“Something like that.”
“And? What have you decided, now that you know the whole story?”
I didn’t say anything. Beyond Ferguson and Nancy Pollard, a door to the rear wing of the villa opened and Timmy came out ahead of a middle-aged Mexican woman carrying a huge tray. Ferguson saw me looking in that direction, glanced over his shoulder, and then put his gaze back on me.
“What are you going to do?” he said.
I still didn’t say anything. But I didn’t have to this time; it was there in my face. Ferguson read it, and let out a heavy breath, and Nancy Pollard read him, and then all three of us knew what I was going to do. They didn’t speak either. We just stood there, waiting, and the only sound in the hot stillness was Timmy’s voice as he ran toward us shouting, “Dad! Aunt Nancy! Wait’ll you see what Maria-Elena made for us to eat!”
33: McCone
I took Interstate 8 east as if I were going to Woodall’s house, turned north on Route 67 at El Cajon, and finally east again on Route 78. At the little town of Julian — a Western-style tourist town full of motorcycles, which was far too cute for my taste — I stopped and bought some chilled Calistoga Water as protection against the mounting heat. There were seven miles of sharp curves down Banner Grade from Julian, and then the landscape abruptly changed to desert.
The road lay before me, covered by shimmering pools of illusionary water that kept receding into the distance. The dry heat grew even more intense, making my skin feel papery, the membranes of my nose and mouth dry. Periodically I drank from the sweat-beaded bottle of water.
The land around me was sandy and flat, dotted with spiny jumping cholla and desert sagebrush. Smoke trees and lifeless-looking ironwood trees grew down in the washes. I thought of my childhood excursions to the desert, when I’d learned the names of these plants. The trips were supposed to delight, but in reality had only given me my first inkling of man’s insignificance and inherent loneliness.
And then I ceased to think of anything much at all; the desert has that numbing effect on those who drive across it.
The only other vehicles on the road seemed to be campers, pickups, and motorcycles. An occasional truck hauled a dune buggy. The sky was starkly blue, and hawks wheeled across it. I kept going, over San Felipe Creek, where tamarisk trees and desert willows grew in abundance, toward the turnoff for Borrego Springs.
Named for the bighorn sheep that live high in the surrounding mountains, Borrego Springs is an oasis in the Colorado Desert. The gateway to the Anza-Borrego Desert Region, it sprawls in a valley, a palm-shaded little town with two country clubs and a small shopping area. The thought of getting out of the car and sitting in the shade — maybe getting something to eat — appealed to me, and I was about to turn north on Yaqui Pass Road when I thought to stop and check the map that the man in the recorder’s office had drawn for me.
The map indicated I should continue on Highway 78 to the village of Ocotillo Wells. So much for a brief interlude under a palm tree. I put the car in gear and went on, past rocky washes and land where the vegetation became more and more sparse.
As I approached Ocotillo Wells, groups of campers and tents began to appear on the barren land on either side of the road. The village itself consisted of a café, store, and Mobil station. Its one dubious claim to fame is being the “dune buggy capital of the world,” because of its proximity to the Ocotillo Wells State Vehicular Recreation Area. I smiled wryly as I drove in, thinking, What if Elaine came out here to roar around in a dune buggy? What if Les Club is nothing more than a bunch of motorized maniacs?
Somehow I knew that wasn’t it.
From Ocotillo Wells, the map showed I should take Split Mountain Road south toward the former site of Little Borrego, but I decided to ask directions anyway. Maybe someone here would know of Les Club and simplify matters for me. I pulled into the gas station, where a few scruffy-looking young men stood drinking beer around a dune buggy. I parked to one side, and went into the office. A sun-browned teenage boy came out of the garage area, wiping greasy hands on a rag.
“Help you, ma’am?”
“Yes. I’m looking for a place near here called Les Club.”
He looked blank. “Never heard of it.”
“I have a map.”
He took it gingerly, trying not to smear it with grease. “Oh, yeah. I see. What you do is take Split Mountain Road, the one right next to the station here, almost to where it ends at the big gypsum mine. There’s a rutted road that branches off to the south. You follow it about seven miles up to the foothills. Part of it’s pretty badly rutted, so be careful in that little car. The old Matthews place is at the end of it.”
“What kind of place is it?”
“You never been there before?”
“No.”
He grinned. “Then you’ll see. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.” He turned and went back into the garage.
I drove down Split Mountain Road, past the Elephant Tree Ranger Station. At first I saw dune buggies running along the roadside, but soon they disappeared, and by the time I got to the turnoff, I felt as if I were the only person for miles around. Within sight of the entrance to the U.S. Gypsum Mine, I turned right, onto a washboard surface, and bumped along toward the foothills.
It seemed a funny place for a club — or for anything else. There was nothing out here but sand, sagebrush, and thorny ocotillo. As the boy had said, the last couple of miles the road was badly rutted, and I had to put the car in first gear. The road snaked through a wash, then up a steep rise toward where the eroded, wrinkled hills rose. At the top, I slammed on the brakes and stared.
It looked like no club I’d ever seen before in my life. I couldn’t imagine what activities the members could have engaged in out here in the barren desert, much less inside such an odd structure. And the place was no less strange for the fact that I had heard it described by Wolf when he was talking about the pictures he’d seen in the file in Jim Lauterbach’s office.
The house was low, built of adobe and native stone, whose color blended into the landscape. It was composed of curved, windowless walls and numerous cylindrical shapes, and the front door resembled the opening to a kiln. On its roof perched three giant air conditioners, known as swamp coolers, a type frequently used in desert climates. Even from where I sat in the car, I could hear their noisy rattling.
The house stood out against the heat-hazed hills and was surrounded by dark green greasewood bushes and the ashy-white shrubs known as burroweed. To the right, at a fair distance, were the remains of an old water tower and a loading platform that apparently had once served a spur railway. The sections of track that were still there were badly rusted. In front of the house was a large parking area with one car in it — an orange Datsun.
Well, at least there was someone here. Maybe now I’d get some answers to my questions.
I continued downward from the rise and parked next to the Datsun. Getting out of my car, I watched the house for a moment, and when no one came out, I went around the other car and checked the glove compartment for its registration.
The Datsun belonged to Karyn Sugarman.
I stared at the house again, my eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare, then went up to the door. The rattle of the swamp coolers was very loud, and I could smell the resiny sweet odor of the greasewood trees. I looked around for a doorbell, then noticed that the door stood open several inches.
Knocking on the frame, I called out, “Karyn? It’s Sharon McCone.” There was no answer. After a moment, I pushed the door open wider and looked in. There was a round entry with a slate floor and adobe walls the same color as the exterior of the house. No one was in sight.