The Second Son

by Martin Jay Weiss

  It was more in his brother’s nature to shut him out than to play Judas, but not Brutus. The more Ethan thought about it, the idea of Jack running away with Brooke seemed more and more unlikely. It wasn’t in his DNA, and it was out of character for Brooke, too.

  She had always frowned upon cheaters. Her father had been unfaithful to her mother, which she referred to as his one tragic flaw—one of the few details she shared with Ethan about her family. She would joke about it and say that she forgave her father because he was French, but his infidelities definitely bothered her. She once asked Ethan why he thought men cheat. He knew at the time that it was a test, her probing him to see how he answered. He told her that he once heard that it was because they feared death.

  “Women fear death just as much,” she countered.

  “But men are mostly hunters,” he tried, regretting immediately that he was defending an undefendable gender. “Their competitive nature and all—”

  “That’s horrible,” she said, tears welling up. “You will surely cheat on me then.”

  “I could never cheat on you for two reasons,” he told her. “One, you’d know immediately, and two, I would never risk losing you.”

  She’d seemed pleased with his answer, or so he had thought.

  She’d seemed pleased with their life together, too, but now she was gone.

  Just then, Ethan saw lights flashing ahead. Several emergency vehicles were stacked on the side of the road. As he drew closer, he could see a crane fishing for a car that had crashed through the barrier and plummeted over the hard-edged, jagged cliffs, and down to the ink-black sea.

  He pulled over and glanced at the deadly drop over the ledge. It was too dark to make out any details. His stomach tightened in the way it did when he knew something bad had happened to his brother, and the worst possible thoughts ran through his head, thoughts that suddenly made an affair seem trite.

  An officer was positioned on the road, guarding the taped-off area and waving on slowing lookie-loos. The moment Ethan got out of his car, the officer shouted, “Get back in your vehicle, sir.”

  “Can you just tell me what kind of car went over, Officer?” Ethan shouted back, imagining Jack and Brooke floating away in the rough sea, together, their unfathomable betrayal and secrets drifting away.

  “No. Back in your vehicle. Keep moving on.”

  “I’m looking for some people who might be heading up this way and I haven’t been able to get through.”

  “You’re looking for what?”

  Their voices were muted by the rain. Ethan took a few steps forward and tried to explain, “I haven’t been able to get through to them on the phone and I just want to make sure—”

  “This is an investigation, sir. I need you to get back to your vehicle.”

  The officer didn’t want to leave his post but was getting irritated. Ethan knew the officer wouldn’t let him through, so he waved, as if thanking the officer for permission, and headed for the crushed metal barrier opening.

  The officer shouted, “Don’t even think about it!”

  By the time the officer waited for a passing car, Ethan had already disappeared into the pitch-black muddy slope. The officer grabbed his walkie-talkie and warned the officers below. “Civilian approaching!”

  Another voice echoed a complaint, but it was too late. Ethan was already upon them.

  CHAPTER 11

  Detective Gregory Ramsey met Ethan on the egress, his stalwart disposition under sanctioned rain gear, one hand on his firearm. People who stopped were usually well-meaning civilians, but you never know.

  Ethan showed his hands with a peacemaking wave. “Good evening, sir…I tried telling the officer up there…I’m looking for…My brother is moving from Los Angeles to San Francisco and I haven’t been able to get a hold of him. I saw the emergency vehicles…”

  “You’re not supposed to be down here,” Ramsey told him.

  “I know, but—”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ethan. Ethan Stone. My brother’s name is Jack—”

  “We haven’t recovered any bodies yet,” Ramsey told him. “The tides are strong and it’s dark. Maybe we’ll know more when the sun comes up.”

  “Was there anything of theirs in the trunk?”

  Ramsey looked at Ethan curiously. “You said you were looking for your brother, what makes you think there’s more than one person?”

  “My girlfriend might be with him,” Ethan tried to explain. “They both left unexpectedly last week—”

  “Last week?” Ramsey cut him off. “This car went over tonight.”

  “But there’s a possibility that they had been staying at Dancing Rabbit, down the road, and I just thought the worst, as you can imagine—”

  Ramsey’s face tensed. “Did you go there, to Dancing Rabbit?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “And they wouldn’t tell me if they were there or not. They have a privacy policy.”

  Ramsey shook his head as if he already knew.

  Big Sur had very few intentional crimes. Most residents were wealthy owners of second homes. The occasional need for detective work usually came from transients or tourists or the rare suicide. Accidents like this were common, given the many hairpin turns on Highway 1, the only road that traverses through the five-mile stretch. Whenever it rained heavily, like it had that night, Ramsey was never surprised to be awakened and sent out to investigate. It was always tragic, and he rarely suspected foul play.

  Until lately.

  The area had had an unusual amount of missing persons and it was getting national attention, not the kind Ramsey wanted to end his career with.

  “We’ve recovered two suitcases,” Ramsey told Ethan. “We’re going through the contents now. Might as well take a look, since you’re here…Follow me.”

  Ramsey had been on the Big Sur force for eighteen years, and hoped that this would be his last. His dark, leathery skin was a reminder of his youth growing up on the beaches near San Diego; his thick skin was a memento of his early career at the Los Angeles Police Department where he was assigned to drug trafficking, robbery, homicide, burglary, prostitution, and theft extortion in South Central. With two stab wounds and three bullet removals to show for those eleven years of survival, he was transferred to Big Sur partly for his exemplary service, but mostly to prevent him from getting popped by relatives of the dozen Bloods and Crips he’d put away in the nineties.

  Ramsey led Ethan toward a tarp around the bend where they were shielding the evidence from the downpour.

  Detective Johnson, a weathered, balding, stocky fireplug, wearing the same commissioned rain gear, glanced up at Ethan.

  “This is Ethan Stone,” Ramsey explained. “Says his brother and girlfriend might have been heading up north. Let’s see if he can ID the cases.”

  Johnson sneered, one hand on top of a dark blue suitcase, the other over a red one. “A bit early in our investigation for that, don’t you think?”

  “He says his brother and girlfriend may have been staying at Dancing Rabbit,” Ramsey said, his head dipped with a telling nod.

  Johnson’s face soured the way Ramsey’s had when Ethan first mentioned Dancing Rabbit.

  Ramsey and Johnson had been partners for five years at the Los Angeles Police Department, and their entire stretch in Big Sur. Whereas Ramsey was worried about finishing his decorated career on a high note, Johnson was more focused on staying safe and protecting his pension, always cautious about every protocol. Johnson begrudgingly opened the dark blue suitcase. It was packed with men’s clothes.

  Ethan sifted through a stack of neatly folded shirts and shook his head.

  Ramsey said, “By the look on your face, those are not your brother’s clothes.”

  “Definitely not,” Ethan said, relieved.

 
“Open the other one,” Ramsey told Johnson.

  Johnson glared up at his partner, quizzically.

  “Just to rule it out,” Ramsey said.

  Johnson opened the red suitcase. It was stuffed with a woman’s belongings. Ethan reached inside and pulled out an African Dashiki. “This is Anna’s.”

  “Is Anna your girlfriend?” Ramsey asked.

  “No, Anna Gopnik is a lady I met at Dancing Rabbit last year, and I remember this Dashiki thing—”

  “Because it’s unforgettable,” Johnson said as he snatched the funky garment and put it back in the red suitcase. “Another rabbit hole,” he snapped at Ramsey.

  Ramsey put his hand up to quiet his partner.

  “Am I missing something here?” Ethan asked.

  “We’ve had more than our share of missing persons in this area lately,” Ramsey explained. “And they all seem to have some connection to Dancing Rabbit.”

  “Ergo, ‘the rabbit hole,’” Johnson said. “Notice anything strange when you stayed there?”

  “Other than denying people processed foods,” Ethan said, “I don’t think they do anything suspect.”

  “This is a virgin investigation site and he shouldn’t be down here,” Johnson reminded his partner.

  Ramsey nodded in agreement and said dismissively, “Careful on your way out, Mr. Stone.”

  Ethan started up the slope, and then turned back, “If it helps your virgin investigation, Anna Gopnik was in that car with a guy named Rufus Wall and they were on their way to Palo Alto.”

  Ramsey stepped forward. “How do you know that?”

  “Says so, under the blue suitcase, Detective.”

  Ramsey lifted the dark blue suitcase and there was a red nametag attached, bright as a neon light. It read: Rufus Wall. 1641 Chestnut Street, Palo Alta, CA.

  Ramsey pat Johnson on the back. “Nice work, Detective.”

  Johnson adjusted his thick geriatric glasses. “I didn’t see that—”

  “No you didn’t.” Ramsey laughed at his old partner and then shouted up at Ethan as he climbed back up the hillside, “Drive safe. Roads are a mess tonight.”

  —

  Ethan continued north on Highway 1. He pulled out his phone, and considered calling Brooke again, this time without a caller ID so she wouldn’t know it was him and might pick up.

  The detectives’ suspicion of Dancing Rabbit’s involvement in recent disappearances made Ethan even more concerned about Brooke. Checking on her well-being seemed more than justified now; her safety was more important than a broken promise, especially such a precarious one, a goodbye without an explanation, discussion, or at the very least, a warning.

  Just a Dear John note.

  Please respect my decision. There’s nothing you could do to change my mind. Please do not search for me, or contact me. I love you and always will. I am truly sorry…

  Ethan went ahead, blocked his caller ID, and made the call. It rang once, and he was hopeful; twice, and…he thought he heard her pick up as approaching headlights flashed in his eyes. It was a delivery truck taking the curve too fast and scraping the guardrail. Ethan swerved in time, but before he could counter his skid, another car came around the bend, also losing control, and forcing Ethan to avoid collision by turning off the shoulder of the road.

  His car bumped, dipped, tipped, and skidded down a steep weedy gradient. His head slammed into the steering wheel and he went unconscious. Luckily, the car had stopped just before it slammed into a huge oak tree. Unluckily, the ditch he had landed in was covered in overgrown shrubs, so that no one would see him when they drove by.

  The next thing Ethan saw was morning.

  CHAPTER 12

  Nine hours ahead in London, Clinton Godeaux was at a breakfast meeting in the Crowne Plaza Hotel. He was wearing a dark debonair Armani suit, Barker Black Ostrich shoes, and a Gucci tie. He always wore a Gucci tie and he didn’t want to get it soiled when the waiter served his plate of pan-fried pheasant with gooseberry sauce. He tucked the tie into his shirt and his phone pinged. At first he thought it was his office reminding him of his next meeting. But when he took a look, he realized it was much more significant, a message he had long been waiting for: an alarm from his Stalker account.

  The new Face Match Mode filled his request.

  His chest went aflutter, but he barely showed any physical reaction whatsoever. He just excused himself from the two executives he was sitting with, explained that he had a family emergency, and ordered his driver, who was waiting by the exit, to take him to Heathrow.

  Immediately.

  Two days of relentless rain amidst pea soup made his commute from the city a nightmare. It had also delayed many flights, which he learned when he searched for the first flight to Northern California on his Skyscanner app. The next flight to San Francisco would be late in the evening, so he decided he would take an earlier flight to Los Angeles instead. He’d be able to take care of a problem with his company in Santa Monica first, and then head up the coast to deal with his Stalker match. Kill two birds with one stone, as they say.

  His driver dropped him off at the International terminal and he headed for the gate. He laid down his Passport on the counter like he were displaying a royal flush, and told the attendant his seat preference, as if he were ordering a Chateaubriand dinner from a waiter. “I’ll have a window seat. Close to the front. Next to no one. Happy to pay for the empty seat.”

  “We’re completely full in first class,” the attendant told him. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  He cracked open his passport to show three £100 bills dangling out, and added, “Any window will do.”

  The attendant took the bait and searched her computer. “Let me double-check, just to be certain.”

  “Of course.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice, “If you don’t mind my saying so, that’s a beautiful écharpe you’re wearing,” always the mot juste.

  The attendant blushed. “I think something just opened up.”

  On his way to the gate, he phoned the bounty hunter he had on payroll in the Bay Area named Ace and gave him specific instructions.

  The day of reckoning had finally come.

  CHAPTER 13

  Ethan’s awoke to the sound of his Marimba ringtone.

  Ethan knew it was very early in the morning because he could see the ginger blush of sun making its way over the horizon. He rubbed his aching head and felt a swelling bump that wouldn’t go away anytime soon, and spied his phone on the passenger’s side floor. He reached for it, remembering the moment before the accident when he had been calling Brooke, and answered with a raspy, but hopeful, “H’llo?”

  “You want the good news or the bad, Gov?”

  Ethan sat up and grunted. It was Bailey and he sounded cheerful. Then again, Ethan thought, he always did.

  “Okay,” Bailey began, first the good: “Our Face Match Mode seems to be working just fine—”

  “You got a match on Brooke?”

  “Two, actually.”

  Ethan sat up and rubbed his temples. “Tell me.”

  “The first one came from the DMV. She got a driver’s license at Vallejo DMV office yesterday. Didn’t you say that she couldn’t drive?”

  “I said she didn’t want to drive. Where’s Vallejo?”

  “Near Napa.”

  “What’s the bad news?”

  Bailey took a long deep breath before he told him: “The second match came from the picture she filed at the Recorder County Clerk in Napa yesterday, late afternoon.”

  “’The picture she filed’?”

  “For a marriage license.”

  Ethan grunted again, this time like he was in real agony. “She’s not wasting any time.”

  “Sorry, Gov.”

  “Is she marrying my brother?”

  “Don’t know…maybe.�
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  “Either she is or she isn’t—”

  “She’s marrying a guy named Benjamin Carver,” Bailey told him.

  Ethan took a moment. “I don’t know who that is.”

  “Neither do I and I think that’s on purpose,” Bailey explained. “Just like Brooke, this Benjamin Carver has a questionable digital footprint. I found his birth certificate. He was born in Simi Valley, California, and would be twenty-nine years old now. He hasn’t filed a tax return in a dozen years. No home. No job. He’s likely a vagrant. A ghost. Get my drift?”

  “You think he’s also using a stolen identity?”

  “Looks that way. That’s why I thought that it could be your brother. Same age. No digital trail so he could appear out of nowhere and no one would know anything about him.”

  There was a long silence while Ethan absorbed the new information.

  “Why don’t you meet me at Bulletproof Coffee on Main? We can grab a little joe and—”

  “Can’t,” Ethan told him, “I’m up in Big Sur.”