a hill that leads to a place called Auburn’s Stand.
Auburn’s Stand is what locals call the hill itself, but it’s actually the name of a house that a rich guy owns. Halfway up the road to the house, there’s a turnout that faces the ocean. Las Piernas becomes a sea of lights from this vantage point, which was the really hot makeout spot when I was in high school. Not that I was ever taken there, but I drove up there once during my junior year and had some pretty great daydreams about this guy who was a couple of years ahead of me in school. That was before the road was closed, and before the kid got drafted.
These days, the road is private, and to get to the turnout, you have to pass a security guard at a gate. So making out on Auburn’s Stand has gone downhill, you might say.
We drove right up to the gate, though, and when the security guard stuck his gray head out of his booth, Frank rolled down the window and said, “Hi, Mackie. How have you been?”
Mackie smiled and said, “Not bad for an old coot. Long time no see, Harriman. Never expected to see you here this time of night. How’s it hang-ooops, didn’t see your lady friend there. Come back and talk to me some other time, Harriman.”
The gate arm lifted and we drove through. Frank waved and rolled the window back up.
“You know I’m going to ask,” I said.
He smiled. “Mackie’s a retired cop. You know the guy who owns this place?”
I nodded. “Garth Williams. I like him.”
“Me, too. He’s good to Mackie.”
“So are we going to find a bunch of squad cars parked at the old turnout?”
“How do you know about the turnout?” he asked.
“I grew up here, remember?”
THE TURNOUT WAS EMPTY. We had the best seats in the house.
“Tell me you aren’t a regular,” I said, and he laughed.
“Not a regular. This is the first time I’ve been here to do something other than roust teenagers.”
“Ah. Must have been patrolman days.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
This sounded serious all of a sudden, so I waited.
“Let’s get into the backseat,” he said.
I want it said in my eulogy that I was a good sport.
From the backseat, the view was still spectacular, and we got to sit closer. He had an arm around me, I had my head on his shoulder, and he felt big and warm and almost perfect. But just when I thought he might lean down and kiss me, he said in a dreamy voice, “Remember Bakersfield?”
“Who could forget it?”
He looked at me as if he was trying to figure out if I was being sarcastic. “I meant, when we first met.”
“So did I.”
“We were attracted to each other, right?”
“Yes.” The windows were starting to fog up, and I wanted to undo his buttons. But I didn’t. He’s being serious, I reminded myself.
“Well, tonight-listening to your friends? For the first time, I understood why I could never get to first base with you back then.”
“Forgive me, Frank, but I don’t remember an attempt to step up to the plate. After a while, I figured you thought of me as your sister.”
That got a laugh. “No way. But give me credit for knowing that any move on you then would have been the wrong move. I always figured someone must have mistreated you. Someone had hurt you. You never talked about it, though.”
“After Andre, I felt ashamed of myself.” I shifted closer to him. “I got over it. But you’re right-I was really attracted to you, but I didn’t trust myself then. The last time I had been attracted to someone, it hadn’t worked out so well.”
“So, like I said, no first base. I might have taken you up to a place like this.”
“Really?”
“No,” he said after a moment. “I was too shy around you in those days.”
I took his face in my hands and said, “It’s the top of the first, Frank Harriman. Play ball!”
30
THE HOUSE WAS DARKwhen we got home. Jack was asleep on our couch, surrounded by animals. The dogs wagged their tails, waking him. He smiled sleepily, said he was going home, and walked back next door without another word.
We went straight to bed, tired and happy.
Edison Burrows called way too early in the morning-about five o’clock-but I managed to roust myself out of bed and arranged to meet him in an hour at the beach parking lot where I had last seen his son.
I was putting a piece of bread in the toaster when I noticed the glass bowl covering the note, the pager next to it. Through the bottom of the bowl, I saw these typewritten words:
Mr. Watterson,
This is a copy of a note Jeffrey McCutchen left for me just before he killed himself. I didn’t know what it meant then, but I think I understand it now. It might take me some time to convince others. Why don’t you save me the trouble? There is no point in fighting this; I won’t give up.
You were very generous to me once before. This photo proves I have not forgotten that.
“Frank!”
He came bounding out of the bedroom, half-asleep. “What?”
“Didn’t mean to alarm you.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “What’s wrong?”
“This note-it fell out of Ben’s calendar. I think it’s the one Lucas sent him with the picture!”
“What makes you think so?”
I showed him Lucas’s distinctive typing trademarks.
“It was a 1977 calendar,” he said, yawning. “Maybe it’s an old note.”
“You aren’t awake yet, are you?”
“No,” he answered truthfully.
“Claire said Ben had been getting nostalgic, remember? I think Lucas sent Ben a copy of Jeff McCutchen’s suicide note.”
“Hmm.” His eyes were drifting shut.
“Frank, wouldn’t the detectives investigating Jeff’s suicide make copies of the suicide note?”
“No.”
“No?”
“They’d keep the original.”
“Can you get a copy from McCutchen’s file?”
His eyes came open. “Huh? Oh. Maybe. Probably in storage by now.” He yawned again. “I’m going back to bed.”
I watched him pad back toward the bedroom, and wondered if he’d remember any part of our conversation. I recorded a memo for him on the answering machine before I left, and also included all the other items I had asked him to check on the previous night-asked before he hit a grand slam in the bottom of the ninth.
BEFOREILEFT THE HOUSE, I took three months out of Ben’s calendar for 1977: July, August, and September. They made a thick stack of paper, which Cody eyed covetously. Before he could do more than that, I put them into a big manila envelope, along with my notes on Moffett’s secret meetings. I’d have to write the story on Moffett
