My keys, my bag, and my phone have disappeared. I have to assume Atwater has taken them, but I’m not without resources. I’d long ago equipped my car with one of those little plastic magnetic key keepers that old men keep stuck to the underside of their bumpers. I’m pleased with myself now to reach under my car and pull it out, open it, and retrieve the key I’d stashed there. The whole series of actions restores some of my self-esteem. I have taken precautions; risen to the occasion. The puppy seems to be able to feel it somehow. He sits nearby watching me, occasionally thumping his tail in what seems like gentle encouragement.
I open the door and indicate that he should load himself into the car, and he does with his usual alacrity. Dogs and cars again. What’s the deal?
I am about to take off when there is a shout.
“Hey, hey!” Curtis. “Rocky spotted him. Heading down the cliff. C’mon! Let’s go!”
I actually hang my head for a second. It’s an odd feeling. Malaise? Ennui? It’s like everything has gone out of me. It’s like I don’t have anything more to put in.
If Curtis sees any of this, he gives no sign. He gets in the car, and it’s like I am carried along by the spirit of his enthusiasm. I don’t even feel like continuing the chase, yet I put the key in the ignition and head out after the van.
And then we’re bumping back down the long road. I imagine a time when the road was smooth and new and carriages came this way. Maybe fancy ladies wearing gloves. They flutter their lashes at men in bowler hats. Everything is beautiful, but that was a long time ago. Not much traffic comes here now.
The clock in my car says it’s noon, but that clock is always wrong so I know it is more like eleven. Still, the sun is reaching for the highest point in the sky, though without my phone, I’m not even sure what day it is.
The van negotiates the bumpy road faster than my car, and I soon lose sight of it. I’m not worried about it. I have absolutely no confidence that this chase will result in what I most desire. He has been so slippery, so elusive. He has been like a cat, with oh so many lives.
And then we round a corner and come out of the forest into a clearing and the van is in front of us, at the edge of an overlook that gives this incredible view of Morning Bay and the sea. It looks like a fairy-tale town and fluffy white clouds float above it, punctuating a perfect blue sky. Beyond the van, the team is heading along a ridge that follows the view, but takes them back into the forest.
“C’mon,” Curtis urges, and I can see he is anxious to be away.
“You go,” I say. “I’ll be right along.”
Curtis looks at me questioningly, but I urge him with a flutter of my hand. “Go. Go. Honest. I’ll be there. I just have something to do.” He hesitates another few seconds, torn. And then he’s off.
I go to the hidden compartment in my trunk, where the darker twin of my Bersa is waiting. I load the gun, put the safety on, and tuck it into the waistband of my jeans. Carrying the gun that way feels ludicrous. I miss my purse, but it’s what I’ve got. With the gun available, I feel a little bolder. I feel infinitely better equipped.
I am about to head out after Curtis and the team when a pale flash catches my eye. A man. At the edge of the forest and the ridge, in the opposite direction from where the team has run. I know who it is before I get close enough to determine. Who else could it be? And I know—I know—it can’t be that he is waiting for me, and yet, I feel it all the same.
He is standing with his back to me, facing Morning Bay. Facing the sea. And it’s like he is contemplating the view. Or maybe praying, though I can’t imagine that could be the case. He is not at the edge of the cliff, but the edge isn’t far. He couldn’t hop there, but he could walk.
I move towards him carefully. Ready to shoot if he turns. And he doesn’t. Even though I know he can hear me. I don’t know why I’m holding back. I don’t know why I don’t just kill him. And then I figure it out.
“Renee Garcia,” I say when I’m close enough that he can hear.
“What?” He makes the word a question, but I feel sure he has recognized the name.
“She is the only one not accounted for.” My voice seems distant even to me. Detached. I can’t decide if that’s good. Or not. “The police are now thinking maybe you had nothing to do with her death. I guess you know that. They couldn’t find her body in your garden. And her name didn’t come up in the lists you shared. Was she … was she …” I don’t finish the sentence, but I’m sure he knows.
He is silent long enough that I think maybe he isn’t going to answer. Or maybe he actually doesn’t know anything about Renee. Maybe her disappearance could be attributed to somebody or something else. When he finally speaks, he lays my hope to rest.
“Yes,” he says after a while. “I remember her.” Still without turning around, he pulls his shirtsleeve back and offers a scar in my direction. I have to get closer
