Golden Gate

by James Ponti

  “You’re talking about a bloke who can have fake passports or fraudulent masterpieces produced on the spot. I’m guessing a proposal hidden inside a fortune cookie is easy compared to those things.”

  Rio looked at the sidewalk where Robert and Annie had been standing in the photo. He turned to Paris and asked, “You think he’s going to find them?”

  “Who?”

  “Mother,” answered Rio. “Do you think he’s going to find Robert and Annie?”

  Paris had thought about this a lot since his conversation with Sydney on the plane. “I hope so,” he answered. “I think Brooklyn did an amazing job locating their school, and I think he’s probably going to find them when he gets to Australia.” He paused for a moment and considered the questions Sydney had raised about how that would affect them. “What happens after that? I don’t know.”

  Rio read the apprehension in his voice and flashed a smile. “Of course you know. We’ve got each other. You, me, Brooklyn, Sydney, and Kat are brothers and sisters. We’ll work out the rest.”

  “Yes, we will,” Paris responded. “Now let’s go find Fay Chie Hong.” He checked his phone to look at the picture he’d taken of the entry in Rutledge’s datebook:

  Fay Chie Hong – 2:30 p.m.

  Duncombe + Jackson

  Chinatown

  There were seven different Fay Hongs who lived in San Francisco, but none had the middle name Chie. Three, however—Fay Lin Hong, Fay Jun Hong, and Fay San Hong—lived in Chinatown. Since that was as close a match as Paris and Rio could find, they started with them.

  Although it was a popular destination for visitors, Chinatown wasn’t a tourist attraction. It was one of the largest Chinese enclaves outside of Asia—a vibrant, thriving community that stretched for twenty-four blocks. Once they passed through the postcard-perfect Dragon Gate, it was as if they’d entered a different country. The architecture changed, the signs all featured Chinese characters, and suddenly many of the people were speaking Cantonese. It was also disorienting because in addition to the main streets, there was a maze of narrow alleys and walkways that didn’t show up on GPS.

  It took them a while to find the apartment belonging to not–Fay Chie Hong number one, but when they knocked on the door, nobody answered. They were luckier with not–Fay Chie Hong number two, but only slightly so. A man answered and said that she’d moved to San Diego.

  “That’s too bad,” Paris replied. “I don’t suppose you know when she moved.”

  He gave Paris an annoyed look and answered, “January seventeenth, around five thirty in the evening.”

  “Wow,” said Paris. “That’s really specific.”

  “Yeah,” snapped the man. “I remember because that’s when I got home from work and found a note saying she’d left me for the lead guitarist in a band called Sonic Platypus.”

  Paris and Rio shared a look, unsure how to respond, and after an awkward silence Paris offered, “Guitarists—I hate those guys.”

  From there, they walked along an alley with murals on each side and laundry that hung from the fire escapes above. “I feel kind of bad,” Paris said.

  “Why, because you made him talk about getting dumped?”

  “That,” he said, “but also because I really want to look up Sonic Platypus to hear what type of music they play.”

  “I know,” said Rio. “I do too. Something about the name.”

  They both quickly pulled up the group on their phones. Paris pressed play, and the sounds of screaming punk rock filled the alley for about six seconds until he turned it off. They were no longer interested in Sonic Platypus.

  “Now I feel really bad,” said Rio. “Not only did she dump him, but she dumped him for a guy in a band that’s terrible.”

  Unlike the previous two, they actually met not–Fay Chie Hong number three face-to-face. She lived on Old Chinatown Lane in a warehouse that had been converted into artists’ studios. Her business card was taped to the buzzer panel next to the front door and read, FAY SAN HONG ILLUSTRATIONS AND COMICS. Under that, she’d handwritten, “For deliveries press 2.”

  “She draws comics,” Rio said, excited.

  “That’s pretty cool,” said Paris. “I wonder if she’s done any that we know.”

  Fay San Hong’s studio was the coolest workplace Paris and Rio had ever seen. Which was saying something considering their “office” was a secret underground room with a supercomputer. There were sketches and illustrations of various characters everywhere. She had tons of action figures in different poses for inspiration. And the bookcases that lined the wall were teeming with comics and graphic novels.

  “Is that an actual working classic Spider-Man pinball machine?” Rio asked, amazed.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I play it to clear my mind when I need to work out a storyline.”

  While her studio was great, as far as Operation Golden Gate went, Fay San Hong number three was a big miss. She had never heard of Parker Rutledge or R.F. Stroud, and she never had an appointment to meet anyone matching his description.

  “You want to look again so you can be sure?” asked Paris, showing her a photo of Parker that he’d gotten from one of the Dodos. “It would’ve been six months ago.”

  “I’m positive,” she said. “I’m good with faces. It’s a necessity of the job.”

  “Okay, thanks,” said Rio. “By the way, I really like your art. Can I get a business card so I can order some of your comics when we get home?”

  “Yeah,” added Paris. “That would be great.”

  “I can do better than that,” she said with a friendly grin. She walked over to a table and pulled two comic books out of a box. “You can each take one of these. If you want to order more, the info’s on the back.”

  “What’s it about?” asked Rio.

  “A girl named Molly Wu who’s part of a secret society that polices the undead who live in underground tunnels beneath San Francisco.”

  “There are tunnels underneath San Francisco?” asked Paris.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Fay San. “There are all kinds of hidden secrets around town. Tunnels, caves, dark alleys. It’s that kind of city.”

  Their eyes lit up as she handed the books to them.

  “Thanks so much,” said Paris.

  “Fog City,” Rio said, reading the title off the cover, which featured an image of a girl facing off with a zombie in front of the Dragon Gate. “This looks amazing.”

  When they got back to the alley, Rio started flipping through the comic as he asked Paris, “Where to next? We’ve visited all the Fay Hongs in Chinatown. I say we find a Mexican place, order burritos, and read this awesome-looking comic.”

  “We’re in Chinatown and you’re craving Mexican food?” asked Paris. “What would you want if we were in Little Italy? Indian?”

  “I can’t help it,” said Rio. “I suddenly have a craving for burritos, and when it comes to cravings, I have to trust my gut. Literally.”

  “Now that you mention it, burritos do sound good,” Paris agreed. “But in addition to Fay Hong’s name, the diary also mentions Duncombe and Jackson, so we should check out that intersection first.”

  “Okay,” Rio said. “But then we eat. I’m starving.”

  Once again, the GPS had trouble navigating the maze of back alleys. They thought they were near Duncombe Court when they cut through a passageway running behind a row of restaurants. This was not an alley normally visited by tourists. It was dirty and cramped. The path was partially obstructed by trash cans, recycling bins, and stacks of bundled cardboard. Two kitchen workers on their break were sitting on a pair of overturned milk crates.

  One was big and burly and wore an apron that looked like it had once been white but was now dishwater gray. He sat with his back pressed against the wall as he ate from a small metal bowl. The other was lean and drank from a cup as he looked at something on his phone screen.

  Between the piles of trash, the workers, and the narrowness of the alley, there was no way for
Paris and Rio to pass without intruding into their personal space.

  “Excuse me,” Paris said as he tried to slip by.

  The bigger man barked at him in Cantonese, and Paris gave him a confused look.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We’re just trying to pass through.”

  The man continued speaking.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Paris replied. “We’re lost. Do you know where Duncombe Court is? Duncombe Court?”

  The man replied again, getting more animated as he did, and Paris decided to take a long shot and tell him the name of the person they were looking for.

  “Fay Chie Hong?”

  The man flashed him the universal What did you just say? expression, although Paris couldn’t tell if it was the positive or the negative usage.

  He said it again, trying to pronounce it carefully, but “Fay Chie” was as far as he got.

  The man stood up from his makeshift seat and puffed out his chest. He’d gone from confused to angry lightning quick, but luckily for Paris, the other man stepped between them. The two men had a boisterous conversation, all in Cantonese, that ended with the thinner man pointing toward the restaurant and the other man going back inside.

  Paris let out a sigh of relief and asked, “Does he know—”

  “You called him ‘fat boy,’ ” the thinner man said.

  Paris was horrified. “Wait, what? I did? That’s terrible. That was a total accident.”

  “I know it was,” said the man. “That was obvious, but he’s sensitive about his weight. Are you looking for Fay Chie Hong?”

  “Yes,” Paris said, excited. “Do you know her?”

  “Fay Chie Hong isn’t a person. It’s a place. It’s this place,” he said, motioning to the alleyway.

  Paris and Rio both looked around confused. “This is Fay Chie Hong?”

  “I know, it’s not much,” said the man. “If you want to explore Chinatown, I recommend Grant Avenue.”

  “We’re not really exploring,” answered Rio. “We’re looking for someone.”

  Paris had an idea. “Wait a second, this is where you come out for your breaks.”

  “Twice a day for fifteen minutes,” said the man.

  “Maybe you can help,” Paris responded as he pulled out his phone to show him the picture of Parker Rutledge. “This man met somebody in this alley last October. I know it’s a long shot, but I don’t suppose you saw him and remember anything about him?”

  The man looked at the picture and much to his surprise, he recognized Parker. He’d seen him in the alley the previous October, meeting with a pair of men who were regulars at the restaurant. And while he didn’t know anything about Parker, he knew exactly who the two men were. They were from the Ministry of State Security and worked at the Chinese Consulate on Laguna Street. They were secret police, and they did not like people digging into their business, which is why the man handed the phone back to Paris and said, “Sorry, no. I’ve never seen him before.”

  30. Muir Woods

  THE MORNING FOG STILL BLANKETED the water, so as Monty and the girls approached the Golden Gate Bridge, it seemed as though its famous orange towers rose magically through the clouds. This was the ultimate symbol of San Francisco and one that exceeded expectations.

  “I knew it’d be pretty,” Sydney marveled. “But it’s absolutely gorgeous.”

  The bridge marked the division between the Pacific Ocean and San Francisco Bay and connected two peninsulas, one home to the city and the other rich with natural beauty. The transformation was so quick and dramatic that just ten miles north of the soaring skyscrapers was a forest of towering trees hundreds of feet tall, many five to eight hundred years old. This was where Parker Rutledge’s life came to an end and where their search for answers would begin.

  “Look at that,” Kat said, pointing at a rustic wooden sign hanging over the entrance to the forest.

  MUIR WOODS

  NATIONAL MONUMENT

  NATIONAL PARK SERVICE DEPARTMENT OF INTERIOR

  “Rutledge took a picture of that sign the morning he died.” She pulled up the image on her phone and studied it as she tried to determine where he was standing when he took it.

  “I thought he only took pictures of birds,” said Sydney.

  “Mostly,” said Brooklyn. “But there are also lots of them featuring signs for places like national parks, wildlife refuges, city limits, and that sort of thing. It’s really quite brilliant.”

  “How so?” asked Sydney.

  “There are thousands of pictures on his cloud account,” answered Brooklyn. “It would be difficult to remember where each was taken. But whenever he arrived someplace new, he always took a picture of the sign for that place. So when you scan through the gallery, you always know where you are.”

  “That is smart,” said Sydney.

  “Here we go,” Kat said, still checking the photo against the sign. “This is where he was standing.”

  “You’re kind of creeping me out there,” said Brooklyn. “Why do you care where he was standing?”

  “Because someone killed him less than two hours after he took this,” she said. “These pictures are as close as we’ll get to crime scene photos.”

  “Okay, that makes sense.”

  Sydney stood behind Kat and looked up at the picture to compare the past with the present. “The sign looks darker in the photo,” she said. “I think it’s wet. So I’m guessing that means it was a rainy day.”

  “That’s good,” said Monty. “Every detail helps.”

  Next to the entrance was a welcome center with three ticket windows. Monty paid their admission fee and asked the man working there, “Do you know if Ranger Gilson is here today?”

  “Kristin?” he said. “Sure. She’s at the trading company just down the boardwalk to the right.”

  “Thank you.”

  Kristin Gilson had discovered Rutledge’s body and filed the report that Brooklyn found online. She was the only person they knew for certain had direct knowledge of what happened that day. Interviewing her was essential, which is why Monty had prepared.

  Whenever she had the opportunity, she tried to research someone’s past before asking them questions. Usually, you had only one chance with an interview. The right bit of information could mean the difference between someone opening up and someone giving short, useless answers.

  With non-spies, or “civilians” as they called them, research was usually as simple as a quick scan through social media. For example, Gilson had active accounts on multiple platforms as well as a travel and adventure blog. Within twenty minutes, Monty knew that she was a native Californian who had a career in the army before joining the National Park Service. She was an avid rock climber who loved camping and Labrador retrievers.

  It was her love of dogs that Monty planned to exploit.

  Like a great number of buildings in national parks, the Muir Woods Trading Company was painted dark brown to give it a rustic, natural feel. It was located a hundred yards into the park and featured a small store, a café, and an information desk staffed by a park ranger.

  This is where they found Kristin Gilson. She was tall and fit with long black hair, her love of rock climbing evidenced by lean, strong arms. She wore the standard park ranger’s uniform of tan shirt, dark green pants, and a wide-brimmed tan hat.

  Monty went straight to the information desk while the others continued into the store to get out of the way. People tended to talk more when there were fewer people around.

  “Good morning,” Monty said. “Are you Ranger Gilson?”

  “Yes, I am,” said the woman. “How can I help you?”

  “I was hoping you could give me some information,” said Monty.

  “That’s why I’m here. Do you want to know about the park? The redwoods?”

  “Actually, it’s about something that happened here around six or seven months ago.” Monty subtly added a hint of emotion to her voice. “A family friend passed away in the
park. He had a heart attack.”

  The ranger’s demeanor changed instantly from cheerful to practiced. “I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m not authorized to discuss—”

  Monty managed to create the hint of oncoming tears as she interrupted. “I mean, he was more than a friend. He was like family. He lived down the street and was best friends with my father. He traveled a lot, and when I was growing up, I would always watch his dogs for him when he’d go on trips.”

  At the mention of a dog, Gilson leaned forward slightly. Monty’s strategy was working, but she still had a way to go. She was careful not to rush her story.

  “In fact, my father was taking care of his dogs when he came on that last trip to California,” Monty continued. “Dad still has them. He took them in of course. But even though it’s been half a year, I get the sense the dogs keep expecting him to come home and walk through the door.”

  The ranger cleared her throat and asked, “What kind of dogs are they?”

  “Labradors,” answered Monty. “He always had Labs. He loved the outdoors and said that they were the best kind of dog to take camping or hiking.”

  “He was absolutely right,” said Gilson. “I have two Labs myself.”

  And Monty knew that she had her. But she still didn’t push. She waited and let the conversation pause until the ranger filled it in. Gilson looked both ways to make sure no one could hear and said, “Was it a Mr. Rutledge?”

  “That’s him,” said Monty. “Parker Rutledge. Good memory.”

  “Well, of course I remember. It’s not the kind of thing that happens every day. I’m so sorry for your loss. How can I help you?”

  “I’m not even sure that you can,” said Monty. “I’m a teacher on a school trip, and I came to pay my respects. I guess I was wondering if you could just tell me what happened. That way, when I get home, I might be able to fill in some gaps for my father. Put him at ease a little bit.”

  “Of course,” said Gilson. “He was up in the Cathedral Grove. I can show you where on a map.” She opened a guide map and circled a spot. “If it’s any consolation, the grove is peaceful and spiritual. It got its name because it feels like you’re in a grand church when you’re standing there. You should tell your father that the last images his friend saw were among God’s most beautiful creations.”