Stepping through the fence, Adam started to get a little spooked. These woods are what the Hallowing Hallows level should have looked like, he thought. It was picturesque in a Tim Burton sort of way, with tendrils of thick mist weaving loosely around the tree trunks. Tentatively Adam continued down the path, scanning in all directions. He was just wondering if this had been a mistake when he heard something. Or, rather, he felt it.
A low rumble. What the hell was that? Adam took a few more cautious steps forward. There was another rumble, this time louder. Definitely time to go. But just as he was about to turn around, he heard a voice faintly calling out, “Stop. Please, stop!”
Adam whirled back. Was that Beatrice? Is she in trouble? He took a few more steps, broke into a jog, and then began to run. At first he didn’t see it, but luckily Adam was able to stop himself in time, as the trees, ferns, and the path itself abruptly disappeared.
A sinkhole the size of a small ice-skating rink.
Adam cautiously approached the edge and looked over. About 60 feet down, through a loose mist, he saw the bottom—sand.
Another rumble, this time much nearer, and then a loud whoosh! Ocean water poured into the sinkhole from a large side tunnel. With it came the woman, sloshing through the ankle-deep water. “No, no, no!” She threw her shovel down in defeat. Whatever she had been trying to do apparently had been thwarted by the tide.
Seemingly unaware of Adam, the woman trudged up to the far end of the sinkhole, where the waves didn’t reach. Here her backpack, shoes, socks, and parka—which, in the daylight, Adam now saw was dark green—were arranged on top of a massive piece of driftwood. The woman reached into the backpack, pulled out a cigarette, and sat down. Up above, Adam was busy working out the best way to casually announce his presence without startling her. But before he could come up with the right plan, he saw that she had stood up. Then without warning, she started to strip off her clothes.
Adam quickly slipped behind a tree. You’ve got to be kidding me. What the hell am I supposed to do now? While working on a new plan, he did his best to show restraint and not look down into the sinkhole, but eventually he found himself stealing a peek. The woman had stripped down to her bra and underpants. Even from high up, it was more than clear that she had an achingly gorgeous figure. Who’d have thought that hidden inside that shapeless mound of parka was this Greek goddess, all soft curves and milky-white skin?
Beatrice, or whoever she was, impatiently tossed her mane of red hair out of her face and took another drag off her cigarette. Something about the way she did it reminded Adam of a European film star from the 1960s. Monica Vitti or Anita Ekberg, beautiful in that natural, unselfconscious way. From her backpack she removed some dry clothing. But then she stopped and suddenly looked up, directly toward Adam.
Adam pulled back behind the tree and held his breath. Shit! Did she see me? What the hell am I doing? He waited nervously, his heart pounding in his throat. When he didn’t hear anything, he peeked back down and saw that the woman, still in her underwear, was slowly walking in the opposite direction, toward the mouth of the tunnel, where the ocean waves were rushing in. Adam’s relief quickly turned to confusion. What the hell is she doing now? Going for a swim? The water must be freezing.
She stopped right where the surf reached her toes. What in God’s name is she doing? Adam waited. But she did nothing. She just stood there like a statue as each new wave rumbled through the tunnel and into the sinkhole with a gust of wind that gently blew back her hair. Despite feeling like a voyeur, Adam couldn’t pull himself away. It was such a strange and beautiful sight, this half-naked woman standing, as if in a trance, with the ocean breathing on her.
A few moments later, she turned and ran back to the driftwood log. As she started pulling on the dry clothes she had taken from her knapsack, Adam looked around to see how she had managed to get down there. He finally spotted one end of the rope she had brought tied to a tree only a few feet from where he was hiding. Not wanting her to climb up and find him there like a Peeping Tom, Adam turned and quietly crept back toward the cemetery.
The redheaded woman emerged from the woods and passed through the small opening in the cemetery’s back fence. When she saw that she was not alone, she stopped. Adam was standing solemnly at a gravestone, doing a rather poor job of pretending to pay his respects. As he looked up, he could tell by her smile that she recognized him.
“Hello,” Adam said cordially. Then, doing his best to feign surprise, he added, “Oh, hey . . . last night . . . out on the cliffs.”
She nodded. “Mr. Reset Button.”
Adam smiled. “Right. Right.”
She looked at Adam, and the stillness and intensity of her gaze almost forced him to divert his eyes. Still he did his best to act casual. Pointing to the shovel in her hand, he asked, “Digging graves?”
“Why, do you need one?” She gave Adam a smile and small laugh. “No, I was just looking for something I left back there . . . a long time ago. I wanted to see if I could still find it.”
“Oh, cool.” Adam looked toward the back fence, pretending to notice it for the first time. “So you used to live around here then?”
“You could say that,” she said flatly.
“Cool.” Adam cleared his throat. “Cause, you know, I grew up near here too. Kind of a coincidence, us both coming back at the same time.”
“In a way.” Her face turned serious. “Although I came back to find something, and you came back to put an end to something. Right?”
It took Adam a moment. “Oh, right. You mean me. Last night on the cliffs.” Adam forced a laugh. “Well, I wasn’t really going to—”
“You don’t have to lie about it.”
“No, seriously. I was just a little upset. I had no intention of—”
“Boy, you just can’t stop, can you, Pinocchio?”
“Seriously, I’m not lying. I wasn’t—”
“Whose grave is that?”
“Grave?”
“The one you’ve been pretending to visit?”
“It’s my . . . grandmother’s,” Adam said before he could stop himself.
She walked closer and looked down at the gravestone. “So your grandmother’s name is Cleveland Bertram Oppenlander? Born in 1798, died in 1857.” She turned back to Adam, whose face was now burning. “I’m not great at math, but I think that would mean you must be in your nineties.”
Adam looked down at the dirt, wishing that six feet of it might magically disappear.
“Lying is boring. Being honest, the way you were last night, is much more interesting.” Slinging her shovel over her shoulder, she walked past Adam, adding quietly, “Bye-bye, Mr. Reset Button.”
Adam stood helpless as she walked away. He tried to move, to speak, but felt paralyzed.
“Beatrice?” At first Adam wasn’t sure if he had said the name out loud.
The woman stopped. Slowly she turned back to Adam. “Why did you call me that?” Her voice was barely audible. “How do you know that name?”
Adam swallowed hard. “Look, my name is Adam Sheppard, and I think . . . I’m pretty sure we knew each other when we were kids. Am I right? Are you Beatrice?”
The woman dropped her shovel.
CHAPTER 14
ELEPHANT GARLIC, HUNGRY VAMPIRES
Art Stout once lived in a teepee. He had lived in a wide variety of places during his lifetime, but the teepee was by far his favorite. His childhood was spent in a historic farmhouse in Northern Connecticut, followed by a college dormitory, and then a bunk bed on an aircraft carrier during the Korean War. During the late ’60s, Art bought a used Airstream trailer, in which he traveled around the United States and Mexico. He tried living in a New York City apartment, which was really more of a broom closet. Then there was his apartment in Phoenix, which could have passed for an oven. Moving on to California, he purchased a small parcel of land just south of Mendocino County, where he set up his beloved teepee. He spent the next 10 years in it, by far
the happiest years of his life. As Art got older, though, teepee living had begun to take its toll. So these days he and his dog, Nellie, shared a simple one-bedroom house that he had built, which was working out fine for both of them.
Most midafternoons Art went for a stroll in the field behind his house to check on his elephant garlic. Next week was the big farmers’ market in Santa Rosa, and Art was looking forward to selling some garlic in the morning, having lunch at Gallina’s, that Italian restaurant he loved (fresh-baked focaccia and rosemary olive oil at every table), and then heading over to his appointment with the cardiologist at Santa Rosa Memorial Hospital. At 73 years old Art was pretty healthy, but after a scare with his blood pressure, he had agreed to checkups every three months.
Nellie was running ahead of Art, down the gentle slope, when a strange sound seemed to catch her attention. Nellie froze. There it was again. She barked loudly in its direction. Art, whose hearing was a bit challenged these days, hadn’t heard the sound, but Nellie had succeeded in bringing it to his attention. He followed his dog a little farther into the field, and this time Art did hear it.
Oooo-weeee-oooo. It sounded to Art like an alien spaceship from some 1950s B movie.
Nellie charged ahead and then stopped, barking eagerly for Art to join her at the base of the large oak that marked the far end of Art’s property. Beyond it a steep incline led up to Highway 128. A logging truck was passing by, but once it was gone, Art heard the eerie sound again.
Ooooo-weeee-ooooo.
It was coming from a shiny object lying on the ground.
Art reached down and picked up the iPhone lodged in the soft dirt at the base of the oak. When it made the alien sound again, Art instinctually touched the word Answer on the cracked screen, and then held it out in front of his mouth the way he’d seen done on Star Trek. “Hello?”
On the other end of the line, he heard muffled sounds before a woman’s voice came on. “Holy Mother of God! Hold, please! Please, hold!”
Blake’s secretary, Cory, put Art on hold and then pushed the intercom button. “Blake! He picked up! He picked up his phone!”
Blake flew out from his office. “Give it to me!”
Cory handed him the receiver.
“Dude! I’ve been worried sick! Where the hell are you?” Blake’s voice was equal parts anger, exasperation, and concern.
“I’m under an oak tree,” Art answered, a bit confused. When there was no immediate response, Art threw in, “Where the hell are you?”
Blake gave Cory a furious look, then barked into the phone, “Who is this?”
“No need to get stirred up,” came the calm voice on the line. “This is Art Stout. Is this your cellular device I found?”
“You found the phone?” Blake forced himself to sound calm. “Um, okay. Where? Where did you find the phone, sir?”
“I just told you, under an oak tree. Down at the bottom of my property.”
“Where is that property located, sir? What town, what city, what state?”
“Well, let’s see. I’m here in California, but the nearest town isn’t real close by.”
Blake flailed at Cory. She just stared back, uncomprehending.
Give me a fucking pen! Blake screamed soundlessly.
Art continued. “I’m here in Me__oci_o Cou__y.”
“Wait, what?” Blake panicked as the connection broke up. “What did you just say? What county?”
“And I guess the __osest town w__ld be . . .” Art continued on, unable to hear Blake.
“Art! What county? Art, can you hear me?”
“Take Hi__w_y 1__ till you reach Clo____ and turn _____ _____ ___ say, oh, eight or nine miles ___, right on___”
Then the phone cut out completely.
“Art? Art?” Blake yelled, then turned to Cory. “Get him back on the line!”
Cory stabbed the Redial button on the phone. Blake waited. It went straight to voice mail. Cory tried again. Again, straight to voice mail.
“What the fuck just happened?” Blake grabbed both sides of his head to keep it from exploding.
“Maybe his battery died?” Cory shrugged, refusing to join in her boss’s hysteria.
“And that’s my driveway,” Art continued, unaware that the phone battery was dead. “There’s no street sign, so just be on the lookout for that blackberry bush growing out of the old car frame I told you about. You see that, you know you’re on the right road.”
Art waited for a response. When none came he tucked the phone into his pocket and strolled back up the hill to tend to his elephant garlic.
Blake stormed into the Cave. Yesterday after screaming at Adam on the phone, he had assumed Adam’s guilt would motivate him to call right back. But when he didn’t, Blake started calling and texting Adam once every half-hour, and then every 15 minutes. He called while on the treadmill at the gym, while buying condoms at Walgreens, right before screwing his date, and then again after.
The next morning when Blake woke and looked at his phone, he knew he had a major problem. Testing was now a full day behind, and there was no fucking way he was going to push the Expansion release, especially after being crucified by fans last time around for postponing Lust 4 Flesh 2.
Blake had called in Pixilate’s top three programmers to try and assess the situation. All morning they had worked quietly in Adam’s cubical, but now, as Blake came back in to check on their progress, he found that Mitch Silpa was also there. Of all people, Blake thought. Why the fuck is Mitch here today? Mitch Silpa, a supervising manager Blake had brought in from Virtual Skies at Adiklein’s recommendation, was the last person Blake wanted to see in the Cave right now. Mitch was 10 years younger than Blake, good-looking, great at networking, dangerously ambitious, and considered by all to be one of Adiklein’s rising superstars. “Keep your enemies close,” was the moronic proverb Blake had followed by taking Mitch on. Not that he’d had a choice.
Blake pushed, not so gently, past Mitch to look over his programmers’ shoulders at the screens. “Tell me you figured out something for the Hollows patch.”
“Sorry, Blake.” The young hacker at the keyboard shrugged. “There’s nothing on here beyond build v41, which is what Testing already has.”
“Fine. But can’t you guys just rebuild the patch from there?”
“I know this isn’t what you want to hear,” the most senior programmer chimed in, “but Adam writes batshit-crazy code.” The other two nodded in agreement.
The third programmer, who was flipping through one of Adam’s Hardy Boys novels, added, “By the way, Blake, there’s nothing more on his system for that mobile app thing you were talking about. He must have done it at home or on his laptop.”
Mitch started to snort. “That was his too? Oh, I fucking love it, Blake!”
An uncomfortable silence followed, before the programmer at the keyboard broke in. “We did find those other project folders you were looking for. They were on his external drive.”
“Yeah?” Blake said with relief.
“It’s a huge frigging thing he named ‘Zombie.v12.’”
“Right. Good. Just disconnect the drive, and I’ll take it.”
“Sure thing.” The programmer complied. “But just so you know, it’s encrypted.”
“I’ve texted him five times, I sent an e-mail, I left three voice messages.” White earbud cords dangling from her ears, Jane walked through the house, looking for anything useful to help track down Adam. When Blake had called earlier that morning to explain what had happened, she was already in the parking lot of the Marriott where Day Two of Yoga Bliss International was about to begin. Annoyed, and of course concerned, Jane left the conference and returned home to help figure out where Adam might have gone.
“What about credit cards? And ATMs? Did you check with the bank?” Blake pressed.
“I already checked twice, Blake. He hasn’t used any credit cards since renting that car. And he hasn’t withdrawn any more cash. Why would he do this? I just don’t se
e—”
“And you’re sure he took his laptop with him?”
“Yes, Blake.” Jane was sick of Blake asking the same questions over and over. “He took his laptop, he took some clothing, he took some books, his medicine, and some protein shake mix, and that’s all—”
“Did you file the missing person’s report?” Blake cut in.
“No. I called Dr. M., who’s on his way over.”
“I told you to file a missing person’s report!”
“What I’m missing right now, Blake, is a once-in-a-lifetime hatha yoga intensive with Rick Statham!”
“File the goddamn report, Jane!”
Jane walked into the bedroom. “Can we please not overreact?” Jane sighed. “He’ll turn up. He always has before. Right?”
“Did you two have an argument? Is that what happened?”
“No, we did not have an argument.”
“Did you forget to give him his meds? Have you been feeding him?”
“I’m his wife, Blake, not a fucking zookeeper!” Jane exploded. Less than 24 hours ago, she had been chanting a sacred, heart-opening sutra in the Marriott ballroom, but the good vibes had definitely evaporated. Jane sat down on the bed and took a deep breath. “Look, you and I both know that I love Adam and I take very, very good care of him. But sometimes I need a little time for myself, okay? Being married to a man like Adam isn’t easy, and—”
“Oh, really, Jane? How bad is it? Tell me how rough it is!”
“Jesus, Blake, why am I even listening to you?” Jane pulled her earbuds out and dropped the phone onto the bed next to her.
“Because without me, Jane, you would be fucked right now!” the earbuds squealed. “You came to me when Jack left you, and you had nothing. Nothing! You would still be living in your car with two kids if I hadn’t introduced you to Adam . . .”
Jane rubbed her eyes. Then for the first time she noticed the note on the dresser. Jane picked up one of the earbuds and stuck it back in her ear. “He left a note.”
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