You don’t need to be psychic to find Sara Jane Samaritano. She has an Instagram feed, a Twitter account, a Facebook page, and a website. On the web site there is a form: you fill it out, plug in your credit card info, then you pay fifty bucks for what she calls a “preliminary interview.” Once your card clears, it says, she’ll call you and get down to business.
I realize it isn’t even a long shot. It’s a crapshoot. A shot in the dark. A desperate attempt. But it’s fifty bucks and I don’t have any better ideas, so I pull out a credit card, make the payment, then wait for the call. Truly, what do I have to lose?
The callback comes more quickly than I would have expected.
“Just call me SJ,” she tells me when I greet her. “And tell me who you’re looking for.”
The voice on the other end of the phone is surprisingly youthful and energetic. Not what I’d anticipated. I’d expected a professional psychic to have a wizened face and craggy old hands. But this young woman sounds like she could be on a skateboard. She has the voice of a kid. At first contact, I’m already regretting spending the fifty bucks.
“I’m looking for William Atwater,” I say. “A reporter told me you contacted the police and they sent you packing.”
“That’s right.” She says it flatly. I feel relieved. I don’t know why. Atwater feels like a secret I’ve been carrying and here is someone to share it with.
“I’m trying to find him, too.”
“Why?” she asks.
“I am going to kill him.” There seems no reason to be coy with this anonymous voice on the phone. Sara Jane Samaritano. But, truly, she could be anyone.
“Oh,” she says. “Oh! You mean to do it, too. I can hear that even over the phone. My. My.” There is a wisdom in the voice, along with the youth. I don’t know how to explain it, but that is my impression.
“Will you tell me what you were going to tell them?” I say.
She hesitates, but not for long. “What I was going to tell them is no longer relevant. Time has passed. The thing that would have mattered doesn’t anymore.”
I feel my heart sink. “So you can’t help me?”
“I didn’t say that. Understand the nature of my art, please. It’s not conclusive. In some ways, I seldom get anything more than impressions. But they’re strong. And I feel certain I am right.”
Her voice tells me that she feels she is telling the truth or what she thinks of as the truth. In for a penny, in for a pound. Or, in this case, a psychic.
“Okay,” I say. And why the hell not? It’s not like I have any other big ideas. “Go ahead.”
“Well, first I will tell you, as I tell everyone, that my particular insight is somewhat imprecise. That is, I see certain visuals, have certain impressions, etcetera, and when all is working well, those visuals will have more meaning for you than they possibly can for me. Do you understand? I will rely on you to interpret what I see. Make sense?”
“I think so. Do you think you’ll see visuals in my case?”
“I already am,” she says. I can hear the smile in her voice. She sounds kind. I’m glad.
“Okay. Lay them on me.”
“All right. I’ll begin by saying these visuals mean even less to me than many of those I am given.”
“Ah,” I say, sensing the preamble of a faker.
“No, it’s not that,” she says, startling me. It is as though she has read my thoughts. I chide myself, but settle in to listen.
“It’s just that these visuals are … well, they’re remote. And imprecise. There are no markers for me. Nothing I recognize. I will describe them to you and hope you see the meaning.”
“All right,” I say, my expectations low.
“First, a gas station. And it’s dark. There will be a choice. You’ll fork to the left.”
“Fork to the left?” It may be imprecise, but it also seems quite detailed. Specific. I hadn’t expected that. I sit up a little straighter, paying close attention. I begin taking notes. This seems like something I might be able to use.
“Two roads. You understand? Go left.”
“All right.”
“Then much, much darkness. Of spirit, but also in the world.” Her voice sounds more distant. Dreamy. If she’s faking, she’s good. “It’s a country road. No streetlights. Nothing, really, to distinguish this place from any other.”
“That makes it difficult.”
“Yes. Sorry. I realize. I warned you.”
“Go on.”
“Right. Okay. So darkness. That seems to be key.” A hesitation. Then, “This is a bit of a jumble, but stay with me.”
“Yes.”
“I’m getting verde, which, of course, is Spanish for green, yet somehow I am certain we are not in Mexico. Or Spain, for that matter.”
“Okay.” Again, specificity. More notes.
“Maybe Camp Verde or Verde Road or something like that.”
“Finding something called verde in California. Well, that should be hard.”
“Right. Well, okay. Still. That’s what I’m getting. Then there is a long road, whether this is Verde anything or not is unclear. But it is not a highway. Like a back road? Unpaved. It ends at a white cliff.”
“I must be careful not to fall over it?” I feel as though I am humoring her now.
“No, no! The cliff is above you. Sorry. I shared that imperfectly.”
“Above me. All right. Got it. A cliff.”
“And I see three boulders blocking a path. I’m sorry. This seems especially meaningless to me, but it’s just the visual I’m getting. Just stay aware and alert for them.”
“Three boulders. Right.”
“Yeah. Big rocks. Blocking a path. It’s as though they have been intentionally used to stop cars, you understand what I’m getting at? Like not boulders that have fallen here by nature’s hand. They are large rocks. Intentionally placed. Across a path or narrow road.”
I take more notes. “Okay. Got it.”
“That is not the end of your quest, but I sense it is part of it. A distinct part. And then another. This feels like a whole different reading. I should charge you another fifty bucks.”
“Really?”
“No. Sorry. Weird psychic humor.”
“Don’t give up your day job,” I say dryly. We both laugh, though I think mine has a nervous sound.
“So the different reading part. The visual I am getting now is another location. Not near the first. And nothing to do with the boulders. I see an empty house on top of a mountain. The sea is nearby. And he is dead there.” I’m imagining Snow White, some wicked dwarves. I’m imagining a whole bunch of pictures that make no sense. “Or badly injured,” she continues. “Sorry. I can’t tell. But he is flat out.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. But it’s a male form.”
“He’s dead there now? Or whatever? At this abandoned house?”
“Empty,” she corrects. “I didn’t say abandoned. And no, I can’t see that. This is a future vision. I’m fairly certain. It hasn’t happened yet.”
“Fairly certain,” I repeat.
“Yes. That means that there’s no surety to any of it. Or even less surety. That’s because our actions in the present can impact whatever is coming towards us.”
I’ve seen enough sci-fi-type movies to know what she is talking about. Time-space continuum, that sort of thing. But I feel pretty skeptical. “Is that everything?”
“Yes, that’s all I’ve got.”
“Well… thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Her voice is warm. Almost effusive. “And good luck on your quest!”
“My quest?”
“Yes. William Atwater. I think you will be successful. Whatever that means for you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
AFTER THE CALL, I think about what I’ve learned. More to the point, I think about if I’ve learned anything at all. Verde something. A cliff above me. Three boulders. An empty, but not abandoned, house at the end of a roa
d. This does not seem a lot to go on, and I feel as though the fifty bucks might have better been spent on gas or hamburgers or maybe toys for the dog. But it’s all I’ve got, and the competent and friendly sound of her voice encourages me forward. It was more, in any case, than I’d gotten from the doctor.
And so, with my notebook and my laptop beside me, I order a cup of coffee and I begin.
The first thing I do is look for occurrences of the word Verde in San Pasado County. Like I figured, there are many: it’s an area that has a lot of green and aspirations to green. There is a subdivision called Verde Springs, but it is on the other side of the county. I discount it because that was never Atwater’s territory and I have no reason to think he would suddenly go so far afield. There are several roads called “Verde.” There is a Verde Court Motor Inn and a Verde Chili Restaurant and a couple of Verde Beaches: North and South. For a second, one of these last two seems like a possibility until I realize they are also far out of my pinned area.
Of the “Verdes” in the area I had mapped for him, I find three that seem like real possibilities. Verde Park is at the eastern edge of the mapped area. One of the Verde Roads occurs close to where the day care Ashley was taken from is located and where I had found Atwater the last time. There is also a Verde Field, a small military airbase that, when I Google, proves to have been closed for the last twenty years.
The old airbase seems a good bet. It would be the kind of place I would hole up in if it were me doing the hiding. That seems as good a reason to try it first as any. I pack up, go back to the car and the dog, and we set out.
The drive to Verde Field is pleasant. Picturesque. If I were not currently so concerned with finding my prey, it is a ride I would enjoy. Gnarled oaks line a lonely, crack-sided highway where white-faced cattle graze in fields that look as though nothing new has grown there for months. Years. I find myself feeling sorry for those cattle, shuffling hopelessly across arid fields. Do they carry the memory of springy green under their feet, I wonder? Or is today the only memory that matters, and no other reality came before?
After a while, I make a turn and the road becomes even more desolate. I drive on an old and unkempt highway for half an hour and don’t see another car. I remind myself that California has a population of around forty million souls. As I drive, I wonder idly where everyone has gone. Forty million take up a lot of room. But they’re not here.
Then, suddenly, the road ends, and I find myself startled. I had been expecting an old airfield, no one around. What I find is different. I see a chain-link fence seven or more feet high with three strands of barbed wire on top. A weathered sign at the gate announces that this is “Camp Verde.” Even though it is supposedly a decommissioned military base, the fence appears to be perfectly serviceable: there are no holes that I can see, though even without the sign, I would have had no trouble determining that I was in the right place. The old hangars and the airfields themselves are distinctive. Purpose built. And I see what I imagine would have been barracks as well as other buildings whose purposes I can’t discern from a distance.
I follow the fence as far as I can in the car. This turns out to be not terribly far. Much of Camp Verde is off the road. After I’ve driven as far as I can, I drive a little further and park at the nearest pullout.
The day isn’t hot, but I pull the car into shade. Though there appears to be no absolute need to do so, I put the dog on a leash and walk him for a bit. I don’t have a clear idea of how long I’ll be gone and I’d like him empty. More to the point, if there is anyone around, a lone woman walking a dog will invite little interest and it gives me a chance to look around unobserved, though on our brief walk we don’t see anyone at all. I hear the buzz of high-tension wires from somewhere nearby, though I don’t see them and the air is redolent with the scent of things growing and dying. Pleasant forest smells, nothing to cause concern. I stay alert for any change in the air anyway.
After our short walk, we return to the shady spot where I parked the car. When I open the door, the dog jumps onto the back seat happily enough. I crack the windows, lock the door, grab the Bersa from the trunk. I load the gun, then once again pop it into my purse, even while I think that, considering the way things have been going, I should maybe get a little backpack or something I could sling over my shoulder. It seems possible I will have to scramble or possibly even climb. Doing that with a designer handbag over one shoulder seems somehow wrong, and never mind impractical. A fashion crime that also doesn’t help move things forward.
Back at the fence, I begin a circumnavigation. I don’t bother keeping to cover because I haven’t seen anything that makes me think I need to be cautious. I see long gray runways. Cracked. Weeds poke through the concrete here and there: in the end, nature always wins. The whole scene is like a poster for a place that is asleep. And then a sign of life: I think I see a feral cat near one of the buildings, but when I look again, it has disappeared.
At the fence, I am able to see something I couldn’t from the road. Parked beyond one of the buildings, and I can only see a sliver of it, but there is no doubt: it is a white van. My heart lurches when I realize what it is and what it might mean.
At the sight of it, I fade back into the shadows. If it is him, I need the support of surprise on my side even though, at a glance, the situation is hopeless. The fence looms high above me, topped with razor wire even if it wasn’t impossibly tall. I can see no way in. But he is in there. And if he is there, I can get in there, too.
The gatehouse is boarded shut. It doesn’t look like anyone has used it in a really long time. There is graffiti etched on it in yellow paint. “Go hard or go home,” and other shouts of defiance, meaningless without context.
I follow the fence line for half an hour. The ground is uneven in places and the going is hard. I am thankful that the day is neither hot nor cold. Either of those would have made the exploration less pleasant. But it is a perfect Central Coast early afternoon, the weather so lovely you don’t notice it at all.
When I am as far from the road and the gatehouse as possible, I find a break in the fence. It is small. I have to get down low and wiggle through, pulling the Coach with its deadly load through behind me. At one point, I feel my shirt catch and tear. I don’t think the rip is very big, but it hasn’t done much for the health of my shirt.
Despite the drama and the dirt and the rip, after a while, I do get through. It’s taken a few minutes, but now I am standing on the business side of the fence, brushing dust and plant debris off me, ready to move forward.
Though I have that in mind, I am somewhat frightened of the moving. I hadn’t really thought I’d be able to find a way in. Now that I have, I’m not quite sure what to do with myself. Once again, I am asking: What do I hope to accomplish? Why am I here?—And it’s not a philosophical question.
I move forward anyway.
Up close, the buildings are as dried out and unused as they had appeared from the road. They are mostly boarded up, with broken windows and other signs of abandonment. I am quiet, and I keep to the shadows. Beyond the element of surprise, I don’t have much going for me. It would be good to understand the situation fully before I make any kind of move. But it’s a big place. I have to find him first. Atwater. And by now, I am certain he is here.
Still sticking to the shadows, I move towards the van. Moving as slowly as I am, it takes a while for me to cover ground. The base is big and the white van is not as close as I’d thought at first. Perspective is everything in life, that’s what I’ve learned.
Even while I move, I keep alert, listening for any motion or other sign of life. But there’s nothing. After a while, I feel myself begin to relax. The world is full of white vans. There seems only a very slim chance that this particular path will lead me to Atwater.
Just as I begin to breathe again, I hear a motor start. My heart starts up with it, accelerating so quickly, I fear it will flutter out of my chest. I’m still not certain it is Atwater, and now I might lose him
before I find out. I crouch low while I pull the Bersa from my bag, attaching the suppressor in a single, practiced motion, and when the van moves in my direction, I don’t waste time or energy on identifying the driver. Instead, I take careful aim and, as the moving vehicle picks up speed, I am pleased with my accuracy as I shoot out the front tire on the driver’s side.
The van is moving fast enough that it jolts to one side as the shot hits home. The van stops and the driver emerges, scratching his head at the unexpected blowout. At the sight of him, I feel a disappointment so sharp it feels unrelated to me: it is not William Atwater. Worse: the van I’ve immobilized belongs to the U.S. military. There are logos on the side and the man scratching his head at having a mysterious blowout is in uniform, though not fully. The pants and shoes look Army issued, but he’s wearing a bright green T-shirt and I can’t be certain at this distance, but I think I see something that looks like “Gabba Gabba Hey” printed on the front of the shirt. It makes me think of the Ramones for a second. How they are everywhere. Forever.
The man from the van appears to be alone here, and I wonder if he is some sort of forgotten security detail, left alone to mind the store. And I have damaged his vehicle.
“Shit,” I mutter, pulling more deeply into the shadows.
Now he is done examining his tire and he’s looking around for the cause. Just my luck: a military man. He will certainly know the difference between a common blowout and the damage caused by a bullet. He’s shielding his eyes from the sun and peering in my direction and I realize I am in luck: I am backlit by the late-day sun and it is shining in his eyes. More luck: he appears to be unarmed.
I stuff the Bersa into my bag and scurry back towards the hole in the fence, feeling like a fox going to ground. Once I get in motion, I don’t look back. I don’t know if he’s following me and I don’t want to know; I just want to get back to the car, the dog, the hunt.
I can see the gap where I got in and feel the beginning of relief flood my body along with adrenalin moving me forward at speed. I am preparing to duck in the direction of my escape when I feel the hand on my shoulder. He has caught me. He recovered quickly and was faster than he looked.
Endings Page 18
