“Nah, I actually taught there for a while. Philosophy.” That would explain the books on the shelves.
Rory gulps the soda. “I love philosophy.”
“Me too, brother. Me too. But, as I sadly discovered, philosophy and teaching philosophy are two entirely different things.”
Sunshine leans up against the counter beside me, the block of chef’s knives between us. He pushes it aside.
“Nice knives.”
“Thanks.”
“Cooking or self-defense?”
Sunshine is confused for a second. He seems like a guy who is high on peace, and I think I bummed him out. “I like to cook.” He glances over at me, his face growing serious, his hippie demeanor fading. “Look, I’m not going to get into your business. I haven’t survived ten months in this trailer park by asking questions. I’m only here because the rent is cheap, and I wanted to take a sabbatical from life, write a book.”
“What kind of book?”
“Sort of a Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance but for the internet age. I bet Martin would dig it. Anyway, I doubt you’re here to see me. I’m probably the least interesting person in Guerneville.”
“And who are the interesting people?”
“There are some, shall we say, business people along this road.”
“I saw them. Meth labs in both the green and brown trailers, pot grow, twelve to twenty plants, on the right, and down in the circle, some dealers. From the bikes, it looks like they might be Gypsy Jokers?”
Sunshine grins. “Mystery Lady, you are one big trip.”
“What about the guy across from you? The trailer over there, with the van.”
“You mean El Mayore?”
“Big white guy?” I ask. “Expensively dressed? Forty to forty-five? Maybe some loud pants?”
Sunshine laughs. “Not even close! Rafael is seventy-nine and probably hasn’t bought a new shirt since the Nixon years. We call him El Mayore because he was the first one here. The original settler, if you will.”
“Why the van?”
“He’s been working as a contractor for Amazon. He gets us all a ten percent discount, lets us use his Prime login to watch Ozark. Tell me something. How is it Jason Bateman never gets one day older?”
“Deal with the devil?” Rory suggests, slurping down the last of his soda.
Outside, we pile into the truck, Rory in the middle between Sunshine and me. As we drive down the muddy road, the truck bumping along the ruts, Sunshine adjusts the rearview mirror. “I’ve been racking my brain.”
“For what?”
“The guy you described when you asked me about El Mayore. Big white guy, forties, well dressed, loud pants.”
“Yes?”
“I might know who you’re looking for. He used to come in for coffee. Creeped me out. Didn’t know any of the regulars.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Nope. Not much help to you, but I know his drink. Medium Americano and a poppy seed muffin. Never trust a guy who asks for hot water in his espresso.”
As we near the entrance, I count seven bikers hanging out in front of one of the trailers, drinking. There’s a bonfire going, music blasting, Foghat’s “Slow Ride.” They look up, noticing us, and move toward the truck. One guy stops in the middle of the road, blocking our way. Another guy—massive tattooed arms, leather vest—walks around to the driver’s side. He taps his beer bottle on the window. Sunshine rolls it down a crack, a whoosh of cold air rushing in.
Sunshine gives him a broad, winning smile. “Evening, my friend. How you boys doing?”
“We’re good.” Big Arms peers through the window. “Got yourself a secret family you’ve been hiding?”
“It’s my sister and her kid,” Sunshine lies, smooth as can be. “Visiting from out of state.”
“What did you think?” the guy asks me. “Like our little neck of the woods?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“We’re having a party. Y’all should join us.”
“Love to, Charlie, but these guys have an early flight,” Sunshine says.
Big Arms takes a swig from his beer. “Where to?”
“Denver,” I offer.
“Cold out there, man. You should stay here instead.” Big Arms bangs a fist on the hood.
Sunshine lets up on the brake, nudging the truck forward a couple of inches. “Mind if I join you when I get back? I just finished a new microbrew. I want you to try it, give me some feedback.”
“We’ll be here all night. Bring a lot, we’re thirsty.”
Big Arms steps back from the truck, shouts to his friend: “Hey, shithead, get outta the fuckin’ road.” The other guy moves, Sunshine gives him a nod, and we drive past the bonfire, past the Gypsy Jokers, through the two giant redwoods, out onto the road.
I look at Sunshine. “Charming friends you’ve got.”
“Those guys are rough, but they’ve never caused me trouble. You just have to talk to them like human beings. Most of the time.”
“And the rest of the time?” Rory wants to know.
“You stay out of their way.”
We drive back to the car in silence. I point out our Jeep on the side of the road. “Right here.”
Sunshine kills the engine, turns off the headlights. “I’ve been thinking. Your guy, Loud Pants? I saw him right here awhile back.”
“Along Armstrong?”
“Yeah, kinda weird. His car was parked beside that big empty field just up the road. He was walking through the field in a hurry, like he had somewhere to be. He was dressed nice, like Alden shoes and Tom Ford, even though the ground was muddy.”
“Alden shoes, Tom Ford? You could tell from looking at him?”
“My ex was in fashion. You don’t see that on the river.”
“If it’s the field I’m thinking of, there’s no house on the property, just a fence around some dirt.”
“Yeah, but at the back of the field there’s a trail leading up into the woods, up to a secluded waterfall. Nothing you should hike in Italian leather, though, mostly federal land. Pluto and I once went up there, didn’t get far before we walked into some old grow sites. I heard some guys at the Pink Elephant one night talking about a compound way up in the hills there where some weird shit goes on.”
“What kind of weird shit?”
“Hard to tell. They weren’t specific. If a compound exists, it must be hard to get to. I’ve never even seen a road on this side, but the guys mentioned a locked gate somewhere beyond the field with access to an old logging road. I figured that’s where he was headed.”
“If you see him, could you give me a call?” I reach into my bag and pull out my business card.
Sunshine’s eyes go wide. “Holy shit, you just keep getting mysteriouser and mysteriouser.”
In the Jeep, Rory turns to me. “We have to go there, Mom. Follow the path. ‘Pull the thread.’ Isn’t that what you say?”
My mom brain tells me to take Rory home and return with backup. But the investigator part of my brain tells me Caroline could very well be up that path, on that compound. If anybody saw us poking around today, time is limited. The window can close quickly. Maybe it already has.
“What’s the plan?” Rory presses.
“If I were with my squad, I’d sit on the road between the empty lot and the field and wait to see if anyone comes or goes. Then, if nothing came up, first thing tomorrow morning, when it’s light out, I’d go up the path.”
“So what are we waiting for?” Rory says.
We drive closer to the field. I park down the road a ways, turn the lights off but leave the CD player on, quietly playing Fred’s CD. We sit, waiting. It’s the kind of work a lot of millennials might not be able to handle—the boredom, the monotony. You can’t check your phone, can’t scroll, can’t read
, can’t nod off. All you can do is listen to music, stay alert, watching. Some have a knack for this kind of work; most don’t. Experience helps, of course, but if you don’t have it, you don’t have it. Rory has it.
No one comes. No one goes. Just past midnight, I tell Rory we need to get some sleep. In town, the vacancy sign glows above the Vacation Wonderland cabins. We buy little boxes of cereal and a quart of milk from the clerk in the lobby, settle into a tiny cabin, and try to fall asleep, still high on adrenaline and nerves.
49
While common sense suggests that averaging leads to increased accuracy, does this prove true with mobile phones that do not use differential GPS? Suggest a competing method to compute location.
Sunday morning at six, I’m dressed and arranging my bag—gun, mini tool kit, water, snacks—when Rory emerges from the shower. “I’m going with you.”
“You need to stay here.”
“No.”
Rory used to be such a cautious kid, always checking both ways, thinking things through in advance, aware of everyday dangers. But since Fred died, he’s different. He’s more direct, less tentative. Fearless. I worry he has lost the innate fear of dying. If anything, now he only seems to fear my dying. He’s terrified of being left behind—again. Any other risk, any other danger pales in comparison.
Outside, it’s cool and gray, storm clouds moving in. In the Jeep, I tell Rory: “You have to do everything I say, exactly when and how I say to do it. No arguing with me out there.”
He nods.
“As soon as we park, we need to get out with our backpacks and move inconspicuously across the field and onto the path. Fast, but not too fast. We need to look like we’re going for a hike. No hesitation. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Once we’re on the path, we move fast, we don’t talk. Stay a couple of feet behind me. If I stop, you stop. If you see booby traps or cameras, grab me and communicate silently. If anything looks off, we’re turning back. No complaints, no disagreement. Agreed?”
He nods.
“If anyone asks, we’re hiking. We heard there’s a waterfall this way. We’re going to have a picnic.” I reach into the back seat for the groceries we bought last night. I stuff cheese, crackers, cookies, and water bottles into my backpack.
“Waterfall, picnic,” Rory repeats. I can tell he wants to ask me something.
“What’s on your mind?”
“How do I even know if I see a booby trap?”
He’s breaking my heart. What the hell am I doing?
“A booby trap is usually a piece of wire stretched across the path. When tripped, it signals to someone that we’re in the area. It’s all done electronically, so keep your ears tuned for any kind of humming or static sounds. Watch the trees for cameras or motion detectors. Anything unnatural: wiring, batteries, lights.”
As we drive toward the cul-de-sac, Rory pulls on the dark green windbreaker I bought him in the fall for a school trip he never went on. He was signed up, fees paid, and he was even excited about it, but two weeks before the trip, Fred died. It only occurs to me now that he missed the trip. I’d totally forgotten about it, and he never reminded me.
I pull into the cul-de-sac and park. The street is empty. I look over at Rory. “I love you. And I want you to remember something.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re fast, really fast. If I say run, you run.”
“Which way?”
“Toward the car.” I take the keys out of the ignition and hand them to Rory. “Keep these in your pocket.”
“Mom, I don’t even have my learner’s permit.”
“Dad taught you how to drive last summer up in Woodstock.”
“That was a parking lot.”
“Doesn’t matter. There’s no traffic here, you can handle it. If I say run, you need to get to the car and drive to town. Go to the coffee shop. Sunshine will be there. You know the way?”
He nods. “Jesus, Mom. You’re scaring the shit out of me.”
“Good, you should be scared. Open the running app on your phone so you can trace our steps back.” I reach over him, into the glove compartment, and pull out a plastic baggie of golf tees.
Rory smiles. “I can’t believe those are still there. The last time Dad and I went golfing, I was, like, ten.”
“Well, let’s just consider it Dad watching out for us. We may lose cell service, so I’m going to stick one of these in the ground every time we take a turn or veer off.”
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think we’re going to find Caroline up there?”
“I really don’t know. Ready?”
He takes a steadying breath. “Ready.”
We walk down the street, across Armstrong Woods Road, and into the field. An abandoned tractor sits on the far side of the field. Rory is focused on the perimeter, eyes noting what I’ve already seen: three paths—one to the left, one to the right, one heading straight up the hill. It’s less worn than the others, but you can tell it gets used occasionally.
We take the middle path, zigzagging through trees, berry bushes, across streams, avoiding patches of poison oak. Heavy gray clouds block any warmth from the rising sun. I’m worried about getting back down the path if it starts raining. I move quickly, trying to beat the weather, repeatedly glancing over my shoulder to make sure Rory is still behind me. Occasionally, I feel his hand on my back, as if he’s reassuring himself that I’m still here. I watch for trip wires but see none. I look for telltale slivers of smoke snaking out of the woods. I listen for portable generators.
About a mile uphill, the path splits in two. I pause and look at Rory. He nods toward the path to the right, which is more worn and provides a clearer way forward. It’s the same one I would have chosen, but I want him to have a choice in the matter, to further solidify the map in his mind. I stick a red golf tee in the ground.
We ascend for another fifteen minutes. At the crest of the hill, we emerge in a clearing. No houses or vehicles, no signs of life. A jumbo jet passes overhead, a dull roar. Rory isn’t even winded. The climb has energized him. Cutting through two big bushes, I plant another red tee in the soil. Rory’s hand grabs the back of my sweatshirt. I stop abruptly and turn to see him glancing at a rusty, battery-powered light attached to a tree limb. It looks too old to be in use. Still, we move forward cautiously, scanning the ground, the trees, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
I stop when I see an abandoned orange bucket under a tree. The boxes next to it have been destroyed by rain and the elements, the garbage bags ravaged by animals. A few yards away, in the meadow, more garbage surrounds a fire pit. It’s an old grow. Some plants remain at the edges, so I doubt the DEA knows about it.
We round a huge oak tree. The grow field cascades down the hill. It looks like no one has touched it in two or three years. Cheap equipment, dried-out hoses, and a kiddie pool litter the ground, as if someone were thinking about coming back but never did. I’d wager there’s still some good product intertwined with the berries and brush.
As we keep moving, I glance back to see Rory taking it all in, fascinated. He has always loved seeing new things. The world—even this ugly piece of it, strewn with garbage, the chemical tinge of pesticides still in the air—slowly reveals itself to him, and I think he appreciates the experience.
We walk on for another hour, through patches of sunlight and periods of drizzle. We pass an abandoned cabin—no door, half a roof, the interior gutted. Only an old bathtub remains, where a riot of ferns has taken root. Ultimately, the trail turns into a creek, which we follow downhill. The creek feeds into a ten-foot waterfall. At the bottom, we sit on a downed tree trunk to drink water and eat Wheat Thins. My wristband tells me we’ve walked three and a half miles, but it feels longer. I check my phone. Damn.
“Do you have service?” I ask. Rory ta
kes his phone out of his pocket, shakes his head.
“Neither do I. Your app should still work, though, in case you need it to find your way back. Remember to watch for Dad’s golf tees. If you go more than a few hundred yards without seeing a tee, you’re going the wrong way.”
But Rory isn’t paying attention. He’s suddenly standing, craning his neck. “Mom!”
I stand up, follow his gaze, and see what he sees: about a half mile through the clearing, an overgrown logging road, and a vehicle making its way down the mountain.
“Stay behind me,” I say.
We stop at the tree line. The vehicle rounds the corner, moving slowly along the rutted logging road—a brown vintage Toyota Land Cruiser, late 1960s, perfectly restored.
When a ray of sunlight breaks through the window, I see a Caucasian man behind the steering wheel, broad shouldered. He has a huge head and clean haircut, white collared shirt. Rory is frozen in place. “That’s our guy,” I say.
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
My mind flashes back to my second week on the job. The Russian Organized Crime squad had grabbed me on their way out of the office. They were doing a surveillance at Penn Station, and they needed help. On the way uptown, the team leader gave me a radio and a photograph of the subject. “We can’t lose him,” he said. “We probably won’t need you, but stay upstairs, in case. Don’t come downstairs. Don’t do anything dumb.”
The rest of the team went down to the train tracks, and I found a bench with a view of the top of the escalator. I hid the radio in my bag and put the earpiece in. At first, my ear filled with a cacophony of radio noise as everyone settled into position. And then there was nothing. It was so quiet, I thought my radio had gone dead or switched to the wrong channel. Still, I sat there waiting for them to do their business, catch the subject, and give me a ride back down to the office. I had piles of paperwork to do.
The next thing I knew, I saw a guy with a crew cut and a blue scarf coming up the escalator. He was in a crowd of people, and unlike in the photograph, he had a beard. Nonetheless, I sensed it was him. Chills crept up my arms, my head tingled. I was nervous and didn’t know what to do. If I alerted the team and I was wrong, it would be humiliating. Yet, somehow, I just knew this was the guy. I brought the radio to my mouth and made what was probably the most tentative callout the team had ever heard.
The Wonder Test Page 22
