by Amy Waeschle
No answer.
“Dutch?” she called, stepping even closer. She listened for the sound of breathing or snoring but heard nothing. “It’s Cassidy,” she added, her voice tentative.
When still nothing happened, she knocked on the tent’s nylon wall, which shook the frame. “Dutch,” she called, louder now.
She was wondering if she might need to unzip the door, though this did not appeal to her on several levels—he might not be alone, he might be undressed, she might have the wrong tent.
A groan rumbled from inside. Cassidy immediately stepped back. “Dutch?” she called.
Another groan plus the sound of shifting nylon. “What the fuck . . . ” his voice moaned.
“It’s Cassidy,” she said again.
“Who?” he replied, sounding angry.
Cassidy hugged herself tighter. “Cassidy Kincaid. I’m looking for Izzy, remember?”
Another groan. “It’s the middle of the night, you know that, right?”
“Actually, it’s morning.”
“Maybe on your planet,” he sighed. “Jeezus.”
Cassidy swiveled, taking in the other tents and open farmland beyond, the foothills awash with a midsummer warmth. Rising above, clear as a bell to the south, floated the snowy dome of Mt. Shasta. She took a moment to enjoy the soft pink layer of light playing across its eastern slope.
“She’s gone,” Dutch’s gritty voice sighed.
Cassidy’s moment of calm shuddered to a halt. “What?” she cried, realizing too late that her voice came out like a yelp.
“Lars lost track of her at the party.”
Cassidy clenched her jaw. She huffed a tight breath through her teeth. “Goddamn it, why didn’t you call me?”
He unzipped the tent, and she got a laser shot of his bright blue eyes set in his tanned, weathered face. “Listen, sweetheart,” he began.
“Cut it out! I am not your sweetheart!” she cried, the frustration from the night before boiling over. “She was here and you let her get away?”
He climbed out of the tent, wearing camo pants and a faded, red waffle-knit Henley, his muscular chest stretching the shirt’s neck to reveal the tip of a colorful tattoo. He was also sock-footed, his wide feet planted firmly in the black fabric. Crossing his arms, he gazed at her with that same bemused smile, though his eyes seemed to be watching her differently.
“People come and go in this world, okay? Lars’s got no holds on her. She’s free to go.”
“Did you see her leave?”
He shook his head of thick brown curls that were streaked with gray at the temples. His unshaven jaw had that chiseled look that probably made women swoon. He wasn’t unattractive, but his vibe was 100% lead dog. As if to confirm this, the vest he pulled on was embroidered with the name “Lone Wolf.”
“Can you help me find Lars?” she asked. And coffee, she wanted to say but afraid he’d only make fun of her.
He raised and lowered his hand in a “slow down” motion, then turned back to his tent. He slipped on a pair of black leather moto boots tucked inside the entrance. “He’s not gonna be happy. Do you know how fucking early it is?” he said, eyeing her seriously.
“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling bad about yelling at him. He was getting up. He was helping her, even if reluctantly. But they needed to hurry—what if Izzy was still here somewhere? What if she’d just found someone else to spend the night with?
“C’mon,” he grunted, shuffling past her. Cassidy followed, weaving around several tents and back along the edge of the rows of motorcycles and cars. The dry, flattened grass felt hard and uneven beneath her feet. Here and there were discarded, empty bottles: Gatorade, beer, a fifth of vodka, and bits of trash. Dutch led her to a cluster of bedrolls set up next to more motorcycles, gathered in a kind of loose circle. All the while Cassidy kept looking for any sign of Izzy, but there was only a sea of faded bedrolls, blue tarps strung haphazardly, a tent here and there, and the short, dry grass. Dutch forged ahead, his footsteps passing within inches of the lumps tucked into sleeping bags, to a compact-looking bike decked out with gunmetal-gray side boxes and an extra seat in the back.
“Yo, Lars, you up?” Dutch called, strutting to a stop.
A loud yawn filled the silence. “I am now. Why?” a voice called. Cassidy noticed the trace of some kind of accent—German or Swedish perhaps.
Cassidy watched as a body wriggled out of a navy-blue sleeping bag, the big square kind with thick metal zippers sold at sporting goods stores. The man’s bare chest was decorated with a Polynesian-style patterned tattoo that would certainly be described as “tribal,” a word she’d heard but never given much thought to. A sun-like pattern circled almost his entire left pectoral muscle, then continued down his shoulder with solid black stripes and geometric shapes.
Lars looked young, Cassidy realized, though she hadn’t realized it at first because of his thick, full beard. He scrubbed his face with his hands which were adorned with several chunky metal rings, the left wrist decorated with another tattoo, this one a stand of trees, the detail of each variety evident even from this distance. Around his neck hung a simple but rather large cross pendant on a shiny silver chain. He reached for a flannel from a pile next to him and slipped it on, then slid out of his bedroll, his legs covered by a pair of baggy thermal pants.
“Cassidy, this is Lars,” Dutch said. “Lars, Cassidy. She’s the one looking for that girl.”
Lars watched her warily for a moment, then reached for a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket laying across his bike. After sliding one out, he lit it, and inhaled a long drag.
“Why do you want to find her? What’s she done?” he asked, his accent more prominent now. His square face and tall stature screamed Scandinavian, but German felt more likely.
Cassidy tried to check her impatience. “She hasn’t done anything. I’m just worried about her. She’s my student at the University of Oregon.”
Lars’s eyebrows shot up.
“What?” Cassidy asked, looking from Dutch to Lars, but Dutch’s face was blank, and Lars had looked away.
Lars shook his head. “Nothing,” he answered, looking away.
“When did you last see her?” Cassidy asked, eager for him to go back in time and tell her everything, from the minute he picked her up until the moment he lost track of her, but Cassidy wanted to focus on what was important first. She had closed the gap—from being a day behind to only a few hours. I can still find her, Cassidy thought.
Lars ran a hand through his dirty-blond hair. “It was at the concert,” he said. “I went to get us another beer and when I came back, poof.”
“Do you have her number?” Cassidy asked.
“Yeah,” Lars said. “I texted her, but she hasn’t answered.”
“Could you try again now?” Cassidy asked, feeling her pulse accelerate.
Lars dug out his phone and typed something quickly, then slid the device into his back pocket.
“So had you . . . made plans to stick together?” Cassidy asked, hoping this wasn’t a delicate subject.
Lars took another drag, watching her with suspicion as the tip of his cigarette glowed orange-red. “No,” he said.
“Where did you meet? In Bend?” Cassidy suspected not, but waited for him to answer.
Lars shook his head. “I gave her a ride there.”
“From Bigg’s Junction?”
His eyes clouded. “No,” he said, looking uneasy. Then, he shot Dutch a look, who gave him a nod. “It’s cool,” Dutch said.
Cassidy tried to be patient but couldn’t keep the scowl from her lips. She had no tolerance for biker code bullshit.
Lars took another drag from his cigarette, then flicked the end, scowling at the ground as the ashes jumped. “There’s a rest area on the run, before Bend.” His eyes flicked to hers, then away. “You know those notices posted on the walls at places like that? The ones with hotlines for people being forced to travel against their will?”
Cassidy inhaled a sharp breath. Of course, she knew. She nodded.
“Well, I always thought, ‘what good would that do’?” He ducked his head, shook it side to side, his shoulders slumping. “I mean, if someone could make a call, wouldn’t they do so already?” He sighed, smoothing the shiny leather seat of his bike. “So, I pulled into the rest area, and I see this girl. Long hair. Short shorts.” His eyes flicked between Dutch and Cassidy. “And she’s walking away from the row of cars, fast. I mean, she looked like she was going to walk right down the highway.” He swallowed. “I see this big guy catch up with her, tries to grab her arm.”
Cassidy felt her pulse pop into her temples. Next to her, Dutch shifted his weight.
“Did you say something to him?” Cassidy asked.
“Yeah,” Lars said, his eyes flashing. “He was giving her that old line, ‘cash, grass, or ass, nobody rides for free.’”
Cassidy looked sideways at Dutch. “Is that for real?” she asked him.
Dutch and Lars exchanged a glance.
“Depends on the ride,” Dutch finally said, his lips forming a shrewd grin.
“Right,” Lars said. “I told him I’d pay him.” He looked at Cassidy, his eyes widening. “I mean, it was that or call the cops.”
“How much did he want?” Dutch asked.
“A hundred bucks,” Lars replied, his nostrils flaring. “At that time I had no idea how far they’d come, so I paid it. If I’d known it was only a hundred miles, I would have given him a twenty and told him to go fuck himself.”
“You should have told him that anyway,” Dutch said.
Lars shook his head. Cassidy studied him: he was tall, but wasn’t exactly brawl material. If the other guy was bigger, maybe the easy way had been a better choice.
“So, after, she looks at me, and I see that’s she’s still terrified. I don’t know what happened with the other guy.” He paused. “But I told her that I couldn’t leave her there.” His face goes stoic. “I mean, there’s absolutely nothing out there. Who knows what kind of other wackos would try to pick her up. Fuck knows I wouldn’t want her hitchhiking on that highway.” He shook his head.
“So you convinced her to come with you,” Cassidy said.
“Yeah.”
“You’d essentially paid for her, right?” Cassidy said, feeling her chest flutter with nerves, knowing the road she was taking with this line of questioning was likely to get her in trouble with one or both of them. But she had to know. “What did you want in return?”
Lars’s hazel eyes darkened, changing his boyish expression to something much fiercer. “Nothing,” he said. “I told her I’d take her to the nearest police station, if she wanted.”
“And you just happened to have an extra helmet?” Cassidy asked, nodding at the second, smaller helmet hanging off the back of his bike.
His brooding look changed, a shy smile lightening his features. “Of course. I would never take on a featherweight without one.”
Featherweight? Cassidy thought, frowning.
“She wanted off in Bend.” He shrugged. “She thanked me, and then I went my way, and she went hers.”
Cassidy paused to think this through. “So how did you end up together here?” Then, she realized the chain of events. “Were you the one she called in Bend?”
Lars exhaled a long stream of white smoke and looked at her again, his eyes saying how did you know? “I got a text. I was staying at the Bunk and Brew. Told her to join me there.”
Cassidy felt the thrill of discovery. As a scientist, the moment when the pattern emerged from the data, or an observation struck home, it was the best feeling in the world. It made all the sacrifices, the late nights, the planning, worth it. Cassidy imagined Izzy arriving at Lars’s room after her night with Charlie. She pictured a bed, darkness. “I’ve talked with the friend she was with before she called you. Apparently, she was very upset. Did she talk about it?”
“Nope. She wanted to get high. I had some dope, so we did that.”
Cassidy knew from Pete’s street terminology that dope meant heroin. A sensation like wildfire seared through her, and before she knew what she was doing, her fists were flying at Lars.
“How could you?” she cried, her hits landing on his firm chest.
“Whoa!” Cassidy heard from behind her seconds before strong hands pulled her back.
“Let me go!” Cassidy said, struggling with everything she had. How could Lars do this to Izzy? She had already exposed herself to so much risk on this hell-bound journey, and now this?
Lars had his hands up, the cigarette emitting a thin line of smoke into the air. He blinked his surprised at her, then Dutch.
The idea of Izzy letting Lars inject her was simply too much. Too close to the memory that replayed in her mind every day.
“Come on, now, take it easy,” Dutch said as Cassidy writhed and fought him, his arms wrapped around her middle, holding her tight. It took only seconds, but Cassidy’s rational brain caught up, and she stopped struggling. When he felt her relax, he released her.
Cassidy tried to catch her breath, and refocus her mind. She shot Dutch a warning look to stay back from her. “Please tell me you didn’t sleep with her,” she asked Lars, bracing herself for the answer.
Lars’s gaze swept past her, settling on some point Cassidy couldn’t see. Around them, she could hear the sounds of people stirring: zippers sliding open, the scuffing of boots on the dry ground, low voices.
Cassidy realized that Lars was not going to answer. She released the tight breath packed deep in her lungs. “So, you guys rode here, and partied some more?”
“There was a lot to see. Old friends, things like that.”
“She stuck with you all afternoon, all night?”
“Mostly. I hung out with my club.” He indicated the lumps of bedrolls scattered nearby.
“Could she have taken off with someone from your club?”
“Nah,” Dutch interrupted. “Biker’s code.” He looked around. “Plus, they’re all here.”
Lars ran a hand through his hair again.
“Any idea where she would have gone?” Cassidy asked.
Lars shook his head, his lips tight.
“Where were you headed next?” she asked, watching him curiously.
He looked surprised. “Medford. I gotta work tomorrow.”
“Did Izzy know this?”
Lars frowned. “Not sure it came up.”
“Do you think that someone . . . ” Cassidy began, catching both of their eyes “ . . . could have taken her?” She looked around, trying to imagine the scene from the night before. Across from the parking lot stood a stage. It looked junky and sad in the daylight, with its faded boards and rickety lighting. “Or could that guy from the rest area have tracked her down?”
Lars frowned. “He drove a yellow VW bus. I haven’t seen it.”
“Different crowd,” Dutch said, tilting his head, as if thinking.
“So, you’ve rescued her twice,” Cassidy said, “and she doesn’t even say goodbye? Thanks?”
Lars poked out his bottom lip for an instant, like a pout from a little boy, but then it was gone and she was once again looking at a grown man with glassy, hazel-colored eyes. “She didn’t owe me anything.”
“Who else would have seen her go?” Cassidy asked, switching tactics.
“Anyone,” Lars said, shrugging. “It was dark by then, though.”
“Has she texted you back?” Cassidy asked.
Lars checked his phone, then shook his head.
“So,” Dutch said, swiveling to her just enough that she caught the shrewd sparkle in his eye. “Do oceanographers drink coffee?”
Seventeen
Cassidy sat across from Dutch at a metal picnic table outside a food vendor’s stall, sipping hot coffee from a cup crafted from some kind of plant matter. It said so on the sign, but she hadn’t taken the time to read the details.
“What’s finding this girl to you, anyway?” Dutch sa
id.
Cassidy knew he was wondering about her outburst. Though she certainly would never share the reasons behind her reaction with him, she wondered if she would ever be able to talk about it with anyone besides Jay.
“You’re a long way from home now.”
Not really, she wanted to say, but held it back. “I care about her,” she said, surprised that of everything she could have said, this is what came out of her mouth. Of course, it was true, but Cassidy had other reasons to find Izzy.
Dutch seemed to read her mind. “Sure, ya do,” he said easily. “And?”
Cassidy stared into her coffee. “Ultimately, I’m responsible for her.” She took a sip and wriggled her toes, which were gritty from the field’s silty dirt that she’d picked up while searching high and low through the fairgrounds for signs of Izzy. Once there were more people awake, she would circle once more and ask campers if they’d seen her.
She told Dutch about the field camp van ride and tracing Izzy to Bend, though left out Preston Ford.
“I think she might be out of money,” Cassidy said. “I don’t think she planned to be gone this long.”
“Does she have any family or friends she might be headed towards?” Dutch sat back a little and crossed his biceps. “I mean, if you look at her route so far, it’s pretty much due south. Sacramento? San Francisco? L.A?”
“Her friend disappeared last spring,” Cassidy said. “One of the people I spoke with thinks maybe she was talking to her.”
Dutch sipped his coffee.
“It’s possible, but I don’t know where she is, either.”
“How about family?” Dutch asked.
“Her dad’s in L.A.,” Cassidy said.
Dutch made a an “aha” with his intense blue eyes.
Cassidy shook her head. “Maybe,” she said, even though she didn’t believe this was Izzy’s destination.
“Is her mom in L.A. too?”
“No idea,” Cassidy said. “I only know what one of her friends told me, that she’s on her own. I guess Izzy worries about her.”