“What’s your next step?”
“Head up there in person. Check out the addresses. See if I can get someone to talk to me. Like I said, it could get expensive. And I can’t promise anything.”
“You found Peter’s sister.”
“Every case is different.”
“You don’t want to do it?”
“I want to be up-front with you.”
“I wonder what it’s like,” he said. “Her land.”
“Like dirt, probably.”
He laughed despite himself. “Go for it. Pull the thread.”
His wasn’t the main authorization I needed.
Amy said, “How long will you be gone for?”
“I’m thinking two to three days. My mom can do drop-offs and pickup.”
“What about gymnastics?”
“Isn’t it Becca’s turn for carpool?”
“They’re away this week. We switched.”
“Shit. I forgot.”
“Do you want me to ask my mom?”
“Please. Thank you.”
Shopping, cooking, bills; the everyday give-and-take of a two-income household.
The next series of exchanges went beyond that.
Amy said, “Will you be careful?”
“Yes.”
“Will you communicate honestly with me, before, during, and after?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to carry a gun?”
“I’ll bring it, although there may be times I don’t have it on me.”
“Worst-case scenario.”
“I ask the wrong person the wrong question. They don’t like me poking around in their business. But I want to avoid spooking anyone, if for no other reason than I’ll get more information that way.”
“What do you do if you no longer feel safe?”
“I leave.”
The conversation had a practiced rhythm, having been hammered out over hours in couples therapy. And while it felt artificial, I understood the need for it.
I hadn’t always been careful.
Sometimes I’d lied.
Sitting on the couch, holding my wife’s hands, I tried to answer each question as if it were the first time she’d asked.
“One to ten,” she said, “how much do I have to worry?”
“I’m going to call it a two.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Two is a trip to the grocery store.”
“What’s one?”
“Sitting on the couch with me.”
“Three... point five?”
She looked me in the eye for a few moments. Finally she said, “I can handle that.”
“Thank you. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Can you refill my water, please?”
“It would be my honor and pleasure.”
When I returned she’d put on House Hunters International. She draped her legs across my lap and I began massaging her feet.
“Where are we tonight?” I asked.
“Madrid.”
“What’s our budget?”
“Eight hundred thousand.”
“You can’t get anything halfway decent for that.”
“Not if you want to be in the city center.”
“Otherwise what’s even the point?”
Amy smiled.
We watched to the end and she made her prediction: “Number three, ‘The Flat with Old-World Appeal.’ ”
On-screen, the couple said, “The Flat with Old-World Appeal.”
“How do you do that?” I asked.
“There’s always clues. You just have to pay attention.” She put down her drink. “Kiss me, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter 7
On GPS the land around me was two pale green blocks, with Highway 101 wriggling between them like a poorly laid seam. I’d skipped the scenic coastal drive in favor of a more direct inland route through Sonoma and Mendocino.
Blackened trees haunted meadows vivid with post-wildfire regrowth; grassy fields gave way to tall coniferous forest; tourist traffic sloughed off till I was alone, tracing the bends of the Eel River, its banks high and dry in the stifling heat.
Most people — most Californians — forget about the top third of the state. In their minds the map stops at San Francisco. Tahoe, if you ski.
Dr. Dre said it best: It’s all good from Diego to the Bay.
Anywhere farther north might as well be Oregon. Naked hippies chanting Willie Nelson songs while tending fields of marijuana.
Entering Humboldt County I passed a string of borderless towns more name than place. Green light filtered through the redwoods, dappling the windshield as I weaved by derelict company housing and rusting mechanical hulls. Remnants of a timber industry come and gone.
Farmstands: raw milk, homemade cheese, organic CBD oil.
For over an hour I didn’t see another vehicle. Then a southbound oil truck blew past, rocking me in its wake.
The town of Millburg marked my turnoff, last call for fuel, food, and lodging. Retailers of all three occupied a single dusty block alongside other faded establishments. The elementary school, post office, fire station, and sheriff’s substation shared a parking lot. One-stop shopping.
Needing to stretch my legs, I gassed up and left the car parked at the Union 76 station, walking half a block to Fanny’s Market. A sign boasted Hot Coffee — Cold Beer — Ice Cream — Soda — Sandwiches. The air was woolen and smelled like a campfire.
An enormous bulletin board monopolized the market’s exterior wall.
Help Wanted. For Sale. Community Events.
The largest section was labeled Have You Seen Me?
Not cats and dogs and the odd escapee gerbil, but people, their pictures and vital information. The relevant authority; the number to call. Reward, if any.
Hailey Ray. 2-24-23. Hailey left her mother’s house in San Luis Obispo to drive to Portland, Oregon. She was last seen walking along Highway 3 south of Weaverville. Her red Kia was found on the bridge over Little Browns Creek. Her wallet and keys were in the car. Hailey has a history of mental illness.
Sam Rosenthal. Missing from vicinity of Orleans since 07/3/2021. Sam and a friend went camping in Six Rivers National Forest. On Sat July 3 he went for a hike. He has not been seen since. He was wearing blue jeans, a purple sweatshirt, and hiking boots. He has a tattoo of an eagle on his left shoulder.
MISSING BECKA CANDITO. Blonde hair Brown eyes Ht 5–5 Wt 120 Last known contact April 2024 If you have any information regarding Becka’s disappearance or related criminal activity please call the Trinity County Sheriff’s Office tipline. Reward!!!
The flyers were tacked up two and three deep, battered by heat and cold and sun, sagging inside protective plastic sleeves, the subjects’ facial features dissolving, as though their souls were leaching out. Californians, but also travelers from Arizona and Colorado, from New Jersey, even one from Germany. Several of the cases appeared to belong to other jurisdictions, and I wondered why they’d been posted here.
I pushed through the screen door.
The market was stuffy and dim. A fan purred uselessly behind the register, overseen by a paunchy middle-aged man wearing a Phish concert tee and working a crossword.
I dispensed coffee from a self-serve urn and filled a basket with snacks, taking care to avoid the rack of cannabis-infused baked goods.
The clerk laid his puzzle aside to ring me up.