“Not at all. I haven’t even unpacked yet. So you’ve heard I’ve been banished from the Sea Stacks. How’d you find me?”
“I put out a BOLO — be-on-lookout — on you, and one of the other deputies spotted your car. I want to invite you to a search party. Virge Scurlock is missing, and her husband’s organizing it. Those of us who have the time are to meet at their place at one. They need everybody they can enlist.”
Both her quasi-official manner and the nature of the invitation intrigued him. “I’ll be glad to help. Let me get my jacket.”
Rhoda insisted on driving, and once he’d belted himself into the passenger’s seat of her truck, which was covered in the Lab’s hair, he settled back to admire the way she handled the highway’s curves. A police-band radio muttered under the dash, and after a minute he asked, “Do they require you to have a radio in your personal vehicle?”
“No, but most of us do. We’re understaffed and the county is hard to police. If there’s trouble in the vicinity or someone needs backup, we want to know so we can be there.”
After that she spoke little, only to ask if he found his new room comfortable, and resisted his few attempts at conversation. As they drove south he occupied himself by noting the landmarks: the entrance to Cascada Canyon; Point Deception turnout; Gregory Cordova’s dirt driveway. About a mile beyond Cordova’s place Rhoda cut sharply to the left and they followed a paved drive that led high onto the ridge. A sprawling yellow house stood in a clearing, its vintage early fifties or perhaps late forties, with a glassed-in porch. An abundance of gnarled rose bushes that still bore papery-looking flowers surrounded it, and a couple of outbuildings with a disused appearance stood nearby.
The driveway ended in a large paved area where over a dozen vehicles were parked, and another dozen spilled over onto the grass beyond. A crowd was gathered in a side yard, and Deputy Wayne Gilardi stood on a platform improvised from cordwood, calling out names. As Guy and Rhoda approached his eyes flickered with surprise and disapproval.
Guy scanned the crowd, noting familiar faces. The bartender from the hotel, a clerk from the supermarket, a waitress from the Oceanside, the maid from the Sea Stacks. Will Scurlock and his tenant, Clay Lawrence, stood next to the platform. Lawrence spotted Guy and nodded.
“Okay,” Gilardi said, “take a look at those maps we passed out.”
Xeroxed sheets of paper fluttered as people consulted them. Guy glanced at one the man next to him held. It was a hand-drawn map marked off in grids.
Gilardi went on, “Group One’ll cover the area south of here. Your leader’s Clay Lawrence. You take your direction from him. Group Two’ll move east across the ridge. You follow Will. I’ll lead Group Three from here to the highway, then north to the property line. Your leaders have walkie-talkies, so if you find anything, tell them and they’ll communicate it to the others. You’ll be hearing planes overhead, because Westhaven’s pilots’ association has volunteered to make an aerial search, but they tell me we’ve got a better chance of finding Virge than they do. So you’re it, folks. Any questions?”
Rhoda called, “Why only north to the property line, Wayne?”
He frowned. “What’s that, Swift?”
“Aren’t you going to search Cascada Canyon?”
Some people had been talking in low tones while Gilardi gave his instructions, but now silence fell.
The deputy glanced at Will Scurlock, who shook his head. Wayne said, “It’s not necessary. Virge would never go there.”
“Are you sure of that?”
Again Gilardi glanced at Scurlock, who made an impatient gesture. “Swift,” he said, “are you volunteering?”
A ripple of uneasy comment spread through the crowd.
“I’ll be team leader for that area, yes.”
“Well, Mr. Newberry there’ll have to be your team. Everybody else is assigned.”
“Fine by me.”
“Then let’s get started.” Gilardi shot Rhoda a hard look before stepping off the cordwood.
Rhoda turned and began walking toward her truck. Guy followed. People gave them a wide berth, several casting puzzled or uneasy glances. When they were driving along a dirt track toward the north end of the property he asked, “Why’re you doing this?”
“We’re looking for Virge.”
“You heard Wayne. She’d never go to the canyon. Her husband looked as though he agreed.”
“You know, Guy, my former husband always thought he knew exactly what I would or wouldn’t do — and more often than not he was wrong.”
A downed tree, many years down, judging from the smooth, silvery sheen of its bark, lay across the track in front of them. Rhoda stopped the truck and said, “From here on we walk.”
Guy got out and followed her, noting the stiffness of her spine, the jerkiness of her gait. On edge and under rigid control, he thought. Scared? He wondered if she’d planned beforehand to go to the canyon or if her volunteering was strictly impulsive. Whichever, it must be difficult for her to return there after these many years.
They moved through forestland on ground thick with needles, where pinecones lay in abundance and large bright orange mushrooms grew. A car backfired on the highway, and momentarily Rhoda’s steps faltered. A plane’s engine droned low overhead. The trees grew taller, denser, and then Guy spotted the first of the giant redwoods. His eyes were drawn upward along their deeply striated trunks to sunlight filtering hazily through their branches. He stopped, but Rhoda walked on, into a clearing. When he caught up with her—
“What in God’s name is that?” The arrangement of rusted, twisted metal rose amidst the trees. It resembled a half dozen electric drill bits, their shanks embedded in concrete.
“One of Forrest Wynne’s sculptures. There’s another in front of their geodesic dome. He was supposed to be a genius, but...” She shrugged.
Guy recalled the eggbeater controversy that prompted the Wynnes to flee San Francisco. The artist had had an unfortunate affinity for common household objects. He walked around the sculpture, trying to make sense of it.
“D’you know what this was called?”
“No.”
“Well, I don’t suppose it matters now.”
Rhoda didn’t reply. She was standing with her hands thrust in the pockets of her sweater, head turned toward the canyon. Steeling herself, Guy sensed, for a return to what they both knew to be an evil place.
Rho motioned to Guy and started toward the slope that led down into the canyon, adrenaline coursing through her. She didn’t really believe Virge Scurlock had gone there, not to the birthplace of the demons that plagued her. But Rho’s demons had been born there too, and she’d reached the point where she needed to confront them. Needed also to show this man the canyon as she knew it.
Damp needles made the downslope slippery, and she moved with care. Behind her she heard Guy slide and right himself with a grunt. Ahead she saw the row of poplars that grew along the stream, their golden leaves moving fitfully in the breeze. Water splashed over rocks, glinting in the sunlight, running faster than she remembered. A weathered humpbacked footbridge spanned the stream bed.
The bridge was what Heath Wynne had been running toward when he was shot.
Rho stopped, taking a deep breath. Guy came up beside her.
“This canyon,” she said, conscious of a tremor in her voice, “is named for the waterfall near its end, that generates this stream. There’s a second stream on the far north side of the property near the well house.” Before he could comment she turned and moved across the bridge. Its planks were spongy under her weight.
“We’re in the center of the property now,” she went on. “Thirty-one acres. This bridge is on a triangle with the Blakeley house and the drug lab. The Wynnes’ dome is directly ahead of us through those trees.”