soft soil behind the bushes were plain. He’d crawled through the bushes and made his way from yard to yard taking advantage of the landscaping. When he’d gotten to the end of the street there was more cover, but I thought he would aim for the vacant lot at the end of Joshua Street. I jogged down to the end of the street and stopped at the curb of the pavement. The streets in my neighborhood all drain this way so there is always a big puddle at the end of Joshua Street. Silva didn’t know that.
The construction companies in these high desert communities tend to buy up several acres of land and plant a neighborhood smack dab in the middle of a large vacant lot so around the edges of Joshua Hills little four and five block neighborhoods dot the desert floor, all surrounded by desert sand, perfect for tracking. My neighborhood was no exception.
“Stay here,” I instructed, “I’m not going far.” I inched around the puddle. There was a scuff on the near side. He’d seen the puddle in time to avoid it. I needed to make certain it was Silva that came through here. Anyone could have made the scuff recently. Kids hunted tadpoles here all the time. On the far side, Silva’s clear print showed. He was running. I signaled Michaels that he could follow me again.
I was glad Silva didn’t expect to be followed on foot. He wasn’t being careful at all. His trail was clear, leading in a straight line through the vacant lot. He’d stumbled once on a loose rock and kept going. I didn’t see sign of a chase. He must have cleared out before the police saw him get away.
My thoughts ran on ahead as my feet and eyes followed the trail. He was going to get tired quick. This guy wasn’t used to running. He was going to look for cover real soon, and the cover up ahead wasn’t what I wanted him to go for.
There was a mobile home park to our right with a short wall. Inside it was all cement and pavement again. If he went in there, I’d probably lose him. I was hoping he would go for the other mobile home park across Elm Boulevard. It had dirt streets and the trailers were less populated. If I were Silva, I’d go for the older one. More chances of finding a hiding place there. Michaels was keeping up easily. I was walking fast, only verifying the sign. When I was looking for lost kids, I studied the trail, learning all I could about the person I was tracking. In this case, I knew as much as I wanted to know about Silva. I just wanted the trail to end. The signs continued past the fancy mobile homes. Like I thought, the skirted homes didn’t offer the cover he wanted. I headed for the next park.
Silva had stopped at Elm, probably waiting for traffic to clear. We had to wait, too. The light was failing. A police cruiser headed our way and Michaels flagged it down and asked for a flashlight.
“What are you doing out here?” The cop asked.
“We’re tracking Silva. We’ve followed his trail this far.”
“Are you shitting me? We’ve been looking all over. He just vanished.”
“You’ve been driving the streets,” I said, “Silva’s not out walking the streets. He’s looking for cover. His trail is very clear. He went that way.”
Traffic cleared and Michaels and I trotted across Elm.
“I don’t like the feeling I’m getting off this trailer park,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.
“I know. That’s what makes me think he’s in here.”
The black and white pulled into the park.
Silva’s trail got messier after he crossed the street. He’d stop and turn, presumably to check for occupants in the trailers. He’d stop outside a trailer, pause, then run on to the next one. All the trailers he stopped at had lights on. They were better off, too. Some had skirting around the bottoms. Silva’s trail turned when he got to an old silver trailer. It couldn’t be called a mobile home. The back of it was surrounded by sheds offering dark hidey-holes underneath. The windows were dark; the flimsy screen door hung ajar, not quite fitting right. It banged in the wind. Trees blocked the little light there was left, casting the tiny yard in shadow. I signaled Michaels to stay. I had to make sure this was the right one.
I examined the tracks. Silva had vaulted the three-foot wall surrounding the park and landed heavily on the other side. He’d paused, walked forward two steps, then paused again. He’d turned this way and that, listening. He’d crept to the side of the trailer and put his ear against it, his footprints shifting the soft sand. A little Bermuda grass grew here, but it was mostly just dirt. I noticed sandy handprints on the side of the trailer. The footprints went all the way around to the other side, where he’d peered in a window. He’d circled the trailer and entered. He was here and he was trapped.
I looked in the window and saw a trashed out interior. Food wrappers and dirty clothes covered the floor. Silva was rooting around in the junk, presumably looking for something useful. He didn’t know he’d been spotted yet. He thought he was in the clear. Another quiet hideout to hole up in till Oscar could pick him up.
I was turning to go back to the wall and find Michaels when two beady eyes appeared in the window.
“You!” he yelled. He pointed the gun at me and fired. I leapt to the side. Curses filled the air and the trailer started shaking as Silva fought his way through the trash and junk on the floor.
I rolled under the trailer and came out on the other side. I stood up and Silva filled the doorway of the trailer, gun in hand. Simultaneous explosions rocked the small yard. The smell of gunpowder stung my nose as I made a mad dash for the wall. Pain seared through my shoulder as I vaulted over. I sat on the other side, sheltered for a bit from the violence behind me.
Sirens filled the night and seconds later the flash of lights told me the police had closed in.
Michaels! Where was Michaels? I thought I had heard two shots. I assumed Silva’s shot was meant for me. But what if he’d seen Michaels? Silva wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him. He was in escape mode.
“Cassidy!” I heard, “Cassidy, where are you?”
I poked my head up over the wall and there he was, searching underneath the trailer, glancing around, afraid of what he might find.
“Over here,” I said standing.
He rushed over, the relief clear on his face.
“You’ve been hit!” he exclaimed as a bloodstain spread down the arm of my shirt.
“It’s just a scratch. Stupid trailer, I caught my shoulder on an old lawnmower blade down there.”
Following the police, paramedics came in and cleaned me up a bit. It was just a cut. It bled like crazy but didn’t need any treatment. Silva wasn’t as lucky. They took him away on a stretcher.
My part in this mess was over. I turned to leave, sadness and tension bubbling up inside of me. I heard footsteps approaching from behind and Michaels joined me. We walked quietly back to the Roadster still parked outside my neighborhood. I looked up into his eyes. I saw kindness coupled with worry and uncertainty, but there was something else, too.
“I heard the shot.” He swallowed hard.
“I know. Me too.”
“Look, you haven’t had any dinner. I haven’t had any dinner. You need some space from all this and I need a statement. Let’s go to the interrogation room and get a bite to eat.”
“The interrogation room?”
“Or Zeke’s, come on. You need some space.”
I looked at the Roadster. This was Jack’s car and I hadn’t driven it much. Driving it brought back too many memories, but I knew it could get me out of a jam and Jack would have been glad I used it. The keys dangled from my finger and I glanced around at all the police. My driver’s license was at the house. Michaels’ car was at the house. I held out the keys to Michaels.
“What’s this?”
“I left my driver’s license at home and I didn’t think I should drive off with a cop and not have it.”
“That’s