“Do you know Lars?”
The biker paused. “I seen him around, you know, here and there.”
Cassidy was out of bed now, pulling on her clothes with one hand. “Is Izzy still with him?” She released a shudder thinking about what Izzy could be doing right now with a leather-clad biker named Lars.
“No clue.” He muffled the phone for a moment, long enough for Cassidy to put the phone on speaker so she could slip on her bra and t-shirt. She heard the biker laugh, a cold-ringing chuckle followed by a female voice saying something Cassidy didn’t catch.
“Say, I gotta run,” he said, the laughter softening his voice. “I just thought you should know.”
“Wait!” Cassidy cried. “Please,” she begged. “I’m coming.”
“Whoa-ho!” he cried. “I’m all ears, precious.”
Cassidy’s mouth dropped open in shock. Instantly, her neck flushed with heat. But just as fast, she felt a rise of anger so powerful she had to grip the edge of the TV stand. Asshole.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“The rally,” he answered. “Big shindig tonight,” he added. “How fast can you get here? You could bring your telescope.”
“I’m leaving now,” she said, barely controlling her frustration at how easily he was turning her inside-out. “When I get there, you’re going to introduce me to Lars.”
Sixteen
By the time Cassidy rolled up at the fairgrounds in Mt. Shasta, California, the harsh summer sunrise had begun coloring the landscape. As she’d packed her backpack in the hotel room, she realized she was likely going to miss her redeye to Hawaii. But if Izzy was at the rally, a little delay would be more than worth it.
Despite the minimal sleep, she felt wide awake, though coffee was in order, pronto. The fairgrounds parking area felt quiet, with cars parked loosely in rows spread across a broad field. Walking beneath the bright red banner arching above the entrance, she noticed the outline of tents in the open field beyond the rows of bikes and classic cars. She passed several food vendors, their awnings closed and generators silent. The lineup of classic cars and bikes shone with so much polished chrome that she had to squint shiny chrome of a bumper. She heard the occasional cough, and from beneath a blue tarp stretched out like a lean-to from a motorcycle to the ground, a sawing snore.
Dutch told her to look for his green tent in the field. He said he’d try to keep an eye out for Izzy, but it was a big place, with thousands of people, and his companion’s nearby voice made Cassidy question Dutch’s motivation for such a thing. Music still pumped in the background when she hung up with him.
Cassidy needed to find Dutch, then Lars, who would hopefully either still be with Izzy, or know where she had gone to. Before leaving Eugene, she had sent Martin an email with the link to the news story and to reassure him that it likely wasn’t Izzy. She would call both him and Richard later, once she knew more.
Cassidy wondered if she might accidentally run into Izzy here, or find her asleep in one of the bedrolls, next to a stranger. Her senses went on high alert for female sounds, or a flash of blonde hair. Cassidy passed rows and rows of motorcycles, all polished and gleaming, in styles ranging from the ordinary to the truly strange, like wide handlebar styles and long axels extending far in front of the saddle. It reminded Cassidy of something one might see in a circus, though knew immediately that saying this out loud would probably get her thrown out.
At the end of the long row, one man stood smoking a cigarette, his back to her, his thin, gray hair secured in a ponytail that snaked between his shoulder blades. He wore the same type of vest she had seen on the others at the gas station in Biggs with a giant embroidered design on the back, this one a skull and crossbones. The man coughed roughly, and barely registered her with his bloodshot eyes as she continued past him.
Though there were several tents in various shades of green, Cassidy identified Dutch’s bike parked alongside one of them. All the tents sat still, like a herd of giant sleeping turtles. Hugging herself at Dutch’s tent entrance, she cleared her throat. “Hello?” she said, afraid of waking the rest of the campers.
No answer.
“Dutch?” she called, stepping even closer. She listened for the sound of breathing or snoring but heard nothing. “It’s Cassidy,” she added, her voice tentative.
When still nothing happened, she knocked on the tent’s nylon wall, which shook the frame. “Dutch,” she called, louder now.
She was wondering if she might need to unzip the door, though this did not appeal to her on several levels—he might not be alone, he might be undressed, she might have the wrong tent.
A groan rumbled from inside. Cassidy immediately stepped back. “Dutch?” she called.
Another groan plus the sound of shifting nylon. “What the fuck . . . ” his voice moaned.
“It’s Cassidy,” she said again.
“Who?” he replied, sounding angry.
Cassidy hugged herself tighter. “Cassidy Kincaid. I’m looking for Izzy, remember?”
Another groan. “It’s the middle of the night, you know that, right?”
“Actually, it’s morning.”
“Maybe on your planet,” he sighed. “Jeezus.”
Cassidy swiveled, taking in the other tents and open farmland beyond, the foothills awash with a midsummer warmth. Rising above, clear as a bell to the south, floated the snowy dome of Mt. Shasta. She took a moment to enjoy the soft pink layer of light playing across its eastern slope.
“She’s gone,” Dutch’s gritty voice sighed.
Cassidy’s moment of calm shuddered to a halt. “What?” she cried, realizing too late that her voice came out like a yelp.
“Lars lost track of her at the party.”
Cassidy clenched her jaw. She huffed a tight breath through her teeth. “Goddamn it, why didn’t you call me?”
He unzipped the tent, and she got a laser shot of his bright blue eyes set in his tanned, weathered face. “Listen, sweetheart,” he began.
“Cut it out! I
