She shrugged. “I’ll go home and brush up on my grammar. Right after I get some sleep — which I didn’t get last night, worrying about Frank.”
I studied her for a moment, during which she studied me right back. “You really
“Yes,” she said, a little less hostile. Then, almost as if she’d caught herself backing off, added, “Maybe more than you are.”
“We can come up with some contest about it later.”
“Doesn’t really matter now, does it?”
“Look, Cecilia, right now, I just want him to live. To do that, I’ve got to try to meet the kidnappers’ demand.”
“Well, best of luck to you.”
“I need your help.”
“I’ve told you—”
“Take me to the place where you found Powell.”
“What?”
“The place where you found Powell.”
“I heard you. I just don’t — What makes you think I remember it?”
“Think of Frank Harriman and answer truthfully—”
“All right, all right, I remember it. Of course I remember it. First time I found a body outside a car — first one that hadn’t gone through a windshield, anyway.”
“Take me there.”
She looked at me for what seemed like a good forty-eight hours before saying, “Oh, what the hell. But let’s get going — I’ve got other things to do with my time.”
She got up and left me to pay the bill. Well, it was my invitation, and the bill wasn’t steep — but a person with manners would have waited before walking outside. As I went back to leave a tip on the table, she honked the horn of her car in impatience. Several times.
Frank, I thought, if we both survive this ordeal, I’ve got some tough questions for you.
She was driving a dark blue T-bird. The sunglasses were back on. She drove with the expertise of a person who lives behind the wheel. It was a warm morning, and we rolled the windows down.
We traveled the first few miles in complete silence, driving north to Highway 178 and then heading east. As we went past the Ant Hill Oil Field, I asked, “Was this your regular patrol area?”
“This highway? One seventy-eight?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t the first time I drove it.”
“But it wasn’t your regular assignment?”
She checked the rearview mirror, adjusted it a little, and said, “No, but I offered to take it that day.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “I had my reasons.”
If we hadn’t passed a big citrus grove just then, I might have started to lose my temper. Cassidy’s trick worked like a charm, though, and I stayed silent, if not calm. I looked out the window and saw the Greenhorn Ranger Station, which marked this entrance to the Sequoia National Forest.
“Bakersfield CHP office patrols this highway all the way to the lake?” I asked.
“Bakersfield CHP only has the lower portion of this highway. The upper portion is patrolled by the Kernville office. Ours goes up to where it becomes a divided highway.”
“So you found him on the lower portion, where it’s two-lane?”
“Yes.”
Soon we came to the signs saying “Route 178 to Lake Isabella Open,” “Falling Rock — Road Not Maintained at Night,” and the big death toll sign. The Kern River flows with often brutal force along a rocky canyon; while there are relatively safe places to raft or stick your toes in the water, close to two hundred people had drowned in the Kern since they started the tally in 1968.
We could see and hear it now, its white rapids pounding between steep, boulder-strewn banks. The narrow road climbed in sharp curves, between the river on the left and a steep, sheer cliff to the right. We passed an old Edison plant with a corrugated tin roof and continued to climb.
Cecilia’s continued silence and the barren landscape gradually unraveled any remnants of my good mood.
“You don’t get carsick, do you?” Cecilia asked.
It snapped me out of thoughts that were as dangerous as the rapids below us.
“If I do,” I said, “it will be a first.” And it will be my pleasure to barf all over your fancy upholstery.
