The Vanishing

by Bentley Little

  Everything went smoothly, and by eleven Brian was on his way to San Francisco, photographer in tow, feeling like the Hollywood conception of a reporter. Warren Beatty in The Parallax View. Robert Walden on Lou Grant. Hell, Michael Keaton in The Paper. It was a good feeling, a powerful feeling, and for a brief period of time it actually distracted him from the impossible immensity of his task.

  Carrie Daniels had agreed to meet him at a coffee-house downtown at one o’clock, and since he arrived over a half hour early and hadn’t eaten anything all morning save a small bag of peanuts on the plane, he decided to order lunch. Merritt, the photographer, was a good guy, laid-back, easy to hang with, and Brian charged his lunch to the account as well. Both of them sat outside in the brisk cool air, eating gourmet sandwiches, drinking lattes, laughing at the thought of their colleagues sitting in the windowless Times newsroom or scurrying around hot, smoggy Los Angeles in search of stories.

  ‘‘Thank you for picking me,’’ Merritt said. ‘‘I thought I’d be spending the day taking photos of angry commuters for an article on the bus strike.’’

  ‘‘I was supposed to be writing that bus strike article.’’ Brian grinned. ‘‘Instead, we both got a free trip to San Fran. There is a God.’’

  ‘‘Not only that. If I can get into Haskell’s farm or whatever it is and get some shots of those milking booths, that’s a career maker.’’

  Carrie arrived shortly after. She seemed nervous, and after introductions were made, Merritt excused himself and said he had some street shots to take. ‘‘Call me on my cell when you’re ready,’’ he told Brian. ‘‘I’ll be out and about, building up my portfolio.’’

  Brian nodded. Not only was Merritt a good photographer, but he knew how to read a situation. Indeed, after he’d gone, Carrie seemed to visibly relax.

  If, in the future, he had his choice of photographers, Brian decided, Merritt was going to be his go-to guy.

  She ordered an iced tea, and they started off with small talk. He broke the ice, casually discussing how lucky he was to have been chosen for this assignment, how coming to San Francisco made him feel like a school kid on a field trip. She talked a bit about her job, he described how he’d only recently been hired at the Times, and when he felt that the pump had been primed enough, he took out his notebook and turned on his tape recorder. ‘‘I guess we should get started,’’ he said.

  Carrie nodded. ‘‘All right.’’

  ‘‘So tell me what happened,’’ Brian began. ‘‘In your own words. Start with how you met Lew Haskell and how you came to be invited to his house.’’

  She’d probably told this story to the police ad nauseam, but that may have helped her hone her account, because the description she gave Brian was thorough, complete and left almost nothing out. On the phone, he had explained to her that he was doing a news article and possibly a feature story on Lew Haskell and would use her for background information. A lot of subjects got scared off when they found out they would be quoted publicly, which was why his initial approach had been so soft, but Carrie exhibited no such qualms, and when he broached the idea of using her as a primary source, since she was the one who had discovered what was going on at Haskell’s estate, she was fine with it.

  Indeed, her descriptions seemed almost too personal as she recounted her feelings and reactions while Haskell had led her on a tour of the property.

  It was a hard story to believe, but even if there hadn’t been so much supporting evidence, even if Carrie had been unable to prove that what she’d seen was real, Brian would have bought it. Too many other incidents had led him here. And Carrie was an extremely credible witness. He was deeply impressed by the way she not only observed everything around her as it occurred but remembered the tiniest details. ‘‘You would’ve made a great reporter,’’ he said.

  ‘‘If I had the ability to write.’’ She tried to smile but was obviously still thinking about the captive women she had found in the barn.

  ‘‘So what happened after the police came?’’ he asked gently.

  She shrugged. ‘‘I showed them the . . . pens. They took Lew into custody, then searched the rest of the property. That’s when they found his wife and son being held prisoner in the house. I didn’t see it at the time— I was interviewed and then taken home—but I saw the photos afterward.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘It was horrifying.’’

  ‘‘I can imagine.’’

  Carrie looked at him. ‘‘You said on the phone that you thought this was connected to those other millionaires who went crazy.’’

  ‘‘Well . . .’’ he hemmed.

  ‘‘I do, too. Can I talk to you off the record?’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’

  She looked at him skeptically.

  He turned off his tape recorder and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘‘I realize that you have no reason to believe me. You don’t know me from Adam, and I could be a complete slimeball who’s lying through his teeth.’’

  She laughed.

  ‘‘But I’m not. And I swear, if you tell me something off the record, it stays off the record.’’

  She looked into his eyes for a moment, as though to gauge his trustworthiness, then nodded. ‘‘This may be something you know about already. I have no idea. But I talked to an acquaintance of mine—a source, I guess you’d say—who’s a policeman, and he told me something that I haven’t seen in any of the papers, that they’re keeping quiet.’’ She paused.

  ‘‘What is it?’’

  ‘‘Off the record, right?’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’

  ‘‘Tom Lowry, Bill Devine, Stephen Stewart, Wesley Fields and even Lew are all . . . physically deformed.’’

  Excitement rose within him, the excitement of a reporter on the verge of cracking a story, and an ambitious part of him wished that he had not agreed to keep this off the record, although as soon as he thought of his father, that impulse fled instantly. ‘‘How?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘This is going to sound crazy, I know. But they all seem to have animal characteristics. Fur, horns, tails, snakeskin.’’

  ‘‘I saw Stephen Stewart,’’ Brian said. ‘‘I was the one who found him. He was naked at the time. And you’re right. He was like that. There was something wrong with him. But he didn’t remind me of an animal. It was more like . . .’’ If she could be honest, he could be honest. ‘‘A monster.’’

  ‘‘Lew’s son is even worse than he is. More . . . devolved, I guess. He has another son as well, an illegitimate one named Juan Olivera, one of my cases. Juan has the face of a llama. And I have reason to believe that Haskell has other illegitimate children here in the Bay Area who also have the faces of animals—or had. At least one of them’s dead.

  ‘‘Although,’’ she mused, ‘‘since they all have the faces of different animals, maybe Lew isn’t the father of all of them. Maybe there are other men like this living around here.’’

  ‘‘So it’s like whatever’s causing this problem intensifies with the children,’’ Brian said. ‘‘Or maybe it skips generations. Or it’s just the luck of the DNA draw.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’ Carrie leaned forward over the table. ‘‘But Social Services maintains records of children with birth defects. I think we can use that to track them down.’’

  ‘‘Them?’’ Brian said.

  ‘‘The fathers. Whoever—whatever—they may be.’’

  Whatever.

  It felt reassuring to hear that word. Validation of his own thoughts by someone with whom he had no connection lent a legitimacy to his half-baked ideas and theories and gave him more confidence that he was on the right track. Taking a deep breath, he told her everything, explaining about his dad’s decades-old disappearance and his mysterious letters written in the same language as the scrawled messages found at the murder sites; the killing of Reverend Charles; Bill Devine’s creepy voice mail message; the videotape and the resurrected bird; Wilson’s strange disappearance. Halfway t
hrough, Merritt called from down the street. He was getting restless and wanted to know how things were going, if he could come back.

  ‘‘Almost done,’’ Brian promised. ‘‘Give me another ten.’’

  Carrie was looking at him as he clicked off the cell phone.

  ‘‘What?’’ he asked. ‘‘What are you thinking?’’

  She shook her head, as though trying to clear it. ‘‘I never thought when I agreed to this interview that I’d be drawn into such a vast . . . conspiracy isn’t the right word, but you know what I mean. I didn’t think this was so big.’’

  ‘‘Do you now?’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’

  ‘‘Good.’’

  ‘‘So what do we do next?’’ she asked.

  Brian thought of what Wilson had said: Follow the money. If they could only keep tabs on all of the nation’s richest men, perhaps they could prevent further murders and atrocities from being committed. Although that still wouldn’t bring them any closer to understanding what these people were or why these things were happening.

  ‘‘Do you have to go back to work?’’ he asked.

  She smiled wryly. ‘‘It’s been suggested that I take some time off and relax after all I’ve been through.’’

  ‘‘Take the time off,’’ Brian said. ‘‘And help me.’’

  ‘‘Help you do what?’’

  ‘‘Find out what’s going on.’’

  ‘‘Where do we start?’’ she said.

  Carrie didn’t trust her car, so they took Brian’s rental and drove to Haskell’s compound in Marin. The place was spectacular, although the disconnect between the beauty of the location and the horror that had occurred there was profound.

  Merritt was not allowed past the gates with the three cameras strung around his neck, but a combination of fast talking, Brian’s press pass, and Carrie’s role in apprehending Haskell got the two of them on the grounds. ‘‘You can’t go in any of the buildings,’’ warned the officer guarding the gate. ‘‘I’m doing this as a favor, so you’d better follow the rules. We have men stationed at the house, the garage and all peripheral buildings. You won’t be able to get in. But I’ll give you a half hour on the property.’’

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ Carrie said.

  ‘‘Write a good story,’’ the officer told Brian. ‘‘We have more than enough to put this guy away, but some public outrage wouldn’t hurt.

  ‘‘You can go, too,’’ he said to Merritt. ‘‘But you’ll have to lose the cameras. Policy.’’

  ‘‘That’s okay,’’ the photographer said. ‘‘I’ll wait.’’

  Brian and Carrie walked up the drive, and she showed him where the limo had parked, then took him exactly where Haskell had taken her.

  He tried to keep the tone casual, though his questions were anything but. ‘‘Why do you think Haskell picked you? Or any of those other women? Rosita?’’

  ‘‘Rosalia.’’

  ‘‘Do you think he sensed something about you? Were you in the right place at the right time, or was there something specific that he was looking for and found in you?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ she admitted.

  Brian glanced around at the overgrown vegetation. ‘‘This always happens, too. It’s like a side effect. Wherever these guys live, it’s always a jungle. The plants go crazy around them. Even inside plants.’’ He took a deep breath. ‘‘Even my mom’s yard.’’

  Carrie had told him the story already, but it was different being here, actually seeing where everything was, the physical layout of the place, and she described again how she had first seen the barn from far away, then took him up the same path she had walked with Haskell.

  Despite what they’d been told, there was no guard in front of the barn—maybe he’d gone for a bathroom break—and they took advantage of the opportunity to duck under the yellow tape and walk through the open doors into the building. Carrie tensed up the second they passed through the threshold, and though it was empty, he too felt a sense of dread as they stood at the edge of the giant room, as he saw all of the small wooden pens and the huge central milking machine with its hoses hanging down like the tentacles of a dead octopus.

  He wished Merritt could have come in with them and taken photographs. This was one of those a-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words situations, and he knew that nothing he could write would have the impact of a good shot of those empty mazelike pens in this vast oversized room.

  There was a sudden noise behind them, and both Brian and Carrie whirled around, startled.

  ‘‘Hey,’’ Merritt said, grinning.

  Brian looked at him in astonishment. ‘‘How did you get in here?’’

  ‘‘It’s amazing what a lecture on first amendment rights and a ten-dollar bill will get you.’’

  ‘‘Ten dollars?’’ Carrie said.

  ‘‘I guess you should pay your cops better up here.’’

  She shook her head. ‘‘I don’t believe it.’’

  ‘‘You have good instincts.’’ Merritt grinned. ‘‘I followed the edge of the property and hopped a fence. The things we do for art.’’ He held one of the cameras to his eye and started focusing. ‘‘I’d better do this fast.’’ There was a series of quick-fire clicks and an accompanying whirring. ‘‘Wow,’’ he said. ‘‘This is hard to believe.’’

  ‘‘You should’ve seen it when the women were here.’’

  ‘‘How many altogether?’’

  ‘‘I think they counted fifty-two.’’

  ‘‘Jesus,’’ Merritt breathed.

  Brian’s cell phone rang, its jaunty little tune completely at odds with the grimness of the scene before them. He looked at the number.

  It was the paper.

  Jimmy.

  He was about to answer when a harsh authoritarian voice shouted, ‘‘Hey! What are you doing in there?’’

  All three of them turned to see a uniformed policeman striding through the doorway toward them.

  ‘‘You are not authorized to enter the structure!’’ the officer stated.

  ‘‘I’m out of here,’’ Merritt said. ‘‘Distract him. I have to protect the stash.’’ He patted his cameras.

  ‘‘Got it,’’ Brian told him. He started toward the cop, hands raised like a surrendering criminal. ‘‘Sorry, Officer!’’ he called. ‘‘My name’s Brian Howells. I’m from the Los Angeles Times. This is Carrie Daniels. She’s the one who made the 911 call.’’

  ‘‘I just wanted to show him what happened where,’’ Carrie said right next to him. ‘‘I didn’t know this area was restricted.’’

  ‘‘Don’t give me that. The structure’s cordoned off. You had to duck under the tape to get in.’’

  Merritt ducked under the tape and got out.

  ‘‘Hey! Where’s he going?’’

  The photographer was around the corner and gone.

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ Brian lied. ‘‘He’s not with us.’’

  The policeman grabbed his arm roughly. ‘‘You’re coming with me.’’

  ‘‘You sure you want to do this?’’ Brian said. ‘‘I have your department’s permission to be here, and I’m working on an article for the largest newspaper in the western half of the United States.’’ He squinted at the man’s badge. ‘‘Officer Neth.’’

  The cop let him go. ‘‘Okay. But you’re coming with me to the gate. We need to get this straightened out.’’

  After a discussion that turned into an argument, he and Carrie were kicked out. They picked up Merritt down the road apiece. He was walking away from Haskell’sestate, and he grinned when he saw them, sticking out a hitchhiking thumb.

  ‘‘Oh! I almost forgot,’’ Brian said. He pulled out his cell phone and accessed his voice mail while the photographer got into the car.

  Jimmy’s message was simple, direct and to the point.

  ‘‘Kirk Stewart came out of his coma. He’s talking.’’

  Twenty-two

  1849

  M
arshall hadn’t told Sutter about the ghost camp in the canyon. He hadn’t told anyone, though he still had night-mares about the dead woman and her monster baby. Doug Lilley had drifted away somewhere, no one seemed to know where, and that was probably for the best. With him around as a reminder, Marshall would have been constantly thinking about what he’d seen, would have quite likely gone back to the canyon and drunkenly spilled the beans to someone, causing a mini-rush. Whatever happened as a result of the cursed gold would be on his head.

  Cursed gold?

  Yes. That’s what he believed.

  Sutter was still making a living off the fort and everything that had stood him in good stead all these years, but it killed him that the parade of easy wealth was passing him by, that every Johnny-come-lately and his brother could dip a pan in the water and end up rich while he remained mired in boring traditional mercantilism. Marshall had been angry at that as well. He was the one who had discovered the damn gold! He was the one who’d known about it in advance! But now he was glad that he’d never struck it rich. There was a price to pay for that gold, and though such a thought might be mumbled about in a bar after many, many drinks or whispered late at night around a wilderness campfire, it was not something that was ever mentioned by sober, civilized people.

  The mill still wasn’t finished. Everyone wanted to work for himself in the gold fields rather than have a normal job, so it was hard to hire these days. Marshall doubted the project would ever be completed, though that was not an opinion he shared with Sutter.

  Right now, Sutter was trying to scout a spot for a new general store, and Marshall and a few old hands from the fort were coming along to give their opinions on how difficult it would be to actually construct the store as well as keep it stocked. It was Sutter’s contention that a wilderness store stocked with dried foodstuffs and mining supplies would make a fortune because the men would be willing to pay more if they didn’t have to go all the way to a town. It was a good idea, Marshall thought, and he hoped for his friend’s sake that the store was a success. The man deserved to have some good luck thrown his way. Hell, they all did.