“Sí, padre?” she said.
He didn’t like her use of Spanish, but he let it pass. “Are you okay?”
“A little tired.”
Rosa put a hand over her mouth, but her eyes showed fear. Jorge didn’t know if the Detoros had fallen sick before dying, or if the sun sickness came to Willard and the others before they became murderous.
“Let’s rest a moment.” Jorge slid out of the saddle and tied his mare to a tree, then helped Marina off her mount. Rosa hesitated, uncomfortable with putting her weight on one of the stirrups.
Jorge let Rosa lean over onto his shoulders so he could guide her to the ground. She whispered, “She is pale.”
Jorge didn’t think so, but it was difficult to tell with the sun dappling the understory of the forest. He’d always prided himself that she was not as dark as either of her parents. None of the doctors at the clinic had ever expressed any concern for Marina, but her check-ups rarely lasted more than five minutes.
The water in the Wilcox house had been fed by a pump that had gone out with the electricity. The only standing water had been in the toilets, aside from a quart that had been left sitting in a saucepan on the stove. Rosa had collected it in a canning jar, and Jorge had packed several soft drinks and a bottle of grape juice he’d found in the pantry.
A trickle of water seeped between two cracked slabs of gray granite, and Jorge decided to trust it. The water in the valleys would be tainted, but up this high, few people had built houses or roads, and the chemicals used on the Christmas trees would not reach across the miles they had covered.
Rosa checked Marina’s temperature by pressing her wrist to the girl’s forehead. She said nothing, but her lips pursed. Jorge brought water in a canteen he’d found in Mr. Wilcox’s camping gear and gave it to Marina.
“Don’t the horses need water, Daddy?” she asked.
“They will drink when we reach a creek,” Jorge said. “Water runs all over this mountain.”
“I like riding,” she said to Rosa. “Can I keep the pony if Mr. Wilcox doesn’t come back?”
“We’ll see,” Jorge said. Marina knew about the dead people but she was maintaining the fantasy that Jorge had spun, about Mr. Wilcox taking the Detoros to an agriculture exhibit.
“We don’t keep things that don’t belong to us,” Rosa said. “That brings bad luck.”
“Wait here,” Jorge said. “I want to have a look.”
The trails split just ahead, with one continuing up to the peak and the other starting a slow descent into the valley. The trees were thin on a small jut of rocky soil, and Jorge pushed through the wild blueberry shrubs and laurel. The sky opened up to him and he stood on a mossy ledge, nearly dizzy after the oppressive density of the forest.
The ribbon of highway stretched below, curving around the base of the next mountain and only visible in segments. He counted three vehicles stopped on the road, and an RV was pulled onto the grassy shoulder. No one moved.
Jorge drew comfort from how little the road was traveled, since it was closed to commercial traffic. Mr. Wilcox had often grumbled that the tourists could use the parkway all they wanted but the Christmas tree trucks had to go 20 miles out of the way to hit the interstate. There was still risk of running into more of the starry-eyed people, but they would have an easier passage by following the parkway.
Does it matter how easy the journey is if you don’t know where you’re going?
Jorge judged that it would take half an hour to climb down to the road, which would allow them time to prepare for possible encounters. Jorge had reluctantly left the shotgun behind, mostly because Rosa would have had to carry it and it would have been visible to Marina. He wondered if stress was eating away at his daughter’s little tummy.
He liked that possibility better than sun sickness.
Jorge emerged from the shrubs, thinking about how he would get Marina down the mountain if she was sick, how far they might travel before sundown, and where they would spend the night.
Perhaps we could stay in the RV if there are no—
He nearly bumped into the man standing on the edge of the trail. Jorge hadn’t seen him because the man wore a solid green jumpsuit, with a hood drawn tight around his face. A pair of goggles gave him the appearance of an insect, and his bushy, salt-and-pepper beard billowed beneath a cloth mask. The man stood motionless, unarmed, his hands sheathed in gloves.
Jorge looked past the man, making sure Marina and Rosa were out of sight around the bend. He felt foolish for not taking the rifle with him. He hadn’t wanted to alarm Marina. But he had the machete, and he cupped his palm around the butt.
The man appeared unarmed, but his stillness was even more disturbing than a violent assault would have been. Jorge recalled the agitated behavior of Willard, the banker, and the farrier, and he had accepted violence as a symptom of the sun sickness. If this man had the sickness—and Jorge couldn’t tell from the concealed eyes—then perhaps the sickness had taken on different symptoms.
This made him think of Marina. The sickness might be changing her and the helplessness to fight that change made him angry.
“Hello,” Jorge said, parting his legs a little and unconsciously going into a slight crouch, tensing for action.
Ten feet away with those cold round eyes, the man didn’t respond. The cloth mask was the only movement, drawing in and out slightly with the man’s breathing. A moist oval in the fabric revealed the set of his mouth.
Jorge waited another few seconds, aware of the birds in the trees, the laurel leaves rattling, and the distant rush of whitewater as a creek tumbled down the broken Blue Ridge slag.
He drew the machete.
The man still didn’t move.
If he was sun-sick, he would have attacked by now.
Willard and the banker hadn’t exhibited any understanding of the machete, and therefore, had no fear of it. Even after it had cut them, they still didn’t try to dodge its sharp edge. Perhaps they didn’t feel pain or were unaware of the danger. Or maybe they simply had no fear of death.
“I’m going that way,” Jorge said, pointing the blade down the trail behind the man.
The man uttered something, but the words were muffled by the cloth mask.
Jorge took a step forward, letting the machete dangle loosely in his hand. “We know this isn’t our land,” he said. “We’re leaving.”
The man spoke again, louder and more clearly. “Got a card?”
“Excuse me?”
“Green card. You legal?”
Jorge didn’t think the man had sun sickness, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. “I am in the United States on an agricultural visa, yes.”
“Where do you work?”
“I work for Mr. Wilcox in Titusville.”
“The tree farmer? Is he still alive?”
Jorge wasn’t sure how much to tell. Perhaps the man didn’t know about all the deaths. Maybe he would accuse Jorge of something, and Jorge wanted to avoid confrontations. That’s why they’d taken the trail in the first place.
He thought about turning and fleeing down the trail, away from Rosa and Marina, in the hope that the man would follow him. But he didn’t know what weapons the man might have concealed in that jumpsuit. He decided to tell the truth.
“Mr. Wilcox is dead. So are five of his workers, and two of his friends who were visiting.”
The man didn’t alter his position, the mask moving in and out as he considered the remark. “You sick?”
Jorge shook his head. “I don’t feel any different.”
“You hold that machete like you know how to swing it.”
“I cut weeds on the tree farm.”
“I’ll bet you did.”