The Night Crew

mean, ‘meat.’ ’’
    ‘‘Probably,’’ Anna said.
    The canyon was a tangle of brush, with an occasional glimpse of trails leading through it; they crossed a low ridge on the way up, and saw the ranch house just below them, in a bowl. A half-dozen outbuildings surrounded the main house, and three cars faced the front of it.
    ‘‘Pretty nice spread,’’ Harper said.
    ‘‘The way this kid looked, the way he acted—he might have some money,’’ Anna said.
    ‘‘You think he owns the place?’’
    Anna shrugged: ‘‘He was the boss that night.’’
    They parked the car, stepped out, and looked around: They could hear an odd goatlike sound, and they both stepped off to the right to look past the house. A tall, fuzzy-headed animal looked at them over the top of a high board fence, pursed its lips, made the noise again.
    ‘‘A camel?’’
    ‘‘A llama,’’ Anna said.
    A door banged, and a woman in jeans, a Western shirt and cowboy boots came out onto the ranch house porch. She looked like a ranch woman, in her early forties, with wide shoulders, a round, moon face, deeply tanned with a scattering of freckles. Her sandy hair was pulled back in a ponytail. ‘‘Can I help you?’’
    ‘‘Yeah, hi,’’ Anna said. ‘‘We were just looking at your llama. Where’d you get him?’’
    ‘‘We . . . found him,’’ the woman said, pleasantly. ‘‘He was rather badly abused, or, rather, neglected. The former owner had ideas about breeding llamas. When it didn’t work out, he just turned him out and left him in the desert. He would’ve died, if one of our members hadn’t found him.’’
    ‘‘Terrific,’’ Anna said cheerfully. Harper followed her as she walked up on the porch. ‘‘My name is Anna Batory, and this is my friend Jake Harper. We filmed the raid at the UCLA medical center and Steve mentioned the possibility of doing another piece. Is he around?’’
    The woman shook her head and said, ‘‘Steven,’’ and then said, ‘‘I’m sorry you missed him, but he should have told you that he wouldn’t be around. He won’t be back for another two weeks.’’
    ‘‘Where is he?’’ Anna asked. ‘‘Can I call him?’’
    ‘‘Sure—or, I think so. He’s up in Oregon, at the Cut Canyon Ranch. He went up there the day after the raid, to help organize it. And probably run the river a few times.’’
    ‘‘Cut Canyon?’’
    ‘‘Yes, it’s a new ranch that some people are putting together up there. They just got a phone . . . c’mon, I’ll get a number. I’m Nancy Daly, by the way, I’m the ranch forewoman.’’
    Harper said, ‘‘How do. Like the boots.’’
    ‘‘Genuine vinyl,’’ the woman said, smiling at him.
    They followed her inside, where another woman was working at a computer; the other woman turned and smiled briefly, then went back to her work. Daly said, ‘‘Steve has got that square chin and all those teeth. Somehow, it makes him seem a little more organized than he really is.’’ She was shuffling through the papers on her desk: ‘‘I don’t know, I don’t seem to have it. God, I’ve got to do something about this desk.’’
    ‘‘Think it’d be on directory assistance?’’ Anna asked.
    ‘‘Should be,’’ Daly said.
    ‘‘No problem,’’ Anna said. She took her cell phone out of her pocket, but the woman shook her head. ‘‘We’re too far out. You can use ours. The area code, I don’t know, it’s probably in the phone book.’’
    ‘‘It’s five-oh-three,’’ Anna said. ‘‘I’ve got friends up there, they run a pottery.’’
    She dialed directory assistance, asked for a new listing for the Cut Canyon Ranch, got the number, and punched it in.
    ‘‘Cut Canyon.’’ Another woman.
    ‘‘Is Steve Judge there?’’
    ‘‘Yes, somewhere. Can I tell him who’s calling?’’
    ‘‘My name’s Anna Batory.’’
    ‘‘Hang on. I’ll put you on hold. I’ve got to go find him.’’
    ‘‘Okay,’’ Anna said.
    Harper asked Daly, ‘‘Does Steve . . . own this place, or what?’’
    ‘‘Oh, no,’’ Daly said. ‘‘His parents provided some seed money. Steve is active with the group, but he avoids bureaucratic entanglements, so to speak. He’s a little . . .’’ She looked at the other woman. ‘‘What is he, Laurie?’’
    Laurie never looked away from the screen. ‘‘Hippie,’’ she said.
    ‘‘Ah . . .’’
    At that moment, Judge came on the phone: ‘‘Yeah, Steve Judge.’’
    The