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Travis Baird parked his white Rambler station wagon at the side of the dusty road. He could see the edge of the pond in the near distance. A man stood on the bank waiting for him.
Benji Moreno looked to be about Travis’s age, thirty, with dark brown skin that had seen plenty of sun and a thick black mustache that curved down over the sides of his mouth. He wore faded Levi’s, a tan work shirt, dusty cowboy boots, and a straw cowboy hat.
Travis was dressed much the same: worn-in Levi’s, a light blue button-down shirt, hiking boots, and a cheap Panama hat that his wife Rosie had picked up for him at a yard sale.
Travis shut the driver’s-side door and went around to the back. He kept his kit here, the equipment and tools he had found most useful over the past five years he had been doing
