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climb.
    At first it was like crawling through undergrowth, but then the branches spread out, and he was able to see what he was doing and move more freely. He had a good head for heights, and the tree had thick, dark, irregular bark, making it easier for his boots to find purchase. The limbs were plentiful. Yellow cones rained down as he swarmed up through the cinnamon-scented branches.
    The tree groaned, swaying in the wind. Will looked up, and the feet of the dead parachutist were hanging an arm’s length away.
    Pausing to pull the knife from his ankle sheath, he looked down, surprised to see how small and faraway Taylor looked.
    “Lightning to the north,” Taylor called, batting away another hurtling cone. And then… “Brandt --
    maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
    “Now you tell me,” Will muttered. He called back, “Simmer down, buddy boy. It’s under control.”
    Knife in hand, he studied the tangle of parachute and parachutist. Wind and weather had reduced the chute to ribbons, and the body wasn’t in much better shape. A tree limb thrust from the hijacker’s waist like a spear; he must have been impaled as he crashed through the branches. Crime really didn’t pay.
    His own position wasn’t quite right…
    Will transferred the knife to his mouth, and edged around the trunk, feeling cautiously for footholds. It was hard to see… He pulled himself up to another branch, balancing, and edged closer to the sack of rotting clothes, flesh, and bones.
    And all the fresh pine scent in the world wasn’t helping…
    “That is definitely lightning,” Taylor said from below. He had that irritable sound he got when he was nervous. “You mind not taking all day, Brandt?”
    “Yeah, I mind. It’s my vacation; I’ll spend it any damn way I please.”
    “Asshole.” But he could hear the unwilling laugh in Taylor’s voice.
    Will steeled himself and felt over the dead man’s rags, seeking a wallet or any kind of identification. He didn’t expect to find any, and he wasn’t disappointed. That done, he began to saw with his free hand at the straps of the knapsack. He tried to be careful, but he was in a hurry now, and the clothes and corpse began to come apart with his tugging. One of the black boots fell.
    Fuck. Fuck . He wiped his face on his shoulder. Called down, “Stand back, MacAllister. It’s raining men.”
    “Are you kidding me?”
    His tone was priceless. Will bit back a ferocious grin, and went back to hacking at the knapsack straps.
    A few more slices and he had it. The backpack tumbled down a few feet, knocking needles and cones and twigs loose -- along with the corpse’s other boot.

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    Will lowered himself down swiftly, pursuing the knapsack. He found it lodged in the V of the trunk and a branch.
    Grabbing it by the severed straps, he swung it once, twice, out beyond the span of the branches -- and let it fly. “MacAllister, heads up!”
    The pack went sailing and then dropped to earth like a stone.
    Will let himself down fast, ignoring the scrape of rough bark on his hands. A few feet from the ground he balanced on a thick limb.
    Taylor had retrieved the bag. He knelt in the mud and pine needles, knapsack wide open, staring up at Will. “You sure you don’t want to run away to Mexico with me?” He held up a neatly bound stack of greenbacks.
    “Nah.” Will jumped down, landing lightly on the soft wet earth. “Salsa gives you indigestion.”
    “True.” Taylor tossed the stack of dollars to Will.
    The money felt damp, sinister to his touch. He thumbed through it. Benjamin Franklin’s skeptical expression flashed by over and over.
    The rain began to fall.

Chapter Three
    “You warm enough?”
    Taylor didn’t bother to respond, staring out the mesh window of the tent at the rain sheeting down the sides.
    Of course he was cold. He was freezing his ass off. Will had told him not to wear Levi’s. He’d told