I glanced to my left, moving down a short passage that led to a small bedroom in the back. A door on the right opened onto a bathroom, which consisted of a defunct chemical toilet, a ragged hole in the wall where a basin had once been attached, and a length of pipe sticking out above a shower pan filled with rags. The bedroom contained a bare mattress and two sleeping bags zipped together and left in a wad. Someone was living here and I didn't think it was Irene Gersh's mom. I peered through the window, but all I saw outside was a buff-colored stretch of desert with a low range of mountains ten or fifteen miles away. Distances are deceptive out here because there aren't any reference points.

I picked my way back to the front door and stepped out, circling the trailer. Around the corner, a bucket lined with a plastic bag served as a makeshift outhouse. There were several bags like it, tied at the top and tossed together in a pile, a black fly manufacturing plant. Across the road, there was a concrete pad where a Winnebago was moored. Beside the RV, there was a pickup truck mounted with a camper shell. The pad itself was cracked, weeds growing up through the crevices. A Weber grill had been set out and the smell of charcoal lighter and smoking briquettes drifted across the road to me. Near the grill, there was a folding table surrounded by mismatched chrome chairs. As I crossed the road, a woman emerged from the trailer carrying a tray loaded with a foil-covered plate, condiments, and utensils. She was in her forties, slim, with a long, weathered face. No makeup, salt-and-pepper hair cropped short. She wore blue jeans and a flannel shirt, both faded to a pale gray. She went about her business, ignoring my approach. I watched her put five fat hamburger patties on the grill. She moved over to the table and began to set it with forks and paper plates.

"Excuse me," I said. "Do you know the woman who lives over there?"

"You related?"

"I'm a friend of the family."

"About time somebody took an interest," she said snappishly. "What's going on over there is a low-down disgrace."

"What is going on over there?"

"Kids moved in. You can see they trashed the place. Loud parties, loud arguments, fights breaking out. We all make it a point to mind our own business out here, but there's limits."

"What about Agnes? What happened to her? Surely, she's not still living there."

The woman cocked a head toward the Winnebago. "Marcus? You want to come out here, please? Woman's asking about Old Mama."

The door to the Winnebago opened and a man peered out. He was of medium height, small-boned, with warm skin tones suggesting Mediterranean origins. His hair was dark, combed back from his face. His nose was short and straight, his lips very full. His dark eyes were fringed with black lashes. He looked like a male model in an Italian menswear ad. He stared at me for a moment, his expression neutral.

"Who're you?" he asked. No accent. He wore pleated pants and the sort of ribbed undershirt old men wear.

"I'm Kinsey," I said. "Agnes Grey's daughter asked me to drive out here and check on her. Do you have any idea where she is?"

He surprised me by holding out his hand to introduce himself. We shook. His palm was soft and hot, his grip firm.

"I'm Marcus. This is my wife, Faye. We haven't seen Old Mama for a long tune. Like, months. We heard she got sick, but I don't know for sure. Hospital in Brawley. You might see if she's there."

"Wouldn't somebody have notified her relatives?"

Marcus stuck his hands in his pockets with a shrug. "She might not've told them. This's the first I knew she had family. She's a real private person. Like a recluse almost. Minds her own business as long as you mind yours. Where's this daughter live?"

"Santa Teresa. She's been worried about Agnes but she didn't have a way to get in touch."

Neither of them seemed impressed with the sincerity of Irene's concern. I changed the subject, looking back at the trailer across the road. "Who's the little gremlin I saw sitting on the front step?"

Faye spoke up, her tone sour. "There's two of them. Boy and a girl. They came by a few months ago and staked the place out. They must have heard it was empty because they moved in pretty quick. Runaways. Don't know how they survive. Probably stealing or whoring, whichever comes first. We asked them to clean up the sewage, but of course they don't."

Clearly, sewage was a euphemism for the bags of sewage. "The kid I saw couldn't have been twelve years old," I said.

Faye answered. "They're fifteen. Boy is, at any rate. They act like wild animals and I know they do drugs. They're always picking through our garbage, looking for food. Sometimes, other kids come by and camp out with them. Word must be out they have a place to crash."