A deer exploded from the bushes. I stumbled and fell and it ran straight at me, rearing up to show the scraped undersides of its hooves and its belly taut with veins before it sprang laterally and punched through a dry shrub with a shattering of branches.
Hinges whined, light whipped the trees.
A woman’s voice called, “I can defend myself.”
“Andrea.” I rose, coughing dust. “It’s—”
She jabbed at me with her flashlight. “Who is that?”
“It’s Clay.” I’d dropped my own flashlight. I rummaged for it in the leaves, brushed myself off. “Do you mind... ”
She lowered the beam from my face. She wore leggings and a T-shirt with the Bay Area Therapeutics logo: a green snippet of DNA sprouting marijuana leaves. Bare toes gripped the dirt. Her right hand trained a snub-nosed revolver on my groin.
I motioned for her to lower the gun, as well. “I’m trying to reach Luke.”
“He’s not here.”
“I tried calling. Him and you.” She didn’t answer. “Can we talk?”
She went inside.
In addition to a love of cars and “natural” landscaping, my brother and Rory Vandervelde had in common a preference for open-plan living, albeit not at the same scale. The longhouse lacked interior walls and was furnished with castoffs — a crooked armoire, unraveling wicker. The mattress lay on pallets. Over a meditation corner of rag rugs and zafu pillows, Buddha kept a serene watch. A folding table covered in food containers, vitamin bottles, essential oils, canisters of herbs, and utensils served as kitchen and pantry. Beneath it was a mini-fridge, beside it a wood-burning stove. Everywhere were lit candles. A close, oppressive atmosphere had built up.
Andrea set the gun on the kitchen table. Prying open a tin, she loaded powder into a tea infuser and reached for a kettle piping on the stovetop. Halfheartedly she offered me a cup.
“What is it?”
“Chamomile and valerian root.” She filled a mug, dropped the infuser, and flipped over a small sand timer. “It helps to relieve stress.”
I didn’t ask why she felt stressed or why she thought I might, too. “No, thanks.”
My brother and I had turned out different. The women we’d chosen to marry had amplified those differences by an order of magnitude.
Amy was five-ten, angular, pretty, and coltish, a middle blocker for her college volleyball team; an accomplished scholar and elegant thinker, confident yet humble, capable of assuming anyone’s perspective without forfeiting her own.
Andrea stood five-two in Birkenstocks. Hippy, hippie, plate-faced, she had a habit of smiling up at you while you talked — smiling, but not nodding, for there was no assent implied, but rather martyrly forbearance. When you finished, she’d speak her piece. Even agreement tended to take the form of a rebuttal.
Nice day, isn’t it, Andrea?
No, but it’s so much better than yesterday.
It was Amy who’d first observed that Andrea’s Zen-groovy-earthy persona was a coping strategy for profound anxiety. I hadn’t cared to see that, too put off by her condescension. She boasted a cereal-box certificate in trauma counseling, others in yoga, mindfulness, and holistic aromatherapy. Despite all that, she rarely worked. The main advantage of having so many degrees was that they entitled her to refer to herself as a “therapist,” which in turn entitled her to regard Amy, who held a PhD in clinical psychology from Yale, as her peer.
Amy didn’t care. It pissed me off, though.
But I wasn’t the one married to Andrea. Luke was, and they seemed to make each other happy. They’d met while he was at Pleasant Valley, when she came to the prison to teach meditation. She knew Luke’s sins, accepted him; cleaved to him, after the world had turned its back. So he loved her, and doted on her, endorsed her wackiness and cherished it.
How curative that must have felt for him — to love and be loved. In his self-deprecating way he joked about being damaged goods. Which he was. But he wasn’t a serial killer or a rapist. Plenty of women marry men far worse.
Andrea bobbed the tea infuser. Most of the time she piled her unmanageable brown hair beneath a kerchief or snood. Loose now, it swayed like seaweed. “What do you want with Luke?”
“He was on my mind. Both of you. With the... you know, everything. The fires.”
“We’re fine.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
My attention had migrated to the revolver.
Andrea stiffened. “It’s in my name. They can take away his rights but they can’t take mine.”
Were the police to show up with a warrant, I didn’t think that argument would carry water. “Do you know where he is?”
“Out.”
“Out where?”
She shrugged.
“When do you expect him back?”
“He’ll be back when he’s back.”
“Have you spoken to him recently?”
“Define recently.”
“Today.”
“Not today, no.”
“When was the last time you spoke?”
“Yesterday.”
“Do you remember what time it was?”
“Not really.”
Her calmness was maddening.
I said, “Did you see him?”
“When.”
“Yesterday.”
“No. I mean, yes. But not since then.”
“He didn’t stay here last night?”
“I don’t keep track of his every movement.”
“Sure. But” — but he’s your husband — “did he mention where he was going?”
“We’re two independent entities,” she said. “You and Amy can choose to relate to each other however you want but that’s not how we choose to relate. Sometimes he travels for work. Sometimes I’m on a silent retreat and we don’t talk for a week. He’s busy. We’re busy people. You might not understand it, but you can’t judge us for it.”
“No one’s judging anyone.”
She bobbed at her tea.
“Is that where he is?” I asked. “On a work trip?”
“He definitely could be.”
What the hell did that mean? “Did he say he was going somewhere?”
“Scott’s always calling up last-minute and sending him some crazy place cause he knows Luke will agree to do it. He snaps his fingers and Luke jumps.”
My brother’s friendship with Scott Silber stretched back to high school. Even then Scott had shown an entrepreneurial streak: scalping concert tickets, sourcing rare sneakers, procuring kegs for a fee. His latest venture, Bay Area Therapeutics, launched right as California legalized recreational cannabis. Six months post-prison, Luke joined as employee number nineteen.
Both gambles had paid off. The company had twice upgraded their offices to accommodate rapid growth. It was the first decent job Luke had ever held. I understood his sense of obligation.
“But you’re not aware that he’s on a trip for Scott,” I said.
“No, Clay, I’m not aware.”
“Has Luke mentioned anything to you about planning to sell his car?”
“Sell — the Camaro? No. Why?”
“He took it with him when he left.”
“I mean. It’s his car.”
“And this was yesterday.”
“That’s what I said.”
I’d been holding out hope, telling myself that Luke could have sold the Camaro to Rory Vandervelde at any point in the last nine days. Andrea had shortened that window. Dramatically.
“You don’t remember what time he left, though.”
“Ask me all you want, it won’t change the answer.”
“How about morning, afternoon, night?”
She blew a raspberry. “Day. Okay? Happy?”
“Has he called you since then?”
“I haven’t checked my phone.”
“Can you check it now, please?”