Trick of Light

by Bayer-William

  Approaching the steel-link gate, we hear the distant boom of shotguns, then spot a pair of guards. They're decked out in camouflage uniforms, holstered side arms, mirrored sunglasses and Foreign Legion-style black berets. One stands hands on hips by the gate in an intimidating legs-spread posture. The other stands legs-spread on a raised platform, observing us through a pair of heavy military binoculars mounted to a swivel.

  Sasha asks how I see camouflage.

  "I see their uniform fabric as mottled," I tell him. "I know what it is. In the forest it wouldn't fool me a bit."

  The moment we cross an imaginary line a hundred feet from the gate, a siren starts to wail.

  "We tripped it off," Sasha shouts above the shriek.

  We stop. A good thing too, I decide, since I notice that the guard on the platform is now holding out a rifle with telescopic sight at port position before his chest.

  The guard on the ground approaches, all hard face and surly mouth. On account of the mirrored shades I can't make out his eyes. "Whaddaya want?" he snarls.

  "Would it be okay if we walked in the forest?" Sasha asks.

  "Members and guests only, jerk. Can't you read the signs?"

  "Please, mister," I say. "All we're asking is to walk among the redwoods, listen to the birds, pick some berries maybe. We won't bother anything, we promise. Please . . ."

  He laughs, turns to his buddy on the platform, shakes his head in disbelief. "Hear that, Paul?"

  "'Please, mister,'" the other one says, mocking my suppliant's tone. "That's the thing about this gig, Hal. You think you've seen it all, then a couple more loons show up."

  The first guard laughs again, then jerks his thumb at Sasha. "Outa here! Both of you, before I set the dogs on you."

  "Sorry to bother you," Sasha says, maintaining his dignity. "We'll be on our way."

  "Don't come back neither," Paul on the platform shouts. "This is private huntin' and shootin' property. Wander around unauthorized likely get you shot."

  We return to Sasha's car, hang our bikes on our rented bike rack, then head off on a roundabout route to another portion of the G.G.C. perimeter, where, Hank suggested last night, we probably won't be bothered.

  It's here that G.G.C. property abuts a stretch of state land, a segment of the huge Jackson State Forest, encompassing groves of ancient redwood open to the public.

  Mature giant sequoias are so tall and straight I feel humbled whenever I enter a grove of them. These towering trees, some fifteen hundred years old, which prosper so well in Northern California coastal fog, form a high crown canopy that filters out most direct light, creating a special dark world of soft shade beneath. Occasionally a slanting shaft of sunlight will break through the branches, illuminating the richly textured bark of the trees. But mostly the light at ground level is tempered and subdued, easy on my eyes.

  We bike along trails, weave among the redwoods, following a swiftly rushing stream. Referring to marks Hank drew on our map, we depart the trail, hide our bikes n the brush, then proceed a hundred yards on foot to the G.G.C. fence just outside the trees, a simple affair of parallel strands of barbed wire strung a foot or so apart. It's just where Hank said it would be, well concealed from view. It's unlikely a hiker would stumble upon it unless, like us, he deliberately left the trail system to search it out.

  The property line is demarcated by the fence and not much else. Areas on either side, once clear-cut, have long since grown over. Perhaps this portion of the G.G.C. perimeter isn't well tended because it's doubtful a poacher would try and cross here. However, in several places we find unrepaired rents in the lower strand, suggesting people have crawled through.

  "How do they keep the animals in with such a crummy fence?"

  "Hank says this is just their outer perimeter," Sasha says. "The stocked areas are fenced very well."

  The notion that there might actually be African game within, zebras and gazelles, upsets me greatly. It's not just my awe of these gorgeous creatures, but contempt for the mentality that would import them to serve as prey. This is far worse, it seems to me, than the illegal animal imports of Tan-Hing, where the creatures at least were sold as pets. Here they're brought in as living targets intended to be slain to satisfy hunters' lust for trophies and the thrill of spilling blood.

  We hike alongside the fence for a quarter of a mile, coming finally to a gate attached to its posts with heavy padlocked chains.

  On the other side there's a dirt track.

  "Hank said there was a fire road," Sasha says.

  "You know, if we wanted to we could climb over and walk straight in."

  "And set off plenty of alarms. If they have sensors they'll be on the roads," he says. "They probably also run patrols."

  "Anyway," I tell him, "if I wanted to go in, I wouldn't do it during daylight."

  "It would be suicide no matter the time of day. Even with Hank I wouldn't try it. In fact, especially with Hank. If he was armed, even with just bow and arrow, he'd be fair game, and so would everyone with him."

  Sasha's right, of course. Also, I have no valid reason to go in. So there're bad guys in there, they kill animals, shoot poachers, hunt down vagrants, engage in orgies, do gang bangs, fight duels—what else is new? There're plenty of bad guys in the world. Why single out these creeps?

  And yet . . . I feel drawn here, convinced the G.G.C. is a locus of evil, convinced too that Maddy was somehow involved with it, and that her last photographic venture, so horrendously curtailed by Julio Sanchez, was an attempt to expose this evil to the world.

  Sunday midmorning: I induce Sasha to drive me by Vince Carroll's phone directory address. Having established that Carroll is employed by the G.G.C., I feel an urge to photograph his face.

  It's a nondescript ranch-style house in an uninteresting middle-class development named, according to the quaintly lettered sign, North Ridge Estates. Short stone pillars serve as sentries at the entrance. Carroll's place is just four houses in, distinguishable from surrounding homes only by the selection of specimen trees in front and the positioning of the garage vis-à-vis the front stoop and door.

  As we pass, I spot a light Toyota pickup in the drive. Then, turning in my seat, I catch a glimpse of laundry flapping on a line in the backyard. Encouraged, since this was what I imagined when I spoke to the woman who answered Carroll's phone, I ask Sasha to hover for a while down the street in case someone emerges from the house.

  He declines, saying that in a neighborhood like this you can't drive in on a Sunday morning, park, then sit around in your car without arousing suspicion.

  "A couple of strangers, you white, me brown—they'll think we're child-snatchers and call the cops. Look around, Kay. Tricycles on the lawns, basketball hoops above garage doors. This is a middle-class family community . . . and we're the bogeymen. I say let's get outa here quick!"

  He drives to the turnabout at the end of North Ridge Drive, where, in front of a faux colonial, I spot a For Sale sign on the grass. Just then a well-dressed woman pulls into the driveway, gets out, sets up an Open House easel sign by the curb, then unlocks the front door.

  "Our lucky day," I tell Sasha. "We've come to look at real estate. We'll look at the house, then put the question to the realtor how'll the neighborhood respond to an interracial couple? After that we can stroll around long as we like, and I can carry my camera too."

  The realtor's name is Tami Lemmon. A perky blonde even shorter than me, recently divorced with two daughters, she tells us, she's had her license for just a year.

  "Of course you'll be welcome here!" she says. "North Ridge is one of the friendliest developments in the area. Of course you should take a walk around! Then come back and give this place a real hard look." Tami squints. "It's a steal at two sixty-nine. I expect to sell it by the end of the day. Darn smart of you guys to get here first." She beams. "Early bird gets the worm!"

  Approaching Carroll's house on foot, I spot a plump middle-aged woman with graying hair exiting the side door with a b
asket of wash.

  I wave to her. "Howdy!"

  "Howdy yourself," she bellows back. "Something I can do for you?"

  I nod, approach. I recognize her voice. It's the woman I spoke with on the phone, the one who said if Vince wasn't at the club he was probably tomcatting around the county.

  "We're thinking of buying the house up the street. The realtor suggested we walk around the neighborhood, see how we're received."

  Her eyes flick over to Sasha, then back to me.

  "How d'you expect to be received?" she asks.

  "Well, that's the question, isn't it?"

  "Is it?" She shakes her head. "Way I see it, folks generally get the reception they expect."

  "You're saying—?"

  "If you're lookin" for a friendly neighborhood, you won't find much better 'n North Ridge Estates. If you're lookin' for an unfriendly one, you'll probably find that here too."

  "Well, thank you, Mrs. . . .?"

  "Call me Pris," she says, "short for Priscilla. You're . . .?"

  "Kay. This is Sasha. He's from India."

  She smiles. "I didn't expect he was from Japan."

  Sasha laughs. "Do you live here alone?"

  She shakes her head. "I keep house for my kid brother. Kinda funny to find ourselves living together again after all these years, but now we're both divorced it makes sense." She rolls her eyes.

  We stand together awkwardly; then she breaks the silence.

  "Well, I got washing to hang, and you got the neighborhood to check. If you do decide to buy here, stop by again. I'll introduce you around. Meantime, good luck!"

  What a nice intelligent lady, we agree, as we continue on our way. When we pass by again she's gone, probably back inside to fetch more wash. Sasha points out that even if brother Vince should pop out and show his face, it would be awkward for me to take his picture.

  "You're right," I tell him, jotting down the tag number of his pickup. "We better get going before Tami Lemmon searches us out . . . since no other prospects have shown up."

  Seven-forty A.M. Monday: We're parked in a pull-over area on Lake Hill Road, a good position to watch cars as they head out of North Ridge and turn toward town. We've been waiting here since seven, traffic's been sparse, but now the action's starting to pick up. With a telephoto on my Contax, I use the camera as a spotting scope to search for Carroll's pickup. Evidently the folks who live in North Ridge Estates are a punctual lot, eager to get to work on time; now there're so many pouring out of the development I'm having trouble keeping track.

  "That's him!" Sasha says, starting his ignition.

  "I can't see him."

  "Yellow Toyota. Believe me, it's him."

  "Thank God you see colors," I say, as Sasha pulls into traffic two cars behind the pickup. "The traffic light ahead—what color is it?"

  "Just changing to red."

  "Good! Stay on his right, then try and pull in beside him."

  As Sasha executes the maneuver, I raise my camera to obtain a good clean profile view of Carroll just to the right of Sasha's head.

  "Okay, my dear—turn to me now, but don't move a muscle. Gimme a big smile. I'm going to take your picture." Whap!whap! "Good! Now again!" Whap!whap! "Excellent! One more." And at that moment, Carroll, perhaps attracted by the improvised photo session in our car, turns and peers straight into my lens.

  Whap! Gotcha!

  "Okay," I tell Sasha, "We're done here. Let's go back to San Francisco."

  Three days after my return, I meet Joel for lunch at the Macaroni House in North Beach, a triangular five-table place so compact that when new diners enter, those already seated must rise to let them through.

  Joel's also in a restive mood, a fact he announces the moment he sits down.

  "Now, kiddo," he intones, "is the spring of my discontent."

  Having butchered half of one of my favorite couplets, he peers at me, awaiting my response.

  "I don't know how to make it into 'glorious summer' for you," I tell him.

  "Well, seeing you always lightens the load."

  He's eager to tell me things are going well at home. Kristin, he informs me, is building a nice business for herself reading runes. When her clients can't pay, as is often the case, she barters a reading for something of equivalent value.

  "Such as?"

  "One client gives her free lessons in macramé. Another, a potter, trades her ceramics. There's a professional dominatrix around the corner who's offered to trade sessions for readings. We haven't decided how to handle that yet."

  I smile, ask how his investigation's going.

  "There're lots of interesting stories out there, kiddo. No question there's a crisis brewing on the waterfront. But so far I lack the binding element. Who's stirring things up? Who's making it happen?"

  "The guy with the Chinese mask?"

  "Not a peep out of him since Tan-Hing."

  "I still think you're being used, Joel."

  "Of course I'm being used. What I gotta do now is use my user, turn the thing around."

  After lunch we stroll the old Barbary Coast neighborhood, the network of narrow streets and cobblestoned alleys around Jackson Square. Here were situated the gambling dens, brothels and saloons that earned San Francisco its reputation as one of the most iniquitous port cities in the world. Where once men were shanghaied (drugged, then kidnapped to serve on ships literally bound for Shanghai), there are now elegant restaurants, fancy architects' and attorneys' offices, and pricey antiques stores offering treasures beyond compare.

  At the corner of Gold and Balance, named for the assay offices that lined them during Gold Rush days, Joel turns to me and asks softly what I'm up to.

  "I've known you a long time, Kay. Something's got you obsessed. I don't mean to pry, but maybe I can help." He shrugs. "Your call, of course."

  Right then I decide to tell him everything, not only because he's helped me already and can surely help me some more, but also because I feel a need to confide. Though Sasha tries to be objective, as my occasional lover he cannot. Dad, of course, is hopelessly partial and overly concerned for my safety. Perhaps Joel, my most trusted friend, can provide the dispassionate advice I need. For he's right, I have become obsessed, and obsession, I know, can cloud my vision.

  He listens as I recount the story, everything from the morning I learned of Maddy's death to my recent inquiries on the North Coast.

  "It's taken me over," I tell him. "Maddy left me her cameras. When I got them I found that strip of film inside. I'm pretty sure that was an accident. Probably she just forgot. She certainly had no inkling she'd be killed. But still I can't help but feel it came to me by design, like a note placed in a bottle, then thrown into the sea . . . and everything that's happened since has flowed from that. Finding her spy nest. Witnessing the weird sex scene across the alley. My fight to the death with Julio Sanchez. Dad remembering the connection between Ramsey Carson and guns. It was my follow-up on that which led to the interview with Baggy Lord, which led in turn to the trip up north."

  "Now that it's taken hold, you can't shake it, right?"

  "I can't," I admit.

  He smiles. "Getting a hunch, prying open a story, finding the more you look into it the deeper and more confusing it becomes—that sequence, kiddo, which you're now experiencing, is what my life's about."

  "So what do I do now, Joel?"

  "Basically you've got three choices. Let it go, put it aside, follow it wherever it leads. There's no greater compulsion than the last way, Kay. It's the storyteller's need, essential to human nature since the first storyteller told the first story to the first listeners seated around the first fire in front of the proverbial cave. 'What happened?' 'What happened after that?' they'd ask, for, being human, they craved to know. And for those of us who hear the calling, who are blessed or cursed with the need to tell the stories, there can be no choice—we must comprehend our story in order to tell it, and to comprehend it we must pursue it to its end."

  THE GUN
/ FIND THE GUN / WHERE'S THE GUN?

  I'm sitting in the Main Library at a study table surrounded by books, researching the history and legality of dueling in California.

  I learn that the most famous duel in the state took place on September 13, 1859, between David S. Terry, then chief justice of the California Supreme Court, and U.S. senator from California David C. Broderick.

  The issue was a personal insult supposedly delivered by Broderick in an antislavery speech. Terry, a saloon brawler, known for his skill with a bowie knife, challenged Broderick on "a point of honor." In fact, this was a pretext since Terry wanted California to become a slave state and saw the alleged insult as an opportunity to eliminate a political opponent.

  The duelists, accompanied by seconds, doctors and witnesses, met in a secluded grove of Monterey pines near Lake Merced south of what we now call the Sunset. The weapons, chosen by Terry, were a pair of hair-trigger Lafoucheaux pistols.

  Before the start of the duel, Broderick accidentally discharged his weapon. Terry then took careful aim and fired, hitting Broderick in the right breast between the second and third ribs. The ball ricocheted around inside Broderick's chest, ripping through various organs. Gravely wounded and in excruciating pain, Broderick held on for several days, then expired.

  As a result of the scandal and the high status of the combatants, dueling was soon outlawed under Section 226 of the California Penal Code. In the twentieth century this anti-dueling statue has rarely been invoked. I can find only four cases since 1945 in which the charge was brought. In two, the opponents were recent immigrants settling matters in the traditional way. In the third the duel was fought to settle a business dispute; in the fourth, it was fought over a woman.

  I learn that when the statute is applied, the prosecution must prove that the fatal fight occurred "by previous agreement or upon a previous quarrel." As a counter to the charge, the defendant may not claim self-defense. I also learn that a conviction for dueling carries a far lighter penalty than for first degree murder: a likely maximum sentence of nine years.