The Burning

Chapter 19

Thursday. Eighty-six hours in the dark.

On a bicycle I zigzagged the bombed-out avenues of a dreary industrial town, Rust Belt or Eastern Europe, miles of sterile apartment blocks and belching smokestacks. My legs jerked like ungreased pistons, the frame bucked wildly, an unbroken horse fighting to throw me; pedals scraped, metal shrieked, sparks flew, a shovel trenched the inside of my skull.

I swatted the phone chirping on the nightstand.

My pillow was soaked. The bedroom was icy and viscous, dark as the inside of a barrel.

Too dark for six thirty.

I lifted the phone. Six thirty.

Stumbling over to the window, I drew back the curtain on a world gone wrong.

The sky was molten orange. There was no horizon. No skyline. No clouds. No depth whatsoever: Haze grouted the empty space, flattening everything into a single, imminent sheet, the vaults of heaven pressing down on my rain gutters.

I touched the glass. It was freezing.

Every instinct screamed not to go outside. That to do so was to invite death.

I put on my unclean uniform.

Smoke and mist made a frigid slurry that stuck to my skin as I walked to my car. I knew it was there but I couldn’t smell anything at all.

Union City marked the southernmost limit of the shutoff zone. I lurched through traffic toward the Dumbarton Bridge, driving like an amateur. I wasn’t the only one. The sun had never risen. Nobody had woken up. Vehicles appeared from nowhere, surging up out of the murk and vanishing just as suddenly. In twelve miles I’d passed three accidents.

I told the phone to call Amy.

“Good morning,” she said. “How was your night?”

“I’ve had better.”

“I’m so sorry. Is it smoky in the house? It sounds like you’re in the car again.”

“Charging,” I said, which was true: I had Luke’s laptop on the passenger seat. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

“I think we’re just going to hang out here and swim. I feel like we’ve filled our virtuous educational activity quota for the week. Should we talk about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“We were supposed to discuss coming home.”

“Have you seen what’s happening up here?”

“No.”

“Check the news.”

“Hang on.”

She was gone for a minute.

“Oh my God,” she said. “What is that?”

“I have no idea.”

I’d meant to coax her into staying put. But of course she reacted as I knew she would.

“Get out of there, Clay. Please.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“What do you mean? Go to the airport. Take the first flight.”

A FedEx truck stopped short. I stomped the brake.

“Can we see how the day goes?” I said. “I need to get a few things done around here.”

“Honey. Whatever it is, it can wait.”

“I’m concerned they might call me in.”

“To work? Did they say that?”

“They might.” I hated myself. “It’s not as bad as it looks. The air smells better, actually.”

“Clay. The actual sky is falling.”

“Please don’t get mad at me.”

“I’m not mad, I’m confused.”

“Believe me, I would like nothing more than to see you right now.”

“So?”

My body hurt, my soul hurt, lies piling up like bad debt. “I’m asking, please, if we can talk about it later.”

A beat.

“Whatever you want,” she said.

“Thank you. Is she around?”

“One sec... Say hi to Daddy.”

“Hi, Daddy,” Charlotte said.

The sound of her voice was unbearable. My voice broke in reply. “Hi, lovey. How are you?”

“Good.”

“Are you being a good girl for Mommy?”

No answer.

“She really is,” Amy said.

“That’s great. I’m so proud of you. I hope you both have a wonderful day.”

“Say thank you.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

A honk prodded at my back.

“You’re welcome. I love you, Charlotte.”

“I love you, too,” Charlotte said.

“Thank you for saying that, lovey.”

“You’re welcome, too.”

Past the toll plaza, the highway sank flush with the surrounding marshlands. The waters of the Bay were the same uniform, saturated orange as the sky and their surface oddly featureless and still, a lack of natural motion that was not tranquil but desolate. Commuters to either side of me jabbered in their steel cages. Overcome by claustrophobia, I cracked the window. Stiff brackish air flooded in. I quickly shut the window and told the phone to call Andrea.

No answer. I called Billy Watts, the Berkeley detective I’d been playing phone tag with, and left him a voicemail. I switched on the radio and let it babble while I crept over the bridge into Menlo Park, low and dry as a griddle.

Stanford Hospital was a concrete abscess amid the stucco and red tile of the university. The receptionist at the cancer center told me that Dr. Yap was in clinic.

“Can I leave her a note? It’s an urgent matter.”

The receptionist frowned. What could be more urgent than cancer? “I can’t guarantee she’ll get back to you.”

I gave her my card and headed to the lobby. Wan residents lined up for the coffee cart. My order of six expresso shots did not impress the barista. I dumped in dairy and sugar and occupied a bench near a power outlet.

Luke’s laptop prompted me for a password. Using the list Andrea had given me, I got in on the second try.

Feeling deliriously lucky, I opened the browser. Google defaulted to his work account. I clicked over to his personal account. The password autofilled. Angels sang.

Everything that had come into his Gmail since Saturday was spam. I put Vandervelde and Rory into the search bar and got nothing.

Camaro, on the other hand, summoned hundreds of hits. Luke ordering parts. Guys offering to buy the car from him. Guys sending proud pictures of their own Camaros, like birth announcements. One hundred eighty-eight inches! Thirty-seven hundred pounds! Everyone is doing great.

I came to an email, two years old, subject line blank, sender RWV.

Luke

Good meeting you. Happy to show you the collection whenever it suits you. Phone is best.

Take care

R

PS You ever change your mind on the Camaro I have dibs

Contact information followed. I dialed the number.

This is Rory. I’m unavailable at the moment.

I’d never heard his voice. Thinner than I’d expected. I disconnected.

The email was the one and only communication from RWV, no hint of how they’d met or if Luke had taken him up on the invitation. Scrolling back I discovered a promotional email for a swap meet held the weekend prior. Luke regularly drove three or more hours for such events, mostly to spectate, sometimes to deal.

Good bet Vandervelde frequented the same events. No matter that he could buy any car he wanted. The thrill was in the chase. In the tribal sense of belonging. Sizing up the competition. Comparing rides.

A place where guys like Rory and guys like Luke, men from vastly different universes, could become friends.

What a beauty. How much you want for her?

She’s so sweet. Think I might hold on to her a little while.

The last website Luke had visited, at four twenty-four Sunday afternoon, was the Wikipedia page for Bentley Azures.

Before that, he’d read up on Ferrari Testarossas.

Before that: Davis Divan. A quirky miniature with three wheels.

Koenigsegg One:1.

In the hours before his disappearance, Luke had made fourteen similar searches, all for vehicles in Rory Vandervelde’s car barn. As though cramming for an exam.

My phone rang with a 650 number. A brisk voice said, “This is Nancy Yap. I only have a few minutes.”

“I’ll be right up.”

“Come to the cafeteria.”

She was at the register when I got there, shepherding a tray with a salad and a bottle of green juice. Spotting me, she flung a hand toward the tables, any table, pick one.

Her white coat billowed as she approached and sat. “You don’t mind if I eat.”

She was even more luminously beautiful in person than in the vacation photo, notwithstanding the effects of acute stress: lopsided hair and one lapel folded over.

“Please. I appreciate your taking the time, Doctor. First off, my condolences.”

“I assume this is about the body. I spoke to someone from your office yesterday. Harden?”

“Harkless.”

She gulped juice, wiped her mouth. “He said the autopsy was complete and you’d be ready to release it today. He assured me he’d inform the funeral home.”

“Deputy Harkless is out of the office, but someone will handle it.”

“As long as we get it done today. Rory’s son is throwing a tantrum. He told my lawyer he’s filing for a restraining order.”

“From what I read the will provides instructions for burial.”

“It does, but I’d prefer not to have to go to court to get it enforced, and I don’t want Rory lying in a mortuary basement for weeks and months. Just so you know,” she said, prying open the plastic clamshell, “I didn’t ask for any of this. I begged him not to do it. He wouldn’t budge.”

“As soon as we’re done I’ll call my office and make sure they’re aware of the situation.”

“I’d appreciate it.” She raised a forkful of leaves, paused. “Is that not why you’re here? They told me you said it was urgent.”

“I have a few questions about Mr. Vandervelde’s activities prior to his passing.”

“I’ve been over this several times.”

“I realize that, and I’m sorry to make you repeat yourself.”

She put down the fork and sighed. Solemn, as if delivering bad news to a patient.

“I last saw him on Saturday night. My daughter’s boyfriend came in from out of town and the four of us went out to dinner. We met at seven, at a restaurant in San Mateo. Wursthall. Rory was in a good mood and I noticed nothing unusual about his behavior. He didn’t drink more than usual. He didn’t seem preoccupied or concerned for his safety. I suggested he spend the night at my house, rather than have to drive home. He declined and left the restaurant around nine.”

“Did he give a reason for not staying?”

“No. But I’m used to it.”

A wisp of irritation. She caught herself and softened. “It’s not his fault. He’s a light sleeper. He wakes up when I turn over, or he gets up to go to the bathroom and can’t fall back asleep. It’s more comfortable for him in his own bed. The majority of the nights I’m in Oakland I end up in a guest room. So I always ask, but I don’t expect him to say yes.”

“Did you talk to him on Sunday?”

“He called in the afternoon to let me know his power had gone out. I wanted him to move in with me for a few days, so he wouldn’t have to go without air-conditioning. I told him I’d take the guest room and give him the master. He said he’d think about it. That was the last time we spoke.”

Her posture caved under the weight of finality. Only for a second: She snatched up the fork and tore into her salad, eating against the clock. “That’s it.”

“Are you aware of anyone else he might’ve been in contact with on Sunday?”

“No.”

“Is it possible he went home on Saturday intending to meet someone the next day?”

“Who would he be meeting?”

I’d touched a nerve. If Sean was to be believed, his mother was still alive when Nancy Yap and Rory Vandervelde took up together. Like any relationship begun in infidelity, theirs contained the anxious seeds of its own undoing. Rory had strayed once. Why wouldn’t he do it again?

“A repair person, for example,” I said. “Or a friend.”

“He didn’t say so, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t. We respected each other’s space. That’s one of the things that made it work. We knew what to expect from each other. At this stage of life, you can’t start recalibrating who you are. Service people, his housekeeper doesn’t come on the weekends. It’s a big house, though. Something’s always breaking.”

She shoveled in another mouthful of leaves. “I told the detective all of this.”

“Our departments work in parallel.”

“That seems less than efficient.”

It was, as was my entire line of questioning. I was circling toward the crux of the matter, trying not to stoke suspicion. “Mr. Vandervelde was something of a collector.”

That got a laugh. Bits of green showed in her teeth. It took the austere edge off her good looks, made her human and fallible. “One way to describe it.”

“Say he was going to buy or sell something of significant value. Would he discuss it with you?”

“I guess it depends on what. Not that he needed my permission.”

“A car.”

“You seem to have an idea of what you’re after.”

I took a chance. “The garage door was left open.”

“When?”

“It was like that when we responded to the call. I wondered if he had a meeting set up with a potential buyer or seller. Or he was showing the collection to someone. Do you recall him talking about anything like that?”

“No, I... no.”

She frowned, lost in troubled thoughts.

“He had a man who worked on the cars,” she said finally. “He used to come to the house.”

I remembered the bespoke mechanic’s station. “Used to.”

“Rory fired him. Months ago.”

“What’s this person’s name?”

“Sammy.”

“Last name?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I ever knew it.”

“Why did Mr. Vandervelde fire him?”

“He scratched one of the cars. Rory drives some of them more than others, so it’s part of the duties to take them out in rotation and keep the batteries charged. Rory noticed a scratch on the bumper — the Porsche, I think it was. Sammy panicked and denied it. He accused Rory of doing it and trying to blame him. He said Rory needed to get his eyes checked. Due to his age. You can imagine how well that went over.”

“Did it get acrimonious?”

“Well, I don’t think anyone came away happy.”

“Was there any physical violence?”

The question jolted her. “Of course not. You don’t think I would’ve told the detective that?”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. I didn’t think of it at the time.” To avoid being labeled a person who didn’t think of things, she added, “Like I said, it happened months ago, and anyway, Rory’s fired hundreds of people over the years. He had two thousand employees at one point. Sometimes you have to let people go. It’s inevitable. He hired his current housekeeper because the old one loved Martha and was rude to me. She refused to make my bed.”

Her watch dinged. She tapped the screen. “I have to go.”

“One more question, please, Doctor. Had Mr. Vandervelde found a replacement?”

“For Sammy?”

I nodded.

“Not that I know of. I’m sure he meant to get around to it at some point. The cars are a lot of work. Rory wasn’t going to do it himself.”

I was reevaluating Luke’s browser history in light of what she’d told me.

Not just a casual visit. A job interview.

Would Luke leave a cushy start-up to become a glorified mechanic?

He might. No need to broach the subject with Andrea, though, not before he’d sat with Rory, talked it over, figured out for himself what he wanted. Same went for telling me or my parents or Scott. We’d criticize the move as a step down, the latest in a series of questionable choices.

Nancy Yap dabbed at her lips, getting ready to leave.

I said, “Did he ever mention the name Tom?”

“I don’t think so. Who is that? Is this connected to Sammy?”

“Not necessarily. What about Scott?” I said, grabbing more names out of the air, insulation to hide the real question. “Or James or Luke? Any of those ring a bell?”

“No.”

“What about these last names: Starks, Lamb, Edison.”

Her watch dinged again. She stood, tapping. “... no. Sorry, excuse me... ”

She hurried out, taking the juice and leaving me to clear her tray.