He shrugged and started to deal. He threw down my first card before dealing his. He then set down my next card. “Nine of diamonds.”
My two cards totaled eleven. I was about to ask for another card, when he laid down his second card, the ace of spades. He peeled back the corner of his down card before declaring, “Blackjack. The house wins.” He revealed his down card, a ten of diamonds.
My money all gone, I stood to leave. Seth didn’t meet my eye as he collected my money. “Remember that, Seth. The house almost always wins. And I’m not just talking about cards.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m saying if you plan to go up against the house—the police, government, whatever—don’t count on winning.”
Outside, it was nice to see daylight and breathe fresh air. The lack of windows inside the casino, accompanied by the sensory overload of noise, smoke, and flashing lights, had given me a headache. I needed a shower and an ibuprofen. A sign indicated the golf course and the employee parking lot were up the hill above the casino. I walked the half-mile to the employee lot.
I figured warning Forrester to terminate his plans to bomb Nimbus Dam had given me away. While he might not have guessed I’d broken into his home and discovered the bombs, he could have reasoned I’d tracked his movements. A quick search under his bumper and he’d have found the GPS transmitter. In that case, I’d need another method to keep tabs on his movements.
It took fifteen minutes to find Seth’s car in the vast employee parking lot. I placed a second GPS device from the Monarch drop on the underside of the car and hoped neither Seth nor Forrester would discover it.
twenty-nine
I was hoping for heavy traffic so I could use it as an excuse for missing my four o’clock appointment with Dr. Nelson. One of his assistants had called me earlier in the day on orders from the doctor insisting I come in for a short meeting. The woman was not specific about why Dr. Nelson wanted to see me, but I had an idea. After my day so far, a conversation with a doctor was low on my list of priorities.
Just my luck, traffic from Cache Creek back to Sacramento was light, and I arrived ten minutes early. Five of us sat in the waiting room for our turn with a doctor, physician’s assistant, or nurse practitioner.
The same Golf Magazine I’d leafed through during my last visit lay on an end table. My earlier enthusiasm to start up the game again had waned. A glance at the magazine, its cover featuring a lush golf course not unlike Sacramento Oaks, brought back the image of Jolene’s incensed face. A wave of embarrassment and disgrace washed over me. I picked up a copy of Nutrition Weekly and read how to add kale into my diet, create a fat-burning meal plan, and increase dietary fat to improve regularity. By the time I finished reading the ads for the weight loss getaway vacation in the back of the magazine, I was the only person sitting in the waiting room.
A little after five, Dr. Nelson himself swung open the door to the waiting room and called my name. He shook my hand as I reached the door and apologized for the delay. “We had a lot of late walk-ins, I’m afraid.” He stepped back, and I followed him down the hallway.
In all the years I’d been coming to see him, I didn’t realize he had an actual office beyond the reception area, the examination rooms, and file room. He shut the door behind us. I sat down in one of the guest chairs as he settled into his desk chair. The office was cozy, the walls decorated with undersea photographs of colorful fish and coral. I knew from the many years of seeing Dr. Nelson that his two hobbies consisted of scuba diving and photography.
He was in his late fifties and his expressions tilted towards somber on a good day. He looked at me with a grim face.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” I knew what he meant.
“I got a call from Dr. Beckly.”
“Oh?”
“He said you didn’t show up for your appointment the other day. You didn’t call to cancel and haven’t returned any of his calls to reschedule. So, that’s what I mean when I ask what’s going on.”
“Oh, that?” I sounded like a teenager whose parents found a bong in his bedroom.
“Ray, I’m concerned about you. When we talked the other day, you described some serious symptoms. Very serious. Severe nightmares. Flashbacks. Anxiety attacks and so on.” He reached over and retrieved a folder from the side of his desk. He opened it and read through it, refreshing his memory. “You said you were hyperventilating even. That’s not good.”
I smiled nervously. What was it about doctors that made an adult act like he was a little kid, his own life experience no match for that of an exalted medical authority? “I’ve been feeling better.”
“Okay. I’m glad to hear that. Have you had any side effects from the Zoloft?” He picked up a pen, poised to add whatever I told him into my file.
“No. No side effects.”
“That’s good.”
“To be honest, I haven’t started taking the pills yet.”
“What? Why?”
“Like I said, I’ve been feeling much better.”
He exhaled, part frustration with me, part fatigue from the long day. He looked tired, and the last thing he wanted at the end of his day was an uncooperative patient. “Why do you think you’re feeling much better?”
“It’s kind of hard to explain.” I tried to gather my thoughts. I hadn’t formed in my own mind the words I needed to tell him. “When I came in the other day and told you about my symptoms, I probably shouldn’t have. I regretted it once I got back home.”
“You regretted coming to see your personal physician?” Nelson tossed his pen onto the desk and sat back in his chair.
“Nothing personal. It’s not like that. It’s just maybe I wasn’t as forthcoming as I should have been with my symptoms and all.”
I thought back on the images that had prompted me to come see the doctor. The pictures in my head and my reactions to them made me believe something was wrong with me, that I’d gone down an unhealthy path whose final destination might be ruinous. My thoughts and emotions had scared me. That’s what had driven my earlier visit. The past couple of days had helped me gain more clarity around those thoughts and emotions than therapy or Zoloft could provide. At least that’s what I told myself.
“Care to elaborate?” Dr. Nelson asked.
Did I want to elaborate? Would doing so help me gain further insight into my current state of mind? I took a deep breath and released it. “What’s your biggest fear?” I asked the doctor.
“Excuse me?”
“What do you fear more than anything?”
He looked at me long and hard before he spoke. “I’m going to assume this will lead to some sort of explanation about your state of mind. So with that premise in mind, I’ll answer your question. I fear getting a terminal disease.”
“Of course, we all do. What else, if you were to obsess over it, would keep you from falling to sleep at night?”
Nelson shrugged and outstretched his arms, palms up. “Who knows? Maybe that some harm might come to my loved ones, especially my children.”
“Yes.” I leaned towards him. “We fear that for a lot of reasons, but two reasons stand out. First, because they are our children, the people we love most. We don’t want anything bad to happen to them. Secondly, we feel powerless in protecting them. As much as we love them, as much as we do for them, we can’t be there twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week to take care of them and prevent bad things from happening. Even if we could, there’s no guarantee we could stop the bad from happening. Am I making sense?”
“I hear what you’re saying,” he said.
“Once I got married, I obsessed over something bad happening to my wife. When our daughter arrived, my fears got even worse. Now I had two people to worry about. It was on my mind a lot. It wasn’t crippling, but it made me feel weak and powerless.”
“To a certain extent those are normal human emotions,” he said. “Unless these t
houghts become too prevalent and you become anxious and fearful all the time.”
“For me, I was borderline. I could put my fears aside when I was working or engaged in something, but in my downtime they dominated my thoughts.”
“That’s not healthy.”
“And when my wife was killed, those feelings intensified. It was as if my wife getting killed showed me how powerless I was. And how justified I was to have those fears. My poor daughter became the source of my overprotectiveness.”
“From what I know of your daughter, she shows no signs of being harmed by your concerns for her.”
“That’s because she’s a terrific person. In spite of my parenting.”
“Where are you going with this?” Nelson asked.
“I told you about the nightmares. And you said you read about what happened.”
“Yes.”
“And many years before that day, people had hurt my family.”
“Go on.”
“All of a sudden, my view of things changed. I was no longer fearful of unseen evil. Now I was angry and wanted to do something about it. For the first time in my life I felt I had the power over the bad stuff in the world instead of it having power over me. When I took things into my own hands, it felt good.”
“But then later you had some remorse and PTSD set in, correct?”
I shook my head. “I expected that to happen. Especially when I had the nightmares. But even though the nightmares were frightening, I always woke up with a sense of newfound power. I felt good. Even when the images came to me when I was awake, it was the same thing. I felt empowered.”
Dr. Nelson thought for a few seconds. He glanced again at his notes. “Then why did you come to see me complaining of symptoms of PTSD?”
“Good question. I guess it was because I was afraid my feelings weren’t normal. I thought maybe they were some form of PTSD. It didn’t seem right those violent images stimulated me. All of a sudden I had changed. I was a well-educated, liberal-leaning college professor who advocated peaceful solutions over violence or taking the law into one’s hand. Now, when I look in the mirror I see someone who says screw it, if somebody messes with me or someone I love, I’ll do whatever it takes to protect us. The transformation scared me. So, I came to see you.”
“I don’t know what to say.” He crossed his arms over his chest and sat back in his chair. “Are you still worried about this?”
“No. I know my outlook now implies a sort of moral high ground, that I’ve made myself judge, jury, and executioner. That’s something I would’ve condemned before. But those traumatic events gave me an epiphany. I won’t be victimized. My family and friends won’t be victimized. Not as long as I have a say in the matter.”
thirty
Rubia and I arrived at the same parking lot as the night before, again parking near the Sacramento State University Aquatics Center. It was before six in the evening, the sun already set, the lake smooth and tranquil in front of us.
“I’m tired of this place,” Rubia said.
“We’ve been here twice. Get over it.”
“Twice in two days is too much.”
“Here, this will make you feel better.” I reached into the back seat and grabbed a brown paper bag and handed it to her. I picked up a second bag for myself. “Oscar’s.”
She looked in the bag. “Where’s the rest of my food?”
“The rest of your food? There’s a breakfast burrito, a carnitas burrito, and a quesadilla. If that’s not enough to get you through the evening then we’ll order a pizza.”
“You know me and my metabolism,” she said, already two bites into the quesadilla.
“Yeah, I know. Like a hummingbird.”
“Um, hum,” she said, her mouth full. “What’d you get?”
“Three taquitos.”
“Well, isn’t that dainty of you.” She finished the quesadilla and unwrapped the breakfast burrito. “I don’t see the cops anywhere.”
“Not cops. FBI. I think the feds would be insulted if you called them cops. When we drove in, I saw two guys behind the equipment shed that could have been feds. I’m sure there’s more of them somewhere.” As I finished talking, I could see movement across the lake beyond the transmission tower near the spot Forrester and Seeger visited the night before.
“You call them anonymously again?”
“Yep.”
It was a bit early to expect the would-be bombers. If their dry-run was an indication, their operation would start at about eight, after it would have been pitch dark for a couple of hours. Then again, it could happen later. I checked my cell phone and confirmed Seth Seeger’s car was still parked at Granderson. Unlike the night before, no other cars were parked in the lot. I started in on my first taquito when a rapping on my side window startled me.
“Can I ask what you’re doing here, sir?” He wore a baseball cap and a windbreaker with FBI stenciled on the breast. He did not look happy.
“Just enjoying the lake and having dinner with my friend here.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave. This area’s closed tonight.”
I considered protesting but didn’t see the reason. I’d come to prevent Forrester from going through with his plot in case the FBI didn’t show up. Now with the FBI on the scene, I wasn’t going to do anything but get in the way. “Sure, officer.”
We left the lot, and I parked on the side of Hazel Avenue, about a quarter mile away. The spot offered a view of the downstream side the dam, meaning I wouldn’t be able to see a kayak approaching on the lake side, but I might be able to see the FBI move into action to make their arrest.
“That was wimpy of you,” Rubia said.
“What?”
“‘Sure, officer,’” she said in a baby voice.
“I didn’t hear you citing the Bill of Rights.”
“Well—”
“Hold on,” I said as I looked at my cell phone. “Looks like Seeger is leaving Granderson.” After his shift at Cache Creek had ended, Seeger had headed to campus about the same time I’d finished with Dr. Nelson. He was now leaving campus.
I set my cell phone in the console between us. Rubia and I watched for about forty minutes as Seth’s car headed east, using the same route I’d travelled two days before. The route to Riley Forrester’s home in Rescue.
“He must be meeting the professor at his place, then heading over here in one car like last night,” I said. “Unfortunately, we won’t be able to track them since Forrester found my GPS.”
Seeger arrived at Forrester’s house a few minutes later and spent more than an hour there. I wondered what they were doing for so long. A little after nine o’clock, Seeger’s car was on the move again. Either he was following Forrester, leaving on his own, or Forrester was riding with him. They wound down the country roads until they hit Highway 50 in the direction of Nimbus Dam.
“You think Forrester, Seeger, or both of them killed Chan?” Rubia asked.
“My money’s on the Golden Dragons. I think the kid got in over his head with a big loan and couldn’t pay them back. They cut off his fingers to show they weren’t messing around and then when he couldn’t pay the vig they killed him.”
“Doesn’t make sense. If they kill Chan then he can’t pay what he owes.”
“No, but Benzer can. I figured they killed Chan to put the fear of god into Benzer and motivate him to find the money any way he can.”
“If you think it’s the Dragons, then why we dealing with these clowns?” She pointed at my cell phone as I continued to track the car’s movement.
“For one thing, because I don’t want them to blow up a dam. But I also think it’s possible Forrester in particular could have done it. Not sure why he would. Maybe because of Chan’s business dealings. SCS warned him about that.”
“Or maybe it’s all about this Monarch shit. You know, like Chan and SCS both wanted to gank the thing.”
“Yeah. Makes my head hurt trying to sort it all out.”
<
br /> Seeger’s car approached the Hazel Avenue exit, a busy four-lane thoroughfare. From our position across the street, I doubted I could identify Seeger’s car, but I would be able to spot anyone turning onto Gold Country Boulevard towards the Aquatics Center. I took my eyes off the GPS and focused on the incoming traffic on Hazel. At least two dozen cars drove past the exit without turning onto Gold Country. I checked my phone again and was surprised to see the car had not exited at Hazel and was continuing on towards downtown.
“That’s weird,” I said. “They didn’t turn off.”
“Maybe they missed the exit.”
“Maybe.” When they continued past the Sunrise Boulevard exit three miles later, I was convinced they weren’t coming back to Nimbus Dam. “We should follow them.”
“What if it’s just the kid driving to see his girlfriend or something?”
That didn’t make sense to me. Seeger had driven all the way from Cache Creek east to Granderson, then even farther east to Forrester’s. Now he was driving west in the direction where he’d started from hours ago, in the general direction of Cache Creek Casino. I handed Rubia my phone and started the car. “Tell me where they’re going and I’ll follow.”
We blew through Sacramento about ten minutes behind Seth’s car. When they turned north on Highway 113 east of Davis, my GPS app froze.
“Freakin’ thing died, Ray.”
“Am I getting a cell signal?”
“Not much. One bar.”
“Maybe that’s the problem. I’ll keep going down 113 and see if the reception’s better. Try restarting the thing.” I didn’t want to give up because Seeger was now about two-thirds the way to Cache Creek, an unlikely round-trip. He was up to something. I just knew it.
Rubia turned off my phone and restarted it as I drove. When the screen came back to life, I’d gained one more bar of signal strength, but the GPS app was still worthless. I banged on the steering wheel with both palms, disappointed and frustrated. There was no sense driving aimlessly. I had to admit defeat. At least for tonight. I pulled off at Covell Boulevard to turn around. When we reached the freeway on the way back to Sacramento, the app kicked back in.
Courage Stolen Page 16
