by Amy Waeschle
“Maybe she’s trying to get to her for a visit.”
“Then why would she linger at a biker rally?” Cassidy pushed the image of Lars injecting Izzy, the needle plunging into her skin. Why? She wanted to ask Izzy. Why would you do this? She took a deep breath. “And why wouldn’t she have just returned to Eugene in the first place? She could have hopped in her car and driven anywhere she wanted to go.”
Dutch just looked at her, thinking. “Sounds like maybe she spent her money,” he said.
Cassidy let that hang. Had Izzy bought drugs of her own in Bend? It seemed frivolous when she knew her money was running out. Why didn’t she get on the bus the following morning? Instead she got high with a stranger then hitched a ride with him to another party.
Dutch’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Sounds like she was running away from something, or running to something.”
“Could it be both?” Cassidy asked. “It feels like . . . like an escape.”
“From what?” Dutch asked, cradling his coffee close to his chest.
Cassidy shook her head. “I thought maybe it was what happened to her that last night at field camp. But I’m starting to think it’s something else. Something bigger.”
Just then Cassidy heard footsteps. She turned to see Lars, his long legs striding fast toward her, a harried look in his eye.
“I know where she went,” he said as he arrived.
“Did she text you?” Cassidy asked, already on her feet. Though she was embarrassed for losing her cool, she was still angry with him, evident in the coolness of her tone.
But Lars didn’t seem to notice. “No,” he said, and gave a heaving cough that jostled the smoker’s phlegm in his lungs, then turned to the side and spit. “But I think she’s in San Francisco.”
Something in his look made Cassidy pause.
“I don’t know what the hell she’s playing,” Lars said, glancing back and forth at the both of them. “She’s with Saxon Pike,” he added.
Cassidy watched Dutch’s face twitch. He clucked his tongue.
“What?” Cassidy asked. “What’s wrong?”
Lars met her gaze only briefly before it skipped away.
“Saxon Pike is a member of the Voyagers. They’re a one-percent club,” Dutch said.
Cassidy shook her head. “Is that bad?”
“They believe that there’s two kinds of people,” Lars explained. “The ninety-nine percent, who abide by the law, and the one percent who don’t,” Lars said. “As in outlaws.” He shrugged. “You know about Hells Angels, right? They are the original one-percent club.”
“The Voyagers run a couple of clubs: L.A., Portland, San Francisco. The clubs are legit, but there’s plenty of deeds going on behind the scenes,” Dutch cut in, watching her sharply. “I’m sure you can imagine the kinds of things that go on in a club run by guys who think of themselves as outlaws,” Dutch said, swiveling his now empty cup.
“You mean like drugs?”
Lars and Dutch eyed each other. “A manager from one of their clubs was arrested last year for sex with a minor. Apparently he kept this girl drugged and locked in a room,” Dutch said.
When Cassidy didn’t look away, he pursed his lips. “Combine that kind of mindset with the power they have running those clubs, and you get a recipe for some seriously bad shit.” He stopped, his mouth pinched shut as he shook his head.
Cassidy looked at Lars, who shot her an uneasy glance. “Ugh,” she breathed. She closed her eyes and tried to connect to her surroundings: the sun on her face, the smell of the coffee, the ribbed metal bench under her legs.
“What on earth would Izzy be doing with somebody who runs with that kind of crowd?” Cassidy asked, feeling a desperate form of dread bloom in her chest. So close, she thought. She was here, safe, and now . . .
Had Izzy been easy prey for someone like that? Cassidy imagined an attentive stranger slinking out of the dark like the hero Izzy thought she needed. A charismatic outlaw. A dangerous criminal. Opportunistic, even predatory.
Like Mel.
“What’s the name of his club?” Cassidy asked.
Lars and Dutch gave her a wary look.
“C’mon,” she urged. “If Izzy took off with this guy, don’t you think that’s at least a decent starting point?”
Dutch’s lips twitched. “Saxon runs the one in the Tenderloin called Silver’s,” he finally said. “And there’s another one called The Pony Club.”
“Don’t tell me, you’ve been to these places,” Cassidy said, her curiosity acting faster than her brain, which would have told her to hold her tongue.
Dutch lifted an eyebrow. “I live there, sweetheart. I’ve been everywhere.”
Frustrated, Cassidy turned away from the table, tossing her empty cup in the trash can as she strode towards her car.
She was halfway to calling Quinn when she remembered that he was in Aspen, running his marathon.
“Hold up,” a voice behind her said.
She whirled around to see Dutch catching up to her. “What?” she spat.
“Look, what’s your plan?”
Plan? Cassidy tried to come up with a good answer. She turned and kept walking, but Dutch was quick to match her stride.
“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “But I have a few hours to think about it, right? I’ll come up with something. I know I need to talk to this Saxon character, see if he can tell me anything.”
“Okay,” Dutch said. “Can I give you a word of advice?” he said. They had reached her car. Cassidy pulled out her keys and unlocked the doors.
“No,” Cassidy said, then saw the dark look in his eyes. “Okay, fine,” she added.
“You got a friend, someone who’ll go with you?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.
“My brother lives there,” she said.
He nodded, looking relieved. “Good. Just be honest with them but don’t tell them too much.” He crossed his arms, flexing the tattoo of the mysterious woman. “Maybe Saxon will tell you something.” His eyes studied hers with a look that made her realize how horribly under-gunned she was for this. “But probably not.”
“What are you saying?” she asked, gripping the edge of her car door.
“She sounds like a determined young woman. San Francisco was the goal and she reached it.”
“I’m still not following you,” Cassidy said, eager to get going.
“Sounds to me like someone chewed her up and spit her out.” He narrowed his eyes. “Maybe she wants to be alone to lick her wounds.”
Cassidy shook her head. “Izzy is twenty-two years old and she’s broke and last seen riding on the back of an outlaw’s motorcycle,” she said with a shiver. ”What if he . . . ” Cassidy said but had to stop because the emotion was too strong. “He could take her anywhere,” she said, and this time her voice did break.
“Hey,” Dutch said, his voice softening. “She sounds like she can handle herself pretty well,” he said. “She’s probably fine.”
“You don’t know that,” Cassidy replied as an image of Izzy cowering in the corner of a barren room flashed into her mind. “I have to go,” she said.
“What if you can’t find her?”
Cassidy paused. “I have to at least try,” she said.
With that, Dutch stepped back, as if giving her permission to proceed. Annoyed, she slid into her seat and started the engine, lowering her windows to clear the superhot air inside. “Thank you,” she forced herself to say.
He gave her that bemused smirk. “Be safe, Cassidy,” he said, and before she could back her car from her spot, he turned away and walked back toward the fairgrounds.
As she wove back through the sleepy town, she made a list of the phone calls she needed to make, the first to Richard Gorman.
“She’s in San Francisco,” Cassidy announced to his answering machine as she accelerated onto I-5 south, the broad dome of Mt. Shasta rising in her rearview. Her dashboard clock reminded her of the early hour, especially for a Sunda
y morning. He was probably asleep with his ringer off.
Martin was next. “I got your email,” Martin’s voice rang out, so clear he might have been sitting next to her even though from his itinerary, she knew he was starting his day in Whitehorse. For an instant, she wished he was riding shotgun—though Quinn would be her first pick. Heading to San Francisco alone to corner an outlaw was a really stupid idea.
“She’s in San Francisco,” she said.
“Holy shit,” Martin said.
Cassidy told him what she’d learned from Dutch and Lars.
“So you’re heading there now?” Martin said.
“Yeah.”
“What about Kilauea? Don’t you head out soon?”
“Tonight,” Cassidy said.
A long silence passed, and Cassidy wondered if she was making the right choice.
“Wow,” Martin finally replied.
“Crap,” Cassidy groaned, eyeing her dashboard’s temperature gauge, which was climbing again. She should have refilled the radiator before leaving the fairgrounds, but hadn’t wanted to do so in front of Dutch.
“What?” Martin said.
“My car’s been overheating. I think there’s a problem with the radiator.”
“Turn the heat on,” Martin asked.
Eager to try anything, Cassidy flipped the dial. As soon as she got to San Francisco, she would find a repair shop. Quinn was due back late tonight—maybe he had a recommendation.
“This is getting intense, Dr. Kincaid,” Martin said. “Bikers and strip clubs? You sure about this?”
Cassidy grimaced. “No,” she said.
“I just can’t believe that Izzy would . . . do all this.” She heard movement, and imagined Martin pacing in his hotel room. “I mean, what’s her goal? Why San Francisco?”
“I don’t know,” Cassidy said.
“I’m pretty sure you should call it off.”
“What do you mean?” Cassidy asked, frowning.
He sighed. “Just . . . I’m pretty sure Gorman is going to say the same thing. Whatever her reasons are for ditching in Biggs Junction, she’s moved past them now. Otherwise, she would have returned to Eugene. She’s had plenty of opportunity.”
Cassidy heard the bleep of an incoming call and checked the screen. “It’s Richard,” she said to Martin. “I’ll call you back.” She ended the call and answered Richard’s.
“You are released from your duty, Cassidy,” Richard said, sounding tired. “Preston Ford says he would like the privacy to deal with Izzy himself.”
Cassidy felt the air leave her lungs. “Does he know where she is?”
“You mean, besides San Francisco? I don’t believe so,” he answered. “But he’s excused us from responsibility.”
Cassidy heard the relief in his voice, but it didn’t resonate in her. “Oh,” she said.
“He wanted me to thank you for all the work you’ve done and to submit any receipts so he can reimburse you. In fact, he’s made a generous contribution to the Hawaii Volcano Observatory Society.”
Cassidy’s eyes widened. “He has?” she asked. “Wow. How did he know they helped fund my trip?” She glanced at her car’s temperature gauge, which was holding steady.
“He’s a very resourceful man,” Richard replied with a tired sigh.
“Is he going to San Francisco to find her?”
“Not that I know of,” Richard answered.
“Why not?” Cassidy replied. “Izzy might be in danger. Saxon Pike sounds . . . scary.”
“Yes, and I relayed everything to Mr. Ford. He was very grateful. I get the feeling he thinks she’ll contact him now that he’s frozen her finances.”
Cassidy winced. “Wow, that’s . . . aggressive,” she said, her gut simmering with unease. This is his answer? Cut her off and wait for her to hit rock bottom? The image of Izzy with a needle in her arm returned.
“Where are you now?” Richard asked.
Cassidy thought back to her last mileage sign, for a town called Lamoine. “Somewhere near Redding.”
“Well, you can turn around,” Richard said.
Cassidy considered her options. Redding was the next town, less than an hour away, and with an airport. Should she get help for her car, or hop a flight back to Seattle? If she was lucky, she might still make her flight. Or maybe she could pay someone extra to fix her car on a Sunday, and she could drive home. The fastest option was to turn her car around. Her Subaru would make it home, even with a faulty radiator. She could be in Seattle with plenty of time to make her 11:00 flight to Hawaii.
“I appreciate all that you’ve done to help,” Richard said.
After Cassidy hung up, she sat back and blinked at the passing scrub forest landscape and the dry, baked dirt banks of the Sacramento River. Up the slopes of the hillsides she spotted the occasional black cow, tail swinging at the flies. To let out the extra heat from the blower, she lowered her windows all the way and let the cool morning air whip into the cab, bringing in the dry earth smell of the landscape.
It was perfectly reasonable that Preston Ford would want to take over the search for his daughter, now that he knew her location. Maybe he was enlisting the help of a private detective or was mounting a manhunt, starting with Silver’s, right now.
But the relief she expected that came with letting go of the search didn’t come. How was Preston Ford planning to help his daughter? Cassidy felt strongly that he had judged his daughter for participating in the video, and was now punishing her behavior. Any normal parent would march right into that club and demand Saxon tell him everything. But Preston Ford was not a normal parent. Cutting off her money may be his version of damage control, but it felt excessively harsh. The young woman seemed to be making ever-dangerous choices. She needed someone to shelter her, not condemn her.
The thought of beautiful, assertive Izzy roaming the streets made her shudder.
Cassidy thought back, re-examining all the contributing factors at play—Cody and Will and the video, Izzy’s escape from the creep in the VW bus, her mysterious visit to Charlie’s. Something must have happened there, something more than Charlie had let on. Otherwise, Izzy would have gone back to Eugene. Instead, she got high with Lars in his hotel room then accompanied him to Mt. Shasta. Then, hours later, at a concert, she hitches a ride with a dangerous outlaw to San Francisco.
Why?
Izzy had probably run out of money by now. Was San Francisco significant or did it simply present an opportunity? Did it have anything to do with Dominique? What about Izzy’s long-term plans? Her field camp report was due in less than a week, and then another year of college. Had she already abandoned all of that? Or did she just need an adventure, a taste of the wild side, before returning to her studies? Izzy wasn’t the best student, but she was bright, and when it suited her, a hard worker. Cassidy didn’t know her plans once she graduated but could picture her as some kind of activist, or an environmental consultant for politicians, or even working for a nonprofit like Earth Justice.
What was it Richard Gorman had told her? …he would like the privacy to deal with Izzy himself. Maybe it was just an error in translation, but Cassidy thought it was an odd choice of words. Izzy didn’t need to be “dealt with,” Cassidy thought. She needed help.
As Cassidy pressed her accelerator down to ascend a small rise, she felt the car hesitate. A quick glance at the gauges told her that the temperature had climbed even higher, and she noticed a smell, like baking chemicals that she must have missed with the windows open. Could she make it to the next town? She tried to estimate the distance and came up with at least ten miles. Suddenly, her engine light came on and she lost power. Panicking, she scanned ahead for a turnoff but saw only more freeway.
“Oh no,” she muttered, turning on her signal and steering for the shoulder of the highway. Steam now billowed out from under her hood, blinding her. She heard the crackle of road grit under her tires as she coasted over the white line, coming to a stop near a red-dirt embankment populated
by shrubby pines. She shut off the engine and set the emergency brake.
Was the engine on fire? She jumped out, grabbing her backpack, wallet and phone, and hurried to the back hatch. Inside the side compartment was a fire extinguisher. She grabbed it and moved along the far side of the car, dropping her possessions in the dirt and approaching the hood, which was still steaming, though less so now that the car was off.
Though she had never used an extinguisher, she remembered a training video she’d watched long ago—there was a pin to pull, and so she yanked it free, then stood ready, pointing the hose at her hood as if she knew what she was doing. Cars whizzed by her, blowing the smell of the burning chemicals into her nostrils and grit into her eyes. One car honked and she resisted the urge to flip them off.
But the car didn’t erupt into flames, and after several minutes, she lowered the extinguisher. Then, she sat in the dirt and put her head in her hands.
Eighteen
Cassidy sat in the shadow of a pine, the red dirt hot on her butt as the balding tow truck driver hooked up her dead vehicle.
“Radiator probably blew,” he’d said when she told him the events leading up to the car losing power. “Fried your engine block.” He shook his head and went to work with the chains and hooks.
The man, whose striped uniform shirt said “Gary” above the breast pocket, also informed her that all five auto shops in Redding were closed on Sundays.
Her cell phone battery was dead. She should have charged it during the drive from the fairgrounds, but hadn’t realized how low it was until she went to call for a tow truck. She had wanted to search for alternative forms of transportation while she waited for the tow truck. Redding had an airport, rental cars. Now, formulating her plan would have to wait until after she dropped off her car.
Where was Izzy now? I was so close, Cassidy thought. Is she safe?
A looming unease that Izzy was in danger wouldn’t let go of her thoughts. She sat in the dirt, her meager possessions piled in her lap, trying to decide if she should continue her mission or let it go like Richard requested.
