The quest begins half an hour later, way down in South Laguna.
Matt’s plan, hatched with Laurel, is for them to go south to north, to every occupied residence in the city, knock on each door, and show each person who answers his sister’s MISSING poster. According to the city planning department there are just over five thousand households in town. Most stops will be brief, Matt reasons, because most of Laguna’s homes and apartments are occupied by married couples, young professionals, families, women, the elderly and retired. He and Laurel will quickly see if Jazz could even possibly be a prisoner there. If not, they’ll be quickly on their way. If so, they’ll go straight to the police.
And Jasmine will be behind one of these doors, Matt knows. She has to be.
It’s a mathematical fact.
I can’t get out!
In Laguna!
I’m in the...
And if he surprises her tormentors and actually discovers her, what will he do? Those men were strong, determined, and at ease with violence. He thinks of Kyle’s .357 Magnum under the bed, knows how to use it, sort of, knows where the ammo is, too. But to carry that bruising cannon around Laurel, and into innocent homes, is both illegal and stupidly dangerous. For that matter, could he really shoot someone?
No. But if he finds her, he’ll find a way to free her.
By the end of this first day — just half a day, really, after talking to Steve Mitchell — they’ve knocked on seventy-one doors and looked through six homes and three apartments. Two people slam doors on them. But five others offer water, juice, and soft drinks.
Matt pulls the Westfalia into the loading curb in front of the Pageant of the Masters grounds. He and Laurel are quiet and hungry and she’s running late for her hair, makeup, and costume. Ticket-holders stream in around them.
“This could take longer than I thought,” says Matt.
“But it’s how we’ll find her.”
“Do you think I’m an idiot for doing this?”
She smiles at him, kisses him briefly, reaches for the door handle. “You’re a genius, Matt.”
“Dinner after the show? It would have to be at my house in case the phone rings.”
“I’d love that.”
Waiting for Laurel, Matt showers thoroughly, shaves his chin, straightens up his old room, makes up Kyle’s bed, puts a few stolen City Hall roses in vases in the living room, and splashes on some of Kyle’s Hai Karate. He remembers the TV commercial warning men that they’ll have to “fend off women” if they wear it. Hopes he hasn’t put on too much.
Laurel drinks iced tea at the dinette while Matt makes dinner in the little kitchen. It’s insanely stimulating to be here with her, without his mother.
He forgets the disappointments of the day. He can’t stop talking and trying to make her laugh. He’s spent more than three of Johnny Grail’s five dollars on steaks and frozen French fries and a cake for dessert, and he’s good with a skillet. Laurel gives him an appraising look when she learns that Julie is in her new digs tonight. He doesn’t mention that he’s got to be out of this house by next Sunday.
After dinner they sit close together on the lumpy couch and watch the old TV that Julie has bequeathed to her son. Laurel’s TV at home is color. Nothing about Kyle on the late L.A. news. Another replay of Bobby Kennedy’s railway hearse rolling along with all the flowers and his body inside and his brother and widow waving.
The windows of Matt’s house are all open so it smells of steak smoke and nightshade blossoms. Through the window Matt keeps an eye on the exact place where they bagged Jazz last Tuesday night. Glances at the phone too often.
Then he takes a deep breath and kisses Laurel. He’s pretty sure she likes it.
So he kisses her more ardently, but she pulls away.
“Let’s go slow,” she says.
“That’s probably best.”
“I like you, Matt.”
“I’ll wait as long as you want.”
“Okay. But maybe just one more short one.”
The phone doesn’t ring and Laurel has to be home no later than midnight.
30
The next morning, after knocking on 157 doors with Laurel, Matt sits in the beach chair on his driveway, folding and banding his papers. He’s spent the last half hour on the phone with the News-Post and Los Angeles Times.
Tommy now holds Matt in awe because of the Register story — front page and above the fold — about the brazen kidnapping of Jasmine Anthony. Tommy holds the paper open in front of him, reading the jump and asking questions.
“This is just freaky cool, Matt. You, a sixteen-year-old paperboy chasing kidnappers down PCH on foot!”
Matt doesn’t know how to feel about the article, which treats him as a minor hero for running into the night after a VW hippie van containing his abducted sister. Wouldn’t any brother?
Hearing Tommy read the story, Matt is reminded that it was smart not to tell the reporter the true color of the van — he said in the excitement he didn’t notice — or anything about peace-sign curtains. The cops still have their secret evidence, he thinks.
“And they put in your sketch of Jazz really nice and big, and the police flyer, too,” says Tommy. “Everybody in Laguna’s going to see this and talk about it. It’ll flush the creeps out into the open.”
“That’s the hope.”
“They didn’t run a picture of you because it might put you in danger.”
Matt nods. “We decided that was best.”
Tommy closes the paper. “You look different.”
Matt figures it’s his new celebrity, his new dangerous life. “Different how?”
“Your shirts are too small.”
Matt looks down at his Endless Summer T-shirt. In fact, his shirts and pants have been tighter lately and he’s felt heavier. No surprise, given how much he’s been eating. And spending, mostly on food. He’s anxious about money, although Grail’s five dollars can go a long way if you’re catching fish. He still wonders where he’ll go after Sunday, which is both the Summer of Eternal Love “experience” in the canyon, and the last day he’ll experience sleeping in this house. His last not-quite-fifteen dollars won’t last long if he has to pay rent on anything but a campground spot.
Tommy slams the trunk lid of his white Chevy Malibu and tosses the paper through the open driver’s window.
Then turns his head sharply toward the base of the Third Street hill. “That chick looks kind of like Jasmine. But shorter.”
Matt bolts out of the beach chair and sees the pretty blond girl coming down Third Street. His heart jumps, though he sees not Jasmine, but Sara the Skateboard Girl and Evolver, carving down one side of the narrow street on her pink skateboard.
“That’s Sara,” he says.
Although Sara seems to be concentrating on her ride — arms out and legs bent — she also appears to be coming straight at them. Matt would wave but he doesn’t want to distract her. She’s coming fast and the cars are buzzing up and down Third and Sara looks small and smashable.
Hair flying, she casts a look behind her and pumps twice hard, angling across the street and into Matt’s driveway. Stops with a wheelie flip and catches the board in midair.
“Hello, Matt Anthony.”
“Sara.”
“Sara Eikenberg.”
“And I’m Matt’s good friend and boss, Thomas.”
Tommy offers his hand and she shakes it with a motion and posture that, to Matt, reveal an upper-class, perhaps even royal upbringing. She’s polite but dismissive. All of her attention is on Matt and Matt feels it.
She’s wearing denim short-shorts, a black halter, and pink sneakers that match her pink-with-white-daisies board. Her temples are soggy with sweat and her shoulders shine golden in the sun.