“Yes, sir. I think we’ll be done by nine, give or take.”
“Can I do anything?”
He mopped his brow. “Only brought the two saws.”
I found Regina a hundred feet down the road, sitting on a log.
“The fuck is that dumb asshole doing here?” she said.
Personally, I thought it was a smart move. Get DJ involved; give him a job; defuse the anger through partnership and physical labor. But Regina didn’t look like she was in the mood for strategic nuance.
She felt for the purse at her side.
Jammed her hand into the gun pocket and left it there.
The saws roared to life.
Two and a half hours later the gap was wide enough to squeeze the Jeep through under Al’s guidance.
I lowered the window. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Take care of yourself.”
DJ stood a ways off. Sawdust dyed his skin and hair orange.
“Thanks,” I called.
He gave a shallow nod.
“You’ll keep an eye on him for me,” I said to Al.
“Yes, sir.”
Regina got out to hug Al and rub King Kong on the belly. Throwing one sharp glance at DJ — he didn’t react — she returned to the passenger seat.
“Drive,” she said.
A mile outside Millburg I got reception.
Amy answered on the first ring: “Are you okay?”
“Yes. We’re out of there.”
“Thank God. When will you be home?”
“In time for dinner, hopefully. I’ll text you if that changes.”
Regina said, “What are you making?”
Amy laughed. “Peanut noodles.”
“Great,” Regina said. “Set a place for me.”
We stopped at the 76 for gas, drove to Fanny’s Market.
Before heading inside for coffee and provisions, Regina stepped to the bulletin board to untack Nick Moore’s flyer.
The screen door opened, and Sergeant Mike Gallo exited holding a bag of Funyuns and a travel mug emblazoned with the Humboldt Sheriff’s seal.
He smiled at me from beneath a cream-colored Stetson. “I see you two made it out alive.”
Regina turned, flyer in hand.
Gallo’s gaze lingered on her bandaged eye. His smile faded.
“How much shit did you stir up?” he said.
“Nothing they can’t handle themselves,” I said.
A beat. Gallo nodded. He touched the brim of his hat. “Drive safe.”
Four
Tara Moore sat on her living room sofa, rubbing the surface of the pendant.
“He was happy,” she said. “With her.”
She looked up at us. Grief had softened her face, her voice.
“Yes,” Regina said. “He was.”
“And it’s a pretty spot she chose.”
“Beautiful,” I said.
“Do you have pictures? Can I see it?”
I said, “Once we sort everything out, we’ll send you some.”
“Maybe I could go visit, sometime,” Tara said. “I’d like to meet her. I think that would be nice. Don’t you think it’d be nice?”
Regina nodded.
Tara said, “I think it would.”
She crushed the pendant to her chest, folded over with a moan.
Regina got down on the dusty carpet and held her as she sobbed.
Roy Trujillo, in his office at UC Merced library, let out a low whistle. “Holy Moses.”
The manuscript was stacked up on his desk — all three thousand, eight hundred forty-six handwritten pages of it.
He pressed his palms together. “Appreciate you, friends.”
“Any chance we can get reimbursed for our expenses?” Regina asked.
Trujillo smiled regretfully. “Not sure we have room in the budget for that.”
Regina and I said our goodbyes in the parking lot.
“It’s been real,” she said.
“Real what?”
“I’ll let you fill in the blank, Poirot.”
En route to San Leandro, I phoned Chris Villareal.
“Hey, Clay. Good to hear from you. How’s it going?”
“They won’t be cheating anyone again.”
The line went quiet.
He said, “Do I want to know?”
“Sorry,” I said. “You’re breaking up.”
He laughed. “Okay. Say I wanted to express my gratitude. What would you suggest?”
“Talk to my colleague. I’ll send you her info.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“Referrals are always appreciated.”
That spring, I cleaned out my bogus social media accounts. I hadn’t logged into Clay Gardner’s Instagram in months, and I decided to look in on Shasta Swann.
She’d posted two weeks prior. Wearing a UC Santa Cruz sweatshirt; beaming and holding up a letter.
I got in! #GoBananaSlugs
I messaged her congratulations.
The next day she replied with her number and asked me to call her.
“Great news,” I said. “You must be so excited.”
“You have no idea.”
I smiled. “Are you going to race triathlon?”
“They don’t have a team, just a club. I have tryouts for cross-country and swim.”
“I know a couple of swimmers there. Happy to put you in touch.”
“I think I’d rather do it on my own.”
“Fair enough.”
“Listen, I wanted to thank you,” she said.
“What for?”
“Saying things I needed to hear.”
“I don’t think I did much.”
“You did. It cleared up a lot for me. So. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. How’s your family?”
“I mean. They’re fine.” She paused. “I asked my mom again. If he’s my father.”
“Prado.”
“She said no, he wasn’t. My dad was my dad and he loved me.”
“Okay. How do you feel about that?”
“I’m choosing to believe her. For now,” she said. “I might change my mind. If I do, maybe I’ll hire you.”
I laughed.
“I could do it, you know. I’m eighteen, I have money.”
“That’s right, happy birthday.”
“Thanks. It was pretty crazy. I had this big meeting with all these lawyers. They were acting all polite, bringing me water, like I’m a celebrity. Then they heard what I had to say and looked like they were going to shit themselves.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I’m getting rid of the land.”
“You’re selling it?”
“It’s going to be a nature preserve.”
“Wow. That’s a major decision, Shasta.”
“Yeah. But it’s what I want. And there’s still plenty of money for me. Bank accounts and stocks, that kind of thing. So it’s not like I’m Mother Teresa or anything.”
“Good for you, then. What happens to your parents?”
“They can stay for the time being. Maggie, too, and Jenelle. The whole thing’s super complicated. The lawyers said it’s going to take like twenty years.”
“The longer it takes, the more they make.”
“Right?”
“Welcome to adulthood.”
She laughed. “Anyway, I’m glad you got in touch.”
“So am I,” I said. “How’s DJ doing?”
“Okay, I think. He moved in with his mom. She seems happy to have him.”
“And Al?”
“Him?” she said. “Mad, as usual.”
I found a press release, issued by the John Muir Conservation Center, announcing a joint partnership with the County of Humboldt and the Swann’s Flat Board of Supervisors.
The transfer would take place in stages, over an unspecified period, with current owners compensated out of a privately established trust fund. Among the center’s ultimate goals was the reintroduction of native species, including the critically endangered Point Delgada limpet.