Score the poppy pod with the fork. The pods ranged in size from golf-ball to plum, and the prongs made them weep a milky white fluid out of the three parallel cuts. This was called making the poppies cry.

  The next day, use the spatula to scrape off the gum that had oozed out, which had dried into a dark brown, sticky resin. That resin was raw opium.

  Scrape the opium into a small, wooden measuring cup.

  This was called drying their tears.

  Repeat the cycle of crying and drying until your cup was full.

  Working quickly, it took between five to seven hours to fill the cup. If you didn’t fill a cup every eight hours, three cups every day, the Cowboy yanked out one of your teeth.

  Herb and Tequila had been working in shifts, taking alternating sleeping breaks in the dirt, filling each other’s cups as needed. But they’d been barely making the quota. The stale tortillas they were fed once every day didn’t have enough calories to nourish. The lack of sleep didn’t replenish energy.

  They were disposable, meant to be used up and discarded. And it didn’t take long for that to happen.

  Any day now, one or both of them was going to lose a tooth.

  There was no guard in the car with them. Only cameras mounted on the ceiling. They were shoeless and shirtless, which the Cowboy said was a deterrent to discourage trying to escape. Not that they could. The door leading outside was reinforced steel, and locked tight. Their single cellmate was a man named Juan. Talking was rare, because it hurt to move your jaw, and energy was best reserved for farming. But through minimal communication Herb found out that Juan had been there between three weeks and a month. He was stooped, wrinkled, pale, with sagging eyes, bony limbs, and hair that appeared to be patchy with mange. Juan’s face had the sunken, skull-like appearance of POWs.

  Juan looked to be about eighty years old.

  He was actually thirty-three.

  Juan’s performance, and appearance, weren’t helped by the fact that every so often he would dip into his own cup and swallow small amounts of raw opium. Herb couldn’t really blame the guy. But the higher he got, the less productive he became, which was going to hasten his eventual demise.

  After being fish-hooked, Herb had eaten a pea-sized amount of opium to help with the pain, but the revolting bitter taste and gagging nausea it caused was almost worse than the injury he’d sustained. Tequila recommended he rub some on the chin wound, because it had antibiotic as well as analgesic effects, and that worked to some extent. But Herb couldn’t imagine swallowing any more, unless it was to intentionally overdose.

  Which, every few hours, did cross his mind.

  Herb glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to the next cup check. He was almost full, as was Tequila.

  Juan still had half a cup to go.

  Their Mexican cellmate wasn’t going to make it.

  Time to have the discussion again.

  Herb stepped away from the poppy plant he’d finished harvesting, one with over thirty pods, pods as scarred and used-up as he was. He pissed in the dirt on the plant stem—which was encouraged because apparently urea and feces acted as a fertilizer—and then gripped his metal rope and tugged his weight to the far wall of the train car, over to the water tank. Herb drank from the spout until it felt like his stomach was about to burst, then spit some on his hand and gingerly cleaned his chin wounds. The holes were hot and tender to the touch. Infection. Herb dabbed a finger into his cup, and smeared a tiny bit of opium around both piercings.

  As he applied the resin, he said to Tequila, “You got a headache.”

  “Yeah.” Tequila pointed at a vent in the ceiling.. “Carbon dioxide generator. Feeds the plants.”

  “Won’t we suffocate?”

  “If we’re lucky.”

  Herb glanced at Juan. “We need to help him.”

  Tequila didn’t answer.

  “He’s only got a few teeth left.”

  Tequila gave his head a shake.

  “We have to.”

  “We can barely help ourselves. We can’t save him, too.”

  Herb understood Tequila’s reasoning. The reality was brutal, but true. And, Herb admitted, there was something strangely seductive about Tequila’s black-and-white attitude.

  But Herb wasn’t built like that.

  “If you put a bunch of crabs in a bucket,” Herb said, “they climb on top of one another to try to escape. But because they’re all out for themselves, none of them can get away. They all die.”

  “Not true. The weak die. The ones who saved their strength can climb the bodies of the dead.”

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  Tequila faced him. “We’re batteries, Herb. And we’re running low. We can save our energy for ourselves, or we can waste it on someone who is already doomed, which means we get depleted sooner. That’s stupid.”

  “That’s human.”

  “You’re a fool.”

  “I’d rather be a fool than lose my humanity.”

  Tequila adjusted the wire in his chin, and Herb was hit by a wave of nausea.

  “When I broke that kid’s leg back in Mexico, so I could come here with you, how did you feel?”

  “Relieved,” Herb admitted.

  “Would you feel relieved if I went up to Juan and snapped his neck?”

  Juan was watching them talk, but his face registered nothing.

  “Of course not,” Herb said.

  “If it’s you or Juan, I’m choosing you.”

  “And what if it comes down to me and you?” Herb asked. “Am I going to be one of the corpses you climb over?”

  Tequila stopped working and stared at Herb. “You’re really asking me that?”

  “If you had a chance to escape, without me, would you take it?”

  Tequila didn’t answer. It hurt Herb more than he thought it would.

  “We’ve been through a lot,” Herb said. “You’re like my brother. You’d actually leave me behind?”

  “Self-preservation is a powerful motivator. You never know how you’ll act until the situation arises.”

  Herb knew that answer to be true, but he didn’t want it to be. Instead of replying, he dragged his kettlebell over to Juan, and traded his full cup for the man’s half-empty one.

  Tequila said nothing. And the instant Herb finished, the moral superiority he was feeling vanished, replaced by pants-wetting fear.

  Herb stared at Juan, but the younger man seemed oblivious to the gift he’d just received. His eyes were empty. His face was slack. He looked more zombie than human.

  Herb’s fear was overtaken by anger.

  “I’m going to lose a tooth for you,” he snarled. “At least say thank you.”

  Juan continued to absent-mindedly scrape poppy pods, even though his cup was already full.

  “The guy is gone,” Tequila said. “Take your cup back.”

  Herb reached for it—

  —then stopped himself.

  “Herb,” Tequila said, “we still have a chance. But the weaker we get, the more injuries we sustain, the odds get worse.”

  “I don’t know how long I’ve got left, brother,” Herb said. “But however long it is, I have to be able to live with myself.”

  “Martyrs die, Herb. They’re no good to anyone.”

  “Isn’t it better to die a martyr than live a coward?”

  “No. Trust me on this.”

  The overhead LED clock showed a minute until weigh-in. Herb felt the land train come to a stop.

  “I’ve got thirty-two teeth,” Herb said. “I can save a man with just one of them.”

  “You’re not saving him. Juan isn’t going to make it. Prolonging the inevitable is cruel.”

  “Everything is cruel,” Herb said. “But that doesn’t mean I have to be.”

  “You want to do this now? This could be a stop where they open the door.”

  Seemingly at random, the land train would let prisoners out of the farming cars to spend a few minutes outdoors. It happened twice so far, and Herb had learned quite a bit about their situation during those stops.

  First, there were thirty prisoners, three in each of the ten farming cars.

  Second, they were in the middle of nowhere. Nothing but sky and land, far as you could see.

  Third, if you didn’t meet the quota, the Cowboy marched you to the Punishment Room and you lost the outside time.

  And the outside time was… glorious.

  Tequila lowered his voice to a whisper. “We can make a run for it.”

  “We won’t get far with forty-pound weights attached to our jaws.”

  “Watch how far we get.”

  Herb considered it. Just stepping outside for a few minutes was a high better than any drug he’d ever tried.

  What would freedom feel like?

  Herb was a crusty shell of his former self. Exhausted and malnourished and beaten and broken and even with ten years of convalescence and rehab, he’d never be back to his old self again. But Herb knew that the mere thought of being free would give him the strength to run a barefoot marathon over broken glass.

  After letting the fantasy play out in his head for a few tantalizing seconds, he glanced at Juan. The man was staring at his full cup as if noticing it for the first time. He had tears in his eyes.

  “Go without me,” Herb said.

  Tequila didn’t answer.

  “You’re stronger. Always have been. Get away. Bring back help.”

  The side door opened, and the Cowboy came in the car.

  “Line up for weigh in,” the Cowboy said, setting a digital scale down on the table. “Keep your kettlebells on the floor, keep your movements slow and easy. If you disobey, I’ll shoot you in the kneecap.”

  After repeating it in Spanish, Juan trudged over to the scale. He set down his cup, and the Cowboy checked the weight, had Juan scoop it out into a plastic bag, and then threw a tortilla on the ground and pointed at Tequila.

  Tequila approached, dragging his weight, and the Cowboy took a step back, a hand on the butt of the Ruger Vaquero. After Tequila proved he made quota, the Cowboy ordered him to scrape the resin into the bag, and then step back.

  “Good boy,” the Cowboy said. “Here’s your treat.”

  A tortilla was tossed, frisbee-style, into the poppy plants. Tequila made no move to retrieve it.

  “Now you.”

  Herb felt his stomach twist. He shot a look at Juan, who was munching on his tortilla, oblivious to the reprieve he’d been given.

  Rather than feel pride from his selfless deed, Herb was paralyzed with fear.

  “Move it.”

  Forcing his legs to work, feeling light-headed, Herb approached the Cowboy, eyes lowered, and placed the half-empty cup on the scale.

  “I saw what you did,” the Cowboy said. “You traded with this worthless idiot here. You’re willing to take the punishment for a man you don’t even know. You think you’re a hero?”

  “I’m obeying,” Herb said. His voice sounded tiny. “I’m just helping others out.”

  “There are no heroes here.”

  Then there was a blur, a shot that made Herb’s ears cry, and Juan slumped to the ground, a chunk missing from the side of his head that resembled a large bite in a peach.

  Herb squeezed his eyes shut, turning away, and then a terrific jolt of pain came as Herb’s chin was yanked forward by the metal wire leash.

  “Pick up your weight.”

  The Cowboy jerked the wire and Herb went down to his knees, an obedient dog. With the other hand, the Cowboy pointed the Ruger at Tequila.

  “I know you want a second date,” the Cowboy told him, “but it isn’t your turn. We’ll get together later.”

  Herb picked up his kettlebell, then he was pulled to his feet and led out of the train car.

  JACK

  We stopped in Macon, Georgia for gas and cleaning supplies; Waddlebutt shot a stream of feces on the couch and McGlade had gone through two rolls of paper towels trying to sop it all up. He’d only succeeded in smearing guano into every nook and crack.

  The joys of pet ownership.

  While Harry pumped sixty gallons and stockpiled Lysol wipes, I was left alone with Heckle and Jeckle. My opinion of them had steadily declined since our first meeting, and the detective in my DNA had begun a casual interrogation.

  “So, you knew Harry?”

  “We follow Private Dick McDude on Twitter. He posted on Craigslist looking for viddies,” said Heckle.

  “Viddies?”

  They looked at each other and did their mean kid snicker.

  “Vid techs,” said Jeckle. “We viddy-well.”

  “You viddy-well?”

  “Nadsat,” said Jeckle. “Don’t you know A Clockwork Orange?”

  I knew it, and didn’t care for a film where the hero was a glorified rapist and murderer who gets away with it. “Does Harry pay well?” I asked, assuming he must.

  “No pay,” said Heckle. “We’re doing this free.”

  “Free?” Cop 101. Just repeat the last word the suspect said and let them keep running their mouth.

  “We don’t need the cheddar,” said Jeckle.

  “We’re independently wealthy,” said Heckle.

  “Made our fortune the old-fashioned way,” said Jeckle.

  “We inherited it,” said Heckle.

  They bumped fists, grinning.

  “You guys seem pretty close,” I said. “I bet you got into a lot of trouble when you were younger.”

  Another sidelong glance. More like lovers than brothers. I wondered if they fooled around with each other, and wouldn’t have been surprised if they had. I remember McGlade once saying that he wished he had a twin, because it would be like masturbation, only with more positions.

  “Trouble is where you find it,” said Jeckle.

  “Or where you make it,” said Heckle.

  “What kind of trouble?” I asked.

  They didn’t answer.

  I tried a different tack. “Why do you follow McGlade on Twitter?”

  “There are two ways to get famous,” said Jeckle.

  “You can do it on your own,” said Heckle.

  “Or you can entangle yourself with someone who already has fame,” said Jeckle.

  They began reciting names back and forth.

  “Godse.”

  “Chapman.”

  “Booth.”

  “Oswald.”

  “Ruby.”

  “Hinkley.”

  “Ray.”

  They bumped fists again, looking equally smug.

  “Those are all assassins,” I said.

  They didn’t respond.

  I kept my voice neutral and asked, “Is that how you want to get famous?”

  “You mean kill Private Dick McDude?” said Heckle.

  They giggled.

  “No way,” said Jeckle.

  “No way,” said Heckle. “We just want to be there to film it when he gets popped.”

  Rosalina whined. She was sitting next to the side door, waiting to be walked. I would have been up for the task, but I knew that the moment I left the RV, Heckle and Jeckle would be pawing through my suitcase. Or stomping on Waddlebutt, who was building a second nest on the floor out of dog biscuits. This put a strain on the friendship the penguin had with the Neo Mastiff, because whenever Rosa began to sniff near the treats, Waddlebutt squawked and flapped his little featherless wings. It was the penguin equivalent of flipping someone off in traffic.

  Harry eventually poked his head in through the side door, and asked if any of us wanted moon pies.

  “They have both flavors,” he said. “Brown and yellow.”

  We all declined, and McGlade let Rosa outside without a leash.

  Waddlebutt pecked at the empty dog biscuit bag, and then stared at me like I should do something about it.

  “I got nothing,” I told the bird.

  He gave me a go to hell expression.

  Pets. It’s so lovely how they enrich your life.

  I stared out the window, watching Rosalina run circles around Harry. Thought about calling Phin, but it wasn’t seven yet.

  “On McGlade’s blog,” I said, thinking out loud, “the Cowboy mentioned darknet. Do you guys know it?”

  “Onionland,” said Heckle.

  “Darknet is part of the deep web,” said Jeckle.

  “Which is?” I asked.

  “The deep web is all the parts of the Internet that search engines don’t index,” said Heckle. “Paywalled sites, password protected sites, private networks, archives, scripted and unlinked content… Google and the rest can’t find these places. No way for their engines to crawl them. They can only be accessed if you know the specific URL and the proper authorization.”

  “Darknet is a privacy network that can only be accessed, peer-to-peer, with special software that has layers of encryption, so both parties are anonymous,” said Jeckle.

  I could see how that would be useful. On the side of good, whistleblowers and watchdog groups couldn’t be identified or targeted. On the side of bad, you could sell illegal stuff without getting caught.

  But something didn’t make sense to me. “The Cowboy said to search for him and his content on darknet. How is that possible if search engines can’t access it?”

  In unison, Heckle and Jeckle said, “Uncensored Hidden Wiki.”

  “And that is…?”

  “Like it sounds,” said Jeckle. “It’s like Wikipedia, but anything goes.”

  “We can search for the Cowboy there?” I asked.

  They glanced at each other, and I made the connection.

  “You’ve already searched for the Cowboy.”

  When they didn’t respond, I knew I was correct.

  “What did you guys find out?”

  Heckle shrugged. “We’re revealing that on the next web stream.”

  “How about you reveal it to me right now?”

  Jeckle said, “Private Dick McDude—”

  “Won’t mind,” I said. “We’re partners, remember? What Harry knows, I need to know.”

  “Then maybe you should ask him,” said Heckle.

  I considered my options. When I still had a badge, I could make the appropriate threats, and they had some gravitas. But I didn’t think threats would work on these guys. They seemed to delight in their antiestablishment attitude, and playing authority figure probably wouldn’t get me anywhere.