“Last resort.”
“Well, you’re outta luck.” Curt turned back toward his ladder.
Joseph had known him too long to miss the subtle changes in his posture and tone that indicated he was hiding something. “You sure you haven’t seen or heard from her?”
“Do I have to say it twice?”
“Dammit, I’m really worried, and you should be, too. This isn’t like Steph.”
Curt whirled on him, scowling. “Look, Joseph, why don’t you lay off Steph? She’s a grown woman; she doesn’t have to answer to you. You want things to be different, you should do something about it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Years ago, you walked out on her. Now you’re back in town, hanging around her restaurant every day but still pretending it’s all over. You want her close but not too close, but you can’t have it both ways. Either make a commitment or cut her loose.”
Joseph stared at Curt as he started up the ladder, restraining an urge to drag him down and have it out once and for all. His former friend was right about his treatment of Steph, but that didn’t change the fact that he was withholding something important.
Joseph went by Steph’s house again and found it as empty as before. He debated stopping in at the restaurant, then decided to go home and call rather than face the staff’s growing anxiety in person. For some reason they looked to him for advice on what to do. They were running low on produce; a delivery hadn’t arrived; the receipts from the day before hadn’t been deposited. Well, what was he supposed to tell them? Just because he ate there frequently and had coffee in the bar every afternoon didn’t mean he knew how to run the damn place.
When he let himself into the shed, the light on his answering machine was blinking. Two calls.
Detective Rhoda Swift of the SCSD: “You may have heard that Eldon Whitesides of Environmental Consultants Clearinghouse is missing. I’d like to set up an appointment to talk with you about him. I understand the two of you have known each other a long time, and any insights you can provide may be helpful.”
So that particular shit was about to hit the fan.
Ike Kudge: “Hey, Joseph. I asked around about Whitesides for you, and I’ve got something interesting. I’m meeting some guys at the Deluxe around noon, and if you want, we can talk beforehand.”
Joseph looked at his watch. Nearly eleven o’clock. He’d call the restaurant in case Steph had put in an appearance, then go see what Kudge had to tell him.
STEPH PACE
The place was cold and dark. Small, too. Rough board walls, and Steph had splinters from beating her fists on them. Faint light shone under what she assumed was a door, but not enough to tell her what sort of structure this might be. It was isolated; that much she knew—she’d screamed herself hoarse, and no one had come to help her.
She remembered nothing of being brought here, had awakened from a heavy unconsciousness and found she was lying on her side, face pillowed on her elbow. Her limbs were cramped, and she had a bloody scrape on her cheek. There were painful spots on her back that must be bruises. Nothing broken, apparently, although she had a headache and was sick to her stomach. She lay still, trying to control the queasiness. After a while she felt better.
When she was able to move, she sat up and began exploring the space with her hands. They encountered nothing but four walls and a concrete floor. She got to her feet. The light was coming from beneath a door, tightly fitted in its frame. The knob wouldn’t turn. She got down on her knees and put her eye to the crack beneath it. All she could make out was hard-packed earth and tufts of grass.
That was when she panicked. She’d pried at the door, then pounded on it and the walls. Screamed and kicked, too. Damn near exhausted herself, and now she lay on the floor again.
How in hell had this happened to her? The last things she remembered were the beach and the feeling of being followed, the sounds in the fog, then someone jumping off the rocks and knocking the breath out of her. After that . . .
No recollection.
The way she felt reminded her of when she’d come out of the general anesthesia after she’d had her gallbladder removed. The inside of her right elbow was tender; she fingered it, found what felt like a puncture wound. That meant that whoever jumped her had immediately drugged her. Then brought her to this place and left her, perhaps to die.
Don’t think like that.
The quality of light seeping under the door had changed. Natural light, shifting as the sun moved. From its intensity she guessed it was midday. The air around her was warming. If the temperature climbed as much as yesterday’s forecast had predicted, it would get so hot in here that she might suffocate.
Fear spread through her, making her arms and legs go weak. She could hear her pulse pound. She had to pee, and fought the urge, concentrating instead on her other senses.
I see . . . nothing but the seeping sunlight.
I smell . . . old wood and damp earth. Mold. And a faint smokiness . . . charred wood. Am I at the mill? No, the smell’s not strong enough. But I’m near it, at least close enough for wind to carry the fire residue.
I hear . . . humming. Distant. Gets louder, then softer, sometimes stops altogether. What’s that? A truck downshifting. Big one, maybe a logging rig. The highway. But it’s a good ways off.
Where?
And who?
And why?
Just going to leave me here, or will they come back for me? I must’ve been missed by now. Arletta, Tony, Kim, and Kat. Joseph.
Curtis—what happened to Curtis? He didn’t do this to me, did he?
Timothy McNear . . . I promised I’d call him after I talked with Curt. He’ll know something’s gone wrong, but will he do anything about it?
Arletta, Tony, Kim, Kat.
Joseph.
Somebody, please.
TIMOTHY MCNEAR
Miss Stephanie hadn’t called. He’d waited till well after midnight, then gone to bed but slept little, listening for the phone. This morning the housekeeper had arrived early, and the noise of her vacuum cleaner and floor waxer threatened to drive him insane. He kept checking the light on the answering machine, afraid he hadn’t heard the bell. Who could hear—much less think—with such goings-on?
At eleven-thirty he gave up waiting and drove to town. The fog had lifted, and the calm, blue sea stretched before him as he came down the hill. His whole life, with the exception of his four years at Stanford, he’d lived beside it, but he’d never become indifferent to its beauty. Today, distracted as he was, he barely gave it notice.
Stephanie Pace lived on Hill Street, in the little house where she’d been raised, alone now, since her mother had gone to a retirement community down in Westhaven. Timothy parked in the driveway behind Miss Stephanie’s blue station wagon, went up on the porch, and knocked at the door. No response.
Of course—it was lunchtime. By now she’d be at the restaurant. He got back into his car and drove to the Blue Moon.
She wasn’t there, either.
Outside, Timothy stood indecisively by the door. A couple of men brushed past him, eyeing him with startled recognition. Soon word would be out that the ogre had come to town, and what then? Would he be shunned? Verbally assaulted?
Not wishing to find out, he got back in his car and drove to the deserted scenic overlook north of the volunteer fire department. Parked there and thought.
Where was Miss Stephanie? Where had she gone after they talked at the rhododendron preserve? Home, surely, because her car was in the driveway. She had probably called Curtis Hope. But then . . . ?
The man he’d spoken with at the restaurant had seemed nervous when Timothy asked for her. Not the type of behavior he’d expect from an employee if she had simply taken the day off. Something wrong, then.
What?
Curtis Hope, he thought. That’s what.
JESSIE DOMINGO
Yes, sir, I’ll let you know if the sheriff’s department finds out anything
.” Jessie replaced the receiver and sighed deeply. Her share of the calls to the foundation’s board members was completed. Now what?
A knock at the door. Fitch. She called out, and he entered, frowning. “I just got off the phone with an official at the state water resources control board,” he said. “One of the foundation’s directors asked me to call there, explain the situation, ask for a postponement on the hearing.”
“Did they agree?”
“They’ll consider it. But here’s the thing that interests me: those two employees of Gregory Erickson’s came into the state offices this morning to amend the apps, but he wasn’t with them.”
“Maybe he sent them to do the scut work while he played tourist, or whatever guys like him do. Or maybe he’s not in Sacramento like Woodsman claimed. And if he’s not, where is he?”
Fitch shrugged.
“Okay, for the sake of argument, let’s say Erickson didn’t go to Sacramento. But he did check out of his motel room. Why?”
“He went to attend to some other project? Or went back to their headquarters in North Carolina? I wouldn’t think he’d do either, with the hearings so close.”
“One way to find out.” Jessie took the thin coastal directory from the nightstand, looked up the number of the small airport at Oilville. Yes, the woman who answered told her, a chartered plane had picked up a party of two bound for Sacramento the previous afternoon.
“Only two? Did you happen to catch their names?”
“Sorry, I didn’t.”
“Was one of them tall and slender, with prominent teeth and a receding hairline? Spoke with a southern accent?”
“No. These guys were southern, but one was short and fat, and they both had a lot of hair.”
“Has the other man I described flown anywhere else?”
“No other charters have gone out in the past twenty-four hours.”
Jessie thanked her and hung up the receiver. “Erickson didn’t go to Sacramento—or fly anywhere.”
“So he drove. Where?”
“San Francisco Airport, and then North Carolina?”
“Check it out.”
Jessie looked up the number of Aqueduct Systems’ home office in her file. Erickson’s secretary said he was in California and gave the number of the Shorebird.
Jessie replaced the receiver. “They think he’s still here.”
“Well, he’s not, and Woodsman lied about his whereabouts.”
“Maybe he really thought Erickson went to Sacramento with the others. There must be some way I can find out.”
Fitch looked alarmed. “Jessie, you’re not going to do something stupid again?”
“No, I’m not going to do something stupid!” Then she grinned. “Maybe this time I’ll think of something clever.”
JOSEPH OPENSHAW
Ike Kudge was holding court at one of the pool tables when Joseph got to the Deluxe. He leaned on his cue, beer gut hanging over his belt, haranguing two skinny guys in deliverymen’s uniforms who looked as though they just wanted to be left alone to play pool. Something to do with the San Francisco Forty Niners’ dismal prospects for the upcoming season. When he saw Joseph, he racked his cue, went to a nearby table where a half-full mug of beer sat, and motioned him over.
“You want a beer?” Ike asked. “I’ll buy.”
“A little early for me.”
“Still the good, clean-living boy, huh?”
“Not hardly. So what’ve you got?”
“What, no ‘How are you, Ike’? No small talk?”
God, why was he cursed with contrary people today? He was in no mood for this shit. “How are you, Ike?” he said.
“That’s better. Now we can get down to business.” Ike leaned forward on his elbows; the table creaked under his weight. “I talked with a couple guys I know from the Landing, somebody down at the Westhaven, too. There’s no word out about your Mr. Whitesides.”
“And that’s it? You asked me here to tell me nothing?”
Ike leaned back in his chair, smiling and sipping beer. “Getting pretty testy for a man wants a favor.”
“Look, Ike, this is serious. Whitesides isn’t the only person who’s gone missing.”
“Oh? Who else?”
“Steph Pace.”
“Your old girlfriend, the Blue Moon lady?”
“That’s right.”
“Since when?”
“Late yesterday afternoon. Any word out on that?”
“There won’t be, not yet. Been my experience that you need about twenty-four hours before something gets on the grapevine.”
“Will you keep listening?”
“For Steph’s sake, yes. I like her, even if she does have bad taste in men. What is it with people disappearing, anyway?”
“Wish I knew.”
Ike finished his beer, folded his hands on his stomach, and regarded Joseph thoughtfully. “How come both missing people’ve got something to do with you?”
“Whitesides is only connected with me through the Friends of the Perdido.”
“But Steph—the two of you go way back. She a member of the Friends?”
“Nominally, but she’s not active in the organization. The restaurant takes up all her time. Why d’you ask?”
“What I heard. Has to do with that water bag.”
“So you did hear something. What?”
“Getting testy again. Watch it.”
“Don’t play games with me, Ike.”
“You always was a scrapper, no matter if the other guy was twice your size. Beat the crap out of me that time I stole your dope stash. Don’t you think I ever forgave you for that, either.” Ike glared at him for a moment, then said, “Okay, what I heard is a guy called Wes Landis took out that bag. Lives on the ridge near Deer Harbor, kind of a survivalist and small-time thief. Year or two ago, he stole a rifle outta Curt Hope’s truck, and that was what he used.”
“Why?”
“Couldn’t be traced to him.”
“No, why did this Wes shoot up the bag? What was in it for him?”
“Money, of course. Somebody paid him five hundred bucks for the job.”
“Who?”
Ike grinned slowly, rocked his chair back. “And you thought I asked you here to tell you nothin’.”
Joseph concealed his impatience, meeting his gaze steadily. After a moment Ike’s grin faded and he let the chair’s legs drop to the floor.
“Okay,” he said, “I don’t know a name, but I can tell you where to find Landis.”
Wes Landis lived in a trailer in a cluttered clearing in the woods east of Deer Harbor. As Joseph drove in on a dirt track from Dry Creek Road, he counted a Jeep, two motorcycles, a pickup, a tractor, and a dump truck. Ike Kudge had said Landis lived alone; what in God’s name did one man do with so much motorized equipment?
Joseph got out of his van and followed the sound of a chain saw into the trees, where he found a tall, balding man in army fatigues working on a thick stump. The man couldn’t hear him approach, and when he spotted him out of the corner of his protective goggles, he started. Then he shut off the saw and held it as if it were a weapon.
“Wes Landis?” Joseph said.
“Yeah, whadda you want?”
“I’m Joseph Openshaw. Ike Kudge told me where to find you.”
Landis’s mouth twisted. “That asshole? I don’t deal with him, no way.”
“Why not?”
“Because he cooks meth, man. If you’re one of his druggie friends, you better get off my property.” He took a step forward, raising the chain saw higher.
Joseph held up his hands. “Kudge is no friend of mine; he just gave me directions to you. I’ve got a business proposition.”
Suspicious narrowing of the eyes, as well as a glint of greed. “What kind of proposition?”
“A hundred bucks for information.”
“About what?”
“About who approached you to shoot up the water bag at the mill last weekend.”
/> Landis’s hands tightened on the saw. “I don’t know nothin’ about no water bag.”
“This information is strictly for myself. It goes no farther.” Joseph took out his wallet, counted five twenties, folded them. Landis watched him, running his tongue over his lips.
“I didn’t shoot that bag,” he said.
“Don’t claim you did. But somebody approached you. Who?”
“You lay that money down on that other stump there. Then step back some, and we’ll talk.”
Joseph set the bills where he indicated, and moved away.
“Okay,” Landis said, “this woman came up here. Said one of the guys works at the feed store was talking about somebody should take that bag out, and that I was the man for the job.”
“Why would he think that?”
“Because I’m a good shot, man. I won medals in competitions five years running. Anyway, I sent her packing. I don’t do shit like that.”
You do, and you did, but it doesn’t matter.
“This woman have a name?”
“She didn’t give it, but I seen her around. She runs that Friends of the Perdido group.”
That was the last thing he’d expected to hear. It was a moment before he could ask, “Bernina Tobin?”
“I don’t know, man. Like I say, she didn’t tell me who she was, and I didn’t shoot that bag. You better not try to say I did.”
“I’m not going to say a word. But you already have—to too many people for your own good.”
“Listen, I didn’t do it!”
“Then stop talking about it.” Joseph turned and went back to his van.
Goddamn Bernina, he thought, fumbling with the keys with fingers made unsteady by rage. She may have undone everything we’ve worked so hard for.
STEPH PACE
The temperature in the cramped space was climbing steadily. With every degree Steph felt more light-headed, thirsty, and once again sick to her stomach. On a shelf she’d located a few items: a bag of something that felt like hardened cement, a ball of twine, an empty plastic spray bottle, a bucket, a trowel. She used the bucket for a toilet, the trowel to pry around the door.
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