Mission Canyon

by Meg Gardiner

  Now Adam Sandoval was taking a turn on watch. I left him in the motel room looking grimly refreshed, working through coffee and a box of his brother’s mementos.

  So, tired and crabby, I walked into the conference room to make my debut as a teacher. I wet my thumb before passing out a sheet of lecture points. Twelve people sat around the table, staring at me. They were a mix: women, men, tie-dye, pinstripes, slickness, reticence, looking for enlightenment, or at least craft, listening and interrupting and taking notes as I talked about story structure. To my surprise, I enjoyed it.

  No, I loved it. At the end of two hours I found myself hoarse but invigorated. I could get used to this, I thought.

  Gathering up my things, I noticed two students lingering in the doorway, a couple in their forties. The man offered his hand.

  ‘‘Tim North. Excellent seminar.’’

  He had an English accent and a brisk handshake. He was trim, with cool eyes and a mutt’s face. From his carriage, I took him to be ex-military.

  I hoisted my backpack over my shoulder. ‘‘I’m glad you enjoyed it. You didn’t say a word during the session. ’’

  ‘‘Observing and assimilating,’’ North said.

  He was tightly wound, as if he were ready to spring. His accent was broad, his features . . . malleable. I got the feeling that he wasn’t among the usual aspirants.

  He gestured to the woman. ‘‘My wife, Jakarta Rivera.’’

  Her smile gleamed. ‘‘It was everything we hoped it would be.’’

  Her voice was patently made in the USA. She was African-American, more stylishly dressed than the average Santa Barbaran, and had a ballerina’s physique: deceptive fragility covering pure muscle. She looked as sleek as a Maserati.

  She reached into her bag for a copy of my novel Lithium Sunset. ‘‘We’re fans.’’

  ‘‘I’m flattered.’’

  I led them through the door. I sensed that they wanted something—for me to read their screenplay, or to give them my agent’s name. We stepped onto a patio, where coffee and snacks were set up. The sun was intense. The tile floor radiated heat, and the potted plants throbbed. I took a peach from the snack table.

  ‘‘We have a proposal for you,’’ North said, and looked at his wife. ‘‘Jax?’’

  She was selecting an apple, examining it for bruises. The diamond in her engagement ring looked as big as the grapes on the table. It matched the stud earrings she wore, and the solitaire stone in her necklace, all shatteringly brilliant.

  She said, ‘‘We want to hire you.’’

  Halfway through biting into the peach, I stopped. ‘‘To do what?’’

  ‘‘To ghostwrite our memoirs.’’

  This was not what I was expecting, and she knew it. She regarded me with the cool and intense gaze of a cat. I felt pinned.

  North said, ‘‘We’ll pay you far more than you’re earning in your current publishing contract.’’

  ‘‘Now I am truly flattered,’’ I said. ‘‘But I have no experience as a ghostwriter.’’

  Rivera said, ‘‘You do journalism, though. You know how to interview people, and how to portray them insightfully. ’’

  North said, ‘‘And frankly, you know how to write about men. A bloke wouldn’t mind having you put his thoughts on paper.’’

  Rivera said, ‘‘And we do know a bit about you. We like what we’ve seen.’’

  ‘‘What’s that?’’

  North said, ‘‘You stood up to that religious terror group last year. Really, you bloody well sorted them out. That impressed us.’’

  Disquiet wriggled up my back. ‘‘I don’t regard that as résumé material.’’

  His wife said, ‘‘Honey, you should.’’

  I looked at her. ‘‘Who are you?’’

  North said, ‘‘Miss Delaney, we wish to engage you to write our memoirs. We will pay you a hell of a lot of money to do so.’’

  My disquiet was turning to apprehension. ‘‘Don’t be cryptic. Tell me who you are and why I should spend one minute of my life writing a book about yours. What do you do?’’

  ‘‘We’re retired,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Sorry. Find yourself another girl.’’ I started walking away.

  ‘‘Wait,’’ Rivera said. ‘‘Tim didn’t tell you what business we’re retired from.’’

  She waited until I looked at her. Those feline eyes pinned me again.

  She said, ‘‘Espionage.’’

  Jesse wiped his hands on a napkin. ‘‘Say that again.’’

  ‘‘I laughed at her.’’

  ‘‘And walked away.’’

  ‘‘They were a joke,’’ I said. ‘‘I didn’t waste any more time on them.’’

  ‘‘Weird joke.’’ He drank his iced tea.

  ‘‘So what did Chris Ramseur say about the computer harassment?’’ I said.

  ‘‘He went into deep-thinker mode. He’ll investigate.’’

  The waitress bustled by, putting the check on the table as she passed. It was nine p.m., and the restaurant at the Holiday Inn was nearly empty.

  ‘‘How’s the lobster?’’ I said.

  Jesse clucked like a chicken.

  Around the corner in the banquet room, the Garcia family reunion was revving into high gear, with slide shows and laughter at the dessert buffet. In the cocktail lounge, a tenor turned up the vibrato on the Hammond organ.

  Jesse said, ‘‘If he sings ‘Memory’ one more time, I’m getting a flamethrower.’’

  I rubbed his hand. ‘‘I’m on duty now. Go home.’’

  He paid his $9.99 for the dinner and we left the restaurant. Outside, I kissed him good night, and put fifty cents in a vending machine for a Snickers. Feeling lonely at the thought of sleeping alone, I put in another fifty cents for a Payday.

  I was mulling the York Peppermint Patties when I saw Brand’s door swing open. My pulse jumped into fourth gear. He came out and I followed him to the parking lot. When he drove away in a gold rental car, I followed him.

  He drove through Santa Barbara to Montecito, eventually turning toward the beach and pulling in at the Biltmore, the grande dame of local hotels.

  At the entrance he handed his car keys to a valet. I parked on the street across from the seawall. The beach was dark. I heard breakers drumming onto the sand and saw the oil platforms offshore, lights winking in the salt air. Walking up the hotel driveway, I noted the preponderance of good tailoring on the people coming out the entrance. Brand would fit right in, wearing that cashmere jacket. I was wearing a faded Pendleton shirt of Jesse’s, and my cords had a hole in the knee. I inhaled some attitude and decided to pass myself off as an eccentric novelist. Or a lumberjack.

  I went through the door into burnished light and the scuff of Italian leather soles on terra-cotta tile. A jazz pianist was playing in a lounge where huge windows faced the ocean. I strolled in and sat down, attempting nonchalance, as though I were waiting for someone. Ernest Hemingway, possibly. I tried to look for Brand without seeming to look.

  ‘‘Hi, can I get you something to drink?’’

  The waitress had a zesty, gosh-life-is-great soprano. I ordered a Coke. She nodded and turned away, stopping for a man who was passing by.

  He had a slow stride and a face like a bowie knife, sharp and narrow. His blond hair fell in rings to his shoulders, but there was nothing feminine about him. With the black clothes and brown goatee, he looked like a rock star, or George Armstrong Custer. His eyes had a dark buzz, like black static. He held a longneck beer bottle in his hand.

  The waitress gave him space. It was as if he were emitting feedback, like a poorly grounded electric guitar. He headed to the far side of the room, where Franklin Brand sat in the corner holding a glass of whiskey.

  The blond sat down across from him. He slouched back, stretched his legs out, started talking. Brand put down his drink. As he listened, his posture stiffened.

  The pianist was gliding through a downhearted piece. No way could I catch the
ir words. Blondie seemed relaxed, crossing his legs, drinking his beer. Brand, however, looked as though a flaming dog turd had dropped in his lap. When he spoke his jaw was tight, and I could see his teeth.

  My Coke came. I drank, watching.

  The chair next to me scraped backward. I saw a jacket and checked shirt, knit tie. Waspish expression. Chris Ramseur sat down.

  ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ he said.

  ‘‘Watching Brand and his new dance partner. Lean back; you’re blocking my view.’’

  ‘‘What is wrong with you? Did you bump your head and start confusing your life with an episode of Charlie’s Angels?’’

  ‘‘Who’s Blondie?’’ I said.

  He bent toward me. ‘‘I know this is personal for you. But you need to go.’’

  ‘‘He and Brand aren’t hitting it off. I doubt they’re going to slow dance.’’

  Chris tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair and stared at me. ‘‘Have you ever considered a career in law enforcement?’’

  ‘‘Seriously?’’ I set down my Coke.

  ‘‘You’re smart, you’re tenacious, and you care about putting criminals away. Come in anytime and pick up an application.’’

  ‘‘Thanks, Chris.’’

  ‘‘But until you start cashing a city paycheck, keep your nose out of police business.’’

  He took my elbow and stood up. Pulling me along, he walked out of the lounge, through the lobby, and outside. The jazz faded.

  ‘‘You can let go now,’’ I said.

  He kept walking. ‘‘Where are you parked?’’

  I said nothing. He led me down the driveway. Behind us the windows of the lounge glowed gold.

  ‘‘Okay, you’ve made your point. I—’’

  He raised a finger. ‘‘Don’t.’’

  I stopped myself from replying. His eyes, beneath the flint, looked troubled. All at once I knew he wasn’t peeved about me keeping tabs on Brand. This wasn’t about turf. My mouth turned dry.

  I said, ‘‘I just blew something, didn’t I?’’

  ‘‘Go home, Evan.’’

  He released my arm with a nudge and stood in the driveway, ready to stop me from heading back inside. Over his shoulder I could see Brand and the blond through the windows of the lounge.

  ‘‘Chris, I’m sorry,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m going.’’

  And I meant to. Except that Brand slammed down his glass and stood up, stabbing his finger at the blond, and started to stalk away.

  The blond raised his hand, holding something between his index and middle fingers, something thin and round and shiny. Brand stopped. The blond threw the object on the table.

  ‘‘Chris,’’ I said, pointing at the window.

  But by the time Chris turned his head, Brand had dropped back into his seat and slipped the object into his jacket pocket.

  ‘‘Goldilocks just gave him something,’’ I said.

  ‘‘What was it?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’ It occurred to me. ‘‘Could have been a disk.’’

  ‘‘Get out of here,’’ he said.

  He started up the driveway toward the hotel, taking out a cell phone and punching numbers as he went. I walked to my car, got in, and watched.

  Chris didn’t even get inside the hotel. The blond sauntered out, hands loose at his sides like a gunfighter ready to draw. Chris walked past him, his head bent into the cell phone, feigning disinterest. The blond handed the parking attendant a ticket. A few moments later he climbed into a Corvette and drove off.

  I waited. Brand came out within the minute, and I followed his gold rental car back to the Holiday Inn. In my room across the courtyard from his, the message light on the phone was blinking. Jesse had called.

  I reached him at home, told him about the Biltmore, and described the blond.

  ‘‘Sound familiar?’’

  ‘‘Not remotely.’’

  ‘‘Jesse, Chris Ramseur yanked me out of there. Something’s going down. I think I just stuck my nose into a police operation.’’

  ‘‘Brand’s mixed up in something that Chris didn’t tell us about?’’

  ‘‘Yes. Possibly because he thought I would stick my nose into it.’’

  I peered out the window. The lights in the empty pool reflected ripples on the palm trees. In Brand’s room, the curtains were partway open. I could see him inside, pacing back and forth. He was talking on the phone.

  I said, ‘‘Brand got something from Blondie, maybe a computer disk. I think he went to the meeting to get it.’’

  I noticed the room connecting to Brand’s, where maintenance had been repairing a leak. The door was propped open with a chair. My adrenal glands did a pirouette.

  ‘‘Oh, my. The room next to Brand’s is open,’’ I said.

  ‘‘I can go in and listen through the connecting door.’’

  He made an exasperated noise. ‘‘Hold your horses.’’

  ‘‘Excuse me? When have you ever wanted me to do that?’’

  ‘‘Just wait,’’ he said. ‘‘Do you see the police anywhere? ’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Are you wearing quiet shoes?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘Don’t knock anything over when you go in.’’

  I started to reply, and experienced a karmic moment, a confluence of desire and opportunity. Brand opened the door of his room. He had an ice bucket in his hand. He flipped the dead bolt so the door couldn’t close while he strolled to the ice machine.

  ‘‘I can get into Brand’s room,’’ I said. ‘‘I’ll call you back.’’

  Jesse was shouting when I hung up.

  I hurried out. From my side of the courtyard I could see the ice machine. It was in a breezeway around the corner from Brand’s room, about fifty yards along the courtyard. Give him twenty seconds to walk there, ten more to fill the ice bucket and head back around the corner. Call it thirty seconds.

  And what could I do with that time? Perhaps only unlock the connecting door to the next room, giving myself access later. But perhaps more.

  Brand was no longer wearing his cashmere jacket, the one where he’d pocketed the blond’s shiny object. I could . . . what, steal it? Burn it? Eat it?

  Examine it. Borrow it. If it turned out to be a computer disk I could download it onto my laptop, then return it. Whatever the object was, the police were interested in it. And they didn’t have it. It was small, and valuable, and could easily be hidden or destroyed. If I didn’t get it myself, the police might never. I could get my hands on it to make up for throwing a wrench into Chris’s evening.

  Boy, I could rationalize for Team USA. I ran on tiptoe past the pool toward Brand’s room. He was still walking toward the ice machine, his back to me. I reached his door, gave him a last glance, and went inside.

  The room smelled thick with cologne. The television was droning. The cashmere jacket hung over the back of a chair. I hesitated. Technically I wasn’t committing burglary, or even breaking and entering. But I was about to commit theft.

  I reached into the jacket, slipped my hand into the satin lining of the inside pocket, and pulled out the object. I held it up. It was a miniature disk about the size of a business card.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Every bit of my body seemed to jump, including my hair. The door started to open. I jammed the disk into my own shirt pocket.

  ‘‘Housekeeping.’’ A maid peered in. ‘‘The towels you wanted.’’

  ‘‘Right.’’

  I felt as if I were erupting in hives. And they were spelling out T-H-I-E-F across my forehead. When she walked to the bathroom I sped out the door, dodging her laundry cart.

  I heard voices along the courtyard. Peripherally I saw Brand turn the corner and head this way. A woman was with him. She wore a jacket with the collar turned up, and had her hair tucked under a cap. Her face, from this distance, was indistinct.

  Quick decision: I ducked into the conn
ecting room, past the chair wedging the door open. Inside, the lights were off. I could smell damp and mildew. A fan rattled on the floor, drying the carpet. I considered pulling the chair inside and closing the door, but that might draw attention to the room. With the lights off and curtains drawn, no one could see me in here, anyway.

  I slunk to the doorway connecting this room with Brand’s. Gingerly I opened the door on my side. Through the second door, on Brand’s side, came the sound of voices. Who was she? Lover, mother, stockbroker? Was she the woman from the hit-and-run? The droning of the fan obscured their words.

  I stepped closer and kicked a wastebasket. It banged into the wall.

  I held my breath, hearing my heart pound in my ears, half expecting Brand to yank the door open. But after a few seconds I heard the voices again. The fan clattered. I pressed my ear close to the door, trying to decipher their words.

  Brand’s baritone. "...so how dare he..."

  Her mumble.

  ‘‘. . . a king-sized prick. Pulling this on me.’’

  Her laugh. Words. Unintelligible.

  ‘‘. . . won’t think it’s so funny when . . .’’

  I listened, heard the TV, and music, and—barking. Was that a Chihuahua?

  They stopped talking. I heard a clicking sound. Brand or the woman had opened the door out to the motel courtyard. Was she leaving? I strained to hear.

  Behind me, the chair propping open the door was kicked into the room. The lights flipped on. I spun around. Brand loomed in the doorway.

  9

  I lunged away but didn’t get two feet. He barged into the room, a bearlike mass. The door slammed shut. He grabbed my arm and flung me at the bed. I tripped against the corner and tumbled to the floor, landing on my back. I tried to get to my feet but he pushed me down on the carpet and pressed a hand over my mouth.

  ‘‘Who are you?’’ His calico eyes were jittering. ‘‘Did Mickey send you? Are you one of his flunkies?’’