“I don’t know. I drove out here this morning, like we talked about, and he’s not here. He didn’t leave me a note or anything; he just . . . he’s gone.”
“He didn’t say anything to you yesterday about going someplace else?”
“No, no. I don’t understand why he’d leave here. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“Where are you?”
“At the camp. I’m on my cell.”
“What camp?”
“Oh, right, you don’t know. Old migrant workers’ camp on the Hammond farm. It hasn’t been used for years.”
“How do I get there?”
“It’s about three miles from town. More east than south.” She gave him directions, complicated enough so that he had to write them down.
“Stay there and wait for me. I’ll make it as quick as I can.”
Almost ten by his watch. He’d been up and dressed for three hours, sitting in the motel room for the last hour waiting for Sandra Parnell to call. There was enough of the headache left for him to be aware of it, but none of the aftereffects Dr. Yeng had warned him about. The swelling was down on his ear, and when he put on a new bandage from his first-aid kit the stitched wound on his temple hadn’t shown any signs of infection. His appetite had been good this morning, even if the coffee shop food wasn’t. He was ready to be out and on the move again.
It took him nearly half an hour to find the migrant workers’ camp. Well out in the country, off a hardpan side road, surrounded by orchards and cattle graze, all flatland except for a couple of rocky hillocks in one of the fields, and no farm buildings in sight. Ghost camp. Dozen or so crumbling wood and cinder-block shacks, the single-room type, doorless, the glass long gone from their windows. Two small, rusted Quonset huts, also without doors or windows, and the remains of an ancient Airstream trailer. Built along a narrow stream, summer-dry now, shaded by willows and cottonwoods and overgrown with weeds, dead grass, clumps of manzanita. The sun, already hot in the eastern sky, gave it all the look of a mass of tinder lighted by a match flame.
Sandra Parnell’s Chrysler was drawn in under one of the willows, so that it couldn’t be seen until you came in off the side road; rows of fruit trees hid the camp from the county blacktop beyond. She was waiting beside the car, smoking. She dropped the butt and ground it out quickly under the heel of her flip-flop as he pulled up nearby.
The gathering heat folded around him when he got out. The girl hurried over, bringing the faint smell of marijuana along with her. The joint hadn’t been her first; the glaze on her eyes told him that. Not cheap, just young and stupid. However many she’d smoked, they’d taken the edge off her anxiety. She stood slack shouldered, the way people do when there has been an easing of tension.
“I looked everywhere,” she said. “There’s just no sign of him or his car.”
“Where was he holed up? One of the shacks?”
“No, the trailer.”
The weeds and dry grass were littered with discarded belongings, splintered doors, bent sheet-metal panels, a rusted set of box springs. Runyon picked his way around and through them to the Airstream skeleton. Its door was shut. When he pulled it open, trapped heat heavy with the stink of dust and decay, fast food and marijuana, emptied out at him. He put his head inside, then the rest of his body, breathing through his mouth.
Sunlight slanting in through one of the broken windows showed him a gutted interior, the floor overlain with debris, rodent turds, a dozen or so roach butts smoked down to nubbins. Empty except for an old, worn sleeping bag and the leavings of a recent McDonald’s meal. Both brought by the girl, probably.
He kicked around in there for a minute or so. The only other thing that caught his eye was a torn piece of colored paper, squared off on two sides. He picked it up. Some kind of label, blank and glue-smooth on one side. A caked, sticky blob adhered to the colored side, obscuring a design; all he could make out was what looked like a tree and rubbed and smeared lettering that seemed to be part of a word or name: RipeO. It didn’t look as though it had been there long. Brought in on the bottom of a shoe, maybe, and pulled or scraped off.
He took it outside with him, showed it to Sandra. “This mean anything to you?”
She blinked at it. “No. What is it?”
“Probably nothing.” But he pocketed it anyway. “What kind of car does Jerry drive?” he asked her.
“ ‘Fifty-seven Impala. Dark blue, tuck-and-roll upholstery.”
“Easy to spot.”
“Yes. Why would he go driving around?”
Not thinking straight. Running scared. Or maybe he had unfinished business somewhere. “Last time you saw him was when?”
“Yesterday afternoon. About five.”
“He was holed up here since Friday night?”
“Yes.”
“Where was he all that day? Why didn’t he go home when he was supposed to?”
Her glazed eyes shifted away from his. “I don’t know.”
“Sure you do. Last night you said you couldn’t tell me. That was last night; this is today. Where was he on Friday?”
“It . . . doesn’t have anything to do with what happened to Manuel. Or the fires or any of that.”
“Where was he, Sandra?”
She chewed her lip, making up her mind whether or not to answer. “He . . . oh, all right. He was in Lost Bar.”
“Where’s that?”
“Mountains up by Weaverville.”
“Doing what?”
“Buying some grass. There’s a guy has a pot farm up there.”
“How big a buy?”
“You won’t tell anybody about this, will you?”
“Not if I don’t have to. Answer the question. How big a buy?”
“Half a kilo.”
“For resale?”
“No! Just for, you know, me and a few friends.”
“Where did he get the money?”
“Saved some from his job. And I gave him some.”
“Anybody else?”
“Uh . . . Bob Varley.”
“Who’s he?”
“Just a guy Jerry hangs out with. He works at the Gasco station out by the freeway.”
“Big kid, red hair, not too bright?”
“Yeah, that’s Bob.”
“The owner of this pot farm—what’s his name?”
“Gus something. Funny last name. German, I think.”
“How well does Jerry know him?”
“Just to buy grass from, that’s all.”
“How much grass? How often?”
“Every few months, whenever we run out.” She ran her tongue over her lips again. “We’re not druggies,” she said defensively. “We don’t get high that often, just sometimes on weekends, you know?”
“You’re stoned now,” Runyon said.
“Oh God, I couldn’t help it. I’m so scared . . . I needed something . . . You won’t tell anybody?”
“Show me where Jerry had his car hidden.”
She led him back into the woods along the creek bank. The dry grass was mashed down in there in parallel tracks. Manzanita and scrub grew thickly, some of the branches and smaller bushes twisted and broken. Runyon prowled the area, hunting for foreign objects. All he found was a couple of rusted tin cans and a scatter of used condoms.
He asked, “Did you come out here with him on Friday night?”
“No.”
“But you saw him that night. Where? What time?”
“At my house—my folks were out. After ten, after he got back from Lost Bar.”
“Why was he so late getting back?”
“He had some trouble up there.”
“What kind of kind of trouble? With Gus?”
“No, something with his car. He had to get it fixed at the garage.”
Runyon asked, “Why did he go to you instead of home?”
“We were supposed to meet at five and he knew I’d be worried.”
“So were his parents. He could’ve calle
d them. Or you.”
“He doesn’t have a cell. He doesn’t like to talk on the phone.”
“But it was all right that his parents were worried.”
“I don’t know, I guess he just didn’t think . . .”
“You tell him what happened at the farm?”
She nodded. “If he’d got to my house five minutes earlier, Kelso would’ve caught him.”
“Is that how you found out, from Kelso?”
“Yeah. He came around looking for Jerry. Made it real plain he thought Jerry was guilty.”
“So Jerry panicked and decided to hide out here. For how long?”
“He wasn’t thinking that far ahead. He just didn’t want to be arrested for something he didn’t do. And this was the only place he could think of where nobody’d think to look—” She broke off, her body stiffening, her head craned forward. “Shit! Somebody’s coming!”
Runyon heard the engine sound. Through the rows of fruit trees he had glimpses of the car barreling down the side road at a high rate of speed. Sunlight glinted off the row of unlit flashers across its roof as it swerved in toward the camp, outlined the sheriff’s department insignia on the side door.
“Kelso, it’s Kelso!” The girl clutched at Runyon’s arm; her nails were as sharp as claws. “What’re we going to do?”
“Nothing. You just be quiet, let me do the talking.”
“But he—”
“Quiet, I said.”
He took her arm, steered her back into the camp. The cruiser bucked to a stop behind Runyon’s Ford. Kelso was alone; he came out fast, unsheathing his weapon, moving ahead with it in his hand. Big, tough, his face flushed, his stride hard as if he were stomping something with each step. A cowboy, all right. Runyon stopped himself and Sandra next to one of the shacks, let Kelso come to them.
“What the devil are you doing here, Runyon?”
“Same thing you are. Looking for Jerry Belsize.”
“Is that so? Where is he?”
“Gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?” Then, to the girl, “Where is he, Sandy?”
She was coming down off her high; she stood tense and frightened. “I don’t know. I swear I don’t.”
“But you knew he was here. Knew it when I talked to you Friday night.”
“No—”
“Yes, by God.” Kelso made another visual sweep of the area, then jammed his weapon back into its holster. His fury was a tangible thing; you could see it in the play of muscles in his face, the blade-edge cords in his neck. “You, Runyon. How’d you know to come out here?”
“Sandra asked me to come.”
“Oh, she did? What for?”
“Talk to Jerry, try to convince him to come in voluntarily.”
Kelso didn’t like that. “Why you?”
“Look at her. She’s terrified of you.”
“She has good reason to be, harboring a fugitive.”
“That’s not exactly right,” Runyon said mildly. “Belsize isn’t a fugitive; he’s only wanted for questioning. Unless some new evidence has turned up to change his status.”
Kelso didn’t respond. He glared at the girl. “You shouldn’t have lied to me,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kelso, honest, but Jerry didn’t set those fires, he didn’t kill anybody, he—”
“He’s guilty as sin.”
Runyon said, “Either way, guilty or innocent, he’s just as afraid of you as she is.”
“What do you know about it? You don’t know squat.”
“If you say so.”
“I say so. You should’ve reported it when the girl told you about this place. Did your duty instead of hotfooting it out here, sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“Maybe so.”
“No maybes about it. I ought to report you for withholding information in a criminal case.”
“Go ahead. But I told you why I came. If Jerry hadn’t listened to me, I’d’ve taken him to Rinniak anyway.”
“That’s what you say.”
“It’s the truth. Ask Sandra.”
“That’s right,” she said. “He told me that before he—”
“Shut up, girl. You speak when you’re spoken to. I haven’t made up my mind what I’m going to do about you yet.”
Runyon said, “Can I ask you a question, Deputy?”
“I don’t have to answer questions from you.”
“How’d you know to come out here?”
There was a heavy silence before the deputy said, clipping the words, “Anonymous phone call.”
Sandra sucked in her breath. “Oh God. Was it a man or a woman?”
“What difference does that make?”
“It’s a reasonable question,” Runyon said.
“Disguised voice, not that it’s any more your business than hers.”
He returned the deputy’s hard stare without blinking. Before long the stare moved back to the girl. She shrank under it, looking down and away. The acrid marijuana fumes had dissipated, but her eyes still had the glaze. Kelso didn’t seem to notice. Too wrapped up in his anger and frustration.
“Stay here, both of you,” he said finally. “Don’t go anywhere.” He hitched up his Sam Browne belt, swung away from them to prowl the camp.
When he was out of earshot, Runyon said to the girl, “Did you tell anybody besides me about Jerry being here?”
“No. Nobody, I swear.”
“How about Friday night? Were you alone when Jerry showed up?”
She nodded. “He was sure nobody followed him. How could anyone else have known?”
Question begging an answer. He said, “You have any more pot on you or in your car?”
“Pot?” She whispered it, glancing furtively toward where Kelso was poking around the rusted trailer. “No.”
“If you do and he finds it, he’ll make it hard on you.”
“I know. But I don’t have any more.”
“If you’re smart, you’ll keep it that way.”
Kelso vanished inside the trailer. He didn’t stay long. When he came out he made straight to where Runyon and the girl waited, a tight little satisfied smile on his mouth. “Marijuana butts in there, plenty of them. Drugs as well as arson and murder.”
Runyon said nothing. Neither did Sandra.
“Now he’s not just wanted for questioning,” Kelso said. “Now he’s wanted for possession and probable sale of marijuana.”
“Jerry never sold any grass!”
The deputy withered her with another of his stares. “You know where he went, girl, you’d better tell me right now.”
“I don’t, I swear to God.”
“You’d better pray for His mercy if you’re lying to me.”
Runyon said, “Why don’t you give her a break, Kelso?”
“Don’t try to tell me my business.” The deputy’s voice held a belligerent dare. “I don’t like it. I don’t like you. Keep sticking your oar in, I’ll lay an obstruction charge on you. You hear?”
“I hear.”
“All right then. Sandra, you get in your car and follow me back to town. Stay right behind me all the way.”
“Oh shit, Mr. Kelso, you’re not arresting me?”
“Watch your mouth. I don’t stand for foul language from you or any other kid. You just do what I tell you.”
“But I don’t know anything!”
“Get in your car. Now.”
The girl threw Runyon an anguished look of appeal. He took it stoically; there was nothing he could do. In spite of the heat, she folded her arms across her breasts as if she were suddenly chilled, slunk away to the Chrysler.
Kelso poked a finger in Runyon’s direction, stopping it just short of his chest. “I’ll be seeing you again. Count on it.”
Runyon didn’t trust himself to respond.
He stood watching Kelso back his cruiser around, Sandra maneuver her Chrysler into position behind it. She glanced over at him again just before they pulled out, her face p
ale and sweat beaded. He gave her a thumbs-up gesture that she didn’t acknowledge. She had the fearful look of a prisoner awaiting sentence by a hanging judge.
10
Sunday mornings are quiet times in my household. We’re not churchgoers, but that doesn’t mean, no matter what the hard-core religious right would have you believe, that we lack spirituality or traditional family values. Organized religion is fine for some people; for others it’s restrictive and unnecessary. There’s a wryly funny and sage comment in an Agatha Christie film I saw once that pretty much sums up my position, and Kerry’s. One of the characters in the film tells Miss Marple that an odd young man of her acquaintance was once arrested for exposing himself in St. Paul’s Cathedral. After a thoughtful moment, Miss Marple replies, “Well, we all worship in our own way.”
I got up first and cooked breakfast, and Emily and I spent some quality time together, talking about this and that, things that matter to eleven-year-old girls and their doting adoptive fathers, while Kerry had her breakfast in bed and read everything in the Sunday paper except the ads. She doesn’t share my anti-news philosophy. Her attitude is the generally accepted one that the better informed you are, the better able you are to cope. We’ve had any number of discussions on the subject, my stance being the generally unaccepted one that the better informed you are, the more frustrated and crazy you’re liable to become. Unless you’re a dedicated activist, there’s damn little you can do about such matters as global terrorism, indefensible wars on foreign soil and escalating body counts, widespread political corruption, drug-related gang violence, and all the other insanities that make up the daily news. Cast your vote, contribute to appropriate causes, raise your public voice now and then, try to make a difference in small, work-related ways, and hope for the best—that’s about it. You don’t need daily details of barbarism and polarized op-ed columns and strings of depressing statistics to do any of those things. One man’s opinion. We all worship in our own way and we all get through the best way we can.
Emily and I cleaned up the kitchen, after which she went into her room to commune with her iPod and I shut myself inside Kerry’s office to find out if Celeste Ogden was available. After Tamara’s call last night, and her report on what she’d found in Nancy Mathias’s diary, I agreed that we were justified in pursuing an investigation. Up to a point. Cases like this, as I’d tried to tell Mrs. Ogden on Friday, are tricky. Unless you turn up incontrovertible evidence that a crime has been committed, there’s only so much you can do. We’d take it one step at a time, see what developed. If nothing did, we’d bow out whether the client liked it or not.
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