“You said you shot after him,” Curtis says. “This slug from your gun?”
“Yuh,” I say. “It’s a thirty-eight.”
“Backs up your story,” Curtis said.
“You believed me anyway,” I say.
He nods. “I did.”
“How did you even find it?” I ask the girl. The thing is miniscule: maybe the size of a peanut. The odds against seeing it would have been huge.
“I know, right? Got lucky. My light just hit it the right way.”
One of those things about chance and fate. And odds. I am encouraged. Maybe things are going our way.
We traipse on.
“So now what?” he says when we’re back at the vehicles.
I let the dog out of the Volvo and he races around us happily, clearly glad to have extra people around to pet him. Instinctively, he goes to the young woman who coos over him happily as he rolls onto his back, offering up his unprotected belly. It would be a charming scene if I weren’t focusing so sharply on what Curtis is saying.
“I have a feeling you’re not going to consent to an on-screen interview.”
“You’re one smart cookie,” I tell him, grinning. “But I have a story for you anyway. It’s only been a few hours. I have a feeling it will still be an exclusive.”
I tell him about Emma. The hospital.
“How will I say she came to be there?”
“If you could find it in yourself to say you don’t know, it would help me a lot.”
He nods to let me know he heard me and is considering.
“Yeah, so I’ll talk with the team, but I think we’ll do it. Thank you. But I’ve got something for you, too.” I regard him silently. Waiting. “I told you, we got a tip: we were heading to Morning Bay when we ran into you.” I still wait. “That’s it, really. Someone called our tip line: spotted him at a gas station on the way into town. We thought we’d deploy and just come check it out, see if we turned anything up, do some location spots while we were here.”
“And look what you turned up,” I say.
He laughs. “Yeah. So, anyway: Morning Bay. We’ll head down after we see what this Emma business is about. We can connect down there, if you like. Swap notes. Let me give you my number.”
He reaches for his card, but I wave him off. “I’ve got it,” I tell him. He shoots me a look, but I’m already calling out to the dog and heading for the car.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
MORNING BAY.
I’m working at remembering why the name resonates, and then I do: Atwater’s mom. Morning Bay was a name she had mentioned and I’m having a hard time recollecting why. Maybe he’d just liked it? So before I head to Morning Bay, I feel myself turn the car back towards San Pasado, thinking to try the mom one more time.
I dig the address out of my notes, then find it without much trouble: San Pasado’s wrong side of the tracks is mercifully small and uncomplicated.
The place looks just the same as it did on my first visit, even though it’s night. This time when I rap on the door, there is no feeling of being watched, and I realize, in the same breath, that the gray car is also nowhere to be seen. The scary-looking dog that had been chained up outside last time is gone, too. And the house is dark.
I knock harder. When no one answers, I try the door. It’s locked but I’m sure no one is inside. I creep around to the back of the house. I am prepared to take out the Bersa, use the butt of the gun to break a window, but there is no need. A low window is open at the back of the house, to let in air, I presume. I open it wider and hop right inside.
“Mrs. Atwater?” I call into the gloom.
It is so quiet; I feel I almost hear an echo.
Instinct leads me. Sometimes it is the only thing we’ve got.
When I reach out and snap on a light, I hardly even realize I’ve thrown stealth out the window until light floods the room, illuminating a squalor so complete, I want to step back. Everything is mean. Nothing here is fine. And there is a smell that I don’t recognize right away. It’s not bad, exactly, but for me it does not have a good association. I snuffle it a bit before I realize what it is: it smells like a low-rent thrift store. The kind of vast establishment that makes you regret your consumerism, because it is the kind of place plastic clothes go to die.
There aren’t a lot of clothes, though. A visit to the bedroom shows drawers open, their contents mostly gone. I’m beginning to get the feeling that Mrs. Atwater has cleared out.
It’s all catching up with me and I’m suddenly very sleepy. I find myself fighting off the urge to lie down on the unappealing bed, Goldilocks-style, and get some much-needed shut-eye. I don’t though. For one thing, it’s gross. For another, I just feel it would be a really, really bad idea.
I press on. There are other rooms. I come to a back bedroom even dingier than the ones I have passed through. I’m guessing it is or once was Atwater’s, though I have no way of knowing for sure. It’s a small room that houses a saggy bed, a chipped dresser, and a damaged bookcase. I run my eyes over the spines of the books there, stopping at A Catcher in the Rye, whose inclusion would amuse me if I were in a mood to be amused. I keep going, and pass over—and then come back to—A History of California’s Central Coast. The book is old, and when I open it up, I see that it is “Property of San Pasado Junior High.” I figure he’s got a decade or so of late fees to cough up.
A page midway through the book has been folded sharply down. “The history of Morning Bay.” There is a photo of one of the founders of the region and he is standing on the porch of the house he built in 1929, when his original 1880s house had burned down. The cutline says the house is situated above the town, with a view out to sea at the end of San Miguelito Ranch Road.
A big house at the end of the road. I have the feeling it is abandoned.
All at once, I know where I’m going.
CHAPTER FORTY
AS I DRIVE, I think to call Curtis.
It is strange to me, that I should feel pulled to do so; I who have been operating alone so long. But I like the way the team has felt on this one. And somehow, I like Curtis, trust him. It feels good to have someone at my back.
The call goes straight to voicemail and I imagine that, even now, the team might still be at the hospital. Interviewing Emma. Interviewing her folks. Waiting for outcomes. Waiting.
I tell his voicemail what I’ve been up to. Let him know I’m heading to Morning Bay and that he should call me as soon as he’s free so I can tell him what I’ve discovered and we can swap notes. When I disconnect, I wonder at the easiness I feel in this bit of sharing. It’s because we both have an interest in the outcome, I tell myself. Our goals are not so very different, even if our methods are entirely.
As I drive, the dog’s head suddenly pops up from the back seat, looking for attention. I realize he is balancing his back feet on the seat, with his paws on the console that divides the front buckets. He couldn’t have managed this stunt even a week before. He is growing. Less of a baby already. More like a young dog. But maybe it’s just because of all he’s seen.
When I get to the Morning Bay turnoff, I have to stop at a gas station and ask for directions: Google Maps doesn’t list any San Miguelito Ranch Road. But, as I’d hoped, the kid working in the store knows exactly where it is: a local secret, in a way, he tells me. The road is not official, and maybe it’s on county or private property: he is unsure. But he tells me how to get there. He tells me which way to go.
The track is deep and windy. A forest road that every so often turns in such a way that you get a glimpse of lights. I have the feeling that, if it were daylight, there would be beautiful vistas out to the sea. At night, though, there are just different intensities of darkness.
I press on.
I have a strong feeling that, when I get to the house, I will find Atwater there. With that in mind, I cut the lights and coast along in darkness for a bit. I go slow so I can make out the twin ruts in the road.
The trees
thin and I feel I am near my destination. I stuff the Bersa into my purse, tell the dog I’ll be back in a while, and head out on foot.
Walking, it is dark. So dark. Once my eyes adjust, I can see the old road I am following, but only just. I stumble along carefully, hoping I won’t be stumbling too far. It’s hard going.
After a while, I turn a corner and feel rather than see the trees thin out completely. And there is a house in front of me. None of the windows are illuminated, and I feel hope sink to my stomach. No one is here.
I find the entrance easily enough. It is large: twice the height of a normal door. I am certain it will be locked, but I try it anyway, surprised when it opens. Inside, I understand though. This isn’t someone’s home. It is a grand old house, maybe long abandoned. It smells that way, anyway. Something of damp. And dry rot, though I’m not fully sure what that smells like. Somehow my instincts know, anyway.
I don’t try the lights, but I suspect they won’t work. I risk my flashlight app, though, because I want to be able to explore in the dark. In the flashlight’s dim illumination, I can see that even though there are some furnishings, the place is not what anyone would call furnished. More like the party house you go to when you’re a teenager. Or the squat house that is closed for demolition. Whatever the case, as I ramble through room upon room in the old mansion, I feel absolutely alone.
And then I don’t.
I’m not sure what the shift is, but I feel it. I am alone … and then I am not. I strain into the darkness to try to isolate what I’ve felt. A motion, almost like a whisper of sound. It is the kind of place where one might expect ghosts, but I don’t believe in them.
I creep forward, pushing away the unease I feel. Telling myself I’m being foolish. Encouraging myself.
I suddenly have a clear image of the ludicrous thing I have done here. It is a moment of pure unreality. Like it isn’t happening at all. Like I’m sitting on a couch in some comfortable living room, watching TV. And I’m sitting on the edge of my seat, saying to the faceless partner next to me, “What is she doing? That foolish girl! Why did she go in there by herself ? Argh! I can’t look.”
And yet it’s me. I am the foolish girl. Moving slowly through the abandoned house. In the dark. Feeling the stirring of a creature. Yet, faced with it, I understand the foolish girl—all those foolish girls—better now. There are times in life where you simply have no choice.
And here I am.
As I move through the house, my eyes adjust to the full darkness and, with the help of my weak little flashlight app, I can make out edges of grandeur. This isn’t just a big house. This is the sort of high-rent pile where robber barons of a certain era parked their wives to keep them from finding out about their mistresses.
From the spacious foyer, there is a large living area to my left, a dining room to my right, and a spiral staircase that sweeps up. Having circumnavigated the entire foyer, I stand in the center of it, deciding. I hear no sounds and nothing to inform my decision, so I head up the staircase if for no other reason than I can’t think why I should not.
I creep up slowly, single step after step. I am being cautious in the dark. Watchful of my feet, but also listening for any type of noise. I don’t hear anything.
At the top of the stairs, a long hallway goes off in either direction. When I look to my left, I see a dim light at the end of the gallery. I taste blood and realize I’ve bitten down on my tongue. Hard.
I stand there, at the top of the steps, briefly motionless, feeling like a deer and the headlights are bearing down.
A part of me—the grown-up, sensible part—thinks I should turn around, go back down the stairs. Maybe even back to the safety of the car; the dog. But forward seems safer than back. There is a reason for the light. I don’t want it behind me and begin to inch in that direction. I am afraid, but I remind myself that’s why I’m here. On the one hand, I am afraid to find him. On the other, it’s the only thing I want. I draw the gun from my bag, prepare it for action, and start inching forward again.
It’s a long way from the top of the stairs to the room at the end of the hall. At least, it seems that way to me, every muscle coiled and ready to spring. It’s like some special kind of yoga, that’s what I tell myself. One that tests every part of my resolve and stealth. It tests everything that I have trained.
And I tell myself that this is it. This is the thing I have worked for all of this time. I coach myself to silence. I remind myself of every single thing I have learned. Finally. I have him almost in my sights. I won’t make the same mistake this time. I am shaking slightly, but I know it is with excitement as well as fear. William Atwater dies today. I make my heart into a stone.
When I finally reach the end of the hallway, I hold myself back from entering the room. I will myself to perfect stillness. Suspend, even, taking deep breaths. The ones I take are measured, practiced. It’s a kind of meditation, this waiting for the perfect moment. Kundalini yoga: take a deep breath and hold it. Hold it until you can’t. Then breathe deeper still.
In my breath-suspended state, I listen from the deep, shadowy darkness of the hallway; I listen for sounds of motion or activity. I don’t hear anything. And then I do. Breathing: rapid in, rapid out. And a skittering. Like claws on wood. I imagine a giant rat.
I know I can’t stay there, hidden in shadows, in the hallway, any longer. It comes to me suddenly that nothing moves forward until I do. And so I enter the room, gun held in front of me, two-handed and ready for anything. Or so I think. But I am not prepared for what I see.
The first thing I am aware of are the puppy’s golden eyes. They brighten when he sees me, and his tail wags hopefully, but that’s all that is in him: less than what is usual. He is afraid.
I have this moment of complete disorientation. I am certain I had left the dog safely in the car, as I always do. And yet here he is. I don’t understand it. Then I move more deeply into the room and I do.
William Atwater is there. Leg irons very much like what I used on him in the RV are around my dog’s neck. The puppy appears to be unharmed, but I can see that if Atwater falls, the leg irons will snap that sweet golden neck like soft butter. The pup looks so small to me right then. He is meant to grow to be a very large dog, and he has the big feet to prove it. But just now I can hold and carry his squirming self in my arms with only the smallest amount of difficulty. I long to reach for him and do that now, but I know that would seal both of our fates. I have to deal with the business at hand.
I refocus my attention on Atwater. His upper left arm is crudely bound. A dirty scrap of cloth partly dampened with dried blood.
“Yes. You did that,” he says. He’s followed my gaze. “It’s giving me hell, but I’ll be okay. I can’t die, you know?”
I look at him flatly. “No,” I say. “That is not something I know.”
“But surely you must. Otherwise, I’d be dead already, you see?”
“How do you explain that?”
“I don’t. I am one of the immortals.”
I level the gun at his head. “We’ll see.”
He opens his arms wide, exposing, I’m imagining, his heart. “Go ahead,” he says. And the dog wheezes at the motion when the irons tighten around his throat.
“Fuck,” I say, though I’m not even sure it’s out loud. “Fuck fuck.”
Atwater smiles then. And I want to kill him as badly as I’ve wanted anything.
“You can’t, can you?” And he seems satisfied. I’ve failed some kind of test. Or I’ve passed it. I’m not really sure. “You can’t risk the dog.”
“Let him go,” I say, though I have zero expectation of compliance when I say it.
“You know what you have to do.”
“Sacrifice myself for a dog? That’s what you think I’ll do?”
“No,” he says instantly. “That would be idiotic. You’re a hardened killer. You told me so yourself. There’s no way you’d do that.”
“What’s the deal?”
“Put your gun down and I let your dog go. Then things are even between us, you see? And we’ll see how it goes from there.”
I play this out in my mind. See the flaws. So flawed.
“I can’t do that, William. You know I can’t. If I put the gun down, there’s nothing to stop you from killing the dog anyway.”
“Mexican standoff.” He smirks.
“Something like that.”
“You’d kill me in a heartbeat,” he says with confidence. “Yet right now I sense you’d do almost anything to save that dog. Interesting.”
“Not that interesting,” I say. I’m thinking fast, but I don’t see an easy answer. “Anyway, I thought you couldn’t die.”
He shrugs.
I want Atwater dead. I will kill him—and I have no doubt he will die. But the dog. Somehow, I can’t make myself risk the dog, even though I know it’s the right answer. It should be an easy trade: the dog for a serial killer. There’s nothing difficult about that. And yet. I scramble, trying to think of a different way.
“Yes, I think so. You’ve been following me a long time. So long, I was certain you’d arrive. And yet, here you have every opportunity and you’re not taking it.”
He’s taunting me in a way that makes me wonder: does he want to die? Is that what this is about? His life or the dog’s.
I raise the gun higher, as though that will make a difference. Level the gun at his head. He squeezes the leg iron noose. The dog whimpers. Gags. I close my eyes and breathe. I just don’t know what to do.
I level the gun at the dog’s head. “I could take him out,” I say. “Put him out of his misery.”
“Well, that’s the gamble I took, isn’t it? That’s the gamble I’ve known all along.” And he sounds pleased about this, too. “You can kill him and me. Then you pass the test. Or you can just kill me and I’ll kill him on the way out. Or you can put the gun down and trust I’ll keep my word and not kill him. It’s just such a super interesting dilemma, all ’round.”
Endings Page 21
