by Amy Waeschle
“What did he want?” Bruce asked, his jaw flexing.
Cassidy looked away from where Bo had rejoined his pack, her questions spooling out like a loose ball of yarn. “Apparently to help him get friendly with Quinn.”
Bruce looked at her sharply. “Why?”
“Some kind of business opportunity.”
Setting his hands on his waist, Bruce took another long look at the trio. Music now blared from the speakers inside the truck; one of the surfers smoked a cigarette. “Let’s go,” Bruce said, closing the back hatch and moving to the driver’s seat.
Confused by the edge in his tone, Cassidy paused, feeling someone watching her. Slowly, she met eyes with Bo, who flashed her a mischievous glance before jumping into the passenger seat of the truck.
Nine
“Are you going to tell me why you hate those guys so much?” Cassidy asked as they cruised up the hill, the view of the bay fading.
Bruce shook off a frown. “I don’t hate them.”
“Then why were you sending daggers at them with your eyes the whole time we were out there?” She dug into the paper bag for a corner of scone. “Quinn doesn’t like them, either.”
“Wait, those guys know Quinn?”
“Not exactly,” Cassidy replied, realizing she was moving too fast. “Last night they were at Drift, and I talked to that one, Bo, the surfer who came in after I did.”
Bruce’s face darkened.
She took a small bite of the scone. “It was a little weird because he made it sound like he knew Quinn, but when I asked Quinn about it, he said they were trouble.”
Bruce exhaled a soft groan.
“So, are they?”
“What?”
“Trouble.”
“Not for you, they aren’t.”
“Oh,” Cassidy replied, “but they are for you?”
His stern glare startled her.
“Okay, okay,” she said, putting up her hands. “I’ll stay out of it.” Cassidy wondered if she shouldn’t have given Bo her number so easily. Bo could have just snagged Quinn at Drift. Why did Bo need her?
“What did you decide to do about your car?” Bruce asked as they crossed back through Golden Gate Park.
Cassidy remembered the way Pete had crowded into her mind on that wave. She let the warm breeze tickle her temples, teasing free the stray hairs escaping from her still-damp ponytail. “I think I’m going to let them sell it,” she said as a pang of grief balled up inside her. “But I have to go see it one last time. And pick up my things.”
“They could probably send them to you.”
Cassidy inhaled the dry earth scent of the park. “Probably.”
A long silence passed between them while memories spun through her mind: Pete dressed up for her birthday dinner date and the way he looked at her when she came out of the house; Pete in shorts and a faded t-shirt, one arm resting on the windowsill as they ascended some forest road on the way to an adventure; Pete in his puffy coat and thrift store wool hat as they navigated snowy roads at oh-dark-thirty in the name of fresh tracks.
“Hey,” Bruce said from somewhere far away.
Slowly, Cassidy pulled back from her memories to see that they were parked outside of Quinn’s apartment, with Bruce’s hand warming hers.
“Sorry,” she said, swatting her cheeks with her free hand.
“You have every right to feel the way you do,” he said.
“It’s been almost two years,” she managed. “Am I ever going to be over it?”
Bruce’s gaze softened in kindness. “How can I help?”
Cassidy pushed her door open and stepped onto the street. “You can’t,” she sighed.
Quinn had offered his car for her journey to Shasta, a beat-up Toyota Camry that stunk like burned oil, so after rinsing her gear and showering, she grabbed his keys and made her way to the garage. The car was parked next to the motorcycle Quinn had replaced after Pete’s accident, a white cover draped over it. She paused, remembering accelerating Dutch’s bike into the darkness on her way to rescue Izzy. Would Bruce find the clues he needed to bring Pete’s killer to justice, or would she forever live with the failure of letting the person who had taken him from her go free?
Inside, Quinn’s car smelled like dust and something slightly sour, like moldy carpet. She wondered when Quinn had last driven it.
Due to traffic, leaving the city took longer than she wanted, but once she was accelerating north, her mind settled into the silence. Thoughts and memories blended, rose, and fell away. She reviewed the interview in her mind, recalling Special Agent Harris’ stern face and cold blue eyes, the surprise of seeing Dutch. She had to smile when she remembered his “were you, now?” response, his cocky eyes playing her, as if they hadn’t parted ways via an ambulance in a dark alley.
With her mind free to process without having to also manage field work or a media appearance or an interview with the FBI, the drive passed quickly, Quinn’s air-conditioner cranked as the brown hills whizzed by.
Just outside of Redding, her phone rang: Quinn.
“You just getting home?” Cassidy teased, noting the late hour.
“A bit ago. The car working okay?”
“Good so far. Hey, guess what?” she asked. “I saw Bo in the lineup today.”
“No huge surprise. He and his gang brag about surfing there.” Pots and pans clattered in the background.
Cassidy remembered the uneasy expression on Bruce’s face. “He seemed harmless. And he wants to meet with you.”
“Why?”
“He says he’s got friends in the restaurant supply industry who can save you money. I don’t know, he seemed pretty persistent.”
“Nah. I’m already set up.”
“I figured you were. Maybe just give him a call and hear him out.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Will I see you tonight?” she asked. “Emily’s coming. You want to meet us at Hook Fish?”
“Can’t,” Quinn sighed. “I gotta fire a manager, and then brief the staff. I have someone to fill in, but I’ll need to be there for the rush.”
“Will you be home in the morning so I can say goodbye?”
“Aw, leaving me so soon?” he teased. “The FBI is through with you?”
“They didn’t say anything to me about staying.” She slipped her left foot from her flip flop and tucked it against her thigh. “I have a pile of work waiting for me, Q. I can’t sit around here forever.”
“I guess they can call you if they need to. When’s your flight?”
“Noon,” she said.
“Okay, I promise I’ll be home before you go.”
Once at the garage, Shane led her to the chained-up lot adjacent to the office. The midday sun baked the dry lot with an intense heat, like an oven. She wished she had a wide-brimmed hat, or one of those personal fans.
Her car had been sequestered halfway down the row, between a rusted truck chassis and a silver compact car with a shattered windshield. Shane handed her the keys, then wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Let me know if you need anything.”
His heavy footsteps faded, and Cassidy forced her feet to advance. Opening the back hatch, a blast of superheated air blasted her lungs and face. Squinting, she reached for the large Tupperware box, the lid so hot it felt ready to melt in her hands. Inside were rockhounding and road trip essentials: a rock hammer, a spare pair of wool socks, raincoat, water purification tablets, a scattered collection of power bars snatched from the sale bin at REI—most of them several years old by now, a first aid kit, and a collapsible snow shovel.
Forcing herself to move swiftly, she gathered up the loose items stuffed in the cubbies lining the side—a bandana, a melted tube of lip balm, several colored pencils from one side, and to her delight, her field guide to wildflowers in the other. She sank onto the tailgate and flipped to the opening page, where Pete’s handwriting scrawled: Are there any you don’t know? Then: Love, Pete.
After t
racing the indentation of his print one last time, she set the book on the lid of the Tupperware box and carried it to the backseat of Quinn’s car. Then, she wiped the sweat from her brow and slipped into the driver’s seat of her dead vehicle.
The heat of the day plus the turmoil of memories enveloped her like a suffocating fog. She lay back for a moment, reliving the first time Pete drove with her, that trip home from Mt. Baker. He needed to get back for a deadline, and she offered to give him a lift. Halfway home, they switched so she could grade a stack of undergraduate geology labs, and when she dropped him off, he kissed her. She tried to remember what his lips felt like, what he smelled like, but everything felt faded, diffused. An ache behind her breastbone tightened. She balled her fists and tried to get more air into her lungs, but the heat filled her like fire.
Fingers shaking, she opened the glove box, but there was only a spare pen—hers—and a mixed collection of maps. The center console contained her last find: a card Pete had written. She knew the message by heart and didn’t trust herself to read it now.
With the car emptied of all its treasures, Cassidy closed the doors and gave it one last look. Goodbye, old friend.
After signing the final paperwork with Shane, she returned to Quinn’s car and drove slowly to the interstate.
She checked the time and though it was midafternoon, risked calling Emily.
To her relief, Emily answered. “How’d it go?”
“It sucked,” Cassidy sighed as she accelerated onto the freeway, Quinn’s air conditioner jetting air just barely cool enough to keep her from feeling like a cooked chicken.
“I would have gone with you,” Emily said.
“I know,” Cassidy replied. In truth, maintaining her friendship with Emily since Costa Rica hadn’t been easy. Sharing what had happened to her felt like a burden, so she had tried to downplay it. Thankfully, Emily hadn’t given up on her. Meaning no way was she going to add the strain of a tearful visit to a vehicle, of all things.
“How do you feel now?”
“Better, in a way, and worse in another. I feel like I’m betraying something by selling it.”
“There’s a lot of memories in that car.”
“Yeah.”
“But now you get to make new ones,” Emily said.
Cassidy imagined herself inspecting rows of shiny new vehicles while a salesman in a brown suit yammered on about the qualities of each model. But behind the dread of such an encounter, Cassidy felt a tiny thrill. A new car to match her new life as a professor, as an expert TV anchors sought to interview. She saw herself lifting a surfboard from the roof or sliding a set of skis into the rack. And then she remembered Bruce’s bare torso framed in the space between the SUV doors while he tied down the surfboards.
Cassidy realized that Emily had been talking. “Sorry, what?”
“Are we still on for seven-thirty?” Emily repeated.
“Yeah, though Quinn won’t be there. I think he has a girlfriend.”
“No way,” Emily said.
“Okay, maybe not a girlfriend, but someone steady. I’ve barely seen him, and he’s been out late a lot.”
“Good for him,” Emily said. “We all deserve to have someone, right?”
Cassidy said goodbye, then settled into the drive.
After she filled up Quinn’s gas tank, parked the car in the garage, and carried the card and her wildflower guide upstairs, she showered and dressed. She shot Quinn a text as she was dashing down the stairs.
Cassidy typed: Do I at least get to meet her?
Meet who?
Whoever is keeping you from me.
Nobody will ever keep you from me, sis.
Will you at least stop by tonight? She typed. You can bring her.
Maybe.
A ten-minute walk later she arrived at the local fish taco hangout, the refreshing evening breeze cooling her skin. Emily sat at one of the coveted outdoor tables, scrolling her phone, but jumped up to hug Cassidy.
Cassidy squeezed her back. “Am I late?”
“No, I was able to catch the earlier train.”
“I could have at least picked you up downtown.”
“Nah,” Emily said, tucking a blonde curl behind her ear. “I had a good book to read.”
They went inside the tiny eatery and ordered, then returned to the outside table nestled between two flowering shrubs. With the sun so close to the horizon, a soft, hazy light lingered, though soon they would be eating by streetlight.
Cassidy asked about her work at the Lab and life in Pleasanton, reading from Emily’s body language and word choice that she was proud of her accomplishments yet maybe a little bit lonely.
“How about that mountain biking club you joined?” Cassidy asked as their food arrived.
“It’s been too hot to ride lately, but I joined their fall trip to the Canyonlands,” Emily said, popping a French fry into her mouth and reaching for the ketchup.
“Didn’t you go out with one of the organizers?” Cassidy asked, trying to remember the name: Steven, or Stuart.
Emily rolled her eyes. “Turns out he’s married.”
Cassidy’s mouth hung open.
“To a lesbian. They don’t want to get divorced because of the kids, so just see other people.”
Cassidy shot her friend a look. “That’s messed up.”
“I know, right?” Emily bit off the end of another French fry. “Oh my god these are good. Totally worth the hour-and-a-half train ride.”
Cassidy took another bite of her taco.
“Okay, girl, enough about me. You’re the one leading the exciting life these days. You doing okay?”
Cassidy hadn’t given her friend a full account of the warehouse. Even when she replayed the events in her head, they didn’t seem real.
“I got to surf today,” she said instead.
Emily’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, fun. How were the waves?”
Cassidy shared the highlights from Fort Point, including the tricky paddle out and the steep drop. She avoided describing the weird vibe she’d felt from Bruce, and the way seeing him half-dressed created a strange feeling in her stomach.
“Bruce was there?” she asked, sipping her beer. “I thought you said he was going to disown you.”
“He was definitely mad,” Cassidy said, remembering the many tense voicemail messages she had played in her Hawaii hotel room. “But I don’t know, once I agreed to testify, he was okay. He said he knew I was just doing what I thought was right. And that I was lucky.”
“I’ll say,” Emily said, her eyes narrowing.
“Well, not just that I didn’t end up hurt, but that I didn’t compromise their investigation. They’re building a case.”
“Do you think you helped them, with your interview?”
“We’ll see,” Cassidy said with a shrug, remembering Bruce’s explanation of how federal cases were different from the ones tried by local law enforcement. “The FBI has to present their case first to the federal prosecutor before they can move forward with arrests. I get the feeling they still have a long way to go.”
From her pocket, Cassidy’s phone buzzed. Thinking it was Quinn, she slid it out to answer, hoping he was going to stop by after all.
“You okay?” Emily said, frowning.
Cassidy realized she must have frowned. “Yeah, it’s Bruce.”
“Answer it. It’s okay,” Emily said.
Her stomach did that weird jolt again as she swiped the screen.
“Have you bought your flight yet?” Bruce asked, his voice tense.
Emily’s eyes filled with concern.
Cassidy avoided Emily’s concerned look by focusing on dipping a French fry in sauce. “Yeah. Tomorrow at noon. Why?”
“Because Special Agent Harris wants you to come in.”
“Oh,” Cassidy replied, shifting her position to face the street.
“And Cassidy, you may want to keep that return ticket date open, because I’m afraid what she wants you to do might ke
ep you here for a few more days.”
“Bruce,” Cassidy said sharply, dropping her French fry. “I have a life to get back to, remember? I start teaching in three weeks. I don’t have my lab ready. I’m not even moved into my office. I have graduate students coming, a syllabus to create, supplies to order.”
“I know,” Bruce said. “And I’m sorry. I don’t like it, either, but I was overruled.”
Cassidy nearly screamed in frustration—great, someone else who fails to protect me. “I’ve told you all I know, okay? I don’t see what a few more days of talking is going to accomplish.”
“She doesn’t want to talk, Cass,” he said, sounding anguished. “She wants to send you in.”
Her frustration boiled over. “Bruce, this is making no sense! Send me in where?”
“To the field. She wants you to meet with Bo.”
Ten
Cassidy stretched out on one of Quinn’s patio chairs, a highball of Glenlivet on ice between her thighs and the warm night air soft on her sticky skin.
Special Agent Harris wanted her to meet with Bo. Bruce hadn’t given her any more details other than when he would pick her up the following morning. After walking Emily to the Muni stop, she returned to Quinn’s apartment, craving the comfort found inside those walls. She cancelled her flight—an action she had been doing a lot lately—and dug out the scotch.
She was halfway through her drink before her mind downshifted.
Who was Bo?
Had Bruce told Special Agent Harris about her encounter with him? Why? And why did they want her to meet with him? He had to be involved in the case somehow. She shuddered. And I gave him my number.
She sipped the scotch, wondering if she would spend the rest of her life trusting the wrong people. A bigger, more prominent worry began to take over her attention. Bo’s goal was to meet with Quinn. So did the new adventure involve him, too?
I won’t let them use him, she thought, setting down her empty drink.
Cassidy pulled a blanket across her lap, hoping the diffuse city noises and salt air might distract her enough to soothe her frazzled mind. But after an hour, with her thoughts still churning and her limbs tense, she gave up.