MAX AND I HARDLY SAY TWO MORE WORDS TO each other the rest of the flight. But it's not awkward, the way it was when we first took off. It's strange that we should be united in our concern over a man Max barely knows.

When the copter touches down, it's met with a contingent of police vehicles, Mexican and American. I don't know what Williams told the Federales to allow American access, but whatever it was, it worked. We're whisked away first into a terminal building where Max is questioned briefly by Mexican officials, then their DEA counterparts. He gives them coordinates to Martinez' jungle compound. I'm allowed to stay with him though no one directs questions to me.

There is a Mexican female officer who, seeing my wardrobe predicament, produces a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from somewhere, along with, even more remarkably, underwear that actually fits. I accept them gratefully and duck into a restroom to change. When I come out, she hands me a pair of huaraches. The sandals have obviously been worn, but anything's better than going home barefoot. I slip them on and offer her the jacket in exchange. She takes it.

Because he is hurt, Max is released fairly quickly. He declares his intention to seek medical aid in the United States, and within an hour, we're bundled into the back of a SDPD car.

Williams has not come to meet us.

Ortiz is the driver of the black-and-white. He waits for us to get settled in the back before turning in the seat to greet us. He glances with concern at Max's splinted ankle. "Are you in much pain?" he asks.

Max shakes his head. "I'm fine. Have you heard anything about Anna's partner, David? Does he know she's okay?"

Ortiz raises an eyebrow and looks at me. How does he know?

The question confirms my worst suspicions. "Did something happen to David?" I reply bluntly and out loud. "Tell us. Quickly."

Ortiz frowns. "I am sorry to be the one to tell you," he says. "But something did happen while you were gone. David is dead."