The Trade. Shirley Palmer

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.