by Paula McLain
I climb back into my Bronco feeling irritated, held in check. “Do you want to rest?” I ask the dog when her head pops up from the back seat.
She shifts her ears forward, widens her eyes, listening.
“Yeah, me neither.”
* * *
—
First we drive toward the patch of the coast road that abuts the Curtises’ property. Since my conversation with Emily, I haven’t let go of the theory that Cameron might have disabled the alarm and slipped out her window and through the woods to meet someone waiting there. Someone who’d promised something valuable to her—love, maybe, or freedom from the pressures and upheaval in her home. Someone she mistook for a life jacket when she felt she was drowning inside.
The stretch of road is far enough from town to be isolated, just past a large undeveloped meadow a few miles from Caspar, where only a handful of residents live. The houses I do see as I park along the verge are well concealed behind privacy fences. Even if Cameron’s abductor had idled here at the roadside, waiting for her to appear, it would have been late and dark, with little chance of anyone spotting him, let alone noting the make and model of his car.
I get out with the dog at my heels and look for signs anyway—trampling, oil stains, tire marks, footprints. We comb both sides of the road carefully, and then backtrack through the meadow and woods, scanning for anything off-key. He could have overpowered her immediately and dragged her somewhere nearby. He could have discarded her body in the ferns, or buried her in a shallow grave. The grim possibilities roll through me, because this is my job. I’m looking for a body, knowing we might never find one. And then there is the irrational part of me that can’t let go of the possibility that Cameron is still alive. The two sides of me are in constant battle. My mind believes she’s gone forever. My heart can’t accept that. Won’t.
It’s almost noon when I finally stop, my jeans damp at the cuff and my feet tired. I walk back to my car and just sit behind the wheel for a long time, wondering where to go next. And then it hits me, the psychic.
* * *
—
Tally Hollander isn’t hard to locate. I find her name in a phone book in town and then drive to the address in Comptche in less than twenty minutes, finding the driveway marked with a large painted sign that says ABUNDANCE FARM: ALPACA WOOL AND MILK SOLD HERE. Most of the psychics and mediums I’ve worked with over the years have been unassuming, even frumpy. But an alpaca farmer? Who knew you could milk one anyway?
Up the curving drive stands a modern farmhouse with a wide wraparound porch and sloping corrugated metal roof. To one side, a shiny Airstream trailer sits with a red-and-white awning stretched over the entrance. A chalkboard is propped there, spelling out the names of her animals and the prices of various items, milk and cheese and wool, honey and jam and fresh flowers. I’m beginning to think you couldn’t make up a woman like this except as a character in a movie.
I climb out of my Bronco and the dog follows, ignoring the animals like the trustworthy sidekick she obviously is. A woman walks out onto her front porch in a long linen dress with an apron over it, double tied at the waist, and gray felt clogs. Her hair is cut in an edgy crimson bob, with quirky asymmetrical bangs.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“I hope so. I’m Anna Hart, a detective working with the Mendocino sheriff’s department. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
“Of course.” She rests her hands on her hips in an open, sunny way. “And you brought a friend. Why don’t you both come on in?”
* * *
—
Tally’s kitchen is cluttered and cozily dim, an L shape that traces the line of the wraparound porch. Along her wooden countertop, jars full of herbs sit squeezed between a collection of books that don’t seem to belong to a single reader, let alone in a kitchen, a volume on climate change next to Agatha Christie next to the poems of Alexander Pushkin.
She lights the kettle and brings a ceramic bowl full of tangerines to her round kitchen table, where I sit, watching her putter, the dog at my feet. She’s fifty or a little older and pretty, with fine lines around her mouth and eyes that show me she’s spent time outdoors, in the sun. The way she’s dressed and carries herself seems much more typical of a painter than a psychic to me, but that’s probably Northern California. Everyone’s a painter here, or a potter, or a jewelry maker, or all three.
“I’m sure you know there are several missing girls in the area,” I say. “Your name came up recently in relation to Shannan Russo.”
“That’s right.” She sits across from me, resting her hands on the table, palms up. It’s an unusual gesture, but the main thing I notice is that she doesn’t seem nervous or put off by my being here. “I phoned her mother. I felt I had to.”
“Shannan’s been missing since June, Tally. Why call now?”
“I woke up with her name in my mind and the strong feeling that she’d been murdered.”
“Is this typical for you? This sort of vision?”
She blinks at me thoughtfully. “I’ve always had the gift if that’s what you mean. When I was younger, I didn’t understand the messages or what I was supposed to do about them. It’s not always clear how I can help, but lately, the feelings and images have been very strong. Not just about Shannan, either. I reached out to Sheriff Flood to try and talk to him about Cameron Curtis almost two weeks ago, but he didn’t want to hear what I had to share.”
I sit forward, remembering the conversation I’d overheard in the café my first day back, the two men arguing about this very thing, and whether or not Tally was a con artist. They must have heard the story from Will or someone in his office. If she is a con artist—and she might be—I can’t see her angle just yet.
“Do you think Cameron’s still alive, Tally?”
“I do, but she won’t stay that way if you don’t stop him.” She looks at me levelly. “There’s a lot of mystery in the universe. I don’t pretend to understand everything that comes through me, but I do my best not to be afraid of it, either.”
“What did Karen say when you called?”
“She cried. She feels it’s all her fault, that she pushed Shannan away.”
“Really? Will Flood got the impression Karen washed her hands of Shannan a long time ago.”
“Maybe that’s a defense mechanism for guilt. When Shannan was little, there were a lot of men around, a lot of instability. Violence. She has a good deal of regret.”
“Karen said this?”
“People tell me all kinds of things, Anna. They seem to need to. I think it helps them feel less burdened.”
“So she believed you?”
Tally’s eyes are clear as museum glass. She doesn’t blink or pause. “Yes. Maybe she’ll be able to grieve now, and find more peace. Everyone deserves that, wouldn’t you agree?”
Along the floor at my feet, the dog stirs. I inch my leg closer to her body, warm and solid, but still feel uneasy, as if Tally is talking about my life, not Karen’s. “Anything else from the dream?”
“Shannan was wearing a rabbit-fur jacket, short waisted with a zipper. Very soft, soft as anything.”
“Does the coat mean something? Was she wearing it when she died? Is there evidence in one of the pockets?”
“Possibly. I’m only a conduit, Anna. You’re the detective. If anyone can solve these mysteries, it’s you.” Her tone shifts, sharpens. “Do you believe in the other side? In life after death?”
A muscle between my shoulder blades tenses. Wherever she’s headed with this, I don’t want to go there. “What else do you have to tell me about Cameron Curtis?”
“I dreamed about her just after she went missing.” She doesn’t seem fazed that I’ve changed the subject midstream. “What’s that? Ten or twelve days ago now? She was alone and in some sort of tight small space. Badly hurt, too, but definit
ely alive.”
“Alive” is a powerful word, even when the source isn’t necessarily reliable. “Somewhere nearby? Did you recognize anything?”
“I don’t think so.” She studies her teacup, the moss-green ceramic curve of it between her fingers. Then she says, “You don’t trust me. That’s fine, except some part of you does, or wants to. In your heart you hope I can help you get to Cameron.”
Her sudden intimacy makes me uncomfortable. What could she possibly know about my heart? “Have you done this sort of thing professionally before? Worked with law enforcement?”
She nods. “When I lived up in Oregon, outside of Portland. I’ve only been here a little more than a year now. I forgot how small towns work sometimes, how nervous folks can be about things that aren’t exactly rational. But I believe any sort of insight comes with responsibility. I think I can help you find her, Anna.”
“Me? Why not go back to Will Flood? Maybe he’ll listen to you now.”
“You know he won’t.” She picks up her saucer and sets it down again. “We’re all just energy, you know, me, you, this table, this town. All moving at certain frequencies. When we pass from this life, our essence keeps going, keeps moving.”
The airiness of her vocabulary is irritating, or maybe it’s more than that. “What’s your point?”
She bats away my hostility without effort. “There are things that change us fundamentally on this side, too, like loss and trauma. Just think about it. We know trauma changes the brain. Why wouldn’t it affect our energy? Of course it would. It does. You’re the right person to help now, Anna.”
“What do you mean? Why?”
“This is your life’s work for a reason. The things you’ve lost have drawn you to help these children and young women. I think you know that already, but you can’t see what I can.”
My chest feels tight listening to her. I don’t want to know more, except I do. “What?”
“The ghosts of the kids you’ve helped, they hang on you like stars. They’re all around you, even now.”
Like stars? The image feels almost ludicrous. Spangled with loss. Despair. “What do you want from me?”
“You came to see me, if you remember.” She pauses, looking at her chapped pink hands. A workingwoman’s hands. “I’m just the messenger here, Anna. I don’t know who took Cameron, but I feel a lot of darkness and chaos coming from him. He doesn’t really want to kill her, but he doesn’t know if he can stop himself. He’s trying to fight his own demons, but they’re powerful. I don’t think Shannan was his first victim, Anna. And Cameron won’t be his last, either, if he’s not stopped.”
I hate everything she’s saying, even if I haven’t quite made up my mind about believing her. “Can we stop him?”
“I think so.”
Against my legs, the dog twitches, flexing in a dream of running or hunting. The warm side of her body rises and falls, with a small wheezing pause between the two.
Tally looks down at her, too, her expression softening. “She sounds like a cricket, doesn’t she?”
She does, I think, before refocusing. “We’re running out of time, Tally. With every day that passes, the odds grow slimmer that we’ll find Cameron alive.”
“Learning more about Shannan might bring you closer.”
“That’s what my gut tells me. We have aerial surveillance going, looking for her car. But we’re talking about a thousand square miles of wilderness. It’s like a needle in a haystack.”
“Some people find those needles, though, don’t they? I think it’s going to work out somehow. You were drawn here after all. The universe doesn’t do random.”
“Who are you?” I ask again, a faint roaring in my ears.
“I told you, I’m just the messenger.”
(thirty-six)
“What’s the story?” Will asks when we meet in front of Patterson’s later that day. He eyes Cricket. It wasn’t in English, as Clay had predicted, but with a little help from Tally, she’d managed to tell me her name.
“My new partner.”
That wins me a real smile if a small one. “You get some rest today?”
“A little,” I lie.
As it turns out, Wanda speaks dog and won’t hear of letting Cricket sit outside while we eat, even though the cook releases a string of epithets, shaking his fist. She waves him off and brings us the lunch special, fish sandwiches and coleslaw with a vinegar tang. Then Will fills me in on his morning with the Hagues.
“His polygraph didn’t turn up anything suspicious, and neither did Lydia’s. I had Leon do some more digging for us, too. He interviewed some of the staff at Provisions and a few of the neighbors as well. Apparently Drew’s alibi checks out for that night. He was working with his crew, lots of witnesses. Plus, it turns out the rape charge wasn’t black and white. The girl was seventeen, not sixteen, with a police record no less. A few months before, she solicited an undercover vice agent with an offer of a ‘date.’ After that, Drew seems to have cleaned his shit up. You saw. He’s the emperor of Napa Valley. A model citizen.”
“I saw.” I can’t keep the skepticism out of my voice. “But there was something else, too, when we met them yesterday. I don’t know. I just had a feeling he doesn’t like women. That he’s threatened by them.”
“Based on what?”
“Just a sense I got.”
He waits for me to say more, but I don’t have more. “Well, Troy seems to like women too much.”
“His assistant, you mean? The girlfriend?”
“Former assistant,” he clarifies. “Indiana Silverstein. She’s twenty-two and not talking. I got the details from another woman who used to be his office assistant at Paramount. She requested a transfer two years ago after just six months at Troy’s desk.”
“Let me guess. He made advances.”
“And big promises. As I understand it, most of the administrative team is made up of young hopefuls trying to be discovered.”
“What a pig. But at least this one didn’t give in to him. Did she have anything to say about her replacement?”
“Only that Indiana is keeping the baby.”
“Can we find out if he’s tried to pay her off?”
“Not without a warrant, and we have no reason to seek one. Not yet anyway. Maybe it’s not out of the question that he really has feelings?”
I push the coleslaw on my plate with the tip of my fork. “Oh, please. I don’t believe that for a second.”
“Maybe I don’t either,” Will says, “but so what? Does being an asshole philanderer mean he could have hurt Cameron?”
“It still could be Drew Hague, couldn’t it?” I race to fill in. “Just because he has an alibi for the twenty-first doesn’t mean he wasn’t the one to target her back then. Maybe you could bring him in again for questioning and widen the frame?”
“Okay.” Will twists the napkin in his hand as if it’s a tourniquet. “But even if Drew did abuse Cameron years ago, his alibi clears him on the night she disappeared. Which means it’s someone else entirely. Maybe a family friend, or a neighbor, or a teacher? In LA, maybe, before the family moved up here?”
“Maybe.” I feel an inward sputtering. We’re short on leads and even shorter on time. And I’ve been hoping to see my hunches line up. Now what? Now who? “I need to think.”
“Well, while you’re thinking, chew on this. At 3:02 p.m. yesterday, Marc Klaas’s phone rings in Sausalito at his place. He answers, and a little girl says, ‘Daddy, it’s me.’ ”
“What?”
“The call lasts less than a minute. She says she’s at a hotel but doesn’t know where. That a man took her, that she’s scared and hungry. Then click.”
“Klaas believes it was really Polly?”
“Says he’d swear by it, but here’s the thing. There was no trap trace on the line.”<
br />
“Holy shit,” I blurt. “How’d that happen?”
“The girl resides with her mother. The trap is there, on Eve Nichol’s line. Seems no one thought that far.”
“If it was Polly, why would she call Dad and not Mom?” I can’t help asking. “It’s Mom she lives with most of the time.”
Will shrugs. “Maybe the call had to be local? She’s in San Francisco? Anyway, we won’t know now. Not unless she calls back.”
My thoughts race to Rod Fraser. A mistake like this isn’t just fodder for the media, but potentially lethal for his career. And then there are the personal ramifications. The self-blame that will no doubt be louder and more punishing than anything anyone else could aim at him. “Poor Rod. Jesus.”
“I know. Can you imagine missing something this big? When the media catches wind, that town will lose their fucking minds. Maybe we’re glad we don’t have that kind of circus here after all.”
“It’s the risk you run when you play big.” Over the bar, the TV is tuned to a soccer game in Argentina, but a news banner scrolls beneath with the latest on Polly’s case. Her name and face are known all around the world, and yet aside from this missed call, no one has seen or heard from her in a week. It makes me feel more anxious than I’d like to admit about our own case. “Anything happening on the town meeting?”
“I reserved the community center for Saturday and have a request in for taking over the building full-time as a rescue center. The Mendocino Beacon has agreed to mass-produce Cameron’s missing poster for mailings.”
“Saturday’s good,” I agree. “We’ll get better attendance, maybe some tourists, too. That room should look full.” I scan the tables around us for confirmation. These are the very people we want on our side. “I’m going to talk to Gray right after this, and then Emily. We need to have pictures plastered everywhere for the cameras. Images move people. Seeing Cameron’s face at different ages will make her more real. Those missing posters might as well be invisible.”
“I get that,” Will says. “I wish we had stronger language before we run the new printing. Obviously we can’t say ‘Kidnapped’ without being misleading.”
