The Cloud

39

Another thirty feet ahead, a small driveway appears on the right, protected by a rickety metal gate and a sign: “Private Property.” Ideal.

I put the car in park, slip out of the driver’s seat and walk to the gate, hearing the small loose stones beneath my feet. The thick metal gate swings open with a creak, cool and damp in my hands. Beyond it, the road doglegs right so that I can’t see what house lies in the pitch black.

I drive through the gates and park to the far right, tires nearly teetering into another gulley. I kill the lights. I shut the door gently, acutely aware of every sound amid the crickets. I’m cold, not from the air, which I’m guessing is not much below 60 degrees, but from something deep inside. I trudge between two trees, slide into the gulley, and then walk up the other side. I can see the house lights but discern nothing further, obscured by half a football field of distance, rolling terrain, and a phalanx of trees.

My phone buzzes, and I jump. I pull the device from my pocket and look at the screen. It’s a reminder that I’ve got an upcoming appointment. With Wilma. It takes a second to picture her, the straight black hair, prematurely aged hands, posture like a long-legged insect with her legs folded beneath her. There’s a note with the calendar: “Do homework for Wed meeting with Wilma.”

Homework. Homework? Am I supposed to be preparing questions? What story am I working on with Wilma?

On the phone’s calendar, I see that I’ve got another appointment, for tomorrow. “Tax evasion hearing, civic center courthouse, 4 p.m.” I have to think hard to picture the portly server who, after the awards luncheon, handed a letter requiring my presence at a hearing alleging tax irregularities. I wonder why I’ve written tax “evasion” hearing. Did I evade taxes? Or was that shorthand?

I also remember the letter stating that if I didn’t show for the hearing I could face criminal penalty.

I’ve got more immediate issues.

On the touch screen, I tap the number for Sandy Vello. It rings twice, then goes to her voice mail. I leave a message. “It’s Nat Idle. Are you okay? That was so strange today.”

I wait for her to listen to it. I guess I want to set up an alibi, for her not to suspect me, just in case. I turn off my phone, and am struck with wonder that I didn’t do it earlier. If the buzzard or the kidnapper is following my movements on the computer, he’s probably also doing it-even more easily-by triangulating the signals on my cell phone.

I consider my options. I can walk to the narrow house, hope that Sandy happens to come to the door, not chaperoned by her reality-TV buddy and former Marine, and that she’s forthcoming with her spirited files and other secrets.

I’m struck by a better option. I start running.

Moments later, I’m standing in front of Sandy’s BMW. I peer through the window. Or try to. It’s black dark, forest dark, a sliver of moonlight barely cutting through an opening in the branches extending over the road. It’s just enough to let me make out two boxes in the backseat, and to see they are empty. No files here. In the trunk, maybe. But I doubt it.

On the hillside next to the car, I rummage through the soil with my hands. I feel for a rock, baseball-sized. Too small. I reach for another. It’s jagged and oval, bumpy, like the moon or the surface of the brain. I raise it. I slam it against the windshield. It doesn’t crack. It rolls off the front of the car. I pick it up again. I close my eyes and I picture Polly. She’s telling me that she loves me and that everything will be okay. Her eyes look so tired, crow’s-feet in the corners, watery. She wears a blue gown, resplendent even in the hours before she gives birth. Even with our split imminent and my visions of nuclear-family bliss dashed.

I slam the rock down on the window.

The thick glass cracks in the zigzag shape of a fault line. The car alarm splits the night air. My ears ringing, I sprint into the trees across the road, impulsive, like a little girl running into the street, about to be crushed by a Volvo.

My whole plan is that impulsive. Nothing this risky could be well thought out. Or maybe it’s just deliberately stupid. I’m willing to risk everything to find out what I’m chasing.

My hope is to draw out Sandy, or maybe the Marine-somehow get Sandy alone, and discover files she may have taken into the house.

I hear a voice on the stairs. It’s Sandy. I can’t make out her words. She appears, striding down the steps, a phone to her ear.

“I can handle myself, Clyde,” she says. She pockets her phone. She walks purposefully down the stairs.

I don’t have much time.