After that, he just took off. Took his tools and went. “Catch me somewhere in Arizona, Tucson if I’m lucky, shot by the border patrol if I’m not,” she told the police he had said to, told her, as he left. Of course he had had no idea at all of any sort of trouble, or of encountering any. Fact is, he just knew of a place up in the hills, back in the dirt roads, where nobody went. Up there, there were old copper mines. Mostly abandoned, except for the big gigantic commercial ones that had hacked off the entire top of a mountain so that it had become Red Mountain to the locals. And out there, why, you’d see rich green chrysocolla, the sort of stone the Indians said would heal you if you touched it to your heart; and if you scratched around, a bit of deep blue azurite, blue as the deepest blue sky would show up in the rubble. You just had to claw it away, dig it all, all the heaps, through all the leftover debris, the tailings from another day and another time. There were a couple of people, a pet food store owner, and a Brazilian masseuse, who had reportedly seen a man matching his straw hat and description in a little faraway town just a few miles north of Mexico, who had probably seen him before he had disappeared.