Cliff Hanger

by Mary Feliz

  “There’s something wrong when we call farming with pesticides and chemicals ‘traditional,’” David said.

  “That’s what organic guys say, according to Susie,” Brian said. “And they don’t poach workers. They just offer safer and more desirable working conditions. Susie flew over that barn we saw yesterday, and some other farm buildings up on the hill. They’ve got those tanks we saw next to them. Susie said that didn’t look right. Either they’re propane for people who may be living and cooking in the barn, or…”

  “Or?” I asked.

  Brian seemed star-struck, judging by the number of times in the last minute he’d quoted the pilot. He tapped a pencil on the edge of the table. “It sounded kind of like paranoid conspiracy theories to me.”

  “What? Pirates? Smugglers? Zombie viruses?” David taunted his brother, but Brian didn’t react.

  “A surprisingly accurate assessment,” Brian said with professorial pomp. “She said it could be anything from a place to receive and process drugs brought in at night from the ocean to unsanctioned housing for workers. Or from an unlicensed pot farm to storage for pesticides.”

  “Pesticides?” I asked. “I thought that farm was organic.” I turned to Max. “Did you learn anything from Kevin Rivers?”

  “Lots,” Max said. “Including the fact that natural doesn’t necessarily mean organic and organic doesn’t necessarily mean free of dangerous substances. Kevin’s farm has been organic for twenty years and yet he uses…” Max pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his jeans pocket. “Stuff like copper sulfate, hydrogen peroxide, peracetic acid, and sodium carbonate peroxyhydrate.” He passed the list to David. “None of the stuff used on organic farms is as dangerous as what Kevin says his dad and grandfather used to use. He seemed really honest and forthcoming in explaining what an organic farm is and what it’s not.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a guy who’s hiding anything,” I said.

  David waggled his eyebrows and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “It could be a secret plot.” I threw a baby carrot at him.

  Max ignored us and continued his report. “Kevin said that the chemicals used by law-abiding traditional farmers aren’t so bad, especially if the farmers put in time as strawberry pickers themselves and are sympathetic to their situation. Most people want agricultural workers to be safe. The worst stuff is outlawed here in the States, but is readily available in Central America. It’s almost as lucrative for unscrupulous farmers to smuggle those chemicals in as it is to bring drugs. And no one, so far, has trained dogs to sniff them out. Besides that, crop testing is expensive and infrequent.”

  David picked up the carrot I’d tossed his way and drew invisible circles with it on the counter. “So, even if the chemicals aren’t quite as lucrative as drugs, if you could get them in with less chance of getting caught, and if you could use them to increase your yields, the payoff could be huge.”

  “That sounds like the kind of guy who’d want to keep Jake from flying over his operation,” I said.

  “Exactly,” Max said. “And Kevin’s body language told me he might well suspect his neighbor Diego Baker of running that kind of farm.”

  “Did you figure out who owns that barn and those tanks?” I asked.

  Max shook his head. “I suspect it’s Diego. Let’s think about this. If Diego used the barn to house workers, and the other buildings to school their kids, and provided food that he cooked with the propane from those tanks, he wouldn’t have to worry about his strawberry pickers randomly encountering ICE agents as they went about their day-to-day activities.”

  “It sounds like slavery,” I said.

  “It kind of is, Mom,” Brian said. “But it happens all the time. If people aren’t documented, it’s easy to take advantage of them. Easy for bad people, that is.”

  David scoffed. “Dad’s plan is logical but complicated. Wouldn’t it be simpler and more lucrative to cook meth in that barn?”

  I shuddered, both in fear of the tales I’d heard of exploding methamphetamine labs and in sympathy for the people for whom near-slavery in the United States meant a better life than staying in the countries in which they’d been born. My skin prickled as my thoughts traveled from the desperate to those who preyed upon them. “If something like that is happening in his barn, Diego Baker is neck-deep in criminal activity. He’d be super motivated to keep someone like Jake from taking photographs.”

  Max finished my thought for me. “Or resorting to violence to keep any other prying eyes away.”

  “Like ours?” asked David.

  “Like yours,” confirmed Max.

  I stared at my husband as my panic grew. Should we leave the area altogether and forget about helping out Renée? Did we need to develop new family rules about safety and monitoring the kids’ whereabouts?

  The kids, like teens everywhere, had no trouble hearing my unspoken thoughts.

  “No way,” protested David. “We’re here this summer to be at the beach. You said we could invite our friends down. No way is that beach off limits.”

  Max and I exchanged expressions that included raised eyebrows, head tilts, and shrugs. Then he spoke for both of us. “No trespassing on the farms,” he said, ticking off the rules on his fingers. “Make sure Mom knows where you are and who you’re with. No loopholes. No freelancing. If you wonder if something’s allowed, it isn’t. If you start to question whether you’re safe, you aren’t. Get out. Your phones will always be fully charged before you leave the condo. If the low battery signal comes on, you come home.

  Silence weighed heavily on all of us. I stared at the boys until they nodded and agreed. “Got it,” David said.

  “Shouldn’t be much of a problem for me,” Brian said, lifting one crutch. David snorted, but nudged his brother with what looked like sympathy for his predicament.

  Max put his hand on mine. “Those rules go for you, too,” he reminded me, to the boys’ delight. “We call them family rules for a reason. They apply to all of us.”

  “Got it,” I repeated the words in the same tone and cadence David had used.

  “And Dad…” said David.

  “Yup, me too,” Max said. The boys retreated to the video game system David had set up in his room, followed closely by Belle and her wagging banner of a tail. But not before Max called after them, “And Brian? Remember that retreat from any dicey situation is going to take you longer on crutches than it did when you could run. Factor that into all of your judgments when you’re evaluating your safety and exit strategy.”

  I should have felt comforted and satisfied with our review of family rules and protections. Instead, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that there was a vital piece of the puzzle that we were missing. Something that could pose as much of a danger to my family as it had to Jake.

  Chapter 14

  Traveling with kids inclined to roll out of bed? A rolled up beach towel or pool noodle tucked under the sheet can create a handy bolster or barrier.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Friday, June 21, Morning

  The next morning, Max set off at five o’clock to beat the brutal commute traffic over Highway 17 into Silicon Valley. I went back to bed, but couldn’t sleep. Instead, I scribbled a note for the boys and drove into town to grocery shop and grab a latte at the local Starbucks.

  In Silicon Valley, a predawn stop at any local coffee shop would mean taking your spot behind a short line of construction workers, parents of tiny children, and a few hardy souls who exercised themselves or their dogs before work. In Watsonville, it meant a long queue of impatient commuters eager to get on the road before the traffic over the hill grew unmanageable. At home, the coffee-shop lines also served as impromptu town meeting places where friends caught each other up on their news, bragged about their kids, and complained about their kitchen
remodels. Here, half the conversations were in Spanish, but I eavesdropped as best I could. It turned out my best wasn’t nearly good enough to keep up, so I zoned out and watched the people until a tap on my shoulder jolted me out of my thoughts so abruptly that I nearly upended a display of coffee mugs stacked precariously close to the line of caffeine addicts.

  “Sorry. Lo siento.” I apologized to the coffee mugs before I looked up to address the young woman who helped me return the wobbly stacks of cups to positions of safety. “Thanks.” I blushed and felt the eyes of everyone in the store on me, whether they actually were or not.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” said the twenty-something young woman. “But…”

  I stopped stacking and stood up straight, clutching my backpack to keep it from lashing out unbidden at the other breakables.

  The woman took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “We haven’t met. I’m Jen Amesti. You’re Maggie McDonald, right? Your boys found…helped…” Her voice broke, but she carried on. “I’m Jake’s…” She shook her head in the same way Belle shakes off water after a swim. “This is so hard. Jake Peterson was my boyfriend.”

  I took her hands in both of mine. “Can I buy you a coffee? Do you have time? I’d love to hear more about him.” I was telling the truth, but I had ulterior motives. Besides, the girl seemed suddenly fragile.

  She sighed as if life itself had become overwhelming—as though accepting an informal coffee invitation might be more than she could handle. Just when I was sure she would decline my offer, she relented. “I’ll get a table. Outside okay? Small drip.”

  “Seriously? I’m buying, and all you want is a coffee in a tiny size they don’t even have a fancy name for? I’m getting a medium latte.”

  She smiled. “Same here, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  I shooed her out the door to snag a table. It was chilly in the predawn hours but quieter outside under the propane heat lamps than it was within the bustling coffee shop.

  By the time the barista had filled my order, to which I had added several cookies, Jen looked like she’d fallen asleep in one of the cold and uncomfortable metal outdoor chairs. I set the coffees down as quietly as I could but bumped the metal table as I did so. I winced as it screeched across the uneven concrete with a sound that hurt my teeth and once again made anyone in the vicinity turn our way.

  Jen opened her eyes.

  “This is why I never pursued a career in covert intelligence,” I told her.

  Jen smiled, acknowledging my attempt at a joke. But her eyes didn’t crinkle or light up, and smiling looked like hard work for her. She took a big gulp of her coffee. It must have scorched her lips, but she gave no sign of discomfort. On the contrary, she let out a contented sigh that made me think I’d inadvertently ordered coffee with a shot of Kahlúa.

  “I needed this,” she said. “I haven’t been sleeping well since…”

  “Of course not,” I reassured her. “It takes time. Lots of time.”

  “This fancy coffee is ridiculous. Five years ago, there was nowhere in town where you could get anything other than black coffee from a giant urn. If you were lucky, you could get real milk or cream to add to it. Now, we’re like everywhere else, with a population that fills up on espresso more often than we top off our cars with unleaded.”

  “I think they must put crack in it.”

  Jen snorted. “That would explain it. One sip and plain drip is no longer good enough. Soon you find yourself taking out a loan to buy a souped-up machine to make specialty brews in your own kitchen. It’s a slippery slope.”

  The worry lines in Jen’s young face eased for a moment, but quickly returned as her shoulders hunched. She grasped her coffee in two hands and drew it close to her as if aching to absorb its warmth and comfort.

  “So, tell me about Jake,” I said. She looked away from me toward the horizon so fast that I amended my tone and said softly, “Or tell me about you, if Jake is too difficult.”

  She wiped her eyes with one hand. “It’s good to talk. And it’s hard to tell you anything about myself without mentioning Jake. We’ve been friends since kindergarten. He was always the man for me. Always. Even when all the other boys had cooties.”

  “He seems to have been well-liked. You must miss him terribly.”

  “I don’t,” she said, blushing. “Not yet. I haven’t been able to convince myself Jake’s actually gone.”

  “Maybe when you love someone as long as you’ve loved Jake, they never truly leave you.”

  “You think?” She raised her head hopefully. “I’ve been kicking myself for not being able to move on or accept it. I feel like I’m going crazy, but it’s still darn near impossible to even understand the words. You know…that he’s de—” Her voice broke, and she rummaged in her pockets as tears spilled. I handed her a napkin. It was too rough for her tender skin, heart, and emotions, but it was at hand.

  “Give yourself time. This is all still very new.”

  Jen stared into the distance. I hated to bring her back into the real world, but I needed to get back to the kids and my job, eventually. “Will there be a service? The boys and I would like to go.”

  “I’m so grateful to them for all they did for him. I feel so much better knowing he wasn’t alone and scared.”

  I took her hand. Partly for her comfort and partly for mine. I couldn’t think of anything soothing to say, and let personal contact do the talking.

  “I’m sure you’re a big help to his parents, sharing their grief,” I said. “You’ve known him almost as long as they have.” I should have stuck with the personal contact. Her nostrils flared, and I heard her quick intake of breath as though I’d struck her.

  “They’ve told me it’s all my fault,” she said, with tears streaming. “They told his roommates not to let me in the house. Not even to pick up my own stuff, or a picture or anything. He lives way up in the hills. I drove all the way up there and then…”

  Her voice trailed off and she tugged her hoodie tightly around her as she struggled to pull herself together. I sensed it wasn’t the wasted trip that had upset her. Nor were Jake’s parents the target of her anger. She was grieving, that was all. And grieving was messy.

  “Sorry.” She swallowed hard, then took a sip of coffee and started over. “First, they suggested that I drove Jake to suicide, and now they’re saying he was so distracted by an argument we’d had that he must not have done all his safety checks.” She pressed her lips together before speaking again. “There was nothing I did or could ever have done that would have made him skimp on his safety checks or take his own life.”

  “I’ve heard how careful he was,” I said.

  “It was one of the things about him that could drive me nuts.” She sniffed. “It took him forever to get ready to go anywhere. When we were little, he had to pump up the tires on my bike and check the brakes before we went for a ride. Later, the car windows and headlights needed to be spotless, and he’d check the oil before we could take a drive, even if it were just into town or to school. There’s absolutely no way he would have ever cut a safety check short. And even if he were planning to kill himself, which he wouldn’t, he couldn’t have done it in a machine he was responsible for maintaining. It would have killed him to have people think he’d messed up and caused an accident.” She was silent for a moment, her lips moving slightly as though she were replaying her own words in her head.

  “Oh, my god. My thinking is so convoluted. Did I really just say he wouldn’t have committed suicide because it would have killed him? How crazy is that?”

  “You’re entitled to a little crazy. Sounds like Jake’s parents have, at least temporarily, gone off the deep end. I believe you though. Everything I’ve heard about Jake makes him sound like a perpetually upbeat guy who liked doing things for other people and was excited about a lot of things in his life—all the portions of
his life—school, career, hobbies, community, love, and family.” I paused for a moment before adding, “He sounds almost too perfect.”

  She took a long sip of her coffee and licked foam from her lips. “Look, I know what you’re saying.” She put down her drink and lifted her hands with the first two fingers extended in an air quotes gesture. “Public reports of tragic deaths aren’t always reliable. Jake and I have had friends who overdosed or had terrible car crashes. The deaths were ruled accidents, but you’ve got to wonder sometimes whether they were more than that. Were they going too fast or driving under the influence because something was bothering them? Were they thrill seekers who taunted death too many times? Did they take too many pills because they no longer cared?” She frowned and looked close to tears. “But I swear, in Jake’s case, there was nothing. Nothing that would suggest suicide, reckless behavior, or self-medicating.”

  “So what’s with the parents?”

  “Grief. Grief and well…Jake and I kinda had a little breakup.” Jen looked up and wrinkled her nose. “We knew we’d get back together. I just needed to get his attention. He was working too hard. Drinking triple espressos five times a day so he wouldn’t fall asleep. It was easy for him to do since he worked part-time as a barista just off campus at the Jumping Bean.”

  “How many jobs did he have?” I asked, trying to decide whether the behavior Jen described was more reckless than she appeared to believe, or if it was just what was now required of young adults struggling to get ahead in the gig economy. If Jake had been exhausted, it might explain how the normally careful mechanic could have missed something in a safety check.

  Jen answered the question I hadn’t asked. “All our friends are doing that, the responsible ones at least. Anyone who’s going to school and doesn’t want to be buried by student loans their whole lives.” She scoffed. “Turns out that lifelong debt wasn’t something Jake needed to worry about.”

  “But seriously.” I began listing his jobs. “The airport maintenance work, his academic research, classes, barista—”