“You don’t look so good,” she said nervously, as if hearing my unspoken thought. “I’ll pull over if you’re going to puke.”
“It’s not car sickness,” I said.
“Pregnant?”
“No,” I said, unable to conceal my irritation. “I’m not sick, I’m not pregnant, and I’m not going to puke!”
Smirking. She was smirking.
I knew damned well we were miles away from any orange blossoms. I took deep breaths anyway. If I so much as clenched my fists, she would notice, and I wasn’t going to give her the pleasure of seeing that she had angered me — not a second time. I looked away from her, pretending fascination with the less scenic side of the road.
To my surprise, she didn’t try to goad me. I did calm down. The road was a little wider, and there was more chaparral. We passed Live Oak Picnic Ground and Upper and Lower Richbar. There were signs warning of cattle crossings, reminding me that there were ranches in the hills to the right. We began to see trees, and the canyon grew deeper and broader.
“Look,” Cecilia said, breaking the silence. She pointed out a pair of eagles circling above the river, looking for breakfast. “Nothing like this in Las Piernas,” she said.
“No, there’s not,” I said, not wanting to quibble so soon after regaining my temper. Besides, she was right. Las Piernas had its own attractions, but no eagles or fifty miles of rapids or other Kern River wonders.
“I didn’t fit in down there,” she said.
When I didn’t comment she added, “People seemed so phony to me down there. I guess I belong out here with roughnecks, rednecks, and the
Ignoring the implication that I was phony, I said, “It was a big change at first, but I was looking for a change. I didn’t leave Bakersfield because I disliked it. I liked the people and the place just fine.”
“Why, then?”
“My father was ill. I didn’t want to be away from him.”
She focused her attention back on the road. “Not far from here,” she said as we passed a sign for Democrat Hot Springs. The canyon was steep, the river far below. She slowed cautiously, then pulled into a turnout on the right side. She watched for traffic, then made a sharp U-turn, doubling back and pulling into another unpaved turnout, this one on the opposite side of the road.
“This is it,” she said. “Right here between the Democrat Hot Springs and China Garden.”
“This exact turnout? Are you certain?” I asked, my mouth suddenly dry as I looked not at the river or cliffs or trees, but at the object that held her gaze.
“Yes. It’s because of that rock. Every time I drive past it, I think of Powell.”
It wouldn’t be difficult to remember the spot. The large, mushroom-shaped rock was quite distinctive.
One Father’s Day weekend a policeman had asked Gene Ryan about that same rock, not realizing that Christopher Powell would remember that part of their conversation or that two young boys would remember it still. No, at that moment he was probably more concerned that Gene Ryan was lying to him.
Ryan hadn’t lied.
I had the feeling that every time a certain Bakersfield cop drove past it, he remembered Christopher Powell, too.
23
I GOT OUT OF THE CAR and walked to the edge of the turnout. Although there was a slope beyond it, the ground was not especially steep for the first few yards. It was flat and fairly open, only a few low shrubs nearby. But beyond that first thirty feet, the earth fell away sharply. If you wandered beyond the first slope, especially in darkness, you could easily take a fast and bumpy fall. Because of trees and boulders and chaparral, your body might not reach the river — far below — but you’d travel quite a ways before the landscape slowed you down.
Off to the right, upriver some distance but in plain view, I saw a footbridge and what seemed to be trails. I could also see a campsite.
Cecilia was leaning against the T-bird, arms folded, watching me.
I turned to her and said, “Tell me what you saw that day.”
“Just the van. I didn’t see the body until later.”
“Any sign of other cars?”
“Of course. It’s a turnout.”
“Goddammit, Cecilia, you know what I meant.”
She smiled. “No, there were no other vehicles parked in the area. It was June. No rain. Very dry conditions. No fresh tire marks in the mud or anything like that. Nothing more stupendous than that brown van, leaking oil.”
I looked up the road again.
“Doesn’t make sense for him to have pulled in here, does it?” I said.
“Why not?”
“He lived in Lake Isabella. Northeast of here, up the road. First, why is he going home? He’s fleeing a double homicide where he’s left two living witnesses. Why head for a known address?”
“The guy was a druggie, and never famous for being brilliant — never.”
“Maybe that’s it. But let’s say he does have a reason to go home. He’s covered with blood — he wants to clean up, change clothes, grab some provisions, and take off again.”
“Sure, why not?” she said impatiently.
