Golden Gate

by James Ponti

  Monty was touched by the ranger’s sensitivity. She even felt guilty for putting her through the emotional toll of it. “Are there any specific details you remember about that day that I can pass along to my father?”

  “It was kind of drizzly, if I recall. Personally, I think that’s when the forest is its prettiest. I opened up the park that day, and I remember Mr. Rutledge was the first one in. For some reason that stuck out to me. I don’t think I said anything more than ‘Welcome to Muir Woods.’ But I do remember him being first.”

  “He was an avid bird-watcher,” prompted Monty. “Is there part of the forest that’s particularly good for doing that?”

  “Not really,” said Gilson. “There are spotted owls and pileated woodpeckers, but truthfully, redwood forests aren’t great for birding. There aren’t a lot of bugs, and birds go where the bugs are. I see a lot more birders when I’m working the Marin Headlands.”

  “You have another job?” said Monty.

  “Same job, different location,” said the ranger. “The park service manages more than twenty sites in the Golden Gate National Recreation Area. I rotate between three of them, although I’m primarily here at Muir Woods.”

  Monty paused as she led into a tender question. “Do you know who found him?”

  Gilson nodded solemnly. “I did. He was in the grove, near the FDR plaque. He wasn’t breathing, so I called for help on the radio and started performing CPR to resuscitate him. But it didn’t work. I’m sorry about that. It kind of haunts you. Someone dying right in front of you. I’ve wondered what might have happened if I’d found him just a few minutes earlier. I wonder if I would have been able to save him.”

  “You can’t think that way,” said Monty. “What you did was great. Heroic, even.”

  “Thank you. Is there anything else?”

  “One more thing. He usually carried a camera with him when he traveled. Do you remember if he had that?”

  The woman shook her head. “No, I don’t. But any personal property would’ve been loaded onto the ambulance with him. You’d have to check with the hospital about that.”

  “That’s what I figured,” said Monty. “Thank you so very much.”

  “Here,” the woman said, pulling a business card out of her breast pocket. “This has the number of the office here at Muir Woods. If your dad would like to ask me anything, I’m more than happy to discuss it with him.”

  “That’s very kind,” Monty said, taking the card. “I really appreciate you talking about this with me. And I really appreciate everything you did to try to help Parker. Have a nice day.”

  “You too.”

  Monty slipped the card into her pocket and walked over to the store where the girls were looking at T-shirts and various redwood-themed knickknacks.

  “Check this out,” Sydney said excitedly when she saw Monty.

  She led her past the souvenirs to a section for campers and hikers visiting the park. There were camping supplies, canned goods, hiking gear, and other everyday items you might need away from home.

  “Do you see it?” asked Sydney, gesturing toward a shelf.

  It took Monty a moment, but when she did, she smiled. “The envelope.”

  “That’s right,” said Sydney. “He bought it here.”

  On the shelf, next to pens and pads of paper, were envelopes identical to the distinctive padded one Parker used to mail his pocket calendar back to Oxford.

  “So he gets here, buys the envelope, and mails his calendar back home,” she said. “Why? He obviously didn’t plan to do that. What happened here?”

  “Something must’ve spooked him,” said Sydney. “Or someone.”

  Monty turned to a man working at the checkout counter. “Excuse me. If I wanted to mail a letter, could I do it from the park?”

  “Absolutely,” answered the man. “We sell stamps, and there’s a mailbox right in front of the trading company. A lot of people like to send their postcards from there. I think they expect it to have some sort of special postmark, but it doesn’t. Still, it’s convenient.”

  “Thank you,” said Monty.

  She tried to piece together what happened. She thought Sydney might be onto something. He got here and then he got spooked. By what?

  They started out the door, but had to wait for Brooklyn, who was buying something.

  “What are you getting?” asked Sydney.

  “A new addition to my collection,” Brooklyn answered, holding up a snow globe with a redwood scene inside it. “Only this one doesn’t make snow.”

  “A snow globe that doesn’t make snow?” said Sydney. “What does it make?”

  “Fog,” said Brooklyn. She gave it a vigorous shake and a mist filled the ball. “Isn’t it great?”

  “I love it,” said Monty.

  Monty always wanted the kids to enjoy the amazing places they went, even when they were on a mission. That’s why she didn’t rush as they walked the half mile from the trading company to the Cathedral Grove. She wanted them to soak up the natural beauty of the redwoods.

  “The colors are so vivid,” Brooklyn said. “Such deep greens and browns.”

  “I like the way the sunlight breaks through the trees every now and then,” said Sydney. “It looks like they’re almost glowing.”

  Kat sucked in a deep breath. “I like the smell. It reminds me of Nepal.”

  Monty took a picture of the three of them sitting on a small wooden bridge spanning a creek that ran through the park, and another of them next to a giant cross section of a fallen redwood that had lived for more than a thousand years. In the cross section they could see all the rings that marked each year of the tree’s life. Little arrows matched historic events to the ring from that year.

  “That is so cool,” Brooklyn said as she traced her finger along the rings. “This is what a thousand years looks like.”

  They reached the Cathedral Grove where a wooden sign read, ENTER QUIETLY.

  It was a place of reflection for park visitors, so Monty talked in hushed tones as she laid out the scene as described by the ranger.

  “His body was right here,” she whispered. “Next to this plaque.”

  Alongside the pathway, in the center of a grove, was a bronze plaque commemorating a gathering held in 1945. Delegates to the newly forming United Nations came for a memorial service honoring President Franklin Roosevelt, who’d died just a month earlier. The UN held its first meetings in San Francisco’s Grand Opera House, and it seemed fitting to honor the president who’d played such an important role in creating the organization.

  They looked around the grove for about ten minutes, taking pictures and searching for even the barest hint of what could be a clue. When they were done, they went back down the path and sat on a row of wooden benches. Here, away from the quiet of the grove, they could talk more openly.

  “What do we know?” said Brooklyn, asking the question that often started these types of conversations.

  “We know that Parker Rutledge was the first to enter the woods when it opened at eight o’clock and that according to her report, Ranger Gilson found his body at ten forty-seven,” said Monty.

  “So something happened during those three hours that led to him being murdered,” said Brooklyn.

  “We know that he got spooked,” said Sydney. “Or at least we think he did. Something happened that made him buy an envelope and send his datebook back to Oxford. Why would he do that?”

  “Because he wanted to make sure no one saw it?” said Brooklyn.

  “Or maybe to make sure someone specific didn’t see it,” said Sydney. “Maybe he saw someone here and was worried they’d get their hands on it.”

  “Who?” asked Brooklyn.

  Sydney said, “Check the ‘crime scene’ photos. Let’s look at the pictures he took to see if there’s any hint in those.”

  Kat had all the pictures loaded up on her phone and scanned through them. “He took eleven pictures that morning,” she said. “The first one is of the
sign. He’s got a bunch with this owl. There are a few just of the redwoods. And then there’s this.” She held it up for them to see.

  The photograph was shot from across the creek, looking back toward the trading company. In the picture, a park ranger was talking to three people whose backs were turned to the camera.

  “Is that ranger the same woman you just spoke to?” asked Kat.

  “I think so,” Monty answered as she used her fingers to zoom in on the image. “It would make sense. We know she was the ranger who opened the park that day.”

  “Then who is she talking to?” asked Kat. “He takes pictures of birds and signs. Sometimes trees. But never people. Who was so interesting that he decided to take this picture?”

  “You mean, who scared him enough that he decided to mail home his datebook?” asked Brooklyn.

  Something clicked for Sydney, and she grabbed the phone. “Let me see that,” she said excitedly.

  “What is it?” asked Brooklyn. “What do you see?”

  “Mo Salah! Mo Salah!”

  “Who’s Mo Salah?” asked Brooklyn.

  “He’s a footballer,” said Kat. “Even I know that and I don’t know anything about football.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Brooklyn.

  “Neither do I,” added Monty.

  “The boy in the picture is wearing a number eleven Mo Salah Liverpool jersey,” Sydney explained. “It’s Robert. And this girl is wearing the same shirt she did in the picture from in front of the fortune cookie bakery. It’s Robert and Annie.”

  Kat looked at the woman standing between them and said, “Which means that’s Clementine.”

  Sydney nodded. “So he saw Clementine and he panicked.”

  31. Rose Hill

  ANNIE

  ANNIE WAS SUCH A GOOD water polo player that her coach gave her a key to the aquatic center so she could do some extra training whenever she wanted. She liked the quiet of the pool at times like this when she had it all to herself. She walked to the edge of the water, tucked her hair into her swim cap, and dove in.

  It had been almost six years since she’d last seen her father. Six years, seven countries, nine schools, and ten different names. She’d changed identities so often that she’d become highly skilled at filling in the gaps of newly created biographies. She was likable and friendly, but she avoided making friends. Not real ones at least. She’d made that mistake before and regretted it when the abrupt but inevitable announcement came that they were moving yet again. Other than swimming, the only continuity in her life was her brother.

  They were close, and even though their mother told them not to, when they were alone they still called each other by their real names. It was their only true act of rebellion in what was an impossible situation. They didn’t know why their lives had turned upside down when they did. They knew their mother had worked for MI6 and that something had gone terribly wrong. They’d been told they were hiding from very bad people, which seemed the only logical explanation for their current lifestyle. They’d also been told their father had died, and while they both acted as if they believed this, they secretly prayed that it wasn’t true. They both dreamed that one day a door would open and he would walk back into their lives.

  MOTHER

  In the nearly six years since he’d last seen his children, Mother had searched for them tirelessly. He’d so often imagined what it would be like to reunite with them that he had several variations completely scripted out and memorized.

  There’d been a half dozen times when he’d thought he was close to finding them, but none had been as promising as this. Still, he tried to temper his expectations as he walked up to the main office of Rose Hill Academy. He’d been disappointed too often. He took a deep breath before he entered and reminded himself to look sharp and act happy—traits in keeping with the role he was playing. He was posing as the father of a prospective student and had arranged for a tour of the campus.

  ANNIE

  Despite her nomadic existence, Annie considered herself happy. Somehow, she’d managed to detach the oddness of her circumstance from the day-to-day existence of being a teenager. Besides, all the other kids at her prep school were away from their homes and parents too. And many of them had families they described as “freak shows.” She loved her mom and truly looked up to her. No matter what the real story was, something bad had happened and her mom had kept the family safe. And while Annie didn’t always believe her, she did always believe in her.

  MOTHER

  “It’s a gorgeous campus,” Mother said as the headmaster showed him around the school. “Do you have a strong sports program?”

  “It’s very vigorous,” he said. “Athletics aren’t compulsory, but virtually all of our students participate in a sport no matter their skill level. And our girls compete in the top division across the board in basketball, footy, netball, you name it.”

  “What about water polo?” asked Mother. “My daughter loves water polo and competes on a travel team.”

  “Then she’s in luck,” the headmaster said with a big grin. “Our water polo team is one of the best in New South Wales.”

  Mother smiled. “She’ll love hearing that. I don’t suppose I can get a few minutes with the coach.”

  “I don’t see why not. She should be in her office at the aquatic center.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Mother’s heart raced as they headed toward the pool. And while he was thrilled at the possibility of being reunited with his kids, he did have one nagging concern. What if they don’t recognize me? he thought. Not only had it been years since they’d seen him, but Mother had survived a terrible fire. In the reconstructive surgery afterward, MI6 had seen to it to change his appearance. This was to make sure no one in Umbra could recognize him. But what about his own family? Would they?

  ANNIE

  Annie’s muscles burned as she put in lap after lap in the water. It was the off-season, and she was working on increasing her endurance. When she touched the wall for the last lap, she reached up and rested her arms on the edge of the pool as she took deep, full breaths.

  That’s when the door opened. She looked up expecting to see her coach, but instead it was a family member. She smiled the instant she saw him.

  He looked both ways to make sure they were alone. “Hello, Annie.”

  “Hello, Robert. What brings you to the pool?”

  “Looking for my favorite sister,” he answered. “If you’re almost done, we can eat some dinner while you try to explain my maths homework to me.”

  MOTHER

  Meanwhile, 4,859 miles away, Mother tried to mask his emotions as the Rose Hill water polo coach gave him the disappointing news.

  “Chloe was our star player,” she said, referring to Annie by the cover name that Clementine had selected for her. “It’s a shame she moved. You say your daughter played with her?”

  “They met at a summer camp,” he replied. “They’d kept in touch online. I hadn’t realized she’d moved.”

  “About two or three months ago,” said the coach.

  “Do you know where she went?” he asked.

  “Actually, no,” she answered. “It was kind of all of a sudden. But her leaving opens up a spot on the offense, so maybe your daughter will be the one to fill it.”

  Mother forced a smile. “That would be great.”

  ANNIE

  It had been three months since they’d suddenly left Rose Hill and Australia. It was a shame, because she’d really liked the school and loved being part of the water polo team. The team at her new school wasn’t nearly as good, but other than that she was adjusting well.

  New country. New school. New name. Same old routine.

  32. Fisherman’s Wharf

  THE TEAM PICKED UP DINNER at a seafood stand on Fisherman’s Wharf and ate it at the end of one of the nearby piers. With souvenir shops, sightseeing boats, and street performers, the wharf was definitely more for tourists than locals. But the clam chowder w
as delicious, and the sunset view was impossible to beat. They found a pair of benches away from everybody so they could talk about what they’d learned during the day.

  “So, Clementine was at Muir Woods when Parker Rutledge was killed?” Paris said, turning it over in his head. “What do you think that means?”

  “I think seeing her spooked him,” said Sydney. “First, he took her picture, and he never took photographs of people. Then he bought an envelope and used it to mail his datebook home. I think he was worried she might get her hands on it.”

  “And what?” asked Rio skeptically. “You think Clementine killed Rutledge?”

  “We don’t want to think she’d do that, but it’s definitely a possibility,” said Brooklyn.

  “Wow, a few months ago she saved your life, and now you think she’s a killer,” said Rio. “I don’t buy it. No way.”

  Sydney had just swallowed a bite of her crab sandwich and asked, “Why not?”

  “Two reasons,” said Rio. “First of all, we think Magpie killed Rutledge, right?”

  “Right,” said Sydney. “And Clementine could be Magpie.”

  “No she couldn’t,” said Rio. “Magpie’s a double agent stealing information from MI6 and giving it to Umbra. Clementine can’t do that because she left MI6 five years ago. It would have to be someone who can still easily come and go at Vauxhall Cross. If Clemmie showed up there, they’d have her cuffed before she made it to the metal detectors.”

  “But she still could’ve killed him,” said Brooklyn.

  “No she couldn’t have,” said Rio.

  “And you know this because?” asked Brooklyn.

  Rio gave her an incredulous look. “Because she’s the one who gave us the clue. If it weren’t for Clementine giving you the picture and putting the photo of the three ravens on Rutledge’s cloud account, no one would think he’d been murdered. She would’ve gotten away with it. So why would she have given us the clues to incriminate herself?”