A dozen kids perched on the wooden steps, a few sketching but most of them talking animatedly, a collage of dreadlocks, dirty faces and paint-spattered overalls. Gage parked the van in the dappled shade of a mossy live oak. Douglas firs crowded all around; steeped in their shadows, nestled into the forest, were dozens of cabins. Well-trodden trails lead from their doorsteps to the main building.
When he got out, the air was rich and full of life. The gravel drive was so deeply rutted, it was hard to find solid ground with his cane. Pine cones crunched under his boots. A guy and a girl at the top of the steps were smoking, and as he got closer, he smelled the pot. A spindly white guy with a big brown afro and wisp of a goatee was insisting that God was dead, just as Friedrich Nietzsche had said, and that religion was a mind-controlling device created by the rich and powerful to keep the poor oppressed. He ended most of his sentences with per se: "Well, it's not exactly a moral equivalency, per se." Gage waited until the guy finally took a breath before asking who was in charge.
"Hey, man," the spindly guy said, "I'm making a point here."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Gage said. "I thought you were done. Who runs this place?"
"Why you want to know?"
"I'm with the Friedrich Nietzsche Appreciation Society," Gage said, "and I'm selling tickets to our bake sale. You want one?"
Everybody but the spindly kid laughed. His eyes turned into petrified wood.
"Oh, ha ha, very funny," he said. "You're quite the riot. So, tell me, what do you think about Nietzsche? Was he right about religion or not?"
The kid smirked. Most of the others seemed embarrassed by his behavior, a few looking away or at their shoes.
"Well," Gage said, "the first thing is that Nietzsche didn't technically say 'God is dead.'"
The kid snorted. "I think—"
"A character in his book The Gay Science said it—a character who was, in fact, a madman. Most scholars believe he wasn't talking about God personified, but instead about the shared cultural belief in God, something that bound people together until the Enlightenment. He was mostly concerned that that shared belief helped create a moral foundation for mankind, and without it, something would have to take its place or man's worst nature would run rampant. He was never overly concerned about religion . . . per se."
The kid looked dumbstruck. The rest of them weren't much different, gaping at him the way Gage imagined a group of Elvis impersonators would gape if the real Elvis suddenly walked into the room.
"This way?" Gage said, pointing up the worn path.
They nodded. When he walked around the corner, he heard the spindly kid finally pipe up, "Well, that's one way of looking at it."
Ivy strangled most of the north half of the building. Moss-covered steps lead down to a red door, and next to the door was a sign that read, "N.A.C.—Director's Office." Gage knocked. Nobody answered, so he tried the door. Unlocked.
Inside was a fairly large room, cool and musty, original artwork on the walls. Nobody was there. The room was divided into two parts—the front area, with a number of mismatched couches and chairs on a beaded Native American rug, art books piled on the bamboo coffee table. The back corner had been turned into an office, cordoned with the type of dividers usually found in corporate cubicles; they would have looked more out of place except that they, too, were completely covered in artwork—everything from oil paintings to pencil sketches to photography. A short, wood-paneled hall led from the back around a corner.
"Hello?" Gage said.
Nobody answered. Gage noticed a large oak plaque, immediately to the right of the door. The top read, "The Northwest Artist Colony Kindly Thanks Our Sponsors," and beneath were dozens of gold-tinted plates engraved with names. There were three categories, with the top category, "Benefactor," having only four names—Martin Jaybee, Sapphire Holdings, John Blackstone, and Seacrest Hatchery. Martin Jaybee most likely owned the supermarket chain, Jaybee's, that ran up and down the coast, and the Sapphire Holdings obviously owned the Inn at Sapphire Head. The other two he didn't know.
"Can I help you?"
A grizzled, middle-aged man emerged from the hall. His amber-tinted glasses made his eyes look large, and his green Hawaiian shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing a carpet of gray hair. He was round without being fat, and his watery blue eyes twinkled as if he was about to burst into laughter. His gray-blond bangs were sweat-plastered against his forehead.
"How much money does someone have to donate to be a Benefactor?" Gage asked.
"Why, are you thinking of donating?"
"Maybe."
The man stepped next to Gage. He smelled like beef jerky. "A hundred thousand dollars."
Gage looked at the list again. "Wow. That must buy a lot of paintbrushes."
"But you only need to donate a thousand dollars to make the list as a contributor. Every little bit helps."
A redheaded girl emerged from the same hall, adjusting her bra beneath her one-piece tie-dye dress. Her mussed-up hair stood on end. She had her head down, and obviously hadn't expected Gage to be there, because when she looked up she reacted with a bit of a start. "Oh, hi," she said.
"Hi," Gage said.
"I'll talk to you later, Jill," the man said quickly.
She blushed and left without another word.
"She's—she's a good painter," the man explained. "Very talented."
"I imagine she benefits greatly from your one-on-one tutoring," Gage said.
The man looked at him, doubt blooming in his eyes. "Um, yeah. Now, about that donation, Mr. . . .?"
"Oh, I'm not here about a donation. I'm here about the girl who showed up dead on the beach a couple weeks back."
"Oh," the man said. He looked confused.
"Did you know her?"
"Know her? Why would I know her?"
"I don't know," Gage said. "I thought, you know, maybe you gave her one-on-one tutoring."
The man's already pink cheeks darkened considerably. "What are you saying? I've never even met this girl! I—I don't even know what she looks like!"
Gage pulled out the girl's photo and handed it to him. The slick paper trembled in the man's hands.
"No, I don't think I've seen her before."
"You don't think?"
The man shoved the photo back to Gage. "Do you know how many people come through this place just in a week? Hundreds! Some of them stay an hour, some stay weeks. I—I can't keep track of them all."
"I don't want you to keep track of them all," Gage said. "I just want to know if this girl—and her name might have been Abby—was ever here."
"What, you with the fuzz or something?"
"The fuzz?" Gage said. "What is this, the seventies?"
"I just—I just want to know who I'm dealing with."
"The name's Garrison Gage. I'm a private investigator. Can I ask your name?"
"Who are you working for?"
"An interested party," Gage said. "Do you have a name, or should I just call you The Tutor?"
The man's gaze smoldered. "Man, you really are an asshole, aren't you?"
"It's a chronic condition. But at least I'm not exploiting an authority position over teenage girls. I believe that would be a worse offense."
The man pointed at the door. "Out!"
"Not quite yet. I have a few more questions. Unless you'd like me to go find out how old that girl is, maybe see if her parents know what's going on here . . .?"
The man said nothing for a long time, and when he did, all the anger and energy had gone out of his voice.
"No," he said.
"Good. I'm glad we see to eye to eye. What's your name?"
"Ted. Ted Kraggel."
"Nice to meet you, Ted. So you're not sure if this girl was ever here. Fine. How does this place operate? What's its business model? How long has it been around?"
In a low monotone, Ted gave him a brief history of the Northwest Artist Colony. At first the words came haltingly, but he began to warm up after a
while, and by the end he had most of the twinkle back in his eyes. The NAC had been formed twenty-seven years earlier, with a generous grant from the art-loving widow of a timber baron, and it relied heavily on the donations of other art-loving benefactors to keep it going. They had guest speakers, free art supplies, and a full-time staff of five people. They charged tuition for room and board, but that could be waived based on an artist's financial hardship. They'd had a little trouble with the law with the rather common drug use on campus, but otherwise they had a pretty good reputation in the community, and their annual art show was becoming internationally recognized.
"So as far as you know," Gage said, "there's no way to know for sure whether she was here or not?"
"No," Ted said. "Can't say there is. Not anymore."
"Not anymore?"
"Well, a number of years ago, we used to keep guest book logs and other records, but the Board told us to do away with all of that a couple years back."
"The Board?"
"Yeah. The Board of Directors. Couple of the richest donors, a couple children of the founder, a couple other prominent art people in the community . . . I guess the thinking is, a lot of these young people, some of them are really misunderstood. You know, being artists and all. They may not all want a record that they've been here."
"Right."
"Some of them, you know, their parents don't exactly approve. We don't want artists feeling like if they come here, Mom or Dad can show up and find out that they were here painting when maybe Mom and Dad would rather they be doing their chemistry homework."
"Or find out that little Johnny or Suzy," Gage said, "is here when they're supposed to be in college."
Ted shrugged. "Look, we don't tell kids to skip class. But some of them . . . this is the only place they find peace of mind. It's the only place where they feel accepted. And anyway, it's not like we're talking everybody. Probably ninety percent of the people are 18 or older."
They talked for a little while longer, then Gage thanked him for his time. Before leaving, he wandered around campus and showed the girl's photo to a couple dozen people. Only one person, a black guy with dreadlocks, said she looked familiar. But he said if he saw her around, she must have stuck to herself. That was common too—a lot of them said there was a certain kind of artist who just came, lived there, ate the food, and pretty much did his or her own thing.
On his bumpy drive back to the highway, Gage thought that a loner was exactly the sort of person that a predator would single out, somebody with no friends or family to miss them.
Since it was going on noon, Gage headed to his house. The sky looked like crumpled aluminum, and the ocean was as flat as a steel blade. He popped in on Mattie, who thanked him profusely for filling out the questionnaire. She insisted she hadn't felt better in weeks, so who knew, maybe it was all for naught, ha-ha, but he could see it was false bravado. She told him she would let him know when he would really have to make a decision, and he told her that was fine, knowing full well he had pretty much made his decision when he signed the document. He wasn't quite ready to admit it to himself— he was still hoping some other, better alternative for Zoe would emerge spontaneously—but it still felt like he'd boarded a train that was well out of the station.
Back at home, he made himself a tuna fish sandwich and ate it at his kitchen table along with a glass of ice water, absorbing the latest Time Magazine, Newsweek, and The New Yorker. He subscribed to dozens of magazines and they'd been piling up lately. When he was finished, he took out a yellow legal pad and recorded everything he thought he knew about the girl on the beach:
Name = Abby ???
Age = 18-20?
From = Southwest?
Details = Traveling alone. Wants to be a painter. Not incredibly well-schooled, since she thought there might be dolphins on the Oregon coast. Checked out books from the library, so she does think about books when she wants to learn something. Worked as a stripper a couple weeks and probably did it before. Keeps to herself.
Abducted? Might be others.
It wasn't that great of a list. After all the people he'd seen, and all the leads he'd gotten, he felt like he should know a lot more. It wasn't like she'd lived as a shut-in, for God's sake. She may not have been the life of the party, but she'd talked to people. She'd interacted with them. How could nobody know who she was?
Then he got to thinking. What about him? He'd lived in Barnacle Bluffs for five years. Until a couple weeks ago, who besides Alex would have been able to identify him if he washed up on a beach? Would people remember him? Would people say, yeah, he kind of looks familiar, I think he bought groceries here, I think I saw him walking on the beach, but you know, can't be sure, could be anyone. He kept to himself. A loner. That's what he was.
He took out her head shot and placed it on the desk next to his list. Maybe he was more like her than he cared to admit. Maybe she hadn't been all that interested in other people. Maybe something had happened to her, something awful, and she just wanted to be left alone.
The question was, what was that awful thing?
Mulling this over, Gage didn't feel much like going out, but eventually the windows darkened. He had to keep looking for puzzle pieces. He owed it to Abby, after all. If he was the one lying in the morgue, wouldn't he want somebody to keep going until it came out who'd put him there?
Maybe not. But he wasn't like other people.
There were also the other possible girls. If nothing else, that had to keep him going.
It was a quarter after six when he arrived at the casino. The last wisps of red light graced the horizon, the sky above a deep black. The lot was full, forcing him to park at the rear, near a row of motor homes lined up like the Great Wall of China. When he got out of the car, a fine mist wet his cheeks. He smelled the salt water on the breeze. The three domed buildings that made up the casino resembled big circus tents. He'd crossed three rows, cane clicking on the asphalt, when someone called to him.
"Gage."
It was Carmen. He scanned the parked cars and didn't see her until she flashed her dome light. The Camry was parked one row up and five cars to his right. He sauntered over to her, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. Nobody was. She had the window down, and the angle of the pale yellow lamplight cast the top half of her face in shadow, her grin floating in darkness like the Cheshire Cat's.
"Miss me?" she said.
"Carmen, I'm not sure we want Jimmy Lourdenback knowing we—"
"Pipe down now. I'm not staying. I just couldn't wait to give you this."
She handed him a piece of paper. It was a printout of a newspaper article, three columns, a grainy black and white photo at the top. The headline was, "Santa Fe Teens Finish Grand Theatre Mural," and the picture was of a dozen or so gangly boys and girls sitting on a curb in front of a mural of three knights on horseback fighting a fire-breathing dragon.
"Recognize the girl on the left?" Carmen said.
Gage looked at her closely. The picture was from across the street, making the faces quite small, but there was still no mistaking her.
It was definitely the girl from the beach.
Chapter 12
The girl pictured in the newspaper article was a year or two younger than the one who'd washed up on the beach, but she had the same high cheekbones, the same milky white skin, the same dark blonde hair—though longer, and tied behind her head. The overalls were folded up to her knees and the sleeves of the red plaid shirt were rolled up to her elbows. The slash of dark paint on her forehead looked like a knife wound. She was the only one not smiling, and the only one not looking at the camera. Instead she was looking at the paintbrush in her hand, a big one, the kind a person would use to paint a house.
"Abigail Heddle," Carmen said.
The name was listed below the photo, along with the names of the other girls. There was also a copyright that placed the photo two years earlier. Gage looked at Carmen. She was smiling like a kid who'd found the golden Easter egg.
Tired of seeing only half her face, he bent down, wincing at the stab of pain his knee. "How'd you find her?" he asked.
"Beauty of the Internet, my friend. Most newspapers are now part of LexisNexis. I zeroed in on the states you mentioned. We got real lucky. One of the first searches I did was using the words Abby, Abigail, and art. This one popped up. If they hadn't put her name in the caption, I wouldn't have found anything at all."
"What else did you find out about her?"
"What makes you think I found out anything else?"
"You're a reporter. Once you had her name, I'm sure you started digging."
She pursed her lips. "Hmm. What makes you think I'd tell you? You haven't exactly been forthcoming about what you've found out."
"All right, you have me there. I'll tell you everything I know tomorrow."
"Promise?"
He nodded.
"All right," she said, "but I'm going to hold you to that, buddy. And yes, I did make a few calls. I have an old classmate who works for the Santa Fe Reporter, and she put me in contact with the right person in Children's Services down there—somebody who was willing to divulge some information as long as it was off the record. You were right. She was a foster child, or at least she was since the age of twelve."
"What happened to her?"
"The person I talked to only knew what was in the file, which was that her parents were deceased. She bounced around for a couple of years and eventually ended up with John and Becky Larson, who officially adopted her a year later at fifteen. Their records stopped at that point, because she was no longer a ward of the state."
"Did you find out anything else?"
"Only that nobody ever reported her missing. She would have been nineteen when you found her on the beach. Nineteen and three months to be exact, according to their records."
"So she was probably eighteen when she came out here," Gage said. "Legally an adult."
"Right."
"Have you called the parents yet?"
"No. But I wanted to."
The Gray and Guilty Sea Page 12
