The Lost Coast: A Novel

Chapter 1

I’d been off the force and out on my own for a year when I got a call from Peter Franchette.

We met in downtown Oakland, at the same sushi restaurant where I’d last left him on a rainy afternoon, sitting across from a sister he’d never met. I’d tracked her down for him — a bit of extracurricular activity that was part of why I was off the force and out on my own.

The summer sun was harsh as he stepped in from the street. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Not at all. You shaved your beard.”

“And you grew one.”

I’d grown my hair out, too. The extra length masked a scar running from temple to nape.

“My wife likes me better this way,” I said.

We took a booth, put in our order, made conversation. Peter told me he’d kept in touch with his sister, closely at first. Then less so.

“She has her life, I have mine.”

I nodded.

“And you?” he asked. “Charlotte must be — what. Four and a half?”

“Good memory. We have a son now, too. Myles.” I showed him my phone.

“What a bruiser. Am I wrong, or does he look like you?”

“Yeah, he’s a clone.”

“Cute. So how’s life as a private citizen treating you?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Thanks for meeting on short notice.”

“No problem,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“This kid I mentor, Chris Villareal — super-bright guy. His company does interesting stuff with AI and traffic grids... Anyhow. He showed up to a recent meeting looking pretty distraught. His grandmother passed and named him executor of her estate. Without warning him.”

“Always a fun surprise.”

“From what I gather, there’s not much in terms of dollars. It’s just disorganized, and he’s run across some things that don’t feel right.”

“How so?”

“You’d be better off hearing it from him.”

“Has he spoken to an estate attorney?”

“I set him up with my person. She thinks it’s not worth the trouble, Chris should drop it.”

“Sounds like good advice.”

“I think it’s a matter of principle. He and his grandma were very close. The lawyer was the one who suggested a private investigator. She had a name but I thought of you.”

“Appreciate it.”

The server approached with our food.

I split a pair of chopsticks and sanded them together. “Have him call me.”

“Great.”

Toward the end of the meal, he said, “You know, you never cashed my check.”

The check in question was made out to my daughter for $250,000 — a reward for my efforts. At the time I was still a county employee, sticking to the rules. Most of them.

Crazy money for the job. Peter’s venture capital success had earned him more than I could imagine, but mega-rich isn’t necessarily mega-generous.

“I tried to,” I said. “The bank wouldn’t accept it. They said it was too old.”

“When?”

“Last year.”

“What’d you wait so long for?”

“I didn’t want to get fired.”

He shook his head. “What I get for using paper... Well, look,” he said, digging out his phone, “at some point I decided you weren’t going to deposit it. So I made an end run.”

He began tapping at the screen. For a moment I thought he might zap me the money electronically, a quarter of a million dollars in a quadrillionth of a second.

Instead he turned the screen around as if to show off pictures of his own kids.

I saw a banking app, with one account, labeled Charlotte Edison — 529 Plan.

“Technically it’s in my name. I didn’t know her Social. Happy to transfer it whenever you’d like. You can see for yourself, it’s done pretty well.”

The balance was $321,238.77.

“What do you think?” he said.

“I think I should remind you,” I said, “I have a son now, too.”

Chapter 2

I met Chris Villareal at his grandmother’s house in Daly City, a suburb of San Francisco also known as Little Manila. Her neighborhood, scaled with postwar tract housing, was walking distance to the Asian bakeshops and markets along Mission Street.

He’d arrived early. Boyishly handsome, he leaned against the door of a silver BMW coupe with a laptop pinned under his arm, tapping a sneaker and straining to smile beneath a crest of black hair.

Branded start-up T-shirt: the Bay Area’s tribal signifier.

He removed his sunglasses and hung them on his neckline to shake hands.

“My condolences,” I said.

“Thank you. She lived a good life. But it’s still hard.”

I nodded.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s get it over with.”

The house was a stucco box, pastel pink, jammed between pastel neighbors. Concrete steps rose to a decorative security gate. Chris slipped off his shoes and left them on the doormat. I did the same.

He shut off the alarm system and led me past an entryway altar crowded with Catholic figurines. Everything was old but cared-for, living room furniture polished to a dull glow, sofa and chairs upholstered in a vivid floral pattern. The extended family was large and well represented on the walls, as were members of the Holy Family and various saints. A crucifix loomed.

“She’d be mad if I didn’t offer you something to eat or drink,” he said.

“I’m good, thanks.”

He’d commandeered the dining room for his workspace. Accordion file folders labeled in black marker covered the table: B of A, Chase, Citi, VA, Life Insur (Lolo John), Medicare, Soc Sec, 81-2 Taxes, 83 Camry, 09 Camry, Util, Receipts.

Wrinkled cardboard boxes brimming with loose paper lined the baseboards, awaiting their turn. More boxes and folders piled on the chairs. It looked like an all-you-can-eat buffet for goats.

“She kept everything.” He tapped his temple. “Immigrant mentality.”

We sat beneath a giclée print of The Last Supper, and he ran me through the basics.

Marisol Santos Salvador, born 1938 in Manila, arrived 1957 in the United States along with husband John (deceased 1995). Five children, of whom Chris’s mother, Asuncion, was the youngest. For most of her life Marisol had worked as a health aide.

“When did she pass?”

“April 6. She had a stroke so it was fast.”

“You didn’t know she’d named you executor.”

“No. Maybe she meant to tell me. She had another stroke, about fifteen years ago, and it affected her. I don’t get why her lawyer didn’t say something sooner, though.”

“Who’s he?”

“Mr. Pineda. He’s a family friend. At the wake he came up to me. ‘We need to talk.’ I go to his office and he hands me lola’s will. Like: Tag, you’re it.”

“Is he helping you?”

“Not really. He’s almost as old as she was. I don’t think he’s completely with it, either. Basically I’m having to figure it out on my own.”

“Do you know why she chose you?”

Chris shrugged. “I’m the only one who’s not married with kids. She used to ride me about it. ‘You’re thirty, I had four kids by thirty.’ I told her I’m building a business, that’s my baby.”

“I’m sure she found that very persuasive.”

He laughed. “She also thought I was the smart one. She called me Henyo. It means ‘genius.’ ‘Look at Henyo, he can talk to computers but not to girls.’ Or, I don’t know. Maybe she wanted to punish me. Whatever. Lucky me.”

“What does the will say?”

“Sixty percent to her kids, thirty percent to the grandkids, ten percent to the church.”

“Pretty straightforward.”

“Yeah, till you look a little closer. The house is the main asset. But she’s got money squirreled away all over the place. Not just multiple bank accounts. I found three thousand dollars in cash under the bathroom sink. I’m trying to be fair, and everyone’s calling me up all mad. ‘What’s taking so long? Why haven’t you finished?’ Why? Because look at this mess.”

Bright young guy applying artificial intelligence to traffic grids but struggling to wring meaning from piles of paper.

“Peter said you noticed some irregularities,” I said.

He nodded. He opened the laptop. “I started itemizing her bank statements.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Peter’s lawyer said the same thing.”

“I admire your diligence. It just seems like you have enough on your plate as is.”

“I wanted to make sure there’s no huge discrepancies. It’s how I roll. For all I know she has a million bucks buried in the backyard. I’m seeing all these payments I can’t figure out. Look.”

He showed me a QuickBooks entry from March 17, a check for $135 to SFRA.

He scrolled back to February 17. Another $135 check to SFRA.

January. December of the previous year. November.

One hundred thirty-five dollars, SFRA.

Identical entries appeared monthly for the previous two years.

“That’s as far back as the online accounts go,” he said.

He drew over the B of A folder and began taking out sheaves of paper, secured by alligator clips and bristling with tape flags. “So then I started going through by hand. Same deal.”

Each flag indicated a $135 check to SFRA.

“Do you know what it stands for?” I asked. “San Francisco something?”

“I tried googling it. I get so many hits it’s useless.”

“How many payments are we talking about?”

“The earliest I could find is from 1996. All in all it works out to around forty-seven thousand dollars. It might not seem like much, in the grand scheme of things, but she wasn’t a rich woman. She wasn’t poor, either. I gotta say that or she’s going to descend from heaven and scream at me.”

I smiled. “Understood.”

“She was a kid during the war. She and her sisters were living on the streets, eating from the gutters. She knew what it meant to have nothing. She bought day-old bread until my mom made her stop. She kept the same car for twenty-five years. It died and she got another just like it. This,” he said, placing a hand on the bank statements, “isn’t like her.”

I said nothing.

“You don’t agree,” he said.

“I didn’t know your grandmother. I get that it seems inconsistent with her behavior.”

“But.”

“Inconsistency is human. And the payments could be innocuous.”

“Then what the hell is SFRA?”

“Maybe a membership fee? Or a subscription.”

“She didn’t belong to clubs. She bought the National Enquirer once a week.”

“Something to do with her church.”

“I asked the priest. He said no.”

“A mortgage or a loan.”

“The house was paid off in 2007. I’m not aware of other loans. It’s possible. I haven’t finished with everything yet. All I know is I’m seeing a pattern. It reminds me of when I get recurring charges on my credit card, stuff I signed up for without realizing.”

“Okay,” I said, “but this is analog. Your grandmother’s physically writing checks. She must’ve believed she was paying for something. What does the rest of your family think?”

“They’re clueless. My mom gets so emotional it’s hard to have a conversation. My uncles, too. They’re like, ‘It’s your job, you deal with it.’ ”

“Can you access her bank account? I’d like to see an image of the most recent check.”

He logged in and clicked open the March 17 payment, filled out in Marisol’s tidy handwriting. SFRA. One hundred thirty-five dollars and 00/100. The back bore an illegible scrawl but no account information, suggesting a mobile deposit. Likewise for the remaining online images.

“What about canceled checks? Do you have any of those lying around?”

From the B of A folder he removed a manila envelope stuffed to bursting.

“Immigrant mentality,” he said.

He hadn’t gotten the chance to sort them. We started in, one by one. Chris was sweating. I was, too. The house had no AC. He told me, laughing, how lola would sit on the living room couch, watching Days of Our Lives at maximum volume and fanning herself with a pamaypay, which she also used to whack anyone she felt deserved it.

“She sounds tough.”

“Oh yeah.”

“I guess you’d have to be, to survive what she survived.”

“Yeah. But whatever she did was out of love.”

“You miss her.”

He nodded.

We found a check, dated December 17, 1998, $135 to SFRA.

I turned it over. In addition to the same indecipherable signature was an account number, a routing number, and the time and date of deposit.

Chris leaned in. “Can you use that to tell who it is?”

“I can try. You mind if I hang on to this?”

“Take it all.” He sat back, rubbing absently at his chest. “The lawyer thinks I’m wasting my time. But I can’t get it out of my head. You know?”

“I do, yeah. In your position I might feel the same way. As to whether it’s a waste of time, that depends on what you expect to get out of the process. Can I be straight with you?”

“Please.”

“I’m happy to look into this for you. I think it’s important to acknowledge that you may have already found everything there is to find.”

“You’re preparing me for disappointment.”

“I’ll run with it as far as you want. But sometimes when people come to me with a request like this, what they’re really after is closure.”

He stared at the pile of canceled checks; fuzzy edges and yellowing paper.

“I don’t have any expectations,” he said. “I just feel like I owe it to her. What if she was stressed out over this, and it contributed to her stroke? It’s fifty grand. It’s not nothing.”

He turned to me. “It eats at me. What else am I missing?”

Chapter 3

My office sits behind a Laundromat. What it lacks in ambience, it makes up for in convenience: half a mile from my house, half a mile from my parents, and catercorner to a killer ramen shop. I grew up in San Leandro, and since Amy and I moved back, I’d been getting reacquainted with the city. It fascinated me to see how it had changed and not changed. Prices climbing. More and better restaurants. But the meters still took quarters only.

I ran the canceled check through a specialist data broker. The most they could tell me was that it had been deposited at a Wells Fargo. But they couldn’t specify the branch, and the account was closed, no way to retrieve the owner’s name.

Per Google, SFRA was the Science Fiction Research Association.

Or it was the South Florida Radio Amateurs.

Store Front Reference Architecture. Student Financial Responsibility Agreement. Software Frequency Response Analyzer. School Funding Reform Act. Scottish Flood Risk Assessment.

It was a protein found in E. coli.

It stood for innumerable groups in San Francisco, city and county: Redevelopment Agency; Rugby Academy; Resonant Acoustics.

The California Secretary of State business entity registry returned eleven entries, all of which I ruled out based on filing date: They’d come into existence after Marisol Santos Salvador started making payments.

I checked UCC filings. DBAs. Civil courts. Bankruptcy courts. Liens. Credit records. Regulatory bodies. Telephone directories. Newspaper archives.

Nothing.

Marisol faced no outstanding judgments and was not party to any legal actions in San Mateo County or any of the surrounding counties. Her credit was good, her driving record was clean, and she had no criminal record. She possessed neither watercraft nor a pilot’s license. Her sons and daughters had chosen to settle within a few miles of her. A robust, close-knit clan.

As Chris had said, she owned outright the house in Daly City, having purchased it in 1963 for $14,200. Currently its estimated value stood at $799,000 to $1,000,000. The increase said everything you needed to know about Bay Area real estate.

In 1996 she’d spent $57,500 on another property, 8 Abalone Court, Swann’s Flat, CA. Currently its estimated value stood at six to ten thousand dollars.

Swann’s Flat.

The SF of SFRA?

The date of purchase aligned with the start of her monthly payments.

The decrease in value told a story of its own.

I’d never heard of Swann’s Flat. With good reason: It was scarcely there, a census-designated place, population thirteen, perched at the western edge of unincorporated Humboldt County. The Wikipedia article was brief and read like chamber of commerce copy. Amenities included hiking and horse trails, an inn, a boat launch. The nearest post office was in Millburg, twenty miles to the east, as was the nearest elementary school. The nearest high school was three hours away in Eureka. Notable local events included the annual Queen of the Salmon pageant.

Google Images showed dramatic cliffs, savage waves, black sand, gloomy forest, fog. Isolated houses dotted a tongue of land that poked out into the Pacific as if to taste its salt.

From Marisol’s house in Daly City, the drive was six hours, twelve minutes, the last leg along private and unpaved roads. Street View chickened out well shy of her address on Abalone Court.

I called Chris. “Did your grandmother own a second home? Like a vacation house?”

“What? No. Why?”

“I’m seeing another property in her name.”

“Where?”

“Swann’s Flat.”

“I don’t know where that is.”

“Up the coast. Humboldt.”

“What the hell,” he said.

“She never mentioned it to you.”

“No way.”

“Can you ask your mom or your uncles?”

“Let me call you back.”

I put my new search term to use.

The second hit after Wikipedia was the official Swann’s Flat website. I clicked the About tab.

We are a private residential community located on the Lost Coast of California, established in 1965 pursuant to the State Public Resources Code Section 13000-13233...

The rest of the text matched the Wikipedia page, word for word. Impossible to say which had been lifted from which.

The History, Board, and FAQ tabs all read Under Construction!

Returning to the search results, I clicked the third hit, SwannsFlatRealEstate.com.

The name and the feel suggested a real estate agency. But there were no agents, only a list of properties for sale. I scrolled down.

Golden opportunity to own an unspoiled piece of California coastline with fabulous vistas and fresh ocean breezes. Outstanding quarter acre lot a short distance from beach. Seller financing available for qualified buyers. Come join our friendly seaside community!

Photos showed a sunny verdant patch. Pine trees framed a peekaboo view of sparkling ocean. Asking price was $45,995. Contact Diamond Vacation Properties.

I scrolled on.

Hidden gem! Unique south-facing.19 acre lot on a quiet cul-de-sac. Greenbelt in the rear creates privacy and protects your view of the stunning King Range. Qualified buyers ask about seller financing. Find your heart on the Lost Coast!

The photo gallery was so similar to that of the first listing that I had to check to make sure they weren’t the same. Asking price was $21,700. Contact Omnivest Services.

There were about thirty listings in all, every one of them for undeveloped land.

I went back to Google.

Hit number four was SwannsFlatHomes.com.

The color scheme and font differed from SwannsFlatRealEstate.com. In every other respect the two sites were identical.

Same for SwannsFlatProperties, SwannsFlatLand, and SwannsFlatLostCoast.

Same for the next ten pages of search results.

Chris called. “They have no idea what I’m talking about. Could it be a mistake?”

“The databases aren’t perfect, but not likely. Have you run across any property tax stubs?”

“They’re probably mixed up with the other tax stuff.”

“Search for a check. Humboldt County Tax Collector. Something like that.”

I heard him typing and clicking.

“...Humboldt County Treasurer — Tax Collector,” he said. “Two hundred fifty-nine dollars.”

“Do you see a parcel on the memo line?”

The number he read matched the one on my screen.

I said, “Not a mistake.”

Chris said, “Shit. Why didn’t I see this?”

“You weren’t looking. You were focused on SFRA.”

“Do you know what it’s about?”

“I’m not sure yet. Let me poke around a little more. I’ll be in touch when I have something concrete. But Chris? Do me a favor. Resist the urge to stay up all night googling.”

He laughed. “Yeah, sure.”

I’d been squinting at the computer since noon. My eyes were sand, my neck felt permanently crooked forward, and I had to pick up the kids.

Charlotte climbed into the car with her usual greeting: “What’s for dinner?”

“My love, it’s polite to say hello.”

“Hi, Daddy. How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks. How was camp?”

“Good.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you play with anyone?”

“I don’t remember. What’s for dinner?”

“I’ll tell you once we’re driving. Can you get buckled, please?”

“I’m buckled.”

“Thank you. Chicken, rice, and green beans.”

“Eww.”

“Charlotte, it’s not polite to say eww when someone cooks for you.”

“I hate chicken.”

“You loved it the last time I made it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You told me, and I quote, ‘Daddy, I love this, can you make it again?’ ”

Myles, facing backward, said, “Eww.”

“See? He doesn’t like it, either.” Charlotte leaned over him. “Myles, can you say eww chicken?”

“Eww tit.”

At home I put her in the bath. The water turned gray.

“Do you just roll around in the dirt all day?”

“Not all day.”

I heard the front door close; the double thump as Amy kicked off her boots.

“Smells yummy,” she called.

She appeared in the doorway. “Hello, everyone.”

“Hey,” I said. “How was your day?”

She smiled tiredly. “There’s only one kind.”

Charlotte said, “Mommy, I had the best time at camp.”

“That’s wonderful.” Amy bent to kiss me and take Myles. “I want to hear all about it.”

Over dinner Charlotte announced that she’d played with Millicent, Ambrose, and Clementine. They had built a fort from sticks and eaten Popsicles for snack.

“Mine was blue raspberry,” she said.

“Why do all your friends sound like they have consumption?” I asked.

“What’s that?”

Amy suppressed laughter and kicked me under the table. “Blue raspberry sounds delicious, sweetie. This is delicious, too, Daddy.”

“Thanks.”

Charlotte said, “Daddy, I looove this chicken. Can you make it again?”

Myles said, “Eww tit.”

Chapter 4

At my desk the next morning, I dove deep into Swann’s Flat.

Business registry records supported my initial impression: beyond sketchy.

For a tiny place, it was throbbing with commerce, home to a Finance Corporation, a Development Corporation, a Land Corporation, a Land Development Corporation, a plain old Corporation, a Company, LPs and LLPs and INCs, nonprofits and legacy corporations and stock corporations, and buried among them, the Swann’s Flat Resort Area, LLC.

SFRA?

Formed on January 22, 1991; inactive as of 2007.

The initial filing consisted of a single typewritten page. There were no officers listed. The business address was 134 Monkeyflower Drive, Swann’s Flat, CA 95536. The registered agent for service of process was ML Corporate Solutions, located next door at 136. The purpose of the limited liability company was to engage in any lawful act or activity for which a limited liability company may be organized under the California Revised Uniform Limited Liability Company Act.

Didn’t get much vaguer than that.

No website. To be expected, given that they’d gone out of business almost two decades ago.

Why was Marisol still paying them?

Who was she paying?

A disgruntled person is a private investigator’s best friend. If you want dirt on someone, talk to the folks they’ve pissed off.

I ran a docket search.

Since 1995, Swann’s Flat Resort Area had been sued twenty-four times. The specifics varied from case to case, but the themes were consistent.

Land and lies.

Petitioners David and Mary Walsh purchased a lot at 17 Wildrose Run, paying installation and connection fees for water, power, and sewer lines. The complaint noted that this had to be done for every new home; the existing grid did not cover the peninsula but went in piecemeal. Four years later, the Walshes put their lot back up for sale without having broken ground, receiving one offer, well below their original purchase price. They accepted. During the inspection period, however, it emerged that the local utilities body was refusing to honor the previous connection fees, requiring the prospective buyers to pay an additional $27,825. The buyer subsequently dropped out. No more offers had been forthcoming. The Walshes sought $87,341 in damages from the utilities body, the Swann’s Flat Board of Supervisors, Does I–XX, and Swann’s Flat Resort Area ($12,980 in resort fees). After much wrangling, they’d settled for an undisclosed amount.

Petitioner Joseph Hui Lee purchased a lot located at 21 Elkhorn Court. After two years he had yet to receive title. He was suing the title company, the broker, and — for $7,767 in resort fees — Swann’s Flat Resort Area. Years of motions and countermotions came to an abrupt halt with Lee’s death in 2001. His heirs had elected not to continue the fight.

Every case led to five more, the number of search terms growing exponentially.

I spent the next few weeks tracking down plaintiffs. Many were presently deceased. Those I managed to reach tended to fall into one of three categories: They were elderly, were military, or lived out of state — in some cases, overseas. All had bought their properties sight unseen, after reading an ad or receiving a cold call. They recounted a sales pitch that resembled uncannily the online listings.

An exclusive piece of the California coast at a bargain price, plus a low-cost, no-hassle loan.

Who could turn that down?

The nightmare began before the ink was dry.

Soaring HOA fees. Hidden resort fees. Assessments, twice a year or more.

Any attempt to begin construction ran into permit hiccups, materials holdups, labor shortages, problematic site conditions, inclement weather. Eventually the buyer would lose heart and try to sell, only to be informed by a real estate agent that they had little chance of recovering their full purchase price on the open market in any reasonable amount of time.

At that point, with the situation seemingly beyond salvage, they’d receive a call from a corporate buyer, offering to assume their debt in exchange for signing over the deed. Almost everyone agreed. A few refused, abandoning the property and ceasing to pay taxes. The county then repossessed the lot and auctioned it off to the very same corporations, who then relisted it for sale.

Same result either way. The buyer ended up with nothing and the cycle began anew.

Elvira Dela Cruz said, “I was stupid and lost my money.”

In 1998, she’d bought a lot in Swann’s Flat that proved unusable. Acting as her own attorney, she filed suit against Swann’s Flat Resort Area ($6,015 in resort fees) and the salesman, a man named William C. Arenhold. The case was dismissed in summary judgment.

Now she was in her late fifties, with microbladed eyebrows and Barbie-pink lipstick. For lunch she’d chosen a hot pot restaurant in the St. Francis Square shopping center, across the parking lot from the dental office where she worked as a hygienist.

“You’re being a little unfair to yourself,” I said.

“Oh no.” She dunked a slice of pork into the bubbling broth. “I was stupid.”

I’d asked to meet, prompted by the parallels to Marisol Santos Salvador. Both women lived in Daly City and belonged to the Filipino community. They’d bought their plots within eighteen months of each other. What really caught my eye, however, was the attorney representing Arenhold.

Rolando Pineda, Esquire.

Mr. Pineda. He’s a family friend.

Elvira surprised me further by informing me that Pineda had started out as her lawyer.

“I had a slip and fall against the city. He got me thirty thousand dollars and took half. He asked me, ‘What are you going to do with the rest of the money?’ I said, ‘Pay my bills.’ He said, ‘You need to think about the future. Let me introduce you to a man.’ ”

“William Arenhold.”

She nodded. “He came to my apartment and showed me pictures. The beach, the sunset, dolphins jumping. It was so pretty. He said I can build my dream home for when I retire. ‘I’m twenty-five, what do I need that?’ He said, ‘It’s an investment. Wait a few years and sell, you make ten times the money. But you have to move fast or someone else will buy it.’ ”

“Slick.”

“Oh yes. He was tall, like you. Very handsome. He wore a fancy suit. And he had nice teeth.” She smiled. “I liked that.”

“How much did the land cost?”

“Fifteen thousand.”

“The same amount Pineda won for you.”

“Pretty funny, huh? I told Bill, ‘I can’t spend everything, I need to save some.’ ‘Don’t worry, you put in what you can, I’ll get you a loan.’ Every month I paid sixty dollars plus interest. They also charged for the water, for electricity, the sewer, maintenance, security. See? Drip, drip, drip.”

“How long did this go on?”

“Four years. One day I decided to go see what it looked like.”

“You hadn’t seen it before?”

“Just pictures.” She chortled. “You think I’m over-the-top stupid.”

“I really don’t.”

“You’re being nice,” she said. “I am. I was. I didn’t know what I was doing. I trusted Pineda. He was a lawyer.”

“That seems like the worst reason to trust someone.”

Elvira cackled. “I like you.”

“What happened when you got there?”

“Oh, it was terrible. That road — have you seen it?”

I shook my head.

She mimed puking. “Like a roller coaster. It took hours, my car was overheating. I get to the town and there’s no houses. There’s no buildings. It’s just trees and trees and dirt and trees and dirt, and everywhere plastic signs sticking up, with numbers. I drove around in circles till I found it. Sea Otter Lane. Eighty-one, seventy-nine... Seventy-one, that’s mine. But there’s nothing.”

“Was there supposed to be something? I thought it was an empty lot.”

“Yeah. But this is nothing. It’s a big hole. Like there was an earthquake.”

Arenhold, in his deposition, had stated: The disclosures explicitly indicate that heavy seasonal precipitation poses an erosion risk and that the buyer is therefore advised to conduct an independent soil survey.

“It doesn’t look like the pictures,” she said.

I further made explicit to Ms. Dela Cruz that those images are meant to give a sense of the geology and biodiversity of the region as a whole, rather than referring to any plot in particular.

“I was in shock,” she said.

“I bet.”

“I had my camera with me. I brought it to take a picture to put on my wall at home. Instead,” she said, giggling, “I took pictures of the hole.”

“I’m amazed you can laugh about it.”

“I wasn’t laughing then, I was crying. When I finished taking pictures of the hole, I got in my car. It won’t start.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” she said gleefully. “I didn’t have a phone, either. So I walked.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, I just started walking and crying. I got lost. I wanted to lie down and die. A truck comes by and a man rolls down the window. ‘What’s wrong, miss?’ ”

“Who was he?”

“He didn’t say his name. But he was handsome, too. I told him there’s a hole in my land and my car won’t start. He smiled and said, ‘Hop in.’ It was stupid, to go with a strange man.”

“You were stuck.”

“Yup. He drove me to my car. He couldn’t get it to start, either. He said he would take me to his friend who’s a mechanic.”

I said, “There are no houses but there was a mechanic.”

“Well, when he started driving, then I saw some houses. They’re in another part of town, close to the water. The mechanic tows my car to his garage, puts coolant in. Four hundred dollars.”

“For a bottle of coolant.”

“And to tow.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Oh yes,” she said. “But he had my keys, what was my choice? I wrote him a check and drove away as fast as I could. When I got home I showed the pictures of the hole to my sister’s husband. He’s an engineer. He laughed at me. ‘Elvira, you can’t build here. They cheated you.’ I went back to Pineda. ‘You need to sue them and get my money.’ He said he can’t do that, he’s Bill’s lawyer, too. It’s a conflict of interest. He told me he can’t be my lawyer anymore.”

“Did you try to find another one?”

“I couldn’t afford it. Everyone I talked to told me to forget it. But it made me so mad. So I did it myself. More stupid. I lost and I had to pay Pineda even more.”

“I’m so sorry you had to go through this.”

She swirled a piece of bok choy in broth. “Boo-hoo.”

“Ms. Dela Cruz, do you know a woman named Marisol Santos Salvador?”

“I don’t think so.”

“This is her,” I said, showing a picture.

Elvira popped the bok choy into her mouth, chewed. “Okay, yes.”

“You do know her?”

“She was a patient of Dr. Quinio,” she said. “I remember her teeth.”

Chapter 5

The Law Offices of Rolando Pineda and Associates occupied a second-floor suite above a bakery on Mission Street — the same bakery, perhaps, where Marisol used to buy her day-old bread. I climbed the steps through a heady aroma of butter and toasted coconut.

The door displayed Pineda’s name in gilt. No word on who the associates were.

As I entered, the receptionist whirled around in her chair, as though I’d caught her napping. She was in her sixties, wearing a leopard-print blouse. Big-bodied, with a big blond bouffant.

“Can I help you?”

“My name is Clay Edison. I’m a private investigator. I’m here to speak with Mr. Pineda.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“What is this regarding?”

“Marisol Santos Salvador.”

“Have a seat, please.”

She went through an interior door, returned. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pineda isn’t available.”

“It’ll only take a second.”

“He’s out of the office.”

“Then who are you talking to back there?”

She tried to look authoritative but fell far short. “You’ll have to make an appointment.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“We don’t have any openings.”

“You’re not even going to check the calendar?”

“It’s a very busy day.”

“What’s the first available?”

“I’m afraid we’re not taking new clients.”

“I’m not a client.” I shouted over her head: “Mr. Pineda, I need to talk to you.”

“Please keep your voice down.”

“Tell him it’s about Swann’s Flat. Tell him William C. Arenhold sent me.”

She blanched and disappeared again. When she came back she didn’t say anything, just held the door.

Chris had described Rolando Pineda as not totally with it. To me he appeared perfectly sharp: younger than his eighty-five years, with dyed-black hair and a pencil mustache, eyes set deep in a vaguely saurian face. Framed photos, taken over decades of evolving fashion, showcased his longevity.

Pineda, shaking hands with a mitered bishop.

Pineda, cutting the ribbon on a baseball field.

Receiving an award for civic leadership.

In full-dress uniform, waving from a Veterans Day float.

An enlarged copy of a check for $2.2 million hung beside diplomas from Loyola Law School and Cal State Fresno and his license from the State Bar of California.

“You gave my girl quite a turn.” He folded his hands over a concave belly. “She has a heart condition. You should be more careful.”

“My apologies.”

“May I see your license, please?”

California PI licenses are embarrassing. They look like they were made on the teachers’ lounge copy machine by an unambitious third grader, especially compared with the august license on Pineda’s wall. He scanned briefly and returned the card as if doing me a favor.

I said, “Marisol Santos Salvador was your client.”

“I can’t comment on that. Privileged information.”

“She owned a property in a town called Swann’s Flat.”

Like most lawyers, Pineda knew how to use dead air to his advantage. He said nothing, let me stand there, my statement deteriorating.

“For thirty years she’s been making payments to an entity called Swann’s Flat Resort Area,” I said. “It adds up to around fifty thousand dollars.”

“Who hired you?”

“In 2002 you represented William C. Arenhold in another suit over Swann’s Flat land.”

I slid him copies from the case file: letters on his professional stationery, signed by him.

He smiled but didn’t look at the page. “My eyesight isn’t what it once was.”

“The petitioner’s name was Elvira Dela Cruz. You were her lawyer, too.”

“I’ve been in practice for fifty-six years. Do you know how many clients I’ve represented?”

“You introduced Ms. Dela Cruz to William Arenhold and encouraged her to invest with him. Is that what you did for Mrs. Salvador?”

“I’m not qualified to make such recommendations.”

“You’re not qualified to practice law, either, but that’s not stopping you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You were disbarred,” I said. “Eight years ago.”

Pineda laughed. “Chris is getting his money’s worth with you, isn’t he.”

“What you’re doing is punishable by a fine of up to a thousand dollars and up to one year in jail.”

“Nobody goes to jail. They pay the fine.”

“How do you think your other clients would feel if they found out?”

“They don’t care. They only want me to write angry letters to Comcast.”

“Should we start again?”

He sighed and gestured go ahead.

“Did you advise Marisol Santos Salvador to purchase property in Swann’s Flat?”

“I am always concerned about my clients’ welfare.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I may have. It was a long time ago.”

“Did you introduce her to William Arenhold?”

“I may have.”

“How many other clients did you introduce to Arenhold?”

“I can’t recall the specifics.”

“When Mrs. Salvador bought her property, did you receive a finder’s fee?”

“I worked for Bill on retainer.”

“What about the monthly payments? Did you receive a cut of those?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Were you aware that Mrs. Salvador was writing checks up until her death?”

“I urged her to sell. More than once.”

“I thought you didn’t give financial advice.”

“I was speaking as a friend,” he said.

“Is that how you’d characterize your relationship with her?”

“Young man, you watch your mouth, please.”

“Why didn’t she listen to you and sell?”

He shrugged. “The ways of women are inscrutable.”

“What’s Swann’s Flat Resort Area?”

“As I said, it’s been a long time, but I seem to recall they were in charge of maintaining the grounds. Grooming trails, things of that nature.”

“That’s what she was paying a hundred thirty-five bucks a month for? Trail grooming?”

“They don’t groom themselves.”

“What’s at the address? Is it a house? Acreage?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I’ve never been there.”

“I’m going to ask you again. How many people did you introduce to Arenhold?”

“My answer is the same. I don’t recall.”

“How did you meet Arenhold?”

“He was an accountant. I hired him as an expert witness on a case and we got to be friendly. Eventually he required representation of his own.”

“He had you on retainer,” I said. “You must have been doing a lot of work for him.”

“He was a busy man, with many business interests.”

“Do you still work for him?”

A flicker in the eyes.

“Unfortunately not,” he said.

You gave my girl quite a turn.

I’d taken Pineda to mean that I’d startled her by raising my voice. But it wasn’t the shout she’d reacted to; it was the name. William C. Arenhold sent me.

“He’s dead,” I said.

“Unfortunately.”

“Since when?”

“About twenty years ago.”

“How?”

“He was crossing the street and got hit by a car.”

“Any context you’d like to add? Before you answer, I was a sheriff-coroner. I can look it up. But you’d be saving me some time.”

“You’re a little young for an ex-cop, no?”

The door opened and the receptionist put her head in. “Mr. Abayon is here.”

“I’ll be right with him,” Pineda said. He stood up. “My clients need me. Best of luck.”

Out in the waiting room, an older Filipino man in orthotic shoes leaned on a four-footed cane, clutching papers in one trembling hand.

Pineda flashed teeth. “Manuel! Good to see you, my friend. Please.”

The older man moved past me with a hopeful, easy smile.

Back at my desk, I studied up on the late William Collins Arenhold.

Like Marisol Santos Salvador, he had possessed neither a watercraft nor pilot’s license.

That was the extent of their overlap. His history included two bankruptcies, two DUIs, and a drunk in public. He’d spent most of his adult life in San Francisco and at the time of his death was residing in Potrero Hill with his wife, Pamela, and their teenage daughter.

A friend at the San Francisco Medical Examiner’s office emailed me a copy of their report. On the afternoon of September 6, 2007, Arenhold left his apartment for a business meeting at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel. Pamela told the investigator that she didn’t know who the meeting was with or what it concerned. A server at the hotel bar recalled waiting on Arenhold and another gentleman of about the same age; they ordered a screwdriver and a glass of bourbon, respectively. The server did not recall hearing them argue, but when she came to the table to check on them, she found both men gone and a pair of twenties trapped under a glass.

After leaving the hotel, Arenhold had stopped at a Starbucks on the corner of Powell and O’Farrell to purchase a cup of coffee. He then walked two and a half blocks south to Market Street, where he stepped off the curb and into the path of an oncoming Muni bus.

His death was ruled an accident.

Having read — and written — thousands of similar reports, I sensed the ambiguity hiding in a plainspoken narrative. The investigator noted that Arenhold was under considerable strain, facing multiple lawsuits and the possibility of a third bankruptcy.

But the stigma of suicide is so severe and scarring for next of kin — as one of my former colleagues says, it taints the family tree — that some coroners will do everything they can to avoid the ruling, absent conclusive physical evidence or clear indication of intent.

Arenhold had not left a note.

He was struck while crossing a busy street.

The bus driver stated that he had no time to honk.

It happened so fast.

For her part, Pam Arenhold was adamant her husband would not have taken his own life.

Why would he buy coffee if he meant to... That doesn’t make any sense. That’s silly.

I looked her up. She was sixty-seven years old, currently residing in La Jolla.

I called her.

Someone answered on the first ring but didn’t speak.

“Hello?” I said.

“Yes?”

“Hi, I’m looking for Pamela Arenhold.”

“Yes?”

“Is this Mrs. Arenhold?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Mrs. Arenhold, sorry to disturb you like this—”

“No, it’s wonderful to hear your voice.”

“Um... thank you. Would you be willing to talk to me about your late husband William?”

“Who?”

“William Arenhold.”

“He’s my Billy boy,” she said.

“Pam, what do you remember about Billy’s job?”

“He’s a rascal. My Billy boy.”

“Did he ever mention people he worked with, or things he was working on?”

“He brings me flowers,” she said.

In the distance I heard a different voice, younger, female. Mom? Who are you talking to?

“What about Swann’s Flat?” I asked. “Pam? Did he tell you about that? Can you try to remember?”

“I... What?”

“Swann’s Flat.”

Mom. Give that to me.

The younger woman came on the line. “Who is this?”

“Sorry,” I said, “can you just put her back on for one second?”

“Don’t call here again.”

“Ma’am, I’m not trying to—”

“Did you hear me? Don’t ever fucking call here, ever again.”

If getting hung up on was an Olympic sport, all the competitors would be PIs.

Chapter 6

I invited Chris in to discuss my findings, outlining some of the other cases and using them as a framework to understand Marisol’s.

“Your grandfather passed in 1995,” I said. “She bought the property the following year. My guess is Pineda approached her right after she’d collected the life insurance. He’s uniquely positioned to know who’s come into money, who’s emotionally vulnerable.”

“Piece of shit. What does he have to say for himself?”

“I think that’s about as much as I’m going to get. I went back and his receptionist threatened to call the cops on me.”

“Give me ten minutes alone with him. I’ll make him talk.”

“I’d like to state for the record that I don’t recommend that.”

He snorted a laugh. “All right. What do you recommend?”

“I’m not an attorney. Unlike Pineda, I’m going to stay in my lane.”

“I’m not asking for legal advice. I just want to know what you think.”

“I agree that he’s unethical. That doesn’t necessarily make him liable.”

“Who knows what guarantees he made to her?”

“She’s not around to testify. Neither is Arenhold. That gives Pineda the last word.”

“We have this other woman. Elvira.”

“Her case was dismissed with prejudice. A competent attorney would eat her for lunch.”

“Pineda’s not even supposed to be practicing.”

“We could try holding his feet to the fire,” I said. “But I don’t recommend that, either.”

“Why not?”

“The guy’s eighty-five, with a history of public service. I’d bet he golfs with half the judges in the county. Now picture him getting up on the stand and doing the feeble-old-guy act. What jury is going to bring down the ax?”

“Criminal charges?”

“The standard of proof is higher, and fraud is notoriously tough because there’s a fine line between that and salesmanship. That’s assuming you can get the cops to care, let alone the DA. For fifty grand? Nobody’s getting a headline out of that.”

“It’s more than fifty,” he said. “The principal’s sixty thousand alone. Plus property tax.”

“Property tax you’re never going to get back. Take my word for it: Anything less than millions and millions of dollars, they’re gonna feel the juice isn’t worth the squeeze.”

“But if what you’re telling me is true, it’s not one case, it’s dozens.”

“At least. Figure that for every person who wakes up and sues, there’s many more like your grandma, who keep writing checks, not realizing that the land is worthless. But in my opinion it’s unlikely that Pineda’s calling the shots. Aside from a few transactions, his name doesn’t come up. My gut is he’s a middleman. Arenhold, too.”

“For who?”

“That’s the question. I pulled the deed of conveyance for your grandmother’s property, trying to find out who she bought it from. It’s not a person. It’s an LLC called Pacific Partners. They’re a shell company in New Mexico, owned by something called Diversified Interests, in Nevada. Which is owned by Western Enterprises, in Wyoming. Confused yet?”

He said, “That’s the point.”

I took him on a tour of websites offering property for sale in Swann’s Flat.

“This is all autogenerated,” he said.

“For sure. Cut-and-paste copy, reused photos. The problem is it’s decentralized. There’s no contact person, just a bunch of corporations with bland names like Diamond Capital or Golden State Ventures. Trace the corporations, they end up in one of four places: Delaware, Nevada, Wyoming, and New Mexico. Those are the states that allow anonymous LLCs, and they’re using multiple layers. I submitted an inquiry, hoping I’d hear from someone, but all I got was a link to a form wanting my address, Social Security number, income, et cetera.”

He scrolled. Cursed quietly. “How is anyone falling for this?”

“I’m not and you’re not,” I said. “But we’re not who they’re targeting. The folks I spoke to had no investing experience. They lived far away and couldn’t easily make the trip. A lot of them don’t speak English very well. All they had to go on were pictures. You see the ocean and the price and imagine yourself in a beach house. Check this out.”

I opened up a popular real estate site and typed in Swann’s Flat.

A single result came back: 22 Black Sand Court.

Chris frowned. “Where’s the rest?”

“This is a private listing. Whoever is running the scam has opted out of MLS, so the properties don’t show up on the aggregators. For an ordinary seller, that’s a bad thing. You want to reach as many buyers as possible, to get a quick sale for the most money. That’s not the goal here. It’s about scale: Set out four thousand fishing poles. Use bait search terms: cheap California real estate or whatever. The form weeds out anyone savvy enough not to give out their personal information. Meanwhile they can wait for someone more naïve to come along and bite.”

“Like lola.”

“I wouldn’t be too harsh on her, Chris. I’m sure they gave her the hard sell. They had to, in those days, because everyone had to be sought out and pitched individually. Now it’s streamlined. Sit back and let the suckers flock to you.”

He pounded the desk lightly. “Oh man. It’s so messed up.”

“Yup. They’re making money at every stage. On the sale, on the fees, assessments, loans, interest. Another advantage they have is time. If I’ve sunk my life savings into this place and debt is piling up, I can’t wait around for years and years. I need to get out now. That’s where the deed transfer comes in. They get the property back for next to nothing and sell it all over again.”

“I just don’t understand why she kept paying them.”

“She had a dream. It’s hard to let that go. Or she was hoping for the price to rebound. Or she realized she made a mistake and was too embarrassed to tell anyone. It might not have occurred to her that she had the option to not pay. When honest people get bills, they pay them.”

He exhaled. “Okay. So what do we do?”

“I’ll tell you what I told you before: It depends on what you expect to get out of it.”

“You want me to let go of my dream.”

“I want you to sleep easy.”

“A name,” he said. “Can you at least get me that?”

“There’s one thread I’d like to pull. I have to warn you, it could start to get expensive.”

“I’m warned. What is it?”

“ML Corporate Solutions. By law, anyone doing business in California has to be reachable. If you want to hide your address, you can hire a registered agent, and they become you, for the purpose of serving process. Every one of these corporations selling property lists ML, or something close. The name keeps changing. It’s M-hyphen-L, or M-slash-L, or M-ampersand-L. Corporate Services or Corporate Agents or Business Solutions. The address is always in Swann’s Flat, but there’s a ton of them. I tried to figure out who owns them, and it’s another giant maze of bullshit. Which is strange: They’ve obviously gone to the trouble of covering their tracks. But they use the same signature. It’s almost like they’re bragging.”

“What’s your next step?”

“Head up there in person. Check out the addresses. See if I can get someone to talk to me. Like I said, it could get expensive. And I can’t promise anything.”

“You found Peter’s sister.”

“Every case is different.”

“You don’t want to do it?”

“I want to be up-front with you.”

“I wonder what it’s like,” he said. “Her land.”

“Like dirt, probably.”

He laughed despite himself. “Go for it. Pull the thread.”

His wasn’t the main authorization I needed.

Amy said, “How long will you be gone for?”

“I’m thinking two to three days. My mom can do drop-offs and pickup.”

“What about gymnastics?”

“Isn’t it Becca’s turn for carpool?”

“They’re away this week. We switched.”

“Shit. I forgot.”

“Do you want me to ask my mom?”

“Please. Thank you.”

Shopping, cooking, bills; the everyday give-and-take of a two-income household.

The next series of exchanges went beyond that.

Amy said, “Will you be careful?”

“Yes.”

“Will you communicate honestly with me, before, during, and after?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to carry a gun?”

“I’ll bring it, although there may be times I don’t have it on me.”

“Worst-case scenario.”

“I ask the wrong person the wrong question. They don’t like me poking around in their business. But I want to avoid spooking anyone, if for no other reason than I’ll get more information that way.”

“What do you do if you no longer feel safe?”

“I leave.”

The conversation had a practiced rhythm, having been hammered out over hours in couples therapy. And while it felt artificial, I understood the need for it.

I hadn’t always been careful.

Sometimes I’d lied.

Sitting on the couch, holding my wife’s hands, I tried to answer each question as if it were the first time she’d asked.

“One to ten,” she said, “how much do I have to worry?”

“I’m going to call it a two.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Two is a trip to the grocery store.”

“What’s one?”

“Sitting on the couch with me.”

“Three... point five?”

She looked me in the eye for a few moments. Finally she said, “I can handle that.”

“Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Can you refill my water, please?”

“It would be my honor and pleasure.”

When I returned she’d put on House Hunters International. She draped her legs across my lap and I began massaging her feet.

“Where are we tonight?” I asked.

“Madrid.”

“What’s our budget?”

“Eight hundred thousand.”

“You can’t get anything halfway decent for that.”

“Not if you want to be in the city center.”

“Otherwise what’s even the point?”

Amy smiled.

We watched to the end and she made her prediction: “Number three, ‘The Flat with Old-World Appeal.’ ”

On-screen, the couple said, “The Flat with Old-World Appeal.”

“How do you do that?” I asked.

“There’s always clues. You just have to pay attention.” She put down her drink. “Kiss me, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Chapter 7

On GPS the land around me was two pale green blocks, with Highway 101 wriggling between them like a poorly laid seam. I’d skipped the scenic coastal drive in favor of a more direct inland route through Sonoma and Mendocino.

Blackened trees haunted meadows vivid with post-wildfire regrowth; grassy fields gave way to tall coniferous forest; tourist traffic sloughed off till I was alone, tracing the bends of the Eel River, its banks high and dry in the stifling heat.

Most people — most Californians — forget about the top third of the state. In their minds the map stops at San Francisco. Tahoe, if you ski.

Dr. Dre said it best: It’s all good from Diego to the Bay.

Anywhere farther north might as well be Oregon. Naked hippies chanting Willie Nelson songs while tending fields of marijuana.

Entering Humboldt County I passed a string of borderless towns more name than place. Green light filtered through the redwoods, dappling the windshield as I weaved by derelict company housing and rusting mechanical hulls. Remnants of a timber industry come and gone.

Farmstands: raw milk, homemade cheese, organic CBD oil.

For over an hour I didn’t see another vehicle. Then a southbound oil truck blew past, rocking me in its wake.

The town of Millburg marked my turnoff, last call for fuel, food, and lodging. Retailers of all three occupied a single dusty block alongside other faded establishments. The elementary school, post office, fire station, and sheriff’s substation shared a parking lot. One-stop shopping.

Needing to stretch my legs, I gassed up and left the car parked at the Union 76 station, walking half a block to Fanny’s Market. A sign boasted Hot Coffee — Cold Beer — Ice Cream — Soda — Sandwiches. The air was woolen and smelled like a campfire.

An enormous bulletin board monopolized the market’s exterior wall.

Help Wanted. For Sale. Community Events.

The largest section was labeled Have You Seen Me?

Not cats and dogs and the odd escapee gerbil, but people, their pictures and vital information. The relevant authority; the number to call. Reward, if any.

The flyers were tacked up two and three deep, battered by heat and cold and sun, sagging inside protective plastic sleeves, the subjects’ facial features dissolving, as though their souls were leaching out. Californians, but also travelers from Arizona and Colorado, from New Jersey, even one from Germany. Several of the cases appeared to belong to other jurisdictions, and I wondered why they’d been posted here.

I pushed through the screen door.

The market was stuffy and dim. A fan purred uselessly behind the register, overseen by a paunchy middle-aged man wearing a Phish concert tee and working a crossword.

I dispensed coffee from a self-serve urn and filled a basket with snacks, taking care to avoid the rack of cannabis-infused baked goods.

The clerk laid his puzzle aside to ring me up.

“That’s an interesting bulletin board you got,” I said.

He nodded.

“Maybe I should leave a note with you for my loved ones,” I said. “Just in case.”

“Where you headed.”

“Swann’s Flat.”

“That so. Thirty-eight-sixty.”

I handed him cash. “I need a receipt, please.”

“Yuh. Can I ask what you’re driving?”

“It’s a RAV4.”

“Four-wheel drive?”

“No.”

“Uh-huh. Well. Keep it in low and take your time. Once you start, you’re committed.”

“I have to get there, one way or the other.”

He slapped down my change. “Let’s hope it’s not the other.”

Five minutes from town I was alone again, cruising west along two twisty lanes relieved by the occasional turnout or gravel spur. Ahead towered the broad back of the King Range. GPS predicted two hours to cover the final twenty-four miles. For the first nine of those I couldn’t understand what the big deal was.

At Blackberry Junction, Swann’s Flat Road splintered from the main highway, and a pockmarked sign issued from a thicket of manzanitas to admonish me.

I downshifted and trundled forward.

The paving contracted to a single lane before petering out into cratered dirt. The grade pitched up violently, the forest closed in, oaks and madrones and Douglas firs mobbing the roadside like bloodthirsty spectators. Branches knitted. Shadows spread. My tires spun in the soil and loose stones. I lost the horizon, then the sky. With them went any sense of orientation, leaving me switchbacking blindly through billowing khaki clouds, jouncing in my seat, mashing the horn at every turn to alert oncoming vehicles. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I did run up against someone. Back up? Move over? How? I had six inches of clearance to either side. On my left the earth formed a sheer wall bristling with roots thick as baseball bats. On my right it collapsed into a tangled gulch.

I climbed slowly, watching the temperature gauge tick upward.

GPS had frozen, as if I’d driven off the planet.

I was pouring sweat. I’d turned off the air conditioner to avoid overheating the engine, but when I cracked the windows dust flooded in, and I rushed to close them, steering with one hand as I hacked and sneezed and blinked tears down my cheeks.

Cresting a ridge into dazzling light, I glimpsed bright, turbulent water.

Then the grade plummeted and I plunged downhill, picking up unwanted speed, braking, skidding, struggling to correct, gravity taking over and the car a two-ton anchor to which I was strapped. I’d given up honking. I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. I simply had to ride it out.

Ten terrifying helpless minutes ended in a trough with a bone-rattling bang.

I jammed into park and threw off my seatbelt, sucking air.

When my head cleared I saw that I was at the bottom of a valley. A log bridge spanned the dry creek bed. Redwoods blotted out the sun. The foliage beneath grew stunted and waxy, a vast, rumpled carpet of wood sorrel and ferns, bark and leaves and needles and dirt and stone.

Across the bridge the grade spiked again. I shifted into gear, my heart pounding in dread. I had eleven more miles of this; eleven nauseating yo-yo miles of basin and range.

Up, up, up.

And down.

I’d traveled to other forbidding places — the Utah desert, the remote reaches of Yosemite Valley, where tourists never venture — and the same thought always occurred to me.

How did anyone ever find this?

Two hours was starting to feel awfully optimistic.

At mile eight, crawling around a particularly gnarly hairpin, I came to a roadside cross.

I stopped, grateful for the break, and got out.

Wooden crucifix, the inscription burned in.

A Jack Daniel’s bottle stood nearby, neck sawn off to form a vase stuffed with dead flowers. The bottom was scummy and crawling with insects.

The memorial had been set perilously close to the edge. No choice. Otherwise it would obstruct traffic. At the same time, the placement seemed like an invitation to tempt fate. The cliffside was uneven, bitten by wind and rain. Craning, I saw a vicious slope of exposed sedimentary rock with nothing to break a fall.

I tossed a stone. It bounced, spun off into space, and sank into the void far below. I couldn’t hear it land.

At mile eleven, I reached the last and highest ridgeline.

The world tore open.

To the north, to the south, the coast stretched in a jagged ribbon. Whitecaps detonated against crags of black rock. The Pacific Coast baring its teeth.

It was a crude, ax-hewn land, bunched like the front end of a head-on collision, steep and inhospitable but for a squarish peninsula knuckling into the sea.

Swann’s Flat.

I’d spent so much time studying it on a computer screen that it looked fake in real life.

Four miles wide, two miles deep, crisscrossed by black-green belts and hemmed in by soaring granite bluffs. The highly touted beach was a slender cove at the southwest corner. Adjacent was the marina, where the inn and boat launch were located.

Modest progress had occurred since Elvira Dela Cruz’s time. From my vantage I could pick out twenty-five or thirty structures, spaced far apart, lurking through the trees or plonked down in the open. The largest were situated along a prominent boulevard that ran parallel to the waterfront. Other than that, the street plan was scribbly and erratic, as if it had been laid out in crayon by a toddler.

I began my descent.

The grade relaxed and the canopy thinned, redwoods giving way to alders and pines, chokecherry and incense cedar. Trails periodically broke off into the woods. They didn’t look especially well groomed. I’d have to take it up with the Swann’s Flat Resort Area.

Paving reappeared. Power lines came loping out of nowhere.

I crossed another bridge, wider and better maintained.

Wikipedia had given the number of residents as thirteen. Evidently there had been some attrition, but no one had gotten around to updating the entry. At ground level, I could no longer see clear to the ocean, though I could read its influence in the back-slanting tree trunks, blasted by relentless onshore winds. Lowering the window, I gulped a mouthful of salt.

My intention had been to start by running down addresses. GPS was still paralyzed and my cell showed no bars. I meandered at five miles per hour through a warren of streets named quaintly for local flora and fauna. Pepperwood Way. Screech Owl Court.

Block after empty block.

There was plenty of movement — the agitated thrashing of the pines, the furtive sorties of rodents, rabbits, quail.

Yet it felt barren.

Hostile.

Plastic lot markers sprouted in the weeds, heedless of reality.

Mocking it.

Numerous dead ends and wrong turns delivered me to the western edge of the peninsula, Beachcomber Boulevard. Misnomer: There wasn’t any beach to comb, just a tarnished railing and a sheer drop to the rocks. Waves boiled in the hollows, gulls plunged screeching into ruffled blue silk.

I would have expected the lots closest to the water to be intensively developed, but the area remained largely raw, a battleground for native and invasive species: reed grasses and fescue, bright California poppies. Seaside woolly sunflowers, the zombie creep of ice plant.

Half a mile south I came to the first house.

What a house it was.

Three stories of white clapboard and storm shutters, fronted by a veranda and topped by a satellite dish, enjoying an unobstructed ocean view and occupying its own territorial ocean: forest, fields, a sheep pen, a barn, light farm machinery.

I was ogling, foot on the brake, when something tickled my peripheral vision.

A figure wearing a unisuit, helmet, and sunglasses zipped past on a bicycle, hand raised in greeting.

I started to return the gesture but the person was already a dot in my rearview.

I drove on, coming to another mansion, even grander. Then a third, more like the first.

One mile later Beachcomber terminated at a sad, cracked plaza.

The marina, such as it was.

Something had run out. Money, faith, or both.

Four boats sat on trailers in a rippling asphalt lot overlooking the water. A concrete strip wrapped down to the cove and widened out to become the launch. The bait kiosk was shuttered.

The inn, a weather-beaten Victorian, bore the curious name of Counts Hotel.

I slotted in beside the only two vehicles parked out front: a black, mud-spattered Range Rover and a red Ford F-150. The truck had a wheel lift mounted in the bed. Stenciled on the door was Pelman Auto Service.

Grabbing my bag, I hurried up the steps through a stinging wind.

A bell jangled as I entered. The theme was nautical: navigational instruments, charts, fish trophies. A chandelier fashioned from rope and ship’s lanterns drooled weak light over the unoccupied dining room. Black-and-white photos tiled the splintery walls.

Two scruffy guys in their mid-thirties sat at the bar drinking beer. They stopped talking to peer at me. A third man, older and grizzled, gripped a tumbler of ice and gazed lovingly at the sticky mahogany.

Scruffy Guy One lifted his mug to me.

I nodded, and he resumed the conversation with his buddy. I picked up enough to get the gist. Virtues of the .338 Winchester Mag versus a .30–06 for elk.

Behind the bar, saloon doors led to the kitchen. A woman in her fifties bustled through, drying her hands on her apron. She had flushed cheeks and a gin blossom nose and was built like a Viking queen.

She took a stubby pencil from over her ear. “Name your poison.”

“I wanted to ask about a room.”

“How many nights?”

“Can I see it first?”

She replaced the pencil, raised the hinged bar top, and led me upstairs to a mildewy room lacking a TV. Ticking puffed from the bedspread. The nightstand listed. A bookcase held a motley collection of casual reads: coffee-table books, cookbooks, thrillers.

Shabby without the chic.

By far the best feature was a bay window, its panes smeared with salt, giving a view of the cove and roiling waters along the southern coast. A bistro table and two chairs conjured romantic visions of honeymooners in terry-cloth robes, holding hands and sipping coffee as the day dawned. All that was missing was the robes, the coffee, the couple, and the romance.

“Bathroom?” I asked.

“End of the hall,” she said.

“Wi-Fi?”

“You want that, go to Millburg.”

“What counts about the hotel?”

“It’s my name,” she said. “Jenelle Counts. It comes from German. Kuntz. Art.”

I picked up the landline. A dial tone, praise the Lord. “How much?”

“Six hundred a night. Comes with breakfast.”

I managed to keep my poker face. “Works for me.”

She smiled sourly. “Welcome to Swann’s Flat.”

Chapter 8

Downstairs, Jenelle Counts and I traded cash for a key.

I said, “Do you have a map I could look at?”

She pointed into the dining room, toward the gallery wall.

The photographs documented the evolution of the peninsula over the last hundred thirty years. Pure ranchland. A logging camp. The marina and cove during a more prosperous era, complete with an intact pier, ships bobbing as they waited to take on cargo.

A yellowing developer’s brochure, unfolded and staples removed, depicted the street plan.

The brochure’s styling placed it from the sixties. The street names were tiny and hard to read. I squinted at countless neighborhood blocks, as well as features that had never come to fruition: a golf course, an airstrip, playgrounds.

Behind me a voice said, “A stranger comes to town.”

Scruffy Guy One had sauntered over. Flannel shirt, Bass Pro Shops cap with a fringe of dirty-blond hair poking out. Nice-looking in a rough-hewn way.

He straightened a grainy photo of a horse: muscular and proud, mane whipped up by wind, so that it seemed to be flying.

“General Sherman. He was the mail horse for twenty-five years. They’d load him up and he’d run riderless to Millburg and back.”

He smiled. Strong white teeth. A small chip in his left lateral incisor gave him an aw-shucks quality — not Deliverance so much as Will Rogers.

I smiled back. “True story, huh.”

“I mean, who’s gonna argue?”

“Not the horse.”

He chuckled. “No, sir.”

I pointed to the photo of the marina. “What happened to the pier?”

“Washed away. We get some pretty hellacious storms come winter. Matter of fact, there’s more than a couple wrecks out there. They say if you listen late at night, you can hear the sailors crying out for help.”

He winked and extended a hand. “Beau Bergstrom.”

“Clay Gardner.”

“Pleased to meetcha, Mr. Gardner. What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“Passing through.”

“Where from?”

“Bay Area.”

“Terrific. Where to?”

“Not sure. Just getting away from it all.”

“Well.” Beau grinned. “You’re away now.”

“No kidding. Nobody warned me about that road.”

Scruffy Guy Two piped up: “She’s a doozy.”

Roundish face, sloped shoulders, hairline in early retreat. He read as a little younger, a lot less poised, than his compatriot.

“I might be stuck here permanently,” I said.

Beau said, “I can think of worse places.” He waved at the brochure. “Looking for something in particular?”

“I was planning to explore a little.”

“I’d be happy to show you around, if you’re interested.”

“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“No inconvenience.”

Scruffy Guy Two said, “Beau’s the head of the welcome committee.”

Beau jerked a thumb. “And DJ’s the village idiot.”

DJ said, “Can’t have a village without one.”

“All kidding aside, I do some guiding,” Beau said.

“Oh yeah?” I asked. “Like what?”

“Hunting, fishing, bird-watching, hiking.”

“He’s writing a book,” DJ said.

“Nice,” I said. “Like a guidebook?”

“More local history,” Beau said. “And I don’t know I’d call it a book. Right now it’s just a big mess of notes. Don’t ask when it’ll be done.”

“When’ll it be done, Beau?” DJ hollered.

The solitary older man at the bar cleared his throat, the first sign that he was fully conscious.

Beau said, “And what is it you do, Mr. Gardner, down in the great Bay Area, that you need to get away from?”

“I’m in finance.”

“Hence the need to get away.”

“You guys grew up around here,” I said.

“Born and raised,” DJ said.

“They’ll have to take me out feetfirst,” Beau said.

The older man set down his glass with a clack. “Let’s go.”

I thought he was talking to himself. But DJ shotgunned his beer and followed the older man toward the exit. I noticed then the family resemblance.

“See ya, Beau,” DJ said.

“Take it easy, gents.”

They left, jangling the bell.

“Anyway,” Beau said to me, “I should get a move on, myself. I’ll leave you my number.”

He motioned to Jenelle. There was something patronizing about the gesture — as if she were a hired hand. She looked none too pleased, but she complied, setting out a napkin and giving him the pencil.

“You need anything,” Beau said, scribbling, “don’t hesitate.”

“Appreciate it.”

“You have yourself a delightful day. Jenelle.”

She nodded, and he went out.

I pocketed the napkin and started for the stairs.

She said, “Hungry?”

“Maybe later, thanks.”

“Kitchen closes at seven.”

“Okay. Can I ask you something? How’s Beau, as a tour guide?”

She dumped ice into the sink. “He’s the only show in town.”

I used the landline to leave Amy a voicemail, letting her know that I’d arrived safely.

“There’s no cell service,” I said, reciting the number taped to the phone. “I’m stepping out soon but I’ll try again later. Love you.”

I put my bag on the bed and unlocked it.

Clothes for four days. Laptop. My fieldwork camera, a Canon EOS. Ballistic vest.

Gun case with two firearms: my SIG Sauer P320 and a smaller model, the P365, that I prefer for concealed carry.

After a moment’s contemplation, I took the Canon and left the rest.

Downstairs Jenelle Counts was clattering around in the kitchen. I photographed the developer’s map, checking it against my list of addresses and plotting a route.

First stop: Swann’s Flat Resort Area and ML Corporate Solutions.

Monkeyflower Drive was way over on the northeast side of the peninsula, catercorner to the marina. Even so, at a total distance of less than five miles, it shouldn’t have taken me more than ten minutes to get there. It took twenty-five.

The map, it turned out, was a fantasy. At least half the lots and streets had been redrawn or renamed. Other streets were unfinished and died without warning. The missing amenities had been filled in with other lots and other streets, and the sadist who’d done the urban planning had an unhealthy fondness for claustrophobic cul-de-sacs. I had to keep switching my attention from the road to the camera. Once I almost drove into a culvert.

I was already feeling put out as I turned onto Monkeyflower Drive and began counting lot markers. Toward the end of the block, genuine anger began to curdle.

Number 134 — home to Swann’s Flat Resort Area, the entity responsible for trail grooming, that had accepted fifty thousand dollars from Marisol Santos Salvador and six thousand dollars from Elvira Dela Cruz and God knew how much else from God knew how many other people — was an empty lot.

Number 136, home to ML Corporate Solutions, was almost as empty. But not quite.

There was a mailbox.

In the middle of a field of waist-high grass.

Surrounded by a chain-link fence.

Padlocked.

I walked the length and breadth of both properties, shooting photos and video. This far inland, wind was less of a presence, and the dominant sound came from cicadas.

Ordinarily I would have canvassed the neighbors. There weren’t any.

While it felt a bit absurd to be documenting nothing and nobody, the absence was itself evidence. It’s a peculiar feature of our legal system that you have to hand someone a document in order to serve them.

There was no one here to accept papers.

What process server in his right mind would drive out here to begin with?

I hopped the fence at 136 and waded through the grass, swinging at gnats. The earth was pitted with gopher holes, and I went carefully, leery of stepping on a snake or tripping and injuring my bum knee.

The mailbox was a standard-issue size, made of galvanized steel and affixed to a wooden post. Peel-and-stick lettering read 136 MLCS. They hadn’t bothered to sink the post into the ground; it stood crookedly in a plastic bucket filled with cement.

I opened the box. Spiders.

Footsteps behind me.

I spun, reaching for the gun I’d left behind.

In the road stood a mule deer and two fawns.

I raised the camera to take a photo for Charlotte, but the animals bounded into the brush and vanished.

Next stop was Elvira Dela Cruz’s lot at 71 Sea Otter Lane.

It was a disaster. Worse than she’d described. The hole was more like a ravine, crumbling and filled with boulders.

I further made explicit to Ms. Dela Cruz that those images are meant to give a sense of the geology and biodiversity of the region as a whole, rather than referring to any plot in particular.

I couldn’t see the ocean. I couldn’t see a sunset or any jumping dolphins, either.

Abalone Court lay near the middle of the peninsula, and Marisol Santos Salvador’s lot at number 8 was wooded but flattish, with a partial view of the bluffs. Far better than Elvira’s. Marisol might never have realized her dream, but she hadn’t been a complete sucker.

I doubted Chris Villareal would find any comfort in that.

I spent the afternoon zigzagging to addresses associated with ML. At every one I found the same setup: mailbox on a post, chain link prohibiting access. The pattern of flagrant disregard gave me hope that I could build a case, and I recorded each location dutifully in images and words.

Occasionally I passed a house. Cupping my eyes to windows, I saw unlit rooms with scant or no furniture.

A car was parked outside 31 Quail Lane.

Acura MDX. Arizona plates.

I knocked.

The curtains stirred, and a woman peered out.

I smiled and waved.

She withdrew. Moments later, a man opened the door. The woman stood behind him, looking tense. They were both Asian, in their late twenties, dressed in outdoors gear.

“Yes?” the man said.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said. “I just got to town. Do you live here?”

“Airbnb,” the woman said.

“Any chance I can get contact info for the person you’re renting from? I need a place to stay.”

“I don’t have it on hand,” the man said.

“Would you mind checking the reservation?”

“Sorry,” the man said. “We have to go.”

He shut the door.

The sun was low as I headed toward my final stop. I felt ready to throw in the towel. I’d been up since four, was tired and hungry, and I wanted to speak to Amy before she got sucked into the chaos of evening routine.

Number 22 Black Sand Court, located in the peninsula’s heavily forested southeastern quadrant, had the distinction of being the one and only finished home for sale in Swann’s Flat. It was also unique in that the seller was an individual rather than a corporation. His name was Albert Bock, and I figured that he might be able to provide an insider’s perspective on what it was like to buy, build, live, and sell in Swann’s Flat.

I turned onto his block.

The place was a fortress.

To the extent that I could see it. Which wasn’t much. The sharp peak of a roofline rose behind a solid wooden fence, ten feet high and topped by two more feet of lattice densely woven with vines. Crowning that, rusty razor wire. And behind it all, even higher bamboo.

I approached the front gate. Behind it a dog began barking madly. A security camera cast its blank eye on me.

I rang the buzzer and knocked. The barking got louder.

I rang again, waved to the camera. “Mr. Bock? Anyone home?”

The gate shook as the dog snarled and clawed and hurled itself against the wood.

I followed the fence toward a gravel driveway. I could hear the dog snuffling, tracking me.

Tall swinging doors blocked the driveway. They were bolted from the inside and gave about an inch. Close-packed cedars and pines eliminated any sightline to the house. Though I did get a good close-up of a black snout and gnashing teeth.

I jogged to my car for pen and paper, writing that I was interested in Mr. Bock’s property and would be in town for a few days, staying at the hotel. I signed Clay Gardner and added the email address I’d created as part of my cover.

I didn’t see a mailbox or slot. I wedged the note between the gate door and the frame.

A loud pop rang out.

Initially I didn’t perceive the sound as a gunshot. My mind read it as a snapping branch.

The second shot cleared up any confusion, decapitating my passenger-side mirror.

I ran, diving into the driver’s seat and punching the Start button. Pressed flat against the console, I shifted into reverse and gunned it down the block; swung around, hit Drive, and stomped the gas.

In the rearview I saw a man emerge from the woods, a long gun propped on his shoulder, his features effaced by glare.

Chapter 9

I put a healthy distance between him and me and pulled over to assess the damage.

The mirror dangled on wires, its plastic neck shattered. Examining the side of the car, I couldn’t find the scrape left by a passing bullet, which meant that he’d been shooting straight-on, from somewhere in the trees to the left of the front gate.

If he’d hit what he was aiming for, it was a hell of a shot.

What do you do if you no longer feel safe?

I leave.

The sun was dropping fast. I doubted I could make it to the main highway before nightfall, and driving that dirt road in the dark was suicidal.

I rationalized.

He could’ve fired at me as I was getting away. He hadn’t.

He wanted me off his property. That was all.

But what if?

My note told him where to find me.

Visions of a lunatic, kicking open the hotel door and blasting away like some deranged parody of a Western movie.

My gut tightened.

I disconnected the wires, stashed the mirror in the footwell, and drove to the marina, parking at the hotel and crossing the plaza toward the boat lot.

I’d give it some time, see if he showed up.

The wind had slackened as evening came on. I jogged down the ramp to the cove. The concrete was steep and slick with sand. Low tide revealed remnants of the pier, rotted pilings that gasped to the surface between waves.

A woman stood on the beach. She was heavyset, with a blunt gray bob, clad in a matronly skirt and a fisherman’s sweater. She smiled at me and went back to watching the sunset.

I gave her a respectful margin.

The sky had separated into layers, a band of molten brass at the horizon and above it steel wool shot through with iridescent fuchsia. Blood-red water lapped at the rocks. Into this luminous scrim were cut the silhouettes of landforms, cliffs and trees, coal-black lumps of coastline.

The world as negative space.

The woman humped over to join me, natural as can be.

“Never gets old,” she said.

“How could it?”

“Most folks take things for granted.”

“That’s why most folks are unhappy,” I said.

She nodded. Pointed west. “See that?”

“What am I seeing?”

She cackled. “Japan.”

I laughed.

“Maggie Penrose,” she said.

“Clay Gardner.”

“Where from?”

“Bay Area.”

“How long are you in for?”

Seeing me hesitate, she tilted her head. “Everything all right?”

“Sort of. I was out for a drive and someone shot at me.”

“Oh jeez. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. But he knocked the mirror off my car.”

“How awful,” she said. “Did you see who it was?”

“I was looking at a house on Black Sand Court.”

“Ah. That’d be Al.”

“You know him.”

“I know everyone and they know me. Nature of the beast.”

“I’m trying to decide whether to call the police.”

The idea appeared to amuse her. “Feel free. Don’t expect them anytime soon, though.”

“That’s unnerving.”

She shrugged. “We don’t need them. We look out for each other. It wouldn’t work any other way.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It is. I grew up looking over my shoulder. Now I keep my door unlocked and my keys in the ignition. It’s that kind of town.”

“Al’s door is most definitely locked,” I said.

“I’ll have a word with him.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Well and good, but we can’t have him going around scaring the pants off the tourists.”

“Really,” I said. “I don’t want to upset him worse.”

“Al? He’s harmless.”

I looked at her.

“In a manner of speaking,” she said. “He just likes his privacy. But as you wish.”

The sun had sunk into the water. From her skirt pocket she withdrew an LED headlamp.

She tightened it on her forehead phylacteryishly and switched it on. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

She humped up the ramp, headlamp bobbing.

I waited for the brass band to cool before heading up to the plaza.

All quiet on the western front.

In my hotel room I phoned Amy from the landline.

She was fine, the kids were fine, my mom was being a huge help.

“She’s with you right now, isn’t she,” I said.

“Mm-hm.”

“Can I talk to them?”

“Hang on, I’ll put you on speaker... Say hello to Daddy.”

“Hi everyone,” I said.

“Daddy, I can’t see you,” Charlotte said.

“It’s a phone call, not a video,” Amy said. “You can talk to him.”

“Daddy, I had a great day.”

“That’s great,” I said. “Tell me about it.”

“I made Foodland.”

“Wow. That sounds amazing. What’s Foodland?”

“Daddy,” she said patiently. “It’s a land for food.”

“Right, how silly of me. Is Myles there? Buddy?”

“He’s smiling at the phone,” Amy said.

“Hi, Clay,” my mother said.

“Hi, Mom. Thanks for taking care of everyone.”

“You’re welcome. Are you having fun?”

“Sure am. Honey, do you have a second?”

“Let me call you once they’re in bed,” Amy said.

“You have the number?”

“I wrote it down. Say good night to Daddy, everyone.”

“Good night, Daddy.”

“I love you,” I said.

“Talk soon,” Amy said and hung up.

I took a towel down the hall to shower. I was dusty and grubby and sore from hours of driving. Running my hands over my scalp I became aware of the seam of scar tissue. Another scar — shorter, thicker, and uglier — bunched atop my right thigh, the flesh like eraser rubber. I had ceased to see or feel them, and I’d buried the memory of the night I got them: the last time someone had taken a shot at me.

When I got to the room the phone was ringing.

I picked up. “That was fast.”

“Your mom’s dealing with them,” Amy said. “What’s wrong?”

She knew. She always did.

I told her.

She said, “You’re not hurt.”

“The mirror’s fucked, but I’m fine.”

“Okay. First, thank you for being honest with me.”

“Of course.”

“You’re sure you can’t leave tonight?”

“I’m telling you. Even in daylight, this road is an accident waiting to happen.”

“How soon can you go?”

“Dawn.”

“Can you call the police?”

“I’ve been told they don’t show up.”

“How is that possible? You call and they just ignore you?”

“Honey,” I said. “You work in Oakland.”

She let out a nervous titter. “I’m a little upset that you weren’t wearing your vest.”

“I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I was mostly in the car, and there’s next to no one out on the streets. But you’re right.”

She didn’t answer.

“Amy? Did I lose you?”

“I’m here,” she said. “You don’t want to leave. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“I told you I would and I will.”

“I’m asking what you want.”

“I could use more time. But I don’t want you to worry.”

“I’m already worried.” She sighed. “How much longer do you think you’ll need?”

“It’s hard to tell. I’ve only been here a few hours.”

“And people are already shooting at you. What if this maniac decides to come after you?”

“I don’t think that’s likely.”

“Based on what?”

“He had a clear shot at me as I was driving away,” I said. “He didn’t take it.”

“So what? He could change his mind.”

“He doesn’t have a reason to.”

“Did he have a reason the first time?”

“I was snooping around his property. He was scaring me away. Another person I spoke to told me he’s harmless.”

“Oh well, that’s extremely reassuring.”

I laughed. She started laughing, too.

“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” she said.

“Me neither.”

“What is this place?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s super weird. The whole town’s like a stage set. This guy at the bar struck up a conversation with me and next thing I know he’s volunteering to be my tour guide. Would you do that for someone you’d just met?”

“I wouldn’t do it for someone I dearly loved. Does he want money?”

“Probably. I don’t imagine they get too many outsiders.”

“I’m sure they don’t, if they reach for a gun every time someone rings a doorbell.” She sighed again. “Okay. You can stay. With certain conditions. First, you cannot go near that guy.”

“No desire.”

“You have to wear your vest, too. That’s non-negotiable.”

“I will.”

“I want you to check in with me every hour.”

“That limits me pretty severely. I can only call from the room.”

“Then you have to tell me where you’re going and how long you’ll be out of contact.”

“I can do that. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And there’s one more condition. You owe me a massage when you get back.”

“As many as you want. It is beautiful here, I’ll give it that. I wish you were with me.”

“I’m sure you do,” she said. “With another target you’d be splitting the risk.”

“Amy—”

“Hey,” she said. “This is me coping with stress.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll order a vest in my size,” she said.

I laughed. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Good night.”

I pressed the hookswitch, fished out the napkin with Beau Bergstrom’s number, dialed.

“Yeeellow.”

“Beau, it’s Clay Gardner. We met earlier.”

“Hey hey. What’s the good word?”

“If you’re free tomorrow, I’ll take you up on that tour.”

“For you, sir, I am free as a bird. What’s your fancy?”

“You mentioned a hike.”

“There’s a beauty, runs up along the railroad tracks.”

“How long is it?”

“Eight miles, out and back.”

“About how long will that take?”

I’d asked because I needed to tell Amy when to expect my call. But Beau seemed to interpret the question as a sign of weakness. In a tone half needling, half encouraging, he said, “You’re a fit guy, you’ll be fine.”

“I just want to know how much water to bring.”

“Figure five hours, plus time for lunch. What do you say?”

“Sounds good.”

“It’s a date, then,” Beau said. “We should start before it gets too hot. Seven o’clock?”

“I’ll be ready.”

“And don’t worry about water or food or nothing, I’ll take care of that.”

“Thanks very much.”

“You, sir, are very welcome. See you in the morning.”

It was nine thirty p.m. I’d missed the window for kitchen service.

I unknotted the bag of snacks I’d bought at Fanny’s Market.

Chips, pretzels, mixed nuts, beef jerky.

PI health food.

I downed a couple of protein bars, typed up the day’s notes, and got ready for bed.

Lying in the dark with the curtains drawn, I listened to the wind howl and the shutters groan, rocks colliding in the surf, like the bones of a sinking ship, the screams of drowning men.

Chapter 10

Despite my exhaustion, I slept poorly, waking often to imaginary gunfire. Each time, I stumbled to the bay window, parted the curtain a few inches, and peered out at the deserted, moonlit plaza. By five a.m. sleep was a lost cause.

It was too early to call Amy. I put on sweats.

The hallway smelled of coffee, and when I went downstairs, I heard Jenelle puttering around the kitchen, country music playing softly.

“Hello?” she called.

“Morning.”

She emerged. “You’re up early. Did you sleep all right?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

“Milk and sugar?”

“Please.”

She brought a mug. “Breakfast won’t be ready for a little while. If I’da known I would’ve had it waiting for you.”

“It’s not a problem. Do you have any duct tape? I need to fix something.”

“If it’s the towel rod, just shove it into the socket.”

“Not that.”

She looked at me curiously. “Gimme a minute.”

She disappeared through the saloon doors, returning with a roll of tape. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

“Will you need the room again tonight?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Checkout is noon. After that I’ll have to charge you for another day.”

“I’m meeting Beau. I think we’ll be back by about one. Can I let you know then?”

She nodded, and I thanked her and took the tape outside.

Fog smothered the plaza. Cormorants wheeled against a leaden sky.

I retrieved the mirror unit from the footwell and set to reattaching it.

The bell jangled. Jenelle Counts appeared on the porch. “You hit a deer or something?”

“Something like that.”

She watched me for a minute, arms crossed, then went inside.

Breakfast wasn’t a six-hundred-dollar room perk, but it was ample: eggs, bacon, biscuits and gravy. I was starving, and Jenelle kept refilling my plate till I waved the white flag and went to dress.

Cargo pants, trail shoes; a lightweight shirt, cut baggy to hide the ballistic vest and the P365 in an IWB holster. False buttons and a magnetic closure allowed for quick access. In the mirror I saw a suburban dad who had never stalked anything deadlier than the aisles at Home Depot. The look didn’t quite square with Clay Gardner’s mover-and-shaker money-guy persona. But it would have to do.

At six thirty I called Amy. Wails filled the line.

“Please, Charlotte,” she said. “He was playing with that.”

“But it’s mine.”

“You weren’t using it, and in this house we share our toys. Please give it to him.”

“He doesn’t share with me.”

“I hear that you’re upset, and I’m happy to talk to you about it once I’ve had a chance to speak to Daddy. Right now, please give the truck back to Myles.”

“No.”

“One. Two.”

“Fine.”

A crash. Stomps. The wailing got louder as Amy picked Myles up.

“Good morning,” she said.

I said, “What happens if you get to three?”

“You don’t want to find out. How are you? Has anyone shot at you yet?”

“No, but it’s early,” I said. “What about you? Get any sleep?”

“Not enough.”

I heard a tinny beep beep beep.

“Ba,” Myles said.

“That’s right, cookie,” Amy said. “The truck says beep... What’s on tap for today?”

“I’m hiking with my friend the tour guide. I have the vest on and I’m carrying. I should be back in the room by early afternoon.”

“Thank you. Please call me when you are.”

“I will. I love you. Have a good day.”

“You too. Stay safe.”

At five to seven I came down to find Beau seated at the bar in hiking shorts and a faded purple T-shirt.

“Top of the morning,” he said. “Heck happened to your car?”

“The mirror came loose.”

“Oof. You want, I can call DJ for you. He’ll fix it right up.”

I thought about Elvira Dela Cruz, dunned four hundred dollars for coolant. “It’s a rental.”

“You get the extra insurance?”

“I’m covered under my regular policy.”

“Smart. Those things are a rip-off. Okey doke,” he said, clapping. “Since you’re a man of culture, I thought we’d start here.”

He led me to the gallery wall, gave a magician’s flourish, and launched into a monologue, using the photos for illustration. Sheep grazing in the meadows. Grimy, hollow-eyed men in overalls, brandishing saws beside a vanquished redwood whose width exceeded their combined height. A pygmy steam engine dragging a wagonload of logs.

“Tracks used to run to the pier. Cove’s too tight for ships to pull up, so there was a lumber chute off the end. They call it a dog-hole port, ’cause it’s so small only a dog could turn around in it.”

Next: the Reverend Dr. Everett Swann, town namesake and mill owner, godly white beard, undertaker’s suit.

A volunteer spotter with binoculars patrolled the beach for Japanese aircraft or submarines.

That this spiel was so clearly canned didn’t make it any less entertaining. Beau narrated with gusto, winking and nudging and peppering in ironic jokes.

“Miss Vicki Jo Pelman, Queen of the Salmon, 1975. Yes, indeedy: DJ’s grandma; Dave’s mom. Seeing them two baboons, you’d never guess what a looker she was... ’Course she didn’t have much in the way of competition. Anyone who comes to Swann’s Flat in search of single women is barking up the wrong redwood.”

A showman, through and through.

“What’s the deal with the map?” I asked. “I was driving around and kept getting lost.”

“Now there’s one to break your heart. Mill shut down in the mid-fifties. After that everyone cleared out. For about ten, fifteen years it was more or less a ghost town. Everett’s son, Charlie, he dreamed up the idea to turn it into a vacation spot. He starts the pageant, buys ads, lines up investors, the whole nine. Even got the county to chip in for improvements. Then the Coastal Commission comes hollering about this dang limpet, only grows between here and Point Delgada. They sued to block. Charlie was fighting them for years, getting bled dry. One day he wakes up, takes his rifle to the cove, and blows his brains out.”

“Oh my God.”

Beau nodded somberly. “And on that note.”

He smiled and gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

The Range Rover was a stick shift, and as we reached the outskirts of town and hit the entry road, I braced for a wild ride. But Beau was graceful on the clutch, shifting and banking through gusts of white fog, anticipating potholes and rocks. He could have had his eyes closed.

A mile up he pulled to the shoulder and set the parking brake. Sword ferns nodded. I didn’t see any trail, groomed or otherwise.

While I doused myself in bug spray, he opened the trunk, taking a stout-barreled revolver from a gun safe. He strapped it on, handed me a canteen, and shouldered his backpack.

“Vamanos,” he said and marched into the woods.

Over the next hour, we hiked uphill, straddling mossed logs, stepping over roots and scat piles, while Beau delivered an unbroken stream of homespun patter.

Legends from before the white man. Colorful local lore.

Interspersed were episodes from his own free and easy childhood. He’d shot a mountain lion once.

“You tend to see them early in the morning or close to dusk. They’re skittish. They hear you coming and take off. This time, it’s the middle of the day, I’m strolling along, minding my own business. Bam, there she is.”

“That is terrifying.”

“Oh yeah. I was pissing my pants.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten or eleven.”

“Holy shit.”

“I basically lived out here as a kid,” he said. “Nothing really scared me. But man, I tell you... She musta been starving to be out in the open at that hour. She was crouching on a rock, and I can see her eyes narrowing. You don’t want to run, ’cause that sets off the predatory instinct. What you’re supposed to do is stand your ground, wave your arms, yell, get big, throw rocks. She didn’t give two farts. She hops down and starts creeping toward me. I sure as heck wasn’t going to outrun her. So I did what I had to do.” He clucked his tongue. “Right between the eyes.”

“You hit her the first time?”

“I was a pretty good shot, even then. I used to carry this itty-bitty Glock 26.”

“What about now?”

Bergstrom stopped to unholster the revolver. “S&W500.”

“Beast.”

“Oh yeah. Stop a bear. The recoil’s a bitch. Take your arm off, you aren’t ready for it.” He glanced at me. “Wanna try?”

“...Me?”

“I don’t see anyone else around.”

“I mean. Is that allowed?”

“Why not? It’s not like you’re gonna hit anyone.” He paused. “ ’Less you’re one of those gun control guys.”

“No. Not... It’s a complicated issue. No offense.”

“None taken. So let’s carpe diem.”

I said, “Okay.”

Kindly smile. “You never shot a gun before.”

“Not really.”

“All righty. Lesson one. Go on. She won’t bite.”

I accepted the revolver, aware of the other gun strapped to my body.

“See that alder over there? With the knot? That’s your target. Line it up and take a couple of deep breaths. You’re waiting for the space between one breath and the next. And you’re not going to pull, you’re going to squeeze. Got it? Safety off. When you’re ready.”

The report was deafening, like a bomb going off. Crows exploded from the treetops.

Bergstrom reached over and thumbed on the safety.

“Did I hit it?” I said.

“Close. You want to try again?”

“That’s okay.”

He took back the gun. “Feels good, right?”

“Yeah. It does.”

“Can’t do that in the great Bay Area.”

“You’d be surprised.”

He laughed. “All right, soldier. Move out.”

By hour two the fog had burned off. A pair of corroded iron rails surfaced through the soil: the abandoned logging tracks. We followed them as they snaked alongside a gully. Beneath my shirt, the holster was chafing, the vest clammy. Beau apologized for talking my ear off, switching from boosterism to male chitchat. Work, family, sports, hobbies, cars, travel.

I drew on Clay Gardner’s backstory.

Married, no kids, Berkeley graduate, MBA.

Tennis. Skiing. Hawaii and Cabo and Tahoe.

“What do you drive, when you’re not driving a rental?”

“Tesla.”

“Model?”

“S.”

“Happy with it?”

“Point A to point B,” I said. “Lease is up in a year, got my eye on a Porsche Taycan.”

My answers appeared to satisfy him: He expected no less from a man like me. On the off chance he double-checked, he’d find corroboration on Clay Gardner’s fictitious LinkedIn, Instagram, and Facebook accounts.

Gradually we began to diverge from the tracks. Keep with them, Beau said, and you’d come to the abandoned mill — a site worth visiting in its own right, but best kept for another day. He had something else in mind.

“Not long now,” he said.

Whatever landmark he was using was invisible to me. He veered through the trees, and we arrived at a clearing, where I beheld one of the most astonishing sights I’d ever seen: a grove of redwoods shaped like giant candelabras. Each tree started as a single thick trunk before forking into two, four, ten separate arms, growing sideways, backward, up, down; whirling like dancers, writhing like flames. Shafts of light pierced the gloom.

Beau beamed, a collector showing off his prize piece. “The Cathedral.”

I drifted forward, mesmerized, listening with half an ear as he explained the conditions that had caused the trunks to split, a combination of harsh salt air and fierce wind. Thankfully, the loggers had left the trees standing — not out of reverence, but because their warped forms rendered them useless as lumber.

“ ’Course there’s rumors, too,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Indian burial ground. Haunted.”

He winked and reached around for the backpack. “I got ham and Swiss, or turkey and cheddar.”

“Turkey, thanks.”

We sat cross-legged and ate. Sound carried in the syrupy heat: birds and small animals, needles snowing to the forest floor.

“I can’t get over how peaceful it is,” I said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m glad they didn’t turn it into Disneyland.”

“Amen.”

I finished my sandwich, crumpled the foil into a ball. “You know, when I was out yesterday I saw tons of lot markers. But you’re saying they’re not for sale.”

“Oh, you can sell. You just can’t build within twenty-five hundred yards of the shore.”

“What about the houses on Beachcomber?”

“Grandfathered in. Truth is, us full-timers like it just fine this way. It takes a special kind of person to fit in here. You gotta be willing to do things the hard way. Gets lonesome, too.”

“What you call lonesome, I call private.”

“Yes, sir. God knows, privacy, they aren’t making any more of it.”

“Cheers to that.”

We clicked canteens. Mine was dry.

Beau swigged and wiped his mouth on his wrist. “ ’Scuse me while I drain the main vein.”

Once he was gone, I undid the top two magnets on my shirt. The vest was soaked through.

I reclosed the shirtfront.

“Psst.”

Across the clearing, Beau put a finger to his lips. He mimed taking a photo.

I tiptoed over, camera in hand, and followed his gaze.

A bear was nosing through the underbrush.

It was small. A cub. The mother couldn’t be far behind.

Beau’s hand rested on the revolver. He nodded urgently. Now or never, chief.

I lifted the camera, focused, snapped.

The bear sat up on its hind legs, staring in our direction.

“Shit,” Beau muttered.

He drew me back into the clearing. We gathered our supplies and started downhill.

Chapter 11

Nearing the trailhead, he said, “There’s a few lots left.”

He held back a blackberry vine. “Also grandfathered.”

I knew what he was doing.

Private tour of his wilderness Eden. Tales of the Old West.

Instant bromance, just add ammo.

Fire away, city boy.

Friendly questions about my lifestyle, calibrated to gauge disposable income. He already knew I could blow six hundred bucks on a crappy hotel room. That had to be promising.

The halo of scarcity. The allure of exclusivity.

Takes a special kind of person.

Tell me, soldier: Are you that guy?

If I didn’t know any better I’d guess he’d hired the bear, too.

Altogether it made for a damn fine sales pitch. On some level I admired it.

I said, “Are they on the market?”

“Not officially.”

I nodded but didn’t say more, and he didn’t raise the topic again, not for the rest of the hike or on the drive into town.

At the hotel I dug out my wallet, peeling off three hundreds.

He grimaced. “Clay.”

“Token of gratitude. I insist.”

“Really. It’s my pleasure.”

“And this is mine.”

A beat. He tucked the money in his breast pocket. “Good man.”

“I’m gonna get cleaned up,” I said. “Maybe afterward you can take me around, show me what’s available.”

For a moment he seemed not to understand. Then he mugged pleasant surprise. “Yeah, we could do that. Sure thing.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“I’ll need to make a couple calls first, run it by the owners.”

“Will that be a problem?”

“No, no. Just a formality,” he said. “Pick you up in — an hour?”

“Better make it an hour and a half.”

“You got it, brother.”

I paid Jenelle Counts for another night and left Amy a voicemail that I was alive and well.

The holster had left a rashy red band around my waist. I draped the vest over a chairback to air out. It was still sopping when I returned from the shower. The thought of putting it on again made me shudder.

I sat on the bed in my towel, typing up notes.

A high-pitched squeal cut through the thrum of the tide.

Brakes.

Beau wasn’t due for another twenty minutes.

Setting the laptop aside, I went to the bay window and peeked out.

Not the Range Rover. Not Pelman Auto Service, either.

A compact Chevy truck, mottled orange and primer, idled in the plaza. The driver had gotten out and was standing by my car, inspecting the taped-up mirror.

He gave it a wiggle.

I shrank back.

I didn’t think he’d seen me. I’d barely seen him.

I recognized his shape nevertheless.

Al Bock.

I crossed the room in two steps and set the chain.

Threw on the damp vest.

Grabbing the gun from the nightstand, I sank to the floor, keeping the bed between me and the window, back pressed to the wall.

Waves rolled in and out.

Wind pulsed against the window glass.

Another squeal.

I counted to sixty and crawled to the bay window.

The Chevy was gone.

The first property Beau brought me to was on Mink Road, a gently rolling 1.1-acre parcel with pristine mountain views. Importantly, the site had existing lines for water, power, and sewer, plus pre-approved architect’s plans. The current owner hated to sell. But he’d taken a hit in the most recent down market.

Asking price was $705,000, nearly twice as high as the most expensive online listing.

“Bet you could make him an offer, though,” Beau said.

Amy and I had watched enough HGTV for me to know that the first property is never The Property. He was testing the waters. It was on me to play the part of the disinterested buyer while keeping him hooked on the belief that I was hooked.

I strolled around — snapping pictures, hashing out where to put the pool, the guesthouse — before concluding, “It’s a good start.”

He smiled. “Should we move on?”

“I think so.”

The scenario repeated itself, with larger parcels and higher prices, at the next two stops, on Grouse Way and Coyote Court. They were nice, I allowed, but at the end of the day I preferred to be closer to the beach. There wasn’t anything like that available, was there?

There was.

Number 11 Sea Star Court was 2.3 acres. The entire ocean-facing side of the property had been razed. I could see the hulking outlines of the mansions along Beachcomber.

Asking price was $1,875,000.

I let him finish extolling the lot’s virtues. “What about on Beachcomber itself?”

He gave me a look. The Look. Another HGTV staple.

What I was asking for was impossible — the real estate equivalent of cold fusion.

Didn’t I realize that I was going to have to compromise?

He wasn’t going to be able to pull this off.

If he did, it would take a tremendous amount of hard work.

“Let me put this in context for you,” I said. “It’s not necessarily about building or not building. Obviously it’s good to have the option. But it’s as important to me to preserve and hold value. I work in a highly volatile sector. I’m always hunting for opportunities to shave off risk.”

I thought if Peter Franchette could hear the bullshit streaming from my mouth, he’d take me on as a mentee.

Beau rubbed his chin. “Okay, here’s what I can do for you. There’s someone I want you to meet. You’ll be around tomorrow?”

“Not for very long. I have an appointment in the city. I need to leave first thing.”

“Let me see if I can set it up for tonight. That work for you?”

“It does. Thank you, Beau.”

“Glad we could make it work. You’ll like him,” he said. “You guys speak the same language.”

Amy, calling from her homeward commute, said, “I’ll be glad to have you back.”

“I’ll be glad to be back. Listen, I need to tell you something.”

“...Okay.”

“I saw the guy.”

“Which — the gun guy?”

“He came to the hotel.”

“Oh my God.”

“He didn’t come inside. He was checking out my car. I saw him from my window.”

“Did he see you?”

“I don’t think so. I can leave if you want me to.”

“But?”

“I was really hoping to talk to Beau’s person.”

“When’s that happening?”

“Soon, I hope. I’m not sure how long the conversation will take. But it’s almost six thirty. If I’m not out of here pretty soon, it’s going to start getting dark, and I’m stuck.”

“Can you move somewhere for the night?”

“I could find a quiet street and sleep in the car.”

“I don’t want you to have to do that.”

“I can ask the innkeeper to lock the front door,” I said. “Keep the chain on and my gun within reach. Or leave now. It’s your call.”

“I don’t like this, Clay.”

“I know. I don’t, either. In my opinion, it’s still unlikely the guy tries anything. It’s the second chance he’s had to get at me, and the second time he passed.”

“He could be planning,” she said. “That’s why he’s hanging around.”

“You’re right.”

“Is this person you’re meeting even going to give you what you need?”

“I feel close. But that’s a guess.”

She sighed. “I’m not going to sleep tonight. Don’t bother to say it, I know you’re sorry.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have any idea how many massages you’re going to owe me?”

“As many as you want.”

“As many as I want.”

Chapter 12

I paced, occasionally stopping to part the curtains.

A creak in the hall, a knock at the door.

Drawing the P320, I called, “Yes?”

“Kitchen’s closing,” Jenelle Counts said.

“Okay.”

“Do you want dinner?”

“All set, thanks.”

She left.

At seven forty-nine, I saw Maggie Penrose, the woman from the beach, disappear down the boat ramp to the cove, awash in pinks and golds.

At eight eleven, I saw her return, headlight bobbing.

Eight thirty came and I still hadn’t heard from Beau. He wasn’t answering my calls, either. The silence felt calculated, and I was debating whether to try him again when the Range Rover pulled up. I watched him hop out and hurry around to open the door for the passenger, reduced by the dim to a squat shape wearing a cowboy hat.

They disappeared beneath the porch overhang.

I checked my watch: eight fifty-three p.m.

The room phone rang.

Jenelle said, “You have visitors.”

“Thanks. I’ll be down in a sec.”

I swapped the P320 for the P365 and put on my second magnet-front shirt. I didn’t have a third.

It felt prudent to keep them waiting, just as they’d done to me. Right up to the edge of discomfort, but not beyond.

At nine oh seven I came downstairs.

The bar was unattended, the kitchen lights off.

“Mr. Gardner.”

In the dining room, Beau Bergstrom stood at a table, smiling. The other man was smiling, too, behind a bristling white goatee. His upper and lower halves were comically mismatched: scrawny legs in tight Levi’s, black western shirt straining at the gut and spilling over an ornate brass belt buckle. He resembled nothing so much as a golf ball on a tee.

“Clay, I’d like to introduce you to my dad,” Beau said.

The hat was a camel Stetson with a beaded hatband in a Navajo pattern. The man tipped it to me. “Emil Bergstrom.”

A pronounced twang shortened the vowels of his first name.

ML.

I shook their hands. “Great to meet you.”

“Better to meet you.” Emil fired finger guns at me. “Bourbon man?”

“Scotch. Neat.”

“Shoot. I was close. Coming right up.”

Beau fetched a bottle of Glenfiddich from the bar, placing it in front of his father along with two tumblers.

Emil uncorked and poured. “How’d you like that hike?”

“Great, thanks to Beau.”

“Been too long since I made it out to the Cathedral. Something else, huh?”

“Spectacular.”

He slid me a tumbler. “ ’Tween you and me, I’m not sure I’ll ever see it again. I got this arthritis in one hip and both knees.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“Aw, never mind. It’s a good excuse not to go frolicking in the woods. Nature’s always been more the boy’s thing than mine. He takes after his mama. She was a child of the land, and a child of the land she begat.”

He pinched Beau’s cheek. Hoisted his glass. “Slainte.”

We clinked and drank.

“So,” Emil said. “My son tells me you’re smitten with our tiny slice of paradise.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“How’d you find us?”

“Google.”

“I think I’ve heard of that.” He winked. “Can’t say I blame you. Stressful job, finance.”

“It can be.”

“What sort of finance?”

“Private equity.”

“Buy low, sell high, so forth.”

“That’s it in a nutshell.”

“Your interest is in an investment property.”

“Primarily.”

“Gotcha,” he said. “Hate to pry, but we’ve had some unfortunate instances where people fall behind on payments, or they can’t afford the upkeep. It can turn into a real hassle.”

“It won’t be an issue.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest it would. We do the same for everyone. Only fair. It’s a tight-knit community, y’know. We depend on each other.”

“Maggie Penrose said something along those lines.”

Emil smiled. “You met Maggie.”

“Yesterday evening, down by the beach.”

“You can set your watch by her,” Beau said.

“She’s a pearl,” Emil said. “We’re lucky to have her. Anyhoo. Ours is a delicate ecosystem. You understand.”

“I do.”

“Glad we’re on the same page. From our end, there’s a brief application process. We ask to see three years’ worth of tax returns. Would you be comfortable with that?”

“Can I ask who’s ‘we’?”

“The Board of Supervisors,” Beau said.

“I can get that for you,” I said. “I’d rather not go to the trouble before I know what it is I’m applying for.”

“Of course,” Emil said. “I’ll have Beau draft a proposal for you.”

“I’m here now.”

“Well, I admire the pep in your step, but you’re gonna have to get used to waiting.” Emil smiled. “We don’t move at city speed.”

Push?

Or dance?

ML.

There must be a piece of paper somewhere with his signature on it.

Dance.

I smiled. “You know what, Mr. Bergstrom? You’re right. And this is a pretty clear demonstration of why I really need to get away.”

He chuckled. “We’ll fix you yet.”

They departed with Clay Gardner’s email address. The proposal would be forthcoming.

Jenelle wasn’t around to lock up.

I doubted she ever bothered. If anyone in Swann’s Flat did.

Why would they?

It was that kind of town.

I bolted the front door and wedged a dining room chair under the handle.

In my room I locked the door, set the chain, and wedged a chair under the knob.

I laid out clothes for the following day and packed my bag.

I moved the mattress to the floor, out of line with the window.

I put the P320 on the floor nearby and got into bed.

It was another terrible night, about three hours of patchy sleep. This time it wasn’t gunfire I was hearing in my dreams, it was squealing brakes. I resisted the urge to get up and check. Didn’t want to stir the curtains and find him sighting up at me along the barrel of a rifle.

The phone shrilled me awake at four fifty-five.

I crawled over to it. “Yeah.”

“Are you in your room?” Jenelle Counts said. “I can’t get the front door to budge.”

“Shit. One second.”

I put on clothes, ran downstairs barefoot, and let her in.

“What the hell is all this about?” she said.

“I’m so sorry. I thought you lived here.”

“I do. My entrance is around the back. That’s where I called you from.” She frowned at the chair. “What possessed you to do that?”

“I just— Al Bock shot at me. He’s the one broke the mirror off my car.”

Jenelle goggled.

Then she whooped laughter.

“That old goat? What’d you do to get on his bad side? Not that it takes a whole lot.”

“Nothing. I went by his house. Yesterday I saw him poking around outside the hotel. I was concerned he’d show up and do something crazy.”

“Why’d you go there to begin with?”

“It’s for sale. I wanted to see it.”

“It’s been for sale for fifteen years,” she said. “He’s turned down every offer ever came his way. You seem like a nice enough guy, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“Duly noted.”

“Well. I’ll need some time to get your breakfast ready.”

“Thank you, but I have to hit the road.”

“You don’t want anything?”

“Just coffee, please.”

“All right. I’m afraid I can’t refund that portion of your money.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

The mug was waiting when I came down with my bag.

“Come back soon,” Jenelle said.

“Thanks. Can I have a to-go cup, please?”

“You want that, go to Millburg.”

A white envelope flapped on my windshield, trapped beneath a wiper blade. Inside was a personal check, made out to Clay Gardner in the amount of two hundred dollars and signed by Albert Bock.

The memo line read

Driving away from the marina, I felt in the snack bag for the package of beef jerky, tearing it open with my teeth and shaking a piece into my mouth.

It tasted awful — funky and dry. I battled the first mouthful for ten minutes before giving up and spitting it out the window.

Chris Villareal had asked for a name. I’d gotten him two. Maybe he’d be content to stop.

I hoped not. I didn’t want to stop. My mind was churning, and I felt eager to get home and see what I could dig up on the Bergstroms.

I crossed the bridge at the town limits.

The paving ended.

The road began to rise.

Away we go.

The broken side mirror rattled at every bump and rut. I kept expecting it to fall off, but it was somehow still attached as I passed the Cathedral trailhead. Never underestimate duct tape.

I rubbed my eyes, gave my head a hard shake. I’d only had time to guzzle down half a cup of coffee, and I felt droopy and dull.

Cornering sharply, I reached a straightaway and fed the gas.

I heard it before I saw it.

Rubber scraping earth, metal on metal, the guttural wheeze escaping me as I was thrown against the door, my bag tumbling around in the cargo space.

I heard her shriek, heard the shriek end, suddenly, sickeningly, as I struggled to make sense of her face.

A manic swirl of colors and shapes, oval eyes swollen, mouth a black cavern.

Her body, a bright-blue blur, wiped away.

Chapter 13

I’d wrenched the wheel to my left, away from the cliffside and toward the forest, and when I came to rest and kicked open the door I saw that her reflex had been the same.

A single skinny tire track mirrored the fat pair left by me.

The lines almost kissed.

Then hers broke off.

I swooned, scanned the trees. Flies muddied the air. “Hello?”

Silence.

My head was pulsing. More pressure than pain. A punishing rhythmic whoosh.

I started forward unsteadily. “Hello? Are you there?”

A moan.

I stumbled toward it.

She lay fetal in a patch of ferns, about twelve feet from the road. Her eyes were clenched, her face streaked with grime. The cushioned landing had helped, but not enough: Scratches marred the surface of her helmet, abraded flesh wept, and she rocked, clutching her shin, blood oozing through her fingers.

I knelt. I didn’t want to touch her. “Hey. I’m here... Hi. Can you hear me?”

She opened her eyes. Dirt speckled her eyelashes. She looked twentyish. Her unisuit was color-blocked, teal and black. Not the same suit she’d been wearing thirty-six hours prior, when she’d zoomed by me on Beachcomber. But the same person.

“Can you hear what I’m saying?” I asked. “Do you understand me?”

She nodded groggily.

“Okay. What’s your name?”

She rose to her elbows.

“Hold on — whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa.”

She was trying to stand up. Blood coursed down her shin.

“Hold still a second, please, okay? I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

I ran tripping to the car and pulled a T-shirt from my bag.

She was sitting up when I got back. I used the shirt to bind the gash on her shin.

She sucked air through her teeth.

“Too tight?”

She shook her head.

“Where’s the nearest hospital?” I asked.

She unclipped the helmet, leaving a red line under her chin. “I don’t need to go to the hospital.”

“I really think—”

She looked around. “Where’s my bike.”

“Miss. Wait, please. Wait. Don’t get up. I’ll look for it. You sit.”

I found it in a bramble. The frame was warped, rear wheel bent into a taco shell. I brought it to her and her face fell.

“Shit,” she said.

She rolled onto her hands and knees.

“Stay there, miss. Please.”

But she was determined to stand, with or without me, so I helped her up, and we shuffled to the car. She had an athlete’s build, wide shoulders and wide back. One cycling cleat clicked on the dirt.

“I’m gonna mess up your seats,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it.”

I tossed the snack bag into the rear and settled her.

“My bike,” she said.

“I’ll get it.”

I dragged it back through the brush, loaded it into the cargo space, and got behind the wheel. She had taken off her helmet and was raking at a mass of curly auburn hair, shedding leaves and sticks. She was younger than I’d originally thought — more like sixteen or eighteen, with the straight nose and rosebud mouth of a classical carving.

I started the engine. “We need to get you looked at.”

“Just — take me home.”

We were roughly two hours from Millburg. The pounding in my head was worsening, and my memory of the crash felt disjointed, like a film missing frames. I couldn’t accurately gauge how hard I’d hit her but the distance she’d traveled and the damage to the bicycle suggested a gruesome degree of force.

She might be concussed. She might be bleeding internally. If she were to go into shock, I would be stranded, with no service and no help.

A two-hour drive over tortuous road...

“Can we please go,” she said.

“Where’s home?”

“In town.”

“Swann’s Flat.”

“Yes.” She rested her head. “I’ll tell you where to go.”

I began turning the car around. With so little room to maneuver, I could only move a few inches at a time, dancing between the ditch in front of me and the nothingness at my back.

I tapped the gas. Too hard. She winced.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Maybe I should drive.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“I’m kidding.”

“Right. Okay.”

“You’re hurt,” she said.

“What?”

“Your forehead.”

I didn’t remember the impact but she was right: Looking in the rearview, I saw minor cuts and a goose egg at my hairline. “I’m fine.”

“You’re sure? ’Cause it would really suck if after this you drove me off a cliff.”

I laughed.

She smiled. “I’m Shasta, by the way.”

“Clay.”

“Nice to meet you, I guess.”

I was relieved to see her perking up but also wary.

My training had drilled it in. Assess the injury; stabilize the victim.

Now the adrenaline had begun to dissipate, and I could see her and myself more plainly. I was no longer a first responder. I was the one who’d made her a victim.

I finally managed to get the car facing Swann’s Flat and started downhill. Shasta arched uncomfortably against her seatbelt, tugging on the unisuit zipper to expose the hollow of her throat. A second red line dented the flesh, like a ligature mark.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, I just feel hot.”

“Do you want the air on?”

“Window’s fine,” she said, groping for the switch.

She looked flushed. Temperature dysregulation. Not a good sign.

“How’s your leg?” I said.

“Hurts.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Shasta said. She rubbed at her neck. “I get in the zone, and...”

Her eyes widened. “Stop the car.”

“I—”

“Stop.”

I braked. “What’s wrong.”

She unbuckled her seatbelt.

“Wait wait wait,” I said.

She got out.

“Shasta.” I cut the engine and went after her. “Hold on. Shasta.”

She was limping uphill toward the crash site.

“Where are you going?”

“My necklace.”

“We can get it later.”

She ignored me. I wasn’t about to restrain her. I trailed her dizzily, ready to catch her if she fell.

She limped off the road and into the brush.

“Let me do this,” I said.

“You don’t know what it looks like.”

“Describe it to me.”

She didn’t answer.

“Can you tell me what it looks like?” I said.

“White shells with a silver pendant.”

We tramped around in overlapping circles, stooped over, combing through foliage.

My father, a retired science teacher, used to drag my brother and me on endless nature walks while quizzing us on species. The most common plant in the vicinity was redwood sorrel, a low-growing creeper with tiny white flowers. It hid perfectly the remains of the necklace: puka shells, scattered far and wide.

I held one up. “Is this it?”

Shasta came over. “Oh fuck.”

She dropped to her knees and began clawing at the earth. “Fuck.”

“Please sit. Please.”

She gave in, sinking down gingerly and rubbing her eyes while I crawled around, collecting shells and putting them in my pocket. My head was going whomp-whomp-whomp.

“Is this yours?” I asked, holding up a wireless earbud.

“Shit. Yeah. Do you see the pendant?”

“Not yet. What does it look like?”

“It’s a rooster.”

“How big?”

She spaced her thumb and forefinger an inch and a half apart.

The broken necklace cord dangled in a patch of salal. It must have caught when she went tumbling.

I parted branches, swept my phone flashlight.

A glint.

The rooster strutted in profile, tall wavy comb and grooves for feathers. It looked like something you’d buy on a whim at a crafts fair, its charm a function of its imperfection.

I brought it to her. “The shells are all over the place. And I don’t see the other earbud.”

“Forget it, this is the main thing.” She clasped her treasure to her chest. “Thank God.”

“Stay here, I’ll get the car.”

“I can walk.”

By then I knew better than to argue.

Chapter 14

Back in Swann’s Flat, Shasta navigated me westward.

“Where were you riding from?” I asked.

“Blackberry Junction.”

“Wow. That’s no joke.”

“The hills are murder. But it’s great for conditioning.”

“Are you training for something?”

“I race triathlon.”

“Cool. Well. I hope you can get back to it soon.”

“Thanks. I don’t know.” She rubbed the rooster pendant between her fingers. “Maybe this is the universe telling me I need a break. Next left.”

With a jolt I grasped our destination.

Beachcomber Boulevard, and its mansions.

I glanced at her.

Who was this person?

More to the point, who were her parents?

Even more to the point, who was their lawyer?

We passed the first mansion and kept going.

At the second mansion, the biggest, she said, “This is me.”

I pulled into the driveway and helped her out, and we headed up the walk between beds of salt-loving plants. The wind thumped at our backs. Her cycling cleat knocked on the porch steps, setting off a torrent of barks inside. Normal barks, not the bloodlust of Al Bock’s monster.

The doormat read Clancy.

“Do you have a key?” I asked.

“It’s open.”

Before I could try the door it swung inward. A woman swept over the threshold.

“Thought you went for a ri — oh my God.”

Her face recapitulated Shasta’s in the instant prior to the crash: the same almond-shaped eyes rounding into terror, skin stretched taut over high cheekbones. Her hair had been dyed a deeper red. A long blue caftan dress trailed behind her like fire as she rushed forward.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m fine,” Shasta said.

“You’re not fine, look at you, you’re bleeding.”

A huge hairy sheepdog burst through the doorway and ran berserk circles around us, jumping and pawing at my back.

Shasta said, “Down, Bowie.”

“Get inside, now,” the redheaded woman said to either Shasta or the dog.

“Bowie. Down.”

“Jason,” the woman shouted into the house. “I need you.”

“Mom, please,” Shasta said. “Can you just... Bowie.”

Her mother dragged the dog by its collar while it leapt and yelped and strained. Shasta and I came through the foyer into a generous living room, done in mid-nineties green and apricot. To the east, sliding glass doors gave onto a patio with outdoor furniture. Perforated sunshades muted the ocean-facing windows. One doorway led to the kitchen, another to the dining room, a third to a back corridor. A glass-sided staircase corkscrewed up and out of sight.

“Jason. I need you now.”

While her mother hauled the dog down the hall and out of sight, Shasta and I straggled into the kitchen. Generous, well-appointed, dated.

I eased her onto a banquette and brought a chair to prop her leg.

“Can you get me some ice, please? There’s bags in that drawer.”

I filled a baggie from the refrigerator ice maker, wrapped it in a dish towel. “What else?”

“Thank you,” she said. “Maybe some—”

Shasta’s mother entered. I could hear the dog’s muffled howls.

“Let me see.”

Reluctantly Shasta removed the ice pack.

Her mother untied the T-shirt binding and recoiled. The blood had slowed to a trickle.

“Uch.”

“It looks worse than it is,” Shasta said.

“How do you know that? Are you a doctor?”

“Leonie?” A man ambled in. Rangy and tan, with a close-cropped beard and a crew cut, wearing flip-flops, jeans, a rumpled navy polo shirt. “Were you ca — oh shit.”

“Call Maggie,” Leonie said.

“What happened?”

“Jason. Did you hear me?”

“Yeah. Yeah yeah yeah.” He took a cordless phone from the counter and dialed.

Shasta said, “It was an accident.”

“Hi, Maggie. It’s Jason.”

Leonie waved him into the living room. He went, saying Sorry to disturb you so early...

“Start again,” Leonie said. “From the beginning.”

“I went for a ride,” Shasta said.

“Where.”

“How I always go. I was on my way home. I had my music on and wasn’t paying attention.”

“I was coming around a bend, in the opposite direction,” I said. “I didn’t see her till it was too late.”

Leonie blinked, bewildered, as if registering my existence for the first time. Oblique light etched the lines on her face. There weren’t many; she didn’t look much older than Shasta. You could take them for siblings, though Leonie was shorter, and slight, as if she might shatter upon impact.

“You hit her?”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Shasta said.

“I’m not asking you, I’m asking him.”

“We both swerved,” I said. “I clipped her rear wheel.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Shasta said again.

“Can you be quiet,” Leonie said.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” I said.

“You should be.”

“Mom,” Shasta said.

“The bike is in my car,” I said.

“I don’t care about that,” Leonie said.

“Mom. You’re not listening.”

“What, what is it, what?”

“I need some Advil.”

Leonie strode over to a cabinet by the microwave and grabbed a bottle.

“Ma’am,” I said. “You shouldn’t give her that.”

Leonie stared at me. Her chin was trembling. “Why not.”

“It can cause bleeding. Tylenol’s okay.”

She swapped bottles and filled a glass of water, twisting her fingers as Shasta swallowed the pills. “Does it hurt?”

“Not that bad,” Shasta said.

“It’s going to scar.”

Shasta rolled her eyes.

Jason reappeared and set the phone in its cradle. “She’s on her way.”

“Thank God,” Leonie said.

He crouched by Shasta. He, too, was on the young side. “How you feeling, kitten?”

“Fine. It’s a scratch.”

Leonie snorted.

Jason stood up and faced me uncertainly. “Hi.”

I raised a hand.

“This is Clay,” Shasta said. “He brought me home.”

“After hitting her,” Leonie said.

“It was an accident,” Shasta said.

Leonie walked stiffly to a window and watched the street. Jason looked back and forth between the women, trying to decide whom to believe and how to regard me.

He settled on a tepid smile. “Thanks for bringing her.”

“Did she say how long she’d be?” Leonie said.

Shasta said, “Mom. Relax. She’s literally two minutes away.”

Two long minutes.

A car pulled up outside.

“That’s her,” Leonie said and ran out.

I could hear her voice (Take her to Eureka...) as she reentered with Maggie Penrose, dressed in skirt and sweater and carrying an old-school black leather doctor’s bag. No headlamp.

Seeing me, Maggie paused.

“You,” she said, not unpleasantly.

“Me,” I said.

“Go get the car ready,” Leonie said to Jason.

“Hold your horses, please,” Maggie said.

She pulled over another chair, smiling warmly at Shasta. “Hello, my lovely.”

“Hey, Mags.”

“Let’s have a peek... Oh my. That’s a good one.”

Leonie chewed her thumbnail. “Is it bad?”

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to amputate.” Maggie opened her bag. “Shoo, all of you.”

Jason turned to go. Leonie remained rooted in place.

“Lee,” he said. “C’mon.”

Leonie stormed out, brushing by him.

He and I followed her into the living room, and the three of us stood in awkward silence, Jason nodding indecipherably and Leonie refusing to make eye contact while I peered around, a dumb smile plastered to my face, feeling time slip away.

If not for the crash I’d be halfway to Millburg by now. Amy was expecting a call from me as soon as I regained service. Through the perforated shades, the sky glowed pewter. Fog drifted over high, violent surf. I felt desperate to escape, gripping at the carpet with my toes, through my shoes, to prevent myself from running.

In the kitchen, Maggie Penrose was performing a mini mental status exam. Shasta answered in an undertone.

The dog had quieted. Mournful yips emanated from down the hall.

Jason started toward it. “I’m gonna let him out.”

“Leave it, please,” Leonie said.

“I don’t want him to have an accident.”

“I said leave it.”

He relented.

One two three bright light Dr. Penrose said.

“So...,” Jason said.

“Clay,” I said.

“Clay. What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“Just visiting.”

“Where from?”

“Bay Area.”

“Right on. Welcome to Swann’s Flat.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Leonie stared resolutely at the carpet.

“How long you here for?” Jason asked.

“I came in Monday. I was actually on my way out of town.”

“You were at the hotel?”

“Yeah.”

“Enjoy your stay?”

I nodded.

“Awesome,” he said.

Maggie Penrose said Wiggle your toes.

“Must be nice to have a doctor for a town this size,” I said.

“One of everything you need,” Jason said, smiling. “None of what you don’t. Drink?”

“I, uh— I’m good. Thanks.”

He crossed to a corner bar with a mini fridge. Popping open a bottle of Sierra Nevada, he flopped on the couch, patting the cushion for Leonie. She didn’t move.

Wind roared, waves crashed, the dog continued to keen.

That’s good Dr. Penrose was saying. Deep breaths.

Whomp-whomp went my head.

“You have a beautiful home,” I said.

Leonie rotated toward me like a tank turret.

Maggie Penrose emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a paper towel.

“How is she?” Jason said.

“Good, all things considered. She’s a toughie. How’d she seem, right after it happened?”

“Dazed,” I said. “But not for long. She did complain of feeling hot.”

“Mm.” Maggie turned to Leonie. “I’d like to bring her to my place and take an X-ray.”

“Is it broken?” Leonie said.

“Doesn’t look that way, but I’d like to be sure. You, too,” Maggie said to me. “I need to look at your head.”

“Where am I going?” I asked.

“Oh no you don’t,” Leonie said. “You’re not jumping in your car and running off.”

“Honey,” Jason said.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I can go with Dr. Penrose.”

“I want a copy of your driver’s license,” Leonie said. “I want your phone number and your insurance and the name of your attorney.”

I couldn’t give her those without blowing my cover. I also didn’t see how I could lie without committing a crime.

I was ready to reach for my wallet when Shasta hobbled into the doorway, her shin mummified in gauze and tape.

“Can we please go?” she said.

Jason got up from the couch. “You two go on ahead. Come on, kitten.”

He accompanied Shasta through the kitchen toward the garage.

Maggie said, “We’ll be back soon.”

“Yes,” Leonie said. She was speaking to me. “You will.”

Chapter 15

I got into Maggie Penrose’s green Subaru Outback and she started down Beachcomber.

“Quite the exciting vacation you’re having,” she said.

“That wasn’t the goal.”

“Do you have medical training?”

I’d tipped her off by mentioning Shasta’s temperature.

“I took a first-aid class last year,” I said. “We had a unit on concussion.”

“Mm.”

“I did offer to bring her to the hospital. She wouldn’t let me.”

“Well, that’s Shasta for you.”

“I would’ve just taken her but I don’t know where it is.”

“There’s a clinic in Benbow, and a small site in Fortuna. Anything major, we go to Eureka.”

“That must take — what? Three hours?”

“By car. Faster by boat, depending on the tide.”

“Do you think Shasta will need that?”

The doctor eyed me.

Was I expressing sincere concern? Or fishing for an out?

“I’m going to reserve judgment,” she said.

Short drive: Hers was the mansion closest to the marina, which explained how and why she walked to the cove every evening. The layout was identical to the Clancys’ — central living room, patio, spiral staircase — but slightly smaller and with a dead-gray decorating scheme even more tired, as if both houses had been built from the same basic plan.

“I’ll want to see her first before I get started on you,” Maggie said.

On cue, Jason Clancy called out: “We’re here.”

He entered with Shasta leaning on his shoulder.

“Would it be possible for me to make a phone call?” I asked.

“In my office,” Maggie said, pointing to the back hall. “Third door on the left.”

“Thank you.”

I found the right room and shut the door quietly. It was about seven forty-five a.m. With luck I could catch Amy before she left to drop off the kids and head to work.

I dialed from the desk phone. It rang once and went to voicemail.

“Hi. Everything’s fine. Call me on this number. I don’t know if you can see it. It’s...”

I checked the desktop for personalized stationery or a prescription pad, moving tchotchkes and photos but finding nothing. I balked at rifling drawers; that felt invasive.

“I’ll call you again soon,” I said and hung up.

I slumped in the desk chair. The goose egg was throbbing now, too, in addition to the whomp-whomp. Competing drummers playing out of sync. The furniture and walls seemed to be — not where they should be.

How hard had I hit my head?

I leapt up and took a lap around the room, flapping my limbs to restore a feeling of immediacy. Diplomas on the wall from Williams and Case Western Reserve School of Medicine. Shelving units with well-thumbed clinical texts on a wide range of topics, back issues of JAMA, smattering of psychology books. A small-town GP wore many hats.

The phone rang.

I lifted the receiver. Cartoons blared in the background. “Amy?”

“Where are you? I thought you left already.”

“I tried to.” I told her what had happened.

“Oh my God,” Amy said. “Are you okay?”

“I have a pretty big bump on my forehead.”

“You hit your head?”

“I’m at the local clinic. The doctor’s going to look at me when she’s done with her.”

“Is she okay?”

“Banged up, for sure. Hopefully nothing serious. We should call our insurance.”

“Do you need me to do that?”

“I’ll see if I can get to it.”

“What about a lawyer?” she asked.

“Probably, yeah.”

“Let me ask my parents who they use.”

“Okay. I’m still going to try and get out of here today, if possible.”

“Do you think you can? Are you safe to drive?”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty tired. I think that’s why I didn’t react faster. I was up most of the night, waiting for the gun guy. I should be fine once I get some more caffeine into me.”

“At least he didn’t show up.”

“He did, actually.”

“What?”

“No, it was okay. He left me money and an apology note.”

“Saying what?”

“ ‘Sorry.’ ”

“That’s it? ‘Sorry’?”

“I mean, it’s not a love poem. But I think we can assume he doesn’t intend to shoot me.”

“Can we?”

“I’m saying if I end up getting stuck here again for another night it’ll be okay.”

“Please, no.”

“The minute I can leave, I will. I don’t want to flee the scene and have them call the cops on me.”

“I thought the cops didn’t come.”

“Maybe not here. But it’s two hours to reach the highway. If someone calls ahead they could pick me off.”

“I don’t know what to say. This place is a curse.”

“I’m sorry, Amy.”

“I’m not mad at you,” she said. “It’s not your fault.”

“Let’s hope they see it the same way.”

“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

Whomp-whomp.

“Let me talk to the doctor,” I said. “I’ll check in when I have a plan.”

“I have patients all day. Leave a message.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“You too.”

I hung up and drew over one of the desk photos. It depicted Maggie Penrose in a moment of exultation: rising onto her toes, fists aloft, cheering at the finish line of a race. A girl of twelve or thirteen heaved through the tape.

Shasta.

The door opened. Jason Clancy leaned in. “Doc’s ready for you.”

The good news for Shasta was no broken bones.

“The resilience of youth,” Maggie Penrose said.

But there were bruised ribs and lots of scrapes and the gashed shin was nothing to sneeze at. The doctor had assigned a grade 2 concussion.

“If she starts acting very funny, passes out, seizes, vomits, anything that worries you, call me right away. Same if you can’t rouse her. Keep the lights low, keep the house quiet. No screens, today or tomorrow. We’re taking it easy, understand?”

“How will they be able to tell if I’m acting funny?” Shasta said.

Maggie smiled. “If you’re agreeable all of a sudden.”

She turned to Jason. “I’ll bring Clay over to you when I’m done.”

He nodded and put his arm out for Shasta.

“Batter up,” Maggie said to me.

The exam room was a converted den, outfitted with a padded table, supply cabinets, mechanical scale, IV pole. All the equipment showed age and wear consistent with a rural practice. A notable exception was the X-ray machine — a sleek, compact unit.

I commented on it. Maggie shrugged.

“We get hikers during the summer. They turn an ankle. Or dehydration, that’s another fan favorite. Let’s start by having you walk to the end of the room and back.”

She did a series of rapid neurological tests.

“Do you think I can drive?” I asked.

“Up to you. I won’t say no. But you have to monitor yourself and pull over if you need to. Can you promise me that?”

“Yeah.”

She began cleaning my forehead with iodine. “Where’d you get this nifty little guy?”

She meant my scar.

I gave my standard answer: “Work accident.”

“What kind of work do you do that you’re getting your head damn near chopped off?”

I’d slipped again, speaking as Clay Edison, not Clay Gardner.

“I’m in finance,” I said.

“Did you get attacked by a quarterly report?”

I laughed. “When I was nineteen, I had a summer job at a warehouse. Construction supplies. I was carrying a big sheet of glass with this other guy. With suction cups? He didn’t put his on correctly, and one of them came loose. The pane slips, hits the ground, and cracks in half. A huge shard kind of—”

I made a slicing motion. “Like a guillotine.”

“Ouch,” she said. “Nasty.”

It really was, for the poor kid it had actually happened to. He was an old coroner’s case of mine. The pane had severed his carotid and he’d bled out on the warehouse floor.

Maggie tore open a fresh gauze pad. “They did a good job sewing you up.”

“I got lucky.”

“Unfortunately,” she said, applying tape, “you’re stuck with me now.”

She stepped back. “All better.”

“Thanks. What do I owe you?”

A wry smile. “We’ll call it even for getting shot at.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

“Well,” she said. “Time for you to face the music.”

Chapter 16

She dropped me at the Clancy residence, waiting for Jason to admit me before driving away.

“My wife’s getting Shasta set up,” he said. “Come in.”

In the kitchen he placed a mug by the burbling coffeepot. “Help yourself. Milk’s in the fridge.”

“Thank you.”

The sheepdog bounded in and headed right to me, licking my hands.

“You making friends, Bowie?” Jason said.

The dog sprawled to show me his belly.

“He must like you,” Jason said.

“I like him, too.”

“I mean it, he’s not like that with everyone.”

“I’m flattered.” I rubbed the dog’s stomach. “Bowie as in the frontiersman or as in the singer?”

“Singer. His full name’s Bowie Stardust.”

“You’re a fan.”

“I didn’t pick it.”

Footsteps approached. I gave the dog a final pat and straightened up as Leonie entered.

She said, “How are you feeling?”

The shift in her demeanor was so drastic that at first I didn’t think she was talking to me, assuming the question was meant for Jason. But she was studying me with a pinched expression. Not so much concern; there was some of that, although it was overlaid with anxiety.

As if I was the one who’d threatened her with a lawsuit instead of vice versa.

“All right. Thanks for asking,” I said. “How’s Shasta?”

“She’s resting.” A beat. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

“I’m glad I could help. I just hope she’s okay.”

Leonie nodded.

I waited for her to once more demand my contact information. Lying outright opened me to criminal charges and jeopardized my license. I didn’t think I had to volunteer anything, though.

“You got coffee,” she said.

“I... Yeah. Yes. Thank you.”

“Hungry?”

What was this? Some sort of psychological trap? Lure me in, get me talking, pull the rug?

“I’m good, thanks,” I said. “I’m happy to stick around as long as you’d like. Otherwise I was planning to head out. My wife’s expecting me.”

Leonie looked at Jason, who shrugged.

“You can go,” she said.

“Okay.” I was mystified but grateful. “I’ll just grab the bike from my car.”

She nodded. To Jason: “Make her some eggs?”

He opened a drawer and took out a skillet.

I carried the bicycle up the front walk and propped it against the porch rail. Leonie stepped from the doorway to run her fingers over the warped frame, regarding it as though it was an extension of her daughter’s body.

“I’ll pay for it,” I said.

She shook her head. “I apologize for how I spoke to you before.”

“There’s no need.”

“I was upset.”

I nodded.

“I mean,” Leonie said, “she keeps insisting it wasn’t your fault. So.”

She sighed.

Hot, acrid breath washed over me.

She was drunk, I realized. At nine in the morning.

“Do you have children?” she asked.

It had felt cleaner and simpler to pare back Clay Gardner’s attachments to the bare minimum. A wife, yes; he needed the gloss of stability and conventionality. A man of his socioeconomic status would be a catch. He might even be on his second marriage.

But kids?

In the city?

In these uncertain times?

No, thank you.

That was how I’d presented myself to Beau, at least.

Now I had other worries. Leonie might sober up and regret letting me off easy. I’d mentioned staying at the hotel. She could go to Jenelle Counts to track me down. Jenelle knew I’d met with Beau and Emil Bergstrom. And they had Clay Gardner’s fake email address and burner phone number. If Leonie turned those over to an attorney, the whole façade would unravel.

The cynical side of me saw an advantage in establishing common ground.

“Two,” I said. “Girl and a boy.”

“So you understand, it’s upsetting, to see your child like that.”

“Of course.”

“How old?” she asked.

“Four and fifteen months.”

“That’s a fun age.”

“It can be.”

“Trust me,” she said. Her voice was hollow. Fingernails scraped idly at the doorpost. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

I climbed behind the wheel.

Whomp-whomp.

I leaned back and closed my eyes.

Three hours later I sat up abruptly. My neck was damp, my stomach growled, and the windows were fogged. But the headache had subsided some, and the pulsing sensation was gone.

I lowered the windows to air out the car, feeling in the rear footwell for the snack bag. The jerky had spilled out: hard, shiny, greasy nuggets everywhere.

I stared at the torn packaging.

“Fuck me.”

And below that, in much, much smaller letters:

All-Natural Organic Grass-Fed Cannabis-Infused Beef

Hi Protein ☺ Nitrate Free ☺ Keto Friendly

I wasn’t caffeine-deprived. I wasn’t concussed.

I was high.

Most edibles wear off after three to four hours. I hadn’t consumed that much jerky, and five hours had elapsed.

I gave it another thirty minutes and started the car.

I took it extra slow.

Creeping around the gnarly hairpin, the roadside memorial came into view.

I stopped.

The dead bouquet in the Jack Daniel’s vase had been refreshed. Bright-yellow fists, a native coastal species, the seaside woolly sunflower.

On the outskirts of Millburg, my phone flickered to life.

I left Amy a voicemail and dictated a text.

On my way home. Stopping for gas. Hopefully back by eight. Will keep you updated. Love you.

I pulled into the 76 station, started the pump, stuffed the old snack bag into the trash, and walked up the block to Fanny’s Market.

The same clerk was at the register. He folded over his crossword. “Welcome b— Hey now. What happened to you?”

“Swann’s Flat happened.”

I dispensed coffee from the self-serve urn and filled a basket with non-infused snacks, paying close attention to the fine print.

While he rang me up, I said, “You might want to warn people about that jerky.”

“Hm?”

“Uncle Hank’s.”

“Something wrong with it?”

“I didn’t see it was laced. The packaging needs to be clearer. And you should have a sign up on the display.”

“I’ll convey the feedback.”

“Are you Hank?”

“No. But he’s married to Fanny. Twenty-eight fifty-seven.”

Outside I examined myself in the selfie camera.

Maggie Penrose had done a neat job, trimming the gauze to keep it out of my eye. It hung askew in the corner of my forehead like a postage stamp, the goose egg beneath bulging.

Behind me was the giant bulletin board with its shriveled mosaic of faces.

Have you seen me.

Hailey Ray and Sam Rosenthal and Becka Candito shared space with others lost behind the Redwood Curtain.

Sixty-one-year-old Elise Verdirame with her red glasses. Thirty-two-year-old Serena Harper with a heart tattoo on her shoulder. Wally Muñoz who liked the 49ers so much that he wore both logo cap and logo shirt.

Nick Moore, twenty-one, big, toothy grin.

In two photos his hair was scraggly, his eyes red with flash. The third photo had been taken outdoors in bright light. He’d shaved his head and was shirtless, torso lean and sunburnt.

A silver pendant in the shape of a rooster gleamed against his chest.

A puka shell necklace cut a white line against his throat.

Shasta’s necklace.

I could’ve been wrong. The picture quality wasn’t great.

But...

I put my phone and snacks and coffee on the ground, untacked Nick Moore’s flyer, and shook it out of its protective plastic sleeve.

Identifying features: Three-inch surgical scar on his right knee. Anchor tattoo on the upper right arm, the word f a s t across his left knuckles.

Date of last contact was June 2024. About one year ago.

No reward posted.

Anyone with information should please contact Tara Moore. Email; phone, area code 559.

I looked closely at the necklace. Hard to say if it matched Shasta’s. A shell is a shell, and I’d never seen hers strung together, only picked the individual pieces out of the dirt.

I couldn’t be sure about the rooster, either.

Fading. Pixilation.

A different rooster? Another bird altogether?

Maybe Nick and Shasta each had their very own puka shell rooster pendant necklace. Maybe everyone under twenty-five did. Maybe puka shell rooster pendant necklaces were on-trend. I think I’m well informed for a dude in his forties. But who could say what The Kids were into?

Maybe I was still stoned.

I took the flyer inside and laid it on the counter.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know anything about this person?”

The clerk folded over his puzzle. “Not more than what it says here. Why?”

“I thought I recognized him.”

“Stare at that wall long enough, you’re bound to start seeing things.”

“The contact person is Tara Moore. Is that his wife, his mother?”

“I couldn’t tell you. There’s folks coming through here all the time. We let them use the board but I don’t get involved.”

“Can I get a copy of this?”

“That’s all we have. Feel free to take a picture. Just put it back when you’re done.”

“Okay. Can I borrow your pencil for a sec?”

He gave it to me. I wrote my number on my receipt.

“If you hear from her,” I said, sliding it to him, “please ask her to get in touch with me.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. You could always give her a call yourself, you’re so concerned. Only, you know.”

He took his pencil, flapped the crossword to stiffen it. “Try not to get her hopes up.”