‘‘Three, where you at?’’ came crackling from my walkie-talkie. Johansen. I turned the volume down.

‘‘Just about there, Four.’’ I was panting. Nerves, exertion, sinuses… ‘‘Just about.’’

‘‘Okay, it might be clear. I can’t hear them moving around at all.’’ He was whispering now.

‘‘Okay.’’ I whispered too. Them. Not him, them. And if you can’t hear them, it doesn’t mean they’re gone, and it sure as hell doesn’t mean they can’t hear you.

‘‘He’s dead.’’

What? He was whispering, and it was difficult to understand him. ‘‘Repeat.’’

‘‘Dead. He’s dead. Hurry up…’’ He was whispering.

Dead. ‘‘Who’s dead?’’

‘‘Kellerman. He’s dead.’’

I had really slowed by now, from both exertion and caution. My pulse was making so much noise in my ears that I wouldn’t be able to hear a horse on the path. I stopped, and caught my breath, moving carefully off the trail and into the brush as I did so. Five feet from the trail, and I was invisible, even standing up. So, of course, was anybody else. I tried to catch my breath and adjust to the situation. Dead. Oh, boy. One dead state narcotics officer, a well-armed deputy sheriff somewhere up the trail who was scared, and an unknown number of hostile dope growers, armed to the teeth, somewhere in the woods. I took a very deep breath. And me. Didn’t want to forget me.

After a second or two, I heard a thumping sound, starting up the trial and going by me and off down the trail toward the road, at what seemed like a hundred miles an hour. I brought my rifle up to my shoulder, and froze.

Silence.

‘‘Three, are you moving?’’