The Lost Coast: A Novel

Chapter 32

Ten days later I waited on my front steps in the predawn. Red and gold streamers fluttered from the eaves; a skull and crossbones was taped to the front door, along with an arrow directing guests to the backyard. Arrrgh matey, party be in the stern.

Regina Klein pulled up in a black rented Jeep Wrangler four-by-four.

I took my bag to the curb. The passenger window buzzed down, and she stretched across to hand me a gift-wrapped box. “For Charlotte.”

“You got her a present.”

“That was for dinner. This is for her birthday.”

“Thank you.”

I jogged back to the house and left the gift in the entry hall by Amy’s boots. When I returned to the car Regina had moved to the passenger seat. Her eyes were closed.

“Wake me up in an hour,” she said.

She was snoring before I hit the freeway.

Traffic was light and I made good time. Up 580 and over the San Rafael Bridge to Marin, merging onto 101 toward Sonoma as the gray world began to differentiate. Driving with the radio off, my mind drifted to another road trip, seven years ago, with another partner beside me. We’d gone to visit a school where the students made the rules. One died; the school shut down.

I reached Petaluma with Regina still sawing wood and pushed on toward Santa Rosa, past a luxury outlet mall for saving money and a casino for losing it. Fast-food restaurants alternated with vast family vineyards, wine country in its many white-collar, blue-collar contradictions.

My phone buzzed in the cupholder.

Regina opened one eye. “Wha.”

The caller ID read Maeve Ferris.

“That’s Prado’s agent.”

“The fuck is she calling this early.”

“She’s in New York. Answer it, please.”

Clearing her throat, she raised the phone to her ear. “Clay Edison’s office... I’ll see if he’s available. One moment, please.” She tapped Mute. “Are you available, sir?”

“Cut that shit out.”

Regina unmuted and tapped Speakerphone. “You’re on with Mr. Edison.”

“Hi, Maeve. Sorry. That’s my colleague. You’ll have to excuse her.”

Ferris said, “Hello, Colleague.”

Regina said, “Pleasure.”

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Our conversation set me reminiscing,” Ferris said. “I have a few boxes left from my agency days. Tax forms, royalty statements, contracts, galleys. I went down to scrounge. Perhaps I’d kept Octavio’s transfer receipts after all. No — but I did find a letter from him, the one instructing me to burn Cathedral. Would you like me to send you a photo?”

“Please. Thanks so much.”

“One second. I’ll text it.”

I slowed onto the shoulder. Regina leaned over to share the screen. Her eyes were wide awake and alert.

An image appeared, typewritten words on creased paper.

The letters had a three-dimensional quality, and when I zoomed in I could see a streak of Wite-Out behind the word good.

“Was this done on an actual typewriter?” I asked.

“Looks that way,” Ferris said. “It’s odd, Octavio always worked by hand, why bother for such a short message? Where in the world did he get a typewriter? Not to mention the sloppiness. He was prickly about not sounding uneducated. Grammar, spelling — those things mattered to him.”

“Could be he was in a bad way, mentally. The manuscript breaks down as it goes along.”

“Yes. But something about this feels off. I suppose I didn’t notice at the time because I was more concerned with what he was saying, rather than the phrasing.”

“You told me the letter showed up after the manuscript,” I said. “How long after?”

“Well. I... I don’t remember.”

“Do you have the envelope it came in?” Regina asked.

“I don’t know. I can look. I’ll have to check my storage cage, in the basement. Give me thirty minutes or so.”

“Take your time,” I said. “Thank you.”

The call disconnected.

Regina sat up to peer through the windshield. “Where are we?”

“Near Healdsburg.”

“I can take over but I need coffee first.”

“Deal.”

I drove into town, stopping at the first café and paying for breakfast: egg sandwich and drip coffee for me, oatmilk latte and dairy-free burrito for Regina.

“When did you become a vegan?” I asked.

“I’m not,” she said, chewing. “I’m lactose-intolerant.”

“Bummer.”

“You know what’s a fucking bummer? Two thousand years of anti-Semitism.”

Maeve Ferris called, breathless and excited. “I found it. I’m texting it to you.”

The envelope was addressed to her Seventh Avenue office. No return address.

But there was a postmark.

“This is great,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

“Please let me know what happens.”

“I will. Take care, Maeve.”

Regina crumpled her burrito wrapper. “I’ll drive.”

At ten a.m. we rolled up to Fanny’s Market. The bulletin board had been rearranged since my previous visit, new flyers added and others shuffled around. Nick Moore had been relegated to the far left side, his face covered.

Regina moved him front and center.

“You want to grab anything?” She mimed toking. “Munchies?”

We parked in the lot serving the town’s public buildings. All shared an exterior scheme of yellow stucco and brown shingles. The sheriff’s substation was distinguished by the addition of heavy-duty steel screens along one side where the holding cells were.

A lone deputy staffed the counter. He took our licenses and ducked through a door.

While he was gone I browsed a much smaller corkboard advertising feel-good events. Highway cleanup, DUI checkpoints, have your kids meet the deputies.

There were a few missing persons posters, too, but nothing like the menagerie down the block. Which made sense, if your goal was to reach as many eyes as possible. More people needed snacks than they did the law.

The deputy returned to escort us back.

A sergeant waited in the hall. Mid-forties, black hair and a lantern jaw, intelligent eyes. He introduced himself as Mike Gallo.

“Thanks for talking to us,” I said.

His smile was friendly but tinged with wariness. “Two of you.”

Regina said, “It takes a village.”

He saw us into his Every-Cop office: scabby carpeting, tubular steel chairs, a computer on life support. Binders piled five-high beside desk photos of teen boys and a handsome wife. The open window framed a view of the schoolyard through dual-purpose chain link. Keep the students in and the prisoners out.

We sat.

“What can I do for you?” Gallo said.

I passed him a clean copy of Nicholas Moore’s flyer.

He nodded. “I’ve seen it over at Fanny’s.”

“Anything you can share?” Regina asked.

“Unfortunately not. Unless I’m mistaken he’s not our case.”

“Santa Cruz PD.”

“There you go,” he said. “Happens all the time, ’cause of the bulletin board. I appreciate what they’re doing as a service to the community. I have three deputies covering five hundred square miles. I’ll take any help I can get. But it’s turned into a magnet for desperate folks. Not everybody gets that sticking the flyer up here doesn’t automatically make it our jurisdiction.”

“I hear you,” I said. “I used to be a sheriff-coroner for Alameda.”

“So you know what I mean.”

“For sure. We do have indications Nicholas was in the area last year.”

“In Millburg?”

“Swann’s Flat.”

“Uh-huh.” Gallo’s expression was hard to read. “What indications?”

We told him about Nick’s obsession with Octavio Prado; about the stolen manuscript, the necklace, the TikTok. I showed him Shasta’s Instagram post.

Gallo swiped back and forth between the two photos, trees and hands. “Shasta Swann. That’s Kurt’s daughter.”

“You know her,” Regina said.

“She used to go to school with my boys till they pulled her. I think they homeschool her now.” He gave my phone back. “What makes you believe Mr. Moore is missing, as opposed to gone away on his own?”

“It’s been fifteen months without contact,” Regina said.

“Okay, but we have a lot of wandering types passing through. They show up at harvest, do a little trimming, make some cash, and skip.”

“That wasn’t Nick’s scene,” I said.

“My point is, nobody’s keeping track of who’s going in and out. This is Humboldt. People come here to be left alone.”

Regina said, “What about John Does in the morgue?”

“None meeting his description.”

“Abandoned vehicles?”

“Those we got no shortage of. Head up Alderpoint, it’s practically a junkyard.” Gallo looked at me. “What was the original reason, brought you to Swann’s Flat?”

“Due diligence on a piece of property.”

“Mm.”

I said, “Kind of an unusual system they have going.”

“Buyer beware.”

I sensed an opening, though not its motives. “You get complaints?”

“Almost never,” Gallo said. “And never anything of a criminal nature.”

Almost.

“One resident I spoke to said he’d been harassed,” I said. “Windows broken, so forth.”

“Don’t recall seeing a report.”

“He didn’t make one.”

“Then there’s not a whole lot I can do. You know that. Fact is, I can’t remember the last time we took a call from them. It’s another world out there.”

“The Humboldt of Humboldt,” Regina said.

Gallo smiled. “If you like.”

“I also spoke with someone from your Coroner’s Bureau,” I said. “Owen Ryall.”

“He’s a good guy.”

“He was telling me about the night Kurt Swann died.”

Gallo’s dark eyes slitted. “Not sure what that has to do with Mr. Moore.”

“I get the sense that they have their own way of handling problems in Swann’s Flat.”

A bell split the silence.

Through the open window I saw kids trickle out onto the schoolyard, twenty or thirty of them, ranging from first graders to preteens. Not much of a peer group.

Gallo said, “I didn’t offer you anything to drink.”

“I’d love some coffee, thanks,” Regina said.

“How do you take it?”

“Black. Unless you have oatmilk.”

“Lemme see what I can scare up. Clay?”

“All set,” I said.

“Back in a bit,” Gallo said.

He left, shutting the door.

Chapter 33

A breeze ruffled Gallo’s desktop. In the schoolyard, recess got under way, the kids pairing off except for one girl skipping rope alone.

“He’s vetting us,” I said.

“Or calling the Bergstroms to give them a heads-up,” Regina said.

“Or searching for oatmilk.”

“Shouldn’t be that hard,” she said. “It’s everywhere now.”

“That’s the bougiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Tell it to my colon.”

At a quarter to, the school bell sounded again. Students began filing inside.

Gallo reentered, shut the door, and placed a foam cup in front of Regina. “Black it is.”

“Thanks.”

He lowered the window. “I moved here in 2007. There were hardly any families. Still aren’t many. That school” — he tapped the glass — “was falling down.”

He turned. “Who do you think paid to fix it up?”

“Kurt Swann,” I said.

“Library needed new computers.” He sat at his desk. “Someone had to pay for that, too.”

“He’s dead now,” Regina said.

“Yes, ma’am, he is.”

I said, “But they still have pull.”

“Not with me,” Gallo said. “Are we clear on that?”

He waited for acknowledgment from both of us before going on: “But I wasn’t always the one sitting in this chair. Now, I want us to respect each other.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Good. So tell me. How much shit do you plan to stir up?”

“As much as we have to,” Regina said.

I thought Gallo might get annoyed, but he smiled and shook his head. “I thought you might say that. So again, let me be clear: Everything I say, this point forward, is off the record.”

I nodded. Regina made a zip-the-lip gesture.

Gallo straightened the disordered pages on his desktop. “This is when I was a rookie. I respond to a disturbance at the 76. Two trucks, a Dodge Ram and a tow truck, pushed right up against each other. A young woman, eighteen, nineteen, arguing with a pair of older guys. She tells me they hemmed her in so she can’t leave. They don’t deny it, but one guy says first off, she’s his wife, and second, the Dodge is his, not hers. She stole it, so they followed her.

“I separate them, ask for IDs and registration. The first guy gives me his license and I do a double take. Kurt Swann, address in Swann’s Flat. Bear in mind, I’ve been on the job about three months. I’ve seen the town on the map, but every place around here’s named for some or other dead person. I didn’t know there was any actual Swanns. He’s smirking at me, waiting for me to connect the dots. The other guy, it’s his tow truck.”

“Dave Pelman,” I said.

“Yeah. I ask the woman for her license. She doesn’t have it. Doesn’t have any ID. ‘Okay, what’s your name.’ ‘Leonie.’ ‘Is that your husband?’ She won’t answer. I’m trying to get her story and Kurt’s begging from over on the sidewalk: ‘I love you, I forgive you, come home.’ ”

“Forgive her for what?” I asked.

“Who knows? But now it’s looking like some sort of domestic dispute. She’s jumpy, but she doesn’t have any visible injuries. I offer to bring her to the station, speak with her in private. She won’t budge. Clams up totally. I have her open the Dodge to get the registration from the glove box. Sure enough, it’s in Kurt’s name only. Then I hear something in the back seat. I peek over. There’s two big suitcases and a baby in a car seat.”

“She was leaving him?”

“Maybe. Maybe she was going to visit her mother and would’ve ended up coming back.”

“Most of them do,” Regina said.

Gallo nodded. “One thing’s for sure: I’m out of my depth. I get on the horn to my supervisor.”

“The guy who used to sit in that chair,” I said.

“Correct. As I’m talking to him, Leonie goes and hands the keys over to Kurt. She gets in the Dodge with him and they drive off.”

“Willingly?”

“So far as I can see. I’m not about to go chasing after them, ’cause—”

“There’s a baby,” Regina said.

“Correct. I head back to the station and tell the sergeant what happened. He shakes his head. ‘Fucking rednecks.’ ”

“He’d dealt with Kurt before,” I said.

“That was the implication. He doesn’t have me do anything right then, but the next day he tells me to take a partner and do a welfare check. I remember being on that road for the first time, thinking anyone who’d live down there had to be out of their damn mind. Then we get to the house and ho-ly shit. Here’s this supposed redneck, and he’s living in a palace.

“Leonie comes to the door. You can smell the booze on her from five feet away. She says she’s fine, please leave them alone. Kurt comes running from the stable, screaming his head off. ‘You sonsabitches, step onto my land, threaten my family.’ He herds her inside, slams the door, and runs around, yanking down the shades. Pretty soon the whole house is blacked out, and we can hear Kurt, ranting and raving.

“We try to radio in, but the reception’s for shit. We’re calling and calling and it’s not going through. We don’t want to leave before we’ve ascertained there’s no danger to her or to the child. So we decide to split up: I’ll stay behind, my partner will drive till he can get a signal.

“Before he can leave, a new vehicle pulls up and a young guy gets out, ’bout the same age as Leonie. He’s smiling like it’s the greatest day of his life. ‘Why hello there, Deputy.’ ”

“That sounds like Beau,” I said.

“Yup. He tells us Leonie called him and said Kurt’s acting up. ‘Lemme talk some sense into him.’ He knocks. ‘Open up, Kurt. It’s me.’ Door swings in, and I tense up, thinking he’s gonna catch a face full of buckshot. But Kurt steps aside. Ten minutes later they both come out. Kurt’s done a one eighty. Meek as hell, like the kid shot him up with a tranquilizer.

“Beau goes, ‘These gentlemen don’t mean you any harm. They’re just doing their job. They just want to ask questions. Isn’t that right? What can we do for you, gentlemen?’

“I tell Kurt I’d like a word with Leonie. Beau says, ‘She’s not feeling well.’ ‘I need to hear that from her.’ ‘Of course, Officer, right this way.’ I’m talking to Kurt and this punk’s answering. Then he tries to escort me in. Like it’s his house. I said, ‘Both of you, stay outside.’

“Leonie’s laid out on the couch. She’s got the baby in a playpen. She says, ‘I never called you, I have a headache, please leave.’ Talking toward the front door, loud enough for them to hear her out on the lawn. She won’t even look at me.”

“She must’ve been terrified,” Regina said.

“Yes, ma’am. The baby starts crying. Leonie doesn’t move a muscle. It’s howling and turning red. I said to her, ‘Do you need me to pick her up?’ That sets Leonie off. She jumps up and screams at me to leave them alone. Screams. I’m tripping over myself to get out of there.”

Gallo tented his fingers. “So now me and my partner have a choice.”

“Bust Kurt,” Regina said. “He’s free in forty-eight hours, goes home to take it out on her.”

“Bust them both and see if she wants to seek protection,” I said. “But she’s not giving off a cooperative vibe.”

“Plus there’s the baby to think about,” Regina said.

“Or?” Gallo smiled. “There’s another option.”

I said, “Apologize for the misunderstanding and be on your way.”

“Bingo,” Gallo said. “I didn’t have any DV training. Was pretty much a kid myself. I’d like to think that if I had another opportunity, I would’ve known what to ask and how to ask it. But she never called.”

“They usually don’t,” Regina said.

Gallo frowned. “True. But since then there’s no evidence she’s not fine.”

I said, “Could we talk about the night of Kurt’s death? Were you on the scene?”

“Everyone was,” Gallo said. “It was an all-hands situation.”

“The coroner’s report is based almost entirely on Dave Pelman’s account. Was he ever considered a suspect?”

“It never got that far. I can tell you we spoke to Pelman’s ex-wife. She runs the hotel.”

“Jenelle Counts?” I said.

“That’s her. She told us Pelman had a thing for Leonie.”

“Were they having an affair?” Regina asked.

“She didn’t come right out and make an accusation. More hinting. And it’s his ex talking, you gotta take what she says with a shaker of salt. In the end, the coroner was strong on it being an accident. We had to abide by that. As you, Clay, are no doubt aware.”

“The report doesn’t mention the Bergstroms at all,” I said. “Were they interviewed?”

“Not by me.”

“They weren’t suspects, either.”

“Like I said: accident.”

“I’m asking your opinion.”

“My opinion didn’t matter. I wasn’t the sergeant.”

“You are now,” Regina said.

“Yeah,” Gallo said. “So I can imagine his thought process. Are these folks in Swann’s Flat a buncha weirdos? You bet. So’s everyone else in a hundred-mile radius. We got lots bigger problems, more so back then. Cartels muscling in, shooting each other up, setting fire to grow sites. Now you have this redneck, and his woman’s losing her mind if you try to touch her baby. My opinion? Nobody’s shedding tears over Kurt Swann.”

Chapter 34

We left the station and set out west beneath gathering clouds, Regina at the wheel.

She said, “Takeaways.”

“Beau having Kurt on a leash interests me,” I said. “I’ve thought of them as a management-ownership arrangement. The Swanns hold title, the Bergstroms do the work. But this makes it seem like Beau and Emil have serious leverage.”

“They know how the scam works, can bring it crashing down.”

“Not without implicating themselves, and I can’t see Emil doing that. He’s an egomaniac. Self-interested, first and foremost.”

“The land was doing nothing till he showed up,” she said. “Meaning, Kurt’s no business genius. It takes Emil to coax money out of it. That gives him power over Kurt.”

“Probably makes Kurt resentful, too. And if he’s a loose cannon, he becomes a liability.”

Regina nodded. “How about this: Kurt suspects Leonie of cheating on him. He’s jealous, beating on her. That brings the cops around, which makes the Bergstroms nervous. They have Pelman take Kurt out. Added bonus, they do Leonie a favor and put her in their debt.”

“Why would Pelman agree to that?” I asked. “He’s the one helped Kurt force her back to Swann’s Flat in the first place.”

“Both things can be true. If Pelman had a soft spot for her, he probably didn’t want her leaving, either. But he also doesn’t like how Kurt treats her, and when the Bergstroms give him a chance to get rid of a rival, he goes ahead.”

“Or they paid him, simple as that,” I said. “Or the Bergstroms weren’t involved and Leonie got Pelman to do it herself.”

“She seem capable of that?” Regina asked.

“She struck me as more high-strung than psychopathic. But I talked to her under unusual circumstances. I have no idea what she’s like normally.”

“If Kurt dies, Leonie inherits from him automatically. How does the land wind up in Shasta’s trust?”

“He could’ve had Leonie sign a prenup and left everything to Shasta. Or transferred the property in his lifetime without telling her.”

“That implies he didn’t trust Leonie.”

“Or he was lording it over her.”

“Or, again, we’re totally off base,” Regina said. “Kurt had nothing to do with it. Leonie made the transfer.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Say the Bergstroms do have dirt on her. Getting the land out of her hands creates a layer of insulation between her and them. And depending on how the trust is set up, it can also protect Shasta, at least to some extent.”

“Be nice to know who the trustee is.”

“Be nice to know a lot of things,” Regina said. “Whatever the specifics, they’ve reached a working arrangement and are all making money. So at the moment it’s not in anyone’s interest to be contentious.”

“Pelman, too,” I said. “He’s got the coolant concession.”

“Think Jenelle will talk to us?”

“I think you’ll do better with her than I will.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“After they executed Mata Hari, her head was preserved,” I said. “But then it was lost and never recovered. It’s still missing, to this day.”

She stared at me. “What is wrong with you?”

“Did you know that?”

“No. Why would I know that?”

“You’re welcome.”

She faced the road and sighed. “You’re gonna get me fucking killed.”

At Blackberry Junction we pulled over so I could drive the final stretch. Experience and all-wheel drive made a huge difference, and the trip went faster, the way second trips always do.

For me.

Regina was folded into a comma, taking strained nasal breaths.

“Do you need a break?” I asked.

She shook her head tightly.

“I might have some jerky left. Helps with nausea.”

“Shut up,” she gasped.

At the mile eight hairpin, I stopped and switched on the hazards.

Regina looked up. Sweat beaded her forehead. “What’s going on?”

“This is where Kurt went over.”

I parked and stepped carefully out to the memorial. The flowers in the Jack Daniel’s vase had been recently replaced with a spray of blueblossoms, the bottle filled with fresh water.

Across the valley, over the ridge, the sky was lowering toward a rough gray sea.

Regina stumbled from the Jeep and bent to catch her breath, elbows on thighs. After a minute she joined me.

She examined the cross, the flowers.

Then she did exactly what I’d done: plucked a golf-ball-sized stone and tossed it into the void. It ricocheted off the cliffside and vanished without a sound.

“That’s gotta hurt,” she said.

“Not for very long.”

Half an hour later we crossed the town boundary and proceeded through the rows of empty lots. Plastic markers flapped in the wind.

“I thought you were exaggerating,” Regina said. “But this is creepy as fuck.”

“Welcome to Swann’s Flat.”

“Last time I let you plan our honeymoon.”

Our first stop was 22 Black Sand Court. For weeks I had been trying unsuccessfully to reach Al Bock. I wasn’t worried about him, per se, but it felt wise to rendezvous with a friendly.

I turned onto his block. The wooden fortress loomed into view.

Regina sat forward. “Jesus Christ.”

We were showing up unannounced, and I slowed to a crawl. Fifty yards from the fence, my eye landed on a motion sensor, mounted to the trunk of a lodgepole pine. The housing had been painted taupe for camouflage. I’d missed it the last time.

I braked. “He knows we’re here.”

She followed my gaze to the sensor. “I thought this guy was on our side.”

“I’m pretty sure he is.”

“ ‘Pretty sure.’ ”

I unbuckled. “Get behind the wheel.”

“Hang on.”

“Be ready to drive,” I said and got out.

“Clay,” Regina called. “What the fuck?”

I stuck my hands above my head. “It’s Clay Edison, Sergeant Bock. Can you hear me?”

“Clay,” Regina yelled.

“I’m approaching the gate, Sergeant. Okay? Here I come.”

Behind the fence, King Kong snarled like a lawn mower.

I rang the bell.

Growling, barking, claws on wood.

I addressed the security camera. “Sergeant? Are you home?”

A honk spun me around. Regina was leaning on the horn and waving frantically toward the roadside, where Al Bock had outflanked me and risen in a thicket, ten yards to my rear. He wore jeans and long-sleeved black T-shirt and was sighting on a hunting rifle, shuttling smoothly between me and Regina, the bright-green dot of a daylight laser scope flicking precisely from my chest to hers and back.

“Sergeant,” I said. “It’s Clay Edison.”

He lowered the rifle. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“I sent an email.”

“Haven’t checked it.”

“I tried calling, too. It won’t go through.”

“Line’s out.”

Regina sat again. She was throttling the wheel, ready to roar up and collect me. Or flatten him.

“What’s she so dang excited about?” Bock said.

“Meeting you, I think.” I signaled to her that it was safe.

Bock came forward to shake my hand. For a man in his early seventies he was remarkably trim and fit, with a shaved head and a sharp jawline just beginning to pouch underneath. His grip was crushing, his palm one solid callus.

“What happened to the line?” I asked.

“One guess.”

“A tree fell down.”

“About a week after we talked,” he said.

Regina climbed from the Jeep. “Nice place you got here.”

“Thanks,” Bock said.

“The ladies must love it.”

“Don’t get too many of those.”

“Nooo.” She gestured to the fence, with its razor wire and wall of bamboo. “But it’s so warm and welcoming.”

“Home sweet home. Al.”

“Regina.”

“I apologize if I startled you, Regina.”

“You can make it up to me. Got any coffee?”

Chapter 35

The house was a silvered A-frame, sturdy and plain, emphasizing security and self-sufficiency over aesthetics.

Bars encaged the windows. Solar panels tiled the roof. Bock’s rustbucket Chevy sat by the chained driveway gates. Motion sensors with alarms and lights protected the vegetable beds and hoop houses where he grew his food, serving to deter animals as well as human intruders. The toolshed, outhouse, root cellar, and smokehouse were padlocked. State law limited him to two deer and one elk per season; throw in fish, small game, and the occasional field trip for wild boar, and he had more than enough to see him and the puppy through.

The surrounding forest contained additional sensors and trip wires, plus an electric fence.

“No land mines?” Regina said.

“Too expensive.”

The front door was sealed — another diversionary tactic. King Kong, a ninety-pound brindle pitbull-mastiff mix, had quieted down, although he stuck to his master’s legs, casting sullen glances in our direction as we went around to the rear. An outdoor shower stall faced the trees. Nearby Bock had cleared room for what he called “my social life”: a sixteen-foot ham radio mast. The mountains prevented him from reaching points inland. Mostly he talked to ships and other hams along the coast.

He opened the back door — it was triple-locked — and stood aside.

“Welcome to my humble abomination.”

The interior was rustic but cozy, consisting of an open main floor and a sleeping loft, furnished with basic, handmade pieces in unfinished cedar and pine. A dedicated cabinet housed his radio gear. Regina and I sat at the small eating table while Bock scooped coffee into a moka pot and set it going on the woodstove. King Kong stood alertly by his side.

No TV; no light fixtures. He woke with the sun and went to bed at dark. Every few months he drove to Millburg to stock up on essentials and check out the maximum of twenty library books.

Listening to him, I found myself wavering between envy for the simplicity of his life and pity for its isolation. A stale musk permeated throughout — one man’s sweat soaked into every surface. While he was dressed neatly and well groomed, I could smell him, too, when he put out the mugs and sat across from us.

I asked how long it would take to repair the phone line.

“Twelve to fourteen weeks.”

“You didn’t want to do it yourself?”

“I offered to. They told me if I touch it they’ll cancel my service. You know, I didn’t have any trouble for years till you came around.”

“Shoulda shot him when you had the chance,” Regina said.

Bock smiled. “To what do I owe the honor?”

I showed him Nick’s flyer. “Recognize him?”

Bock shook his head.

“We think he was in Swann’s Flat last summer. He hasn’t been heard from since.”

“You never noticed him around town?” Regina asked.

“No, ma’am. I don’t get out much, though.”

I said, “He may have connected with Shasta Swann.”

Regina said, “What can you tell us about her?”

“Shasta?” Bock said. “I see her time to time, riding her bike or walking her dog. Seems like a nice enough kid. I remember when she was born, ’cause it was a big deal. First baby on the peninsula in fifteen years.”

“Who came before her?”

“DJ Pelman.” He scratched King Kong’s neck. “Truth be told, I don’t know how happy she is.”

“What makes you say that?” I asked.

“This is no place for a girl her age. It’s one thing, you’re a grown man, you make a decision. But ask me, it doesn’t seem fair to do to her. Can’t fault her wanting to get out.”

“Did she express that to you?”

“Not in so many words.”

Regina said, “But?”

“Well... This is years ago. I was down by the marina, getting ready to take my boat out. She comes riding over, starts asking me questions about joining up.”

“As in the military?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. She wanted to know how old you had to be, where I’d gotten to live. I told her Japan and Korea, but mostly I spent my career in the same damn spot. I said, ‘You want to see the world, there’s better ways.’ ”

“How old was she when you had this conversation?” Regina said.

“Eight? Ten? I’m not the right person to ask about kids’ ages.”

“And she was already plotting her escape.”

Bock nodded.

“She’s still here,” I said.

“Well, look,” he said. “It’s like that song. ‘You can check out when you want, but you can’t leave.’ I think I got that wrong.”

“Close enough,” Regina said.

I showed him a copy of Octavio Prado’s jacket photo. “What about this person?”

“Oh yeah. The writer guy.”

The response was so swift that I was momentarily thrown. Regina’s hand flew to her mouth.

I said, “You recognize him.”

“Yes, sir. He helped build my house.”

The help wasn’t very helpful, Bock clarified. And it wasn’t a house, either, not at that point; he only had the foundation and portions of the framing done.

“I used to fish more than I do now, so I was out on my boat two, three times a week. Usually I’d stop off at the hotel for a beer. He was at the bar.”

“You’re sure it’s the same person,” Regina said.

“Yes, ma’am, sure as the Pope eats macaroni. Only he wasn’t calling himself — what’s it?”

“Octavio Prado.”

“He told me his name was Felix,” Bock said.

“Last name?” Regina said.

“De Jesús,” I said.

They both looked at me.

“How do you know that?” Bock said.

“It comes from his first book,” I said. “It’s the name of the protagonist. Félix de Jesús.”

“He actually published a book?” Bock said.

“One.”

“Huh. I thought he was fibbing.”

“Did he say what he was doing in Swann’s Flat?” Regina asked.

“No, ma’am. We chatted a little and then I was on my way. I saw him a few more times, sitting on the beach or whatnot. I didn’t talk to him. I was busy.

“One morning I’m up on the ladder working, and I hear Godzilla barking. I hadn’t built the fence yet. I had him on a hundred-foot chain. I look out, and there’s a guy standing in the street. It’s the guy from the bar. He wants to know if he can move his car onto my land.”

“What’d he need that for?” I asked.

“He had to vacate the place he was renting. Then he was sleeping in the car for a few days but they said he couldn’t park on the street anymore or they’d tow it.”

“Who did?”

“Bergstrom. Or maybe Pelman. It’s his tow truck. He does whatever Emil wants.”

“Why did Prado come to you?” Regina said.

Bock shook his head. “I guess he tried everywhere else first. I told him, ‘I was you, I’d take the hint and vamoose.’ He wouldn’t listen. He says he can’t pay me, but he’ll work for me if I feed him and let him crash. He didn’t mind sleeping in the car, long as he could get it off the street. Another set of hands didn’t sound too bad. ‘Okay, let’s give it a whirl.’ ”

“How’d that go?” I asked.

“ ’Bout as good as you’d think. I didn’t know jack shit about construction, and I still knew twice as much as him. I was spending all my time making sure he didn’t saw his fingers off. After a couple of weeks I told him no hard feelings, and he split.”

“How well did you get to know him?” Regina asked.

“He wasn’t a talker. Whenever I asked him about himself I got a different story.”

“You called him the writer guy,” I said.

“He told me he was working on a book. I asked what it was about. He goes to the car, brings this goddamn thing the size of an encyclopedia. Hands it to me. Like I’m gonna read it on the spot. I flipped through it. ‘Nifty, let’s get back to work.’ ”

“Sergeant, do you happen to remember if he had a typewriter with him?”

“Boy,” Bock said. “I couldn’t tell you one way or the other. The car, it was an itty-bitty blue Toyota, packed full of crap, bags and boxes. I don’t know how he slept in there. Typewriter...? Maybe. For all I know, he had a refrigerator.”

“Where did he go when he left?” Regina asked.

“Well, I was getting to that. Not too long after me and him parted ways, I was taking the puppy for a walk. I go past Dave Pelman’s place and see the same car sitting in the driveway.”

“Prado’s Toyota.”

Bock nodded. “You don’t get too many vehicles like that around here. Most everyone has a truck or SUV. I went over to have a closer look. It’s empty, no bags, nothing. Pelman comes out, hollering that I’m trespassing. I asked him, ‘Whose car is this?’ He goes, ‘It’s mine.’ ”

“What did you make of that?” I asked.

“At the time, not much. I figured the guy was hard up for cash. He musta sold the car to Pelman before skipping town.”

“How could Prado have left without his car?” Regina asked. “What about his stuff?”

“Yeah, no. Didn’t sit right. I kept thinking about it. Few days later I go by again. The car’s gone. I knock and ask Pelman about it. He plays dumb. ‘What car?’ ‘You know what car, the blue Toyota.’ ” Bock mimed scratching his head. “ ‘Ohhh, yeah. I stripped it for parts.’ ”

“You said Pelman does whatever Emil wants,” I said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did Prado ever mention having conflict with Emil? Or anyone else in Swann’s Flat?”

“No, sir,” Bock said.

“Did he seem to know any of the other residents?”

“He never said so.”

“What happened after you asked Pelman about the Toyota?” I asked.

“Nothing really.”

“No one bothered you about it.”

“No, sir.”

“And Prado?” Regina asked.

“I didn’t see him again.”

“Sorry if this seems unrelated, Sergeant,” I said. “What do you remember about when Kurt Swann died?”

“Just that it happened.”

“Were there rumors?” Regina asked.

“Rumors?”

“That it wasn’t an accident, for example.”

“No, ma’am. I mind my own business.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“We should get moving,” Regina said.

I nodded. “Thanks, Sergeant. We’ll be in touch.”

“Yes, sir. Can I ask what it is you plan to do?”

“Have to see how it goes. Right now we’re just gathering information.”

“Mm.” Bock chewed his cheek.

Regina said, “Something you want to tell us?”

“I don’t want to stick my nose in where it don’t belong.”

“That’s okay.”

“Well... I told you I used to drop by the bar. Those days, DJ was living with his mom.”

“Jenelle,” I said.

“Yes, sir. I got to know him some.”

I readied myself for an anecdote revealing signs of early psychopathy — torturing animals, setting fires.

But Bock sounded wistful as he said, “He’s a good kid. It’s not his fault his dad is the way he is. I ain’t gonna say to you he’s a saint. But he means well. Whatever shit the rest of them’s mixed up in... I wanted you to know that.”

“Thank you,” Regina said.

He nodded.

“Anything else?” I asked.

He paused. “Just be careful, okay? With the rest of them.”

Chapter 36

Our primary interest was talking to Shasta Swann, but our cover story put us in town to look at property. We had to do what normal people did, in the normal order, starting with checking in.

The bell jangled as we entered the Counts Hotel.

Jenelle barreled through the saloon doors. “You’re back.”

“I’m back. And I brought the boss.”

Regina introduced herself. “Clay had the best time. He can’t stop raving about it.”

She had donned a new persona: soothing, earnest, intimate; her voice satiny and the skin around her eyes crinkled with pleasure.

A childhood spent in musical theater, indeed.

Jenelle appeared flattered, and slightly flustered, by the assault of warmth. “I have the same room, if you’d like.”

“Wonderful,” Regina said.

I counted out six hundred dollars.

“Will you be wanting dinner?” Jenelle asked.

“Not sure yet,” I said.

“Kitchen closes at seven.” She handed me a key. “You know the way.”

We only stayed long enough to drop our bags and strap up. I went down the hall to the bathroom, changing into my vest, P365, and magnetic front shirt. When I returned to the room, Regina was dressed the same, with the addition of a pale-pink leather purse. It had chrome buckles, a slender strap, a cute embossed logo.

The ideal accessory for a fun weekend getaway.

Plus an invisible side pocket, near her shooting hand, concealing her Ruger Max .380.

She put in a fresh magazine and racked the slide. “Ready, honey pie?”

“Never readier, babycakes.”

The next normal thing to do on a property tour was to tour property.

Driving north on Beachcomber toward the Bergstrom mansion, I pointed out the mansions belonging to Maggie Penrose and the Clancys.

“You mean Shasta,” Regina said.

“Technically.”

“And literally. She’s profiting here, too.”

“Which she may or may not know.”

“You really want to defend this girl.”

“You really want to indict her.”

“She’s not my Instagram friend.”

Beau Bergstrom’s Range Rover was parked in the driveway. We’d assumed that making contact with any of the residents — other than Bock — would alert all of them to our presence. But he answered the door with a look of genuine surprise.

“Clay.”

Maybe Jenelle hadn’t had a chance to call him. Or she’d never intended to.

He recovered quickly, putting out a hand. “Great to see you, brother.”

“You too,” I said. “My wife, Regina.”

“It’s a pleasure, Beau,” she said.

Yet another new voice. Soft, breathy, coy.

Eyelashes batting at warp speed.

And the Oscar goes to...

“The pleasure,” Beau said, “is all mine.”

He stood back with a bow. “After you.”

The interior layout was predictable. Central living room with spiral staircase, kitchen and dining room off the garage, corridor leading to first-floor rooms. When it came to furnishings, the Bergstroms’ taste was masculine and impersonal, heavy on black leather and mirrors. Lucite pool table, one-armed bandit. It looked like what it was: a late-nineties bachelor pad, writ large.

“Drink?” Beau said.

“I’d love some water,” I said.

“Could I use your restroom?” Regina asked.

“But of course,” Beau said. “Down the hall to the right.”

She left, and he and I stepped into the kitchen.

“Apologies for dropping out of the sky like this,” I said. “The schedule’s been insane.”

“No worries,” Beau said, filling a glass for me. “How was Hong Kong?”

“Busy. Ever been?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“You gotta go,” I said. “Worth it for the dim sum alone...”

I filled him in on my adventure, piling on unnecessary detail, letting the impatience build behind his smile.

“Terrific,” Beau said. “Listen, Clay, did you see my last email?”

I nodded. “I was going to reply, but I thought it’d be easier to talk face-to-face. And Regina wanted to see the property in person.”

Beau clucked his tongue. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we just accepted an offer from the other party.”

“Oh no. You’re kidding.”

He shook his head grimly. “Wish I was.”

“Shit. She’s gonna be so disappointed.”

“I feel bad about it, Clay. I didn’t hear from you, so—”

“No. I get it. You have to do what you have to do.”

Regina reappeared.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Lady issues.”

“The property’s sold,” I said.

“Oh no.” Her face was a tragedy mask. “Really?”

“Unfortunately,” Beau said.

“Ugh.”

“I wish you’d called first. I coulda saved you the trouble of driving all the way up.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “We’ll make the most of it while we’re here. Right, honey?”

“There’s really nothing we can do?” Regina asked.

Beau sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. These people. He was an actor, too.

“Okay, look,” he said. “The draft contract went out last week. It’s under attorney review. My dad went up to Eureka to meet with him. They’re supposed to finalize and sign tomorrow morning. That gives us a window where we can still pull out without losing money. But a small one. Why don’t the three of us go over together right now? You can see it for yourself, see how you feel. Maybe you won’t like it, and we have nothing to discuss.”

“And if we do like it?” she said.

“I’ll call him and plead your case. But no guarantees. Fair?”

“More than fair,” I said.

“Thank you,” Regina said. “So much.”

“It’s up the way, mile and change,” Beau said. “We could hoof it, but I don’t want to get caught in a downpour.”

“We’ll take our car and follow you,” I said.

I started the Jeep. “Lady issues resolved?”

“Peachy,” Regina said.

“Find anything?”

“I only had a few minutes to poke around. But there’s an office. With a typewriter.”

The appeal of 185 Beachcomber was self-evident: The lot was situated behind a deep, high berm, with 270-degree views encompassing ocean, mountains, and forest. On a clear day it would be spectacular; as it was, the mist imparted an otherworldly quality, suspending us in midair.

“Mamma mia,” Regina said.

Beau said, “She’s a real gem.”

I wondered if he realized he was quoting his own copy.

“The elevation makes it feel private,” Beau said, “even though the water’s right there.”

He walked us around, well set in salesman mode. While the loggers’ dormitories were no longer standing — they’d been picked apart for salvage — the natural stone foundations remained.

“They’re much bigger than I pictured,” Regina said.

“Crew numbered about eighty men,” Beau said.

“More people than live here today,” I said.

“Way more. They worked in shifts, four days in the field and three at the pier.”

“No days off?” Regina asked.

“Sunday morning, for church.”

She gazed dewily up at the hills. “It’s a miracle they didn’t chop down the whole forest.”

“Nature always wins. It’s all protected land now, so you’ll never lose that view.”

“How’d they get the logs down?”

“Steam engine,” he said, tracing the path out of the mountains. “I showed Clay on our hike. Tracks used to run to the pier, and there was a lumber chute off the end. The cove’s too tight for ships to pull up directly. What they call a dog-hole port, ’cause only a dog could turn around in it...”

While I’d heard his patter, Regina hadn’t. Her oohs and aahs encouraged him to lay it on thick.

“The history is so fascinating,” she said.

“Couldn’t agree more, Regina,” Beau said.

We were threading through the pine grove, descending a gentle slope.

“Especially the way you tell it,” she said. “It really makes the place come alive.”

“I told your husband, it’s a passion of mine.”

“Clay said you’re writing a book.”

“Ah, gee. I don’t know I’d call it a book. Watch your step.”

“Thanks... I do a little writing, myself.”

“Is that right?”

“Mostly poetry.”

“Where do you get your inspiration?” Beau said.

“Everywhere,” she said. “The world is such a beautiful place. You just have to open yourself up and let it in.”

The slope ended at a stone overhang. Beneath was a space about ten feet wide and half as deep, forming a natural windbreak and shelter. Crushed mussel shells sparkled in the soil. Cookfire soot smudged the ceiling.

“Most of the year the Native Americans lived in the hills,” Beau said. “They came down for the summer to take advantage of the sea harvest.” He grinned. “The original beach house.”

Regina squinted at a rock face. “Is that... a painting?”

Two deer, rendered in fading red pigment; the testimony of an ancient mind.

“Oh my God,” she said.

“How’s that for inspiration?” Beau asked.

The wind was picking up as we traipsed over the damp grass. Stray droplets pricked my face. At five thirty p.m., the sun was fighting a desperate and losing battle, clouds blackened like the bottom of a scorched pot. A vein of light flared over the water, illuminating the ocean for miles and leaving the darkness heavier than before.

“So?” Beau said. “What do we think?”

I glanced at Regina. “Honey?”

She smiled shyly at Beau. “I think you should talk to your dad.”

Beau chuckled. “Thanks for making my life easy.”

“What do you want me to say? It’s incredible.”

“All righty. I’ll do my best. I’ll call you after I’ve spoken with him. You’re at the hotel?”

“For tonight, at least,” I said.

“If it doesn’t work out,” Beau said, “maybe tomorrow we can have a look at some of those other properties you saw last time.”

“How would you feel about that?” I asked Regina.

She gave a thumbs-down.

“The woman knows what she wants,” Beau said.

“Always,” I said.

“I’d love it if you could show me around a little,” Regina said, “like you did for Clay. Love to see what you’re working on, too.”

“Nothing would make me happier,” Beau said. “Careful, now. Slippery.”

He extended his arm gallantly to escort her down the berm. “I see you learned your lesson and rented a four-wheeler.”

“It didn’t help,” Regina said.

“ ’Scuse me for saying so, but someone got her cherry popped.”

“Big time.”

Chapter 37

It was drizzling as we arrived at the Clancy residence. Regina and I hurried onto the porch. Bowie began barking before I’d knocked.

Coming.

Leonie opened the door, one hand on the dog’s collar. She stared at me.

“Hi, Mrs. Clancy. This is my wife.”

Regina introduced herself. “Great to meet you.”

“You, too,” Leonie said. Stock niceties, reflexive. Then reality kicked in and she reverted to form: “What’s this about?”

“We’re in town for a few days,” I said. “I wanted to check in, see how Shasta’s doing.”

Bowie lunged, forcing Leonie to grab at the doorpost. Her body wobbled, her eyes were bleary. “Better. Thanks.”

I held up a pair of Apple AirPods, new in the box. “These are for her.”

“To replace the ones she lost,” Regina said.

“Oh,” Leonie said. “That’s... It’s very kind of you.”

I said, “Would you mind giving them to her?”

Regina and I smiled simultaneously. What a lovely couple.

Our plan was to forge a connection with Shasta — an opening to exploit, if not now, then at some later date.

It worked faster and better than expected.

Leonie said, “You can give them to her yourself.”

We trailed her as she dragged the dog through the foyer and into the living room. An open wine bottle and stemless glass sat on the coffee table. Cooking smells drifted from the kitchen, where an exhaust fan bellowed.

Leonie released Bowie. He ran to me, rising on his hind legs to greet me.

“Hello again, Big Guy,” I said, rubbing his head.

“Lee? Is someone there?” Jason Clancy came to the kitchen doorway, wearing an apron over corduroys and a green broadcloth shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. “Oh. Hey.”

“You remember Clay,” Leonie said.

“Yeah, of course. Good to see you again. Sorry, I’m covered in fish... Jason.”

“Regina.”

“They brought something for Shasta,” Leonie said.

“Right,” Jason said. “Cool.”

“Would you mind if I used your restroom?” Regina asked.

“Down the hall.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll let her know you’re here,” Leonie said, starting up the stairs.

With both women gone, Jason turned to me. “Beer?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

He wiped his hands on his apron, went behind the bar, and popped open two Sierra Nevadas. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”

I smiled. “We came to look at a property.”

“Oh yeah?” He handed me a bottle and sat on the couch, patting the cushion for Bowie, who curled up next to him. “Which?”

“One eighty-five Beachcomber.”

“I didn’t know that was for sale.”

“Beau Bergstrom took us to look at it. Sounds like there are other offers, though.”

“Huh. Well.” He tilted his beer toward me. “Good luck.”

Leonie returned. Shasta was two steps behind, barefoot and dressed in loose gray sweatpants. The puka shell necklace had been replaced by a thin silver chain tucked beneath a Rolling Stones big-tongue T-shirt.

“Hi there,” I said.

“Hey,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. We didn’t know if you got new ones already.”

“No, I’ve just been using my old wired pair. This is great.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Fine. Full recovery.”

“Back on the bike?”

“We’re taking it slow,” Leonie said.

“I have to build up my stamina,” Shasta said. “I wasn’t allowed to ride for six weeks.”

“We agreed we wanted to be careful,” Leonie said, reaching to brush hair from Shasta’s face.

Shasta tilted away in annoyance.

“You got a new necklace, too,” I said.

“Just the chain,” Shasta said, fishing the rooster pendant out from her shirt. “I was going to get the same thing, with shells, but I kinda prefer how this looks.”

Regina reentered. “Hi. You must be Shasta. I’m Regina.”

“Hi,” Shasta said. “Thanks for that.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“Who’s watching the kids while you’re away?” Leonie asked.

“Clay’s mom,” Regina said.

Jason said, “They’re thinking of buying one eighty-five.”

Leonie raised her eyebrows. “Oh.”

White light bleached the room, followed by a peal of thunder that rattled the windows and a crash of rain.

Bowie began to howl.

“Easy, pal,” Jason said, stroking his head.

“Well,” Leonie said. “Thank you for—”

Shasta said, “Do you guys want to stay for dinner?”

I looked at Regina. “Well—”

“You can’t go out in this weather,” Shasta said. Cheeky smile. “You could have an accident.”

I laughed.

Regina said, “That’s so sweet, but we wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You’re not. We have plenty of food. Right?” she asked Jason.

“...Yeah,” he said.

“Great,” Shasta said. “I’ll set the table.”

“I’ll help you,” Regina said.

“Can I give you a hand?” I asked Jason.

“Cut tomatoes?”

“I think I can manage that.”

Leonie picked up the wine bottle and refilled her glass.

As soon as we sat down to eat, Bowie began running in circles, herding us in our chairs, forcing us closer and closer to the edge of the table.

“Can you please crate him,” Leonie said.

“It’s instinct,” Shasta said. “He can’t help it.”

“Am I a sheep? Look at this. Bowie.”

The dog rested his paws on my back and began nuzzling my neck.

“Down.” Leonie rapped the tabletop. “Down.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

“Bowie,” Shasta said. “Come.”

She induced him to settle at her feet by dangling a piece of rockfish.

Jason Clancy was an accomplished cook and a first-rate provider: He’d caught the fish himself and grown the vegetables. The wine, a Sauvignon Blanc from a Humboldt vineyard, was quickly finished and another bottle uncorked. Leonie drank the most, although Shasta did her part, surreptitiously topping off her half glass when her mother wasn’t paying attention.

Regina said, “Everything’s delicious.”

“Thanks,” Jason said.

Leonie said, “You can see why I married him.”

“How’d you two meet?” I asked.

“Online,” Jason said.

Shasta reached for the wine.

“Excuse me, young lady,” Leonie said.

“You said half a glass.”

“You’ve already had more than that.”

“It complements the food.” Shasta poured a full glass, nosed. “Fruity.”

Leonie looked to Jason for help.

“Kitten,” he said.

Shasta, ignoring him, said, “How much is Beau charging you for one eighty-five?”

“Shasta,” Leonie said.

“What.”

“That’s not polite.”

“We’re all adults here,” Shasta said.

“You’re not.”

“Not yet.”

“I’m just asking a question.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“I mean,” Shasta said, swirling her glass, “we could be neighbors, so it kind of is.”

I said, “We haven’t settled on a price yet.”

“Why would you want to live here?”

Leonie said, “They like it, obviously.”

“It’s beautiful,” Regina said.

“There’s lots of beautiful places,” Shasta said.

Jason said, “More salad, anyone?”

“Yes, please,” I said.

Shasta said, “How old are your kids?”

“Four and one,” I said, accepting the bowl.

“Are you planning to raise them here?”

“Shasta,” Leonie said.

“I’m just asking.”

“We were thinking it would be part-time,” Regina said.

“Where will you send them to school?” Shasta asked.

Leonie’s jaw tensed.

“Where did you go?” I asked.

“Millburg. But I stopped when I was in third grade. Now I do everything online.”

“Otherwise you’d have to drive three hours each way,” Leonie said.

“That’s a lot,” Regina said.

“It’s better like this,” Leonie said. “You can go at your own pace.”

“Hurray for my own pace.” Shasta twirled a finger, tossed back her wine, and reached for the bottle.

Leonie snatched it away. “No more. Eat something.”

“I’m not hungry. We’ve had the same thing for like two weeks straight.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry for you, that must be so hard.”

Thunder boomed.

“Excuse me,” Regina said. She pushed back from the table and left the room.

“So, Clay,” Shasta said. “How’d you get that scar?”

“For God’s sake,” Leonie hissed.

“No, it’s fine,” I said.

I told the window warehouse story.

“Badass,” Shasta said.

“Thanks, but really it was just stupid.”

“Do you want to see mine?”

Before I could respond she propped her foot on the table and pulled up her sweatpant leg, exposing her shin. The newly grown flesh was pinkish and raised.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“No, I like it,” Shasta said. She grinned. “It’s the most interesting thing about me.”

“Stop that,” Leonie said. “Right now.”

“Or what?”

With a grunt Leonie shoved Shasta’s leg to the floor, startling Bowie.

Mother and daughter glared at each other.

Jason cleared his throat. “Maybe you need a breather, kitten.”

“Fuck you,” Shasta muttered.

“What did you say?” Leonie demanded.

Silence.

“Apologize. Now.”

“I apologize, Jason,” Shasta said.

Regina came back, looking sheepish. “Sorry about this. But: Can I borrow something from you? It’s a lady issue.”

Shasta stood up. “I got you.”

“Thanks.”

Bowie trotted after them as they crossed into the living room and started up the stairs.

Leonie said, “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

I said, “It’s fine, really.”

I heard Regina’s voice. Bouncy, child-like.

I love your necklace.

“Here’s my advice,” Leonie said. “Don’t have teenagers.”

“We’ll try,” I said. “But I’m not sure how we can avoid it.”

“Just kill them the night before they turn thirteen. Go into their rooms and put a pillow over their faces.”

Jason said, “I’ll get dessert.”

Chapter 38

We got free of the Clancys, thanked them for their hospitality, and dashed to the car through the sheeting rain.

Regina slammed the passenger door and flopped back. “Family values.”

“How’d you do?”

“I was in Shasta’s room for less than a minute. I didn’t see anything connected to Nick.”

“What’d she say about the necklace?”

“Gift from a friend.”

“Not a boyfriend.”

“She said friend, I didn’t press,” Regina said. “You saw how she tried to discourage us from buying. Think she knows about the scam?”

“Or she hates it here because it’s been a miserable childhood.”

“All that power play stuff with her mother? I’m pretty sure she knows.” Regina paused. “I feel for her.”

“Me too.” I started the car.

With no streetlights and few stars, visibility was limited to ten feet, and I crept along, following the reflection of the headlights against the rusted guardrail.

“How ’bout that cave painting Beau showed us?” Regina said.

“Awe-inspiring,” I said. “I didn’t realize he was an artist, too.”

“Oh yeah, a regular fucking Renaissance man.”

I laughed. “Priorities for tomorrow.”

“For me, it’s Shasta.”

“Agreed. We need to speak to her away from her parents.”

“Bright ideas on how to go about that?” Regina said.

“She’s gonna leave the house at some point,” I said, “to ride, or to walk the dog. We stake her out and ‘happen’ to run into her.”

“Didn’t you do that already?”

“Ha ha ha. Are you done?”

“Not on your life. Continue.”

I said, “We strike up a conversation with her. Keep it light. If she seems open, shift it to growing up in Swann’s Flat, her social life. Then we try to guide her to Nick.”

“We can’t come on too strong.”

“Definitely. If we can’t find a way to get there, we tee her up to try again. ‘Could you swing by the hotel later? We wanted your opinion on something.’ ”

“You sure that’ll work?”

“She’s a teenager,” I said. “She thinks her parents are idiots. Two adults, wanting to know what she thinks?”

Regina nodded. “We also need a typewriter sample from Beau.”

“Let’s see what he says about tomorrow and figure out how to proceed.”

“And Al? Do we trust him?”

“I can’t see him being the one to harm Prado, but I’ve been fooled before.”

She said, “I thought it was strange, him preemptively defending DJ Pelman. Something to ask Jenelle about.”

“Bright ideas for that?” I asked.

“Watch and learn.”

Jenelle Counts had inverted the dining room chairs on tables and was sweeping up.

She said, “There’s some soup left, if you want it.”

“I’d love a glass of wine,” Regina said. “It’s been a long day.”

“White or red?”

“You choose. And a glass for you. For your trouble.”

Jenelle smiled. “I won’t say no.”

“Why don’t you go on and shower?” Regina said to me. “I’ll be up in a bit.”

I saluted. “Good night.”

“ ’Night,” Jenelle said. Happy I was leaving.

I phoned Amy from the landline.

“We’re here and we’re fine,” I said.

“Thanks for letting me know.”

“Kids okay?”

“Great.”

“Are you okay?”

“Anxious, but I’ll survive.”

“I’ll check in as often as I can.”

“Thanks, honey. Good luck.”

“I love you, Amy. So much.”

“I love you, too.”

I showered and dressed for bed. Rolling out the sleeping bag, I sat to type up my notes.

Over the sound of the rain I could hear Jenelle’s belly laughs drifting up through the floor. It reminded me of how rapidly Regina had established rapport with Amy.

More than a childhood in musical theater. A gift.

The phone rang. I set the laptop aside and lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hey hey,” Beau said. “Good news. Just spoke to my dad. I had to twist his arm, but he agreed to hit the brakes on the other deal.”

“Dude. You’re the greatest.”

“Only the best, for the best,” he said. “He’s gonna meet with the lawyer in the morning. They’ll draw up the preliminaries. All goes well, he should be home midafternoon, and we can sit down and get this done.”

“Thank you.”

“Glad it worked out. Leaves us some time for a morning activity.”

“What’d you have in mind?”

“We could head up to the old sawmill,” Beau said.

“She’ll love that.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. Seven thirty at the hotel?”

“She likes to sleep late,” I said. “We’ll come over to your place when she’s ready.”

“Okey doke.”

“Thanks again, Beau.”

“You’re more than welcome, my friend. You have yourself a good night.”

The wind rose to a shriek. The room lights flickered.

I crossed to the bay window and parted the curtains.

The marina was underwater. Waves spumed against the peninsular edge, froth surged over the plaza, obliterating the boundary between land and sea.

Regina tiptoed in around midnight.

I removed my earplugs and sat up. “How’d it go?”

“I gotta new bestie.”

Unable to question Jenelle directly about Dave Pelman, Prado, or Nick, she’d steered their conversation toward the male species. Concentrating on me and our “marriage.”

“I shared that we’re going through a bumpy patch. My anxiety. Your erectile dysfunction. All the juicy deets.”

“Thanks for that.”

“I’m very committed to my craft.”

“Did she reciprocate with her own personal stuff?”

“It took a bottle and a half, but then the dam blew. Her parents built the hotel. They were among the first to buy, back in the sixties. She grew up here. She said there used to be more permanent residents, but over time they died or moved or got bought out.”

“Bought out, or pushed out?”

“I’m not sure there’s a difference,” she said. “She’s skittish about the Bergstroms.”

“They’ve threatened her, too?”

“That’s not the feeling I got. More general unease than outright fear.”

I said, “Like living in a dictatorship and knowing you won’t lead the rebellion. But that doesn’t mean you’re complicit. I was sure she was going to call Beau after we checked in, to warn him we were in town, but he looked caught off guard.”

Regina nodded. “She depends on the Bergstroms but doesn’t like it. I asked her about tourist season. It doesn’t exist. There’s no way she’s staying afloat without help.”

“They’re subsidizing her.”

“Or, Shasta is. Technically.”

I said, “Al Bock told me no one lives here unless the Bergstroms want them to. What purpose does Jenelle serve?”

“The few visitors do need lodging, she’s there. It gives the appearance of a regular old vacation destination.”

“She doesn’t make waves,” I said, “no reason for the Bergstroms to upset the status quo. What’d she have to say about Dave?”

“He moved here as a kid with his mom.”

“The beauty queen.”

“He and Jenelle were never legally married. He knocked her up and ran off.”

“Stand-up guy.”

“She didn’t seem bitter. Then his mom got sick and he came back. Jenelle said he tried to rekindle it. ‘I’m a changed man,’ that kinda bullshit. She kicked him to the curb.”

“Smart lady.”

“She is. I like her.”

“Trust her?”

“As much as I trust any of these folks.”

“Low bar,” I said. “Did she describe the relationship between Dave and Kurt?”

“Nope, and I couldn’t find a way to bring it up. Who we did talk about was her on-again, off-again, of the last twenty years.”

“Emil?”

She Xed her arms and made a buzzing sound.

I stared. “Al?”

“Ding ding ding ding ding.”

“Whoa.”

“Wild, right? And I wasn’t even asking. She goes, ‘Is your other car okay? Did you get the mirror fixed?’ I told her the maniac who shot it out paid for the repair. She goes, ‘Aw, he’s not so bad, once you get to know him.’ I could see she was trying not to laugh. I prodded, and she’s all, ‘No big deal, once upon a time me and him had a little thing.’ ”

“Maybe why he feels protective toward her son.”

“I had the same thought.”

“If Al did do something to Prado,” I said, “would she know about it?”

Regina shook her head. “I don’t know. Hard to tell if this thing between her and Al is the real deal or just a product of circumstance.”

“They’re both lonely.”

“Everyone here’s lonely,” she said. “That’s why they talk.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in all that psychology bullshit.”

“I believe in what works. Did you hear from Beau?”

I told her the plan. “He wanted to meet here but I said we’d come to the house.”

“You run interference while I sneak into his office?”

“Lady issues are a bitch.”

She laughed. “And Daddy Emil? What’s our play with him?”

“Stick to real estate, give him plenty of rope, and see if he says anything incriminating.”

“And when he hands us papers to sign?”

“We tell him we’ll bring it to our own attorney for review.”

“You don’t think that’ll make them suspicious?”

“If I were them, I’d be more suspicious if we didn’t want a lawyer to look at it.”

She sat for a while, saying nothing, digesting. “It’s late.”

She took her pajamas and toothbrush, and went out. I stuck in my earplugs and rolled over.

Chapter 39

The next morning Jenelle looked tired and hungover, avoiding eye contact with us as she set out breakfast.

“Will you need the room again?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Can we let you know?”

“Noon. Full day after that.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“This is all so good, by the way,” Regina said.

Jenelle nodded and retreated to the kitchen.

We ate our fill and went to the room to prep.

Regina said, “New strategy: You skip the sawmill Meet up with us later at the house, once Emil’s there.”

“Why?”

“Beau’s a lech. I’ll get more out of him, one-on-one. Plus it frees you up to talk to Shasta.”

“We can do that together, afterward.”

“No matter what you say, I think it’s gonna spook the Bergstroms when we balk. If they start getting hostile, we might have to clear out in a hurry. We need to be efficient.”

“You said yourself we can’t force things with Shasta.”

“Okay, but better something than nothing. If you’re really getting nowhere, you can drop Nick on her. She has a conscience, she may spill.”

“It has to be a game-time decision,” I said. “I’m not going to try unless I’m confident it won’t backfire.”

“Up to you. Worst case, we leave, spend a few months building a relationship with her over the internet. Given her age, that might even work better.”

“Or they all close ranks and we miss any shot we have with her.”

“They could do that anyway.”

I said nothing.

“Fortune favors the bold,” Regina said.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m in.”

“What’s your excuse for begging off?”

“An old knee injury acting up.”

“I guess that works.”

“You have a better idea?” I asked.

“I was thinking a severe attack of ED.”

I dressed in the bathroom and met Regina on the landing. She’d undergone another transformation, selecting an outfit best described as Schoolgirl Hiker Minx: leggings with mesh cutouts, snug tank top exposing a crescent of firm midriff, pigtails. The addition of a Patagonia fleece retrieved her from the realm of pure male fantasy. The gun purse hung unobtrusively at her side.

She twirled a braid. “How do I look?”

“Like a woman whose husband has erectile dysfunction.”

The storm had abated overnight, leaving puddles and flotsam strewn across the marina: kelp, driftwood, starfish slowly dying beneath a blanket of low-lying fog. Curdled clouds arched from horizon to mountaintop. The receding surf had deposited sand to the top of the cove ramp. No wind, but evidence of its wrath was everywhere: bait kiosk flayed of shingles, boat covers peeled back like torn fingernails.

We drove north on Beachcomber. Broken branches littered the road.

Our knock at the Bergstroms’ went unanswered. A persistent scraping noise drew us around to an unfenced yard that bled into open fields. Aside from the barn and sheep pen were stables, a chicken coop, and a rabbit hutch.

And, incongruously, a large, kidney-shaped swimming pool, tarped to keep out debris.

A piece of cinema Hollywood, chiseled into the landscape. Like Emil himself.

The scrape was coming from the coop. DJ Pelman crouched by a bloodstained tree stump, sharpening a hatchet with a file. His jeans had slipped to expose three inches of plumber’s crack. Beau Bergstrom, dressed in a canvas chore coat, watched him like an overbearing supervisor.

I whistled. “Morning.”

Beau looked up, returned the greeting, and started toward us, circumventing the pool. “Wasn’t expecting you for a while.”

“Up and at ’em,” Regina said.

“We can come back if you’re not ready,” I said.

“I was born ready,” Beau said.

DJ slunk over, hitching his waistband. The hatchet dangled in his fingers. “Wassup.”

“That thing looks dangerous,” Regina said.

He said, “It is if you’re a chicken.”

Beau said, “Shall we?”

I said, “Actually, I have to take a rain check.”

Regina gave a strained smile. Not the first time she’d been disappointed by her lame husband. “His knee’s acting up.”

“Oh no,” Beau said. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s the wet weather, brings it out.”

DJ snickered. “Like uh actual rain check. Get it?”

“Good one, Deej,” Beau said flatly. “Well. Sorry to lose you, Clay. Fret not, though. I’ll take good care of her.”

Regina said, “Speaking of which, can I use the little girls’ room?”

“Took the words right out my mouth. Patio’s unlocked.”

“Thanks. Back in a jiff.”

Beau sneaked a peek at her receding shape, then grinned and punched me lightly on the shoulder. “What’re you gonna do with your newfound freedom?”

“Relax. I might drive around and take some pictures. Sky’s beautiful today.”

“Always happens after a storm,” DJ said.

We continued to make small talk. Regina was gone for three minutes, five. Ten. I could see Beau’s attention beginning to drift, eyes darting to the house. Where’d she gotten to?

At last the door slid open and she appeared.

“Sorry,” she called, trotting over.

“I was getting worried you fell in,” Beau said.

I said, “All set?”

“All set,” she said, giving me a slight nod. Got it.

She cranked up the wattage on her smile and trained it on Beau. “What’s on the agenda?”

“Before we get going, I thought I’d show you some of what I’m working on,” he said.

“Sounds great.”

“What time should I be back?” I asked.

“Figure two, two thirty. My dad’ll be getting in around then. Hey, though,” Beau said, “I just thought of something. Once we get this all squared away, you guys should stay for dinner.”

Regina said, “We wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Aw, it’s no trouble. We gotta eat anyway. Might as well celebrate.”

DJ flipped the hatchet and caught it by the handle. “Just as easy to kill two.”

I said, “Sure, thanks.”

“Right on,” Beau said. He bowed to Regina. “After you, m’lady.”

She giggled and curtsied. “Why thank you, kind sir.”

We moved off in three directions: Beau and Regina toward the patio doors, DJ to the coop, and me toward the street. As I turned the corner of the house I heard an alarmed squawk, then a thunk, then silence.

I drove to the Clancys’, pulling over with a few hundred yards to go and grabbing my camera bag from the footwell. To reach the entry road, Shasta would have to pass this way.

I attached the telephoto lens to the EOS and stepped out to the railing.

I snapped pictures of the ocean, the same monochrome shot, over and over.

At nine thirty-four a.m., the Clancys’ garage door raised.

I zoomed in.

Shasta walked out a bike. She had her helmet on, but rather than a unisuit, she wore jeans and a flannel and was carrying a backpack.

She put in her brand-new AirPods, clicked in her cleats.

I swung the camera back to the water. I wanted to look busy when she rode up.

Oh, hey there. What a coincidence.

She turned left out of the driveway, heading south, into the fog.

Away from me.

“Fuck.”

I ran and jumped behind the wheel.

I’d tailed my fair share of vehicles, but never a bike. Out of the blocks I miscalculated, laying on the gas too hard. But she wasn’t pedaling at racing cadence; there was a restrained quality to her movements, not lazy but deliberate, as if she knew she had a long way to go.

At the marina she bore left and wound inland. The storm had felled numerous trees. Shasta sailed around them with ease.

I hung back, letting her shrink into the mist before lumbering onto the muddy shoulders, praying not to get stuck, praying I could catch sight of her before she made another three turns and I lost her.

Turkey-Tail Road.

Yarrow Lane.

We were approaching the southeastern quadrant, nearing Al Bock’s place.

Why would she have any reason to go see him?

She didn’t, glided past his block and kept going, her stroke quickening as she rounded onto Whitethorn Court.

I inched up.

It was a skimpy, steep cul-de-sac, one third paved, the rest reclaimed by nature. Rainwater formed mirrored disks in the uneven ground.

Shasta had dismounted and was pushing the bike along a grassy verge. Through the zoom I watched her stop and remove her cycling cleats, changing them out for a pair of hiking boots from her backpack. She put away her AirPods, took out a pink water bottle, and walked into the trees.

I got out of the Jeep and jogged up the verge.

She’d propped the bike against an alder, stuck the cleats on the handlebars.

Panning the camera over the dark, wet depths, I spotted her sixty yards ahead, high-stepping, her gait methodical and confident.

I waded forward, into the brush.

Slow going.

Dense vegetation and rolling mist provided cover for me but made Shasta tough to track. I had no water of my own, no map, no compass, no sense of progress or a destination.

Gradually the terrain lifted us out of the dripping coastal habitat and into the foothills.

She never hesitated, never looked back.

After an hour and a half of climbing she disappeared over a ridge.

I hurried up, sneakers sucking in the mud.

At the ridgeline, I understood where we were and where we were headed.

A valley gaped below. On the far side, green peaks capped a wall of exposed rock. The entry road was a scrawny yellow scar that pushed out into the void to form a violent hairpin.

Shasta was far downslope, switchbacking fast.

I checked my watch. Eleven forty a.m.

To have any chance of making the meeting with Emil, I ought to turn back now.

What Would Regina Do?

What the fuck do you think, Mr. Potato Head? Move it or lose it.

It took thirty minutes to reach the valley floor, another thirty to cross it. There Shasta turned north, parallel to the cliff. The canopy was too thick for me to see up to the entry road, but I knew that it must be directly above.

A quarter mile along, she stopped and dropped down behind a shrub.

I slanted through the trees, getting as close as I could without drawing her attention. She had taken off the pack and was leaning on one knee, staring at the earth as though hypnotized.

After several silent minutes she rose, threw on the pack, and departed.

I waited for her to recede before moving up.

I saw her boot prints, bent stalks slowly recovering their height.

Beneath resurgent ground cover, the soil had subsided to reveal the outline of a grave.

She’d left wildflowers.

Per the coroner’s report, Kurt Swann’s body had landed right around here. But there was no headstone, and I couldn’t see such a remote location as the permanent resting place of a town elder — certainly not after search-and-rescue had gone to the effort of removing him.

A detailed scene examination would have to wait; Shasta was already out of sight, and I doubted I could find my way back to the car on my own.

I took rapid-fire photos and set out.

I’d covered about a hundred yards when she spoke somewhere to my right.

“Why are you following me?”

I turned. She stood in shadow, half hidden by a redwood, aiming a pistol at my center mass.

I said, “Can you please put that down?”

“No.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Why are you following me?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“You’re following me. That’s not talking.”

“Who is that, back there? Is it Nick?”

She stepped forward, keeping the gun high. “Who are you?”

Breathing fast, voice shrill, edging toward catastrophe.

I said, “I work for his mother. She asked me to find him.”

“She doesn’t care about him.”

“I know she made mistakes. But I promise you: She cares. And she’s hurting.”

The gun shook. Compact automatic. Not enough to stop a bear. I wasn’t a bear.

“Please, Shasta,” I said.

Tears pooled in her eyes.

She let the gun drop to her side.

“Thank you.”

She nodded, wiped her face with the heel of her hand.

I said, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Another nod, sad and slow.

Chapter 40

I offered to sit, but she wanted to walk. An athlete: She felt calmer with her body in motion.

She said, “I was riding out to Blackberry Junction. He was coming in the other direction.”

“Driving?”

“No, on foot. He had this ginormous hiking pack and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. I think he waved. I wasn’t really paying attention. I get focused when I ride, you know?”

“Oh, I know,” I said.

She laughed softly. “Yeah. On my way home, I saw him again, sitting in the dirt. He was really grungy, and scrawny, with pale stripes on his shoulders from the pack. He’s got this necklace on” — she touched her own chest — “and he’s shaking his water bottle into his mouth, to get the last drops. Honestly, it was kinda pathetic. So I stopped.”

“You felt bad for him.”

“Totally. And... I mean, we get hikers, but it’s never anyone my age. Like, okay, maybe you’re a homicidal maniac, but at least that’s something new.”

I smiled.

“He asked how much farther to Swann’s Flat,” she said. “I go, ‘Seven point two miles,’ and his face just... collapsed.”

Maddie Zwick had described him in similar language.

“I knew he’d never make it without water,” Shasta said. “I poured my bottle into his.”

“Kind of you.”

“I had to. I felt responsible. I said, ‘Pace yourself. In about five miles, you’ll see a stream to your left. But it’s not drinkable unless you filter it.’ He’s all, ‘Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver.’ I asked why he needed to go there. He told me he’s looking for someone. ‘Who? I know everyone.’ He opens his pack and starts taking out stuff. Rations, matches, a flashlight.”

“Camping supplies,” I said.

She nodded. “At the bottom there’s a pillowcase with these huge bundles of paper, held together by rubber bands. He unties one and starts turning pages. I couldn’t read it because he was going so fast. Finally he finds what he’s looking for. Pencil drawing, about this big.”

Displaying her palm.

“A woman’s face,” she said. “I asked who she is. He said he didn’t know her name. ‘How do you expect to find her, then?’ He shrugs. ‘I’ll figure it out.’

“Then he gave me a funny look. He goes, ‘Do you know her?’

“It was such a strange thing to ask. The drawing — it was really shitty. One eye was way too big and her jaw was all crooked. It didn’t look like it could be an actual person. But.”

Her breathing had accelerated again.

“I did know her,” she said. “I knew, right away. It was my mom.”

She stopped, downed a big gulp of water, offered me the bottle.

I drank. I was parched; I also wanted to help her regain a sense of control.

“Thanks,” I said.

I gave the bottle back and we resumed walking.

“What did you think when you saw the drawing?” I asked.

“I was imagining things. I was dehydrated, or low blood sugar. But... I know what my mom looks like.”

“Did you tell Nick that?”

“No way. Are you kidding? I just met this guy. I have no idea who he is. What if he— I don’t know. Wants to hurt her.”

“I agree with you, Shasta. I’d do the same thing.”

“Yeah. So. I told him I’d never seen her before. And he says, ‘I thought you knew everyone.’ ‘Not her.’ He’s staring at me, like he knows I’m lying. He didn’t say anything, though. He just started putting the pages away. I asked him what is all that. ‘A book.’ ‘You wrote it?’ ‘My dad did.’ ‘Who’s your dad?’ ‘Octavio Prado.’

“Then he gives me that same funny look. ‘You’ve heard of him.’ ‘No, sorry.’ And it’s the same thing: I could tell he knew the truth.” She paused. “I guess I’m just a bad liar.”

“You did know about Prado,” I said.

She nodded. “I read Lake of the Moon.”

“When?”

“A couple years ago. It was the summer we had all the wildfires. I couldn’t train or be outside for too long. I felt so bored, I was losing my shit. We don’t have a lot of books, but Maggie has tons, and she lets me borrow whatever I want. I rode over, and...” Faint smile. “I could hear her, upstairs, singing in the bath. I yelled that I’m here for a book. ‘Okay, go ahead, I’ll be down in a minute.’ I went to the garage and started looking through the shelves.”

“What drew you to Lake of the Moon?” I asked.

“It was short.”

I smiled. “Always a plus.”

“And the author was from Fresno. That’s where my mom’s from.”

I said, “Leonie is?”

“She was born there.”

“How’d she get to Swann’s Flat?”

Shasta shook her head. “She won’t talk about it. She gets really mad if I try to ask. I only knew about Fresno because my grandma came to visit once. She wanted us to move back.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight or nine? The two of them got into this huge fight. My grandma was like, ‘You can’t do this to Shasta, it’s not good for her to grow up this way.’ And my mom goes, ‘I’d rather die than set foot in that hick town,’ which is ridiculous, if you think about it, because...”

“Look where you are.”

“Exactly,” Shasta said, her relief palpable: I got it.

“Did you ever talk to your grandmother on your own?”

“That was the only time I met her. I wasn’t allowed to call. She used to send me birthday presents and my mom would throw them in the trash.”

“That sounds tough.”

She nodded. “I never met my grandfather. My mom hates him. She said he’s a sicko. I don’t even know if they’re alive, either of them. I googled them but, you know. They’re old, so.”

“I’m sorry, Shasta. This is a lot.”

“Yeah. It’s all right. Thanks, though.”

“What did you make of Lake of the Moon?” I asked.

“Well, I just started looking at it when Maggie comes into the garage. I show it to her, and she literally runs over and grabs it out of my hands.”

“Did she say why?”

“No. She made me take Wuthering Heights instead. ‘You’ll like this better, I loved it when I was your age.’ And it was so, so not her to act like that. She’s never been strict with me. So now I’m like, I have to read this.”

“Of course.”

“I came back later, when she was out on her walk. I go into the garage, but the book’s not there. She left a gap on the shelf. Like a warning. It pissed me off. First you assume I’m going to try and steal it. And I mean — yeah, okay. I did. But still. It proved she didn’t trust me. And like, stop, please. I’m not five. I can use the internet.”

“You ordered it.”

“With my mom’s account,” she said. “Then I had to make sure she and Jason didn’t find out. ’Cause obviously there’s something radioactive about this book. It became this whole complicated thing, ’cause we don’t get our mail delivered, we have to pick it up from the post office in Millburg. DJ drives out and collects it, then he gives it to Jenelle, and we pick it up from the hotel. Usually Jason goes, but for the next month I volunteered to do it. He just thought I was being helpful.” She mimicked him: “ ‘Gee, thanks, kitten.’ ”

I laughed. “Nothing stops you.”

She shrugged, gave a half smile.

“Okay. So now you have the book.”

“I didn’t get why Maggie was acting so weird. I kept waiting for some massively inappropriate scene, but it was just cursing and a tiny amount of sex. I’ve read much worse.”

“Did you like it?”

“Kinda? The main character felt real, not some adult pretending to be a teenager. And the parts about Fresno were interesting. I wanted to ask my mom about it but I didn’t want to upset her. I stuck it under my bed. One night I’m doing homework in the kitchen and she barges in, holding the book. ‘Where’d you get this?’ Like it was a bag of crack. She called me an ungrateful little bitch, and...”

Shasta broke off, her face hard.

She said, “She slapped me.”

“That’s awful.”

“It didn’t hurt that much. Just...” Shasta swallowed. “She yells. A lot. Especially when she’s drunk. So, all the time, basically. But she really doesn’t do... that.”

Our feet squelched in the soft forest floor.

“So, yeah,” she said. “That’s how I knew about Octavio Prado.”

“You didn’t tell Nick that, either.”

She shook her head. “I asked where he’s planning to sleep. ‘I’ll figure it out when I get there.’ I said, ‘There’s a bridge by the town sign. Meet me there tomorrow. Eight a.m.’ ”

In the morning he was waiting for her.

She led him through the maze, pedaling as slow as humanly possible. Nick told her he’d spent the night in the woods. He was talkative and animated, stopping repeatedly to take pictures of the abandoned lots.

“It’s just like he described,” he said.

“Who?” she asked.

“Prado. He calls it ‘purgatory by the sea.’ ”

A cottage stood at 6 Anemone Lane. Shasta opened the front door and waved him inside.

Bare, dusty rooms.

“Who lives here?” Nick asked.

“No one.”

From her satchel she took three sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper. His eyes went wide. He tore open the paper and ate greedily, stuffing halves into his mouth and licking peanut butter from his fingers. When he was done he exhaled with contentment.

“Better?” she asked.

“Much. Thanks.”

On the kitchenette counter she laid out the remaining half loaf, the peanut butter, three cans of sardines, dried apricots, bottled water, and toilet paper. The faucets didn’t work, but there was an outhouse.

She asked what else he needed.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

“Sorry there’s no bed.”

“It’s great. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to keep saying that,” she said.

“Yeah, I do,” he said. “ ’Cause you keep doing nice things for me.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Can I see it again?”

No need to specify what “it” was.

They sat facing each other on the splintery floor. Nick dug out the manuscript and found the drawing for her.

Shasta had lain awake most of the night, picturing the woman and comparing her with Leonie. She hoped that a second viewing, in the cold light of day, would make plain her error. But the resemblance was impossible to deny. If anything it seemed stronger.

She brushed the surface of the paper. “You really don’t know her name?”

He shook his head.

“Why don’t you ask your dad?”

“He’s not around.”

“How do you know she’s a real person?”

“I just do.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not.”

“But what if you are?”

“I’m not.”

“Okay, but,” she said, “this is stupid. What makes you so sure she’s here? What if she doesn’t want to talk to you?”

He leaned forward. Their knees touched. She thought he was going to kiss her but he took the drawing from her and held it next to her face.

She recoiled. “What are you — stop.”

She leapt up, began pacing in agitation. “Seriously. What’s your problem?”

She walked to the window. The glass was cloudy, the world beyond a copy of itself.

He started to speak, quietly, then building steam. Lake of the Moon. The links between Prado’s life and his own. The manuscript, hidden away, forgotten till he’d rescued it.

He took pages, presented his evidence: the first postmile, another by the highway exit for Swann’s Flat Road. The town was never named, but there was a hastily drawn map of the peninsula, along with a doodle of a swan. Nick was confident he was in the right place.

As for the title, Cathedral, he admitted that he didn’t know what it referred to.

“I do,” she said.

His mouth fell open.

She grabbed her satchel. “I’ll meet you at the bridge. Tomorrow morning at six.”

“We can’t go now?”

“It’s too far. You have to promise me you won’t leave the house before then. You have to stay inside. That’s the deal.”

“Why? Where are you going?”

“Promise,” she demanded.

He promised.

She rode straight to Maggie’s, found her working in the garden.

“Hello, my lovely.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Nice to see you, too.”

“Can we go inside, please?”

Maggie’s expression turned serious. “Yes. Of course.”

They sat at the breakfast table. Maggie poured iced tea. “Fire away.”

“I once asked to borrow a book. Lake of the Moon. You wouldn’t let me. Why?”

“I’m sure I had a good reason.”

“What was it?”

“Oh well. I suppose you were too young.”

“I came back for it and it was gone. Did you hide it?”

Maggie scoffed. “Shasta.”

“Did you?”

“If I did, I don’t remember.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, that’s your choice.”

“I got my own copy. There’s nothing terrible in it.”

Maggie said nothing.

“Where is it now?” Shasta said. “I want to see it.”

“You said you read it.”

“I want to see yours.”

“What difference does that make?”

Shasta stood up from the table. “I’ll find it myself.”

“Wait,” Maggie said. “Wait, please.”

Shasta crossed the house to the exam room, began pawing through cabinets and drawers.

Maggie came to the doorway but made no attempt to intervene. “I wish you’d be patient.”

Shasta finished searching and started out. “Excuse me.”

Maggie moved aside.

In the office, Shasta discovered the book tucked behind the issues of JAMA.

The title page was inscribed.

“What was she to him?”

Maggie hesitated. “An old friend.”

“From Fresno.”

Maggie nodded.

“Did she love him?”

“Shasta, I really don’t think I should—”

“Did she?”

Maggie lowered her head. “Not enough.”

Early the next morning Shasta met Nick at the bridge. She stashed the bike by the roadside, handed him a thermos of coffee, switched her cleats for boots.

Just to reach the trailhead they had to hike almost an hour. His pace was aggressive, and she worried he’d tire himself out. But he was full of energy. For the first time in weeks he’d slept well, he said, and it was much easier to move without the pack. He’d hardly put it down since leaving Santa Cruz, using it as a pillow, afraid the manuscript would get stolen.

She asked about his journey. He told her he’d had a car but quickly saw that gas was going to eat up all his money. He sold it and started hitchhiking. It only took him a few days to reach Fort Bragg. From that point traffic died out, and he ended up walking most of the next ninety-odd miles. He didn’t mind it. The lulls gave him time to reflect.

“What does your family think?” she asked.

“It’s just my mom. She doesn’t care.”

Then he really got into what his mother was like.

Going to school without lunch because she was too fucked up to buy food. A case of lice that went untreated for a year.

He’d suffered way worse than she had. Shasta felt reluctant to talk about herself in comparison. But he drew her out. When he asked a question it seemed to her that he truly wanted to hear her answer. Was excited to hear.

She described Leonie’s mood swings. Two bottles of wine a day. Crazy rules: Shasta turned seventeen in a few months and still didn’t have her learner’s permit.

“She says I can bike everywhere I need to go. The road’s too dangerous to drive.”

“That sucks.”

“Whatever. Next year I can do what I want.”

“You should leave now.”

She smiled.

“For real,” he said. “Just get your shit and go.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can. I did. What’s the issue? You want to go to college or something?”

“I haven’t applied. I haven’t really thought about it. Neither of my parents went.”

“So?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been anywhere.”

“Uh, yeah. That’s the point of leaving.”

She laughed.

“You just have to start moving,” he said. “It’ll make sense.”

They walked and talked for hours, thoughts overlapping, sentences shingling.

It wasn’t like she didn’t have friends. She belonged to a homeschooling group that met twice a month, the same kids for years. She chatted online.

But this was different. He was different.

Real.

“Yes,” he said.

They had stopped for a snack break. The sun was high, Nick’s chest glistening as he stood atop a boulder and spread his arms toward the sky.

He howled. Smiled at her.

Shasta smiled and rolled her eyes and crouched down to open her satchel.

“Do you want me to carry that?” he said. “You’ve had it the whole time.”

“It’s okay.” She turned away to dig through its contents. More snacks, extra water.

A pistol. She wasn’t completely naïve.

Unzipping an interior pocket, she took out a snapshot.

Her mother as a younger woman.

She held the photo out to Nick.

He hopped down to look.

When he raised his eyes to her they had a strange, feverish quality.

She nodded to him, and they set out together without speaking.

They held hands at the center of the Cathedral. She could feel the pendant, still warm from the heat of his body, lying against her throat. Above them the sky glimmered like a tossed coin.

He said, “You have to ask her.”

Shasta didn’t answer.

“He could be your father, too.”

She had a father, though. Two. The brooding masculine presence who existed only in pictures; Jason, with his awkward laugh and his bottomless patience. She loved them both and said so to Nick.

She hoped he could see that. She needed him to see that.

He said, “Show me.”

From the trailhead it was ninety minutes to the memorial: the father she’d never known.

The bouquet, California poppies and morning glories, was still healthy; she’d placed it on a ride the previous week. She used her sleeve to dust off the cross, and they stood shoulder to shoulder, surveying the valley like conquerors. They’d been hiking all day. Nick didn’t appear tired in the least. For the first time he seemed at ease.

She wasn’t. Her insides stewed with conflicting emotions.

Safety and comfort.

Something more.

She could smell the salt dried on his skin.

She brought her face up to his for a kiss.

He shied back, smiling. “Hey.”

She mumbled an apology.

“Don’t,” he said.

Don’t what? Apologize? Be mad? Try that again?

She stared at the dirt, humiliated.

“Hey,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Shasta. Come on.”

He reached for her. She yanked free, moved away from him. “Leave me alone.”

“Shasta,” he said.

He stepped toward her. His ankle wobbled. He grabbed at the cross to steady himself and his foot landed near the edge.

The ground beneath him collapsed.

He vanished.

His cry was faint and short-lived. In the stillness that followed she could hear her own blood.

The sun was setting as she rang the bell at Maggie’s house.

The door opened.

Maggie saw her streaked, swollen face and said, “Oh my darling girl.”

She gave Shasta a glass of water, took her upstairs, and helped her into bed.

Shasta sank back into the pillows. She shut her eyes, feeling the mattress sag as Maggie sat by her side. Fingertips gently combed her hair.

“Tell me.”

She talked until the room grew dark. Then she lay still and quiet, listening to the surf crash.

“I was the first person to hold you,” Maggie said. “Did you know that?”

Shasta shook her head.

“It’s true. I pulled you out and held you before I gave you to your mother. You were so small you fit in my two hands.”

Shasta smiled.

“Do you want something to eat?” Maggie asked.

“I’m just tired.”

“Get some rest. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“Bowie needs to be walked,” Shasta said.

“I’ll let them know.”

“Tell them I’m sorry.”

“Sleep, now.”

She woke late, still wearing her soiled hiking clothes, and padded downstairs to the kitchen.

Maggie was at the breakfast table with her mother and Jason.

The three of them stopped talking when she entered. The way they looked reminded her of a word from AP World History: tribunal.

Maggie said, “Good morning, young lady. How are you feeling?”

Jason pulled out a chair. “Please sit, kitten.”

Her mother said nothing.

Shasta shuffled to the table.

“You must be starving,” Maggie said. “What can I get you?”

“Coffee.”

“Coming right up.”

“Here,” Leonie said, sliding Shasta a plate of toast.

“I’m not hungry,” Shasta said.

“You need your strength.”

Shasta picked up a piece of toast. It was cold.

Maggie brought a mug. “There you are.”

The coffee was lukewarm, too. The three of them had been there awhile. A conclusion had been reached. Jason delivered it.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

That made her feel worse. Whose fault was it, if not hers? She wanted it to be her fault.

“What do I do now?” she said.

“You don’t do anything,” Leonie said. “We’re handling it.”

Shasta knew what that meant. They’d do nothing.

She said, “Shouldn’t we, I don’t know. Call someone?”

“Who would you like to call?” Leonie said.

“I don’t know. His mom?”

“Do you have her phone number?”

“No, but... The police? Don’t they need to know?”

Maggie said, “It’s better not to involve them.”

“So what,” Shasta said. “We can’t just... Leave him out there.”

Jason said, “I’ll get the map, and you can show me where he is.”

“I’m coming with you,” Shasta said.

Maggie and Jason exchanged a look.

“You don’t need to do that,” Maggie said.

“I want to.”

“I think you’ve gone through quite enough already.”

“He’s dead.”

“It was an accident,” Leonie said.

“No.” Shasta buried her face in her hands. “No.”

“This is not your fault, kitten,” Jason said.

“Don’t say that. You don’t know that.”

“That’s what you told Maggie,” Leonie said.

“No,” Shasta said, shaking her head.

“No? It wasn’t an accident? Did you lie to her?”

“I—” Shasta uncovered her face and focused on Maggie. “Why did you tell them that?”

“Because it’s the truth,” Leonie said, “and beating yourself up won’t bring him back.”

Maggie said, “The important thing, now, is to protect you.”

“I don’t want to be protected,” Shasta said. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“The thing is,” Jason said, “this affects all of us. Not just you.”

“How.”

“What?”

“How does it affect you.”

Now they were smiling at her, all three of them. Fearful, frozen smiles.

“You’ve had a terrible day,” Leonie said. “Why don’t you take a nice hot shower.”

“I don’t want to take a shower.”

“It’ll make you feel better.”

“I don’t want to take a shower, I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

Jason said, “Kitten—”

“Stop it. All of you. Just stop.”

Maggie said, “She deserves to know.”

Leonie glared at her.

“It’s only a matter of time.”

“Shut up,” Leonie snapped. To Shasta: “Go take a shower.”

“No,” Shasta said.

“I’m not asking you. Go.”

“No.”

Silence.

“Last year,” Leonie said, “you wanted a new bike. Do you remember what it cost?”

“I don’t know. A lot.”

“How much?”

“You don’t have to lecture me about money.”

Leonie slammed the table. Plates jumped. “How much.”

“I... I don’t know.”

“Eleven thousand dollars.”

“Fine.”

“No. Not ‘fine.’ You want to know? You deserve to know? Then close your spoiled brat mouth, and pay attention. Your bike,” Leonie said, ticking off on her fingers, “your horses. Bowie. The food you eat. Everything you have, that we have, it comes from somewhere.”

“Stop, all right? I get it.”

“I don’t think you do. Our house.” Leonie pointed to Maggie. “Her house, and everything that she has. Everything you see, when you walk outside. It comes from somewhere.”

Each word took a bite out of her heart.

“Do you know what a trust is?” Maggie asked.

Shasta shook her head.

“This land belonged to your grandfather. He gave it to your father, who gave it to you. That land is what helps pay for things.”

“For everything,” Leonie said.

“Right now,” Maggie said, “I help make the decisions for you. Until you turn eighteen.”

Shasta looked back and forth between them, her mother and the woman who’d first held her. She felt sick, she felt dizzy, her throat had gone dry. “Then what happens.”

“You make the decisions,” Leonie said.

“It’s going to be fine,” Maggie said. “You’re a smart girl.”

Shasta said, “What if I don’t want to?”

Nobody answered.

A new and frightening awareness spread through her.

They were afraid. These three adults she’d always relied on.

More than afraid. Terrified.

Of her.

What she might say.

What she might do.

Of her power.

Electricity rippled over her skin.

She looked at Jason. “I’m coming with you.”

The following day the two of them drove to Whitethorn Court. Jason parked on the grassy verge, took a shovel from the trunk, and unfolded a topo map, marked with the route and a square quarter-mile area beneath the roadside memorial.

They moved swiftly over the ridge and through the valley. It was a rare windless day, screaming hot.

He said, “Your mom loves you. I know it probably doesn’t always feel that way, but she does. And she’s had it hard. Take it from me.”

Shasta said nothing.

They picked their way along the base of the cliff till Jason drew up short.

A scrap of fabric hung limp from a snapped branch.

“Wait here,” he said.

He climbed through brambles; came back shaking his head. “You don’t want to.”

She pushed past him.

“Shasta. Please don’t.”

Thorns pricked her hands as she parted the thick, woody stalks and saw it.

The body was in pieces. The face was pulp.

She doubled over and vomited.

Jason laid a hand on her back. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

They buried him, taking turns with the shovel.

She stopped eating, stopped training, lost weight.

Leonie wanted her to take an antidepressant. Maggie agreed that it wouldn’t hurt.

Every day Shasta put one pill into the toilet. Soon enough Leonie caught her, and from then on she made Shasta swallow in front of her and stick out her tongue.

One rainy night at dinner, she said, “Is Octavio Prado my father?”

“Why would you think that?” Leonie said.

“Because he loved you,” Shasta said.

Her mother killed her wine. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

By late April, the roads had begun to dry out.

Shasta climbed on her bike and headed for the mountains.

The extended layoff had hurt her conditioning. She started off too fast. She got to the top of the first hill and felt ready to keel over.

You just have to start moving.

She pedaled harder.

Past the cross.

Past the place where she’d first talked to Nick.

Normally she turned around at Blackberry Junction. Leonie didn’t like her going farther.

It’ll make sense.

Shasta pushed on, legs cramping, back cramping, heart threatening to explode.

She rode all the way to Millburg, stopping at the market to refill her water bottle.

His face was on a poster. In one photo he wore the necklace. Tara’s name and contact information were listed.

Shasta started to take a picture.

Then she stopped. What could she possibly say, six months after the fact?

She remembered, too, the stories he’d told her. His crazy, drug-addicted mother.

She put her phone away and rode home.

By June she was nearly back to form. That day she made it to the Junction in an hour twelve — not her best time, but not her worst, either.

On the return trip, it occurred to her that she hadn’t thought about Nick for a few days.

Maybe the pills were doing their job.

The song she was listening to ended.

A car was coming in the opposite direction. She couldn’t see it yet but she could hear it, up around the bend.

Lately she’d been wondering what it would feel like to die.

Jump off a cliff. Walk into the ocean where the riptides were bad.

Take a gun to the forest; kneel down.

She didn’t understand where these thoughts were coming from. Even on her worst nights, right after the accident, when she fantasized about punishment, she never gave herself a death sentence, but a lifetime of remembering.

But she’d stopped remembering, hadn’t she?

The car was getting close, its engine straining.

She wouldn’t have to do anything. Just keep pedaling and let it happen.

Another accident.

She leaned into the curve.

I said, “And there I was.”

“I saw your face,” she said. “You weren’t some monster. Just a guy with a beard. I thought, How stupid is it? Dying like this?”

“You swerved.”

“Too slow.”

“I’m grateful you did.”

“Me too.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through all of this, Shasta.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank you for being honest with me. I know it was hard.”

She nodded.

“When I first brought you home, your mom was furious with me,” I said. “Then she backed off, suddenly. Was that you?”

“I told her I’d go to the cops about Nick if she didn’t drop it.”

“Thanks for that, too.”

“You’re welcome,” she said.

“Some of the details you shared about the manuscript, like the second milepost — they aren’t in the scan that I have, or at least I didn’t see them. It would be helpful to take a look at the original. Do you know what happened to it? Is it still at the cottage?”

“I sort of forgot about it, because of everything that was going on. I went to look for it and it was gone. The backpack, too. I guess my mom or Jason took it.”

“Would they have destroyed it?”

“Probably. I can ask.”

“Let’s wait. My priority is speaking to Nick’s mom and making sure he gets a proper burial.”

“Okay.” She paused. “What’s she like?”

“Tara? She’s had it hard, too.”

Shasta said nothing.

“I want to be upfront with you,” I said. “Regina and I are probably going to have to inform the authorities about Nick’s death.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“I can’t answer that. If what you told me is true—”

“It is.” She faced me. “I swear.”

Her eyes did not move from mine.

“What about Maggie?” she said. “Is she in trouble?”

“I don’t know, Shasta.”

She nodded. Accepting punishment out of force of habit.

We reached Whitethorn Court.

Shasta took off the necklace. The pendant swung as she offered it to me. “Give it to Tara?”

I put the necklace in my pocket.

“I’m sorry it’s not the original chain,” she said.

“I think it’s all right.”

She knelt to unlace her boots.

I asked, “You want a lift home?”

“I’m good.”

“Okay. Good luck, Shasta.”

“Can I ask you something?” she said. “Is Regina really your wife?”

I laughed. “No.”

“Thank God.” She kicked off the boot, worked her foot into a cleat. “You guys make a terrible couple.”

Chapter 41

Quarter past three. Beau and Regina would have long finished their hike. Emil would be back from Eureka. They would be sitting around, wondering where I was.

I saw no reason to linger now that we knew the truth about Nick.

The bell jangled as I entered the hotel.

DJ Pelman looked over from his barstool.

“Hey,” I said.

His lips parted.

Jenelle Counts called from the kitchen: “Hello?”

“Just me,” I said.

I took the stairs three at a time, packed up Regina’s stuff and mine, returned to the main floor with bags in hand. Jenelle was behind the bar.

“You’re leaving?”

“ ’Fraid so.”

She tilted her head. “Something wrong?”

“Not at all, we just need to get rolling.” I laid the room key on the counter and tugged out my wallet. “Six hundred?”

She didn’t answer right away. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re sure.”

“On the house.”

“Thank you.” I turned to DJ. “My apologies to the chicken.”

He stared blankly. “What?”

“The chicken you killed. For dinner.”

“Oh... Yeah. Yeah, it’s all good.” Weak smile. “Rain check.”

“Say goodbye to your wife for me,” Jenelle said.

I grabbed the bags. “Will do.”

I pulled up to the Bergstroms’.

The Range Rover wasn’t in the driveway.

The front door opened. Emil appeared on the porch.

He took off his hat and began waving it at me.

Q: What do you do if you feel unsafe?

A: I leave.

But I couldn’t. Not without Regina.

I got out of the Jeep and started up the front walk.

Emil stood with his hips thrust forward, fingers hooked through his belt loops. He was sporting a Canadian tuxedo: denim jacket one shade lighter than his jeans. The belt buckle winked.

He grinned. “The man of the hour.”

“They’re not back yet?”

“Looks that way. I thought you were with them.”

“I stayed behind. My knee’s acting up.”

“Sorry to hear it. Got just the remedy for that. Come on in.”

I followed him to the hyper-masculine living room. He selected a bottle from the bar cart.

“Scotch, neat.”

“You remember.”

“The old bean’s still good for a few things.” He poured for me, fixed himself a bourbon. “Take a load off.”

We sat opposite each other, him in an easy chair and me on the sofa.

“Slainte,” he said, raising his drink.

As I brought the scotch to my lips, I saw him observing me over the rim of his glass, this jolly avuncular figure, focused not on his drink but on mine, his eyes bright and expectant.

My own focus shifted. Sharpened.

I laid the tumbler aside. “You know what, I’ll hold off so we can all celebrate together.”

“That’s the spirit,” Emil said. “Anything else, while you wait? Lemonade?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“How was your day?”

“Quiet. How was Eureka?”

“Intolerable,” he said. “Makes me twice as grateful to get home.”

“I appreciate your flexibility.”

“You’ve got Beau to thank for that. He’s taken a real shine to you.”

“It’s mutual.”

“Too bad about your knee. May I ask what happened?”

“Old tennis injury.”

“Huh. You’re such a tall guy. I would have guessed basketball.”

A new smile split his meaty face.

“Must be tough to find the time to play,” he said. “Extra tough if you’re holding down a second job.”

“How’s that?”

“Private equity,” he said, “and private investigation. Hard work. Time consuming. What’s your hourly rate, Clay Edison?”

I said, “Too high, apparently.”

He roared with laughter. “I respect a man doesn’t take himself too serious.”

“Where’d I screw up?”

“Talked to Kathleen.”

“Interesting,” I said. “She made it sound like there was no love lost between you two.”

“Me and her, no. But a mama’s heart is true. You threaten her baby, out come the claws.”

He shot his bourbon, set it down. “Well, look, friend. We have a nice, peaceful community, and we intend to keep it that way.”

I stood. “I’ll get out of your hair, then.”

“We’re not done.”

“I am.”

“Sit your ass down,” he said.

A shape slid into the kitchen doorway; I turned, reaching into my shirt for the P365, and found myself confronting a shotgun-wielding Dave Pelman.

“Hands,” he said.

My fingertips brushed the grip.

I might be able to draw and squeeze off a shot.

I might get tangled up in fabric.

The outcome hinged on how quickly I moved, how accurate he was, what was chambered in the shotgun.

A deer slug: Hit or miss.

Buckshot: Didn’t much matter.

Too many unknowns.

“Hands,” Pelman repeated.

“I’d do as the man says,” Emil said.

I withdrew my hand from my shirt.

They had me lie on my stomach and lace my fingers behind my head. Pelman trained the shotgun on me while Emil knelt on my back and zip-tied my wrists.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I said.

“Terrific,” Emil said. He rolled me over and confiscated the P365, along with my phone and keys. “I look forward to getting that cleared right up.”

They forced me outside and into the Jeep’s cargo hold. Pelman climbed in the back seat, leaned over, and pressed the shotgun to my scar.

A door slammed. The engine started. We began to move.

Curled up against the luggage, I could see a sliver of sky, treetops swaying.

I felt behind me for the zipper of Regina’s bag.

Maybe I could get my hands on something sharp. A nail clipper. Tweezers.

The edge of the shotgun barrel bit into my flesh.

Pelman said, “Uh-uh.”

After about ten minutes the Jeep pulled over.

The cargo hatch opened.

Emil waved me out with the P365.

We were on a narrow street, parked opposite a wooden house. Beau’s Range Rover sat at the curb. I couldn’t see a street sign, but the tow truck in the driveway told me it was Dave Pelman’s residence and garage. Gray Fox Run, somewhere in the southern half of the peninsula.

The adjacent lots were pure forest. The house itself was largish but crude, patched with raw lumber. Chain link enclosed a sodden brown lawn. A pair of squeaking weather vanes bickered. Rooster versus winged pig.

Pelman prodded me toward the driveway.

I moved through the trembling shadows of pines.

To the rear sprawled acres of junkyard: dirt piled with hubcaps, hoses, tires, rusted-out frames and panels, scrap, perforated canisters of motor oil and coolant and paint, gasoline in five-gallon jugs. Rainbow slicks floated on mud. A pathway made of pallets brought us to a swaybacked barn.

Emil hauled the door wide. Darkness yawned.

I paused on the threshold, breathing grease and solvent.

A jab to the spine sent me stumbling.

Blades of light leaked through gaps in the siding. More trash heaped in the dank corners. I passed beneath low-hanging rafters. Nailed to them, like hunting trophies, were license plates from California and a dozen other states. I wondered which belonged to Octavio Prado.

At the far end of the barn, Regina sat in a steel folding chair. Her wrists were duct-taped to the frame, her ankles to the legs. There was a cut above her left eye. Dried blood ran from one nostril and over her lips. She was shirtless, shivering, although they’d let her keep her bra and covered her shoulders with a filthy towel.

Her pink gun purse hung on a wall hook among an array of hand tools.

Beau occupied a second folding chair. He smiled. “Look who decided to join us.”

He got up. His S&W500, the bear stopper, was holstered on his belt.

Rush him. Head-butt him.

And then what?

My hands were tied.

He put me in the open chair and duct-taped my ankles to it.

“Listen up,” he said. “I’m gonna undo your hands. Take off your shirt and vest and throw them on the ground. If you make a move, if you do anything I don’t like, Dave’ll shoot her in the head. Then I’ll break your fingers, one by one, and shoot you. Are we on the same page?”

“Yes.”

“Terrific.”

He took down a pair of tin snips, circled behind me, giving me a wide berth.

Grab the tool.

Grab his gun.

Emil and Pelman were out of reach, triangulating with firearms.

Regina was immobilized.

I was strapped to the chair.

The only weapons we had were our tongues.

Beau cut the zip-tie and stood back. “Go on.”

I opened the magnetic shirtfront. “You’re not even going to buy me dinner?”

Once I was bare-chested, he taped my arms to the chair and assumed his place at his father’s side. Dave Pelman, faithful servant, stood in readiness with the shotgun.

Emil said, “Now, where were we? Oh yeah: You were going to clear up a misunderstanding. Go ahead, Clay Edison. Enlighten me.”

“It’s strictly business,” I said. “We’re just here for due diligence.”

“Pretty darn diligent, sending two of you,” he said. “Expensive. Who is this person, with money to burn? I’d love to meet him.”

I resisted the urge to look at Regina. I didn’t know what she’d told them.

“Here’s how I see it,” Emil said. “You show up outta nowhere, peddling some bullshit about land. You go around, asking all kinds of questions, from all kinds of folks. Now you’re back again.”

He removed his hat, scratched his pate. “I don’t want to be cynical, Clay. But it feels to me like it might be more than strictly business. Son? Care to illustrate?”

Beau unfolded a sheet of paper and displayed it.

Rows of typed characters: upper and lowercase letters, numerals, and punctuation marks. She’d covered the whole keyboard, plus an additional three lines for direct comparison.

“I don’t know what that is,” I said.

“Why don’t you ask your little gal pal?” Emil said. He gestured to the purse. “It was in her pocketbook.”

Regina remained expressionless.

“You shoulda gotten rid of that contraption years ago,” Emil said to Beau.

“You’re right, Pops. I’m sorry.”

“Live and learn.” Emil sighed and replaced his hat. “I must admit, Clay, this pattern of dishonesty wounds me deeply.”

“Funny,” I said. “I met a whole bunch of folks who feel the same way about you.”

“Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere. Which of those individuals do I have to thank for the gift of you?”

“Bill Arenhold.”

It felt good to see Emil struck dumb, however briefly.

“My word. There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. How’s he doing?”

“Not great. I’m pretty sure you knew that, though.”

“Be fair, now. You can’t blame me for everything. Billy was a loser and he took the loser’s way out.”

“He couldn’t have been that bad. He helped you find this place.”

“Any idiot can pick up a pencil,” Emil said. “Only one Picasso.”

“What about Kurt Swann? Also an idiot?”

“Inbred moron.” Probably without realizing it, he glanced at Pelman. “Greedy, too.”

“Must be exhausting, having to deal with so much incompetence.”

“It’s a plague,” Emil said.

“We spoke to the sheriff,” I said. “If we don’t check in with him by tomorrow morning, he’s going to come looking for us.”

“I reckon you’d better think fast, then.”

“About what?”

“Coming clean. We’ll give you a little respite to consider.”

He and Beau started out, leaving Pelman as sentry.

Regina lifted her head. “Hey, Beau.”

He turned back.

“You should really call your mom more,” she said. “She misses you.”

A change washed over him, smile twisting, shoulders bunched.

He strode toward us.

“Son,” Emil said.

Beau grabbed Pelman’s shotgun by the barrel.

“No,” I yelled. “No no no.”

He wound up the weapon like a baseball bat and swung, crushing the butt of the gun into Regina’s midsection.

Audible crack.

She gasped and jackknifed. The chair tipped forward. She landed on her face and rolled sideways and vomited in the dirt.

Beau handed Pelman the shotgun and left with his father.

The door rumbled shut.

“Regina,” I said.

She retched and heaved. The towel had fallen off, exposing her.

I began scooting my chair toward her.

Pelman said, “Uh-uh.”

“Then pick her up.”

He said nothing.

“Asshole. Pick her up.”

“Shut your mouth.”

It took a while for Regina’s breathing to calm. She tried to rock herself to a sitting position but couldn’t manage it and lay still.

“Sorry about the typewriter.” She spat blood. “Live and learn.”

Silence amplified all the small sounds: pinecones knocking on the roof, the creak of the chairs as we twisted against our bonds.

Dave Pelman squatted on a milk crate and sucked at his teeth.

“It doesn’t matter what we tell them,” Regina said. “They have to kill us.”

“Hush,” Pelman said.

She wriggled around to face him. A huge purple bruise tattooed her flank. “You really think they won’t sell you out to the cops? They’re using you. Again.”

He didn’t respond.

“There’s two of them,” she said. “One of you. Their word against yours.”

He cricked his neck.

“How many promises has Emil made you, over the years? How many has he kept?”

Pelman propped the shotgun against the wall, approached Regina, and leaned down, his face inches from hers.

“Hush,” he whispered.

He returned to the crate and picked up his gun.

The barn door rumbled open.

Beau went to Regina and roughly set her chair upright.

Emil said, “Time’s up. Have we come to our senses?”

“What do you want to know?” I asked.

“Start with who’s footing your bill.”

“Start with go fuck yourself,” Regina said.

“Right,” Emil said. “I can see you still need some convincing. David? Ladies first.”

Pelman aimed the shotgun at her.

He paused. Lowered the gun.

“David,” Emil said. “Is there a problem?”

“Not in here,” Pelman said. “I don’t want the mess.”

Emil gave a forbearing smile. “Let’s be quick about it, please.”

Beau cut us from the chairs, starting with our legs. He duct-taped Regina’s left ankle to my right, then moved on to our arms, which he bound behind our backs and joined at the wrists.

Cumbersome process, a hint of farce. Emil’s smile grew progressively testier.

My lot in life: abiding idiots!

Finally we were ready to go. Beau gripped me by the biceps and put the S&W to my temple. Emil held on to Regina, the SIG Sauer in her ear. Pelman brought up the rear, goading us with the shotgun.

They marched us out to the junkyard.

Emil said, “Where’s going to make you happy, David?”

Pelman pointed to the forest backing his property.

We started through the trees, the five of us in tight formation. The difference between Regina’s stride length and mine had us tripping over each other.

I tugged at her wrists.

She glanced at me sidelong.

I tugged again, twice.

She blinked rapidly, her jaw pulsed. She didn’t understand. What did I want?

Make a break for it?

To the left?

Before I could try again, Pelman said, “Okay.”

He drove the butt of the shotgun into the soft tissue behind my knee. Pain tore through the joint. It caved, and I sank down in the mud, taking Regina with me.

“Last chance,” Emil said.

Pelman leveled the shotgun at Regina. His finger tensed on the trigger.

A bright-green dot freckled his nose.

His face exploded.

Chapter 42

Stage set slaughterhouse:

Bone and blood and brain, misted like a winter’s day breath; the shotgun arcing skyward, tethered to the dead man by his finger through the trigger guard.

Regina, head averted, eyes clenched.

Beau Bergstrom cowering in the muck; his father, rigid with disbelief, mustache bristling, arms outstretched to ward off the assault, SIG Sauer flung from his grasp and hovering in midair.

Then everything was moving.

Emil’s pistol hit the ground, followed by Pelman’s body. The impact set off the shotgun and blew a hole harmlessly through a patch of dogwood as songbirds and squirrels and raccoons erupted from the underbrush and took flight amid a cascade of white blossoms.

Beau rose up, firing wildly at the unknown, five earsplitting booms. The front of his jeans was soaked.

Emil turned and fled.

“Dad,” Beau yelled.

A bullet caught his left shoulder and dropped him.

“Dad.” He kicked his heels, propelling himself backward, trying to return fire. But he’d spent the revolver’s capacity; it hammered loudly on the empty chambers. “Wait.”

He scrambled to his feet and crashed off into the brush right as a third shot plugged into the mud and sent up a splash.

Seventy yards away, Al Bock leaned out from behind a stout tree trunk, began darting from blind to blind.

I yelled, “Clear.”

He hustled toward us. Over his T-shirt and jeans shirt he’d added camouflage body armor and a matching cap. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Regina said. “Hurry.”

He freed us with his hunting knife. I grabbed the SIG Sauer, Regina took the shotgun, and the three of us ran through the woods, skirting a junkyard ambush, spilling into the street.

Emil rocketed past in the Range Rover.

Regina raised the shotgun and blew out his rear window.

He sheered, fishtailed, accelerated away.

“Dad.”

Beau stumbled onto the front lawn, clutching his bleeding shoulder, right in time to see his father escape around the block.

Regina swung the shotgun toward him. “Stop, motherfucker.”

He spun and ran up the driveway.

“Get Emil,” Regina said and took off after Beau.

Al glanced at me, then followed her.

Emil still had my keys, including the one for the Jeep. All that was left was Pelman’s tow truck. I sprinted to it.

The door was unlocked. Keys in the ignition.

It was that kind of town.

I backed into the street and floored it.

The truck was sluggish, and Emil had a two-minute head start. I didn’t know exactly where I was, either, or where he would go. But I had the mountains to orient me and sufficient knowledge of his character to believe he would act to save himself, above all.

I drove toward the entry road.

At the town boundary I crossed the bridge. The paving ended.

Fresh tire tracks sliced uphill through the mud.

One mile on I’d had no further sign of him, and I began to think I should turn back, get to a phone, and call the sheriff.

Then I saw him.

He was driving prudently in deference to the slippery conditions. Through the shot-out rear window I glimpsed the brim of his Stetson like a dark halo.

He checked over his shoulder but didn’t speed up. He had the advantage and he knew it.

We passed the spot where I’d hit Shasta; passed the memorial; took the hairpin at five miles per hour.

At the next flat patch his back tires spun and he lurched ahead.

I leaned over the wheel, urging the truck on, sweat coursing down my bare torso.

The gap between us widened.

He disappeared around a blind curve.

An instant later I heard a massive crash.

I braked hard, slewing to a standstill with my bumper kissing oblivion.

Silence.

Gun drawn, I slipped from the truck, advanced.

A faint hiss became audible.

I cleared the curve.

An incense cedar lay in the road. It had toppled diagonally to expose its rotted root system. Emil had jerked the wheel, but there was nowhere to go, and in trying to avoid the tree he’d plowed into it head-on. I could see his listing silhouette. Metal ticked.

“Put your hands on the dash,” I yelled.

No response.

I orbited in, crunching over glass pebbles.

A branch — eight inches in diameter, still attached to the trunk — had pierced the windshield.

I kept the gun up and opened the driver’s door.

The branch was about twelve feet long. It had been violently shorn of bark, filling the vehicle with the smell of gasoline and pencil shavings. The jagged, broken tip had speared Emil through the abdomen, pinning him to the seat before bursting out the other side.

He sat in a pool of blood, chin to chest, breathing fast and shallow. Blood sprayed the dash and the instrument panel. The ceiling dripped with it. Bits of foam and upholstery blanketed the rear seats. The blood-spattered Stetson was overturned in the footwell.

“Emil.”

He didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure he’d heard me.

I said, “Your turn to come clean.”

His chest stopped moving.

I said, “You abandoned your son. Twice. The last memory of you he’s going to have is you running away and leaving him to die. Now he knows what I know, and what everyone else who’s ever met you knows: You’re a coward and a loser.”

His mouth opened as if to speak. A bubble of blood welled out.

It popped.

He slumped.

I touched his neck. Nothing.

I used a twig to recover my possessions from his jacket pockets, mindful not to get blood on my hands.

Back at Gray Fox Run, Al Bock leaned against the Jeep, rifle on his shoulder.

I jumped from the tow truck. “Is she okay?”

“In the barn.”

I limped up the driveway to the junkyard. My knee throbbed. I’d been suppressing the pain; now it was surfacing, with a vengeance.

The barn door was ajar. Regina sat on a folding chair. The shotgun rested on her lap and she was gazing down at Beau Bergstrom’s body.

His chin jutted toward the rafters. Blood saturated the dirt. The entry wound in his chest dwarfed the rifle wound in his shoulder. Definitely a deer slug.

“Emil?” she said.

“Dead.”

“Terrific.”

She stood, grabbed her purse off the wall, and walked out.

Chapter 43

Al had come on foot. We took the Jeep to his house on Black Sand Court. Along the way, I described the crash.

“The road’s blocked.”

“I’ll have a look,” Al said. “Other business first.”

I pulled into the cul-de-sac.

“Stay put,” he said.

While he was gone Regina and I got clean shirts from the trunk and dry-swallowed ibuprofen. I brought her up to speed on Nick.

“Poor kid,” she said.

The gate opened. Al beckoned to us.

Inside the A-frame, DJ Pelman was bent over at the eating table, doughy face in his hands. Jenelle Counts sat beside him, rubbing his back and murmuring to him like he was a child of five rather than a man in his thirties.

Bock brought chairs for Regina and me but remained standing with King Kong at his heel.

“Son,” he said gently.

DJ uncovered his face. His eyes were bloodshot.

Bock said, “Not gonna wiffle and waffle. I’m responsible for your dad being dead. Not these two. You got no quarrel with them. You’re mad, be mad at me. But there was no choice. He was about to slaughter the innocent and after that they’da probably slaughtered him. Got it?”

Silence.

“You understand me, DJ?”

Jenelle said, “He does.”

“Be nice to hear it from him.”

DJ said, “Yeah.”

Bock turned to us. “You also need to know something. You’re alive ’cause of DJ. He told his mom what Beau was up to and she told me. So you got them to thank.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Regina said nothing. I wondered what Beau had done to her. If DJ had participated, prior to his attack of conscience.

Bock said, “Anybody feels the need to get something off their chest, now’s the time. Otherwise we’ll put a fork in it and move on.”

I said, “I have some questions for DJ.”

He reacted with surprise to his own name. “Uh. Okay.”

“Octavio Prado.”

“Who?”

Regina said, “The writer.”

“Oh,” he said.

“You don’t have to talk to them,” Jenelle said.

“No,” DJ said. “It’s... It’s okay.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, baby.”

“Mom. It’s okay.” He licked his lips. “What about him.”

“Everything you know,” Regina said. “From the beginning.”

“Um... yeah. So... so, Beau heard from his dad about this guy come to town. He wanted to go meet him.”

“Why?”

“He thought it was neat. He never met a real writer. The guy... Shit. What’s his name?”

“Prado.”

“Prado,” he repeated, as if studying for a final exam. “He had a house he was renting. We went over, and he let us in. Beau was asking him questions. Like, where do you get ideas?”

“Did Prado tell you why he was in Swann’s Flat?” I asked.

“He said he was looking for God.” DJ shook his head. “That, I remember ’cause it was a pretty weird thing to say, you know?”

“Sure,” I said. “Did you see a manuscript?”

“A what?”

“Loose pages,” Regina said.

“Oh. Yeah. That. Yeah, he showed it to us. Like this shitload of paper. I thought it looked stupid but Beau thought it was the greatest thing ever. He was real excited. Went home and started writing his own story. He was working on it for a while, then me and him brought it over to... To Prado. This time he didn’t look so friendly, you know? He goes, ‘I have to work, leave it and I’ll get to it in a few days.’ He was sort of blocking the doorway, so we couldn’t see in. But you could tell there was someone else in there with him. Beau told me, ‘Go around and look through the window.’ I go and it’s Leonie Swann.”

“What were she and Prado doing?”

“You mean... doing it? Uh-uh. Nothing like that. Just sitting on the floor, talking.”

“What was the mood?”

“Huh?”

“Were they happy? Sad? Angry.”

“I mean,” he said. “I dunno. I just ran out of there. I didn’t want to get caught.”

“All right,” I said. “What happened next?”

“Beau went to ask Prado about his story. He was happy ’cause Prado liked it. After that he started visiting him a couple times a week, bringing him things to read.”

“Did you go, too?”

“Not usually. It was boring. I didn’t have nothing to say, and the two of them together was...” DJ interlaced his fingers. “I mean, he’s a lot smarter than me, Beau is.”

Jenelle said, “Beau used to make fun of him. Telling him he’s dumb, he’ll work for him one day like Dave worked for his daddy.”

DJ colored.

Jenelle patted his arm. “You got nothing to be ashamed of, baby.”

“Whatever, it’s... I don’t care.”

I said, “Did you ever see Prado and Leonie together again?”

“Just the once,” DJ said.

“Kurt was jealous of him,” Jenelle said.

“Prado?” I asked.

She nodded.

“You know that how?” Regina asked.

“I saw it myself. He was having dinner at the hotel. Kurt busts in, grabs him off the stool. ‘Stay away from my wife.’ He threw him out on his ass and told him to get gone. Then he told me I’m not allowed to rent him a room.”

“That’s when Prado went to you,” Regina said to Al.

He said, “I suppose so.”

I said, “But you didn’t know about him and Leonie. Or the incident with Kurt.”

“No, sir.”

I turned to Jenelle. “And you didn’t tell Al about what you’d witnessed.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “We weren’t together then.”

“All right, DJ. Let’s keep going. Beau and Prado are spending time together.”

“Yeah.”

“Did something change?”

“I mean.” His knee was jogging rapidly. “Sort of.”

“He was just a kid,” Jenelle said.

Regina and I let the silence stretch.

“Okay, so what it was,” DJ said. “Me and Beau, we’re hanging out at the garage. Prado rolls up, asks to buy some gas. He’s leaving town. Beau’s all, ‘You can’t leave,’ and Prado says he has to, they won’t let him stay no more.”

“ ‘They’ meaning Kurt,” Regina said.

“I dunno. I guess. Beau’s like, ‘Lemme talk to my dad, he’ll fix it.’ The guy got scared. ‘No no, don’t do that.’ It started off like that, but pretty soon it got out of hand. He’s like, ‘Gimme the fucking gas,’ and Beau’s all, ‘Don’t sell it to him.’ They’re yelling at each other. Then Prado, he goes, ‘Fuck you, you’re a needy little bitch, you suck, your stories suck.’ Beau heard that, he just...” DJ shuddered. “Snapped. He grabbed a, a wrench, and...”

He trailed off.

“You see?” Jenelle said. “I told you it wasn’t his fault.”

“My dad heard them fighting,” DJ said. “He comes out, sees the guy lying there with his head bashed in. He phones Emil to come over. When he got there, Beau tells them he didn’t mean to kill the guy, it was an accident. Emil said, ‘You oughta be more careful.’ But he was looking at me when he said it. Like it was me done it, not Beau.”

“What happened with the body?” I asked.

“My dad took it out on the boat and threw it in the ocean. He had me clean out the guy’s car. Took forever, it was so full of shit. I had to keep emptying the burn barrel.”

“And the manuscript?”

“I didn’t get to it yet before Beau turns up, asking what did I do with it. I told him it’s in the trunk. He had me take it to the post office and mail it.”

“How did he know where to send it?”

“There was like a little book in the car, with addresses and stuff. Beau kept it after he killed him. Like a souvenir.”

“Did he tell you why he wanted to send in the manuscript?”

“He said it’s a good book, people deserve to read it. I brought it with me next time I went to pick up the mail. Then, like a week later, he started freaking out. He was worried they’d find him and he’d get arrested. He told me drive back and get it from them. The lady told me sorry, too late. So I went home. But Beau was antsy as hell for a long time.”

“Waiting for the cops to show up.”

DJ nodded. “His dad musta noticed. He sat Beau down and started asking him questions till he blabbed. Emil had him write a letter, pretending to be the guy, so they’d think he wasn’t here no more. I guess it worked, you know? ’Cause they never came.”

He sat back. “That’s the only time I know of Emil hit him. When he made Beau write that letter.”

“Not after killing Prado,” I said.

“Nah. That didn’t bother him. But after the mail thing, he gave Beau a black eye. Broke his tooth, too. Beau was like, ‘I’m gonna kill that motherfucker.’ ” Faint smile. “I told him, ‘You get used to it.’ ”

Jenelle bit her lip. DJ looked at her.

“Aw, it’s all right,” he said.

“I’m sorry, baby.”

“Mom. Don’t. Hey. Hey. It’s all right.”

He drew her into his arms, shushing her as she wept quietly.

Al Bock turned to me and Regina. “Let’s get up there before we lose the light.”

Chapter 44

We caravanned out to the crash site.

While Al examined the tree, Regina stared at Emil’s skewered body. The first blowflies had arrived, congregating around his mouth and nostrils. The bloodstains on his clothes, the upholstery, and the ceiling were dry, though the pool surrounding him remained semi-viscous, clumping up and losing its shine.

She tilted her head back, breathing deeply to control her nausea.

“Remind me how long you were a coroner,” she said.

“Thirteen years.”

“Ever seen anything like this?”

“No.”

“Well,” she said. “First time for everything.”

Al rendered his verdict: No way could we open the road before dark.

“You can stay with me tonight,” he said. “We’ll come back at dawn. Either of you know how to work a chain saw?”

I said, “I’ve cleared brush.”

“Mm. We’ll get it done. Now let’s see to whatever hurt the two of you have.”

Maggie Penrose answered her door and started. The three of us made a motley sight — dirty and bloody and mismatched.

I said, “I need to borrow your phone.”

Al said, “And she needs to be looked at.”

“Nice to meet you, Doc,” Regina said. “My ribs are broken.”

Maggie said, “Come in.”

She wasn’t alone. Leonie and Jason Clancy sat on the living room sofa.

The tribunal. Best guess, the topic was Nick Moore and damage control.

Regina said, “How’s everyone’s day going?”

“Please,” Maggie said, showing her toward the exam room.

I said to Al, “Fill them in?”

“Yes, sir.”

I hobbled to the office.

Amy said, “I was starting to worry.”

In the background was the benign tumult of an ordinary evening at the Edison household. Running water, Charlotte narrating loudly, Myles babbling along to Cocomelon.

“I’m okay,” I said. “Can you find some privacy?”

“One second... Mom? Take over, please?”

I heard her mother’s voice say, “Is everything all right?”

“Absolutely fine, just gimme a sec.”

A door shut. The background noise cut out.

“What’s going on,” she said.

By the time I finished she was crying.

She said, “I don’t know if I can take this anymore.”

“I’m sorry, Amy.”

She let out a shaky breath. “Is Regina okay?”

“Probably broken ribs. The doctor’s checking her out.”

“I can’t believe this is happening again.”

Again.

“I’ll be safe till the morning,” I said. “I’ll leave once the road’s clear and call as soon as I get service.”

“We’re not done talking about this.”

“I know. Is there anything else you want me to do, right now?”

“Just be careful. If you really can.”

“I can. I will.”

“Fine,” she said and hung up.

I dropped the phone in its cradle. My head ached, my knee ached, my heart pumped broken glass.

The mood in the living room had changed.

Maggie and Jason perched on the sofa like guilty schoolkids. Al Bock stood at attention. Regina had a bandage over her eye and was sitting at the bottom of the spiral staircase, an ice pack pressed to her side.

Leonie paced by the ocean-view windows, buzzing with feral energy.

“What the hell are we supposed to do now?” she said.

Spiky clarity in her voice. I hadn’t heard it before.

She was sober.

“Those fuckers,” she said, pointing to nowhere, “took care of everything.”

“Times change,” Regina said.

Maggie said, “Just so you know, we didn’t create this situation. Kurt did.”

“You accepted it,” I said. “You kept it going.”

“For Shasta,” Leonie shouted.

“Grow up,” Regina yelled, twice as loud.

Leonie froze, startled.

Out over the water, gulls circled and screamed.

I said, “Where’s the manuscript?”

Leonie crossed her arms and gave me her back.

“Jason?” I said.

“Uh.” He glanced at his wife’s impassive form. “Our place.”

“I’ll take it, please.”

He nodded. Heaving up from the couch, he started for the door.

“Lee,” he said. “You coming?”

Leonie didn’t answer.

I said, “She’s eighteen soon. It’ll be out of your hands.”

Leonie snorted. “It’s never been in my hands.”

In the car, Regina said, “What did you tell Amy?”

“The truth.”

“Interesting choice.”

We waited in the Clancys’ driveway for Jason to carry out a cardboard box marked Hay & Dew Vineyards.

He set it gingerly in the Jeep’s cargo hold. I opened the flaps on a deep stack of yellowed paper. The cover page was scrawled in pencil.

Feeling the presence of another person I looked toward the house.

Shasta was watching from an upstairs window.

She waved.

I waved back. So did Regina.

Jason frowned. He shook his head at Shasta, as if to shoo her away. But she stayed put, arms folded resolutely over her chest, just like her mother.

Dinner Chez Bock was venison stew, cooked up with canned beans and homegrown vegetables. Al hovered by the stove, tending the pot and slipping meat scraps to King Kong. Regina took fresh clothes and went to use the outdoor shower. I sat at the table with the manuscript.

A yelp from outside: “Fahhaaack that’s cold.”

Bock smiled to himself.

As I turned pages, I noticed a significant difference from the PDF Eli Ruíz had sent me. The electronic version consisted of around nineteen hundred sheets. The paper original was far longer. Twice as long, in fact.

Whoever had made the scan had copied the fronts.

And skipped the backs.

One cheer for the UC Merced Work Study program.

Regina stumbled inside, hair wet, a bundle of dirty clothes under one arm. “That sucked.”

“Improves circulation,” Bock said.

“Fuck circulation.”

He chuckled. “Stew still needs some time,” he said to me, “if you want to give it a go.”

I replaced the manuscript in the box and took clothes from my bag.

Regina padded to the kitchenette. Hooking a strand of hair over her ear, she leaned in for a sniff. “Tell me that’s dairy-free.”

The next morning Al was gone before we were awake. He’d taken King Kong and left a note instructing us to meet him at the crash site.

We loaded the Jeep and drove out.

Pink light streaked the hills like an infection. The warming earth steamed.

As we drew close I heard saws buzzing.

The tow truck rested on the shoulder, light bar flashing. Behind it tilted the Range Rover. The fatal branch was sawn flush with the windshield. Condensation blurred the side windows; a fly tornado filled the interior.

King Kong chased squirrels through the trees.

Al had made good progress on the fallen cedar, opening a three-foot gap.

It helped that he’d brought help.

Regina said, “Are you fucking kidding me.”

A sweat-soaked DJ Pelman stood atop the trunk, wielding a giant Stihl.

He saw us and killed the motor.

Al did the same. He tugged out his earplugs and approached.

Regina and I both got out.

She took her gun purse and walked off in the other direction without a word.

He shook my hand, watched her go. “Morning.”

“Morning. You guys work fast.”

“Yes, sir. I think we’ll be done by nine, give or take.”

“Can I do anything?”

He mopped his brow. “Only brought the two saws.”

I found Regina a hundred feet down the road, sitting on a log.

“The fuck is that dumb asshole doing here?” she said.

Personally, I thought it was a smart move. Get DJ involved; give him a job; defuse the anger through partnership and physical labor. But Regina didn’t look like she was in the mood for strategic nuance.

She felt for the purse at her side.

Jammed her hand into the gun pocket and left it there.

The saws roared to life.

Two and a half hours later the gap was wide enough to squeeze the Jeep through under Al’s guidance.

I lowered the window. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Take care of yourself.”

DJ stood a ways off. Sawdust dyed his skin and hair orange.

“Thanks,” I called.

He gave a shallow nod.

“You’ll keep an eye on him for me,” I said to Al.

“Yes, sir.”

Regina got out to hug Al and rub King Kong on the belly. Throwing one sharp glance at DJ — he didn’t react — she returned to the passenger seat.

“Drive,” she said.

A mile outside Millburg I got reception.

Amy answered on the first ring: “Are you okay?”

“Yes. We’re out of there.”

“Thank God. When will you be home?”

“In time for dinner, hopefully. I’ll text you if that changes.”

Regina said, “What are you making?”

Amy laughed. “Peanut noodles.”

“Great,” Regina said. “Set a place for me.”

We stopped at the 76 for gas, drove to Fanny’s Market.

Before heading inside for coffee and provisions, Regina stepped to the bulletin board to untack Nick Moore’s flyer.

The screen door opened, and Sergeant Mike Gallo exited holding a bag of Funyuns and a travel mug emblazoned with the Humboldt Sheriff’s seal.

He smiled at me from beneath a cream-colored Stetson. “I see you two made it out alive.”

Regina turned, flyer in hand.

Gallo’s gaze lingered on her bandaged eye. His smile faded.

“How much shit did you stir up?” he said.

“Nothing they can’t handle themselves,” I said.

A beat. Gallo nodded. He touched the brim of his hat. “Drive safe.”