"Their biggest trouble usually comes from their own kind," the balding officer said, pointing to a freight car in the distance.
The freight car was the kind commonly seen in Western movies, with large, open doors on either side. As long as the train moved slowly enough, anyone waiting by the tracks could run a few steps and easily hop aboard.
Jack understood what he meant. "You're saying they fight over territory?"
"Exactly," the officer replied. "If two people set their sights on the same car, things can get ugly."
"If a drifter hops off a train in a new area, where do they usually go first?" Emily asked.
"The woods." The officer gestured toward the direction where the tracks extended. "They call it the camp. There's one less than half a mile from here."
"Shall we check it out?" Jack suggested, already taking a step forward.
"No, we need to buy some things first," Rossi said with a smile, stopping him. He then turned to the balding officer. "Could you tell us where the nearest store is?"
---
Half an hour later, Jack parked the truck near a wooded area not far from the railroad tracks. He and Emily each grabbed a large bag from the truck bed, while Rossi carried a pot and a few bags of spices. The three headed into the woods together.
"We don't need Jesus today," called out a grizzled, scruffy white man with a dirty beard and a baseball cap, noticing the trio approaching. He and a few other drifters were huddled around a fire, cooking something in a pot, while others lay lazily in tattered tents nearby.
"We're not from the church," Rossi replied, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and shaking it at them. "How about we make a trade?"
"Not interested!" the scruffy old man barked, crushing an empty can in his hand and tossing it aside carelessly. The woods were littered with trash, making it impossible to tell what had been scavenged and what had been discarded by them.
A few younger men nearby, however, seemed intrigued. Jack nodded toward one of them, signaling Emily to pay attention. It was a skinny white kid, holding a plastic bag up to his face, inhaling deeply. Clearly, this guy shared the same habit as their suspect.
"How about this?" Emily pulled out a dozen small bottles of cheap whiskey from the bag.
The whole camp, including the scruffy old man, perked up instantly.
"Hmm?" Jack set down the bag, purposely revealing the guns holstered at his waist and under his arm.
"Come on, be polite to the lady. We just want to talk, maybe even make friends."
"We welcome friends, but not cops," the scruffy old man growled, clearly displeased by Jack's subtle threat.
"We're FBI, not local cops," Rossi said, flashing his badge. "We're looking for a suspect involved in home invasions."
"It's not me!" shouted the guy inhaling from the bag, now shaking and wrapping his jacket around his head in fear.
Rossi gave him a brief glance and continued, "He's recently been drifting around Modesto. He might have some stolen goods on him—jewelry, silverware, things like that."
The group fell silent. While they didn't say much, Jack wasn't idle. He walked over to the pot simmering on the fire, took a look inside, and sniffed the contents. To his surprise, it didn't smell too bad—kind of like the rustic stews he remembered from childhood trips to the countryside.
"Want to try some?" One of the drifters dragged over two overturned plastic buckets to serve as "chairs."
"Thanks, but if you don't mind, I'd like to offer you something I made," Jack said as he collected some stones to build a makeshift stove. He placed the pot Rossi had brought onto the stones.
Though Jack had an iron stomach and could heal any issues with a quick spell, he still couldn't bring himself to eat something made from such questionable ingredients. It was better to cook himself.
Curry was simple enough to make. After boiling the ingredients, he stirred in the curry and made sure not to burn the pot. Soon, the entire camp was filled with the rich aroma of curry. Jack handed out disposable plates, giving everyone a portion.
The universal truth of gratitude for a shared meal seemed to hold even here, especially when accompanied by cheap whiskey and cigarettes. Before long, the drifters were all talking freely.
While they didn't provide any specific information about the suspect, the group did give Jack, Rossi, and Emily a better understanding of their way of life.
The drifters often rode freight trains along the rail lines, but not aimlessly. The towns along the railway were agricultural hubs, and they moved like migratory birds, following the harvest seasons.
During harvest times, many farms didn't mind hiring extra hands for odd jobs. Sometimes, they didn't even need to pay them—offering a place to wash, a comfortable bed, and a few good meals was enough.
However, the drifters complained that most of the paying jobs were taken by legally immigrated Mexicans, especially on the big farms, which had official oversight of the workers.
During harvest seasons, the government would set up legal camps, checking identification and managing the workers. The big farms preferred these more reliable and stable laborers.
"So, what's he doing?" Rossi asked, noticing the guy who had been inhaling from the bag carving a strange symbol into a nearby tree with a knife.
"He's warning the next batch of folks to watch out for the cops," the now-drunk scruffy old man explained, no longer holding back any information.
Jack glanced around, noticing similar marks on stones and trees all around the camp.
"Would you mind explaining what these symbols mean?" Rossi asked, handing over the rest of the cigarette pack.
After staying longer than planned, the three finally left the drifter camp, still filled with the lingering scent of curry. Just as Jack got back into the car, he received a call from Reid.
Following their theory that the suspect was traveling along the rail lines rather than Highway 99, Reid had asked Garcia to investigate unsolved nighttime home invasions near agricultural towns along the Central Valley rail lines over the past two months.
Bad news had just come in—Garcia had identified three cases of home invasions where the same DNA had been found.
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