It took thirty minutes to reach the valley floor, another thirty to cross it. There Shasta turned north, parallel to the cliff. The canopy was too thick for me to see up to the entry road, but I knew that it must be directly above.
A quarter mile along, she stopped and dropped down behind a shrub.
I slanted through the trees, getting as close as I could without drawing her attention. She had taken off the pack and was leaning on one knee, staring at the earth as though hypnotized.
After several silent minutes she rose, threw on the pack, and departed.
I waited for her to recede before moving up.
I saw her boot prints, bent stalks slowly recovering their height.
Beneath resurgent ground cover, the soil had subsided to reveal the outline of a grave.
She’d left wildflowers.
Per the coroner’s report, Kurt Swann’s body had landed right around here. But there was no headstone, and I couldn’t see such a remote location as the permanent resting place of a town elder — certainly not after search-and-rescue had gone to the effort of removing him.
A detailed scene examination would have to wait; Shasta was already out of sight, and I doubted I could find my way back to the car on my own.
I took rapid-fire photos and set out.
I’d covered about a hundred yards when she spoke somewhere to my right.
“Why are you following me?”
I turned. She stood in shadow, half hidden by a redwood, aiming a pistol at my center mass.
I said, “Can you please put that down?”
“No.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Why are you following me?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“You’re following me. That’s not talking.”
“Who is that, back there? Is it Nick?”
She stepped forward, keeping the gun high. “Who are you?”
Breathing fast, voice shrill, edging toward catastrophe.
I said, “I work for his mother. She asked me to find him.”
“She doesn’t care about him.”
“I know she made mistakes. But I promise you: She cares. And she’s hurting.”
The gun shook. Compact automatic. Not enough to stop a bear. I wasn’t a bear.
“Please, Shasta,” I said.
Tears pooled in her eyes.
She let the gun drop to her side.
“Thank you.”
She nodded, wiped her face with the heel of her hand.
I said, “Do you want to tell me about it?”
Another nod, sad and slow.
Chapter 40
I offered to sit, but she wanted to walk. An athlete: She felt calmer with her body in motion.
She said, “I was riding out to Blackberry Junction. He was coming in the other direction.”
“Driving?”
“No, on foot. He had this ginormous hiking pack and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. I think he waved. I wasn’t really paying attention. I get focused when I ride, you know?”
“Oh, I know,” I said.
She laughed softly. “Yeah. On my way home, I saw him again, sitting in the dirt. He was really grungy, and scrawny, with pale stripes on his shoulders from the pack. He’s got this necklace on” — she touched her own chest — “and he’s shaking his water bottle into his mouth, to get the last drops. Honestly, it was kinda pathetic. So I stopped.”
“You felt bad for him.”
“Totally. And... I mean, we get hikers, but it’s never anyone my age. Like, okay, maybe you’re a homicidal maniac, but at least that’s something new.”
I smiled.
“He asked how much farther to Swann’s Flat,” she said. “I go, ‘Seven point two miles,’ and his face just... collapsed.”
Maddie Zwick had described him in similar language.
“I knew he’d never make it without water,” Shasta said. “I poured my bottle into his.”
“Kind of you.”
“I had to. I felt responsible. I said, ‘Pace yourself. In about five miles, you’ll see a stream to your left. But it’s not drinkable unless you filter it.’ He’s all, ‘Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver.’ I asked why he needed to go there. He told me he’s looking for someone. ‘Who? I know everyone.’ He opens his pack and starts taking out stuff. Rations, matches, a flashlight.”
“Camping supplies,” I said.
She nodded. “At the bottom there’s a pillowcase with these huge bundles of paper, held together by rubber bands. He unties one and starts turning pages. I couldn’t read it because he was going so fast. Finally he finds what he’s looking for. Pencil drawing, about this big.”
Displaying her palm.
“A woman’s face,” she said. “I asked who she is. He said he didn’t know her name. ‘How do you expect to find her, then?’ He shrugs. ‘I’ll figure it out.’
“Then he gave me a funny look. He goes, ‘Do you know her?’
“It was such a strange thing to ask. The drawing — it was really shitty. One eye was way too big and her jaw was all crooked. It didn’t look like it could be an actual person. But.”
Her breathing had accelerated again.
“I did know her,” she said. “I knew, right away. It was my mom.”
She stopped, downed a big gulp of water, offered me the bottle.
I drank. I was parched; I also wanted to help her regain a sense of control.
“Thanks,” I said.
I gave the bottle back and we resumed walking.
“What did you think when you saw the drawing?” I asked.
“I was imagining things. I was dehydrated, or low blood sugar. But... I know what my mom looks like.”
“Did you tell Nick that?”
“No way. Are you kidding? I just met this guy. I have no idea who he is. What if he— I don’t know. Wants to hurt her.”
“I agree with you, Shasta. I’d do the same thing.”
“Yeah. So. I told him I’d never seen her before. And he says, ‘I thought you knew everyone.’ ‘Not her.’ He’s staring at me, like he knows I’m lying. He didn’t say anything, though. He just started putting the pages away. I asked him what is all that. ‘A book.’ ‘You wrote it?’ ‘My dad did.’ ‘Who’s your dad?’ ‘Octavio Prado.’
“Then he gives me that same funny look. ‘You’ve heard of him.’ ‘No, sorry.’ And it’s the same thing: I could tell he knew the truth.” She paused. “I guess I’m just a bad liar.”
“You did know about Prado,” I said.
She nodded. “I read Lake of the Moon.”
“When?”
“A couple years ago. It was the summer we had all the wildfires. I couldn’t train or be outside for too long. I felt so bored, I was losing my shit. We don’t have a lot of books, but Maggie has tons, and she lets me borrow whatever I want. I rode over, and...” Faint smile. “I could hear her, upstairs, singing in the bath. I yelled that I’m here for a book. ‘Okay, go ahead, I’ll be down in a minute.’ I went to the garage and started looking through the shelves.”
“What drew you to Lake of the Moon?” I asked.
“It was short.”
I smiled. “Always a plus.”
“And the author was from Fresno. That’s where my mom’s from.”
I said, “Leonie is?”
“She was born there.”
“How’d she get to Swann’s Flat?”
Shasta shook her head. “She won’t talk about it. She gets really mad if I try to ask. I only knew about Fresno because my grandma came to visit once. She wanted us to move back.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight or nine? The two of them got into this huge fight. My grandma was like, ‘You can’t do this to Shasta, it’s not good for her to grow up this way.’ And my mom goes, ‘I’d rather die than set foot in that hick town,’ which is ridiculous, if you think about it, because...”