by Janet Dawson
He picked out several apples, bagged them, and circled through the open air section of the store, with its abundant displays of fruits, vegetables and nuts. He piloted the cart into the store, speculating about what to have for dinner. Here was a display of pies from Kozlowski Farms, which was located up the road between Graton and Forestville. He’d hiked right past it on the West County Trail. He could have stopped there and bought something, but he hadn’t thought of it. Besides, how would a pie fit into his pack?
Now he was thinking about it. The pies looked great and he was hungry.
Why not? He thought. I’m batching it for the foreseeable future. I can eat any damn thing I want.
He chose a crumb-topped apple pie—made with Gravensteins, of course—and put it in the cart. He headed for the cheese section. He picked out some cheddar and jack, and took some salami from another refrigerated case. Then he circled around the fresh produce, picking up lettuce, tomatoes, bell peppers, an avocado, and other things for salad. He grabbed a couple of baskets of strawberries as well.
He moved into another section of the store and picked out crackers to go with the cheese, and debated about tortilla chips and salsa. Sure, why not? He could use the avocado to make guacamole.
Of course he had to have ice cream for his pie. He moved the cart to frozen foods and took out a half gallon of French vanilla. Then he walked down to the meat section and grabbed a couple of steaks.
He assessed the contents of the shopping cart. Did he need anything else? No. This should do it. He headed for the checkout stands.
“Brian?”
He turned and saw Willow. She was dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a purple T-shirt, her long, curly hair caught back and tied, as it frequently was, with a purple scarf. She must have just come into the market. Her shopping cart was empty except for an assortment of cloth bags.
He felt suddenly tongue-tied. He was glad to see her and angry with himself for feeling that way. “Hi. How are you? Didn’t know you shopped here.”
“Oh, Andy’s is the best,” Willow said. “Now that I’ve moved into my grandfather’s house, it’s not far. What brings you here?”
“I just hiked the West County Trail.”
She nodded. “That’s the one that follows the old Petaluma and Santa Rosa Railroad line. It’s nice that they’ve turned the railroad right-of-way into a path.”
“It’s an easy hike,” Brian said. “Mostly flat and paved. Tomorrow I want more of a challenge. I thought I’d head up to Armstrong Woods and check out some of the trails there.”
“It’s pretty up there, with the redwoods.” Willow moved out of the path of a mother with a toddler, angling her shopping cart closer to a display of crackers. She reached for a box and examined it, then put the box back on the display. She cocked her head to one side. “Wait a minute. Weren’t you and your family going camping up in Plumas County? That was this week, right? Before you start the new job?”
He hesitated, frowning. “I had to cancel the trip.”
“Why?”
Suddenly it all came pouring out, all the anger and frustration that had built up over the past few months. He shouldn’t be telling her this. He shouldn’t be glad to see her, and the sympathetic look on her face.
“I’m sorry things didn’t work out.” Willow’s face brightened. “Hey, I have an idea. If you really want to get out of town for a few days, you can use the cabin at the ranch. From Graton it’s not far to Guerneville, and Armstrong Redwoods is just north of there. You could even go over to the coast.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Brian said, looking doubtful. It wouldn’t do for him to spend too much time in proximity to Willow.
She looked at him, as though she knew what he was thinking. “It’s okay, Brian. I won’t be there. I’m heading up the coast myself. I’m going to spend a few days with a friend in Mendocino. I plan to leave tomorrow. I haven’t really decided how long I’m staying, but I should be back sometime next week.”
That put a different light on it. It was tempting, Brian thought. If he stayed at Willow’s property, he’d be twenty-five miles closer to several of the state parks he’d been planning to explore.
“I didn’t know you had a cabin on the property,” he said. “I thought it was just the farmhouse and the barn.”
“My great-grandfather built the cabin,” Willow said. “At least that’s what my grandfather told me. The family came to Graton way back before World War One. They bought land and then added to it. They did some logging up there in the woods. And they hunted, deer, wild pig, wild turkeys. So that’s what Grandpa used it for. Rick, too, when he was alive. Anyway, there are trails up there, from the hunting days.”
“So where is this cabin located?”
“About a mile from the farmhouse. The road continues up through the timber to the cabin. It goes further than that, just a narrow track really, and comes out on Green Valley Road, west of Forestville. I’ve never driven all the way up there. I think the road’s fairly rough, might even be impassable. For a car, I mean. You could certainly hike it.”
“Sounds nice,” Brian said.
“I think it would be great. It’s in good condition. One room, and there’s an outhouse that Grandpa put in. No running water, of course, unless you count the creek, and you don’t want to drink that. So you’ll need to bring in drinking water. There are a couple of old beds with mattresses. You can throw your sleeping bag on one of those. I don’t know about a table or chair. It hasn’t been that long since Rick used it. He was up there earlier in the spring, around Easter.”
Still Brian hesitated. Willow pressed her case. “You’d be doing me a favor to go up and look around. I haven’t been up there to look at the place since I moved onto the ranch, after Rick died. I’m wondering what I’m going to do with the land that isn’t planted in apple orchards. That area where the cabin is, it’s hilly and forested, very pretty. I thought about donating that section. Maybe the county could use it as a park, although I grant you it’s a bit remote for that kind of use. But every bit of open space is important. I’d rather donate it than sell it to some winery. You could take a look at the trails, let me know what you think.”
“It sounds great,” Brian said with a smile. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Wonderful. Now, I have a gate on the road, just below the house. And I have an extra key.” Willow rummaged through the large quilted bag she carried. She took out her key ring, removed one of the keys, and handed it to Brian. “I’m leaving first thing in the morning. So come on up whenever you’re ready.”
“Sure. I’ll pack up my gear and head up there tomorrow morning, probably. I’ll just stay a couple of nights, Friday and Saturday. Sheila and the kids are due back on Sunday.” If she doesn’t extend her trip again, he thought.
Brian put the key on his own key ring. Then he said good-bye to Willow and paid for his groceries. When he arrived at home in Petaluma, he went to the garage and pulled the camp stove and the big cooler off the shelf, along with the plastic tub that held his sleeping bag.
Before leaving the house on Friday, he left a note for Sheila. Then he loaded the car with his camping gear, extra water, and a cooler full of ice and food. He drove to Graton and headed west through the little town. Midway to Occidental, he turned off on Hargis Ranch Road and headed up past the apple orchard to the locked gate. He unlocked it and drove through, then locked it again.
Past the farmhouse, the road narrowed and wound through more apple trees, then gave way to oak and pine. Creek, bridge. Finally he saw the cabin, in a small clearing. He parked close to the cabin and got out, looking around. The road continued to the north. Willow had said it wound around and eventually came out at Green Valley Road. She didn’t know whether the road was usable. It looked all right to Brian. It was narrow, yes, but he thought his Jeep could manage it. He’d have to explore, take a hike down that way, and see what was there.
The cabin door was unlocked. He opened the door and walked inside. T
hen he stopped, frowning as he surveyed the interior. Someone was living in the cabin.
Thirty-Nine
The cabin was one big room, about twelve feet square, with a single door, the one Brian had just entered. He took a few steps in and looked around, taking stock of what he saw.
A two-burner camp stove had been set up on a rectangular table on the far wall. At one end of the table were two metal folding chairs. An empty tuna can had been used as an ashtray, and it was full of cigarette butts.
A red plastic crate underneath the table held a frying pan, a saucepan, a coffeepot, and an assortment of utensils. A big cooler was on the floor to one side. Next to this, three wooden fruit crates had been stacked one atop the other to make shelves that contained canned goods. Whoever was living here, Brian thought, must like tuna, tortilla chips and salsa. There were plenty of all three, as well as boxes of crackers and cereal. A can of ground coffee sat on the top shelf, next to metal salt and pepper shakers, and a small plastic dishpan containing a couple of plates, bowls and a mixture of flatware.
To his left, Brian saw two single beds. The old iron bedsteads had knobs on each of the four corners. The bedsteads had been painted white, but now the paint was flaking and peeling to show the black metal underneath. Each bed contained a mattress, thin, covered with blue-and-white ticking. The bed in the far corner held two pillows and a sleeping bag. Between the two beds was a wooden stool holding a large battery-operated lantern on top. Another fruit crate, standing on end between the far bed and the wall, held a small battery-operated radio.
Somebody’s been living here long enough to settle in and be comfortable, Brian thought. Surely Willow didn’t know about the cabin’s resident. Otherwise she wouldn’t have suggested that he use the cabin for the weekend.
Just as well he hadn’t unloaded the Jeep. He might as well go home. He turned to go. As he reached the door, he heard a vehicle getting closer. He stepped outside and looked in the direction he’d come from, the road that went down past the farmhouse and out to Graton Road. But the vehicle was a silver SUV, and it was approaching from the narrow road that led the other way, to Green Valley Road.
The SUV stopped and two men got out. They walked toward him. The one who had been on the passenger side moved closer, scowling at Brian. “Who are you? What the hell are you doing here?”
Brian felt as though he’d stepped through the looking glass. The man in front of him, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, was his height, his build, and his coloring. Despite the long hair and beard, he knew who this was. “You’re Rick Newman. You’re supposed to be dead.”
“Son of a bitch,” the driver said, pitching a cigarette butt to the ground. “This fucks up everything.”
“This is a mistake,” Brian said. Why did these guys look so hostile? “Willow told me I could use the cabin for the weekend. I’m sure she doesn’t know you’re here.”
“You’re damn right she doesn’t know I’m here,” Rick said. “And she’s not gonna know.”
Brian raised both hands, fighting down the panic that enveloped him. “It’s cool. I’ll just leave now. I’ll go on home, and I won’t say a word to her.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” The driver reached behind him and pulled out a gun that must have been tucked in the waistband of his pants.
“Harry, wait a minute,” Rick said.
The driver—Harry—looked at Rick. “What do you mean, wait? We gotta do something.”
Brian spun around and ran toward the Jeep. But Rick and Harry were quicker. Rick grabbed Brian’s left arm, twisting it behind him. Harry shoved the gun back in his pants, then he seized Brian’s right arm. Together they manhandled Brian toward the cabin. As the men shoved the struggling Brian through the doorway, his MedicAlert bracelet caught on a nail just inside. The nail scraped him on the wrist and the bracelet’s band separated. He heard the bracelet and some of the links fall to the floor. Harry picked up the bracelet and shoved it into his pocket.
Once they were inside, Harry set the gun on the table. Then the two men searched Brian’s pockets, taking out his cell phone, wallet, and the keys to his Jeep. Brian twisted and grabbed for the keys. Harry shoved him hard.
As he fell, Brian saw the knobbed end of the iron bedstead looming at him like an enormous ball. He felt, and heard, the crack as his head slammed against the knob. Pain shot through his head like daggers of lightning. He went limp, seeing stars. Then everything turned black.
When Brian woke up again, he was on one of the beds, the one with the bare mattress. His head throbbed, and it felt wet and cold. He realized there was a damp towel on his forehead, with a cold lump that must be a piece of ice. He opened his eyes. The light was too bright and little pinpoints swam in his field of vision. He closed his eyes, heard the metallic clink of a lighter, and smelled cigarette smoke. He listened as the two men talked.
“I don’t like it.” Harry was speaking, his voice deeper than Rick’s. “Somebody’s gonna be missing this guy. You saw the wedding ring. He’s got a wife somewhere.”
“Willow told him he could use the cabin for the weekend,” Rick said. “The weekend, right? So nobody’s gonna miss him till Sunday night. Don’t sweat it. By then we’ll be long gone.”
“So, what, you’re gonna keep him here?” Harry sounded skeptical.
“Thirty-six hours, tops,” Rick said. “We do it just like we planned, only we take him with us and leave him at the marina. Somebody finds him eventually. By the time anybody figures out what happened, we’re on our way to Mexico, just us and that case full of money.”
Harry grumbled. “If Rhine ever finds out we’ve got his money...”
“He’s not gonna find out. As far as he knows, I’m dead.”
Harry laughed. “Come on. Show it to me again. I want to see what a quarter of a million dollars looks like.”
Brian opened his eyes. He’d never seen a quarter of a million dollars either. Where did someone like Rick get that kind of money? Stole it, probably. Maybe someone was after him, because of the money. That must be why he’d staged his death and why he and Harry were heading for Mexico.
Rick left the cabin and returned a few minutes later, carrying a shiny briefcase that looked like it was made of lightweight aluminum. Rick set the case on the table and unlocked it with a key that he wore on a chain around his neck.
Harry whistled. “Look at all that green. Sure is pretty.”
“We can go a long way on this once we get to Baja,” Rick said. “Like I said, thirty-six hours. We head for the marina and sail that baby down the river to the bay. We’re home free.”
“Almost,” Harry said. He shot a look at Brian, who shut his eyes, feigning sleep. “We got to get rid of that Jeep. We’re only a mile or so from the house and your sister’s living there now.”
“Take it up to Tony’s place?”
“No, it’s red. Too damn visible. Tony wouldn’t like that. I say we just ditch it. But let’s get his stuff out of it first. Then we can take it. Got any ideas?”
“I know a place,” Rick said. “That quarry outside of Forestville. There’s a back way in. Nobody uses that road much. We can ditch the Jeep there.”
The two men got up and left the cabin. Brian opened his eyes again. Still the light hurt. He moved his left hand and discovered that he was wearing handcuffs, one end around his left wrist and the other fastened to the bedstead. The cuff was irritating the place on his wrist where he’d scraped it against the nail. With his right hand he lifted the damp towel from his head and saw streaks of blood on the light blue terrycloth. He explored the tender spot with his fingers. It felt spongy. Damn, he’d hit his head hard. Did he have a concussion?
The two men returned to the cabin. Through half-closed eyes Brian watched as they carried his camping gear and supplies inside and set them on the floor. Then they left. He heard two engines turn over outside and figured they were taking his Jeep and the SUV.
The two men were gone several hours. During that time
, Brian tried to free himself from the handcuff, but he couldn’t manage it. If he could just get out of the cuff, he could hike down the way he’d come, back to Willow’s house.
Each time he moved, though, his head hammered with pain. He fell into an uneasy sleep. When he woke again, the men were back. He needed to use the outhouse. They unlocked him and escorted him to the primitive structure. Then, back in the cabin, they opened a can of tuna and let him eat. Rick thrust a bottle of Tylenol PM at him, along with a bottle of water. “Here, take some of these. I’m sorry about your head.”
Brian was familiar with the over-the-counter painkiller. He’d taken it before, a mixture of acetaminophen and a mild sedative.
“Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone you’re here.”
Rick scratched his beard. “I’ll let you go tomorrow night. We’ll leave you at the marina. Now take the pills. I want to see you swallow them. You’ll be better off if you just sleep. Time will go faster.”
Rick shook four of the tablets from the bottle. The recommended dose was two, Brian knew. Two would make him drowsy. Four would knock him out completely. He was sure that’s what Rick had in mind.
Brian took the tablets from Rick’s hand. He put them in his mouth. As he took the bottle of water from Rick, Brian tucked two of the tablets into the corner of the mouth. He swallowed the other two. As soon as Rick turned away, Brian spat out the remaining tablets, catching them in his free hand. He stuck them into the pocket of his khakis.
Then he lay back on the mattress. Over the next half hour or so, he fought the oncoming drowsiness, listening as the men talked. He overheard enough to piece together what had happened. Rick Newman had taken some money that didn’t belong to him. Evidently it belonged to a man named Rhine. At least, Rick and Harry were worried about Rhine, that he might locate them.