CHAPTER THIRTYChris Gonzales was waiting for me at the side of a rutted dirt road, in a heavily wooded section of the property. As I pulled up, he unfolded his lanky frame, clad in jeans and a faded yellow T-shirt, from the driver’s side of his old Plymouth and greeted me with a terse smile.
“The wetlands are near a stream at the bottom of this hill,” he said. I walked to the edge of the woods and peered down a slope steep enough to give a city slicker like me pause, but not so steep I couldn’t manage it.
Chris opened the trunk of the Plymouth with a rusty squeal and pulled out two pairs of knee-high rubber boots. “I couldn’t find your size, but we did have a half-size bigger. If they don’t fit, we can stuff the toes.”
I changed into the boots, leaning against the car for balance as I p
