, and you’re the only one who can help.”

“Goodbye, Matt.”

Speaking quickly to hold her, he said, “I found some kids today, holed up in a canyon.”

“What?”