The Cloud

35

On the downward sloping hillside in front of me, a white rabbit takes two awkward bounces, pauses, bends its neck down and licks its leg, hurt. Behind it, in the distance, rises downtown, gray and white buildings like a mouthful of crooked, dangerous teeth.

“Where are you, Faith? Lied about what?”

“I’m fine. Check Mission Day.”

“Mission Day?”

I hear a shuffling on the other end. A male voice says: “See, she’s okay.” I recognize the voice. It’s the man from Chinatown. “But she need your help.” He leaves the “s” off “needs.”

“Who is this?”

Laughter. “They’re going to think you started the fire.”

“I’ll let the police know where to find you in Chinatown.”

“Tell them to look for the Chinese man. That should make it no problem.”

“What do you want?”

“Did you get those files?”

Files? Does he mean the ones Sandy has?

After a pause: “I got them.”

“I need them.”

“Did you kidnap Faith?”

Deep laugh. “Kidnap? This one does whatever she wants. But let’s make a trade. Two hours?”

“I’m not sure what you’re proposing. What kind of trade?” Faith for the files? What are they? But I’m trying to buy time.

“Meet at Baker Beach.”

“Let me talk to her.”

“Two hours. You know the place?”

“What? I can’t hear you.” It’s not true.

“Baker Beach!”

“My phone reception gets very shaky in this area. . and I. .” I hang up.

It’s impulsive and it won’t buy me more than a few seconds. I need even those. What was Faith talking about when she said “Mission Day”?

Using my phone, I Google the phrase. It’s an elementary school, fancy web site, private institution advertising the “Growing intellect through imaginary play.” The school where Faith’s nephew goes. Timothy, right? So?

I study the web site, struck by another simple possibility. Faith is trying to tell me to watch out for her nephew. She’s told me that she tends to care for him because her sister is unreliable, kooky. Maybe Faith’s sending me simple code; she’s innocent and merely worried about a loved one.

But if she’s so innocent, what did she lie about?

The phone rings. It’s Faith’s number again. I pick it up.

“Hello? Are you there?”

I hang up, feigning poor reception, buying more time, keeping a modicum of control in this uneven relationship. The phone rings again. I send it to voice mail. Less than a minute later, my phone beeps, letting me know that I’ve received a voice mail. I listen. “You don’t have the files but you’ll get them. You have until tomorrow morning or say goodbye to your Faith.”

For a dude speaking broken English, he’s stumbled into some solid wordplay.

But is the threat real? Will he hurt Faith, or is she helping him? Is she kidnapped or complicit?

Sandy, did you survive and take the files with you? What’s in them? Did it relate to that surreal computer lab burning inside the learning annex? Maybe Sandy was targeted for her work at PRISM or maybe for her work at the prison, or both.

I call the main number for the prison. I ask for Doc Jefferson, the warden, who obviously is not available. I leave my name, number and affiliation: the guy who did the freelance story for the New York Times about the organic farm. He’ll call me back at half past never.

I look out at the field, and let my eyes glaze over. The sun has begun to set. It’s chillier than I realized. I feel the all-over body ache that adrenaline has been masking. My head pounds. I sit in the driver’s seat. I close the door. I turn on the engine, put on the heat, tilt my seat back.

Reclined, I let my mind drift and I find it settling on a June day a year earlier when I was nearly felled by a stuffed turtle. Polly and I stood in an aisle at Target in South San Francisco, looking at car seats. I wore Bermuda shorts, which would be suitable for June anywhere on the planet except for damp, gray San Francisco, where summers come to die. Polly glances at my attire and shakes her head.

“You’ll dress our son for the weather, not the calendar.” She smiles as I walk toward her to take her hand and assure her that I’ll dress our son accordingly. A projectile comes flying through the air. Instinctively, I duck out of the way. Polly nearly doubles over with laughter. When I get my bearings, I see I’ve dodged a stuffed green turtle that lies on the floor next to me. A humiliated mother stands next to her four-year-old son, who’d thrown the furry critter.

“His dad’s been teaching him to play catch.” The woman scoops up the stuffed critter.

Polly looks so sad.

“What’s the matter, Polly?”

“C’mon, Nat. You know. Things don’t always work out the way you dream they will.”

It’s the last thing I picture before I fall asleep in the front seat of my ex’s ex-Audi. In my dream, I’m sitting at the restaurant with Polly. She has something important to tell me. But there’s something odd about her that takes a moment to place. She’s wearing a costume on her head. It’s an elaborate rubber dinosaur mask. She’s a triceratops. I know this because I’ve recently bought a book for our unborn son and fantasized about memorizing the names of extinct beasts, like I once did with my dad.

The waiter with the rusty ankle limps over, carrying a white plate with a single brown fortune cookie. He’s replacing Polly’s first cookie, which was empty of a fortune.

“This one will be better.” He puts down the plate.

Polly puts one of her beautiful, slender fingers on the table. She lifts the cookie.

“We should talk,” she says. Or that’s what I think she says; it’s hard to hear under the mask.

“Open it, Polly.” I’m so excited.

She cracks open the cookie. Inside, a tiny dinosaur. It smiles, like only a baby dinosaur can, with tiny, perfect teeth. “Hi, Daddy.”

I reach out to grab the little guy. I want to brush the spikes on his tiny little head. I’m startled awake by ringing. It’s dark outside. I’m suffocating from car heat. I notice the dashboard says 6:30 p.m. I reach for my phone. It’s Bullseye.

“Want to know what the Chinese characters mean?”