The Boys from Santa Cruz

That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? By now I’d had plenty of time to think about it. The only person I knew in this part of the country was a guy named Rudy, a Hatchapec Indian pot grower my dad used to do business with. And while I couldn’t be sure of an open-arms welcome from a pot rancher, Rudy had always acted friendly toward me. And one other thing I knew for sure. Welcoming or unwelcoming, there was no way he’d be calling the cops on me. “You know where the Hatchapec reservation is?” I asked him.

“I ought to,” he said. “I am one.”

Buzzard John was right. After a while, I kind of forgot about the smell in the truck. Especially after he fired up this humongous bomber of a joint. It was goofy fun at first, being stoned again after not smoking anything for over a week. We laughed and toked and made up jokey slogans for his business. “You Can’t Beat Our Dead Horses,” and “From Moo to Glue” were my two favorites.

A half hour or so later, the Buzzard-mobile dropped me off at the bottom of a long dirt driveway. “Those folks you’re visiting, it’s not such a good idea to drive up there unless they’re expecting you. This late in the growing season, some folks bobby-trap their driveways. So if I was you, young Luke, I’d stick to walking in the ditches.”

Right around then was when being stoned started to lose its attraction for me. And a few minutes after I started up the hill, it turned into a distinct liability. I was keeping to the gully like Buzzard John said, when I heard a truck coming up behind me. I turned around and was immediately blinded by the glare of a spotlight.

“Hands on your head!” Car doors slammed; footsteps pounded. Two guys jumped out. They slammed me against the side of a truck, then one guy held me while the other patted me down. I was expecting to be handcuffed and read my rights, but instead they lowered a sack over my head and shoved me into the back of their pickup. One of them must have climbed in with me, because when I started to reach for the hood, I felt a gun barrel prodding my chest. “Leave it on,” was all he said.

The truck roared on up the hill. Jouncing around in back, I grabbed the side of the bed and held on for dear life, praying that the guy with the rifle had the safety on. The truck stopped, they hustled me out, took off the hood. I found myself standing at the edge of a cliff with the men flanking me, one at each elbow. The ravine below looked bottomless in the dark.

“Who are you spying for?” asked the guy at my right elbow. I saw he was wearing a straw cowboy hat, but I still hadn’t seen either of their faces.

“Nobody. I swear on my mother’s life, I’m not spying for anybody.”

They leaned me out over the abyss. “I’m going to ask you one more time,” said the man. “So unless you can fly, you’d better give me an answer. Who sent you?”

“Nobody sent me,” I said again, wearily. “My name is Luke Sweet, Jr. I’m looking for a guy named Rudy. I don’t know his last name. He’s a Hatchapec, he’s got kind of a hooked nose, you know, like…” I half-turned, drew a sharp angle in the air with my forefinger. The guy to my left kind of chuckled. The other guy, the one with the hat, yanked me back from the ledge and spun me around.

“Yeah, I thought I recognized you,” he said. It was Rudy, of course, crooked schnoz and all. Either he’s gonna kill me here and now for making fun of his nose, or everything’s finally gonna be okay, I thought, sticking out my hand. Rudy ignored it. “Take him down to the house,” he told the other man. “Keep an eye on him until I get there.”

CHAPTER SEVEN 1

The epicenter of the search-and-rescue operation was the rustic, two-story former hunting lodge that served as the headquarters for the Mountain Project. In front of the lodge, jammed into the partial clearing and scattered among the fir trees, were sheriff’s department and state police cruisers, ambulances, California Department of Forestry fire trucks and jeeps, pickups with light bars, and a variety of three- and four-wheeled off-road vehicles. CB radios and walkie-talkies spat and crackled, search dogs barked, and in the distance helicopter rotors beat the air with a percussive whop-whop-whop you could feel in your bones.

Night was just starting to close in by the time Pender arrived in the Bu-car. Searchers, including sheriff’s deputies, park service rangers, and dozens upon dozens of volunteers, were being shuttled back to the lodge in canvas-covered, olive green National Guard trucks, fed hot meals from the lodge kitchen, then bedded down on cots or in sleeping bags wherever there was room for them.

The epicenter of the epicenter was the vast, two-story-high main room on the ground floor, which was ringed on three sides by the jutting second-floor balcony, rather like an old Elizabethan theater. Huge topographical maps, pale green and white, were spread out contiguously on trestle tables, and grids staked out on them with string and thumbtacks. Pender, wearing a plaid sport coat that made him look like the backseat of a ’57 Chevy, walked up to a man wearing a Civil Aviation Authority baseball cap and a navy blue windbreaker with SEARCH AND RESCUE across the back, who seemed to be giving the most orders and receiving the most deference.

“Ed Pender, FBI,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I got here as soon as I could.”

The man looked down at Pender’s hand like he’d never seen one before. “I’ll be with you when I get a second. In the meantime, why don’t you get on the horn to your people, see if you can find out where the hell is that chopper they promised me three hours ago.”

Before Pender could respond, a man in a khaki uniform bustled around from the far side of the map table. “Agent Pender, thanks for coming,” he said, grasping Pender’s outstretched hand and pumping it vigorously while simultaneously steering him aside with a smooth, politic pressure of his left hand on Pender’s elbow. “I’m Sheriff Ajanian. Sorry about the confusion-actually, I’m the one who sent for you.”

Medium height, tailored uniform that couldn’t disguise a hard little volleyball belly. Toothbrush mustache, probably a comb-over under the peaked cap. Nervous, darting eyes.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“I understand you interviewed young Sweet last week?”

“For half an hour or so, till he lawyered up.” Jonesing for a cigarette, Pender glanced around the room, but nobody else was smoking.

“That half an hour, Agent Pender, makes you the nation’s number one law enforcement expert on Luke Sweet, Jr. Here’s our situation: The Mountain Project is one of these Outward Bound operations. The last session started last Friday night, the seventeenth, with five kids, one of whom was Sweet. Last night around midnight, one of the counselors did a bed check, and Sweet and a fifteen-year-old girl by the name of Dusty Walker came up missing.

“The search kicked off at first light. The other Mountain Project kids joined the search party-one of them, a sixteen-year-old from San Diego named Brent Perry, failed to return to his rendezvous point this afternoon. The search dogs found him lying by the side of the trail a few hours ago with his skull cracked open. They medevaced him over to Eureka General-as far as I know, he still hasn’t recovered consciousness.

“Now, as sheriff of this county, my chief concern of course is the public welfare. So what I’m trying to ascertain here, given the attack on Perry, and Sweet’s history, is whether the boy should be considered a danger to public safety. Trying to get a straight answer out of the shrink over there”-Ajanian nodded toward a dazed-looking post-preppy in the far corner of the room. Wearing a corduroy jacket with elbow patches, a button-down shirt and loosely knotted tie, chinos, and penny loafers, he was getting a pep talk from a younger woman with cropped hair-“is like pulling hens’ teeth. But you’re familiar with the situation down in Marshall County, you’ve talked to the kid, what’s your opinion?”

That clears that up, thought Pender, who’d been wondering why he’d been sent for ever since Pool gave him his marching orders. The county sheriff, he now understood, was less interested in his actual opinion than he was in simply getting Pender to give him an opinion. That way, Ajanian’s ass was covered if things went bad. The FBI assured us…, he would say at the press conference.

As chief Bureau liaison dealing with multivictim, multijurisdictional homicides (read: traveling serial killers), Pender had played this game before. “Good question,” he said. “Frankly, I’d like to poke around a little, get a better feel for the situation up here, before I make up my mind one way or the other.”