The Homecoming

by Alan Russell

  In the morning he’d stake out a spot at the beach. While working on his tan, he’d take in the scenery. The kiddies loved going to the ocean. And he loved the kiddies.

  Wilkerson had first seen Stella Pierce at the beach. Right away he’d noticed her bright eyes. They’d drawn him in. He hadn’t been carrying his camera when she appeared in front of him, because a few days earlier he’d had a close call and was afraid the police might be on the lookout for a man with his description carrying a camera. But even without pictures, he remembered everything about her. When her mother had gathered her up, Wilkerson had followed the two of them home. The family lived a few streets over from Del Mar Heights. It had been easy to figure out which elementary school the girl went to, and then gradually he’d learned her name. Bit by bit, he had come to know everything about Stella. He was like a patient spider, most of the time just sitting there waiting in his web. He had done his spinning, confident his patience would ultimately be rewarded.

  And then someone had beaten Wilkerson to his prey. Someone else must have noticed how special she was. Someone else must have seen that glow in her eyes. When Stella turned up missing, Wilkerson had grieved. Then he was betrayed: the cops had made everything look worse than it was. They set things up to make it look like he was the one who had taken her.

  For all this time, Wilkerson had continued thinking about her. Soon they would meet again. Stella was older now, but that wouldn’t deter him. He wanted to see if she still had that special glow in her eyes. They would have their face-to-face soon. Wilkerson wasn’t sure what would happen then. But there were plenty of scenarios he could imagine.

  Tomorrow he’d buy a moped or electric bicycle. He could put either one on the Coaster commuter train or the bus, and take the twenty-mile ride from Oceanside to Del Mar. Or he could forgo the bus and drive himself.

  It was time to renew an old friendship.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Since Stella’s return, Cheever had expected to make more headway in determining where she had been. Her case had generated plenty of publicity, but few clues as to her whereabouts. Cheever had kept going back to the source, gently questioning Stella, but she had continued to cling to her story of the Travelers. Yesterday, though, Cheever had gotten a call from a man who claimed to know where Stella had lived during her lost years. What he’d related to Cheever sounded plausible. That was why Cheever had left his home at eight in the morning for an eleven o’clock meeting. The witness had agreed to meet him at a restaurant located on the Salton Sea.

  Most of San Diego County’s population lives along the coast. The farther east Cheever drove, the less traffic there was. He gave up on listening to the radio on the outskirts of San Diego County, when his selections were limited to Spanish-speaking stations playing romantic ballads. Hearing Spanish wasn’t surprising; the drive along Interstate 8 paralleled the border of Mexico, and from the freeway there was nothing to distinguish where one country ended and the other began.

  There was little traffic along the hundred-mile stretch between El Cajon and El Centro. Most of the people Cheever passed were “Zonies”—Arizonans who beat the heat by spending time in San Diego. He turned north on State Highway 111. Even though it was the main artery into the Coachella Valley, the route was mostly deserted save for the agricultural trucks coming from Mexicali and Calexico. The road took Cheever past small agricultural communities that had never known anything but hardscrabble existences. The area wasn’t a dust bowl, but did look more in keeping with Grapes of Wrath Oklahoma than modern-day California. Old date and citrus groves could be seen along the roadside. Some were being worked; some were abandoned and showed the skeletal remains of trees.

  It had been at least twenty years since Cheever had last visited the Salton Sea. There had been nothing compelling him to return until now. Everyone agreed the Salton Sea was dying, but no one knew how long its death throes would continue. The lake was now 50 percent saltier than the ocean. Some tilapia and desert pupfish continued to live in its waters, a testament to the miracle of survival.

  For more than half a century, there had been talk about how to save the Salton Sea. The latest incarnation of the lake was an accident; in 1905 massive flooding caused diversion canals along the Colorado River to overrun, and for eighteen months the river flowed into the spot with the lowest elevation in the desert, an area below sea level. That’s how the largest lake in California had been formed in the middle of the Sonoran Desert. For a time the Salton Sea had been a tourist spot known for its fishing and sailing. It drew such luminaries as Frank Sinatra, Jerry Lewis, and the Beach Boys. In the fifties and sixties, the roar of speedboats filled the air. There was building along its shores, and there were plans for future developments. But then the area began to dry up, both literally and metaphorically.

  As bad as the dying lake was, those in the know said the real concern would be its moldering corpse. Many decades of agricultural runoff had left behind arsenic, selenium, and DDT. For now this potential Love Canal was contained by the water, but lurking beneath was the waiting monster. When California let Owens Lake dry up, the state hadn’t realized it was creating the number one source of dust in the country. If the Salton Sea dried up, it might become an even worse environmental hazard, unleashing a torrent of toxic particulates in its desiccated wake.

  Cheever’s meeting was still an hour off; he’d purposely left time for detours. His first stop was Slab City. Residents of “the Slabs” liked to claim it was the last free place in America. The area got its name from the slabs of concrete left behind from an abandoned marine barracks. Every winter there is an influx of snowbirds into Slab City. Because there is no charge for parking, campers fill up the area. Of course there is a price for not paying a price. There is no electricity, running water, or sewers, nor is there trash pickup. Squatters live in the midst of what many view as a dump site. But in the middle of all the trash, Cheever could see some homesteads that displayed a semblance of habitability. There were no white-picket fences or welcome mats, but attempts had been made to clear away the trash and make the surrounding area appear livable. Some of the “choicest” spots in Slab City—campers ensconced by the slab bunkers—looked almost homey in a Mad Max kind of way.

  Cheever studied the Slabs like he would a crime scene. He categorized what was there and what wasn’t. This was the fringe of society, and its inhabitants had more than their share of personal demons. The few residents who could be seen didn’t make eye contact. It didn’t matter what their mental state was; they knew he was a cop, and that was enough for them to avoid engaging with him. Cheever’s work often brought him in contact with the mentally ill. He always felt sorriest for their children. When crazy was your normal, stability was a rare commodity. Had Stella spent time in the Slabs? If so, out of necessity had she imagined a place other than this world of garbage?

  Feral-looking cats roamed the grounds, while feral-looking people sat in front of their ramshackle campers in old, worn sofas and chairs. If this was the last free place in America, thought Cheever, then freedom was greatly overrated.

  There were two more stops he wanted to make before his meeting, so he put Slab City in his rearview mirror and continued along Beal Road until he reached the three-story structure known as Salvation Mountain. He’d read up on this unlikely roadside attraction. The colorful adobe, clay, and straw structure had been built by Leonard Knight, who had died a few years before. At the centerpiece of the mountain was the red-and-hot-pink message GOD IS LOVE. Biblical passages adorned the mountain. The thousands of gallons of paint that had gone into painting the surreal mountain had all been donated. After Knight’s death, volunteer artists had continued working to keep his mountain standing and his legacy alive.

  What was it about deserts, Cheever wondered, that brought out fanatics as well as the true believers? Jesus and John the Baptist came to the desert; so did the devil and Charlie Manson. Saints and sinners claimed to have visions among the dunes. In such a locale, Ch
eever almost expected to see penitents wearing camel-hair garments and leather loincloths.

  In the unforgiving desert, Knight had painted a tree springing from his mountain. Upon its branches were written such virtues as goodness, faith, joy, peace, and gentleness. Next to the tree was the reminder of John 3:16 For God so loved the world that he gave his only son. All the vivid colors of Salvation Mountain made it stand out in the drab monochrome of the desert. Knight’s imagination had taken him to heaven. Had visions like his inspired a girl to travel the universe?

  Cheever drove to his last stop, the art collective known as East Jesus. Despite its name, East Jesus wasn’t a religious refuge; the name referred to its being out in the middle of nowhere, about a mile from Salvation Mountain. As remote as the area was, East Jesus still had Wi-Fi, through which the art community managed to maintain a website. Cheever had perused that website the day before. Seeing pictures of its artwork had convinced him he should see the site firsthand.

  He parked on the outskirts of the complex. Visitors seemed to be neither encouraged nor discouraged, but judging from the signage, the cacti in the area weren’t the only thorny inhabitants. There were people living and working in this colorful Petri dish, and the handiwork of various artists could be seen in walls of old bottles, sculpture gardens, and the reuse of trash.

  Cheever began his tour. Op art seemed to be making a comeback among the repurposed junkyard art. Housing ranged from campers, to tents, to a dome. Abandoned vehicles had been turned into art, as well as living spaces.

  “What’s up, Dick Tracy?”

  Cheever turned. Standing at the doorway of a vintage Winnebago was a petite thirtyish woman with mostly green hair. Her dye job matched her green Girl Scout outfit. She was also wearing a black sash with what appeared to be merit badges. Her bare arms showed lots of ink, and she had a nose ring.

  “Selling cookies?” Cheever asked.

  “Not me,” she said. “Haven’t you heard sugar’s a gateway drug?”

  “If that’s the case, I better warn my doughnut-eating colleagues,” he said.

  “I thought when you got a badge, there was a law that you had to lose your sense of humor.”

  “I must have missed that memo, Scout.”

  “Gaea,” she said, correcting him.

  “Mother Earth,” said Cheever. “And if I remember my mythology, Gaea was also the daughter of Chaos.”

  Gaea did a double take. “You remember right, Dick Tracy.”

  “I’m Detective Cheever, Gaea,” he said, “and what I’m attempting to do is make sense out of chaos. Do you mind my looking around here?”

  “That depends. What are you looking for?”

  “I’m trying to find out if a formerly missing girl spent time in these parts.”

  Cheever reached inside his pocket, pulled out his phone, then showed Gaea a picture of Stella.

  “You said she was formerly missing?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But she’s not missing now?”

  Cheever nodded. “The girl went missing for a number of years. I’m trying to figure out where she was during that time.”

  “Where does she say she was?” asked Gaea.

  “She claims she was traveling through space with extraterrestrials.”

  Gaea didn’t even appear surprised. “Was she astral projecting, or was she in an actual spacecraft?”

  “She said she was in the company of others, so I assume it was a kind of spacecraft.”

  Gaea nodded. “I’ve always wanted to go on a cosmic journey myself,” she said, “but without the anal probes. What is it with aliens and anal probes?”

  “I couldn’t tell you.”

  She extended her hand for Cheever’s phone and took a close look at Stella’s picture before shaking her head. “I’ve never seen her.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Almost nine months,” said Gaea. “How old is the kid?”

  “She’s fourteen now, but she was seven when she went missing.”

  “We discourage kids from hanging around here,” she said. “When it gets hot, most of us aren’t much for clothes. We’re also not into censorship of any kind, so this place is meant for mature audiences only. But that doesn’t mean kids don’t troop through here. On occasion they do.”

  Gaea was close enough to Cheever that he could better see her merit badges. Apparently they had been earned through sex, drugs, and rock and roll. The badges depicted empty liquor bottles, a cannabis leaf, a Les Paul electric guitar, and a tribute to “Sweet, Sweet Connie.” There was also a depiction of a woman baring her breasts, along with another badge showing an extended middle finger.

  Noticing Cheever’s scrutiny, she said, “I call them demerit badges.”

  “I assume you earned them.”

  “Every one,” she said, “and a lot more besides that aren’t on my sash. I didn’t want the sash to look like the bragging rights you see on those five-star generals with all their hardware.”

  “Seeing as you can’t earn a demerit badge by helping me cross the street,” said Cheever, “what do you say you earn one by giving me a tour of this place?”

  “Any chance you’re going to tip your tour guide?” she asked. “We’re trying to earn enough money to buy this place before some developer does. That’s why East Jesus is now officially a nonprofit, tax-exempt charity.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Cheever.

  “Follow me,” she said.

  The two toured the compound. Gaea took her guide duties seriously, offering up a history of the place. She also supplied the names and the stories behind the sculptural art currently on exhibit. There were television sets with messages (among them “Blah,” “Blah,” and “Blah”), and a lizard monster. Of the burned-out remains of a car, Gaea said, “That was our Car-B-Cue.” There was a rusted-out swing set, and windmills. Cheever paused longest at the art she identified as Terminator, the Time Travel Machine, and the Tower of Barbarella.

  “Are you looking for anything in particular?” asked Gaea.

  “I’m looking for a passport to the universe,” he said.

  “Art takes you on a journey,” she said. “Your spaceship might or might not be here, because this is an ever-changing exhibit. It’s Dada that way. Here today, gone tomorrow.”

  Cheever nodded. “Thanks for the tour,” he said, and reached for his wallet, fishing out a twenty-dollar bill. “Do I get a receipt for my taxes?”

  “You do,” she said, taking the twenty. “We’re registered as a 501(c)(3) tax-exempt charity duly noted by the state of California.”

  She reached under her sash and revealed a hidden sheath. From it she pulled out a small knife that still managed to look exceptionally deadly. The blade appeared to have been honed to razor sharpness.

  “Official Girl Scout accessory?” asked Cheever.

  “Be prepared,” she said.

  With the pointed tip of her knife, she sliced free one of her badges. Then she produced a small red Sharpie, and on the back of the badge she wrote, $20 donated.

  “There’s your receipt,” she said. “You can give that to the IRS.”

  The badge she’d selected and signed showed an extended middle finger.

  “You must want me to get audited,” said Cheever.

  Cheever drove back in the direction he’d come from. From what he’d been told, the Ski Inn was the only restaurant and bar in a twenty-mile radius. Despite his stops, he was still a few minutes early.

  Rather than wait inside, he decided to take another walk. He was at the Salton Sea, so he might as well see it up close. From a distance the body of water beguiled, but the mirage vanished as he drew closer. The lake was bubbling in spots, producing a rotten-egg smell. There was also the stench that came from the skeletal remains of piscine corpses and decomposing algae.

  Still, Cheever wasn’t deterred, continuing his walk toward the shoreline. The ground beneath his feet was crusty, and it cracked under h
is footfalls to reveal a lurking sludge. Birds hadn’t yet gotten the memo on the sorry state of the lake. A variety of species were floating on the water and walking the shoreline. Environmentalists stressed the importance of the lake, saying it was an important stop for many species that migrated along the Pacific Flyway, but birds didn’t vote, and that made it easy for politicians to ignore their plight.

  Even in the lake’s failing state, though, Cheever could see why it was such a popular spot for photographers. Everywhere he turned there were otherworldly vistas. Just as ghost towns were popular motifs for shutterbugs, this was a ghost lake, with the same kinds of attractions. Crumbling edifices spoke to better days. If you had to pick a spot for the zombie apocalypse to start, it would be hard to do better.

  Cheever cupped his hand over his eyes and looked into the distance. Most of the lake was devoid of human presence or activity. What might a little girl with an active imagination think of this alien landscape? For a minute he stood on the shore of the dying lake, considering that.

  Then Cheever sensed something. He turned toward the direction from where he had come. His reptilian brain always seemed to be on the job; the eye in the back of his head was always alert to being observed. Staring at him was a middle-aged Hispanic man wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses. He raised a hand to acknowledge Cheever, who lifted his hand in turn and then began walking back to the Ski Inn.

  As Cheever drew close, he asked, “Mr. Diaz?”

  “Call me Beto,” said the man.

  Beto was a common nickname for Latino men whose first names ended in “-berto.”

  “I’m Cheever.”

  The two men shook hands. Cheever wasn’t surprised to see the fading prison ink on the man’s hands. He had already made Beto for someone who had spent time in the stir.

  “So you’re the Good Samaritan?” asked Cheever.

  Beto shrugged. “That girl’s turning up seems to be big news, and when I saw her face on the news, the first thing I thought was, ‘I know that kid.’ Either that or she’s a dead ringer for Elle.”