Jana wrapped her arms around her torso and she rocked back and forth.
Cade watched, fearing another post-traumatic stress episode might ensue at any moment.
“What’s the flea supposed to mean?” Jana said.
“Wait,” Kyle said, “all four of the items were grown in the same place?”
Knuckles pointed back to the map of California. “Same region as the fig orchards. Same soil contaminants, pollutants, everything.”
“He’s got to be telegraphing his intent,” Uncle Bill said. “He’s going to target this area.”
Jana again repeated, this time in a whisper, “He’s misleading us.”
“Well, he’s going to an awful lot of trouble to point us here. The soil-toxin profile on all four items points to crops grown right here, not far from San Francisco. The figs, wheat, and barley, the olives, and even the grape
