The Reckoning
Author: Kelli Stanley
Date: 0101-01-01 00:00:00+00:00
Description: SHE KILLED A MAN. HE DESERVED IT. BUT JUSTICE ISN'T YET DONE. First in an explosive new thriller series set in the eighties from the author of the critically acclaimed Miranda Corbie series introduces the fierce feminist Renata Drake—on the run from the FBI for the execution-style murder of her little sister's killer. "Vivid and haunting. I'm eager to hear more from the tenacious and resourceful Renata Drake" Meg Gardiner, #1 New York Times bestselling author California, Southern Humboldt County, 1985. Renata Drake steps off a Greyhound bus and into small-town Garberville, hoping to disappear.
Publisher: Severn House

Contents

Cover

Also by Kelli Stanley

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for the Miranda Corbie Mysteries

About the author

Dedication

Acknowledgments

I

Friday, September 20th

II

Saturday, September 21st

Sunday, September 22nd

III

Monday, September 23rd

Tuesday, September 24th

IV

Wednesday, September 25th

Thursday, September 26th

V

Friday, September 27th

Saturday, September 28th, 12:17 A.M.

VI

Saturday, September 28th, 5:00 A.M.

Sunday, September 29th

Also by Kelli Stanley

The Miranda Corbie Mysteries

CITY OF DRAGONS

CITY OF SECRETS

CITY OF GHOSTS

CITY OF SHARKS

The Arcturus Mysteries

NOX DORMIENDA

THE CURSE-MAKER

THE RECKONING

Kelli Stanley

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2026
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,

14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.

This eBook edition first published in 2026 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
severnhouse.com

Copyright © Kelli Stanley, 2026

Cover and jacket design by Piers Tilbury

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Kelli Stanley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1754-7 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1889-6 (paper)

ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1755-4 (e-book)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. This work is reserved from text and data mining (Article 4(3) Directive (EU) 2019/790).

This ebook produced by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd., Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

The manufacturer’s authorised representative in the EU for product safety is Authorised Rep Compliance Ltd, 71 Lower Baggot Street, Dublin D02 P593 Ireland (arccompliance.com)

Praise for the Miranda Corbie Mysteries

“Stanley’s fine mystery … treats the reader”

Publishers Weekly on City of Sharks

“A darkly beautiful work, one of the best to be published so far this year”

Bookreporter on City of Ghosts

“The vigor and pace of a terrific Warner Bros. film noir”

The Wall Street Journal on City of Ghosts

“It’s neonoir in a classical five-act structure, starring one of crime’s most arresting heroines”

Library Journal Starred Review of City of Secrets

“Stanley has a distinctive writing style, conveying thoughts and ambience with poetic brush strokes”

Boston Globe on City of Secrets

“[This is] literature as much as crime fiction … The writing is beautiful and evocative”

Deadly Pleasures Mystery Magazine on City of Dragons

“Stunning”

Publishers Weekly Starred Review of City of Dragons

About the author

Kelli Stanley is the critically acclaimed author of the historical noir Miranda Corbie Mysteries, set in 1940s San Francisco and featuring “one of crime’s most arresting heroines” (Library Journal). She is also the author of two Roman noir mysteries, and numerous short stories and essays.

A recipient of the Anthony, Macavity, Golden Nugget and Bruce Alexander Awards, Shamus Award nominee, and Los Angeles Times Book Prize finalist, Kelli was chosen to be the Historical Mystery Guest of Honor for the Bouchercon Mystery Conference in 2024.

Kelli holds a master’s degree in Classics, and when she’s not reading or writing, loves nature walks, jazz, classic film, travel, and, with her spouse, taking care of their two rescue cats.

kellistanley.com

As always, for Tana—and for the incomparable and
empyrean Sequoia sempervirens and all those who seek
to protect them: “Numquam aliud natura,
aliud sapientia dicit.”

Acknowledgments

It’s a strange feeling when you realize you’ve lived through history—when you’ve become an integral part of what you’ve studied, what you’ve analyzed, what you’ve imagined.

If we’re lucky, it happens to all of us eventually: we gain clarity and perspective with experience and age. And so, it dawned on me, several years ago, that my adolescence—spent in the remote, rural and lushly rugged environment of Humboldt County in northern California—was not only statistically unusual and culturally unique, but actually, well … historical.

Humboldt was and is part of the now-faltering and then infamous “Emerald Triangle”—a wilderness full of dwindling evergreen forests and what is left of the old growth redwood trees—globally unique and precious, millennia-old living things that have served as sentinels through so much of human history—and an illegal economy based on the price per pound of marijuana, the county’s number one crop.

I spent some of my most formative years nurtured and supported by a community that depended on breaking the law in order to economically prosper. I watched and witnessed what even harsher criminalization did to the troubling problems of the region—think Prohibition. And I witnessed the overall decline of the environment that made the area so precious and beautiful and fertile to begin with.

What happens to a community when law is ignored and separated in practice from morality? What happens when personal enrichment is rewarded at the expense of the public good? What happens when corruption is so endemic to everyday life?

These are questions that may seem particularly timely, but they’ve been asked, over and over again, for centuries. Dashiell Hammett wrote a masterpiece called Red Harvest that was a direct influence on The Reckoning—indeed, I even toyed with the idea of reusing his title. This book is a highly fictionalized account of some of the history I experienced living in Humboldt during such a period, inspired by unfortunately real tragedy and crime as well as the catch-your-breath kind of love and support and ennobling of the human condition represented by many in the Humboldt and Southern Humboldt communities. The extremes of human behavior always exist side by side, and in a small town, you witness both.

For me, fortunately, I saw much more of the latter than the former, or The Reckoning would never have been written. Chief among those whom I would like to acknowledge are the incredibly dedicated educators at the real South Fork High School (my high school alma mater) … some are sadly no longer with us, but they supported and enriched and prepared their students with unmatched commitment and enthusiasm: Andy and Jean McKay, Patti Hutson, Mike Foster, Pat Walker, Carolyn Ireland, Sandra Hogan, Donald Begnoche, Eugene Girard, Carolyn Merry and the best English teacher to ever grace a classroom, the incomparable Shirley Foster.

My classmates, too, were small in number but rich in the Bear Cub spirit, and many have kept in touch. Thanks in particular to Brian Lillie (my fellow “Most Likely to Succeed” in the Senior Hall of Fame), Gregg Foster, Andrea Begnoche, Annie Cecil, Cari Vallo, Sean Cory, Christine McFarren, Hyla Palubecki, Melody Evangelisto, Teresa Green, Tiffany St. Claire, Joe Klacik, Athena Egan, Tami Anderson, Britt Swanson, Bert Thomas, Alita Sutherland, Sarah Cory, Scott Slagle, Carey Oney, Valerie Sutherland, Katie Wood, Teresa Boone, Lynnett Mantooth-Pray, Ed Strout, and many more I wish I had the space to list. The Reckoning is fictional; the community bonds that exist in Southern Humboldt are not.

Finally, I’d like to thank the terrific team that made the privilege of penning these acknowledgments possible: my amazing and brilliant agent, Stacia Decker; my fabulous editors at Severn House, Rachel Slatter and Tina Pietron; Head of Design (and creator of the glorious cover) Piers Tilbury and the entire publishing squad at Severn House; the wonderful folks at Tantor Audio; my brilliant film agents Mary Alice Kier and Anna Cottle at Cine/Lit. Thank you, all!

Special shout-outs and hugs to supportive friends Susan and Kevin Cella, Heather Graham, Jeremy, Kris, Paige, Lily, and Nancy Toscanini, Pamela Vaughn and Andrew Grant. Thanks, too, to the thriving communities of independent book stores, and particularly Book Passage, which is a home away from home for so many lucky Bay Area authors!

No list of thanks would be complete without recognition of my soulmate and spouse Tana, who endured numerous versions of this story and enabled me to see it to fruition. She makes every minute of every day spent traveling around the sun a moment of ineffable gratitude.

And, as always … thank you, dear reader, for reading both these words and the book ahead. I hope you enjoy meeting Humboldt if you’ve never visited before, and if you decide to make real-life travel plans, please drop me a line and let me know!

Kelli Stanley

June 25, 2025

I

The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed;

And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly …

William Shakespeare, The Rape of Lucrece

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 20th

Baby diapers and French fries.

The smell was strongest in the back by the toilet, but even the Naugahyde seats were pungent with it, especially the ones with ripped seams where the foam poked through.

Renata stared through the window, stomach knotted.

Price you paid for cheap and anonymous. And Greyhounds went everywhere—places where no one would look.

The bus was rolling up to an exit, high on a mountain side. She was almost there.

The countryside still looked like the View-Master reel of dinosaurs her dad gave her for Christmas when she was little and Josie was a baby; her favorite, one she’d click through over and over. And when she was older, her mother, smiling, brought out some photographs and postcards of a place that looked just like it, only real: a postcard of a “One-Log House” and snapshots of their newlywed parents happy, excited … alive.

There’d been no time to think, only to run. So she’d reached for a distant memory, wanting to believe they were guiding her.

Three days to Los Angeles—then another fourteen hours up US Highway 101 to San Francisco—and now the last nine hours north on a twisty road to a remote lost world of massive redwood trees and giant ferns and a winding, rocky, blue-green river.

She twisted her neck behind her and glimpsed Josie across the aisle, seated next to a sleeping bald man with ketchup on his chin.

The bus rolled up and through a rural small-town main street, hotels and gas stations lining the path. The bus driver cleared his throat.

“All out for Garberville; Garberville, this stop.”

Renata grabbed her purse from under the seat and stepped into sharp white-yellow sunshine. Waited for the driver to select her one suitcase from the ten or so that were left in the compartment. Checked her watch.

7:22 a.m., Friday, September 20th, 1985.

The day her life started over.

Two other people got off the Greyhound, both white, a young man about her age with a scrawny beard and a scruffy brunette between thirty and fifty with missing teeth and dirty fingernails. The guy hitched a worn backpack and took off toward a grocery store in the middle of the street like he knew where he was going.

Probably something to do with marijuana from what she’d overheard on the bus. Apparently that was the money to be made in Humboldt County, California.

Renata breathed in deeply, the air sharp and clean and dry enough to banish the bus odor.

She was as far away from DC as she could get.

She picked up the blue Samsonite case—her mother said always buy the best luggage, it’ll last—and as the bus engine roared behind her in a puff of noisy diesel, she found herself in front of a small, rustic store called, appropriately, The Bus Stop. Built of redwood slats and painted brick red, it looked like something out of a John Ford western. She walked up to the front door and stopped in front of a homemade poster taped to the window.

Blonde girl, sixteen, pretty, smiling, eyes anxious to please, dressed in one of those Little House on the Prairie Gunne Sax dresses …

Missing.

Renata turned back toward the bus.

Too late. Gone.

And where was she going to run? Deep breath, like Dr. Bechtel told her. Deep breath.

No place was safe. She should know that.

She pushed open the door. The Bus Stop was shaped like a backward L and seemed to be the kind of convenience store you find at gas stations in the middle of nowhere. A young, skinny white guy with acne and a mustard stain on his T-shirt was watching her from behind the counter on the left, so Renata wandered to the dark rear of the building, where the cheap paperbacks and comic books stood in dusty racks, smell of musty paper and damp wood almost as thick as the bus smell. The door chimed again, and the snaggle-toothed woman from the bus walked in. The clerk turned down the radio, muffling Huey Lewis and “The Power of Love.”

Renata moved back up into the main store, passing the cold beer and sodas in refrigerated wall units, scanning for a newspaper rack. There—toward the entrance—Eureka Times-Standard, San Francisco Chronicle and San Francisco Examiner, Los Angeles Times, USA Today, New York Times and one tattered, ten-day-old copy of the Washington Post.

She exhaled. Large selection for the middle of nowhere. The Post she checked yesterday in San Francisco had been six days behind. That gave her a buffer. Still, there was the Times—this issue was eight days behind—and USA Today and the national sections of the San Francisco papers, only one day late.

The bus-woman rasped out a question to the clerk at the counter and Renata jumped.

“Pack of Salems and a Coke. What’s the cheapest motel in town?”

The clerk shrugged. “Maybe the Eel River, up off to the right. The one next door here is kinda pricy. That’ll be three dollars for the cigs and Coke.”

“Three bucks? Highway robbery.” The woman shook her head, hair matted under a sweat-stained San Francisco Giants cap.

“Everything costs more here, lady. Trucks gotta come up 101, and it ain’t easy.”

“Yeah. It ain’t.” She threw him a crooked smile, grabbed the paper bag and picked up a scuffed brown suitcase. “There a community bulletin board somewheres?”

He nodded toward the left. “At the library. ’Cross the street and down a ways, but they ain’t open yet. People post stuff in front of the movie theater, same way. And Hamburger Haven—they get flyers, too.”

The woman lugged the suitcase out the door and turned right. The skinny clerk pulled his eyes away and found Renata again.

Slow smile.

“How can I help you?”

No hiding in the back this time. And she’d crossed the country to get here …

She plastered on a smile and walked up to the counter. “I heard you mention the Eel River hotel. I’m looking for something inexpensive, too.” She picked up a postcard of a “Drive-Thru Tree” from the counter rack and put it back almost instantly.

“Next door ain’t too much off price and it’s the best in town. Camelot Inn. Too much for that other lady, I figured.” He grinned some more. “This your first time in Southern Humboldt?”

“Yeah.” This time she plucked a map from an easel. “I’m thinking about staying for a while. Two or three months, maybe.”

He was probably about her age, around twenty-five. Definitely not urban, not Chicago or DC or San Francisco, with the plaid flannel shirt on the table behind him and what could be a can of Skoal in his jeans pocket, but he didn’t look exactly like Dukes of Hazzard, either. He ran a thumbnail against his chin.

“That so? Better get to know you, then. What’s your name?”

“Nattie. Nattie Connors.” The name rolled off her tongue just like she’d practiced.

“Like Jimmy, huh? I like tennis. We’re not all hicks up here, you know. My name’s Buddy, Buddy Small. Road cuts us off some, ’specially when there’s a big mudslide like there was in ’82, but we keep up. You know they filmed Return of the Jedi about twenty miles from here, and Salem’s Lot up in Ferndale … You in showbiz, Natalie? Maybe here for a movie? You’re pretty enough, that’s for sure.”

“No, just seeing some of America. But thanks. And I can see how they’d film stuff up here, even though it looks pretty rugged. At least what I could tell from the bus.”

He bent forward, arm on the counter, confidential pose. “Oh, yeah—gotta have a car, though, to really see it. You can buy one used right here in town, not too much over what they cost in Eureka, our biggest city ’bout an hour up the coast—lot’s next door, guy who runs it’s a preacher in town. You’ll wanna go north on the Avenue of the Giants, of course, nicest redwoods out that way along with Richardson Grove, the park you pass through on the way here. But there’s a lot more to see, parts of Southern Humboldt you can only get to by horse or on foot, like some of the Sinkyone and the Lost Coast, and you’ll need a four-wheeler for places like Ettersburg or Whitethorn. Unless you got a guide, of course.”

He gave her his best come-on grin. “I could help get you places. You know you gotta be real careful—CAMP’s all over the place. You’ll hear the ’copters.”

Renata’s stomach dropped. What the hell …

“What’s CAMP? Something to do with the missing girl? I saw the poster—”

Buddy made a smoothing gesture with his palm. “Nothing to do with Jennie. CAMP’s been showin’ up regular since ’83, especially during harvest. We don’t know what happened to her, and it sure is sad. Her parents moved up here just last year, I think. But CAMP—I figured maybe you heard about it. Campaign Against Marijuana Planting. The governor ordered ’em to hit us real hard this year, buncha flying narcs. He wants 1985 to be the year he wipes out the Emerald Triangle. You mean to tell me you ain’t here to score some weed?”

She picked up some green Tic Tacs by the side of the register next to a large display of small garden clippers and laid them on the counter with the map and a thin booklet on facts about Humboldt County. Her hand was trembling and she quickly dropped it out of sight.

Fuck. A missing girl and state—maybe federal—agents swarming in helicopters. She could’ve gone to the desert, gotten lost in the Grand Canyon …

“No. Just taking a break before law school and traveling and working as I go along. I’ll take all this.” Her eyes flicked up to watch him as he started to ring her up. “I, uh—I like to check news from home while I’m traveling—do you get out-of-state newspapers often?”

Buddy nodded toward the newspaper rack. “Three times a week, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays—most of the time. But we never know what we’re gonna get. Could be from Chicago, Washington, DC, Miami—we almost always get the New York Times, though it’s usually a week behind. Distributor’s up in Eureka, and they gotta wait till they get them from San Francisco. By the time we get ’em, they’re old news. Kinda last chance until they get pulped.”

She mustered another smile. “Thanks—I’ll check next week. So CAMP—are these federal, state, local cops? Who’s running the operation?”

Buddy carefully slid the map, booklet and mints into a paper bag. “I dunno exactly. State, I think, but feds are involved, too. Don’t forget—name’s Buddy. You need help getting around, just let me know.”

“Thanks, Buddy—I will.” Renata put on her sunglasses and pushed through the door, stepping back into the sun.

She stood on the sidewalk, raised her head and took it in.

Blue skies, green trees, and a taskforce with federal agents swarming the backwoods, back-of-beyond hiding place she’d picked from a postcard and a fucking View-Master.

Jesus Christ. Breathe, Renata, breathe …

She picked up her Samsonite and turned left, toward the cheerful sign with a cartoon image of King Arthur on it. Josie was already there, leaning against the shingled side of the motel’s gate.

She’d run in the wrong fucking direction.

The Camelot Inn offered surprisingly spacious grounds. Long, low buildings formed a crescent around the center swimming pool, and redwood trees and barbeque pits dotted the rest of the area, all well set back from the bustle of Redwood Drive, the main street of Garberville, population 1,116, center of the southern end of timber-rich Humboldt County, California, or so the map informed her.

What her eyes and ears were telling her was that Humboldt may have been built with timber but was fed by marijuana. Green trees, green plants, green money. And this obscure rural hole to disappear into and escape, at least for a while, from what had happened and what she’d done, was crawling with feds, on the ground and in the air, the very people she was running from.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit … maybe she should just catch the next Greyhound to Eureka. Larger town, apparently near some colleges, she could blend in more …

Renata sighed, achy from so many sleepless nights on the bus.

Money was tight, and she needed to earn some before making another move. And she was tired, tired of thinking, tired of feeling. Tired of the fear that drove her here.

Tired of closing her eyes and seeing … that.

No, for now she’d stay. Stand where she’d landed. She wasn’t there to buy dope, just hide, keep her head low, get a menial job, enough to survive. She still liked to think her parents had led her to this place, that she’d stumbled off a bus into Garberville, California for a reason—maybe even one beyond her own survival.

The secluded room at the far end was hers for an extra five dollars, money well spent. The manager on duty, a taciturn blonde of middling years, barely glanced at her ID, more interested in reading an Us gossip magazine with a photo of Sylvester Stallone on the cover.

An overweight girl of about nineteen was restocking her cleaning cart outside the room closest to the pool. Renata kept her head down. She turned the latch on the door of #117 and pushed it open, the wood sticking a little.

She hoisted her suitcase on the bed—squeaky springs but comfortable enough—and looked around the sparsely furnished room. Worn carpet, chipped veneer, smell of Mr. Clean and the lingering, somnambulant odor of a joint.

Renata’s stomach growled. She grabbed her handbag and headed back to town.

The words tumbled out of an ancient jukebox tucked into the corner of Sweet Ivy’s, a café steeped in 1968. War is not healthy for children and other living things was painted on one of the windows and a Bob Marley poster hung framed on the wall. Janis Joplin crooned on a scratchy 45, singing, aching, pleading about freedom.

Renata pushed aside the half-finished plate of buckwheat pancakes and scrambled eggs, suddenly feeling sick.

Freedom.

The only thing left for her to lose.

She paid at the counter, left a tip for the white woman in tie-dye and locks, and stepped into the morning air.

Purple and green and sharp, acrid chemical, bones crushed, soft, sunken, white sequins turned to red … and later, knees, holes where knees were, pool of blood on the cement floor … her fault, her fault, God, mom and dad and Josie, Jesus God …

The attack hit suddenly and hard, like a sucker punch to the gut, and she bent over, grabbing the supporting pillar of Sweet Ivy’s porched roof.

Focus, Ms. Drake, focus on the present. Breathe … in and out, in and out …

Bechtel urging her on in that plain white office with the chrysanthemum vase and the Persian carpet, Kleenex boxes everywhere.

Present …

She stood up and glanced down the street to make sure she wasn’t becoming the town spectacle.

Goddamn it. She needed to blend in, not stick out, get lost and never found again. The green air tickled her nose and she wiped her mouth.

At least not a blackout. No blackouts since …

She spotted Josie walking up Redwood Drive. Renata took three steps down to the sidewalk and followed her.

Garberville was small and white and rural, a one-street town, but not like any she’d seen before. It was far from dead or even decaying and looked like the intersection between a company town for the timber industry and a Grateful Dead concert. Redwood Drive stretched up a hill to the south, motels of varying degrees all built next to each other, soliciting business one after another like prostitutes on a common street corner.

A feed store squatted on the west side, with a couple of restaurants—Sweet Ivy’s for the hippies across the street, and what looked like one for the Rotary Club called The Old Mill next door—while a large grocery store, two gas stations, and a gift shop selling redwood sculpture bluntly shaped with a chainsaw intermingled with the motels.

Not a lot to choose from in terms of a job. Sales or waitressing. Or working at a motel, greeting tourists with a large smile, hoping they weren’t the FBI.

Renata walked back toward the north end of town and Hamburger Haven, a rustic drive-up and drive-through with outdoor picnic tables out in front stained brick red, sitting empty in the morning sun.

She crossed to the west side of the street at the intersection of Sprowl Creek Road, a short byway that interrupted Redwood Drive and led to the exit for US 101 South, the road back to San Francisco. Two more gas stations—one with a car lot—lined the corner.

An ice-cream hut, another small grocery store, a sprawling antique shop with Depression glass in the window, a place that sold propane tanks, and a small post office clustered together on the block of Sprowl before the freeway exit. Sprowl continued west, passing by an old official-looking civic building before heading downhill into lush bottom land and, according to the faded sign, an airport.

Renata raised her eyebrows. She’d noticed the valley below the town, the river winding peacefully in the background, when the bus turned off for the Garberville exit. No airstrip was visible—must be tiny or just a helipad for the ’copters.

She was heading back to Redwood Avenue when an up-tempo whacka-whacka-whacka made her shrink under the antique store awning, sound growing louder with every heartbeat.

She peered up, hand shielding her eyes.

A black helicopter was flying low, heading northeast.

If the southern end of Garberville was all about tourism, the northern end was life in a rural small town: pharmacy, diner, a couple of clothing stores with fashions not too far out of sync, an old-fashioned mercantile with a little bit of everything, a sporting goods store that advertised itself as The place for the fisherman, a head shop that sold outdoor gear and records along with boldly displayed bongs and clips bedecked with feathers and beads, and, farther down, law offices and a modest movie theater straight out of Bedford Falls except that Teen Wolf was playing with Agnes of God.

At the edges of the end were the bars: the Rusty Nail Saloon half a block from the Garberville Theater and the ’49er tucked across the street next to Sequoia Steakhouse. They looked loud, rough, and like every redneck cliché she’d ever seen. Sequoia Steakhouse seemed slightly more genteel, like one of those steak and beer places with blue-haired waitresses and a sad-eyed cook on the grill.

Still, it wasn’t a California version of Deliverance. She’d seen men in tie-dyed T-shirts with hair to their shoulders; she’d seen people dressed in parachute pants and women with big hair and shoulder pads, along with the crew-cut lumber types and their quiet, stooped women standing behind them. Maybe half hippies and half rednecks, with a sprinkling of professionals and generic businesspeople in between.

Renata found the library tucked in a quiet building past the 101 Café on a corner and Sorenson’s, the mercantile. It was invisible unless you were looking for it, and long and narrow and smelled of damp wood like The Bus Stop. The librarian—a brisk woman with curly red hair—greeted her when she walked in.

Renata smiled and said hello. She looked around and spotted Josie sitting at one of the tables.

A jumble of wooden chairs, the indestructible kind, ringed a couple of wooden tables hatched and scarred with decades of graffiti and pried-off bubblegum. They were surrounded by six or seven bookshelves, the gray metal type she remembered from elementary school. Against one wall was a dilapidated book exchange for old paperbacks and ancient hardcovers the library couldn’t handle. The books were free if you had something to exchange, twenty-five cents if you didn’t.

On the wall above the exchange shelf was a cork community bulletin board offering jobs wanted and jobs available, along with flyers from businesses and organizations raising money for the football team and various causes, including a health center in Redway, apparently an even smaller sister-town just a couple of miles away.

Renata plucked at a typed index card pinned in the corner.

Help Wanted: Janitor—Must be highly responsible, seventeen or over, experience preferred. Now accepting applications at Southern Humboldt community hospital. 700 Cedar Street, Garberville. Please ask for Doris Hunt.

Janitors weren’t paid much, but no one asked many questions, either. And unlike clerks or waitresses or hotel maids, they generally worked alone.

“Do you happen to know when this was posted?”

The librarian cleared her throat. “Let me see … I think week before last. The hospital always needs cleaning people once summer is over and school starts up again. It’s a decent job for Garberville—pays above minimum—and they generally reserve it for local college kids, which is why it’s vacant now. Why, do you know someone who would want it?”

“I was thinking of applying myself.”

Surprise flitted across the librarian’s face. “Oh. I thought—well, pardon me, but I assumed you were down from Humboldt State or something. You look like a college girl.”

Thank God for that.

“Recent graduate. I’m taking a year off to see the country. This is my first time in Humboldt, but I’m planning to stay for a while.” Renata gave her a smile. “I’m not here for the harvest.”

The librarian laughed. “I see. Well, welcome to our little corner of California. I believe the job is still open. People tend to hop around, depending on how the season goes … work is mostly menial or serving or retail up here and no one stays in one thing for very long. The hospital is on Cedar Street. Turn right on Conger at the end of town. And good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Renata turned back to the index cards and colored paper flyers.

An ad for a grocery clerk at Pathways, the health-food store, a counter person at Hamburger Haven, half-price Michelobs at the Rusty Nail …

Her eyes moved up and fixed on the stack of missing persons posters. There were five of them. Two men and three women sought by the Humboldt County Sheriff. The one in front was the girl from The Bus Stop.

Renata turned toward the librarian.

“Has the sheriff—have any of these people been found?”

The redhead slit open an envelope. “Not that I know of. At least, nothing’s been reported in the paper. Jennie Dayton—she’s the newest, went missing just a couple of days ago, local high-school girl and the whole town’s frantic. But the others, if they’re out-of-towners, we don’t always find out.”

“Do a lot of people go missing from here or something? I thought this was a rural area, not much violent crime.”

The woman sighed, setting down the paperknife. “Miss, I don’t know where you’re from, but the only difference between crime in Humboldt and crime in a big city is that here we know both the victims and the criminals. They’re our neighbors, co-workers, shopkeepers, friends. People we know—not just statistics. All these missing persons, though … that’s something else. Something more recent.”

She lowered her voice.

“Marijuana. Our curse and our blessing. It paid for the hospital, pays for most everything. But since CAMP, well … it’s like Prohibition all over again. And where there’s an opportunity to make money, there’ll be people traveling from everywhere to take advantage of it. So yes, we hear that someone drove up from the city to strike it rich clipping and selling marijuana and later they’re found on a road somewhere. Hopefully alive. But sometimes not.” She sighed. “And then with Jennie—we’re worried, so worried—especially because of the others—the other high-school girls …”

The door chime rang, and a heavy-set elderly woman pushed against the door with difficulty. The redhead jumped up to help her.

“Mrs. Schumann, you’re not usually here on Fridays! Here, let me take that for you …”

Renata tore her eyes away from the photo of the girl. She dropped a quarter in the donation box and left with a tattered copy of Tess of the d’Urbervilles under her arm.

“Others,” she’d said. Others.

Renata walked quickly past the ’49er bar, smell of char and cheap beer and Barbara Mandrell’s voice chasing her down Conger. The hospital was ahead, a single-story building framed with redwood shingles, long and low, looking more like a resort motel than a hospital.

She filled out paperwork, trying not to hesitate too much. Half an hour later she was sitting in the small messy office of a dithery woman in her forties with a towering wig of frosted hair, straight out of 1973.

“Now, let me see … you’re from—you’re from Illinois, you said? Horsefeathers, where did I put that application …”

“It’s right here, Mrs. Hunt.”

The woman tittered and reached for the paper. Her hand trembled.

Drinking problem? Irises were bloodshot and there was a large bruise on the side of her neck …

“I think I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t attached. So let me see … it says here you graduated from the University of Chicago with a criminal justice degree … my, my. I—I’m sorry, Miss Connors, but what I don’t understand is why you’re, you’re here, and applying for a janitor job? A young woman with your background, well … it seems to me you should be—”

“I’m taking a year off before law school. It’s a long road to earning my JD, and I wanted to see a little of the country before I spend the next three years with my head in a book.” She added: “I understand you normally hire local students for this job, so I wouldn’t want to take it away from anyone you had in mind for next summer. I’ll be heading out when school ends.”

Better to act as though she were staying for months rather than, hopefully, weeks. Just one more lie on top of so many.

Renata managed to add an enthusiastic smile, which seemed to qualm Mrs. Hunt’s doubts. The woman beamed at her, blue eyes watery.

“Well, we are in a bind, what with back-to-school and all … I think that would be just fine, Miss Connors. I’ll still have to call your references, of course.”

Renata calmly opened her purse and pulled out a long envelope. “I’m afraid my professor is on sabbatical out of the country, so I asked him for a letter of recommendation before I left.”

The woman took the letter without looking at it, nodding happily. “The job is every day from six in the morning till when you’re done, usually about two or two thirty. Days off are Tuesday and Thursday and Midge will take those. You’ll be working with Woody on the first day, then you’ll be on your own—he’s a local boy, very friendly, leaving to work down in Covelo. He can train you tomorrow and you can start the 22nd, if that’s all right—it’s a Sunday, so if you can’t because of church—”

“No, that’s perfect, Mrs. Hunt.”

The woman nodded again, her pied hair piece bouncing in an indiscriminately brown and white blur, and she added the letter and application to a manila envelope.

“Oh, you can call me Doris when it’s just us. My husband Wayne’s the deputy sheriff in Garberville, and I know everyone and everyone knows me …” She tittered again.

Shit—a cop. But she was cleaning the hospital, not their house, and she had no reason to interact with him—and she’d keep it that way. Besides, she knew cops, knew what to expect, even in a one-horse, one-street town.

It would be OK. She’d be OK.

Renata rose and extended her hand. “Most people call me Nattie.”

The woman across from her shook it and smiled. Her skin was splotchy behind the pancake makeup.

“Welcome to Garberville, Nattie, I’m sure you’ll—”

The drawn-out wail of a siren interrupted her, growing louder and more out-of-control by the split second. Raised voices rumbled outside, growing in volume.

Doris’s eyes widened. A large, heavy man in a white medical gown pushed open the door.

“Doris, has Wayne called you? Has he told you?”

“Told me what? What is it, Sam? What’s going on?”

“They found Jennie Dayton. Rory’s up in Alderpoint now but they couldn’t get the coroner’s van from Eureka because of some accident on 101, and he had the EMTs bring her here in an ambulance. You’d better get down there. She’s—we lost her, Doris. She’s dead.”

The woman stood up, fist in her mouth, eyes huge and swimming. The man glanced at Renata, back to Doris.

“Come on!”

The older woman grabbed at Renata’s hand like a life-preserver. “You—you come with me.”

They stepped into a small corridor off the waiting room and Doris’s office. Someone was crying; other people in white were running through an intersecting hallway.

They joined the rush of medical personnel and pushed through thick double doors into the main wing of the hospital. The ambulance entrance was directly across from a small emergency room, and Doris clung to Renata’s hand, pulling her toward it.

The wail filled the entire building. Two men in white who looked like doctors waited by the ambulance entry, two female nurses and an orderly by the emergency room door.

Doris, breathless, asked a nurse: “Is it Jennie? Is she really—”

“They said it was. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

The ambulance doors slammed open. The doctors swarmed the stretcher. As they brought her through, the thick white sheet slipped down and Doris stood, mouth open, repeating under her breath, “It is Jennie. It is. God help her.”

The gurney seemed to slow down in front of Renata. Doctors shouting to nurses, and on the stretcher, on the stretcher …

Ghost of a girl already gone, fingerprints etched on a broken throat, nakedness screaming for cover. No more laughter, no more pillow fights, no more giggly anticipation of Friday night dates or cheerleading try-outs, no marches for animal rights, no hugs, no phone calls, no memories, no memories …

The girl on the stretcher was the missing sixteen-year-old blonde.

Doris was sniffling in her office. Renata sat next to her, arms wrapped around her stomach, gently rocking.

She’d shepherded her new boss, soothed and stroked her hand and led her away. “Always good in emergencies,” one of her teachers once wrote.

Emergencies were fucking easy. It was what came after that wasn’t.

Purple and green and sharp, acrid chemical, white sequins turned to red …

“You will—you will stay on, won’t you? The hospital—we—we need s—someone level-headed. You—thank you for h—helping me. I—I don’t know how I would’ve gotten back to my office …”

Renata continued to rock, not looking up.

Breathe, Renata, breathe and feel your body, feel yourself in it …

Her voice was automatic. “I’m glad to help, Mrs. Hunt.”

Doris sniffled again loudly, nostrils bright pink. “You can call me Doris when we’re alone. I—I don’t know, I just don’t know. First Amy, then Dawn … and now … now, Jennie.” She blew her nose into a Kleenex.

Renata stopped rocking and raised her head.

“You mean there were others—other girls killed?”

Doris fixed enormous, pleading eyes on her face. “You don’t think—maybe it was an accident?”

They looked at each other, older and younger, and Renata felt something for Doris Hunt, beyond the ten-year old wig of hair and the splotchy skin and the constant refrain of “Horsefeathers.”

She rose awkwardly. “I think—I think I’d better go. I need to buy some different clothes.”

Doris blinked and swallowed. “Of course, dear. Do you—have you found a place to stay?”

“Not long-term. I’ve got a room at the Camelot Inn, but it’s too expensive for more than a week or so—”

“Of course, of course. You, uh, might check at the library. People sometimes post rooms for rent. There aren’t many places available in town, but Redway’s only a couple of miles away, so you could look there, too … oh, and you should check at the realty office. Talk to Lynette. She might have something. Of course, if I hear about anything …”

Her voice petered out, as the eyes, still huge and welling, wandered to the gray file cabinet in the corner.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hunt.”

Renata closed the door softly behind her and took a deep breath.

She stood outside, shielding her eyes against the bright sun.

Breathe.

Deep breaths, like Bechtel had told her. Regular, slow. Inhale. Exhale.

So she wouldn’t disassociate. Wouldn’t lose herself.

Wouldn’t black out.

Burnt smell of gunpowder, holes where the knees were, blood pooling on cement floor …

Renata shuddered, started walking.

So quiet here, so small. Not small enough to escape, no, not small enough to escape another killer of young women, no postcard advertising that. It was always waiting, in a locker room or at a board meeting or around the Main Street corner, waiting to possess, abuse and then discard, in a garbage dumpster, in a ditch, on a sidewalk in front of a strip club in the capital of the fucking country.

She shivered again, a westerly wind penetrating the sunlight’s warmth.

Run-down houses lined the street, some with Big Wheels and tricycles in the driveway, almost all with four wheel-drive trucks spattered in dust and dirt. Small, wooden houses built in the ’50s, some in the ’30s, little manicured lawns putting on suburban airs, and the occasional lot with a sign boasting This household supported by the timber industry.

What the hell was she doing here? The back of beyond, she’d envisioned, giant redwood trees and ferns where Brontosauruses once roamed, Pterodactyls flying overhead, not helicopters, cozy one-log houses, and her parents’ smiling faces … but then she hadn’t thought, just reacted, not wanting to spend the rest of her life in prison for an act she couldn’t remember.

An act of justice.

Josie, Josie … gone. Like a firefly on a summer night, like a laugh over a lopsided birthday cake. An ache that never ceased, sharpness and dullness and pain, such pain, God, a missing part of herself, the better part, gone, gone, dead and gone, hole in the ground burning straight through the earth, leaving nothing behind, just the memory that followed her, that dogged her, that led her to the postcard and yet another girl on another stretcher.

And nothing could touch Josie’s murderer, nothing. Not the son of an ambassador. Not with diplomatic immunity.

She’d tried, struggled to find some way, some outlet, for justice. God knows she’d tried. The cop from the Met, that scarecrow of an FBI agent with the eyes that teared up. They knew. They all knew. The evidence was there—before it wasn’t. And not just for Josie—the other young women, too. There was no doubt at all.

No fucking doubt.

So she’d done it. She’d killed him herself—an execution. Just like she’d fantasized when his father shipped him back to Russia, no questions, no answers, no resolution, not for Josie, not for the other young women, maimed, dead, or broken. The ambassador patiently waited, the famous patience of Stalingrad, waiting until the case was no longer in the papers, replaced by other crimes, other murders of women young and old, statute of public attention run out and moved on, and then brought his son back, family reunited, in Sergei’s old playground, his old haunts.

His old habits.

She’d rented the storage facility by then. Couldn’t stand the thought of someone’s broken furniture and boxes of Christmas ornaments stuffed in the space where her sister had been murdered. Had left her, left the earth. Renata brought Josie flowers every week, staring at the concrete floor.

And when she woke up and saw him, it was just like she’d fantasized, wrote about in the diary, even rehearsed and prepared for, mentally, physically, down to weight lifting at the gym.

Just like she described to her psychiatrist.

Except … the knees. The knees were wrong. It was supposed to be an act of justice, a clean execution with her father’s gun, a judgment and sentence and law more holy than the one that failed Josie, the one her father had enforced, the one she’d studied and made her career. A solemn act, unemotional even, the weight of the scales finally crushing Sergei Grinkov, exacting the penalty that his privilege and position and political reality enabled him to elude.

At least, that had been her fantasy, what she repeated to Bechtel.

Renata stopped on a corner, finger tracing the gouged wooden surface of a telephone pole.

But the reality …

Why, why had she given in to revenge, retribution—torture? Had the rage overcome her? If only she could remember.

Forgive me, Dr. Bechtel, for I have sinned …

Her steps were inexorably leading her to the main street, the place with noise, the place with people.

Should I stay or should I go?

She and Josie, dancing the pogo around the record player to The Clash, yelling the lyrics and laughing, always laughing …

Run? To where? Was Portland any safer? Money was low—but she’d already found a job. The FBI wouldn’t locate her immediately. She had a head start. There were feds up here, yes, but they were looking for dope growers—nothing to do with her.

And besides, it was easy to disappear in Humboldt County …

She stopped again, shutting her eyes for a second to shut out the girl on the stretcher.

She was on a side street with a nearly empty parking lot. On the other side was Pathways, the health-food store, still presumably looking for a cashier, and two women leaving the large, modern, redwood-shingled building, holding paper bags and in deep conversation. To the left of the store was a small book shop, Cabbages and Kings, with a wooden sign of Tenniel’s Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland hanging outside, and to the right, an even bigger square building that looked like it dated to the teens or twenties. Redwood Record was painted in large letters on the modest entablature.

As she stood, a man in his early thirties, with brown hair and a mustache, stepped into the street from the Redwood Record building and headed straight toward her.

“Hey, you’re the girl who’s working for Doris, right? The new janitor?”

Renata froze, the sudden rush of adrenalin making her hands tremble. He was tall and lanky, with shaggy hair and a crooked, subdued smile under a Tom Selleck mustache. Not exactly the FBI type.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

He took a step back and held up a hand, still smiling. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry—I shouldn’t be so abrupt. I saw you pass by and I’m used to moving fast. Even in a little town like Garberville”—he gestured to the building—“there’s always news to print.”

She took a step forward. “I’m not news, so please—just leave me alone.”

He made a sideways move to block her. “Wait—I’m sorry, I really am. Let me start over. My name’s Mike, Mike Richards. I run the town’s newspaper and I, uh, saw you at the—when they brought in Jennifer Dayton. You—well, you impressed me, the way you were able to handle Doris … everybody’s nerves are understandably shattered. Anyway, I, uh, asked around, and found out you’re gonna be the new day janitor at the hospital and you’re not from the area and you just got here and … well, that’s all I know.”

“Why do you want to talk to me? I’m a stranger. I just arrived this morning. I don’t have anything to say.”

“Look, I don’t want to—um, how about telling me your name? Makes it so much easier.”

She looked up at him and it rolled off her tongue as easily as in Doris’s office. “Natalie Connors. Most people call me Nattie.”

“Nattie. OK. I’m not looking for a quote or an article about you or anything like that. I was just thinking—well—I’d like you to—was hoping you might listen. Maybe even help me, if my hunch plays out.”

His face was serious, lines on the side of his mouth deep. She shook her head.

“‘Hunch’? About me? You don’t know me and I don’t know you and I’m very hungry and on my way to get lunch—”

He hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Of course! I’m stupid. How about letting me pick up the tab? At the Old Mill? It’s the best restaurant we’ve got, just a couple of blocks up Redwood. I can explain and maybe with a little food everything will make more sense. I promise not to bore you. Maybe even interest you in some background information on this crazy little town you’ve wound up in. Please?”

There was palpable charm behind his broad, almost goofy smile and the weirdness of it all seemed to go with Garberville. All she wanted to do right now was eat and sleep, but maybe she could learn something to help herself, to make plans, to decide on whether to stay or go …

She met Mike Richards’s eyes. “So long as you understand this isn’t an interview of any kind. I’m not looking for any publicity.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry, Nattie. Pretend like you’re interviewing me—and we’ll just go from there.”

He flashed the smile again.

The Old Mill was the kind of restaurant where Elks or Lions held their meetings, drinking beer in the back banquet hall, ordering steak dinners for a discount, the same kind of restaurant her uncle patronized on the southwest side of Chicago and where he’d take her sometimes, after her parents died, drinking behind his wife’s back and playing a round of seven-card stud with men who looked just like him.

Today it was nearly empty except for a couple of middle-aged women concentrating on the rosé, a tourist family noisily devouring hamburgers, and a few large men with gray crew cuts and faded, blue-gray mechanics uniforms crouched over the small bar and watching television.

She sipped ice water and bit into a stale, pale dinner roll while Mike leaned back against the padded booth, still smiling.

They’d established introductions—she was from Chicago, he was from Los Angeles. She was about to study criminal law—the lie came easier this time—he was the sole journalist in Southern Humboldt, researching, writing, and printing the Redwood Record, a newspaper that functioned mostly as a town newsletter, though Mike said he tried to chase down serious stories whenever he could.

“So,” he said softly. “I know this all seems weird. Garberville, I mean. I remember how I felt when I first got here five years ago. The thing you’ve gotta understand is we all know each other. Eleven hundred people in each other’s business. Secrets are hard to keep here, so we’re better at hiding them. We’re cut off from civilization by geography and the road—sometimes literally, like the mudslide a few years ago. Other people visit—tourism is still a sizeable chunk of the economy—but that’s in the summer. Transients flood in during the harvest season and flood out again. So when someone new actually moves in, people get kind of excited. You’re the unknown, someone new to talk to, to learn about, to confess to. In this town, new people become whatever we need them to be. Until they’re no longer new, anyway.” He chuckled. “The process takes about three years.”

“But I’m not staying. I’m only here for a short time, then moving on. I’m more in the transient category—though I’m not into drugs or pot.”

“I figured you weren’t. See, the thing is you’re working at the hospital. Doris wouldn’t hire just anybody. She’s—well, everyone knows she’s kind of—of dizzy, I guess you could say, and she’s gotten worse lately but still—that’s a job locals generally compete for. New graduates from South Fork, kids going off to college. And working at the hospital makes you part of the community. Hence,”—he smiled broadly—“you’re ‘new.’”

Renata shrugged. “If you say so. I’ve made it very clear to everybody that I’m only here temporarily. So what was this ‘hunch’ you mentioned? Or was this small-town stuff what you wanted to tell me?”

Mike’s face fell into serious lines. “No. I wish it were. Nattie, Southern Humboldt is in serious trouble. Half of it is CAMP, which I’m sure you’ve already heard about—or you’ve at least heard the helicopters. The other half—the other half is what happened to Jennie.”

She felt her face flinch and he added quickly: “Look, let me flag down Annie so we can order and after you eat, maybe you’ll let me tell you the rest.”

He threw up a hand and a large blond woman about thirty-five approached the table with a smile.

Lunch was chewy chicken-fried steak and whipped mashed potatoes straight out of a Midwest cafeteria, but it felt good going down. They changed the conversation to music while they ate, The Police and Blue Öyster Cult and Madonna, and Renata ordered dessert when the waitress returned.

Her lunch companion was an attractive guy, charming, easy to talk to. But she wanted to find out what this “hunch” of his was, what sort of “help” he thought she could deliver.

She dug a fork into a slice of apple pie, the vanilla ice cream melting into small creamy rivulets down the crust.

He bent forward across the table and lowered his voice. “So, CAMP. They’re here in force every year at harvest and what it means is modern-day Prohibition with all the violence and organized crime that goes with it. Small, family growers, the hippies who came in during the late ’60s—they’re being driven out. Some are trying for one last cash haul for their kids or to pay off a mortgage, and then they’re getting the hell away, pushed out by the drug cartels, big money ops that can compete with the feds.”

“The growers are mostly cartels? Like, out-of-state, out-of-country?”

“The ones who succeed are. Most of the busts you see are the little guys. And the cartels have protection—protection from Rory Peterson, our sheriff. Oh, yeah—lots of corruption in Southern Humboldt. Just like Chicago sixty years ago. Murders and missing persons, too.”

“I noticed all the flyers in the library. Aren’t they ever found? What about their families? Surely some of them—”

“Peterson files reports when forced, but if investigations get too close to the big growers moving in, forget it. Twelve people have gone missing in the past year, and most are victims of the harvest—sometimes just getting ripped off for their labor, but often a hell of a lot more. There’s a lot of sexual assault that never gets reported. The victims can’t go to law enforcement because what they’re doing is against the law. So they just … disappear.”

He shook his head. “The truth is our crime statistics have jumped every year since CAMP—and those are just the crimes we know about. CAMP’s the largest taskforce in US history and it’s funded by politicians who are funded by tobacco companies, and tobacco companies don’t like the competition. Of course, the supreme irony is that unlike tobacco, cannabis is a beneficial plant. It’s an analgesic, for one, even for something as awful as cancer. Nicotine causes cancer, marijuana alleviates some of its misery, but cannabis is illegal to grow, and we’re all supposed to ‘just say no.’”

He flicked his eyes up at her. “Sorry to dump my frustrations on you. But our entire economy is built around pot—as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Hell, this time of year you can smell it in the air. The cartels aren’t going to spend money in Garberville. They’ll just use the land, pay off Peterson and anyone else they need to, and Southern Humboldt continues to slide into a hole it may never climb out of.”

“But what can be done? I mean, pot’s illegal—”

He grunted. “Yeah. I guess that’s always the dead-end answer. We can vote out the governor and maybe end CAMP, but the cartels are here to stay as long as pot’s illegal. Unfortunately.” He met her eyes. “Still … that’s not what bothers me the most. It’s the victims—the rapes, assaults, murders that don’t get reported. CAMP may not only be causing those crimes—CAMP may be committing them.”

Renata shoved aside the empty pie plate.

“What do you mean?”

He sighed and folded his fingers into a ball on top of the Formica table.

“I guess this is where I talk about part two. Jennie. Jennie’s the third high-school girl murdered since 1982. Three girls killed in a high school of less than three hundred students. Peterson hasn’t done a damn thing. He’s too busy lining his pockets from narcs and growers, playing both sides.”

Bile rose in Renata’s throat.

“Others,” the librarian said. Doris had mentioned an Amy and Dawn.

Breathe, in and out, in and out …

She sipped a glass of water. “So are you saying you think these murders have something to do with the cartels or with CAMP itself? Because it sounds like a possible serial killer.”

His face crumpled. “I don’t know. The MO wasn’t exactly the same in all three—I mean, the girls were all strangled, but Amy was raped and Dawn wasn’t. I’m—this is disturbing stuff, obviously, and you just—just saw Jennie—I probably shouldn’t go into the details—”

“Mike—what is it you want with me? You led me here, asked for my help, said you had a ‘hunch’ …”

He looked out the window onto Garberville’s main street.

“They found Jennie’s body up in Alderpoint—a ranch belonging to Bill Rader. His family’s held land here for generations—he sits on a whole mountainside about twenty miles above Garberville. Rumor is he’s letting a cartel hide out on it, too, growing pot in remote creeks and ravines. Rader and Rory are old friends, and I’m sure the sheriff is getting a kickback.”

“And you think CAMP is somehow involved?”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “I guess I—I’d rather it be. The other girls weren’t killed during the harvest but the cartels bring in infrastructure like hydroponics and greenhouses and armed guards year-round. We’re talking organized crime from LA, Mexico, Colombia, Las Vegas … and then, with CAMP, you’ve got a bunch of cops looking to make a name for themselves—looking for power, for kicks—and some can be just as bad as the drug lords.”

Renata shook her head. “What you described sounds very local. High-school girls are the target and CAMP isn’t here for much of the year and what would the cartels have to gain? They don’t want scrutiny, and they don’t want more pay-offs. If there was a psychopath among them endangering their profits, they’d eliminate him. No … it’s got to be a community member. Someone who knew those girls … someone you know. That’s what you’re afraid of.”

His eyes fixed on hers before he turned to stare out the window again.

“Yeah.”

There was silence for a few seconds.

God, she was tired. So fucking tired. But this was nothing to do with her.

Nothing to do with her.

“I said I’d listen—I’ve listened. I mean, I just got here this morning, for God’s sake, found a job and ran smack into a town tragedy. I’m not a detective, I’m not a cop, I’m just a law student passing through. I’ll be here for a few months, but I’m temporary—just like all those clippers. I can lend you an ear and appreciate the lunch, Mike, but that’s it—you really should notify the state police or the FBI—”

“Already tried. We’re not important enough—just a bunch of old hippies lost in the Emerald Triangle. But even if the feds investigate, and I hope they do, they don’t know the area—they don’t know us. They don’t know the kids. I’ll find out soon enough whether Jennie was killed where she was found or whether the body was moved, maybe even planted to implicate Rader. Got a source at the coroner’s office in Eureka, and they’ll transport her there later today, as soon as the accident on 101 is cleared. It’s probably cleared now.”

Mike ran his fingers through his hair again. “I’m sorry. I’m a little hyped up. I want this to be a stranger. Some big-time drug dealer or narc. But the truth is it’s looking more and more like someone local, just like you said. Someone we know. Someone close to the kids at school—someone who was a part of Jennie’s world—and Amy’s and Dawn’s—and that’s why I was kind of hoping that maybe … I could get your help.”

“Mike, I—”

He impulsively reached for her hand. “Look, Nattie, you’re new, like I said. From a city most of these kids will never see. A lot of them won’t even make it to San Francisco. And I know we’ve barely met and don’t really know each other. I was just so impressed with you—and you’re the right age, not too old—and I had a hunch maybe extra money would be welcome and you’re the kind of person who might enjoy it—kind of informally helping me. Help me maybe break the story—help me help Humboldt. Peterson isn’t going to do anything, and Eureka’s a long way away—I work alone except for Chris—he’s my co-printer—”

She withdrew her hand from his and held it up to stop him. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. I told you—I’m not Lois Lane or Barbara Walters, Mike—just a college student passing through—”

He paused for half a second, red-faced, and laughed. “I know. I’m sorry. My enthusiasm runs away with me sometimes. Listen, Natalie—Nattie—I don’t mean to make it a huge deal, no expectations, no Lois Lane. I just thought maybe you could kind of be my eyes and ears, at the hospital and especially at Hamburger Haven where the kids hang out. You could get to know the high-school girls—Jennie’s friends. Most of them live near Garberville or Redway and they basically take it over every afternoon. You might be able to find out something about Jennie—something that could help us find her killer. Peterson won’t go near South Fork and her friends won’t talk to me—they’re scared. Everybody is. So I thought, maybe you could get to know them and kind of, well, be my assistant.”

Mike looked a little like a shaggy dog hoping for a bone.

Renata stared down at the Formica top, the gold starbursts like the sparklers she used to light for Josie every Fourth of July.

“As—as horrified as I am that this has happened—is happening—I’m only staying as long as it takes me to make some money and move on … I mean, I care about what happened to Jennie. I really do. But you’re asking too much of me right now. I’m sorry.”

His face fell. “I understand. If you change your mind—”

She shook her head. “I won’t.”

He looked up and gave her a sad half-smile. “I guess my hunch didn’t pay off.”

Breathe. In out, in out. Sunburst like gold sparklers on a hot summer night …

Josie was waiting outside the restaurant, leaning against a telephone pole. Renata walked down the street, heading for the library.

She remembered telling Bechtel, slowly, hesitantly, wondering if her psychiatrist would report her to some authority somewhere who would lock her up.

Delusional. Hallucinating. Seeing her murdered sister wherever she went.

To her surprise, Bechtel was understanding. Sympathetic.

Not schizophrenia, not in her opinion. Just another manifestation of extreme trauma.

Extreme grief.

Which is why Bechtel, despite telling her about the “duty to warn” law, also told her she wouldn’t go to the police over Renata’s other dreams, the thoughts and ideas and whispers she’d confided to her psychiatrist about exacting justice. About ending Sergei Grinkov.

Because Bechtel didn’t consider her a threat.

Just keep a diary about these feelings, Ms. Drake, write them down …

And then it had been stolen.

Her terrors, her tortures, and something even more intimate: her hate.

The cop she saw at the station was bored, listless, another form to fill out. You know how many things get stolen in Washington, DC? Besides taxpayer money, that is? Get a life, lady, was the mantra in his face.

Get a fucking life.

But the script wasn’t necessary. She’d already memorized the words, the movements. And she’d woken up there, woken on stage, woken to see him, just as she’d envisioned … except for the knees.

Even after that—Josie stayed with her.

To guide, to guard. To protect.

Just like their father had taught them. Just like she’d always tried to do for Josie …

Her sister never spoke to her, but Renata felt her just the same. She didn’t tell Bechtel that, didn’t tell her that she knew Josie was there, somehow, waiting and watching.

Renata found herself facing the library doors.

Renatka, mój skarbie, sit at the table and look at the books. This is better than Disneyland!

Her mother, all gentle smile and blond bouffant wrapped in Chicago-winter clothes, holding her by the hand and gently, carefully, showing her the wonders of books and libraries, the warmth and dryness, the comforting scent of old paper. By the time Josie was a toddler, Renata demanded her little sister go with her to “Disneyland” every week.

Doors of safety. Doors of escape.

She pushed them open.

Same librarian, who looked up brightly.

“Hello, again! Did you get the job?”

Renata blinked, surprised. “Yes—yes, I did. I start at the hospital tomorrow.”

The redhead glanced around and lowered her voice. “Were you there—were you there when …”

“Yes.” She picked up another book from the exchange without looking at the cover and sat down.

The librarian shook her head. “Such a tragedy. The third young woman we’ve lost in three years—”

“Nazis.”

Renata looked up. A gray-haired, heavy-set woman in her sixties was sitting across from her, the same one who was coming in when she left this morning.

The woman gestured to the book in Renata’s hand. “That is a good book. I was there. I saw them.”

Renata looked at the cover in surprise. William Shirer’s Rise and Fall of the Third Reich.

“You were there?”

The woman nodded, voice still burred with a guttural accent. “I saw them all. Hitler, Göring. The chicken farmer. My parents took me. Everyone around, arms out, bowing. Everyone but us.”

Renata leaned forward. “How did you escape?”

The woman made a derisive noise. “Escape? There was no escaping. We ran, yes, too late to save anything. Too late to save my mother, my brother. But yes, we ran, first to Holland, then to Portugal, then, finally to this country. Where not enough people read books.” She pointed again. “Where not enough people see the truth.”

The red-haired librarian adopted a slightly patronizing tone. “Now, now, Mrs. Schumann. America’s one of the most enlightened nations on earth, and—”

Mrs. Schumann made another rude noise. “Too many said the same things about Germany. You know what my brothers and sisters and I did before sleep every night? We prayed the men with black spiders would not take our parents. We chanted ‘Lieber Herr Gott mach mich stumm, Daß ich nicht nach Dachau komm—’”

“‘Dear Lord, all noise from me stamp, so I don’t wind up in Dachau camp.’”

The older woman looked up at Renata, surprised. “You know German?”

“A little. I studied Holocaust history in college.”

Mrs. Schumann stared at her. “So you recognize truth. I see that. In your eyes. You have much wisdom for one so young. But then you are young only in years, aren’t you, Kleine?”

The clock hand on the wall clicked into place. 3:30.

Renata stuttered a little as she rose from the chair and gathered her purse, leaving the book behind.

“I—I must be getting back. Danke schön, Mrs. Schumann.”

The older woman nodded, and Renata quickly walked out the library doors.

Truth, truth, truth. What was it?

Was it the knock on her door, the cop on the step with sad eyes, the paramedic he called to help restrain her at the morgue? Was it the nurse at the hospital, the cop who admitted her, shouting “ECO, ECO!” into a walkie-talkie, or was it the doctor who fastened the restraints on the bed before shooting her arm with something poisonous, something that made her body sleep, her mind scream, until it was swallowed up by a red tide of drugs?

Was it her co-workers, the other attorneys, the ones who shook their heads and talked about her at the water cooler or the funeral director or her fat uncle and his anemic wife, cousins standing around bored?

What was the truth?

Bechtel said truth was a subjective thing. But there was no subjectivity in the hole in the ground in Holy Cross cemetery, the dark brown coffin and the thud of dirt against wood.

So she’d planned it all, everything but the knees, and the knees bothered her, but still … there he was.

And here she was.

Another state, another town, another girl.

Murdered.

Renata looked around the scratched furniture and worn carpet, late afternoon sunlight slanting through the drapes. Darker inside than out.

And just how wise was it to take inspiration from a View-Master reel and follow a postcard across the country? A leap of faith into picturesque redwoods and a “One-Log House,” small, sleepy town, no big city, no diplomatic immunity, no Soviet embassy, just a serial killer, and three girls—three more, three more, three more …

Just like Josie.

Just. Like. Josie.

She balled up the pillow and turned on her side, ceiling no longer safe to stare at.

Couldn’t run from men killing young women, apparently. Could only run from an execution she couldn’t remember. Because the law—her father’s law, her university’s law, the law on her fucking diploma—couldn’t touch him.

Untouchable.

Her eyes shut, blocking it out. Blocking it all out.

It was all over now.

Over and done.

The late afternoon sunlight lit Garberville with a rosy, reddish glow. The town was lively now, the last frenetic activity before dark, when the bars would wake up and take over.

Renata ordered a chicken and fries basket with coleslaw.

A gaggle of kids buzzed nervously around her. She could feel their eyes on her shirt, her hair, her bag. She sat down at one of the picnic tables outside and squirted mustard on her fries.

A brown-haired, muscular boy in a 49ers shirt was sitting on top of the table next to her. Two blondes, one pretty, one her friend, sat below him. Three more—two boys and another girl—were still in line inside. All the kids were white, with the exception of one boy who looked Hispanic; all looked between fifteen and sixteen.

“Mustard on fries is gross.”

The pretty girl nudged the boy on the table. “Knock it off, Scott.”

Renata glanced up sideways at the 49er fan. He was grin-ning at her.

“I like it. You go to South Fork?”

He looked surprised. “Yeah. How come you know South Fork? I ain’t seen you around before.”

The pretty blonde hit him in the calf again. “Shut up, Poindexter. Maybe she just wants to eat.”

Renata wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I don’t mind.” She pointed to the girl’s pink lace-up shirt. “Nice top. Reminds me of Lori Singer’s in Footloose.”

The blonde smiled triumphantly at her plainer friend while the other three joined them holding hamburgers and fries on trays and sat down on the opposite side of the table.

The new girl was a redhead with commensurate freckles. The Hispanic-looking kid had longish curly hair and a smile he used to good effect on the redhead. The last one was another brown-haired boy on the pudgy side who appeared to be Scott’s mascot.

Scott cocked his head at Renata. “So how you know South Fork? You ain’t a teacher.”

The pretty blonde’s friend, protective, spoke with a sniff: “She’s probably just here to clip or score weed.”

“I’m not a teacher and I’m not here for the harvest. I’m taking time off before law school to tour the country.”

The girl poked her prettier companion in the ribs, rolling her eyes. The pretty one—presumably Scott’s girlfriend—remembered Renata’s compliment, and, ignoring her friend, addressed her.

“My friends can be, like, so clueless sometimes. I’m Martha—that’s Scott—and Betty.” She motioned with her head to the three across the table. “And that’s Crystal, Matt, and Joey. So what’s your name? You from San Francisco?”

Renata smiled. “My name’s Nattie. I’m from Chicago. Are you all seniors?” She knew they weren’t, but she also knew they’d be flattered.

Martha laughed. “Juniors. Except for Joey. He skipped a grade ’cause he’s a giant brain.”

The chubby brown-haired boy turned bright red. “I am not!”

Above them, Scott made a noise and stood up on the table, making it shake. He was focused across the street. Walking down Redwood Avenue past the car lot was another teen—tall, thin and Black, about the same age. He walked deliberately, at an even pace, not looking at the others.

Scott still stood, feet planted apart, an ugly line in his jaw. “Fuckin’ A—can’t believe he’s just walkin’ by.”

Matt stopped playing with Crystal’s hair and turned around. The Black kid walked around the corner and up to the Snack Shack, getting in line behind a couple of younger teens.

Martha’s voice was hesitant. “We don’t know, Scott—nobody knows. C’mon, sit down. People are looking at you.”

Scott hopped off the table with decision. “Fuck. I know. I know. Di’n’t he get here last semester, same time as Jennie? Di’n’t he ask her to the dance? Di’n’t they hang at the movies? Huh? I’m goin’ over there—”

“Scott, please—we’re all upset and feeling horrible and starting something with Marcus isn’t going to help—”

He bent toward the blonde, arms stiff, hands in tight fists. “Shut up! You don’t know nothin’, Martha. And I ain’t starting nothin’ he didn’t start by movin’ here—fuckin’ n—”

“Why do you think that young man killed Jennie?”

Scott raised his glowering face to stare at her while the rest looked on with various degrees of shock. Betty nudged Martha in the ribs, whispering, “She’s some kind of narc.”

“I’m not a narc. I was at the hospital when they brought Jennie in.”

Scott glanced back across the street. Marcus was holding a soft-serve cone and starting to walk down Sprowl Creek Road.

“Fuckin’ A. He’ll be at his mother’s place in a minute.” He leveled his eyes at Renata. “Jennie ain’t your business, lady. Stay out of it.”

Martha’s voice was quiet but authoritative. “Scott—shut up.” She stood and walked over to stand in front of Renata. “Why were you at the hospital?”

“I just got a job there. Cleaning.”

The blonde blinked. “You’re not—I mean, like, you’re going to law school and everything, why are you working as a janitor?”

Renata shrugged. “Just to help pay my way. Look, I’ve lost—I’ve lost friends to violence. Like Jennie. It’s a horrible thing. I’m very sorry.” She disengaged herself from the table and stood, holding her tray. “Someone told me there have been other girls—other girls killed. Seems to me if that young man was also new—”

Crystal spoke for the first time, curiosity in her voice as she studied Renata’s face. “Jennie hung out with the Rainbow Girls crowd, not just us. But her an’ Marcus were friends. We just—we don’t know for sure they’re all connected. Amy got killed when we were all still in junior high. And Dawn was running away last year. She was a junior, too—just like Jennie. And us.”

Like a murmuration of birds, the rest of the table rose as one and the teenagers bunched up together, whispering. Scott was still staring across the street, arms folded, then suddenly started up the block. Most of them followed. Martha hesitated, then turned back to face her, voice low.

“Don’t pay attention to Scott. He’s upset and he doesn’t like Black people. Marcus is OK. And if—if you are a narc, don’t tell anybody anything, ’K?”

She moved on to join the others, the knot of teenagers glancing back at Renata, some with anxious faces.

A light was still on inside the Redwood Record office. Renata knocked again.

An inner door slammed. Mike hurried to the door, keys in his hand, eyes widened with surprise.

“Nattie! What brings you—”

“I ate at Hamburger Haven tonight. There’s a Black kid, about sixteen, named Marcus. I didn’t meet him, but he was new to Humboldt at the same time as Jennie and they were apparently close—he went to a dance and to the movies with her. He might know something. Another kid, same age, Scott something, who’s probably on the wrestling or football team, thinks Marcus is guilty mainly because he’s Black. Scott’s a racist, bullying punk but the rest of his clique was just nervous, sad, scared, in denial—one of them mentioned nobody had officially connected the other murders yet. Oh, and Jennie hung out with this bunch and the ‘Rainbow Girls,’ whatever that is.”

She looked away. “Doesn’t change anything. But I thought you should know.”

Mike grunted. “Rainbow Girls is a branch of the Masons for girls. Six and up, I think. Community service stuff. Most of the businessmen and ranchers in the area are Masons. If Scott’s who I think he is, his father is one, and what they call a ‘prominent member of the community.’ Peter Schwartz. The Masons do a lot for the school, raise money, that kind of thing. As for Marcus, I don’t know him, but I did hear a Black woman and her son moved into the area. I think she works as a legal secretary for Donald Austin down on Sprowl Creek.” He held her eyes and hope was behind them. “Thanks, Nattie. This is really helpful. Maybe—maybe I can fill you in on some other stuff tomorrow?”

She turned away from the door.

It wasn’t too late. She’d done her duty. She’d done more than most.

Lie low, get the hell out of town after a month, ride a train to another nowhere, with no weed and no helicopters and no dead girls lying in morgues …

Nothing to do with her.

She took a breath.

“I can come after work. About three.”

His smile widened and he called out through the door. “We can firm up the details then, OK?”

But Renata shivered, not turning around, as a cold wind blew down from the north, scuttling leaves along Redwood Avenue.

First night, first sleep in a new life. Or was it?

Renata lay in bed, arms behind her head, the motel clock next to her lighting up the corner of the room like a stop light.

She couldn’t sleep. And she had to wake up for work in five hours.

There had been nothing about Sergei Grinkov in the San Francisco papers or USA Today when she checked them at the bus terminal in the city. Garberville wouldn’t get more news in until Sunday. That bought her a couple of days, even if she couldn’t rest, even if she couldn’t stop thinking about when her name would appear, Renata Drake, wanted for murder, sister of homicide victim Josie Drake … so she read more of the history of Humboldt County, learned about the lush, green environment of thousand-year-old trees, about what she’d imagined in that View-Master.

The booklet she bought didn’t mention the actual crop and economic engine of the region. Just some facts about the coastal redwood, Sequoia sempervirens—the tallest redwoods as opposed to the largest, which were the giant or Sierra sequoias in the southern part of the state—and camera-friendly tourist spots like the One-Log House, Confusion Hill, the “World Famous, Believe It or Not!” Treehouse, the Drive-Thru Tree.

The valleys and hills surrounding Humboldt Bay to the north were rich dairy and grazing lands, denuded of most of their timber, which had been shipped first to the south and then all over the world for over a hundred years. There was still a lot of lumber in Southern Humboldt, though, and smaller loggers scrambled for rights to cut down whatever trees they could, acre by acre. The Humboldt County Tourist Board—the only author mentioned—ended by discussing the county’s recovery from something called the Thousand-Year Flood, a natural disaster that struck the Northwest in the winter of ’64 and hit Humboldt particularly hard. They boasted about the golf course and resort inn near Garberville, the fine hospitality a visitor would receive, and the unique redwoods that could only be found here.

Renata sighed.

Poor Humboldt. The life of the county depended on killing irreplaceable trees or growing another green plant, this one illegal. No wonder Mike said it was in trouble.

She sat up on the edge of the bed, toes touching the worn carpet.

It was quiet. She’d gotten used to the bus, the snoring, the babies crying, the road noise.

But that’s not why she couldn’t sleep.

She’d run, run quickly after the interview with the FBI agent. She remembered his eyes were warm but they missed nothing, and it was only a matter of time …

When was that? A week ago? Not planning, not thinking, just reacting. Using her contacts, all the knowledge she’d absorbed on fake IDs and false social security numbers and how to drop off and drop out, what she ironically told her clients never to do, and there she was, three days to abandon her life. Blind and scratching, see how she runs …

She violated the thing she’d trained so hard to uphold, the thing that, along with Josie, had been her life, had been her father’s, running not because she was innocent, but because she was guilty. She thought briefly about turning herself in but the knees puzzled her, felt out of control, never part of the plan and no memory attached.

No memory at all.

The defense attorney inside her wouldn’t let her confess to an execution she couldn’t remember.

And so … the road had forked between law and justice and she had chosen the unlit path, one that led her straight into a rurally remote warzone for drugs and another murderer of young girls.

Just like DC.

Go or stay, fight or flight.

It was always fight or flight.

Renata closed her eyes.

Jennie Dayton … so much like Josie.

Her face, so confidently, naively optimistic on that poster, shining and sure, and behind it a plea, an imploration … don’t disillusion me. She’d danced in two worlds, just like Josie had—in this case the Rainbow Girls crowd and the kids at Hamburger Haven, though in this small, endogamous place there was probably a lot of overlap between cliques and clans.

Jennie’s photo had pulled Renata to Hamburger Haven and then she’d agreed to help Mike. Agreed to make the decision, to stay, for however long she could, because of Jennie.

Because of Josie.

And now she couldn’t sleep.

Purple and green and sharp, white sequins turned to red …

She fell back on the bed, bunching the pillows in her arms.

If only she’d met the bastard. She would’ve known. She’d studied criminality, she would’ve recognized what he was. She could’ve saved her sister …

“‘He looks like Baryshnikov!’” Josie had rhapsodized on the phone, so excited and thrilled to be going to a party with the Soviet ambassador’s son. So happy, so sure she’d bring about her own thawing of the Cold War, earnest and idealistic and stubborn and determined.

God knows she’d tried to protect her. Protect her from their cousins, from other kids, from anyone who ever tried to hurt her. Josie had only been eight when their parents were killed, but Renata remembered. Remembered what their parents had told her.

And then after … she couldn’t even protect her memory. Not from the questions. The insinuations. The raised eyebrow, the blank stare, the judgment.

“Was your sister dating a lot of men? Was she using birth control? How long had she been sexually active?”

Violation after violation after violation … blaming her, shaming her, as if violence and abuse, as if rape and murder, was almost an expectation.

And that’s what they always tell women, isn’t it? You should expect it. You should have anticipated it. If things go wrong—if feelings get hurt, if you get your clothes torn off or your cheekbone bruised—if you get touched where you don’t want touching—it’s your fault.

Your fault. You led him on. You should have known. You should have anticipated.

You asked for it.

Fight or flight.

Her own love life had belied the term. Kirk couldn’t understand about how what happened to Josie had also, in a sense, happened to her. Couldn’t help her, couldn’t support her. She’d invested time in that relationship.

And ironically, she’d started to get better this year, better about trust. She’d gone out with Joe a few times, slept with him twice, though how much of that was because she was getting better and how much was raw physical, hormonal need, she couldn’t tell. She knew it wasn’t serious and she didn’t miss him.

But she missed talking to someone. Being with someone. Trusting someone.

Renata re-shifted, rolled to face the other wall.

Cleaning was hard work. The physical labor would help her sleep on other nights. Tonight was about getting through.

About survival.

She’d monitored any news along the way, buying papers in every bus stop across the country, Denver, Albuquerque, Phoenix. She’d need to check The Bus Stop, skim USA Today and the regional news, try for a Post or the New York Times. If the feds were looking for her, and she was sure they were by now, they weren’t advertising it—yet.

Still, the lawyer in her said. Still. it was only a matter of time before the press found out, publicized the connection between her sister’s murder and Sergei Grinkov’s. Only a matter of time before they ran her photo. And the fact that she couldn’t remember committing the execution she’d fantasized about, had planned, had detailed in writing, encouraged by her psychiatrist … that wouldn’t matter.

Not to the feds. Not even to her.

No, what mattered now was the girl. Jennie Dayton.

What mattered now was finding her murderer and stopping him from killing again.

What mattered was Jennie, Josie, the other girls.

All the girls.

The ones who couldn’t run fast, the ones who couldn’t fight back, the good girls, the perfect girls, the ones who never took self-defense classes and trusted their boyfriends and teachers and uncles. The ones whose voices were drowned out, forever a victim, never a protagonist, even in death, in pace semper requiescant.

The bad girls, too, the ones speaking up and speaking out, no home, no safety, rebels not role models, the ones labeled difficult, unmanageable, locked in an attic upstairs or juvenile hall, running away but always winding up in the same place: used, bruised, and dead, from the waist down and the neck up, addicted to pain and whatever managed to dull it for a day, an hour, a second. Victims, over and over and over again because they learned from experience there was nothing else, and when the storm was finally over, they died in calm, forgotten, statistics and blank pages in family photo albums, murdered by one and killed by all.

Women disappeared in America. Some in living color, in paper and magazines and TV, white, blonde and blue-eyed like Josie, like Jennie. Others—so many others—were buried in black and white, forgotten, dismissed, the only color that mattered the melanin in their skin.

No resources, no focus, only a box to check on a form and a bored detective, final disposition a dusty file cabinet. She’d learned … learned so much, saw so much, investigating Sergei Grinkov.

Color, class, and sexual experience, the holy trinity that defined how women, alive or dead, were treated. Were remembered. Grinkov left a trail, obvious and substantive, and most of his targets had been forgotten.

She took a breath, breathing out, breathing in, until she could feel her heartbeat slow down, until she could feel, finally, the approach of sleep.

There should be a reckoning. A reckoning for all of them. A settlement due, a payment owed, a debt repaid, and yet another form of reckoning, too, the judgment kind, finally—finally—descending like the rain, like the water ever rushing, the mighty stream, the thousand-year-old flood, drowning and washing away the men who thought they owned them and therefore had the right to destroy them. The system that enabled it all.

A reckoning.

Fight or flight.

The choice was false … it was always both.

II

We were as twinned lambs that did frisk i’ the sun,

And bleat the one at the other. What we changed

Was innocence for innocence. We knew not

The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dreamed

That any did.

William Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale,

Act I, Scene 2

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 21st

Six a.m. breakfast at the 101 Café, strong coffee and pale-yellow eggs with pork sausage and biscuits, prepared by a short-order cook who was still half asleep.

Renata and a couple of truck drivers were the only patrons.

Eight and a half hours later, the small hospital and clinic were clean: carpets vacuumed, doorknobs dusted, floors mopped.

Woody watched through lizard eyes, jaws going through the motion of chewing gum without interest in the flavor. About twenty-three, skinny, longish brown hair. Her “training” had consisted of doing a day’s worth of hard labor while his eyes crawled over her skin.

The only time he’d come to life was when they suited up in surgical scrubs for the ER. He’d been excited by it, searching for blood stains.

“I bet this is from her.” He pointed to a small streak of dried blood on one of the chrome handles of the emergency room bed. “Jennie.”

Renata scrubbed off the stain.

Now she walked through the clinic, feeling every step, not used to her muscles aching. She hadn’t seen Josie all day.

At least she wouldn’t have to work with Woody again. As of tomorrow, she was on her own.

Doris’s office door was cracked open. Renata was about to knock when a male voice she’d never heard made her take a step back.

“What have I told you about drinking, Doris? Hmm? What have I told you—repeat exactly what I told—”

Smooth voice, not raised in anger, but something behind it …

Without thinking, she flung the door open.

A large man with a shaved head, sheriff’s uniform, hat in his hand, bent over Doris, who sat shrunken in her own chair. His head pivoted toward the intrusion, face red.

Renata stumbled over her words. “Mrs. Hunt—I’m sorry—just stopped by to say I’m through—”

The big man stood up, composure regained, and shoved on a smile. “And you must be the new girl Doris has been talking about. I’m Wayne, her husband.” He stretched out a large hand.

Doris rose, eyes blinking. “This is—this is Natalie Connors, Wayne. She’s from Chicago.”

Renata looked from one to the other, the genial-faced giant in the cop’s clothes and the woman with the curly frosted wig piled high on her head, red rims around her eyes, hands unsteady.

She reluctantly extended her own hand. Hunt briefly enveloped it and showed a lot of teeth.

“I, uh—it’s nice to meet you. Sorry to interrupt. I’ll see you next week, Mrs. Hunt—I know you’re off tomorrow.”

The woman emitted a high-pitched titter. “Oh, my, yes—I’ll be—I’ll be in church tomorrow. I’ll miss your first day, Natalie, but I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

Her eyes were still locked on her husband’s face. Renata nodded and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

She quickly pushed open the exit door, crisp, green air bracing her. The hospital was combined with a medical center for out-patients where Doris’s office was, and with the low ceilings and identical doors, it all felt like a maze.

Like a trap.

She took a breath. It was just the first day and Woody had been creepy, like a movie’s version of a serial killer. The claustrophobia would get better tomorrow.

Renata started walking toward the north end of town, toward a pizza place and what looked like an Army-Navy store she’d spotted when she walked up Conger yesterday.

She’d always loved surplus stores, from whenever it was that her father had first taken her to one. Memories, vivid and brief, flashes of his hand holding hers, and the stacks of uniforms, khaki, white and blue, and the hats and hardware, canteens and gasmasks and mess kits, the smell of wood shavings and old cloth, thick, rough, wool blankets, and the acrid odor of oiled knife blades gleaming in the semi-darkness.

He’d bought her a pocketknife when she was seven, and oh, how her mother had protested.

“A knife’s too violent, Jack. Too violent for our little ksiez˛˙niczka …”

He’d argued about how useful they could be, how she should learn self-reliance and manual skills. He’d won, at least that time, and so Renata had added to the collection, so unusual for a girl, or so her teachers told her parents when she brought her Swiss Army Knife to “show and tell.”

She’d left it behind with so much else … and now—here—she’d feel better with a knife. Feel safer.

Safer from whatever killer was stalking teenage girls.

Safer from men like Wayne Hunt.

She remembered one or two of her dad’s friends, how they smelled when they hugged her. Alcoholism in cop families was nothing new, a common side effect of the stress of the job.

So was domestic abuse.

Some of those friends went away and never came back … they couldn’t dry out, couldn’t shake the habit. Some got busted down for the corruption—so much corruption—the kickbacks and the bribes and the pay-offs.

Spousal abuse, though—that was considered their private business. Part of marriage. Part of life. The department chiefs never wrote them up for that.

Her parents did everything they could to shield her from the ugliness, the brutality, not only on the streets but in the squad room. In the houses of the boys in blue.

Still … by the time they died when she was thirteen … she’d seen a lot. She’d learned a lot.

She’d stay away from Wayne Hunt. And she’d buy a knife.

The Army-Navy store was next to Mamma Mia’s pizza restaurant and sprawled over a rundown former lumber yard, with fat wooden shelves and boxes of miscellaneous junk the government had deemed surplus, along with a smattering of guns and used hunting equipment. The offerings were surprisingly plentiful and diverse for a town so small, and Renata pawed through wooden Pepsi cases of shirts, pants, helmets, and equipment, reminding herself every five minutes that she was running low on money.

She was holding a leather scabbard, Marine-issue, and wondering if she could find a knife to fit it when she heard a noise behind her and turned.

Marcus, the Black kid from yesterday, was standing a few feet away, holding an ammunition pouch.

He was tall, thin, and muscular, wearing an Oakland A’s baseball cap, and his eyes were on the scabbard she held.

His face wore a split lip and his left eye was bruised.

She quickly looked away and focused on the leather scabbard, making deliberating noises.

“It’s not a bad length. Strong leather, too. Just gotta find a knife to go with it.”

They were alone in this section of the rambling layout and the tall, thin kid took a step closer. His voice was cautious.

“You buyin’ a knife?”

She shrugged. “Trying to. I like your cap, by the way. The A’s are a good team—three-time World Series champions about ten years ago. Vida Blue, Catfish Hunter, Reggie Jackson … great players.”

“Yeah, they ain’t doin’ so good now, but they’re playin’ tomorrow. White Sox.” He tilted his head and studied her. “Who exactly are you, lady? I ain’t seen you around before. And I never seen a chick buy a knife before. You cuttin’ weed with it or something?”

Renata laughed. “No, I’m not into that. I’m not here for the harvest. I work up at the hospital—day janitor. My name’s Nattie, Nattie Connors.”

His tone was dubious. “You don’t look like no janitor.”

She’d dressed in some workout clothes she’d grabbed, sweatpants and shirt, but they were still too conspicuously designer for Garberville, meant to be noticed in a gym, not blended into the walls of a hospital. She looked down at herself ruefully.

“I just got to town and didn’t bring the right clothes—but I’ve found some stuff here.” She gestured toward the shopping basket. “I’m from Chicago—Cubs fan, though, not White Sox.” She smiled. “I’m kinda bumming around the country before going to law school, paying my way as I go. I’m only here for a few months.” She flexed the scabbard then dropped it in the basket. “Your name’s Marcus, isn’t it?”

He at once backed up, wary. “How’d you know my name?”

“I heard someone mention you yesterday. At the hamburger place. She said you were friends with the, uh, girl who was killed. Jennie Dayton.”

“Yeah? So? What business is it of yours? I don’t know you, lady, and Jennie sure as hell didn’t know you, and if you’re hangin’ out at Hamburger Haven with the rest of them small-town crackers—”

She held up a conciliatory hand. “No—wait—I’m sorry, Marcus. I screwed that up. Please—let me start over. The girl I spoke to knows you and likes you and saw you across the street. Her name is Martha. We were talking about Jennie and she said you were friends. There was a … a boy there, too. A racist little asshole, in fact.” She glanced down at his lip. “I’m pretty sure I know who gave you that. But I’m also pretty sure you gave better than you got.”

Marcus’s shoulders relaxed a little. “You’re fuckin’ right I did. Even if it was three on one.” His face fell into a thoughtful look. “Martha Thompson, huh? She’s in my art class. She ain’t bad, but that mofo she hangs with—Scott Schwartz—and the rest of them peckerwoods that follow him around—man, I’d like to fuck them up good. Cracker’s been on my ass since I got here, ’specially after—after Jennie and me …” He stopped, met her eyes. “What’s your name again?”

“Nattie.”

“OK. So why you want to know about Jennie and me? You just got here and you ain’t stayin’. What’s it to you? You never met her. I mean—you’re from Chicago. Bad shit happens.” His eyes drifted. “Sometimes it happens to people you care ’bout.”

She picked up the red shopping basket. “My father was a cop. He used to say that a lot.”

“My dad was a cop, too. An MP. Marine. He was shot stateside and Mom won’t tell me how.” Marcus’s thin fingers curled up in a fist.

She looked at him for a few seconds. “I lost somebody too. To a killer. Like the bastard that killed Jennie—and maybe those other girls from South Fork. While I’m here, in Garberville, I’m, uh, helping Mike—the guy who runs the newspaper—maybe get some leads on finding him.”

He nodded his head toward her basket. “That why you buyin’ a knife?”

“Partly. I also just like them.”

He looked longingly at the scabbard and tossed the ammunition case back on the shelf. “I like ’em too, but my mom would kill me if I brought one home.”

“Would you help me pick out one?”

He thought for a second. “OK.”

The man behind the counter was pot-bellied and long-haired, with a cloud of smoke forming an aureole around his head. He asked no questions and her interest in knives seemed to amuse him.

Renata and Marcus looked down at the glass case, Marcus’s arms spread akimbo across the countertop.

“How much is the stiletto?” She pointed at a brown-handled one with rust spots, still lodged in a stiffened leather case.

He grunted. “That’s a V-42. Let you have it for thirty-five bucks. Collector’s item. You want a better all-around knife, though, I got a special on the Ka-Bar. Twenty bucks. Best fighting knife there was in World War Two. Marines and Navy. Good utility knife, too.”

He pulled the knife out from a box behind the counter.

Marcus nodded. “That’s the one. Get that one.”

They tried the scabbard she liked and it fit, and the long-haired man rang her up: three plain black T-shirts, two sweatshirts in camo and gray, khaki combat pants with knee pads and one pair of field pants, two pairs of basic jeans, a combat bag, first aid pouch with kit, canteen with cover, socks, and a rain jacket.

The stiletto would have to wait.

They said goodbye to the dealer, who grunted amicably, and together they walked out the door.

“Thanks, Marcus. It’s a good knife.”

“Sure in hell is. Marines.”

“I’m heading for the library. What about you?”

He shook his head. “Office where my mom works. Over on Sprowl. She’s pullin’ overtime. Lawyer’s never there on Saturday or when I get off school. I was just cruisin’ town … wishin’ I could buy me a knife.”

He was fingering his lip when he spoke. She said, softly: “You don’t need one to prove you’re a better man than they are.”

He glanced over at her and then straight ahead. “Still want one, though.”

She sighed. “Yeah. Walk to the library with me?”

He shrugged. “OK.”

They’d reached the corner of Conger and Redwood Avenue, talking about baseball and knives and Richmond, California, where Marcus grew up, when Renata decided to ask him straight out.

“Marcus …”

“Yeah?”

“Can we meet up tomorrow? I was wondering if you could tell me about—well, about Jennie. About anything you know about her that could maybe help Mike and me. Like I said, I wanna help while I’m here, but I didn’t know her, so …”

He halted for a moment, then kept walking. There was silence for about five seconds.

“I don’t know this Mike guy. I ain’t met him. But … I’ll talk to you. And I—I got somethin’ to say. Been thinkin’ about it, wonderin’ who to tell it to.” He glanced back up at her. “When?”

They were in front of the library and Renata stopped by the door. “How about lunch time? We can meet at the pizza place and always look around the store some more.”

He thought for a minute. “All right, noon. I think the game starts at one. Gotta see if Canseco gets a hit.” He met her eyes and a grin stretched his face for the first time. “See you then … Ka-Bar.”

The librarian looked up and smiled when Renata walked in.

“Looks like you’ve been doing some shopping.”

Renata grinned, setting the two large plastic bags on the floor. “Great Army and Navy store here. I just came back to pay the twenty-five cents I owe you for a book.” She nodded toward the exchange and opened her handbag.

The red-haired woman looked surprised. “Thanks. I don’t really expect anyone to—” The flat sound of a hardcover book hitting the wooden floor echoed from the back. The librarian turned her head and raised her voice. “Amanda, if you’ve made a mess, clean it up. You need to go home. It’s almost four and I’m closing in a few minutes.”

She turned back to Renata with a wry look. “Amanda’s one of the best students at South Fork, and one reason is because she practically lives here. You know … if we’re going to see each other so often, I should introduce myself. Eve—Eve Cannelly.”

Renata plunked a quarter on her desk. “Natalie Connors. Most folks call me Nattie. I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Cannelly.”

“Call me Eve. Library is closed on Sundays and Wednesdays. The county wants us to cut back to three days a week—so far we’ve stemmed them off.” She shook her head. “It’s a constant fight, trying to explain to some of these people why reading is important.”

A girl about fourteen, dressed in fashionable pink overalls with her brown hair in braids, sprinted from the back of the stacks, carrying several books. She braked suddenly, staring at Renata.

“I’m all done, Ms. Cannelly. Can I check these out?”

The librarian sighed. “You’re at your limit, Amanda. I’ll make an exception—again—but please don’t advertise it.”

Renata picked up her purchases. “Well, I will probably see you Monday, then. I’ve got to look for an apartment or something.”

Eve stamped the second-to-the-last of Amanda’s books. “Where are you? The Camelot?”

“Yeah. It’s a nice place. Just too expensive for the long run.”

“There are cheaper places to stay, but honestly—you probably wouldn’t want to stay in them. Even if you could find a free room during harvest.” She stamped the last book, handing it to Amanda with a wink.

“I’ll see you next week. Good luck on the report.”

The girl smiled, shifted her eyes to Renata again, and pushed her way out of the door, both arms full.

“She’s a good kid. She’ll go places.” The redhead turned back to Renata. “Unfortunately, it’s just about impossible to find an apartment, a room, or even a garage to stay in right now. The Camelot has space because it’s more expensive—ditto the Arden Hotel in Benbow—the one luxury resort in Southern Humboldt. Clark Gable and Carole Lombard used to drive up here in the ’30s.”

Renata remembered noticing the large, Tudor-style hotel tucked across the highway from a golf course just down a big hill from the Garberville exit. “That’s definitely out of my league. I need to save money.” She looked down at the shopping bags in her hand ruefully. “Especially after today.”

Eve nodded as she shut her desk drawer and slipped on a light jacket. “Something may turn up. Come back on Monday.”

Renata thanked her and pushed her way out the doors into Redwood Avenue.

She’d noticed a credit union two doors down from the library, so she walked in, waited in line behind a man in his thirties depositing a large roll of cash, and opened an account with the fake ID and the hundred-dollar bill in her wallet, explaining that she’d just taken the janitor job at the hospital. A young man with a prominent Adam’s apple nodded his head and sped her through the process as if she were already a local.

Better prepare for her paycheck on Friday … and after her spree at the surplus store, she needed it more than ever.

Renata crossed the street, dumped the shopping bags in her hotel room and then walked up to The Bus Stop. A young woman was working behind the counter instead of Buddy. She rifled through the small rack of out-of-area papers and picked up a new USA Today and a San Francisco Examiner dated yesterday.

She grabbed a Coke and bagel dog from the cold case and asked the girl to microwave it. Three minutes later, the bagel dog was done and she could breathe.

Nothing on the death of Sergei Grinkov.

She’d see what the out-of-state papers on Sunday would bring.

Renata crossed the busy street again, eating the bagel dog too fast. Another helicopter was flying low over the town, toward the airstrip below, the sound reverberating in her chest, and she looked up.

Black, like the other ones.

She was still holding half the bagel dog and a paper grocery bag with the newspapers in the other when Mike answered on the fourth knock.

“Nattie! I was hoping you remembered—come on in.”

He stepped aside and shut the door behind her. “I’m a little behind schedule today because Chris—my co-printer—got wasted at the ’49er last night and I haven’t had time to proofread—”

“I can come back later—”

“No, no—this is important. I just want to—well, I want to say thank you. For helping. I know you’re not here for long, but anything you find out—it’ll be valuable, Nattie. Super valuable.”

He held her eyes for a fraction of a second too long and she looked away. “It’s a long shot, but I’ll do what I can to help.”

Christ, he thought she was attractive. Not a horrible thing in itself, but inconvenient and complicated and potentially dangerous. New life, new identity, no attachments …

She held up the bagel dog. “Mind if I finish my lunch? I had a couple of questions for you, too.”

“Sure. Fire away. I’ll make some tea, too, if you’d like some.” Mike moved toward a burner top on a portable table in the corner, a banged-up copper kettle still letting off steam. The room was filled with chairs, paper, type boxes, cardboard boxes, a dilapidated antique desk with a black dial-up phone on top, and yellowing stacks of the Redwood Record in every available space.

“Who’s this Chris you mentioned? What does he do?”

Mike laughed. “Chris Salazar’s my part-time help, and to answer your question, as little as possible. He’s twenty-three and wasted most of the time, but a damn good printer. His dad used to run these presses before I bought the Record.”

“You purchased the building and paper from his father?”

“George wanted out. Desperately. Moved south with his—third?—wife, somewhere above San Diego. Palm Desert, I think. Chris was eighteen and not ready to give up dope-growing.”

“Makes it kind of tough on you.”

Mike rummaged in two tea boxes before pulling out a bag. “Peppermint?” She shook her head. “Chris and I know each other well enough to get by and make it work. He stays here and sleeps over when we’ve got a late night. Anybody else you’ve got questions about?”

“Yeah. Guy named Woody Dow. I had to work with him today and he’s like something out of Night of the Living Dead. By personality alone he should be a suspect.”

Mike sighed. “The Dows are one of those families that crawled into a hole a couple of generations ago and never came out. And they’re not the only example. You get that in any rural area. Probably in the city, too, just in a different setting. Anyway, when anyone actually does bother to do police work up here, Woody and people like him are always checked first. I think he had an alibi for Dawn’s death—probably has one for Jennie, too. He goes back and forth between here and Covelo a lot—and Covelo is a big state park area even more remote than we are.”

Renata swallowed her last bite of bagel dog and pulled the Coke can out of the grocery bag. “Speaking of police … what about Wayne Hunt? I know you mentioned somebody Peterson—”

Mike poured hot water into a chipped I heart Garberville mug. “Rory. He’s as crooked as they come. Wayne’s all right, though. We wouldn’t have any law enforcement without him. Speaking of which … I think I should fill you in on the, uh, other deaths. Amy and Dawn.” His voice was apologetic.

Renata threw back a long swig of Coke. She looked up at the reporter.

“Go ahead. I’m ready.”

Ready or not, ready or not, his voice, hesitant at first, started telling her what she’d walked into.

The first was a sixteen-year-old girl, her body found behind the Miranda Market, a small grocery store across from the high school where the kids bought food or cigarettes. Strangled and raped, Amy Fulton was a sophomore in January, 1982, and the attention of the small Eureka homicide department turned to South Fork. Everyone, including Mike, thought it had to be a teacher or student, but nothing checked out. There weren’t many marks on her, other than some kind of cord or binding for the wrists and a few contusions, so she didn’t fight back—or she knew her attacker.

But then everyone knew everyone in Southern Humboldt.

Dawn was murdered May of last year at seventeen. She left a note for her parents saying she was running away, but someone found her body that morning … the killer propped it up under a redwood tree in Standish-Hickey—a state park about twenty miles south of Garberville, near Leggett and its famous Drive-Thru Tree.

No penetration this time, though semen was found in the clothes. Strangled, with no defensive marks … just like Amy.

Just like Jennie.

Purple and green and sharp, acrid chemical, white sequins turned to red …

Renata took a breath.

“This definitely sounds like a serial killer. I’ll be talking to Marcus tomorrow, the young man I mentioned yesterday—Jennie’s friend. I think he may know something significant. He’d been in a fight when I saw him today—beat up by a gang of three, led by that punk Scott—”

“Scott Schwartz. Peter Schwartz owns the grocery store on Sprowl Creek and some property by the airport—in fact, he’s been buying up a lot, lately. Rotary Club President, a Mason, and a member of the Kiwanis and Lion’s Club. Family’s been in Humboldt for a hundred years.”

Mike found her eyes. “And I’m really glad you’re talking to Marcus, Nattie. Excellent job. I was thinking—hoping—maybe you could go to the football game with me tonight? First of the season, and most of the community and all the kids will be there—not at Hamburger Haven.”

She hesitated. “I don’t know. I think any help I bring you is because I’m not known, and I’d prefer—I’d much prefer—to be incognito. If we arrive together, I don’t want people to think—”

A slight flush rose in the reporter’s face. “People will think what they want to think. But—listen—I was planning to ask if we could make this more … more official. You can take photos, right?”

She shrugged. “35mm SLR-type stuff, nothing fancy.”

“Great, then how about you take some photos for the paper? And I’ll pay you. Twenty-five dollars for the story or event. Sound OK?”

She thought for a few seconds. She’d made her decision and was already involved, and staying invisible was no longer an option … maybe never had been, not realistically. Whether in a major city or a tiny town on the edge of no-where, human interaction was necessary to survive. She may as well take advantage of a professional working relationship while she was here—and she’d already told Marcus she was helping Mike.

Renata smiled. “Sounds OK.”

She barely had time to clean up and change her clothes before Mike picked her up forty-five minutes later in a dusty ’78 Oldsmobile Cutlass with a dinged fender.

“Game starts at six. Luckily, we’re playing St. Damian’s … they’re about the only Eureka school we whup on a regular basis.” He gave her a grin. “We should be there and parked in twenty-five minutes. Miranda’s about thirteen miles north.”

“Miranda?”

“The name of the town South Fork’s in, along with Miranda Junior High, which is next door, an acre or so away. Sleepy little place, basically just the schools, the market across the street, a couple of motels, a bakery, and a pizza restaurant.”

“Why haven’t they canceled the game? With a community as small as this—and Jennie just found yesterday—”

He nodded. “I heard Williamson—the principal—thought about it, but someone—probably Clark Schwaeble, the district superintendent—told him going on with the game would help morale. Jennie was a cheerleader and, like I said, this is one of the few teams South Fork can beat—it’s a tiny school of just over three hundred, remember, so only about seventy-five kids per grade. I’m sure they’ll stage some sort of ceremony. Williamson called an assembly in lieu of sixth period today. The sheriff was there, along with somebody from Public Health up in Eureka to talk to the students.”

Renata looked out the passenger window. Redwood trees stood like sentinels over the blue-green river snaking beside the highway. Mike glanced over at her.

“That’s the south fork of the Eel River. One of the few in the world that flows north. The high school’s named after it.”

The waning sunlight ignited the water, orange and yellow glinting off the blue and green.

“Mike—I know you said yesterday you’d moved up here five years ago—what made you come? You’re obviously educated—have life experience outside of rural America and a highly limited economy. I get that it’s beautiful and wild, but so are other places. Why here, specifically? You didn’t tell me much about yourself, your background, your motives—”

He shrugged. “I guess my motive, as you put it, was to find a community I could fit into. I loved the wildness and ruggedness of the land—and the fact that Humboldt isn’t nearly as conservative as a lot of other rural places in the northwest. As for my background … well, I was born in LA, traveled north after high school, worked my way through college in Boise, and pretty much bopped around for a while. Came here from Portland, saw the newspaper failing, and thought I’d try to make a go of it. I didn’t major in journalism, but I do have a degree in education and a minor in psychology, and thought I’d be OK.”

“No family?”

He shrugged. “No one to speak of. I’m a loner—like you. Or at least that’s the impression you give. You have somebody waiting for you back home? Boyfriend, family?”

She stared out the window. “There are people who miss me.”

A wry smile twisted his face. “Not quite the same thing, is it? Anyway, I had some money saved up and bought the building for a song along with the paper. No, I’ve made Southern Humboldt my home. Put down roots. And I’m gonna keep publishing stories until something breaks—even if it’s my own neck. I’m determined to help keep this place the unspoiled, natural community it is.”

“Minus a serial killer and CAMP.”

He glanced at her again. “That’s another thing—I heard a rumor just this morning that the FBI’s flying down for a couple of interviews—looks like they’re finally taking the serial killer premise seriously. Action, at last … and it’s about damn time. The autopsy results will be finished soon, too—I’m expecting to hear something tomorrow, Monday at the latest.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck …

She fought to keep her voice even. “How much time before the feds get here?”

“Couple of days at the most, if the rumor’s on track. Meanwhile, I’m planning to interview Jennie’s parents tomorrow after church. Do you think you could come along and take some photos?”

“Won’t they mind a stranger?”

“Not if I let them know you’re assisting me. It really would help, Nattie. And you’ll learn more about Jennie … should help you in talking to her friends.”

She spoke slowly. “You really think this ‘eyes and ears’ thing with the high-school kids will turn up something significant? With the FBI coming in, I’m not sure I’ll be of any real use.”

“Oh, I think what you’re doing is key. The kids know things they’ll never tell a cop. This football game’s important—you’ll see and meet a lot of players, and I don’t mean on the field. Peter Schwartz will be there, rooting for Scott—he got moved to varsity this semester. So will Rory Peterson and all the South Fork faculty, like Brendan Buck, the coach and PE teacher—Brendan’s getting a little long in the tooth, so he’s got a part-time volunteer to help out—Ed Dawson.”

Mike paused, and added: “To be honest, I’ve wondered about Ed. He’s a South Fork graduate, came back to teach social studies. He lives with his mother—she owns the bakery in Miranda.”

Renata glanced at him. “Filial piety or arrested development?”

Mike chuckled. “Hard to say. He’s quiet and a little shy, but a good assistant coach. Kids seem to like him.”

“Anyone else?”

“The principal, Tony Williamson. Only been here about three years. He’s a—”

“Three years? Three years ago was the first murder, right?”

Mike frowned behind the steering wheel. “Yeah, but I don’t see Tony … he didn’t really want to be principal. Got drafted out of Eureka by the school board because our former principal walked out.”

“Why? What happened?”

Mike gave her a sideways glance. “The off-the-record version is that three years ago the sheriff and his cronies set up and drove out a teacher named Henry Jones—a good teacher—because they thought he was gay. George Cameron, the former principal, quit in protest, and Williamson does whatever Clark Schwaeble—the district superintendent, remember, if you’re following along—and the school board president tell him to do, so now he’s principal.”

“Who’s the school board president?”

He gave her another sideways look. “Peter Schwartz.”

Renata watched a small log lodge in an eddy of the river, the current not strong enough to carry it out.

“Birds and bees and redwood trees, and so much ugliness under the surface.”

Mike signaled to the empty highway behind him.

“There’s the highwater sign up there on the freeway embankment. That’s how high the river was in the 1964 deluge that almost wiped out this entire area. They called it the ‘Thousand-Year Flood.’ But people rebuilt what they could. They persevered. That’s the other side of the coin. It’s not all ugliness here anymore than it was in Chicago.”

Renata craned her neck to stare at the highwater sign while Mike took the right-lane exit to Miranda, crossing an old bridge over the river.

“I read about the flood. Such massive damage.” She sighed. “They rebuilt on a cracked foundation, though. Illegal economy. And now with all the organized crime coming in …”

He shrugged again and turned left on a small two-lane road with a green sign marked Avenue of the Giants.

“It wasn’t this bad five years ago. Believe me—it was different before CAMP. So for tonight, just—well, enjoy the game and meet people. Take some photos—third downs and scoring drives, that kind of thing. There’ll be quite a few teachers … Felicity Ames—girls’ PE—Virginia Esposito, English, Russ Garcia, Spanish, probably Greg Copely—he’s the choir leader—and Ian Sharpe who teaches English and Drama …”

Mike turned right on a narrow road next to a small, low brown building that bore gold letters reading South Fork High School.

“My God, it’s small. There’s a choir—and a drama department?”

He smiled. “Our faculty are pretty devoted—for the most part.”

He pulled into a gravel lot where other dusty cars were parked. A roar was coming up from the football field and the smell of hot dogs and tortilla chips wafted from a small Snack Shack past the field gates.

He reached into a backpack in the middle of the back seat and handed her a 35mm camera with a thick black strap and a blue and gold pom-pom.

“Film’s loaded. We’re the Bear Cubs.”

The cheerleaders were still warming up the crowd when Mike took her elbow and escorted her to the bleachers, a hot dog in his other hand. Renata let him buy her a Coke and a bag of Fritos. She was relieved to find Josie watching her from the end of an unoccupied bench; she hadn’t seen her all day.

Martha was in the group of six girls in blue and gold cheering on the sidelines at the fifty-yard line. Their dance moves weren’t all clean, but the steps and shouts showed determined energy, and most of the crowd yelled “South Fork!” on cue. A student in a bear cub costume sat on the bench next to an ice cooler, shoulders slumped, giant bear head in his hands.

Mike moved them toward a seat three up from the field and sat next to an older stout woman. She was in her sixties, wearing a blue sweatshirt with a gold bear cub on the front.

“Hi, Phyllis. Ed around?”

“He’s giving the boys their pep talk. You know how important that is to him. If they lose, he just tortures himself thinking he didn’t motivate them enough.” She stared over his shoulder at Renata. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Natalie’s new here. Just started working at the hospital and she’s also working as my photography assistant. Natalie, this is Phyllis Dawson, best baker in Southern Humboldt, owns Cupcakes and More here in Miranda. She’s kind of the grandmother of the team—her son Ed’s the coach.”

“Assistant coach,” she corrected him. The older woman smiled without warmth and held out a hand to Renata. “Nice to meet you.”

A shout rose from their right and two men, one walking, one trotting, came out on the field, the home team behind them. It was impossible to see the faces of the boys, but she could make out the names on the jerseys. Number Twenty-Nine bore the name “Schwartz.” The older woman was on her feet, shouting and waving.

“Get ’em going, Ed! Make those plays!”

She was waving at a tall, lumbering man with a receding hairline who lunged forward as he trotted. He shoved on a baseball cap and slapped the hand of the older man walking beside him, whose gray head was still uncovered. Ed looked up at his mother’s voice and waved.

She sat down, grinning broadly. Renata leaned in close to Mike and whispered: “Ed Dawson, assistant coach, right?”

“Yep. And that man down there on the right—the one with his fist in the air—that’s Peter Schwartz. The sheriff uniform next to him is Rory Peterson—Mr. Corruption himself.”

Schwartz wasn’t that tall—about five ten—and stocky. Business slacks, sport coat, a light blue dress shirt and red tie, with close-cut hair as molded as the helmet his son was wearing. He stood on the sideline some ten yards down, laughing with a red-faced man in a too-tight Humboldt County Sheriff’s uniform who was built like an overfed steer, more fat than muscle. Peterson’s hands were on his belt, hair cut to a blond buzz. Both men looked about forty or so, as did Dawson. The gray-haired man—Coach Buck, she figured—was pushing hard against seventy.

A shout went up all around her and Mike nudged her in the ribs. “They just made a first down. Take some photos. And don’t forget to yell.”

The score was tied 7–7 at the half.

Coach Buck waddled toward the mic and announced there would be a fifteen-minute dedication of the game to the memory of Jennifer Dayton. The chatter died down to a heavy silence. Renata raised the camera and looked through the lens.

A large bearded man stood up in the front row. He turned toward a slighter built man in his early forties—also with a beard—who was wearing a clerical collar, and both of them, together with a heavy-set, gray-haired man in a suit and a short curly-haired brunette in her late thirties, walked toward the fifty-yard line to where Coach Buck was still holding the mic. A man in his fifties, thin and nervous looking in his suit and tie, hurriedly joined them from the sidelines. A younger, handsome man about thirty, wearing an Irish-knit cream sweater, rose and stood with them a few seconds later, keeping his head bowed.

Mike leaned over and whispered: “Jennifer Dayton’s parents—Al and Carol. The pastor is Tom Friedrickson—he also owns the used car lot in Garberville. The big bearded guy is a ‘born again’—came here about three years ago—name of Steve Hamlin. And the one who looks like a nervous rat is the principal, Tony Williamson.”

Friedrickson took the mic. Typical words, typical sentiments, the “taken too soons” and “better places”, the “gone but not forgottens” and the inevitable scholarships in her name.

Two seats down, Phyllis Dawson snorted. “What’s that Ian Sharpe doing up there, I’d like to know … looking for another girl to ruin, I shouldn’t wonder. Him and that Copely are bad business. Should never have hired those two, teachin’ Lord knows what and doin’ Lord knows what else. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if …” She glanced around the bleachers, head snapping sideways, and then clamped her mouth shut.

Mike nudged Renata and leaned in close to whisper: “Ian Sharpe’s the English and Drama teacher I mentioned—he’s the one in the sweater.”

She nodded. Friedrickson finally sat down after handing some kind of ecclesiastical proclamation to Jennie’s parents, and the large bearded man, Hamlin, took the mic.

Hamlin was in his mid-forties and his chief worshippers seemed to be his own family. A rail-thin mousey woman with red-rimmed eyes and a face devoid of any expression except awe sat next to a girl about seventeen in a long Gunne Sax knock-off, no makeup and thick glasses, with the same look in-training: Stepford family, evangelical model. A boy about twelve and a little girl of ten completed the family portrait, along with another girl about fifteen or sixteen who was the only one who seemed to retain any individuality. She was reading the program and not looking up at her father.

Hamlin finally stopped quoting passages from King James and sat down. By now, Carol Dayton was in tears, and Al took the microphone, voice strained. He thanked Friedrickson and Hamlin and Buck and Dawson, Ian Sharpe for his “personal support,” Jennie’s history teacher Nancy Fisher, Felicity Ames from PE—a short-haired short blonde with a lot of energy sitting in the front row—and Williamson and Peterson. He mentioned the scholarship they would fund in Jennie’s name, administered by the Masons. Then he said “Go Bear Cubs” in a strangled voice and handed the mic back to Coach Buck.

The crowd needed to uncork itself, so it cheered and clapped, lifting the tension and temporarily burying the question of who among them might be a murderer.

Renata needed to clear her head.

She left Mike to make small talk with Phyllis Dawson while she ventured down to the Snack Shack.

A knot of kids were horsing around, older than the ones she’d met at Hamburger Haven. They eyed her, the boys knocking each other’s hats off, the girls laughing too loudly. She caught the words “Jennie” and “Rainbow,” then the man in front of her turned around with a cup of coffee in his hand and met her eyes.

He was in his late twenties or maybe early thirties, short, sandy hair, eyes gray and intense, and dressed more formally than anyone else she’d seen. Her glance followed the line of his jacket and she caught a tell-tale bulge under his left arm.

Cop. Probably a Humboldt County detective.

She gave him an automatic smile and sidestepped up to the counter.

The bored, middle-aged woman taking the orders woke up at a new face. “What’ll it be?”

“Small coffee, please.”

“The hot dogs are actually very good.” Renata turned to look behind her, stomach knotted, expecting the cop. It was Ian Sharpe with a suitably sad smile.

“I thought you should know in case you’re hungry … I haven’t seen you at South Fork before. My name’s Ian, Ian Sharpe.”

“I saw you on the field with the Daytons. Terrible tragedy for them—for everyone.”

The bored woman sloshed the coffee while she forced the lid on. Renata picked up the cup and moved aside. Sharpe sidled sideways, stepping out of line.

“Are you settling in the area? I thought I saw you come in with Mike, our resident Carl Bernstein. Most people just passing through don’t come to our football games.”

Renata started walking back to the bleachers, Sharpe in step beside her.

“I’m here for a while. Working at the hospital as a janitor and also helping Mike with his photography. I’m from Chicago, taking a year off before law school. The name’s Natalie Connors.”

“You know Mike before getting to Southern Humboldt?”

She paused for a moment, not too far from where Peter Schwartz still stood, this time chatting with an older man in a large straw cowboy hat whose jeans and boots were covered in mud.

“Nope. I just happened to be on hand when they—when they brought Jennie in, and met him afterward. I’ve … I understand how painful losing someone in that way—through violence—can be.” She met his eyes. “Why do you ask, Mr. Sharpe?”

“Oh, please … call me Ian. I was just wondering. Mike is a mover and shaker—does a lot with that paper. All the students want to be featured in it. I thought maybe he was doing well enough to hire, and, well, I’ve been thinking about asking him whether we could start a student internship. We don’t have a journalism class to speak of, just a sporadic newsletter helmed by my sophomore English class, and an internship would help motivate the kids to work on their writing.”

“Sounds like a wonderful idea. I don’t know Mike or anyone else, really—I mean, I literally just got here yesterday. But after seeing the beauty of the place, I’m, uh, planning to stick around for a few months. Though what’s happened—Jennie—so, so horrible and scary. I hope to God they find this—this monster soon.”

He shook his head. “She’s not the first. And I’m worried—very worried—that she won’t be the last.”

Another older man in a sweater was waving him down from the bleachers and he looked at his empty hands with chagrin. “I’m sorry—I need to get back in line. I told Copely I’d buy him a hot dog—he’s the choir master at South Fork and my—hope to God!—temporary roommate. I hope we can talk again, Natalie. Maybe you could come to the school and speak to my English class about law school preparation—we need all the outside influence—outside of Humboldt County, I mean—that we can muster.”

“I’m sure I’d like that. You can always reach me through the hospital.”

“Count on it.”

He trotted back to the Snack Shack. Renata stared after him. She wanted to know more about Ian Sharpe—and why Phyllis Dawson said he “ruined” girls.

She slid into the bleachers. Two rows down, Mike was deep in conversation with a large man who was bending over to hear him better.

Wayne Hunt.

South Fork prevailed, 17–7. She snapped two rolls of film. Hamlin left in the third quarter, family following him like rats in his namesake fairy tale, all except for the middle girl, who looked longingly back toward the football field. Peterson and Schwartz headed for the locker room, along with both coaches and the victorious team. Scott scored one of the two touchdowns for South Fork. The detective from the Sheriff’s office was nowhere to be seen.

Renata headed directly for Mike’s car while he stopped to say a few words to Friedrickson, who was shaking hands with parents filing out of the stand. She rolled up the windows.

“What were you and Wayne Hunt talking about during the half?”

He raised his eyebrows, retracing the road to the Avenue of the Giants, the lights of tiny Miranda swallowed by the darkness of the trees.

“Not much. They’re still waiting for the autopsy report on Jennie from Eureka, like I said. Speaking of conversations, what did Ian Sharpe want?”

“To know about you—whether you’d be able to offer a journalism internship to a South Fork student.”

He frowned. “Not yet. But maybe something unpaid could work next semester. It’s not a bad idea, but it’s weird that he didn’t ask me directly. Or—given the town gossip—maybe it isn’t.”

“That Phyllis person—the baker—”

“Dawson. Ed’s mom.”

“What did she mean, Sharpe is ‘ruining girls’? Is that the town gossip you mean?”

Mike turned south on the freeway. “I’ve only heard some vague rumors. Mainly that he’s in an inappropriate relationship with a student. No names, but someone saw him out with a recent graduate this past summer. Problem is, it doesn’t take much for talk in a small town to become the God’s Honest Truth.”

Renata stared out the window into blackness. “Smoke and fire and all that. Seems like that kind of rumor and the fact that he’s a teacher at South Fork puts him straight on top the suspect list. Is he a native or a newcomer?”

“Sharpe’s been in Humboldt for three years, came same time as Tony. From southern California, I think. His roommate Copely’s been here for longer, originally from Oregon.”

“What about that older man in the cowboy hat and dirty jeans talking to Schwartz—who was he?”

“That’s Bill Rader, the rancher I was telling you about.”

“His property is where Jennie’s body was found?”

“Yep. He’s the one bringing in the cartels.”

“And he’s friends with Schwartz?”

“It’s Southern Humboldt, Nattie. He and Schwartz don’t exactly travel in the same social circles, but they’re both interested in money. Besides, they’ve got our corrupt sheriff in common. I’m driving up to Alderpoint tomorrow for photographs of the crime scene after I interview Al and Carol Dayton. Rader’s given me permission and agreed to talk—I confirmed with him at the half. It’ll be a longer evening, but … could you come?”

Purple and green and sharp, acrid chemical, white sequins turned to red …

She shut her eyes. “Yeah. I’ll go.”

Mike took the first exit and pulled up on Redwood Drive in front of the Camelot Inn. A few people were still on the street, most heading for the movie theater half a block down.

“Nattie … thank you. For the photos, for your help … for everything. I hope you got a better sense of us—of the community—from tonight. You, uh, want me to walk you to your cabin?”

She shook her head. “No, thanks, I’m fine. What time do we meet tomorrow for the Daytons?”

“How about right after you’re off work?”

“That’s usually between two thirty and three.”

“That’s fine. I can pick you up.”

“Let’s not get the grist mill started. I’ll meet you at your office.”

He smiled. “The Redwood Record building is my home, too—I live upstairs. But sure, meet me and we’ll drive over to Redway. Al and Carol will be at the church service all morning so the timing will be right. Then we’ll head up to Alderpoint.”

She started to open the door when his voice stopped her.

“Wait a minute—I forgot.” He dug a well-worn wallet out of his back pocket and removed a twenty and a five. “For the photos. I’ll let you know how they turn out.”

She stared around the small, darkened room, the only light a dull yellow cone from the bedside lamp and the clock-radio still casting a dim red glow on the other side. Josie was asleep in the armchair.

Second night inside the View-Master. No dinosaurs, at least the kind that were extinct.

Urban life built walls, hard and tactile, like a castle fortress; here, those walls were like tissue paper, the distances between people almost non-existent.

Garberville would have dried up years ago, another ghost town in remote, mountainous rural America, if not for the illegal drug trade that fed it. And in a town whose economy was entirely fueled by illegal money, from the hospital to the laundromat, everyone was guilty of something just by living there.

So how could a serial killer be among them and not be recognized? Did someone know instinctively, adding up bits and pieces of a puzzle, only to dismiss the idea, in denial about Uncle Ted or the drama teacher or the shopkeeper down the street?

Or did the killer have something to do with CAMP, like Mike hoped? Was he one of those boardroom bigot “community pillars” like Schwartz, whose dealings with the rougher cowboy-rancher Rader seemed so off-profile? Mike attributed their connection to the incest inherent in small town business, but was there something else?

And Mike himself … she liked him. But he liked her a little too much, the way he looked at her … nothing overt, nothing impolite, but she felt it.

She didn’t want him thinking it could go somewhere, especially since she’d committed to staying for a few weeks, maybe even longer, if she was lucky enough.

Lucky enough to not get caught …

She stared at the red light reflecting on the dull paint of the wall, trying to hear any sounds from Redwood Avenue.

All she could hear was quiet.

Goddamnit, she traveled three thousand miles to find a backwoods hole to hide in, to disappear for a while, to live whatever life she had left and then move on, guided by a View-Master reel and a sentimental postcard from her dead parents.

She never expected black helicopters, an illegal drug war zone and the fucking FBI.

She never expected a serial killer.

Renata exhaled a long breath.

She’d already made her decision. And it was too late and too costly to run again.

Should I stay or should I go? She was staying. Until she’d done something, anyway. Something tangible.

Something to help prevent another murder.

Renata rolled over and shut off the light.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 22nd

Renata spent the morning vacuuming, washing the floor, and scrubbing the ER. The hospital was quiet—only a couple of inpatients—and no visitors, thanks to Sunday and the church-going habits of a community funded by the drug trade.

She clocked out at twelve noon exactly and jogged over to Mamma Mia’s. Marcus was already at a table, waiting for her. His lip and eye looked a little less raw.

“Hey.”

“Hey. Thought I saw you at the game last night.”

“You did … I was there taking photos for the Redwood Record. I didn’t see you, though … were you on the field?”

Marcus made a derisive noise. “You think they gonna let me play with that peckerwood on the team? Get real, Ka-Bar. ’Sides, baseball’s more my game. I ain’t bad at basketball or track, either, ’specially hurdles. I was in the bleachers up top. Thought I wouldn’t get to go, after—after my mom saw my face. She’s tough … but she gave in.”

“Your mom works for an attorney, right?”

“Yeah. She’s a legal secretary. What are we eatin’?”

“Pepperoni and mushroom and some Cokes?”

“Make mine a Dr. Pepper.”

Renata got up to order from the bored middle-aged white man behind the counter. There were only two other people in the restaurant—a man in his thirties with shoulder-length hair sitting next to a tattooed blonde in a crocheted halter-top—and they were preoccupied with each other. She filled two large cups with Coke and Dr. Pepper and sat back down.

Marcus plunged his straw in and started on the Dr. Pepper. “Goes good with pizza. You wearin’ your knife?”

She halfway stood up to show him the scabbard on her belt. “I got a couple of looks from the nurses.”

He stared at it admiringly. “Looks good, Ka-Bar. Looks good.” He scooted his chair closer to the table. “All right. Figure we better get to business pretty quick, ’cause I gotta catch that game. You asked ’bout Jennie.”

She lowered her voice. “You sure you’re OK about this, Marcus? I won’t lie, whatever you tell me will help, but I don’t want to pressure you.”

He shook his head. “No, like I said—I was … I was wonderin’ what to do. Who to talk to. Kinda weird I’m talkin’ to a white chick from Chicago.”

“Whenever you’re ready. If I’ve got questions, I’ll ask.”

He nodded. “All right. For starters, me and Jennie were friends. Homies, kinda. We were both new at South Fork, both missed the city, didn’t have no people here, you know? I mean, she made some girlfriends an’ all, but nobody she could talk to ’bout city stuff and dancing and music and everything. So we went to a couple dances together, movies, just hung out. Maybe it don’t make sense, ’cause she was a lily-white church girl on the outside, and all that Rainbow girl shit besides, but we got each other—we knew about home. She was from somewhere in SoCal—San Bernardino, I think. Her parents are some whacko religious types, and ’course they never liked me from a mile away bein’ friends with their daughter.” He sighed. “My mama wasn’t crazy about it either, but she had good reason.”

“But you stayed friends anyway.”

“Oh, hell yeah. We just liked to hang, talk about the city, music—we both like Prince, I scratched some Sugarhill Gang—Jennie wasn’t Valley or a mall chick, none of that shit. But she always had her head in the sky—always dreamin’, romantic crap, you know, that she was gonna get ‘discovered’ by somebody, be a model or an actress or whatever.” He shook his head slowly. “She was way too soft. Made me kinda protective of her. I mean, she was a nice white girl and not a mean bone in her body, and just that was—different. She wasn’t self-conscious, either, just dreamin’—always. She didn’t like it up here—missed her friends, missed bein’ near enough to LA for those dreams to maybe come true.”

The man behind the counter announced “Pepperoni and mushroom!” and Renata jumped up and returned with a medium, cheesy pizza and two plates and utensils.

They each ate a slice without talking. The pizza was good—sauce was rich and not too watery, and the cheese was browned and bubbly. While Marcus reached for another, Renata returned with refilled drinks.

“OK, so Jennie wanted to be famous and fantasized about someone ‘discovering’ her. Did she have an actual boyfriend?”

“She said she did where she lived before. Nobody here. And that’s—Shit, Ka-Bar, let me finish this slice.”

She ate another piece and waited for Marcus to finish. He picked up another slice and met her eyes. “I can talk over this one. OK. So … it’s this boyfriend shit I been worried about.”

Renata raised her eyebrows. “Was she dating someone? Someone you didn’t know?”

Marcus swallowed a bit of pizza and nodded.

“I think—maybe. Jennie—Jennie said she was meeting someone—someone older—the night she died. She was supposed to stay with her friend Becky but was gonna sneak off with this dude first.”

“An adult man, not someone at South Fork? Someone she considered a boyfriend?”

“From what she said and how she acted, yeah. She’d met him before, once or twice. I figured she was just goofin’ again, makin’ shit up, exaggerating. Maybe met some dude at a Eureka fish market and thought he was her boyfriend, you know? Typical Jennie shit. Anyway, she was excited, all jazzed about it. He’d given her—given her something. She hid it in her locker at school. Wouldn’t tell me what it was or show it to me, just said it was a ‘sign of commitment’ or some shit like that. And that’s all I know. She was meeting someone and she was goin’ on about her usual stuff—”

“About being ‘discovered,’ stuff like that?”

“Yeah. And the next thing I heard … she was missing.”

Renata sat back heavily against the chair. “Marcus … this is big. You haven’t told anyone else?”

He shook his head, chewing. “Not a fuckin’ soul. I ain’t been sure what to do—figured someone oughta know, but I ain’t goin’ to these cracker cops for nothin’. Even my mama don’t know.”

Renata glanced around. The couple in the corner had left; they were alone in the restaurant. “I think we need to keep your name out of it. Keep it quiet for a while. I’ve heard the FBI may be coming up here—”

“I won’t talk to no fuckin’ feds—”

She shook her head. “I don’t know for a fact they’ll be here. You knowing this, though—I won’t lie—it makes me worry about you … about your safety.”

“I can take care of myself, Ka-Bar.”

“I know you can. Still—let’s keep this under wraps. See how it develops.” She leaned forward and said it once more. “This is big, Marcus. Thank you—thank you so much for trusting me with it.”

He shrugged and looked embarrassed. “You got good taste in knives and you ain’t a White Sox fan.”

Josie was waiting for her at the door to the hospital. She was ten minutes late.

Renata tried to drown out the reverberation in her chest, in her head, concentrating on cleaning the rooms, finishing her job, leaving the hospital sanitized and immaculate.

But the beats kept coming. Jennie was meeting someone, a man, the night she was killed.

A stranger? Or someone already at home in Garberville …

It was three o’clock before she finished, and she rushed down to the Redwood Record office. Mike opened the door before she could knock. “Hey, Nattie—you made it. You ready to go? Here’s the camera.”

He handed over the SLR. He seemed harried, preoccupied today. Maybe that vibe she’d gotten, the idea that he was about to ask her out or put the moves on—maybe it had been her imagination. Her fear and trauma talking.

He reached behind to grab a manila envelope and shut the door. “Got something else for you, too. Copy of the autopsy report. You’ll have to read it later—we’ll be late for the interview.”

She headed toward the passenger side of the Olds, parked in front of the building. Mike opened the door and climbed in.

“Did you talk to Marcus?”

Split second hesitation, but he was too much in a hurry to notice. She got into the car and buckled the seatbelt. She trusted Mike—she was working with him, for God’s sake—but Marcus needed protection. What he’d told her was explosive—a lead that should go to the cops, if there was one up here she could trust. What would Mike do? Not print it, not yet, but he wouldn’t go to Peterson because Peterson was crooked and she’d seen him talking to Wayne Hunt—Hunt was passing him information, apparently—maybe the report she held in her hand. Mike said Hunt was a decent cop compared to Peterson but every fiber in her body screamed the opposite. He might tell Hunt … and she didn’t want Hunt to know.

He pulled out into the street and made a left turn, asking again.

“So, Nattie, did you talk to Marcus?”

“I did.”

The smell of old coffee wafted from a paper cup sitting next to the gear shift. “And? Any leads?”

She shook her head. “Just some background information. Nothing important.”

Mike didn’t follow up with any questions in the six minutes it took to drive to Redway—just confined himself to pointing out a few landmarks like an Old West-style steak and lobster house that represented fine dining in Southern Humboldt.

The Daytons’ house was a modest three-bedroom ranch style, at home in any suburb built after World War Two. A man in a suit and tie with a graying crew cut, stomach straining against his blue shirt, opened the door. Renata recognized him from the memorial service at the game.

“Mr. Dayton? It’s Mike Richards. I hope this is still an OK time to talk?”

Al Dayton’s pale blue eyes flickered between them and lingered on Renata. “Carol! The newspaper guy is here.” He pushed a side door open and disappeared into the kitchen.

Carol Dayton, thin and nervous, materialized through the same door. At least two other voices besides her husband’s wafted through it.

She was preemptively apologetic, rubbing her hands as if she were washing them. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Richards—let me take you to the living room. Al will be here any minute—some friends from church …”

Her voice trailed off as she led them to an overstuffed brown couch with a large console television in front of it, a piano tucked away in the corner of the rectangular room and a fireplace centered on the far wall with framed photos lining the mantelpiece.

“We won’t be long, Mrs. Dayton—we certainly don’t want to intrude—”

“Oh, no, no, it’s—it’s fine, we appreciate you wanting to know about—about—Jennie.”

Her eyes were drowning but she didn’t notice. Renata spoke quietly. “Mrs. Dayton—do you mind if I take a few photos?”

“I don’t know if Al—well, I don’t suppose—I think … I think that would be all right.”

Mike added: “We don’t need to talk to both of you together, Mrs. Dayton, if your husband’s too busy—”

The hands were in a self-cleaning frenzy by now.

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary, Al will be—”

A blond boy about twelve walked in, slamming another door behind him. He stared at Renata and Mike and then strode toward the kitchen.

Renata asked gently: “Jennie’s brother?”

The woman clung to the words like a life raft. “Yes. Little Al. He’s about to go to—to Miranda Junior High. That is, if we—if we—”

Renata finished it for her. “If you stay here. Are you thinking about moving back?”

Even the tight brown curls framing Carol Dayton’s face seemed to collapse. She felt her way to a large, throne-like armchair—probably her husband’s—and hesitantly perched on the edge.

Her voice was quiet. “I … I hope so.”

The front door shut and voices trailed outside. A couple of seconds later, her husband made an equally noisy entrance. She jumped off the chair as if it were on fire.

“Al—this is Mr. Richards, you remember—”

“Please call me Mike, Mrs. Dayton. And this is Natalie Connors. With your permission, she’ll be taking a few photos.”

Al Dayton tried unsuccessfully to pull his jacket shut over his stomach. “That’ll be fine. What did you want to know? We are—we are praying that they’ll find—find whoever—Detective Sergeant Benedetti’s a fine young officer, but the FBI’s getting involved now and they don’t mess around. They’ll find him, find who did this to our daughter.”

Mike’s voice was smooth. “I believe they will, Mr. Dayton. We are—the community—we’re just devastated by this loss. By this crime. We thought a profile to honor her family might be a way to help prompt memories and—and memorialize her. To start, how about telling us about your work—what you do, and what brought you to Redway?”

Al grunted while Carol, still standing, looked away, hands still for once.

“I’m a developer, Mr. Richards, and a contractor by trade, brought up in it by my own father. Hire out freelance right now—timber companies, even done some government work. Peter Schwartz is a friend of mine—met a long time ago at a convention—he convinced us Humboldt was good, clean living—good Masonic organization up here, quite a few thirty-third degrees—and good church people—and that it had a lot of potential, lot of room for growth. We’re Baptists, Mr. Richards—born again these last five years, praise Jesus. Needed to get out of the city and away from all the—all the riffraff. Jennie was a Rainbow Girl and taught some Bible school over the summer. That’s the kind of life we’d … we’d hoped to give her.”

He cleared his throat. His wife tiptoed to the piano bench and finally sat down.

“What did Jennie think of the move?”

Al Dayton turned toward Renata with a furrowed brow; Mike shot her a warning glance. The lines on Carol Dayton’s face softened. She spoke, her voice wavering.

“She missed all the cultural activities …”

Her husband’s baritone landed with the weight of a club. “She was on the brink, Carol, bad crowd in the city. That Ian Sharpe is all right but I told you at the time what those other drama classes would lead to unless we were careful. Dance classes wearing next to nothing, associating with all the wrong people—she was even friends with that—that one boy here. She was on the brink, on the cliff, we had to move up here to get her to the right side, move up here to save—”

“Her life?”

The words in Carol Dayton’s mouth were two of the harshest sounds Renata had ever heard. They weren’t loud, but they shriveled her husband in his oversized throne. No one spoke for a few seconds. He finally stood up, muttered something unintelligible and slid out of the room.

The air seemed to expand. Carol Dayton stood. “You’ll want to see Jennie’s room. I—I let her decorate it the way … the way she wanted to.”

She led them to a hallway with three doors. She opened the last door on the right.

Posters of Ralph Macchio and Duran Duran, a glittering statue of a unicorn, pink frills and blond wood, a framed, faded poster of a man and woman on a sunset beach with the words Love doesn’t make the world go around—love is what makes the trip worthwhile, and finally, above the bed, a poster from the movie Fame.

Renata turned toward the older woman. “Did she have a diary?”

Carol Dayton bit her lip. “Detective Benedetti asked already. I can’t—I can’t find it. I’ve looked. Wanted to hide it before …”

The words “before my husband found it” went unsaid.

Renata reached out and touched her arm.

“I hope you find it.”

The curly-haired woman nodded, removed a handkerchief from her skirt pocket, and blew her nose. Renata took some photos while Mike asked a few questions: Jennie’s favorite South Fork class was Drama, followed by Choir; her favorite sport was badminton; her favorite activity before moving was ballet and jazz dance. He collected a few names of fellow Rainbow Girls.

When they got back to Mike’s car, Renata stared through the window at the mowed lawn and the wilting marigolds.

Flowers could be surprisingly strong.

Mike turned the key in the ignition. “Well, that was … different. What are you thinking about?”

“About the fact that it was Peter Schwartz who convinced Al Dayton to move up here. About how many lives are destroyed by a single crime.”

She felt his eyes on her. She opened the manila envelope and started to read, her eyes flicking to the rear-view mirror, where Josie was sitting in the back seat.

Jennie’s autopsy report was brief and to the point.

She was not killed where her body was discovered or even outside. An oil commonly used for wood floors was found on her arms, legs, and buttocks, indicating she’d been in a building and then moved. No indication of penetration, but, like Dawn, there were semen deposits on her underpants. No human hair, no car carpet fibers. Dog hair was present, and easily explained by the fact that one of Rader’s animals had torn a piece of her shirt off and mouthed the body.

From marks and residue on the skin, the killer may have cleaned or bathed her before transfer, then dried her with a blow dryer before wrapping her body in plastic sheeting and depositing her in the car. She was most likely rolled out of the plastic onto a dirt road, then carried to the location where she was found. She’d been moved some hours after death, which indicated that both her murder and the transport of the body occurred during the night. She’d been dead for about five days, which meant she died the same day she was last seen: Tuesday, September 17th, or rather the early hours of Wednesday the 18th.

Renata looked up at the steep, sheer, two-lane winding road. “I wouldn’t want to drive this at night. The killer must’ve known the route well.”

He grunted. “A lot of people fall into that category. Hamlin’s religious ‘retreat’ is up here, as well as Rader and Peterson and a lot of the cartel people I told you about. Alderpoint is remote, but not remote like, say, Ettersburg. And there are houses up here, Nattie, so she may not have been moved from Garberville or Redway or a house below us—she may have been moved from inside to outside on the same property.”

Renata frowned. “I just realized something—I don’t know the circumstances of when Jennie went missing. Where was she last seen? Who reported her?”

Mike swerved to miss a vulture picking at a rabbit carcass. “You should read the back issues of the Record. Jennie left a Rainbow Girls meeting in town and was supposed to spend the night at her friend Becky’s house—Lynette MacIntyre’s daughter—Lynette runs the real-estate office in town. She never made the three blocks. Lynette called Jennie’s mother when she didn’t show.”

“So she did go missing in Garberville. And Becky didn’t know anything? Hear anything? Did you talk to her?”

He sighed. “I was planning to ask her mother if we could do a profile on her. Then Jennie’s body was found. From what I understand, Jennie was supposed to go straight from the Rainbow thing to Becky’s house on Maple. Maybe you could try to get something more from Becky?”

They were emerging at the top of one of the mountains above Garberville, a vast open swathe of golden rattlesnake grass and wild rye, crevassed with narrow canyons filled with fir and long-needle pine. The wild grain rippled in a west wind, lit on fire by the colors of the setting sun.

“It’s … it’s beautiful up here.”

He slowed the car and turned down a dirt road, heading across the prairie grasses and toward a wooded area about half a mile away. “Yeah, it is. You get a better sense of the land when you get some elevation. You don’t find redwoods this high in Humboldt anymore, but you get some old growth fir sometimes, pine, oak, California laurel, madrone. We’re headed to the bunkhouse now. This whole side of the mountain was clear-cut a long time ago, and Rader’s kept a few of the outbuildings intact.”

The car kicked up a light brown cloud of dry clay dirt behind them. Renata rolled down her window. Dry and brittle, less green than the smell by the river, and underneath, a whiff of something sharp and stinging.

“Why do I smell mint?”

“That’s native pennyroyal. It grows under the grasses. Great flea repellant.”

A large house—maybe turn of the century, complete with front porch—came into view. White paint was peeling, but it didn’t look ready to fall down. She could make out three figures standing on the porch. High on the wind, above the sound of the motor, dogs were barking.

Mike shot her a glance. “That’s Bill Rader. We’re almost there.”

Rader was lean and weathered, dressed in jeans and dusty boots, cowboy hat as creased as his face. Taciturn and dour, he leaned against the pillar holding up the roof of his redwood porch, his face impassive, his only movement the searching, ranging assessment of his eyes. They mostly focused on Mike, taking in Renata and instantly dismissing her.

No, he had no idea why Jennie’s body was there. No, he hadn’t heard anything. No, the dogs hadn’t barked that night any more than they usually bark; coyotes and bobcats and other critters came through all night, so the dogs barked on and off; that was their way.

Two days ago, one of the dogs was agitated and his son-in-law followed it down to a tree off the side of a skid road. That’s when they found her and phoned it in from the house.

No, there was no pot on his property or anywhere nearby that he could tell. He had both a spring and a well, and he used the water for his animals, fruit trees and crops. He was a rancher. He raised a lanky arm to point to a lean-to with a few scrawny Angus steers; he had some goats and sheep, too. Some of the old lumber company buildings were standing—he hadn’t gotten around to tearing them down yet. He pointed to what looked like a dilapidated old bunkhouse. The sheriff had already searched everything and found nothing to blame him for.

Mike asked to see the area where they’d found Jennie; Rader stalked off into the gray, nearly black evening and headed down into one of the crevices. They followed, Renata almost twisting her ankle on the crumbly clay soil while she tried to regain her balance and a sense of the earth beneath her feet. At the edge of the canopy of an ancient live oak, she could still make out police tape under the thin beam of Rader’s flashlight. She snapped a few photos with a flash, and they all headed back up the hill to the porch, lights from inside the house gleaming at them like the yellow eyes of a predator.

Mike finished up with placations: Rader’s family history, his longevity in the community, the difficulty in ranching under the current economic climate. Then he slipped it in: Was it true Rader was renting out portions of his land? Rader’s blue eyes hardened into ice.

What he did with his land to make ends meet was his business, and no one else’s. It was his land. And so far as he knew, anyone who happened to want to live on his land and was willing to pay rent to him for it was complying with the law. Anyone else who wanted to know more than that could take it up with Sheriff Peterson.

A middle-aged woman’s voice called him from the house. Rader nodded sharply to Mike, and went inside, his boots making crisp claps on the 2x8 redwood slats.

The drive back down to Garberville was slower. Twice Renata saw eyes reflecting in the headlamps, probably a skunk or a raccoon. She rolled down the window.

The night air was capped with a paper-thin layer of moisture from the coast, and she inhaled the grasses and trees cooling in the night, sounds of crickets and owls and the flurry of bats, the small creaks and rustles of animals foraging for plants or prey.

Mike threw a glance at her, amused. “You’re starting to understand why people come here. I can see it in your face.”

“Maybe. This is only the third day I’ve been here. Kind of unbelievable.”

“I’m only sorry you’re not able to fully enjoy it. Not with—all this. Not with CAMP. You can’t really hike anymore—too easy to stumble the wrong way and get shot. What did you think of Rader?”

“He’s hiding something. But he’s very secure with Peterson. I wish I had a dollar for every time he mentioned him.”

“You noticed that too? Problem is, Rader’s land isn’t officially subdivided—it’s been in his family for generations—and he’s sitting on almost a thousand acres. He ‘unofficially’ rents out forty acres to cartels or growers, and no records get processed because the land is part of his holdings, and who he has staying on it is his business. His and Peterson’s.”

She frowned. “But still—the autopsy’s pretty conclusive. Jennie was moved to his property, so as crooked as he probably is, it’s unlikely he’s her killer. Speaking of which … do you have copies of the earlier coroner’s reports? I’d like to read them all.”

He gently braked for a deer heading down a bank from the side of the road. “Good idea—I should look through them again myself before I write this article. Problem is, my filing’s a mess—my many aborted novels sometimes get mixed up with my research for the newspaper. But I’ll find them.”

Renata turned from the window. “You want to write fiction?”

The grin was sheepish. “Like so many other journalists. Great American Novel stuff. Dreiser, Faulkner, Hemingway.”

“I hope you do it, Mike.”

He threw her a grateful glance and pulled up to the curb, Garberville’s main street quiet and dark. “Thanks. Here’s the motel. You find a room yet?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. Anything you’d like me to focus on tomorrow?”

He sighed and handed her a somewhat soiled envelope. “Your twenty-five. Just keep on doing what you’re doing … talk to the kids. Especially Becky, if you can. Tomorrow we’ll know more about what the FBI’s got planned. I’ve gotta write this stuff up, so no more interviews for a few days.”

Renata stepped out of the front seat. “Sounds good. Let me know about the coroner reports, OK?”

She waved and watched him drive off.

The Bus Stop was closed. It wouldn’t be open until tomorrow at seven, when she’d already be at work. And today was Sunday—fresh papers from across the country.

Renata stood there, staring at the darkened windows.

The Post would be the one to start the coverage if the feds decided to publicize the hunt. The Russians wouldn’t like publicity about the ambassador’s son, especially any motive that would bring up why he had been sent back to the USSR after Josie’s murder and why he’d returned. It would take a strong editorial stomach to buck their pressure and any the FBI brought to bear, but the Post had stomach enough for Nixon and they’d have stomach enough for how Sergei Grinkov’s execution would affect the Geneva Summit.

Burnt smell of gunpowder, holes where knees were, blood pooling on cement floor …

A tremor ran through her, despite the warm night, and she walked quickly across the street. Hamburger Haven was closed, so she ventured into the Sequoia Steakhouse. The waitress didn’t have blue hair, but otherwise it was as she’d imagined: country-western jukebox, dark red booths from 1965, and a charred ground steakburger that was the best-tasting dinner she’d yet eaten in Garberville.

The movie theater’s last show was letting out when she walked back to the motel room. Josie was waiting for her by the door. Renata wearily tossed the manila envelope on the small desk by the TV. She’d read the autopsy report again tomorrow.

She sank down on the mattress and started untying her Reeboks, the long day flashing through her.

It bothered her, lying to Mike about what she’d learned from Marcus. It’s just that his acceptance of Wayne Hunt bothered her more. And she knew—knew, goddamn it—that Hunt was an abuser. Dangerous.

She could use up a lot of energy convincing Mike that Hunt wasn’t someone to trust. But at the end of it all … he still lived here. Wayne Hunt was part of his daily world, someone you don’t look at twice because if you did, you’d see what he was.

It was just the way things were in Garberville.

Jennie’s mother had mentioned a Detective Benedetti—maybe he was the cop she spotted at the football game. Maybe Benedetti was someone she could get the information to, but fuck—she’d have to be careful. If he ran an ID …

She kicked off both shoes and stepped into the small bathroom. The tiles were cold even through her socks but the whir of the fan helped drown out the panic, always there beneath the surface.

She washed her face, brushed her teeth. Looked in the mirror.

If it was a choice between Benedetti or the FBI, she’d pick the cop. But right now—right now she just needed to sit with it. Work the lead. She’d eventually figure out how to get it to Benedetti and protect Marcus—and herself—at the same time.

The carpet in the main room helped warm her cold toes, though the room, nestled under the shade of redwood trees, was still colder than the night air felt. Josie was standing at the side of the window, looking outside. Renata opened the bottom drawer and pulled on a pair of flannel pajamas.

Maybe Jennie mentioned this dream-man to another friend … Becky MacIntyre, the girl she was supposed to spend the night with. She’d need to find Becky, somehow earn her confidence.

And what about the other murdered girls? Were they like Jennie? Romantics, dreamers, looking for validation, desire, a handsome prince to tap them on the shoulder and tell them they were special? Amy she couldn’t guess about, but Dawn had been running away …

A girl with a Fame poster and sparkly unicorns in her bedroom. A girl who loved drama and choir and badminton. A girl who liked to dance, who was friends with Marcus, who fought against the racist and religious restrictions imposed by her father.

Renata slid under the chilled covers. She pulled herself up until she was leaning against the headboard.

Jennie’s father’s connection to Peter Schwartz troubled her. Small-town endogamy or something else? Both bigshot bigots, full of football piety and the Masonic rulebook and, at least in Dayton’s case, the tyrannical fervor of the evangelical. But what else lurked beneath? What had motivated Schwartz’s recommendation? He was also friends with Sheriff Peterson and Bill Rader, who, according to Mike, were utterly, criminally corrupt …

Certainly, Rader was careful, leathery and tough and quiet. She could see him killing someone if he thought he had to. But not this kind of crime. His was the crime of the mob boss, the watchful Don. But Jennie’s body was found on his property … why?

Was the killer one of the men in his circle?

She understood, better than most, how corruption spread like cancer, starting in one spot and moving to another, stakes and costs ever higher, protection more and more expensive. She remembered cases her father had worked on, testimony he’d given in court. She knew what it led to, from whatever direction it had set out.

No one intended a homicide, your honor. No one wanted a murder.

So they’d plea down to second degree or manslaughter, parse words and argue intention.

But the victims were still dead.

Peterson, Hunt, Rader … all corrupt. And Schwartz, too … because he was dealing with them.

Renata reached over and turned out the lamp. She didn’t sleep much that night.

III

… for they say if money go before, all ways do lie open.

William Shakespeare, The Merry Wives of Windsor,

Act II, Scene 2

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 23rd

Whatever Garberville had been before, it wasn’t the same on Monday morning. Anxiety and panic hummed and buzzed beneath the small-town façade, sparking like electrical current before a thunderstorm.

The black helicopters and cartels and missing people and clippers for sale everywhere, the pungent odor of joints and dried cannabis stalks sticking out of black contractor’s bags … all part of a mundane harvest season in Humboldt County under CAMP.

But not Jennie. Not the third murdered girl in so many years.

Even the slow-moving waitress at Café 101 was jittery, sloshing coffee on the table. Renata hurriedly ate her egg and sausage and got to the hospital early.

She focused on the physical work, adrenalin propelling her while she tried to block out what might be waiting at The Bus Stop news rack. She vacuumed, cleaned, and scrubbed the ER—a wreck on the highway the night before, drunk driving—and made small talk with the elderly patients who needed to hear a young voice.

On her way out, she raised a hand to knock on Doris’s door. No deep voice rose behind it; no reproaches, no whispered threats.

No Wayne Hunt.

A muffled “Come in” answered her. Then she opened the door and saw Doris’s face and smelled the overwhelming odor of alcohol.

Doris was wearing sunglasses. The older woman was trying to file something, hands shaking, legs unsteady. Renata helped her sit down.

“Oh, th—thank you, Nat—Nattie, I don’ know what’s wrong with me today—just nerves, I guess, what with—what with Jennie an’ all—”

“Doris … why are you wearing sunglasses?”

The woman reached a hesitant hand to her face, tried to smile. “I—I almost forgot I had them on! I banged into a wall last night. We, uh, our—our power went out, and I couldn’t see. Are you off work now? How—how are you?”

Renata could see the purple bruise behind Doris’s left lens. The one on her shoulder, peeping out from her blouse. The one on her forearm, halfway covered with a Band-Aid.

She was right. Wayne Hunt hit this woman. He hit this woman on a regular basis.

“I’m fine. Doris … if you ever need to talk to someone—”

The laugh tried to be a tinkle but sounded like broken glass.

“Wha—why of course, Nat—a—lie, I have—I’ve got a lot of people to talk to. Why don’—why don’t you run along now. I’m sure you—you’ve got plans for the res’ of your day …”

Renata exhaled. Not much she could do, not without Doris’s help. She recognized the performance and it made her sick.

Bright and cheerful, no matter what. Deflect and deny, deflect and deny.

She placed her hand on Doris’s shoulder. “Just remember I’m here. Whenever you need me.”

The horrible tinkle followed her out the door.

The out-of-state newspaper rack at The Bus Stop was full—this time including a Boston Globe—but there was no Washington Post.

Renata’s heart dropped back in her chest.

She grabbed the single copy of the New York Times, dated Sunday, September 15th—the day after her interview with the FBI—yesterday’s edition of the San Francisco Chronicle and USA Today, and walked over to another aisle with school supplies, adding two college-ruled paper notebooks, one memo-sized and one eight-and-a-half by eleven, and two fine-point pens.

Buddy Small was behind the counter again today, taciturn and morose.

“Oh, hey—Natasha, right?”

“Natalie. How are you, Buddy?”

He preened a little at the fact that she remembered his name. “OK, I guess. Just—well, I don’t even know how to describe it. I mean, I’ve lived here my whole life, and now—it looks like we got a freakin’ serial killer in Southern Humboldt?” He shook his head. “Word’s got ’round that Jennie’s body was dumped at Rader’s place—she was moved. And the other—the other stuff—it’s like—well, it’s like the other girls. So I keep lookin’ at the guys I see come in for smokes or a can or a beer or whatever—and I think, Is it him? I mean, it’s driving me batshit—excuse me—driving me crazy. Thinkin’ about it.”

He shook his head and rang her up. “You figure out how long you’re stayin’?”

“I’ll stick around for a while. I’m working at the hospital—the janitor.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That’s a pretty good job for around here. Kids of employees—nurses, doctors—usually get it. Well, be careful.”

She paid and headed toward the Old Mill for lunch. The streets were quiet … no kids were flocking at Hamburger Haven, no preteens buying ice-cream cones at the Snack Shack. A couple of teenage girls were looking in the windows of Mountain Mama, laughing nervously; a group of three boys sped around the corner by Conger on dirt bikes.

Garberville was closed, at least for today. Whether it would reopen was anyone’s guess.

The same waitress who served her and Mike came over to take her order, and she opened the New York Times while she waited for the food.

The Post would start but the Times would pick it up, if there was anything to pick up … there.

There.

Section B, page 2.

GRINKOV MURDER MOTIVE MAY BE LINKED TO EARLIER CRIME …

… Sources close to the investigation state that a link may have been uncovered between Sergei Grinkov’s murder and that of Josephine Drake, a twenty-year-old intern at Freedom House who was raped, beaten, and strangled to death last October 7. Drake’s body was found outside the Pussy Cat, a strip club in downtown Washington, D.C. Grinkov’s father, USSR Ambassador Vyacheslav Grinkov, remanded his son back to Moscow shortly afterward when sources at the time revealed he was a potential suspect in Drake’s murder as well as several other assaults on female prostitutes. The ambassador is reported to be fully cooperating in the investigation of his son’s death, who had returned to Washington on April 2nd of this year. The younger Grinkov’s body was discovered in the early hours of Tuesday, September 10, in front of the Peek-A-Boo strip club, a few blocks from where Josephine Drake’s had been deposited last October.

The waitress dropped a plate with a wilted chef’s salad and a smaller one with French fries and Renata jumped. She gave the woman a weak smile and folded the paper.

The Times issue was dated five days before she arrived in Garberville and a day before she climbed on a Greyhound. Trauma had kicked in after that FBI interview, pure survival instinct, fly, flee, run, run, run, Renata … between figuring out basic, emergency logistics and obtaining the fake ID there’d been no time to think, no time to plan, no time to look over her shoulder and see them coming.

Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear …

Renata stared down at the Formica top, twirling a fry in a mixture of mustard and mayonnaise.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She needed an escape hatch, a plan B, a safe room, a safe place. The agents who were coming here weren’t the agents in DC, but all it took was a look at a computer, a remembered face on a poster, someone who knew someone else.

She needed a car.

No booked bus ticket, no trace. Fill the tank and head out. She could leave Garberville and pick another name on another map, another postcard from her parents, another fucking View-Master.

And in the meantime … in the meantime …

She’d made a commitment. And despite the trauma that defined her, the terror that drove her, she did not want to leave too soon.

She skipped dessert and paid and walked back down the street to Friedrickson’s lot. A ’67 Mercedes Benz, cream color, caught her eye.

The pastor-cum-car salesman was in what looked like a tense conversation with the other supposed man of the cloth—Hamlin, the one with the Jim Jones vibe. Friedrickson looked up and stepped quickly away from the larger man.

“You interested in the Mercedes? It’s a nice car, one former owner, a bit over a hundred thousand miles, but the head gasket was replaced along with the brakes and alternator. It’s a clean little thing. Take you to the desert and back.” He patted the hood, smiling, teeth as pearly as the heavenly gates.

“It looks nice. How much is it?”

“Five hundred and it’s yours. One month guarantee.”

Hamlin’s voice sounded like a piece of silk rubbed over a buzz saw. “Pastor Friedrickson here is as honest a car dealer as you’ll ever meet. You’re the new girl at the hospital, right?”

The Garberville grapevine worked fast.

“I work there, yes.” She turned pointedly to Friedrickson. “I need to think about it. Can I maybe take it out for a test drive tomorrow and let you know?”

Friedrickson smiled even wider. “Sure. Happy to help. I’m Tom. My church is up on Maple—Baptist. You’re always welcome to drop in there or here if you need anything, particularly as a newcomer to the community. Oh, and I’m sorry—I didn’t catch your name?”

“Natalie. Natalie Connors. Thanks, Mr.—Pastor—Friedrickson. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

“Call me Tom. I’ll see you then, Natalie.”

Renata shook her head. Five hundred dollars.

She could probably make that in a night or two if she was a clipper. The attraction of those jobs was understandable: untraceable money, plenty of it, no tax, no bank, no accounting. But illegal cut both ways, and so people kept disappearing in Humboldt County, another statistic, another grieving parent or boyfriend or brother or sister, another dead body found in a ravine.

She stopped short in front of the library door. She’d count the money tonight, figure out how much she’d add to it with her paycheck on Friday.

Provided she’d still be here by Friday …

“Come on in, Natalie! I was wondering when you’d be by!”

The curly-haired librarian was waving at her. What was her name again? Eve, she remembered. Eve.

A skinny man with a tie-dyed shirt and matted, shoulder-length hair was picking out books from the exchange shelf. Renata walked toward the librarian’s desk.

“Less than a week and I’m already predictable.”

The older woman laughed. She seemed strangely excited today. Then she swiveled forward in her office chair and lowered her voice. “The number of people who actually use this place I could count on two hands. I knew you’d be a regular as soon as you walked in.”

“Early training from my mom, I guess. I love libraries.”

Tie-Dye nodded his head toward Eve, both hands full of books, then pushed against the door with his back and slid out into Garberville’s main street. The librarian watched him. “Never exchanges a damn thing,” she said softly. “Never brings a quarter, either.” She inhaled sharply, then looked up. “It’s frightening out there. Creepy. And it’ll only get worse once the FBI arrives and the interviews start.”

“So you think they’re definitely coming, then?”

“Oh, they’re coming. Humboldt’s got its very own serial killer. We’re finally on the map for something other than pot.”

“Well, when they do get here maybe it’ll help. Hopefully they’ll find this—monster. People can get on with whatever their business is.”

The librarian snorted. “Each other’s, mainly. All small towns are like that. Though—to be fair—there are good and supportive people here, too. Quite a few. And that’s what makes this—this atmosphere—so terrible.”

Her eyes met Renata’s. “We all want this to be an outsider—a big-time dope grower, a seasonal groomer, even a CAMP cop. But we know that’s not the case. Those girls were killed by someone local. Oh, at first, with Amy, we thought it might be a teacher or student and the whole community was relieved when that didn’t pan out—so we figured it was an out-of-area grower squatting on state park land. Then Dawn was found in Standish-Hickey, just past Humboldt into Mendocino, and most of us realized there was a psycho loose, but we still hoped—prayed—it was someone outside the community. But now, with Jennie disappearing off a Garberville street and turning up in Alderpoint … it’s obvious this guy really knows Southern Humboldt, even down to Leggett and northern Mendocino, not just a hillside or hidden creek where the pot’s growing. No, a few folks may still be in denial, but there’s no doubt in my mind. There’s a killer among us.”

“And everyone is looking at each other and wondering who.”

“Exactly. It’s destroyed whatever community feeling we’ve had. So I’m seizing the opportunity and getting away. Now.”

Eve looked toward the door with a conspiratorial expression. “I’m taking a two-week vacation. Long past due for one. What they don’t know is that I’m not coming back. I’m divorced, no kids, and my parents are gone. I don’t have any more ties to keep me here except a few friends, habit, and inertia. Oh, I’ll miss the smell of redwoods and all that, but I’m done. Going back to civilization or the decline of it, I guess.” She chuckled to herself, then looked up sharply at Renata. “You still looking for a cheaper place to stay?”

“Yeah. No luck yet. I need to, because I’m trying to buy a car.”

“From Friedrickson?”

Renata nodded. Eve put on a thoughtful face.

“He won’t rip you off. He’ll skirt the edges but won’t jump the cliff.” Her mouth formed a resolute line. “OK, here’s my proposition: I leave Wednesday. The library’ll be closed while I’m gone. But in the back of this building there’s a fully operational little room. Shower, toilet, sink, and a single bed. School desk, small chest of drawers. I’m willing to give you the key—you can stay here for free—if you just watch the place and if necessary tell people I’m on vacation and you haven’t heard anything else. The first two weeks’ll be easy … past that, just keep it on the QT for as long as you can or stall and plead ignorance. That’ll give me time to work out my own plans and keep the county off my back. They already think SoHum is lawless and if they thought the library was left without a guardian … well, let’s just say this plan helps us both. What do you think?”

Renata’s mouth opened and then shut again.

“I—I don’t really know what to say. Are you sure it would be—well, OK? Is there a reason you can’t give notice?”

Eve smiled wryly. “It’ll be just fine, believe me. Probably the only people who will notice it’s closed are Amanda and Mrs. Schumann. As for why … well, we’re not unionized up here, and the contract I signed five years ago hasn’t kept up with inflation. I could play the good-girl librarian and ask to negotiate—the county will say no—and at the same time they won’t let me leave, even though they’ve been wanting to close Garberville down for more than a year. They’d shunt me off into something I have no interest in doing for probably even less pay. So I’m leaving anyway. It’s a lot harder to serve an injunction on someone if they’re out of the county already.”

“They won’t retaliate or anything?”

The redhead laughed. “The county? They’ll settle. Unless they want the Times Standard to find out about what really gets milked in some of those Ferndale barns.” She chuckled again at the look on Renata’s face. “Humboldt’s Humboldt, east, west, south, and north. Fishing’s almost dead, timber is long gone, and dairy’s a low-grade flat line. Not much tourism up there, either. The dope trade is what’s left, even if some of the blue hairs on the board don’t want to admit it.”

Renata shook her head. “Well … given what you’ve told me, all I can say is thank you!”

“You can move in tomorrow. I’ve already got it all cleaned up for you.” The librarian’s face grew serious again. “I really don’t want to be here anymore. Not with this waiting.”

“I’ll bring my suitcase in the morning. And I can even do some research—do you have any Redwood Record files here? You know, going back a few years? That’s what I was coming in to ask you—”

Eve smiled. “Sorry—still need to do my job till Wednesday, don’t I? Yes, we have paper copies from the last few years waiting for processing. A lot of the storage here is actually devoted to the Record. Anything older than five years will be on microfilm in Eureka, or Mike may have archives—if he can ever find them. Doing research, huh?”

“Thought I’d read up on the place.”

The curly-haired woman stared at her shrewdly. “And maybe try to figure out for yourself who our Ted Bundy is?”

“It’s hard not to get involved. Out of self-protection if nothing else. And I’m also working with Mike taking photos for the newspaper, so I’d like to get some background.” She met the librarian’s eyes. “I really appreciate you helping me like this, Eve. Guess I’d better go pack up and get ready for tomorrow.”

“No rush. I’ll be in Cancún soon enough.” Her lips stretched into a vulpine smile. “And don’t worry about your luggage—people bring in all kinds of things in here. No one will notice.”

Renata needed to clear her head. One goal met: a cheap—free!—place to stay, shielded from curious eyes, feds or not, and her childhood fantasy at that … spending the night at “Disneyland.”

But she needed that car … and she didn’t have much time.

Shit … it would be a race, but it was always coming to that, always the only outcome once she decided to flee DC. And why did she leave if it wasn’t to do something, to live a life, some kind of life? To prove something to herself—to prove that she wasn’t …

What, Renata? A murderer?

She shook her head, letting her hand fall from the telephone pole.

Keep walking. Deep breath, in and out …

She walked down Sprowl Creek Road, still carrying the bag from The Bus Stop, newspapers and tablets brushing against her legs. Josie was ahead of her, peering in a window of the Save Now Market, where a lanky man exited with a full bag, glancing down the street nervously, and climbed into a dirt-spackled Pinto.

The Snack Shack stood forlorn in the market’s small parking lot. The rest of the street was still, too, even the post office. Only a single black helicopter, like a robotic vulture searching for something dead, broke the quiet.

Across the exit to the freeway was the old building she’d admired on her first day in town. Spanish-inspired—probably dating from the ’30s or ’40s—red-tile roof and white stucco, a look she and everyone else identified with California.

No one seemed to be occupying it.

For some reason, it comforted her.

Dried-up leaves littered the short, terracotta red steps leading up to the wide doors, the white-washed exterior still dappled under the afternoon sun and the shade of venerable oaks. As she walked closer, she realized there was someone sitting in the entrance way … Marcus.

He looked up when a leaf crackled under her feet.

“Hey, Marcus.”

He set aside a comic book he’d been reading. “What you doin’ here, Ka-Bar?”

She shrugged, perching on the wide masonry banister of the entrance. “Just felt like taking a walk. It’s quiet today.”

He stared across the street, face gloomy. “Yeah. I should be at school, playin’ basketball for the coach …”

His lip was healing and the bruises had faded. “Is that what you usually do? Practice after school?”

He snorted. “Hell, yeah. I’m the best shot South Fork’s got this year. But my mom won’t let me play till this is all gone.” He touched his lip with a fingertip. “Man, she treats me like a baby sometimes—says if I play with this face it’ll make everything worse.” He brooded again. “Don’t make it worse for fuckin’ Schwartz.”

“It’s healing pretty fast. You shouldn’t have to wait much longer.”

“Yeah. Now I gotta wait till that peckerwood father of his is out of my mom’s office.” He nodded his head toward the ranch-style redwood building across the street.

Renata turned her head to look. “Peter Schwartz goes to see your mom—or the attorney—often?”

“Oh, fuck yeah. He’s there practically every week. Mr. Austin’s OK—he’s the lawyer—but he’s always runnin’ up to Eureka for shit, and that leaves my mom with that—” He made a face. “She don’t want me waitin’ at home, and she don’t let me practice at school, at least right now, so …” He looked over at the X-Men comic book lying on the terracotta. “At least she let me buy a comic.”

“Marcus … do you know what he’s seeing Mr. Austin and your mom about?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Somethin’ about buying up property or shit like that. Mofo’s got too much fuckin’ money.”

Renata stared across the street at the offices of Donald Austin. The building looked like a home converted to an office, dark, leafy, with a redwood tree obscuring the view.

Schwartz was friends with Jennie’s father, a contractor and developer. He was also doing business with Bill Rader, who owned the ranch where her body was found, and Sheriff Peterson, whom Mike said was protecting Rader. Mike had also mentioned something about Schwartz buying up a lot of property by the airstrip in Garberville …

She frowned. Why so much property? Why now?

“Marcus … do you think it would be OK if I talked to your mom? About Schwartz?”

He looked surprised. “I thought for a sec you was gonna say you wanted to talk about Jennie, and I told you she don’t know and I don’t want nobody talkin’ to her about that. I’ll—I’ll tell her that myself. You know the damn feds are comin’ to South Fork? Gonna fuckin’ interview us. I ain’t talkin’ to them, Ka-Bar—I ain’t talkin’. Word gets out I know anything and there’ll be a whole lot of fuckin’ trouble.” He met her eyes defiantly. “I ain’t afraid of no crackers, but—my mom—I don’t want her to—to suffer any. Lose her job.”

Renata sighed. “I get it, Marcus. I’m working on that—trying to figure out if there’s a cop up here we can trust. I’ve got a couple of ideas. In the meantime, would you be OK with me talking to your mom—maybe tomorrow on my day off? I’d like to find out what Peter Schwartz is up to, if I can. It might be related to Jennie’s murder.”

“He ain’t the man she was sweet on. I can tell you that for a fact.”

She looked again thoughtfully at the building across the street. “I’m sure you’re right. But I still want to find out some stuff. Something’s going on, and—One thing I’ve already learned about Garberville is that this whole goddamn town is like a spider web. Sticky and connected and if you pluck one string, you pluck another.”

Marcus shrugged. “OK with me if you wanna talk to her. Just remember … nothin’ else. And another thing—she ain’t that easy to talk to.”

He grinned.

Mike answered the door on the fourth knock. He was out of breath.

“Sorry, Nattie, was just down in the darkroom developing. You took some awesome shots of the game.”

“Thanks. Can I talk to you for a sec?”

He rubbed the palms of his hands on his jeans and waved her in, smile wide and welcoming. She walked into the front room, which still looked as though it had been hit by a tornado.

He pulled out a seat for her. “Publication day’s tomorrow—we try to get the paper out on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But I’ve got some news for you, so I’m glad you came by.”

She smiled up at him. “You go first.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “OK, so, the FBI is definitely coming to Humboldt. They’re supposed to talk to the students and faculty at South Fork. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Green River Killer—”

“Enough. I’ve heard about him.”

“Well, they’re only coming because of that case. They found another of his victims on September 8th. Humboldt is close enough to Oregon for them to poke around for a couple of days because they know the guy’s based somewhere around Seattle but two bodies were found near Portland, and they want to make sure they get his territory contained. They’re not here to help solve the crimes in Humboldt—they’re here to make sure the two cases aren’t connected. For us, it’s a total waste of time.”

“They’re not going to investigate? I mean, it’s the same MO—strangulation—”

He held up a wagging finger. “Ah, but he targets prostitutes. Different victim type. I guarantee you the feds will pack up and leave in another day—two, at the max. But maybe the fact that they paid us a visit will finally get the CBI involved because the Humboldt County Sheriff’s Department has no real resources, and so much of it is either incompetent or corrupt. And not just Humboldt—Dawn was found in Mendocino County, on state park land. The park service sent one ranger to file a goddamn report.”

“What’s the CBI?”

“California Bureau of Investigation. State detectives, basically. Mendocino County and Humboldt County are covered by two different offices—one in San Francisco and the other in Redding—and we’ve had a hell of a time trying to cut through the bureaucracy. If the FBI’s presence here is enough to convince them what we all already know—that Dawn’s murder is linked to Amy’s and Jennie’s …”

He shook his head and added: “I’m holding out hope that it’s not a local, but it’s not looking good.”

“So we’re back to square one?”

He sighed. “Like I said, maybe the CBI will get involved. Otherwise, it’s gonna be left up to the Sheriff’s Department. They’ve got a decent homicide detective, but he’s just one guy. And you know what Peterson is. Anyway, Nattie, you had something to tell me?”

“Yeah. I think you mentioned the other day that Peter Schwartz has been buying up a lot of land by the Garberville airport.”

Mike raised his eyebrows. “So he has. I print all the public notices. Why do you ask? You think that’s got something to do with all this?”

“I don’t know. Let’s say I don’t like his connections.”

He looked at her with curiosity. “Well … I don’t know anything specific beyond what I just told you. But if you find out something, let me know. Schwartz is definitely doing business with Rader, so it might be worth checking out. But don’t forget South Fork—the kids must know something. Becky MacIntyre, Jennie’s friends.” He scratched the back of his neck, frowning. “Like I mentioned, I’ve always been a little worried about Ed Dawson. The social studies teacher who volunteers as assistant coach. People call him ‘Dead Ed’ behind his back.”

“I thought all the teachers got cleared when Amy was killed.”

“If you accept the word of Peterson. I’d like a more … independent corroboration.”

Renata sighed and stood up. “Thanks, Mike. Tomorrow’s my day off. Maybe I’ll have better luck and there’ll be teenagers around for me to talk to. Right now, the town’s empty.”

“Everyone’s heard about the feds coming and they’re scared. Dealing with everything. It’ll go back to something resembling normal soon.” He laid a hand on Renata’s shoulder and smiled at her. “Be careful out there.”

She packed for an hour, checking and double-checking drawers to make sure there was nothing left behind, no scraps of paper, no matches, no menus. She’d stuck the newspapers in a town trash can—nothing in the Chronicle or USA Today.

Not national news—not yet. But tomorrow was Tuesday, her day off, and another shipment of out-of-town newspapers for The Bus Stop …

God, she hoped Mike was right. She could easily hide from the feds for two or three days, especially if they were here to link up—or not—the murders to the Green River Killer. But if they made Garberville a base of operations for a detailed investigation, they’d be here for weeks, crawling all over the town.

Southern Humboldt may have wanted the killer identified and apprehended, but they sure as hell didn’t want their economy to grind to a halt.

She fell back on the bed, springs squeaking. Josie was sitting in the chair near the window.

The Romani at the carnival had told her, when she still had her mom, when she was still a little girl with dark hair and even darker eyes. The woman had looked in them and back to her blond mother and pronounced her an “old soul,” then hurriedly looked away again, brushing her mother’s money away as if it were cursed.

She’d pestered her mother all the way home about what it meant, the excitement of the carousel and the tea-cup ride and the balloon game forgotten with the old woman’s words and the way she’d looked at them.

Renata gazed across the room at Josie. Memory before Josie was a tricky thing and was it really memory or was it something she’d invented?

No one to check her story … no one at all.

Just Renata and her old soul.

She locked the door behind her and headed to the motel office. Found the taciturn blonde—still reading the same Us magazine—and told her she’d be checking out the next day. The woman barely looked up.

Redwood Avenue was nearly deserted, even the movie theater. Her stomach rumbled.

She pushed open the door of Sweet Ivy’s and was greeted with reggae music drifting with some blue-gray smoke and laughter from the back. There was one couple up front, sitting at a corner table below a Bob Marley poster. Two men—one of them familiar.

A waitress emerged from the beaded curtain separating the sections and led her to a nearby table while she tried to remember where she’d seen the man’s face. Images of hot dogs and fries and shouting … South Fork. The football game. Ian Sharpe, teacher of English and Drama, the target of gossip and venom from Phyllis Dawson, Assistant Coach Dawson’s mother.

The one she’d said “ruined girls.”

And given that gossip, a potential suspect—despite being cleared for Amy’s murder.

Renata sat with her back against the wall, keeping him within her view.

The waitress reeked of pot. She flashed a large, gap-toothed smile and threw a menu on the table. Renata raised her eyes and met Ian’s, who looked startled and then pleased. She smiled at him and he walked over, murmuring something to his dinner companion, who kept his head down.

“Hi—I believe we met at the game the other night, right? Natalie Connors? You’re working at the hospital before heading to law school, if I remember correctly—Mike’s friend from Chicago, I think it was?”

“Your memory lives up to your surname.”

He laughed. “Only for things I like.” He nodded his head toward his table. “That’s my roommate, Greg Copely. He’s the choir instructor.”

Renata studied the slightly overweight older man, still eating and avoiding looking their way, though he was obviously tense and trying to overhear.

Something was off about these two. Sharpe was too friendly, Copely too much the misanthrope …

Sharpe interjected, anxious and apologetic. “I keep hoping an affordable single unit opens up closer to Miranda so we can go our separate ways, but with harvest time it’s just impossible. By the way, the Asian Tofu Scramble’s the best item on the dinner menu. I recommend it highly.”

“Then that’s what I’ll order. I’d love to hear what it’s like to teach at South Fork. I mean, I’m not here for very long, but I’d still like to learn more about the community. I don’t know much about it, the history or culture or anything else, and it’s—well, it’s frankly terrifying to be here right now.”

The lines around Ian Sharpe’s mouth deepened. “Terrifying is a good word for it. The FBI is coming to interrogate the faculty—even though most of us went through it three years ago with the Sheriff’s Department and we were all cleared. It’s tough on us, but tougher on the students—they will definitely need some distractions to help them cope. I was thinking, Miss Connors—Natalie—perhaps I could entice you to come talk to my English class? I believe I suggested that the first time we met. I know you haven’t actually started law school yet, but just discussing the preparations, how much time it entails, compatible degrees … it would be empowering for them to learn about it, especially now. So many of these students never go on to a university. And beforehand, maybe you’d care to have lunch with us? We’ve got a small house in Miranda close to the school. I think Copely would be happy to meet you. He’s not really as dreadful as I make him out to be.”

The smile was awkward and confiding.

“I’d like that. I’m planning to buy a car tomorrow, and my days off are Tuesday and Thursday.”

Ian glanced back at his table. “Can we make it, say, this Thursday, or is that too soon? My class is at one … maybe lunch right before?”

“Sure. My calendar’s open.” She smiled. “Should I meet you at South Fork?”

“Yes—just get there by twelve or so and I’ll meet you at the office.” He shook her hand awkwardly. “Thank you. I know the students will enjoy it and so will we.”

The waitress ambled by to take her order as Ian Sharpe turned and walked back to his table.

Renata watched him seat himself, watched the other man ignore him.

Something was definitely off.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24th

Renata slept in till six. She downed a cup of bitter hotel coffee in the room and headed for the 101 Café and her normal breakfast of sausage and eggs. The usually taciturn dishwater blonde wasn’t nervous anymore, just eager and talkative.

“You hear? FBI’s in town. They was in this morning, didn’t eat much, just coffee and toast. Didn’t say much, neither, an’ they headed straight out past the end of town an’ got back on the freeway. Maybe goin’ to Alderpoint, huh? Where she was killed?”

“Maybe. Or to Eureka, to talk to the coroner. Did they say what field office? Where they were from?”

“They dressed real fancy—gold watches, ties, all in black and gray, nice slacks, you know, the kind that never wrinkle. One said somethin’ about meeting someone from San-Fran-cisco, and glad to be gettin’ back to Seattle later—they probably was from there.”

Renata nodded. The Seattle field office made sense, if the reason they were here was to make sure the Green River Killer hadn’t crossed the California border rather than investigate another serial killer.

It looked like Mike was right. They had no reason to notice her, to interview her, no reason to find out who she was or what she was doing in Humboldt County … unless the feds in DC had released her name and photo and she ran into an agent who paid attention.

Fuck, what day was it? The 24th. Two weeks after Grinkov’s body was found. Ten days after her interview with Agent Theo Garnier.

She needed that goddamn car.

Just in case.

Outside, the coolness of the night still prickled her skin under the morning sunshine. Her footfalls echoed in her chest as she walked quickly to The Bus Stop.

Buddy was on duty, yawning. The out-of-town newspaper rack looked like it had the day before.

“’Morning, Natalie! You off work or somethin’?”

“Yeah, my first day off. Any new papers?”

He shook his head. “Just the Times Standard. My guy ain’t been in yet with the other stuff. Maybe later today. You lookin’ for anything particular?”

His eyes were more awake now and held curiosity. She stuck on a smile. “No, just checking what’s going on closer to home. I’ll come back later.”

He nodded and waved goodbye as he turned to help a man in a trucker’s cap buy a pack of Marlboros.

She’d return in a few hours. Maybe she’d even have a car by then.

Renata hurried back to the motel and took a quick shower before packing all of her toiletries and checking again to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind.

Any vestigial prints should be cleaned off by the maid, but no taking chances—she wiped down hard-to-reach places like the coffee maker and the light switch on the bedside lamp and the window handles before giving every surface one more swab.

By the time she finished, it was 10:10 and the library was open.

The library … her next temporary home.

Amanda arrived just ahead of Renata. The girl stood in front of Eve’s desk and turned to stare at Renata’s large, lone suitcase and multiple shopping bags. Eve emerged from the back of the stacks, buzzing with happy anticipation.

“Good morning! Everything settled? All ready?”

Renata met the dark brown eyes of the teenager. “Yes—ready for adventure with the new car. Thanks for letting me leave these here while I test drive it.”

The librarian caught on quickly. “It’s no problem. I can store those for you while you’re changing motels. Amanda—” she turned to the girl—“why aren’t you in school? Were classes canceled?”

“Yes. They told us yesterday at assembly—it’s because of the FBI. I overheard Mrs. Fisher telling Mrs. Esposito that they’re interviewing teachers today and looking all around South Fork, and they don’t want to panic us.” She snorted. “Like that’s gonna panic anybody. They should interview us if they really want to find the killer.”

“Be careful, Amanda, what you say. It could be dangerous. Now, is there something you need in particular?”

Amanda shrugged. “I’m always careful, Miss Cannelly. So, do you have anything on Eugene O’Neill? I mean, besides the obvious stuff. I’m writing an essay about how macho male figures in his plays are actually examples of suppressed homosexuality.”

Renata raised her eyebrows. “That’s quite a thesis.”

Amanda turned to her with eagerness. “Do you know anything about O’Neill?”

“Not much beyond the Katherine Hepburn version of Long Day’s Journey Into Night. But your paper sounds more like psychology than English composition.”

The teenager shrugged again. “Psychology is the root of everything.”

Eve smiled indulgently at her. “Amanda, you’re such a bright girl. You’ll go far—just keep working on your grades and win a scholarship to a good university. Now, as far as O’Neill is concerned, we might have one or two collections of his plays in the 810 section in the back, and anything on psychology will be in the 150s. Go on and have a look and let me know what you find.”

The girl headed for the back of the shelves. The librarian lowered her voice to a whisper. “Here—just leave those with me. Why don’t you go get that car and do whatever errands you need to run and come back later in the afternoon.”

Renata dropped the suitcase and the bags behind the large, low desk. She smiled at Eve and headed out the door.

Eight hundred and forty-two dollars. With the hundred in the credit union account, it was all she had left.

And she was about to spend five hundred of it.

There was a check coming on Friday for her first partial week at the hospital … at $7.50 an hour, she’d take home under three hundred dollars. Given food expenses and everything else, she’d need to work three weeks just to break even.

That is, if she were still here in three weeks, if the FBI hadn’t traced her to a Greyhound ticket and a fake ID, if the Post didn’t run a photo that an agent or someone else in Garberville saw …

Renata inhaled sharply. What choice did she have? She’d made a decision—a decision to stay, at least until she’d done what she could or until she was forced to flee again. It was quicker and quieter than a Greyhound, not so easy to trace as long as she was careful on the road.

Trauma, Bechtel had told her, meant reliving pain, constantly cycling through it, the same words, the same reminders, the same arguments, over and over and over again. But diving into this, maybe finding some infinitesimal thread of the justice that had eluded her, eluded her sister, even after the diary she’d written and the plan she’d made and the obvious accomplishment of that plan, whether she remembered doing it or not—maybe that was the purpose she needed.

Purpose. Focus. The present. Not the agony of the past and the dead, empty vacuum of the future …

She looked up at the sound of waka-waka-waka and saw a black helicopter flying in the direction of Alderpoint.

She’d wait until the danger was razor-sharp, as clear as the crisp, green air around her. She would prepare, not panic, fight, not flee … not until she had no choice.

Renata touched the ground again and crossed the street.

The Mercedes was still there, but Friedrickson wasn’t, just flapping, faded orange pennants.

Maybe the pastor was still in church.

She hesitated. Amanda would probably be in the library for hours. She needed another place to wait until Friedrickson showed up.

Stonehenge was open, offering an assortment of bongs in the window display. It was nestled next to Mountain Mama and Sorenson’s on Redwood Avenue by Church Street.

The logo with a smiling Cheshire cat drew her eye down Church … Cabbages and Kings, the bookstore, just next door to Pathways and the Redwood Record.

The door chimed the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth, and a blonde in her forties looked up over tortoiseshell glasses.

“Welcome. Let me know if I can help you find anything.”

Renata nodded. The store was well-stocked, neat, and pleasantly laid out, with a tiny nook for children’s books and a separate small room for non-fiction. Various pens, colored pencils, and other writing and artistic implements sat in holders on the wide, central counter. Posters on the walls featured more cats, including a Steinlen print.

“I like the name of your store. I must’ve read Alice in Wonderland twenty times growing up.”

The blonde gave her a smile. “Thank you. We try to inspire imagination. It’s in rather short supply these days.”

The woman spoke with a light accent. Renata picked up a facsimile paperback copy of The Yellow Fairy Book.

“I’d think the natural environment here would inspire imagination all by itself.”

The bookseller was silent for a moment, then opened up the small gate that barricaded the counter and cash register and walked over to Renata and held out her hand.

“My name is MacKenzie. MacKenzie Scott. Old family name—we had it before John Phillips named his daughter.”

Renata laughed. “Natalie Connors. Most people call me Nattie. Nice to meet you. Is that a British accent?”

“A distant one, yes. I’ve been in California for thirty years and Garberville for fifteen. Family’s from Lancashire. Are you passing through town on your way somewhere else? You don’t look like someone here for the wretched harvest season.”

“I’m actually staying for a while but not for the harvest—just taking a break before law school and thought I’d see some of the country, working temporary jobs and earning my way across. I’m the new janitor at the hospital for the next few months.”

“I thought it might be something of that kind. You don’t look like an exploiter.”

Renata raised her eyebrows. “‘Exploiter’? I assume you mean all the marijuana stuff. Yeah, I’m not into drugs. In fact, when I arrived, I had no idea Southern Humboldt was so embedded in it—the whole economy and everything. I’ve since been told that most of the really bad problems are recent—I mean, not only the horrific killings of these poor girls—but organized crime cartels pushing out family growers—”

The blonde snorted. “If you believe that, you’ve earned a place at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Unfortunately, the whole history of Southern Humboldt is about exploitation … of the land, of nature, of the environment. It was the environment that brought me here and the environment that keeps me here … the only thing that does, really. You see, I love the redwoods. They are sacred, divine, more holy than any human-created mythology. And they need this odd rainforest climate to survive—cold, rainy winters where the drops are as big as a quarter, and summers hot and dry with moisture sent eastward from the sea. But the early lumber families clear-cut the land and left it to die. And their descendants would like to do the same again, even after the ’64 flood—they don’t care. They see only dollar signs, even if the world drowns around them or burns into an ash heap.”

She paused. “I’m sorry—go on back to your browsing. Even after all these years I’ve never quite learned how to keep my mouth shut.”

“No, no—Please. I want to learn about Humboldt, I really do.”

MacKenzie entwined her fingers together and held them to her lips.

“Well, simply put, other than timber or ranching families, most people came here to make money selling pot as part of the Back to the Land movement in the late ’60s and early ’70s. I journeyed here in 1970 as a would-be botanist, more inspired by Thoreau than Leary. But what the Back-to-Landers really wanted was a place with no law and no regulation. Once they discovered how well cannabis grew here and how easy the money was—no income tax, no social security deductions—they stayed on and the underground economy was born. But they’ve never been ‘family friendly’ or, even more important, earth friendly. Because while they claim to love the land and nature and hang peace posters, growing for them means pesticides, sprays, and chemicals, none of it regulated, of course, none of it kept out of the watershed. Along with human feces from lack of legal septic systems and everything else. Like the loggers, they pollute and exploit a very fragile environment.”

“So it’s always been this bad? Murders, missing people …”

The bookseller sighed. “There’s always been crime—lawlessness breeds lawlessness—but CAMP has streamlined the process by making sure only the big growers survive. Think what prohibition did to this country—it literally created organized crime. When your entire economy is built on the growing, selling and distribution of an illegal substance—one that should, frankly, be legal, as it’s far less toxic and dangerous than tobacco—it’s a small miracle things aren’t even worse. We see not only violent crimes like murder, rape, and armed robbery, but the financial kind, too: graft, grift, fraud, embezzlement—along with the typical small-town social sins that are so hard to prosecute like spousal or child abuse. A few years ago, a teacher was set up and run out of town on a rail—the stories I could tell.”

MacKenzie looked through the window at the parking lot across the street.

“And now … now we have a serial killer. In my darkest moments, I sometimes think what we need is another thousand-year-old flood, like twenty years ago, something wild and natural and clean to purge the soil and our souls.” She glanced back at Renata with a sad smile. “But I wouldn’t like to see the land and animals—and people—hurt. So we carry on. Those of us who love the environment and want to see it protected … well, we fight to save the redwood groves and we beg for donations from pot-growers who decimate the watershed and poison the Eel. And then we’re attacked by the timber families who want to clear-cut everything around them.”

Beethoven chimed, making Renata jump. A young woman entered holding a toddler by the hand, and MacKenzie hurriedly ran back behind her gated area, smiling wanly at the prospective customer.

Murders, graft, child abuse …

MacKenzie Scott’s perspective was unique and she seemed to know a great deal. Within all the mile-deep decay and corruption she’d described, was there some fact, some answer, that could point toward the killer of young women?

Renata took a breath. She’d come back and question the bookstore owner later. Maybe on payday. She waved goodbye to MacKenzie, who waved back absent-mindedly, her attention focused on keeping the unattended toddler from destroying a stack of cooking books.

The sun was starting to warm the cement on the sidewalks and asphalt and the hoods of the dusty cars at Friedrickson’s lot. Renata spotted the pastor-cum-salesman leaving the gas station store, holding a cup of coffee. He caught sight of her and waved.

“Good morning! It’s Miss Connors, right? Natalie Connors?”

She nodded. “Call me Nattie, Mr.—or do you prefer Pastor?—Friedrickson.”

His smile was easy. “Only if you call me Tom.” He ambled toward the Mercedes and patted its cream-colored hood. “You still interested in this beauty?”

“I’d like to test drive it—how about to Redway and back?”

He laughed and shook his head. “I trust you, Nattie. And I know where you work. You can drive it up to Eureka if you want. Just make sure the gas gauge is where it is now—at half. I wouldn’t take her out to places like Ettersburg or up any of our many dirt roads, though … her tires won’t take that kind of treatment.”

He banged his foot against the left front tire and chuckled.

Natalie smiled. “Redway would be fine for me.”

“You have your driver’s license? I just need to see it.”

She took out the fake license and handed it to him. He glanced at it and handed it back, then dug in his pocket for a key chain.

“I knew you were coming today so I made sure I had this on me. I also moved the car so you could drive her out. When you come back, just pull into the gas station.”

She took the key, which dangled from a key chain with a round piece of redwood with the words “to it” printed on it. She stared at the wood and Friedrickson chuckled again.

“My wife gives me those because I’m always telling her I’ll eventually ‘get around’ to it—‘it’ being cleaning out the rain gutters.”

Renata laughed and opened the car door. It opened easily, and she slid into the seat, not noticing any rips or tears in the dark brown leather.

The engine was sluggish and needed a couple of tries to turn over. Friedrickson’s smile waned a little. “She hasn’t been driven in a while. She’ll pick right up.”

He shut the door. Renata locked it before taking off the parking brake and putting the car in drive. The Mercedes lurched a bit, but she was able to inch it forward for a few seconds and then give it some gas. The car drove smoothly through the empty gas station.

Renata signaled to empty air behind her and turned left on Sprowl and left again on Redwood, this time waiting for a logging truck heading south and a man with a long beard who was crossing the street. The brakes weren’t too loose, and the car sounded like it just needed to be warmed up.

She pressed the gas pedal and headed north to Redway.

There were two miles between Garberville and Redway and not much else. No real downtown area, a few businesses—gas station, grocery store, and the Steel Spur, the well-manicured steak restaurant Mike had pointed out on their way to the Daytons. Along with the restaurants, a couple of motels and a trailer court lined the main road.

Tourism and time both seemed to have passed Redway by without much interference.

At the end of the buildings and the beginning of more trees, a sign pointed left toward the ocean and Shelter Cove, fifteen miles west. A seafood restaurant sat on the corner, advertising crab and clam chowder.

The car was running fine. A little sluggish on acceleration, but probably enough left in the engine to get her out of California.

She took the left turn and pulled into a parking spot along a tiny commercial strip, featuring an antique shop, a laundromat, and a dog-eared café, more rundown than the 101 where she ate breakfast every morning.

Her stomach growled. What the hell. The best test for the car was to see if it could start up again.

She shut off the ignition, locked the door, pushed open the screen door and walked in.

The décor was turquoise and tan, circa 1952. Two heavyset white men sat on patched leather counter stools, a giant bottle of Tabasco sauce placed between them, looking as stationary as the counter itself. A brown-haired fortyish waitress in a faded blue apron stood behind the counter, mopping it clean of a recent customer, while a group of teenagers sat in a booth in the back, their intermittent yelps and giggles the only real life other than a buzzing fly.

Everyone looked up when Renata walked in. The fly seized an opportunity and flew out the door.

“Can I help you?”

Renata sat down at the counter, four stools removed from the openly staring men.

“Cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke.”

The waitress grunted, retreating to the kitchen. Renata looked over at Crew-Cut and Oily Pants—probably a mechanic—and met their eyes. They stopped staring, with Crew-Cut managing a startled grimace in response.

Murmurs and whispers rose from the booth behind her interspersed with the more urgent noises of adolescence. The waitress came back out with Coke in a Coke glass, two ice cubes already melting against the straw.

She placed it wordlessly in front of Renata. The sound and smell of sizzling beef rose from the kitchen.

Renata was just starting to drink when a young female voice behind her said, “Hey.”

She jumped and turned to face a young blonde—the same one from Hamburger Haven. Scott Schwartz’s girlfriend … Molly? Martha?

“Uh … hey. We met at Hamburger Haven, I think. You’re—Martha, right?”

The girl was pleased. “Martha Thompson. From South Fork. You’re the new janitor, the one from Chicago. You came to the game against St. Damian’s. I saw you with Mr. Sharpe.”

“Yeah, you were cheerleading.” Renata smiled. “It’s nice to see you again, Martha.” She knew the answer but asked the question anyway. “Is, um, school canceled or something?”

The blonde shifted her weight and looked at the floor and then back at the booth. Renata glanced over, too, expecting to see Scott Schwartz. There were four other kids she didn’t recognize, two girls and two boys. They were all staring at her.

“Um, yeah. On account of the FBI and all. We’re not supposed to know but everyone does. They’re so stupid.”

“Who? The principal?”

“Yeah. We all knew Jennie—she was our friend!—and they treat us like we’re in kindergarten or something. We could tell them—oh, a lot of things. We could help.”

An open door. Easy, no pressure.

“You know, I’m, uh, not just working at the hospital. I’m also helping Mike Richards with the paper. Taking photos and everything. We interviewed Jennie’s parents. If you know something about Jennie, Mike would listen. I would listen. That is, of course, if you’d feel more comfortable talking to one of us rather than a teacher. The important thing is that you let somebody know what you know. I’m sure it would help the investigation—a lot.”

The blonde cocked her head, a doubtful expression on her face. She looked back at her friends and then back to Renata.

“How come you’re driving that car?” She asked it bluntly, forcefully.

“I—you mean that Mercedes? I’m, well, I need a car to get around, and Pastor Friedrickson has it for sale—”

Martha shook her head impatiently. “We know. He’s had it for sale for a long time—it was supposed to be for her. For Jennie. She was gonna buy it for three hundred dollars, and she saved for it and her mother was helping her—kept it a secret from her father because he’s a jerk. It’s hers. No one was ever gonna buy it because it was meant for her. Why are you driving it?”

“I—I didn’t know, Martha. No one told me. And I get it. But look, I need a car right now to help with the work I’m doing for Mike and for stuff like—well, I’m gonna be at South Fork on Thursday because Mr. Sharpe asked me to speak to one of his classes.”

“Which one?”

“I’m not sure. It’s at one o’clock, English.”

“That’s his sophomore class. I was in it last year.”

Martha cocked her head again, face thoughtful, outrage subsiding. “Well … I guess it’s not your fault. You didn’t know. He should have told you. Friedrickson. But my mom always says he worships money, not God, so I guess that makes sense.” She looked up. “What are you gonna talk about?”

“How to prepare for law school—legal careers—stuff like that. Anyway, I want you to know I certainly had no intention of slighting Jennie’s memory—it’s just the only car I can afford. In fact, I hope to do whatever I can to help—help find out who killed her. I’m not a journalist, but I do know a little something about law and crime—I majored in criminal justice. And in a town this size—I think if everyone does what they can—tells what they know—we’ll be a lot closer to catching the murderer. And maybe—maybe you and I could start by talking? Like, if you don’t want to talk to your teachers or the FBI, maybe you can talk to me, tell me about Jennie? Like—Martha, do you know if Jennie had a boyfriend? An older man she was seeing?”

The blonde was still staring at her. “I don’t want to talk to Mr. Richards.” Her eyes were doubtful but also imploring. “I—I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe Becky—”

A male voice yelled “Martha! C’mon!” from the booth. Renata whispered: “Leave a message for me at the Garberville library tonight if you want to talk. Just slide it under the door. Don’t worry, Martha—no one else will read it—Ms. Cannelly’s on vacation and I’m watching the place.”

The blonde threw a last worried look over her shoulder and hurried back to the booth.

The teenagers left. Renata finished her hamburger and dried-out fries and was relieved when the car started up on the first try.

The Mercedes. Jennie’s car.

When she pulled into the gas station in Garberville, Friedrickson came out of the shop holding another cup of coffee. His smile was large.

“So? Is it a deal?”

Renata smiled back. “Sure, it’s a deal, Pastor Friedrickson. For three hundred dollars—the same price you were charging Jennie Dayton.”

The corners of the smile retreated but the teeth stayed in place.

“Jennie? What does Jennie—”

“The car is worth three hundred dollars. I’m not sure it’s worth five hundred. And because it is now associated with a tragedy—a tragedy that cost you a sale—your limited customer base won’t buy it. No one wants to be seen driving around a car identified with a murdered girl. So you tried to sell it to me, an outsider, for two hundred more dollars. But that won’t do, Pastor. It just won’t do.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Friedrickson’s smile faded.

“You have the money in cash?”

Renata opened up her purse and withdrew her wallet. “Right here.”

He motioned with his head toward the small booth on the car lot, posture defeated. “We can sign over there.”

Renata pulled the car into an empty spot and climbed out, giving it a pat on the hood as she walked up to the shack to meet Friedrickson.

The transaction was almost wordless. The pastor barely looked at her license, murmured that she was responsible for her own insurance, and suggested she see Lynette MacIntyre, who, in addition to selling real estate, was also a part-time insurance agent.

Renata nodded and signed the papers. Lynette was also Becky MacIntyre’s mother … Becky, the girl with whom Jennie was supposed to spend the night when she disappeared.

Friedrickson pocketed the cash like a conjuring trick, handed the key to Renata, and muttered something about an appointment at church. He locked the little shack door, avoided her eyes, and practically flew across the street.

Renata backed up the car to the nearest pump, filled up the tank, and then slowly drove to the parking lot behind the library. Only two other vehicles were in it, a muddy half-ton Chevy four-wheel drive and a ’73 station wagon that was missing a bumper.

She stared out the windshield at the Redwood Record building and thought about Jennie, about the trips she’d never make, the wonders she’d never imagine, the dreams that died with her.

The dreams that might have helped kill her.

She raised her eyes to the mirror.

Josie was in the back seat, her head against the faded leather.

Renata climbed out, locked the Mercedes, and crossed the street toward The Bus Stop.

Buddy was eating a pre-packaged egg salad sandwich and a small bag of Lay’s potato chips. His mouth was full and he waved at her.

Two junior high-aged boys were culling the comic book rack toward the rear of the store, and an older teenaged girl was devouring the contents of a Rolling Stone.

The newspaper rack was unchanged.

Buddy swallowed, and called out: “Frank ain’t been by today. Might be an accident or somethin’ on 101 and sometimes he gets behind. Sorry, Natalie—you can try again on Thursday.”

She threw him a bright smile. “Thanks, Buddy. See you later.” He nodded, taking another bite of sandwich, and she headed for Sprowl Creek Road.

She stood in front of the small, sprawling one-story office, all redwood beams, clinging ivy, and mottled shade from the redwood that filled the front expanse. A placard read Donald Austin, Family, Probate and Real Estate. There was a discreet buzzer next to the placard, no hours posted. Renata pressed it.

After a few seconds, the door opened. Mrs. Turner looked surprised.

“I’m sorry—Mr. Austin is in Eureka. There aren’t any appointments in his calendar for today—”

“Actually, I’m here to see you. My name is Natalie Connors … Marcus may have mentioned me.”

A fleeting, almost imperceptible shield closed over the woman’s face. She was very pretty, short-haired, elegantly though simply dressed in a lavender skirt and cream-colored blouse, and didn’t look more than thirty-five. Her eyes briefly flickered over Renata. She didn’t smile.

“You’re the one who works in the hospital as a janitor? Who likes knives?”

The other woman looked pointedly down at the scabbard on Renata’s belt.

“Uh—yes. I work at the hospital as a day janitor. I’m also working for Mike Richards on the Redwood Record. I’m taking time off before law school, seeing the country, working my way through—that’s why I’m in Humboldt. I met Marcus in the Army-Navy store after he was attacked.”

“What do you know about that?” Her voice was sharp and direct, and Renata resisted taking a step backward onto the dirt path and redwood needles. Mrs. Turner was now standing outside the door, and it was almost shut behind her.

“The day before, at Hamburger Haven, I overheard another teenager—one I’d describe as a racist bully and troublemaker—threaten Marcus. He even accused him of Jennie Dayton’s murder. Marcus was just walking across the street at the time. I assume the boy and his friends jumped your son.”

The other woman kept her eyes fixed on Renata’s for a full three seconds. “I don’t want my son buying a knife—or thinking about one. Or any weapon. So I don’t appreciate the fact that all I’ve been hearing about lately is ‘Ka-Bar’ this and ‘Ka-Bar’ that. He seems to have taken a liking to you. But understand—I protect my son. I protect him from enemies and I protect him from people he thinks are his friends. Marcus mentioned something about Chicago. This isn’t Chicago, Miss Connors. You are not going to put him in even more danger than he already is.”

Renata bowed her head and backed up. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Turner. That is the opposite of my intentions.”

She turned to leave when the other woman called her back.

“Wait.” The petite woman took a breath. “I like to think my son’s a pretty good judge of character. And he likes you. Maybe … maybe we should talk. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To discuss Marcus?”

Renata raised her eyebrows. “Mrs. Turner, from where I stand, Marcus doesn’t need help from me or anyone else to take care of himself. No, I actually came by to ask if you wouldn’t mind talking to me about something else.”

Mrs. Turner studied Renata. Then she pushed the door open.

They sat together in the outer office, sipping chamomile tea.

“So while I’m here, even though it’s just for a few months, I’m working with Mike Richards and helping him with his own investigations into—what’s happening to Humboldt. He asked me to talk to South Fork students, which is why I was at Hamburger Haven and overheard Scott Schwartz. I actually met Marcus by accident—I’d seen him across the street when the Schwartz punk threatened him—and ran into him while I was buying this knife—the Ka-Bar.”

Mrs. Turner sighed. “Well, that explains the nickname. I won’t lie to you, Ms. Connors—”

“Nattie.”

“All right. Nattie. You can call me Katherine. So, yes, I’ve been worried. It’s been difficult for us. You may have noticed there aren’t many Black folks up here. We’re—I expect racism. We have to—we deal with it every single day of our lives. People locking their car doors if they see Marcus on the street, women clutching their purses when I’m in a store. People with half my education or none of it talking to me like I don’t know anything.”

She shook her head. “That’s living as a Black person in America. And yes, it can be even worse in a lot of other towns and cities and states. But up here, we’re so alone … it’s hard not having a real community—people to talk to, to trust. We moved because I thought getting out of the city would be good for Marcus and money goes further than in the Bay Area. Donald Austin is a friend of one of the attorneys in the law firm I used to work for and he’s a nice man—a good man.” Katherine sighed. “Marcus has always been social and he misses his friends but he developed some new friendships, including that girl Jennie—did you talk to him about that?”

“I did. Did you ever meet her?”

“Never. I wasn’t too happy about it, to be honest. Not after Donald told me Mr. Dayton was making noises about my son. But Marcus is pretty independent, which is a good thing, mostly.” She smiled. “But it also leaves a lot of room for me to worry.”

Renata nodded. “Understandable. Provincial, rural white town—whole lot of ignorance, whole lot of bigotry. Scott Schwartz is a prime example. For what it’s worth, though, the rest of the kids I saw weren’t as toxic, so maybe—hopefully—Southern Humboldt is better than he is. None of the others took what he said about Marcus seriously. Some even pushed back. Still … he was able to enlist two other thugs to help him gang up on your son, so that malignant little bully’s got followers—and influence.”

“Just like his father.” Katherine’s voice was bitter. Renata took a last sip and laid her cup down on a small, dark wood table.

“He’s actually why I came to see you.”

“You mean Peter Schwartz? What about him?”

“He’s friends with some men—Bill Rader, for one—who I’ve been told are taking bribes, pay-offs, working with the dope cartels up here. He’s also friends with Jennie Dayton’s father—according to him, Schwartz convinced them to move here—and Bill Rader’s property is where her body was found, as I’m sure you already know. And he’s been buying up a lot of land lately, by the Garberville airport.” She met Katherine’s eyes. “I was hoping you could tell me more. I’m not sure what, if anything, these men have to do with Jennie’s murder, but I thought it was worth looking into.”

Katherine Turner’s mouth stretched into a thin line.

“I have to see Peter Schwartz in this office almost every week. I have to hold my breath when he walks too close to me. I have to hold my tongue when he looks at me too long and too openly, hold my fist clenched when he brushes my behind and pretends he hasn’t.”

Renata leaned forward. “Why is Schwartz in here every week? Other than to harass you, I mean?”

“I really can’t—shouldn’t—say much. Not for that fool’s sake—but for Mr. Austin’s. Still …” She finished the tea and carefully set aside the empty china cup.

“There is a great deal of secrecy surrounding whatever Schwartz is doing. And he’s not alone. He—and like you said, Bill Rader—Rory Peterson, the Sheriff—and that grotesque preacher—what’s his name, Hamlin—they’ve formed some sort of corporation. But Schwartz is the one signing the deeds of sale for the land … a lot of it. All around where that tiny landing strip they call an airport is, there and other land in Alderpoint. I say secrecy because Donald draws up most of the papers himself—I see only a few, and of course, schedule the appointments.”

“How long has this—company, or whatever it is—or even Schwartz himself—how long has all this buying been going on?”

“For more than a year, as far as I know. Before Marcus and I moved here. That’s based on the few dates I’ve seen, anyway.”

“So right around or right before CAMP started hitting Humboldt County hard?”

“That sounds right. Do you think there’s a connection?”

Renata rubbed her nose. “Everything in this county seems linked to the marijuana industry—either its production or its prosecution. Or both … maybe at the same time. Has Mr. Austin seemed nervous about whatever they’re doing? Stressful, or maybe even guilty?”

Katherine shook her head. “No, Donald is a good man. And he’s—well, he’s obtuse. He passed the bar exam, of course, but he’s more of a glorified notary than anything else—I mean, he draws up contracts and wills and researches property law, but he doesn’t—he doesn’t make connections between anything. He sort of stays in a bubble.”

“These property records are public, aren’t they?”

“Some part would be. Corporations tend to bury information behind holding companies, but Schwartz’s name should be linked openly. In fact, that’s why Donald is in Eureka today—he’s filing property information with the county.”

“It sounds as though there’s definitely something to look into. Guess I’ll make the trip to Eureka on my next day off.”

Renata rose and smiled. “Thank you very much for speaking to me, Mrs. Turner. And I—I understand about Marcus—about your worries—as much as I can, anyway. Will you two stay on in Humboldt?”

The other woman shook her head. “I can’t afford to uproot us right now. When we leave, it will be because we are positioned for it … ready for it. Not because some—some redneck has driven us out. There are good people here—Virginia Esposito, Marcus’s English teacher, even Ed Dawson, one of his coaches—and a number of good people in town as well. Including Mr. Austin.” Her eyes fixed on Renata’s. “Marcus and I will be all right.”

Renata nodded. “Please tell him hi for me. I’m proud to know him. And you.”

Katherine escorted Renata to the outer door.

“Please keep me posted. And be careful out there”—Katherine grinned for the first time and nodded at the leather scabbard on Renata’s belt—“Ka-Bar.”

Mike looked like he’d just woken up. He stretched his eyebrows and rubbed his nose, then he stood back a foot or two, running his fingers through his hair.

“Hey, Nattie—sorry, was just proofing an article for Thursday’s edition. Stayed up too late last night getting today’s paper out with Chris—he’s still asleep. Oh, I might have another interview lined up for photos for you this week, or at least another football game. What’s up?”

“You know anything about a corporation—a corporation for buying up property near the Garberville airport? A corporation that involves Schwartz, Rader, Peterson, and Hamlin?”

Mike fell into a chair, only half-exaggerating. “Wh-at? I told you I’ve heard Schwartz is buying property down there, but nothing about—you sure? You sure all of them are involved?”

“As sure as I can be. I’ve bought a car from Friedrickson and I’m heading up to Eureka on Thursday to see what I can find out in the records office. I thought Rader already owns most of Alderpoint—”

“He does, as far as I know.”

“And Hamlin’s Alderpoint-focused, too, right? With his creepy ‘retreat’ or ‘school’ or cult center, whatever it is—”

“Some kind of born-again Bible school—specifically for kids and teenagers, but with a ‘relaxation and meditation’ thing for adults, whatever that means. I don’t know much else beyond that … he’s been avoiding an interview for months.”

“Well, whatever they’ve been doing has been going on since CAMP. Maybe since Amy’s murder. And that’s the thing—is there a connection? I mean, they’ve formed a corporation and Schwartz is friends with Jennie’s father and Rader’s property is where Jennie was found. And Alderpoint’s also where you think the biggest of the cartels is focused, right?” She shook her head. “Something’s going down.”

“You think one of them’s the serial killer?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Hamlin certainly gives me the creeps. Rader subdividing his Alderpoint land but buying up airport property with Schwartz, Hamlin’s so-called school, Peterson in on everything … it must mean something.”

“Yeah. Speaking of which …” He stood up and rummaged around on a desk, shoving aside a stack of newspapers, and then handed her a used manila envelope marked with red pen.

“Here you go—the autopsy reports on Amy and Dawn.”

She tucked the thick envelope under her arm. “Thanks. Anyway—see what you can find out on your end and I’ll let you know what I find in Eureka. And I haven’t forgotten the kids … I’m speaking to Ian Sharpe’s English class on Thursday afternoon.”

He smiled. “You’re all over it. So you bought a car? What kind?”

“An old Mercedes. It was affordable. I’m also—well, I’m staying in the library for the foreseeable future. Watching over it. There’s a little shower and room set-up in the back. So if something comes up, I’ll be right down the street.” She smiled. “Eve’s going on vacation … permanently. But that’s strictly off-the-record. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Of course not. Glad you found something to make the money stretch. As a matter of fact, Chris—”

“Hey, Mike—aren’t you gonna introduce me?”

Renata pivoted, surprised by the sudden interruption of a strange voice.

In the doorway leading to the rest of the house stood a well-built, shirtless man in his early twenties with shoulder-length, tangled dirty blond hair and some Grateful Dead tattoos on his chest and arms.

He was grinning. He walked over to stand in front of Renata.

He was close. Too close.

She took a step back.

Mike was laughing. “So you got your lazy ass out of bed finally. Must’ve sensed a pretty girl in the house.” He winked at Renata. “Nattie, this is the bad boy of the Redwood Record—Chris Salazar.”

Chris stuck out a hand, still grinning. “Nice to meet you, Nattie. Don’t let Mike fool you. He’s way worse than I am. Did you give her a copy of the paper, dummy?”

Chris smelled like weed, ketchup, and Ivory soap. His voice was lazy, syllables elongated, but his movements—and his eyes, despite the bloodshot irises—were much quicker.

Mike scrambled around a stack and handed her a paper. “That article on Jennie and the interviews with her father and Rader are in there. Along with your photos, of course. We also ran a profile of the cheerleading squad at South Fork and the typical sports scores, births, deaths, and marriages. We didn’t get to sleep till three.”

Renata glanced at her watch. “I’ll let you guys get back to waking up. Nice to meet you, Chris.”

His grin remained in place. “You too, pretty lady.” He waved and walked back down the hall.

Mike shot him a glance and escorted Renata out the door.

“Don’t worry about Chris—he’s just a ladies’ man.” He smiled. “Not that I blame him where you’re concerned. Let me know what you find out about that corporation, Nattie. And … be careful.”

She stood outside, literally and figuratively catching her breath.

God, there was too much to think about. Mike’s mild flirtation—that attraction she wanted to nip in the bud—and Chris Salazar, for two. Chris was attractive in a Jim Morrison kind of way, less dark and more stoned, a “bad boy” and a “ladies’ man,” Mike called him. Her instincts told her to stay away.

Away from Chris, away from Wayne Hunt and any cop, most particularly far away from the FBI, currently interviewing South Fork faculty …

At least she’d bought a car—albeit one that wore the tragedy of Jennie Dayton like a neon paint job. Nondescript it wasn’t, not in Garberville, at any rate, but it had four wheels and an engine and could roll out of town and out of sight if the danger got too close.

And she’d learned about a corporation of crooked men—with connections to the victim—and discovered that Martha, Jennie’s friend, knew something, something she was worried about. Renata wondered whether it had anything to do with the man Jennie had been planning to meet.

Every instinct, everything she’d ever learned, pointed to him as her murderer.

This wasn’t the Green River Killer. It shouldn’t take the FBI longer than a day to realize that—hell, it wouldn’t have taken them this long, if they knew what she knew.

What Marcus knew.

She looked around. It was just after three o’clock and Redwood Avenue was busy again. Monday in Garberville had been about withdrawal, isolation; Tuesday was about gossip, chatter, grouping together in grief and fear.

She walked to the corner of Redwood Avenue, staring down the street. A South Fork crowd filled the outdoor picnic tables at Hamburger Haven, even—maybe especially—with classes canceled. Renata thought she saw Martha and her pack—without Scott Schwartz—forming a cluster at the table closest to the street.

If she approached her now, Martha would shy like a startled deer, especially with her friends around. She had asked the girl to leave a note at the library, but Martha wouldn’t go near the place while it was open.

No, she’d have to wait. It was Martha’s move right now, not hers.

But there was another South Fork student Renata hadn’t met yet—Becky MacIntyre, Lynette MacIntyre’s daughter. Jennie’s best friend … the one most likely to know the murdered girl’s secrets. She might know something about the older fantasy “boyfriend,” the “present” he gave Jennie—the present that was supposed to have been in her locker. Maybe even what happened to Jennie’s missing diary. Chances are Jennie hid it, gave it to a friend. Or the serial killer had taken it from her, another violation on top of so many.

Lynette MacIntyre, insurance and real-estate agent, worked in a small, painted storefront office right next to Hamburger Haven. Renata tucked the manila envelope of autopsy reports more firmly under her arm and headed back to the cream-colored Mercedes waiting for her in the Church Street parking lot, exchanging the thick envelope for the much smaller one sitting under the back seat. She again walked toward Redwood Avenue while a waka-waka-waka sound heralded a black helicopter flying low toward the Garberville airstrip.

It was time to buy some car insurance.

A loud electronic chime chirped at Renata when she pushed open the door. A cluttered desk filled up the small room, and she noticed a stack of orange printed flyers sitting crookedly on its corner, showcasing what looked like a double-wide mobile home on a hilly slope of trees and grassland.

A large, bright gold triplicate picture frame stood behind the flyers, facing the gray fabric office chair. Before Renata could get a peek at it, a brunette in her early forties entered through the door with a large, toothy smile plastered on her face.

“Hello! May I help you?”

Her voice was as aggressively perky as the door chime. The woman was eying Renata carefully, top to bottom, and her glance stopped short at the knife scabbard.

“I’m, uh, new to the area. Just staying for a few months. My name’s Natalie Connors.”

Lynette’s smile turned off the high wattage and settled for a night-light. “I see, Miss Connors. How can I help you? I’m assuming you’re here through, say, November?”

Renata smiled. “I’m not here for the harvest. Just traveling across the country on my way back to law school and I’ve stopped in Humboldt for a while. I’m working as the hospital janitor to help finance my trip.”

The brunette’s eyebrows climbed to her hairline and she visibly relaxed. “Oh, well, if that’s the case—did Doris send you? Are you in need of a rental? I can probably find—”

“No, I’m actually here about car insurance … that is, if you are the Lynette MacIntyre Pastor Friedrickson told me about.”

Another smile, and Renata made it a big one. Short laughter from Lynette while she lowered herself into the office chair.

“I do so many different things around here sometimes I forget!” she added. “Did you just purchase a car from Tom—Pastor Friedrickson?”

“Yes, I did. I have the papers right here.” Renata handed over the manila envelope and glanced down as she leaned forward. “What a beautiful family you have! Three daughters—such a blessing!”

Lynette looked surprised again, then fixed her gaze with satisfaction on the triplicate frame. “Thank you. Of course, a boy would have been nice, but girls are so much less trouble when they reach that age, you know? Becky is the oldest at sixteen and she’s already a Rainbow Girl and in the Soroptimists and I fully expect her to win the Rotary Club scholarship when she’s a senior. That’s Karen next to her—she’s in eighth grade at Miranda Junior High. And that’s little Vicky, our youngest. Still in Redway Elementary for a couple of years. I’m proud of my girls.”

Renata nodded. “You should be. They sound like they’ve got the whole world to look forward to.” Lynette was opening the envelope and pulling out the information on the Mercedes.

“Exactly! I want my daughters set up for success. I want them to dream big—bigger than Garberville.”

“I’m actually going to be speaking at South Fork on Thursday. About preparing for law school. Maybe I’ll see your eldest daughter there—it’s for Ian Sharpe’s class.”

Lynette threw her an alert glance. “Ian Sharpe? He asked you to speak to his class?”

Renata made a self-deprecating shrug. “I think the idea is to help give students a view of college as well as different parts of the country—different goals, different places. And to take their minds off of … off of these horrible, horrible murders.”

Lynette’s mouth settled into a grimace and for a moment the sales-face dropped into concerned, exhausted motherhood. She shook her head.

“I’ve lived here all my life. All my life. I’ve never—never felt so … vulnerable. So, so afraid. I worry sick about my girls. Becky’s not at school today because the FBI is conducting interviews with the faculty. Can you imagine? The FBI?”

She shook her head again. “You may not know this, but … Becky was Jennie Dayton’s best friend. So, understandably, she is … well, she hasn’t been herself. She’s withdrawn, moody, won’t eat. Gets angry when I won’t let her go out. But I can’t let her go out, not when there’s this—this psycho roaming around. I mean, pot’s one thing, but murder? A serial killer, they’re saying?”

Renata murmured sympathetically: “I heard that, too. You know—you might try seeing a therapist or counselor for Becky—I think one is available for the students. I—I lost a family member when I was young. It does help to talk about it.”

Lynette froze up a little at the word “therapist” but replied “Oh, really?” in a non-committal way. She studied the car details with her brow knotted.

“This is the cream-colored Mercedes Tom had, right? Why, that’s the car that—”

“Jennie was supposed to buy. Yes, someone told me that.”

The realtor sighed. “Well, I guess he needed to sell it.” She looked up at Renata shrewdly. “You know, we’ve got a law from last year that mandates minimum liability coverage or you lose your license. The thing is, no one is enforcing it yet because it has to go through the courts. That Rose Bird thinks it’s unfair to poor people in Los Angeles, or something.” She rolled her eyes.

“If you’re in an accident and you tell the police officer you don’t have coverage, they’ll take your license. If you tell them you do … they’ll probably believe you. So there are a lot—and I mean a lot—of people who are holding off on insurance. I can give you a quote”—she grabbed a notepad and a calculator—“and then you can tell me whether it’s worth it to you. I’m mentioning this because if you’re not going to stay in California, you’re probably better off getting liability in a cheaper state. Texas has very cheap rates.”

Her fingers flew expertly over the calculator while she wrote down a few numbers.

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. MacIntyre. I appreciate it very much.”

The brunette smiled and handed her the sheet with the quote and the manila envelope and papers. “That’s minimum liability for six months. If you’re interested, just let me know and we can start.”

“Thank you so much. I, uh, also wanted to suggest—in case it would help—well, I’m also working with Mike Richards on the Redwood Record, doing some photography, and perhaps—perhaps Becky would like to write something, or maybe talk to Mike—an interview, a kind of profile …”

Conflict was writ large on Lynette MacIntyre’s face. On the one hand, Becky talking to anyone was obviously not something she wanted. She was one of those mothers who thought she, and she alone, should be enough for the girl—a best friend and confidant. On the other hand … newspaper coverage. Good positioning for scholarships and letters of recommendation through the temptation of a possible front-page photo and article.

The realtor sighed. “I’ll—I’ll think about it. Just like you think about whether you really want to buy coverage, Miss—I’m sorry, what is your last name again?”

“Connors. But please—call me Nattie.”

“All right. Nattie. I’m Lynette. I admire Mike’s work very much. He’s made that paper something to be proud of—not just some kind of marijuana rag for hippies. I’ll think about it. And meanwhile, please give Mr. Sharpe my regards. My husband and I support his drama program. Becky was in Our Town last year.” She smiled, clearly done. “Nice to meet you, Nattie.”

Renata turned back from the door. “You too, Lynette.”

Shadows were starting to lengthen on Redwood Avenue. Renata avoided looking toward Hamburger Haven and walked quickly back to the Church Street parking lot, stashed the car folder in the car and checked her watch.

4:12. Just under an hour before Eve shut the library. It was going to be her home for the next few weeks, but she didn’t want to lock herself in until it was absolutely necessary.

Maybe some water for the night … the library pipes might be OK for showering but not so great for drinking. Pathways was right in front of her.

She bought two bottles of spring water and another bottle of sparkling apple juice along with several packets of sesame honey candy, noted the wide assortment of fresh vegetarian sandwiches, thanked the counter girl with a cannabis leaf tattoo, and left.

Immediately to her right she heard a sound that made her flinch.

It was Hamlin, standing on the small sidewalk in front of Cabbages and Kings. His back was toward her as he loomed over his daughter, the one Renata remembered from the South Fork game.

“Chas, you know you can’t read books like that.” A hairy hand squeezed the girl’s shoulder. “Remember Corinthians? ‘Now the body is not for fornication, but for the Lord; and the Lord for the body. And God hath both raised up the Lord and will also raise up us by his own power.’”

The girl said something under her breath and his body seemed to swallow hers. “Are they saved? Are they servants of the Lord? They aren’t like us, Chas. They aren’t pure. And anyway, you won’t be going to South Fork next semester—no more temptation, no more bad, so-called friends.” He reached out a thick finger and stroked his daughter’s cheek, trailing it down to her neck. “Obey your name, Chastity. Obey your father. Obey your Lord.”

Anger. Anger and bile, both rising in Renata’s throat.

But the rage, Dr. Bechtel, what can I do about the rage …

The girl was staring at the sidewalk, body slumped, withdrawn, disassociated.

She already looked dead.

Hamlin held his daughter by the arm, stepped off the pavement, and headed for the parking lot across the street. He pushed her into a half-ton Chevy truck and then climbed into the other side and started the motor. Chastity shrank into the far corner, crouched against the door.

Renata stood staring after them, breathing hard. MacKenzie came out of the bookstore and spoke softly.

“Tragic, isn’t it?”

Renata’s legs were shaking, but the anger kept her focused. Kept her on the ground.

“That girl …”

The blonde shook her head. “I know. Hamlin is a relative newcomer—he’s been here for three years now—but he’s got God on his side. Or so he tells anyone who asks about his family.”

Hamlin turned right and drove off toward Redwood Avenue. Chastity never raised her eyes to look out the window.

Renata stared after them. Breathe, in and out, in and out …

“What was the book she wanted to read?”

“Judy Blume’s Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret.”

“She’s a little old for that, isn’t she?”

The bookseller shrugged. “His children aren’t supposed to even walk in here, let alone buy a book. He controls everything.”

But the rage, Dr. Bechtel, what can I do about the rage …

MacKenzie saw the look on her face, patted her on the arm and walked back inside.

Renata already missed the strong, steamy shower in her former motel room. She hoped the library plumbing would be hot enough and forceful enough to dissolve the stench of Hamlin’s presence.

The preacher seemed like a cult leader, a Jim Jones, maybe even a Charles Manson. A man abusing his daughter, abusing his family, making sure whatever he was dealing in—religion or dope—would bring in profit. The records in Eureka would prove something, something foul, something illegal, she was sure of it.

But was Hamlin also a serial killer?

He’d arrived three years ago … the same year Amy was killed. And, as MacKenzie mentioned … he claimed to have God on his side.

Was that enough? Enough to lure a young girl into his celestial orbit, seduce and chain her to a cult, gaslight her into a perversion of reality in which he was not only a Prince Charming, but a fucking deity?

She shook her head. Jennie seemed stronger than that. But so had so many others before her …

Renata checked her watch again. 4:23. Not much time before Eve closed the library, but probably enough to buy a pizza from Mamma Mia’s, even though she didn’t feel much like eating.

Renata took a quick back route down Locust to Conger, turned left and walked into the restaurant. She ordered a medium pepperoni and mushroom to go and wandered over to the Army-Navy store to wait.

She walked up and down the short aisles, looking through a box of compasses, stacked army blankets, and sailor hats.

Another unexpected voice made her freeze.

“What about that Saturday Night Special—the Rohm .22?”

The big, bearded man at the counter was laughing. “Whaddya need another gun for, Wayne? You already bought the best gun I had with that S&W .38, plus the county gave you a fuckin’ .44!”

She peered out from around an endcap stocked with camo T-shirts and pants. Wayne Hunt, in uniform, was laughing and holding a small gun in his hands.

“You can’t have too many—and besides, this here is just for me and the truck when I’m not on duty. Small enough to fit in the glove compartment. How much?”

The bearded man shrugged. “I can let it go for fifty bucks. I’m not sure how straight it shoots, though.” He lowered his voice. “Tell you the truth, not even sure how legal it is—got it in a trade and found out later the serial number’s filed off.”

Hunt pointed it to the left, extended his arm, closed an eye and looked down the sight. His tongue protruded out the side of his mouth. “Don’t you worry about the number, Buck, ’cause you’re selling it to me. And it don’t matter about shooting straight if it’s close enough to the target.”

Renata stepped into his field of vision. He lowered the gun and slowly smiled.

“Well, if it isn’t little Nattie. That’s right—this is your day off, isn’t it?”

She walked toward the counter. “How’s Doris?”

“Doris? She’s fine. Well, maybe not fine. I swear, that woman is clumsy—I mean, I love her an’ all but she’s clumsy as all get out. She took a fall and sprained her shoulder and now she can’t cook, so I’m picking up a couple of pizzas.” His lips rose in a grin and he gestured to the knife on her belt. “You like knives, I see. You get that Ka-Bar from Buck here?”

She raised her eyes to the bearded man at the counter, who smiled at her. “I did.”

Hunt nodded, still grinning. “If you’re lookin’ for protection—not that you need it, mind, not in Garberville—a knife’s not what you want, you know. Too easy for a big hand to take it away. You might want to look at the guns—Buck don’t have many, but I think he’s got another .22 somewhere.”

“That’s just what I was thinking. Only I was thinking of a shotgun, not a .22.”

“A shotgun?” Hunt’s eyebrows raised and he laughed with his mouth open. “You goin’ after a bear, Nattie?”

She smiled easily. “No, no bears for me. I just don’t like to miss.” She nodded at the men, both still chuckling, and went back to Mamma Mia’s.

Renata’s arm was sore from the Pathway’s bag over her forearm and her hands were burning from the hot pizza by the time she reached the library at 4:53. Josie was waiting at the door.

Eve was pacing in front of her desk like a big cat at a zoo, exclaimed as soon as she saw Renata, and held the door open for her, looking down Redwood Avenue both ways. She locked the door behind them and flipped over the closed sign.

“I never thought you’d get here! What took so long?”

Renata set the pizza on the desk with the bag. “Supplies. And I ran into some unpleasantness. Nothing you need to worry about—not any longer.” She smiled at the librarian. “OK, what’s next?”

Eve gestured with her head toward the back of the building. “I already moved your luggage as soon as Amanda left.”

Renata followed her toward the very end of the building. A small, cheap plywood door stood in a hastily erected drywall. Eve turned the handle and flipped on a light switch as she entered.

Behind it was a small room with cheap white paint, a single metal cot and a thin mattress, a desk lamp on top of a five-drawer chest of drawers missing one of the drawers, an ancient school desk—the kind with ink wells—and a mini-fridge and rusty microwave sitting on top of a broken wooden bookcase lying on its side. A dirty window above the bed faced the parking lot and a thick oak door as old as the building was next to the window. On the right was another cheap door, which Eve pushed open to reveal a tiny, yellow-tiled room with a toilet, a small sink and a shower stall lined with mildewed yellow tile. Eve turned on the faucet in the sink and let the water run brown.

“Everything is washed and cleaned and there’s a case of toilet paper in the corner. Extra sheets and blankets—even an extra pillow—are in the two bottom drawers of the dresser. The mattress is only about a year old. The window doesn’t open but the door does, if you need to make a hasty exit for any reason. The fridge and the microwave both work, so you can buy some frozen food and save money that way. The overhead light doesn’t show from the front and if you need a bigger desk surface you could probably drag the lamp out and hook it up by one of the tables in the rear.”

She turned off the faucet. “All clear now. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s free and you won’t be bothered.”

Renata nodded. “It’ll work just fine. Thanks, Eve. Who else knows about this place? I mean, obviously it’s here for a reason …”

The librarian turned a shade of red. “Well, to be honest … it was used as a clipping parlor last season. There’s a young man who works with Mike Richards—Chris Salazar—”

“The printer’s son?”

Eve looked relieved. “Yes—have you met him? Chris’s family has been in Southern Humboldt for over a century. His father used to own the paper. Anyway, he—well, he needed a place to work that was close to the Record, and he—well, he—”

“Helped finance your trip to Cancún. I get it. Anyone else?”

“Not in recent memory. We just took over this building about four years ago. But, as I say, you’ll be fine. Just make sure you lock the doors and check the lights. Here’re the keys. Gold one for the front door, silver one for the back.”

She held out a key ring with two keys on it.

“Now, remember—the library is closed tomorrow, so no one will try to come by until Thursday. I suggest that you, er, go somewhere early that day. Leave up the closed sign and perhaps write and post another sign saying that I’m on vacation and the library is closed temporarily. Oh, I forgot—all kinds of supplies in my desk—paper, pens, stapler, first-aid kit. It’s not locked and use whatever you need. There’s also a fire extinguisher up by the front door in case you didn’t notice it.”

“Do you think someone will call the county—maybe have the police come by?”

Eve snorted. “Not likely. First, like I told you, Amanda is the only person, other than Mrs. Schumann, who uses the library regularly. Second, Eureka never knows what’s going on here and honestly wants to forget about us. And the sheriff won’t be worried about it, especially with everything else right now. Just say I’m on vacation and then plead ignorance—ignorance is always easy to believe around here—and that should buy you at least four weeks. I can’t guarantee more than that, of course, but four weeks’ free room should help. And then maybe you could work out something with the county about watching the inventory when they get my resignation and realize I’m not coming back.” She shivered. “Anything else I’ve forgotten?”

Renata held out her hand to the librarian. “Thanks so much, Eve. Librarians were always my heroes. I hope you find what you’re looking for in Cancún.”

A predatory grin lit up the other woman’s face. “I intend to, believe me. And then it’s back to the city and looking for work again. The county won’t badmouth me. They won’t dare.”

They walked to the front of the building together. “You were asking about the newspaper—the Redwood Record copies are in that big gray file cabinet on the left—over by the periodical indexes. Should go back about five years—that’s when we ran out of money to process them properly. Oh, I almost forgot—garbage. There’s a silver can that’s usually stored in here. I moved it to the very back. Just make sure it’s outside on Redwood Avenue on Friday mornings. There’s a dump over by Redway, too, if you want to go in person.”

She nodded, looking around one more time. “All right, I’m gonna exit through the front. I’ll lock you in but remember you have the key to get out.” She held out her hand to Renata.

“Take care of yourself, Nattie. And safe travels.”

Renata smiled. “You too, Eve. You too.”

It took her some time to make it look habitable. She stashed the bottle of apple juice in the mini-fridge and turned down the temperature, placed the water under the appliances at the bottom of the bookshelf, tested the cot—it didn’t break—and turned on the lamp. Josie was sitting in the antique school desk.

She took the Dial soap from the Camelot Inn and her small bottles of Prell shampoo and conditioner, toothpaste and toothbrush and a disposable razor, and moved everything into the tiny bathroom. She usually started her period around the first, but she found the Tampax box, too, just in case. Then she pulled out her blue cotton pajamas, found the extra pillow and an old green wool army blanket and threw them on top of the thin mattress.

Renata looked around the small room with her hands on her hips.

Goddamn it. She’d forgotten the autopsy reports and the car folder.

She sighed, grabbed the pizza box and a bottle of water, turned out the light and stepped cautiously into the back of the library.

The light was dim but not fully dark—plenty of noise outside on Redwood Avenue, nothing from the parking lot behind. She found an old plastic chair and pulled it up to a worn oak table with a lot of names carved into it from fifty years of use.

The pizza was cold now, but still tasty. She wiped her fingers with the napkins they’d given her, popped one of the sesame-honey candies from Pathways in her mouth—better put those in the fridge or there might be ants—and took a breath.

This could work.

Renata examined the back door. She inserted the silver key and felt the tumblers turn, unlatched the chain lock and slowly pushed it—hard—until it gave suddenly and opened about three inches.

She hastily pulled it close again and listened. Female voices, a car starting. She waited until the engine noise revved and pulled away, then pushed the door open again, this time just a crack.

Cabbages and Kings looked closed. A lanky man with a long braid was walking out of Pathways, heading for Redwood Avenue.

The Mercedes was in the parking lot right in front of her. Renata quickly sidled out, walked nonchalantly to her car and grabbed the manila folders. A man in his sixties was ambling down Church so she just sat behind the wheel, watching until the street was empty again, then locked the car and slid back inside the library.

She locked the door and linked the chain lock.

She was in a library of her very own, after hours, secure and safe.

And now it was time to get to work.

The metal doors of the big gray cabinet swung open with an unearthly screech, revealing bundles and bundles of yellowing newspapers tied with fraying string. Renata picked up two stacks of about twenty-five papers each. She hoisted them on the table, turned on the lamp, and began.

It was a world at once strange and recognizable: the drama of high-school football games, lists of honor roll students and scholarship winners and cheerleaders, profiles on short-haired boys and pasty-faced girls raising prize-winning sheep for the Future Farmers of America.

No mention of how the FFA felt about Humboldt’s actual crop.

For parents and adults, there were articles on the timber industry and the price fluctuations of redwood and fir lumber, the occasional fire or earthquake news, stores closing and businesses opening, land sales, and even reports of vacations to faraway places like Tahiti by the more adventurous citizens of high income in Southern Humboldt.

The list of travelers included several teachers, who—reading between Mike’s lines—hoped to open up a bigger world to the kids they taught. The lesson of the articles was clear: there was more to life than the choices their parents made.

More to life than the timber dollars, more even than the pot money, the blood that pumped life to the economy and kept it beating, the illegal river of green and gold that flowed through every gas pump and filled every cash register and kept the neon open signs turned on down main street.

Garberville and Redway and every little hamlet between Leggett at the tip of Mendocino County and the start of Humboldt County proper just south of the timber town of Scotia were represented by the Record, and though the physical environment here was unlike anything she’d ever known, the people were the same: business, personal ambition, and societal position dominated community interest, whether it was the cheerleader try-outs or a meeting of the Rotary Club.

South Fork High offered the Future Farmers and the Future Homemakers, football, basketball, baseball, and wrestling, and a relatively new drama department, supervised by Ian Sharpe.

The secretive Masons and their Rainbow Girls promenaded through the pages along with the not-so-secret clubs; the Rotary, the Soroptimists, the Lions, and the Veterans of Foreign Wars offered meetings, dinners, and the stagnant fellowship of small-town fraternal organizations. Mike rotated his coverage, though the students and residents who participated in all the social happenings that Southern Humboldt had to offer naturally appeared more often.

Crime was dependable news. CAMP arrests, burglaries, car thefts and assaults, with or without deadly weapons, all ticked upward during the summer and fall, along with the disappearing people that were as much a part of the season as fireworks and barbeque.

Drunk and disorderlies rose during local events like the rodeo and music festivals that brought in more tourists than locals. The latter were happenings designed to beef up the bottom line and keep the river of green-gold flowing, even under the noses of CAMP. One was south of the town along the river, a folk festival that functioned as a three-day open-air drug market with music, if the ads and subsequent rise in emergency room visits were anything to go by. Renata noticed Peter Schwartz was quoted as one of the backers.

With the black helicopters spying from above, it was a hell of a lot easier to pass the dutchie in a left-hand crowd.

Library or hospital news would sometimes fill Mike’s columns, along with the standard obituaries, usually senior citizens of long residency, but occasionally victims of a car crash on the treacherous roads.

Every week, on Tuesday and Thursday, Mike reported on the concerns and preoccupations, the desires and fears and obsessions of the Southern Humboldt community, every week, week after week. A pretty impressive feat for any journalist, let alone someone in a town of eleven hundred people in the proverbial middle of nowhere.

She looked at her watch. It was 10:13 p.m. and her stomach was growling and she was thirsty.

But she finally understood where she was.

It took another hour and some breathing exercises to get through the autopsy reports.

Cause of death was the same in each case: strangulation. The killer wore gloves, but not the same kind—in Amy’s case, tight leather. In Dawn’s, possibly latex. Jennie’s report offered no specifics.

Amy Fulton was raped and probably strangled at the same time. They found her half-buried in dead leaves next to a redwood in a grove behind the Miranda Market, the only store in Miranda and conveniently located across the street from the school.

Just the week before, the Record had covered the departure of Henry Jones, the teacher who’d been run out of town, with a story of how he was leaving South Fork “to take up ranching in Montana.” Chaos and rumors must’ve been swirling and the killer probably took advantage of the timing.

Amy was bruised around the wrists and upper arms and was last seen at a pep squad club meeting after school on Tuesday, January 26th, 1982. She told at least one friend that her mother was picking her up. Her mother adamantly denied knowing anything about it—she was working at the feed store in Garberville until six p.m. that night and Amy had said she’d catch a ride home with a friend.

She was probably attacked at the place of her burial two or three hours after the meeting ended. Time between her disappearance and discovery was two days.

Dawn had run away from home (three brothers, two sisters, unemployed father, mother worked as a hotel maid) and left a note referring to a “boyfriend.” She hadn’t been raped but there was semen found in her underwear, which had been removed and replaced. She was in a white dress, the same one she’d worn to the prom just a couple of weeks before, and was found propped against a redwood tree on the edge of Standish-Hickey State Park, about five hundred feet off Highway 101, on Tuesday, May 29th, 1984. She had bruises on her legs, arms, face, and stomach. Like Amy, she’d presumably been assaulted in situ. Time between her disappearance and discovery was five days; she was probably killed the evening she didn’t show up for dinner on Thursday, May 24th. Her mother reported her missing the next morning.

Jennie disappeared in Garberville when she was on her way from a Rainbow Girls meeting to spend the night with Becky MacIntyre. She was last seen at the meeting. Like Dawn, there was semen in her panties, which were torn and had also been removed and replaced. She had been killed inside a building with hardwood floors—there was a remnant of floor wax and Pine-Sol on her skin. Her body had been placed in a carpeted car trunk and then driven and dumped just outside the old lumber camp on Bill Rader’s property in Alderpoint. She had a subcutaneous contusion on her skull that could have rendered her unconscious before she was strangled. Bruising was consistent with Amy’s, mainly on the wrists and a large bruise on her upper left arm.

Renata rubbed her eyes and set her pen down. There was something … she quickly paged through Amy’s again, back to Dawn and Jennie.

Her eyes opened wide.

Amy: “bruising on the neck commensurate with a ligature or necklace being pulled, right earlobe also bloodied and torn …”

Dawn: “small scrape on the back of the neck, probably abrasion. Not a defensive wound.”

Jennie: “very small linear scrape on left side of neck …”

She sat back in the hard chair, breath uneven.

How had no one noticed this? Or maybe they had. The FBI certainly would.

She picked up the pen again and started writing, struggling to keep up with her thoughts:

1. Man, local to Southern Humboldt (knows the terrain, knows about jurisdiction, i.e., Standish-Hickey, Alderpoint), old enough to drive. Possibly student when Amy was killed, at least young adult now.

2. Someone kids trusted. Teacher, coach, volunteer, family friend. Someone circulating in the girls’ orbit, not just the adult world. Someone who could cross over, back and forth … fraternal clubs had events for kids, the Lion’s Club speech contest, the Masons’ Rainbow Girls …

3. “Boyfriend.” Dawn ran away to be with one, Jennie mentioned one to Marcus. Can’t be anyone too old to a sixteen-year-old, maybe forty at the most but likely younger … a dreamy girl’s boyfriend, an older ideal, someone who “understood” her and would rescue her from her parents, or possibly a kind of cult leader with authority and mastery. He gave the girls jewelry. Jennie’s “special present” was probably a necklace, one he gave to the other girls he murdered and then took back, hence the autopsy findings …

4. Someone who blended in. Teachers had obvious access. Ian was probably being watched and the fact that the FBI started with the faculty at South Fork wouldn’t be lost on any parent paying attention.

5. Smart enough to not leave fingerprints or a scene that implicated him and enough money for the stability required to make plans. Risk-taker, of course, narcissism off the charts, obviously a psychopath, but still cautious. And he’d changed course after Amy … no penetration.

6. A charming Ted Bundy type, but not as impulsive? He’d probably killed before. Serial killers start early and are caught late, so maybe someone who moved here within, say, five years of the first murder. An ambitious, dangerous, careful predator … evil with an everyday face.

It was after midnight. Less than five hours for sleep.

Snarls, garbled growls, and incomprehensible, slurred shouts echoed down Redwood Avenue, audible even in the back of the library … product of the three bars at the end of the street. Funny how noises like that are labeled inhuman. No non-human animal could sound like that.

No note under the door. Not tonight. Maybe Martha would try tomorrow.

Renata closed her eyes and tried to breathe, tried to calm down.

Who killed Jennie Dayton and Amy Fulton and Dawn Bianchi? Who was Jennie’s dream-man, the prince with the slipper, in this case a necklace or choker, a thin piece of gold or silver or cheap metal that he used to lure them, bind them, and ultimately kill them?

Was it the preacher, Hamlin? Perverted enough, controlling enough, and he was a part of the corporation, Alderpoint-focused, a corporation with links back to Jennie’s father through Peter Schwartz.

What about Wayne Hunt? Brutal, violent, abusive. He would eventually kill Doris if she didn’t get away. Abuse always escalated, even when the woman convinced herself that if she only stayed, helped her husband, changed her ways, everything would be all right … she knew from experience, from witnessing her uncle hitting her aunt, how the myth of saving the husband doomed the wife.

The emancipation suit had saved her and Josie. Eventually her aunt had saved herself.

But nothing could have saved Josie from Sergei Grinkov …

She breathed in sharply. Kept breathing, in and out, body trying to let go of the pain.

She was starting to remember, starting to feel again, and not just the suffering, so tortuous, so unthinkable that she died a little every time she heard or read her sister’s name.

The trauma was getting better, she realized. She hadn’t broken down again. The focus—the investigation—was helping her. No blackouts, not since the night she woke up and saw Sergei Grinkov’s body with a bullet in his head, slumped across from her on the concrete floor of the public storage shed.

The shed where he’d murdered Jennie.

And then the shock, the horror of the fantasy she’d held on to and nurtured, made manifest and real in front of her … no wonder she’d blacked out again, at least her conscious mind, her body an automaton in reactive motion, dragging his body, just as she’d prepared, under his arms, shoving it in his car, shoving it back out in front of the nightclub, then dumping the car God knows where—the park, where she’d planned?—and waking up in her own bed in a fetal position, muscles aching, bruised and with a painful bump on the right side of her skull.

No fucking wonder.

No blood on her clothes, so she must’ve used the plastic tarp and disposable rain jacket, though who knows where she’d disposed of them. A garbage can downtown? And there must’ve been activity, police or gangs or drugs, outside the Pussy Cat that night, so she’d improvised, used the Peek-A-Boo lot and not the strip club where he’d thrown her sister’s body like so much refuse, broken, mangled, shattered …

Renata took a breath. She’d executed her sister’s killer, and her body had done all that while her mind—her conscious mind—was shut down.

The bullets in his knees had shocked her, though. Not right, not part of the plan. Not part of the execution. Renata scrunched her eyes tight, face taut in a struggle to remember.

And not just the knees …

A noise made her eyes open.

She waited. Small shreds of light struggled through the torn blinds on the one window of the room.

There. A scratching sound. Metal on metal.

She sat up, shifting her weight quickly, and the cot squeaked.

The noise stopped.

She swung her legs off the mattress and lowered them until her feet felt the wooden coldness of the floor. Her eyes flicked up to the blinds.

Another scratch.

Not from the window.

From the door.

Renata stared, her feet frozen against the ground, watching as the doorknob on the heavy door turned and trembled.

Someone was trying to insert a key.

It was Josie who shook her from the paralysis, Josie who pointed to the Ka-Bar knife on the table.

Renata stood, grabbed the knife, and simultaneously flicked on a lamp light.

Soft footsteps on concrete, hurrying, vanishing in the night.

Footsteps.

Renata finally fell asleep three hours later.

IV

Foul whisp’rings are abroad. Unnatural deeds

Do breed unnatural troubles.

William Shakespeare, Macbeth,

Act V, Scene 1

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25th

Somehow she made it through work, through a bitchy nurse and a broken vacuum cleaner belt and an X-ray technician who kept staring at her. Renata closed the door of the maintenance room and leaned against it and thought for the millionth time about last night.

Someone had tried to get in. Someone who either wanted something in the library—something stashed she didn’t know about—maybe even basic shelter …

Or someone who wanted her.

Fuck. Only Eve and Mike knew about her staying there and Eve obviously wouldn’t tell anyone and she didn’t think Mike would, either. Someone else who knew about the room in the back, then, maybe someone looking for a cache of dope or something. Someone like Chris Salazar. Maybe he was drunk, forgot where he was, tried to open the door …

No. Whoever it was wasn’t drunk. Those were careful, quiet sounds.

Then again … maybe it was Chris. He’d bothered her yesterday, his closeness … his physicality. And what if someone had seen her slip out the back door? Who knows how long that little room had been there? How many people knew about it?

Had it been a buddy of Chris’s? Someone who figured they could manicure some weed, drop some acid, and read Madame Bovary at the same time? Maybe it had nothing to do with her personally.

Renata pried herself off the door. She hoped it would make more sense when she got some sleep.

She walked by Doris’s office, doubled-back.

No sound, no Wayne Hunt. She knocked on the door.

No answer.

A lab technician walked by. “You looking for Doris?”

“It’s nothing important. I—I heard she hurt herself. I just wanted to see how she is.”

He nodded. “She was here this morning but didn’t feel well and went home. She’ll be back tomorrow.”

Renata thanked him and left.

She breathed in the cool moist air outside, scent of clouds and fog forming at the coast. By nightfall they’d fill the riverbanks like wads of fluffy wet cotton, delivering moisture and life to the redwoods.

Hunt’s abuse was becoming more frequent. He wouldn’t have mentioned that “fall” yesterday at the Army-Navy unless Doris was visibly hurt, and she must be in a lot of pain to go back home, to go back to the place where he had all the control.

Damnit. Maybe she could talk to Doris on Friday. Talking was about the only thing she could do for her …

Garberville looked at Doris Hunt and saw a vague, silly, middle-aged woman, married without kids, itself a sign of failure. She was too nervous, too hesitant, too shaky … too afraid. She drank too much to numb what was happening to her, physically and emotionally, so they looked at her and shook their heads and said “what a pity” and eventually would fire her. The sharper, competent woman they originally hired was long forgotten.

They’d attend the inevitable funeral and buy a wreath, and feel sorry for Wayne Hunt and wonder what lucky woman might make wife number two.

None of them saw Doris, the real Doris. They only saw what the abuse had made her, what she covered it up with, what she created to cope with it.

And by this time, Doris couldn’t see Doris either.

Renata sighed. She’d do what she could. She just hoped Doris would hear her … that it wasn’t too late.

She started walking back toward the library. She struggled to put Doris out of her mind and thought about sleep; her second thought was to talk to MacKenzie—the bookstore owner noticed people, maybe saw someone hanging around last night—and afterward she could ask Mike about the library room and Chris Salazar.

The street was nearly deserted. Hammering a few blocks away, a car or two driving by. At night it would be so easy—pick up a young girl, probably pre-arranged—and no one to hear.

No one to see.

Renata pushed open the door to the bookstore.

MacKenzie looked up from the paperback she was reading behind the counter and smiled. A high-school girl was perusing the mystery section; a bald man in his fifties was poring over a book about home canning.

“Hey. Had a question for you.”

MacKenzie turned to check the customers, then stepped from behind the counter. “Come outside for a minute.”

The two women moved to the door, the blonde leaning against it to hold it open.

“What’s going on? You look worried.”

Renata lowered her voice. “Did you see anyone—I don’t know, kind of prowling around last night? Before you left in the evening?”

The bookstore owner looked nonplussed. “Not that I remember. In fact, I don’t remember anything or anyone unusual. Typical weekday traffic, people who park here and work in one of the stores around the corner or Pathways. Why?”

Renata paused. She liked MacKenzie. What’s more, for reasons she understood and for some she did not, she trusted her.

“I’m, uh—staying in the library. Secretly. It was Eve’s idea … she’s left Humboldt.”

“She finally got away to Mexico, huh? Been planning that one for a while. So you’re in that little room where Chris was holed up last year? Is there a problem?”

Renata wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or worried that MacKenzie knew about the room, about Chris, about Eve. Jesus, this town …

“I—don’t know. Maybe. Someone tried to get in last night.”

This time the blonde raised her eyebrows. She held up a finger, and turned her head to speak through the door: “Just let me know if you need anything, OK?” Then she let the door swing shut behind her.

Renata gestured toward it. “Shouldn’t you leave that open?”

“Because of shoplifting, you mean? Listen, Margaret in there will buy an Agatha Christie eventually and Morris is always looking for hobbies. It’ll take him a while. Neither one of them is a thief. Now, what about last night?”

“I don’t know, I was—it was late, I couldn’t sleep, and someone tried to open the door. I saw the knob turn and everything … scared the shit out of me, to be honest.”

“You didn’t get a look?”

“No. The window’s pretty filthy. The only people who know about me sleeping in the library as far as I know are Eve and Mike—and now you. I thought maybe it was someone who left something or knew about the room—”

“You mean like Chris Salazar?”

“Yeah.”

MacKenzie heaved a sigh. “You’d best ask Mike. I’ve always thought Chris was a good kid, but he’s kind of rudderless right now, if you know what I mean. Drifting … from place to place, job to job, girl to girl. He’s loyal to Mike, though. And it’s entirely within the realm of possibility that he got high and forgot he wasn’t staying there or that he scored some dried cannabis and needed to manicure it.”

“Well, that makes me feel a bit better. I figured I’d talk to Mike but wanted to check with you first.”

“I wish I had more information for you. Will you be OK? I’ll definitely keep an eye out.”

“Thanks. Yeah, I’m heading to South Fork tomorrow. Ian Sharpe’s class. Mike’s told me a few things about the high school—”

“You mean like our ‘disappearing’ civics teacher? Henry Jones?”

“‘Disappearing’? I thought he was run out of town—”

“Oh, he was, he was. That was—let’s see—three years ago. 1982. Same year that Ian was hired, same year that Williamson replaced Cameron as principal. Same year that Amy was killed. What did Mike tell you?”

“Not a lot.”

“Well, talk to Ian. And when you’re done, come back and we’ll talk some more.”

The blonde stared ahead into the line of green trees on the horizon.

“You know, someday they’ll legalize it. It was legal before, and tobacco is dying in this country and will eventually kill off enough people everywhere else for the conglomerates to need something else to grow. And when it’s all said and done, all these people will have died for nothing and the earth—the environment—will have paid the price. Greed at the top, greed at the bottom … except the ones at the top never suffer the consequences.”

She sighed and put a hand on Renata’s shoulder. “Like I said, Nattie—I’ll keep my eyes open. But for God’s sake, be careful.” Then she walked into the store and shut the door behind her.

Renata’s fist thudded against the thick door. Nothing. Mike was out, maybe photographing the football team or whatever South Fork student was going to be profiled in the next paper.

She put her back against the door for support. Exhaustion was overtaking her. Just a few things to buy before she could crash.

Smith’s Sporting Goods chimed a do-re-mi in high C when she opened the door and stepped inside. Nestled on the block between the 101 Café and the library, the window display showcased thermal sleeping bags, snug, waterproof tents and heavy-duty flashlights. Inside, the store was larger than it looked from the street. The knotty pine walls were lined with a large variety of hunting rifles, complete with scopes, hunting knives and a couple of composite bows, while the far end of the long rectangle was filled with fishing supplies, including wading pants, nets, and a harpoon.

A fat white man about fifty with a George Gobel flattop was sitting behind the counter and staring at her.

“Can I help you?”

Renata glanced around. Not a place she wanted to browse.

“Yeah, thanks. I’m looking for a couple of good strong flashlights and some dishes for camping—maybe Granite Ware? Plate and a bowl?”

The fat man grunted and moved off his stool with surprising alacrity, locating and offering a couple of hefty steel flashlights and a blue spackled plate and bowl.

“You want batteries to go with the flashlights? Need a coffee pot for the campfire or waterproof matches?”

She acquiesced to the batteries and matches—what the hell—and thanked Smith or whoever the man was. He unbent and threw a calendar for the South Fork Bear Cubs into the paper bag.

One more pit stop. Buddy was behind the counter at The Bus Stop and he greeted her with a giant grin.

“Hey, Natalie! How you doin’?”

She mustered a smile. “OK. Just extra tired. I need a few supplies. Do you have any paper plates?”

Buddy was only too happy to help. She settled on a pack of twenty-five Chinets, some plastic cutlery, Brawny paper towels, a bottle opener, a bundle of twine and a spool of thread, two Cokes in bottles, two microwavable piroshkis, a chocolate chip Mega Muffin and some powdered sugar Donette Gems, all topped with a day-old San Francisco Chronicle and a USA Today.

Buddy stared down at her basket. “You sure do keep up on the news! I listen to KGO in the mornings, but that’s about it …”

She stopped on the way to the counter. “I almost forgot. Do you have a bell anywhere? A small bell?”

Buddy’s eyebrows climbed. “A bell? You mean, like Christmas or something? I mean, Natalie, it’s only September …”

She forced out a laugh. “Yeah, I know. Just a little project of mine.” She turned her head and glanced down at the small pet section, offering two kinds of cat and dog food, collars and a leash. “There—I’ll take that cat collar. It’s got a bell on it.”

Buddy shrugged. “You want a bigger one, you might try Sorenson’s. They sell fabric and stuff. Maybe they’ll have bells. I don’t know—I took woodshop, not home ec!” He laughed at his own joke and helped Renata put everything on the counter. A few minutes later and a few dollars less, she was out the door, waving at Buddy and promising to let him know how the bell project turned out.

People were coming into town for late afternoon dinners and a movie or shit-talking in the bars at the far end, and the streets and gas stations were getting busy. She tucked her head down, a bag in each hand, and hurried across the street. Still not looking up, she headed straight for the library door and was setting down the bags to get her key when she felt someone’s eyes and looked up to see Amanda standing in front of her.

The girl was staring at her, pink backpack on her back, arms wrapped around a large hardcover book.

Renata tried to smile. “Hi, uh, Amanda. You know it’s Wednesday—the library’s closed.”

“Yeah, I know. I live over by the cemetery so I like to walk by and look in on my way home. If it’s closed, what are you doing here?”

The girl was pointedly looking at the shopping bags on the sidewalk, the spackleware sticking out like red flags.

Shit. Nothing she could come up with right now was going to sound convincing.

She sighed, pulled out the key. “Come in for a minute. We need to talk.”

Renata set the bags on Eve’s desk and closed and locked the door behind them. Amanda was wearing a self-satisfied smile.

“You’re living here, aren’t you? I thought so yesterday. Suitcases and all. Is there a kitchen in the back? Where’s Ms. Cannelly?”

“She’s away. On vacation.” Renata looked down at the girl. “OK, look, Amanda. I’m going to let you in on a secret. Please don’t tell anyone, because it could make trouble for Ms. Cannelly. Not your mother, brothers or sisters—”

“I’m an only child,” the girl interrupted. “And my mother is too busy with work to pay attention. She does accounting and office stuff for Square Foot Surveying. My father died when I was little. My last name’s Baird.”

“I’m sorry about your father.”

Amanda shrugged. “I don’t really remember him. I mean, maybe a little. Anyway, what’s the secret? I promise not to tell anybody. Are you a cop or something? Is it about the murders?”

Again, the girl’s perspicacity surprised Renata. “No—I’m not a cop. As a favor to Ms. Cannelly, I’m staying here for a short while to look after the library. Ms. Cannelly may not be … coming back. And, no, there’s no kitchen.”

Amanda pointed to the spackleware. “That’s for camping. You can’t light a fire in the library.”

Renata shook her head and grinned. “They’re for eating on, not cooking on. There’s a microwave and I’ve got paper plates for that. Anyway, the library will be closed while I’m here, but I can let you in to look at the books—you’ll just need to be quick and sneaky. Not act like you know I’m here. It’ll be a few weeks before Ms. Cannelly gets everything straight with the county.”

The girl looked up shrewdly. “I get it. I won’t tell anyone. I’ll miss her … she was a good librarian, even if she didn’t really like Humboldt very much. Hopefully the next librarian will be OK. I need to check out a couple of books tomorrow—will you be here?”

“Probably in the late afternoon. I’m speaking to a class at South Fork tomorrow.”

“Mr. Sharpe’s. Sophomore English, college prep. I’m in it.”

“Well, good. I’m glad I’ll know at least one student. The class is at one … let’s say meet me back here after school around three thirty. You can spend about fifteen, twenty minutes max looking through the books then, OK? I’ll have work to do.”

“What kind of work? Your job is at the hospital.”

“I’m working with Mike Richards, too. Taking photographs for the Redwood Record and doing research.”

“Is this about the murders? The serial killer and everything? Because if it is, I can help you!”

Renata stared down at the intently eager face. “What kind of—what do you think you know?”

“Lots of things. Me and a couple of friends are in a detective club—we meet behind the Frosty Freeze after school. A lot of people hang out at Hamburger Haven, so we go there instead. We started meeting up when Jennie disappeared.”

“Do you know Martha—Martha Thompson, I think her last name is? Or Becky MacIntyre?”

“I know ’em but we don’t hang out. They’re juniors, I’m a sophomore. They’re cheerleaders. Why? Are they on a list or something? Are they targets?”

“Not that I know of. But I’m trying to—to talk to Becky. For the paper. She was Jennie’s best friend.”

Amanda nodded. “She won’t talk to anybody, though. Skips class. Depressed. Our club’s narrowed it down to some teachers and the creepy cult guy. Or maybe a pot farmer—some people say Dawn rode her horse too close to one the day before she was murdered. You wanna hear our theories? They’re sound, scientific—”

“I have no doubt about it. How about tomorrow, when you come in for the book? I didn’t get much sleep last night and I’m really tired right now … I need a nap before I can think about much.”

“Cleaning is hard work—all manual labor is. Maybe I can help you with the journalism … I’m a good writer. I wrote an exposé in junior high about the slop they serve in the cafeteria and got hauled up in front of the principal for it!”

Renata put a hand on the girl’s back and guided her toward the door. “He sounds like a real bully.”

“He was. The food was terrible … I’m surprised no one was sent to the hospital. The women hired to cook it were stupid and mean and some of them had records. You know, police records.”

Renata unlocked the door. “Sounds like something out of Charles Dickens.”

Amanda nodded and pushed open the door a few inches, looking both ways down the street. “It was very Oliver Twist. All right, Miss Connors—”

“You can call me Nattie, Amanda. Just not in class tomorrow, OK?”

The girl smiled. “OK. I’ll see you tomorrow. And don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody.” Amanda Baird squeezed through the opening and scurried down the street toward the north end, her pink backpack with the We Are the World sticker bouncing in time to her feet.

By the time the sudden, jarring jangle of her old Westclox made her jump off the cot, disoriented, it was five thirty and the library was dark. Renata sat on the edge of the mattress, listening to the voices from the sidewalk along Redwood Avenue and the motors overturning in the parking lot behind the back door.

She quickly opened the bag from The Bus Stop and unfolded the newspapers, scanning for any mention of Grinkov.

Farm crisis, increase in car sales, rally for dollar in exchange markets, Rambo unseated from box office throne by Back to the Future …

Nothing in the Chronicle or USA Today. Hadn’t gone national—not yet.

She exhaled.

Thursday would bring the Times and maybe the Post.

She’d been lucky so far, and not just with news coverage. She’d manage to avoid the FBI, ranging over Humboldt between here and Eureka, focused on South Fork High School, analyzing a serial killer. Three agents? Four? How many more days?

God, she hoped Mike was right—maybe they realized by now that the murders weren’t linked to the Green River Killer and they’d fly back to Seattle. Keep an eye on the investigation from a distance. In the meantime, at least she had the library to hide in … and the car to flee in. There was still Wayne Hunt, of course—and that cop who’d noticed her at the football game.

Her stomach growled. The piroshkis in the mini-fridge didn’t sound very appetizing. Renata threw on her coat and waited until the foot traffic subsided on Redwood Avenue before sliding through the front door and heading for Hamburger Haven.

The restaurant was still busy; a gaggle of teens was still teening and preening at an outdoor picnic table.

Martha Thompson was one of them.

No Scott Schwartz, but the other kid, the lone Hispanic she’d seen in Garberville, Matt something, she remembered, was at the table with his red-haired girlfriend. The rest of the kids she didn’t recognize and none of them seemed to pay much attention to Martha. She looked as alone as teenagers get, not talking much, no attentive male company, no backup girlfriends.

She raised her head as Renata approached and then quickly turned away again. Renata acted like she didn’t notice and walked inside to order. She waited behind a large woman with three loud children under twelve, and by the time she walked back outside, Martha had moved away from the group and was sitting by herself.

Invitation? Maybe.

Renata headed for the same table. The blonde looked up at her, fear—and something else—in her eyes.

“Hey, Martha. Thought I’d come say hi. I’ll be at South Fork tomorrow, like I told you, talking to Ian Sharpe’s class.”

Martha glanced nervously at the dwindling group of her friends a couple of tables over. Matt was busy playing with the redhead’s hair. Two other girls were leaning over the table whispering and giggling.

“Uh—yeah. I had it last year.” Her voice lowered. “Look—did you mean what you said? About—about, like, me, uh, telling you stuff—it might—it might, like, help? Find the killer, I mean.”

She spoke in a whisper, posture stiff, poised like a jackrabbit in front of car lights.

Renata nodded gently, holding her eyes, not wanting the girl to bolt.

“OK. Um—can’t be here. Not—not with everybody—”

“No, no, don’t worry. I’m—the library’s closed but we can meet there. Ms. Cannelly’s on vacation and I’m watching it for her. That’s why I said you can slide a note under the door. No one will find out.”

Martha unfolded the tiny square of napkin she’d been folding and refolding and twisted the paper into a rope.

“I won’t have to—to talk to anyone else? Those FBI agents—they’re still at school—I don’t want to talk to them, they—like, they don’t understand, anyway, they’re asking us all kinds of stupid questions and making us see some stupid shrink, like that’s going to help. I mean, we’re scared—we’re afraid to, like, cross the friggin’ street to go to the store or get a cupcake from Coach’s mom. We’re afraid of … of each other.”

Renata nodded again. “You won’t have to talk to anybody else right now. If what you say leads to a charge against someone … I can explain the whole process and you make the decisions, OK? The important thing is that you feel safe—protected. And there’s someone else who could help, too—Becky MacIntyre—Jennie’s best friend. Do you think—do you think maybe you can ask Becky if she’d talk to me as well? Just like you are?”

Martha’s eyes grew wide at Becky’s name. Her voice dropped to an even lower whisper.

“Becky’s my friend—she’s more scared than any of us. She won’t even talk to her mom about it. And she just told the sheriff and the FBI people that she didn’t know anything.”

“I don’t blame her. What you’re going through … it’s horrible and it’s terrifying. But if I set up a meeting for the two of us—in the library, say tomorrow evening—maybe Becky could meet us there? I think—I think whatever information you and Becky have is crucial, Martha. Crucial to catching this monster. You think maybe you can speak to Becky about it?”

Martha stared down at the remnants of cold fries and ketchup and bacon burger. A young man with acne emerged through the front door and called out “Natalie—hamburger up for Natalie!”

The girl spoke slowly. “I’m gonna see Becky tonight. Her mom arranged a sleepover—she’s worried about Becks, thought it would help if some of us got together, you know, talk about regular stuff and not—not all this. At least that’s what my mom told me.” The blonde looked up and met her eyes. “I’ll ask her. I just—slip a note under the library door?”

Renata nodded. “I’ll get it—and no one else will see it.”

Martha bit her lip, glanced toward her friends and back again. “All right. You’d better get your burger. I’ve gotta get to Becky’s.”

The blonde pried herself off the picnic table while Renata stepped inside to retrieve her food.

By the time she returned with a tray, Martha—and the rest of her group—had left.

Renata stood up, stretched, and stared at the thirty-odd newspapers spread on the library table, their paper even more yellowed under the light of the incandescent lamp.

There was one sure truth about serial killers.

They start killing long before the first body is discovered.

This killer preferred teenage girls innocent enough to dream, to believe what he told them. But if he couldn’t groom his choice of victim … the compulsion would still drive him to find someone else.

Between 1977 and 1979, there were two disappearances of young women in Southern Humboldt. In 1980, there were three. In 1981, two.

In January, 1982, Amy was killed. But also three other women under the age of thirty-five disappeared.

CAMP was created in 1983. Four more women under thirty-five went missing that year.

Dawn was found May 29th, 1984. In 1984, two other women vanished.

So far in 1985, authorities were still searching for three missing women.

Renata closed her eyes and wondered if any of these women had turned up on a street corner in San Francisco or Los Angeles or Reno or Redding. Whether they had vanished, a lost note on the wind, a bus stop away from the nearest flop, the nearest bar, the nearest bed; whether they were mourned or missed, grieved or forgotten, whether they’d made any impression, however small, however infinitesimal, because memory, and only memory, was alive, was real, could light our way through the dark and cold and claustrophobic spaces, because memory is what kept the past from ever being past and the present and the future from devouring us.

Three girls were dead. Seventeen women were still missing.

In five years.

In a remote, rural area, where the epicenter of civilization was a town of less than two thousand people built on drug traffic and endangered trees.

She stacked the papers and wiped down the table.

Early day tomorrow, first research in Eureka and then Sharpe’s class. The Clerk-Recorder’s Office probably opened at nine, maybe eight. Eureka was about seventy miles north on 101. Say an hour to get there, maybe two hours to research Schwartz’s mysterious corporation before heading back south to the Avenue of the Giants and South Fork High School.

Martha thought the feds were still there. They’d apparently interviewed some students yesterday, not just faculty. Made sense, but … fuck. Not the day for her to visit. What if they were sitting in on classes? And tomorrow was another newspaper delivery, another chance for her name and photo to be splashed across a page, another chance for someone to recognize the new day janitor at Redwood Memorial …

Breathe, Renata … breathe. In and out, in and out …

She closed her eyes and climbed back off the ceiling and washed her face and brushed her teeth. Josie was still sitting at the library table. Was starting to crawl into a T-shirt and sweatpants when a noise at the front of the library jerked her head around and made her heart jump in her throat.

Three beats. No more noise.

She reached for the knife and flashlight sitting on the mattress and crept across the wood floor.

Flicked on the flashlight.

Something pink was sticking out from under the main library door.

She picked it up. A small envelope—smelled vaguely like Love’s Fresh Lemon.

No name.

She ripped it open. Only one line, written in a purple felt-tip with big, loopy handwriting:

8 o’clock tomorrow.

She exhaled, walked back to her makeshift bedroom and cut a long piece of twine and a short piece of thread. Pried the bell off the cat collar with her knife point and looped the thread through the top. Made a tight knot over the back doorknob with the twine and tied the thread through it. The bell hung from the doorknob, waiting for any movement.

Renata carefully put the knife under the thin pillow, turned out the light and went to sleep.

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 26th

Patchy, low-lying fog drifted across 101 and clung to the redwood groves. It hung on past the highwater mark of ’64 and the Miranda turn-off, clouding her windshield all the way to the lumber mills of Scotia and the lumber company town of Rio Dell.

Finally, it climbed upward to form a gray canopy over the bottom lands of dairy-rich Humboldt, lush pastures dotted black and white and brown with frosty-looking cattle grazing on bright green grass, becoming thicker as she passed tiny, once-thriving fishing and lumber towns and approached the outskirts of the county’s only real city, Eureka.

Once past the mid-century outer sprawl of motels, truck stops and diners—the Seafood Grotto boasted the Best Clam Chowder in Humboldt!—it was clear Eureka’s heyday had been about a century earlier. Victorian houses in various conditions and colors had been converted to shops and apartments along gridded streets in the city’s “old town,” with a smattering of arts and crafts homes and stately civic brick buildings.

Renata could almost hear the noise of the busy wharf, the traffic and goods and people and crime that must have flourished along bustling Humboldt Bay.

Now it was quiet, still, seagulls gliding on currents along sandbars, their raucous shrieks replacing the noise of loading and unloading steamer ships, wood and iron hulks long gone from the California coast.

The Clerk-Recorder’s Office was on the north end of town, and, after making a few wrong turns and bypassing one-way streets, she finally found it, a white mid-’60s modernist building surrounded by a dingy-looking lawn. When she got out of the car, the smell of salt and sea and tide rose to meet her.

The company’s name was Evergreen Development and Holding Company, and Peter Schwartz was listed as the CFO. Copies of the sales transactions were available for fifteen cents but the change machine was broken, no one else was in the office, and the smallest bill she had was a five. The clerk, a pudgy white man in his fifties, blinked at her when she asked him about it and mumbled something about going across the street.

“Can you keep this for me while I get change? I’ll hurry.”

He shrugged and held out a hand for the file.

Renata rushed downstairs and out the door, spotting a bakery-cum-coffee shop opposite the right side of the city building. A large wooden placard, painted in bright colors, sat above the green double doors, advertising Calico’s, while red neon blinked “fresh donuts” from the window. Next to the bakery was what looked like another civic structure, slightly more recent than the clerk-recorder’s building. A brown metal sign in front read Humboldt County Sheriff.

Shit. She paused, hesitating in the morning’s streaky sunlight.

All she needed was some change. And she was running out of time. Besides, Eureka wasn’t Garberville, no one knew her by sight, and no one had any reason to ask her any questions …

Renata started to cross the street.

The double doors of the sheriff’s office opened and two men in suits walked out, also heading for the bakery.

One was the gray-eyed, sandy-haired cop she’d spotted at the football game—Benedetti? The other was a tall, lanky man with short, salt and pepper hair, dressed in a conservative dark blue shirt. Not Humboldt, not at all.

Fuck … fuck, fuck, fuck …

The cop caught her eye, smiled, and both men started walking toward her.

“I remember you. You’re the girl Mike Richards brought to the South Fork game with St. Damian’s. What brings you to Eureka?”

Must be Benedetti, the lone homicide detective handling the case … the cop she’d speculated about maybe trusting with Marcus’s testimony. He was still smiling but he was still a cop, and the tall man standing slightly behind him, staring at her, was a fucking FBI agent.

Purple and green and sharp, acrid chemical, white sequins turned to red …

Breath and voice, steady and not too high. Let adrenalin kick in, hide, hide, hide …

“I’m working on some research for Mike. Records across the street.” She jerked a thumb toward the other building. “You’ve got a good memory. The name’s Natalie, Natalie Connors.”

Better to give the full name rather than just the first, too suspicious the other way, implied too much to hide, so she stammered it out and Benedetti’s gray eyes flicked over her and she dimly registered that he thought she was attractive.

Maybe that’s all this was, the reason he’d walked over. A local cop showing interest, but not the kind that would land her in prison. The fed next to him, though …

“Mike on to something? I’ve told him not to play Geraldo. Too many people up here with too much to hide and they’re not squeamish about doing whatever is necessary to protect their secrets. By the way, this is Agent Carlson with the FBI. The agency’s helping us with the, uh, investigation.”

Renata somehow mustered a smile, a little sad, but no fear … show no fear …

“Nice to meet you, Agent Carlson. Thanks for coming out to Humboldt. I know better than to ask for an update—I leave that to Mike. He doesn’t tell me everything, anyway. Are you heading into Calico’s? Is the coffee good? I need change for the copier—”

“Pleasure.” Carlson held her eyes for a second and then looked away, bored and impatient and not caring if he showed it. Thank God—he’d already dismissed her as unimportant—a local nobody, the young female assistant at a hippie rag paper in Garberville. If Benedetti liked her, that was his business, and Benedetti, according to the lines around Carlson’s mouth, wasn’t much of anything, either.

The agent turned to the detective. “I’m heading out, Paul. Fax me any updates.”

The Humboldt cop held out a hand and they both shook. “Thanks, David. Will do.”

Benedetti and Renata stood watching the FBI agent stride toward a dark sedan parked down the street in the opposite direction of the bakery. The weight on her chest lessened with every step he took. Once the agent climbed in the car, the cop flicked a glance at her.

“To answer your question … not only good coffee but exceptionally good Danish.”

She laughed, took a step toward the bakery and he fell in with her, pushing open the door.

She walked up to a glass counter with a large, old-fashioned cash register on top and donuts on display below. Pastries, cookies, cakes, and breads filled another counter next to it. A young waitress who looked straight out of high school smiled at her uncertainly.

“Uh, can I have a buttermilk glaze and a cup of coffee to go?” Renata flattened five dollars on the glass. The cop moved up to stand next to her. The waitress peered at him through limp brown bangs with stars in her eyes.

“Hi, Mary. You can put the young lady’s donut and coffee on my tab.”

“But I—”

“It’s no bother, I practically work here.”

His smile was quick, easy and warm and Renata found herself liking him, which made all the weight on her chest come back. He was still a cop, just one goddamn computer check and it could all be over, with or without the FBI …

Mary’s eyes flitted back and forth between them. When they landed on Renata the stars became daggers.

Renata cleared her throat. “No—really. I’m here for change and I don’t want to ask for it without paying for something. I do appreciate the offer, Detective.”

He studied her for a second, then nodded and took a step back. “Paul. Paul Benedetti.”

Mary dumped the donut into a bag and sloshed a cup of coffee into a Styrofoam cup, shoved them toward Renata, and hurriedly made change before turning a bright smile back on Benedetti. He was still staring at Renata.

His eyes were as warm as his smile. If she were brave enough, bold enough, maybe she could turn that warmth to her advantage …

“Are you—are you investigating Jennie’s murder? And the FBI is helping you?”

“Just one second.” He spoke over his shoulder. “Cheese Danish and coffee, Mary, thanks.” Then he motioned with his head toward a burgundy leather booth—Renata suddenly realized the place was nearly empty—and said “Take a break and join me.”

She checked her watch. 9:47.

“I’d, uh, love to—but I’ve only got a few minutes. I’m heading down to South Fork to speak to a class about law school soon. I wish I had more time.”

“No time like the present.” He slid into the booth. She hesitated, then perched on the opposite end, setting the bag and coffee in front of her, hands around the Styrofoam cup to keep them from shaking.

“What class are you talking to?”

“English. Ian Sharpe’s the teacher. I think they’re sophomores.”

“Sharpe’s smart to distract them right now. It’s such a small school—only about three hundred kids in total—and, as I’m sure you’ve already figured out, news gets around fast. They might pretend around the FBI or Magda Jensen—the counselor at South Fork—but all of ’em are scared … and rightly so.”

Mary suddenly appeared with a hot cheese Danish on a Buffalo China plate and a steaming mug of black coffee. He smiled up at her and she melted as quickly as the pastry.

“Thanks, Mary.”

The waitress hovered for about three seconds before retreating with an awkward glance backward. Renata took a bite of the buttermilk bar while Paul forked off a piece of Danish and washed it down with the hot, inky coffee.

“Tell me—as an outsider—what do you think of Humboldt? I’m not a native—my family moved here about ten years ago, when I was still in high school—but now it’s my home—and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I mean, you must like it, or you’d have moved on. In fact, I’m surprised you didn’t, given the murder. At first I thought you must be here for the harvest, but Mike said you hadn’t even heard of the Emerald Triangle.”

“No, I’m about to start law school but wanted to take a break first—see something of the country. That’s what brought me here. I was—well, kind of shocked to find out about the economy and CAMP and now—what’s happened to Jennie. Mike’s never mentioned you, though—or that you asked about me.”

He had the good grace to blush. “I ran into him at that game. Not St. Damian’s best night.”

Renata sipped the still too-hot coffee. “To answer your question … I do like Humboldt. I like the community. And the physical environment is amazing and beautiful—I’ve never seen anything like it. And I was never—I mean, pot was around but I never got into it. And I’m not saying that just because you’re a cop. As for the rest … well, I admit I’ve thought about driving on, especially with all the talk of a serial killer.”

He sighed. “That’s why the FBI was here. Oh, they’re not keeping agents on site—they’ve gathered what they needed—but they’re still involved and paying attention. They’re sure it is a serial killer, just not the Green River Killer. A new one. Nobody previously on the books.”

She leaned forward a little. “Detective—or I should say Sergeant—”

“Paul.”

“Are they looking into other disappearances yet, maybe trying to see if he started before Amy Fulton? I’ve combed through a few years’ worth of Redwood Records and noticed it was 1980 when the disappearances really jumped—”

“You did that? On your own?”

“Well … sort of. I’m working as a janitor at the hospital, but as I said I’m also working for Mike—taking photos and doing some research.”

Benedetti drained his coffee cup.

“One thing to understand: crime isn’t the same here. There’s a greater tolerance for it because it’s the only real economy. So-called ‘victimless crime’—the dairy farmer with a marijuana-filled drying barn, the schoolteacher that sells weed on every trip to San Francisco—that stuff never even registers. But things are getting worse, and not just the killings and disappearances. If people didn’t know about the Emerald Triangle before CAMP, they sure as hell do now, and I mean big players from Mexico and South and Central America. Coke, heroin, PCP, meth—it’s all moving into Humboldt and hiding behind a cannabis curtain.”

“Probably financial crime too, right? Fraud, embezzlement, confidence swindles …”

The gray eyes held fresh appreciation.

“Natalie—if you or Mike need to get in touch with me”—he fished a card out of his wallet and handed it to her—“here’s my number. And to answer your earlier question—strictly off the record—the FBI is looking at all disappearances throughout Humboldt and northern Mendocino over the last seven years. The Alderpoint area is a possible focal point, at least for missing people. The problem is we’re not sure how far the killer’s territory extends. So far, he hasn’t hit as far north as Eureka—he’s staying in the major pot-growing regions between Leggett in northern Mendocino and Miranda in Humboldt. That’s the farthest point north we know of.”

She took the card. “Thank you. I—well, I appreciate the information and I’ll make sure Mike has your number. I’m sure he’ll have questions to ask—on the record.” She gave him an awkward smile. “I’d better get back.”

Close call. Too fucking close.

Breathe, Renata, breathe …

She remembered Agent Carlson’s pale eyes and shuddered even in the overheated office. At least it looked like Martha’s fears were unfounded—the FBI wouldn’t be in Miranda, not today, hopefully not tomorrow, if Carlson’s attitude and departure was a barometer and Benedetti’s card in her wallet proved anything.

The young Humboldt detective was still in charge … the feds may be helping from a distance, but distance meant everything in the remote wilds of Humboldt County.

Renata shoved aside her impressions of Paul Benedetti and quickly made photocopies of purchases by Evergreen Development and Holding Company, circling the dates, parcel numbers and addresses. The company bought two parcels from Bill Rader last year—outside parcels on his western border.

Alderpoint. Where the investigation was focused.

And Rader said he never sold, only “leased” …

She glanced up at the wall clock. Maybe enough time to dig a little deeper.

Hamlin had two recorded property deals in his name but both for the same parcel number—one a pay-off and transfer from a mortgage company that she couldn’t follow very well and the other a transfer of ownership to a business or company called HCI. On a hunch, Renata asked if she could check permit records, found that she could, and located a permit application in his name and Higher Consciousness, Inc. for what looked like a large, multibuilding compound on the same property in Alderpoint.

She hastily scribbled down the parcel numbers in question and asked the clerk if she could check the physical map.

Hamlin’s property—actually owned by Higher Consciousness, Inc.—was located next to the parcel Rader sold to Evergreen. Evergreen itself owned property in two areas: the two parcels from Rader, which surrounded Hamlin’s piece, and five abutting the Garberville airport.

Fog still lined the freeway along the lower stretches of the river on the drive back south.

The property information—the convoluted trail around Higher Consciousness, Inc. and Evergreen—would require time and effort to unravel. Something was brewing between Rader, Hamlin and Schwartz—and, most probably, Peterson—something foul, something fetid. Maybe something to do with the murders …

And then there was Paul Benedetti.

She’d liked the cop. She liked his eyes, his smile. In a different world, a different time and place …

But he’d noticed her, asked about her, thought she was attractive, and that made it even more dangerous to give him the lead, the information about Jennie’s mysterious “boyfriend.” One quick check with the right computer and he’d find out that there was no such person as Natalie Connors, pre-law student from Chicago.

No, she needed to stay far, far away from Paul Benedetti. Mike would have to give him the tip. She’d convince him not to see Hunt—tell him her suspicions—her certainty—about Doris … and ask him to go to the detective with it.

And to protect Marcus, she wouldn’t divulge the source, not even to Mike. As a newspaper man, he’d understand it—even if he didn’t like it.

Renata glanced up at the rear-view mirror. Josie was staring out the window.

It was Thursday. There could be a Post or Times waiting at The Bus Stop.

She took a breath and focused her eyes on the road ahead until she pulled into a parking space in front of South Fork.

It was 11:52 and the school was quiet—not lunchtime yet. Green lawn sloped down to the parking lot and the main street, a narrowed section of the Avenue of the Giants that wound through grove upon grove of giant trees.

She patted the door of the Mercedes, locking it behind her, and headed for the main entrance building.

Renata approached a counter on the right of the corridor. Behind it was a door to the left and a middle-aged woman in a blue polyester pantsuit typing. She looked up brightly.

“You must be Ian’s guest—a Miss Conway, was it?”

“Connors. Natalie Connors.”

“He’ll be along in a minute. I’ll make you a pass.”

Another woman opened the left door and slid through. She was in her thirties, fashionably dressed, dark curly hair, and the smile she directed toward Renata seemed genuine enough.

“You must be Ms. Connors. I’m Magda Jensen, the student counselor at South Fork. I understand you’ll be discussing legal careers for Ian’s English 200 class.”

Renata returned the smile. “Undergraduate preparation, anyway. I’m not actually in law school yet.”

Magda laughed. “Of course. English 200 is a college preparatory class—even as small as South Fork is, we offer two levels of English and science and do our best to help our students earn scholarships to college—so I’m sure they’ll have lots of questions. Ian will be here soon—he’s teaching Drama right now.”

The woman in the blue pantsuit reached up and handed a green slip of paper to Renata. “Here you go—your pass.”

The counselor walked around the counter, her face more somber.

“We are sticking to protocol very assiduously these days. The FBI left this morning but they made it clear that they may return. And the kids—of course they’re upset. We’ve had a psychologist come down from Eureka, but most have refused to talk to him.”

“If teenagers think something is supposed to be ‘good’ for them, they’ll usually avoid it like the plague. And they’re secretive by definition.”

Jensen nodded. “True. It’s just that—in this climate—secrecy could be dangerous.”

A school bell shrieked through the corridor, making Renata jump, and a cacophony of doors and loud voices banged down the hall.

Magda’s smile slid back into place. “That’s the lunch bell. Good luck with Ian’s class. I’m sure you’ll do well. I’ve got to run.”

Renata watched her retreating form as groups of high-school kids ran, jumped, and bounced through the corridor, most in groups of two or three, some by themselves. A few adults surfaced amid the great wave of adolescence, including a nervous gray-haired man in conversation with a tall, bright-eyed, intelligent-looking woman in her early forties. Renata recognized him from Jennie’s memorial service at the football game.

They were walking toward her, and the woman in the blue pantsuit—apparently the secretary—stood at the ready with forms in her hands.

“Tony, for God’s sake, we need some culture—some modernity—those Shakespeare PBS productions I asked for—”

“Are hardly modern, Virginia. They’re Shakespeare. How many kids will even watch them? How many will come?”

“My classes and the Stratford Club, at the very least. And the Club has students in every grade. I honestly think you could benefit from watching them yourself …”

The secretary thrust the blue and yellow forms at the gray-haired man. “The requisitions you requested, Principal Williamson.”

He extended a hand across the counter and suddenly noticed Renata. The tall woman was also watching her, grinning.

“You must be Ian’s guest. Ian’s guests tend to look more like you than the guests I manage to find. This is Tony Williamson, South Fork’s Principal. I’m Virginia Esposito—junior and senior English.”

She extended a hand and Renata shook it. Williamson smiled weakly, said something about thanks for helping during this time of crisis, and slid through the doorway on the left.

Virginia sighed and watched him go. Her voice was dry. “‘What a piece of work is man.’” She turned back to Renata. “Ian’ll be here in just a minute. He’s in another building.”

She looked at Renata appraisingly. “Listen—we all appreciate you coming. We need the distraction … desperately. I’m trying to show Shakespeare to my students—fictional tragedy might help them deal with the real thing.”

“Counselors not helping, huh?”

Virginia shook her head. “They won’t talk to the psychologist—he’s a dry old snooze, anyway. And Magda just chirps at them.” She looked down the hall. “Here comes Ian. Good luck. If there’s any other subject you’re qualified to speak about—or can fake being qualified—let me know, OK? ‘New’ is always a premium in Humboldt.”

The English teacher headed through the same door as Williamson. Ian Sharpe was smiling broadly at Renata as he approached. She noticed a couple of the younger girls still in the hall were looking at him like he was Andrew McCarthy.

“So great of you to come, Natalie! Let’s go to lunch.”

He took her by the arm and guided her through the main doors. A larger group of girls were standing outside eating French fries, and they stared at her, eyes following Ian, elbowing each other. One of the girls, a young blonde, pointedly looked away, face tight.

They headed for the corner of the Avenue of the Giants and School Street, the road that led to the football field entrance. He pointed across the narrow highway at a small A-frame storefront with a plastic sign that read Miranda Market.

“There. It was in the woods, just behind and to the right of the store, where Amy was found.”

“So close to the school … must’ve been very hard on the students and faculty. That’s the first place I’d look—in fact, I’m a little surprised no one was held.”

His voice was grim. “They’ve never stopped looking at us. By some absurdly precious stroke of luck, it seems we all had alibis when Amy was killed. Some of us had appointments, some had spouses or roommates to back them up; Tony had a board meeting—Ed, of course, had his mother.”

They were moving south down the Avenue to a very small commercial strip that comprised the town of Miranda. He nodded toward a shop window of a converted house painted blue and gold and a wood-burned sign that was hanging from a gable announcing Cupcakes and More.

As if on cue, Ed Dawson, still stooping, opened the door and stepped outside. He was devouring a cupcake with white icing. Ian stopped short.

“Ed. This is Natalie Connors. She’s speaking to my English class after lunch.”

Dawson wiped his hands on his South Fork baseball jacket, nodding. “Nice to meet you.”

The door jangled again and Phyllis Dawson appeared. “Ed, you forgot your—” She froze momentarily, taking in the sight of Ian and Renata. “You forgot your after-school bag.” She extended a paper bag to Ed, who accepted it, bent to kiss his mother’s cheek, nodded again at Ian and Renata and murmured, “Gotta get back to practice” before striding down the sidewalk.

Phyllis shifted her gaze from her son’s back to Ian, eyes transitioning from human to basilisk. “Mister Sharpe. Miss—I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name,” she added pointedly to Renata.

“I’m Natalie Connors, Mrs. Dawson. We met at the St. Damian’s game. Mr. Sharpe’s asked me to speak to his English class about legal careers.”

Her lips pursed, Phyllis Dawson nodded as if she couldn’t dignify the statement by a reply. She pulled her Bear Cub sweatshirt down over her stomach and hips and waddled back across the threshold, shutting the door with a clang.

Ian’s face was red. “That poisonous old bitch. She’s hated me from the very beginning. She’s the reason they call him ‘Dead Ed’ Dawson! If they’re looking for a killer with mommy issues, Ed should be the top suspect.”

He walked quickly ahead to the next corner, passing a laundromat, a post office, and a pizza restaurant.

“We can cut through here. We’ve got a little house in the back.”

A few minutes later, they’d reached a craftsman-style bungalow tucked behind the retail strip. He knocked tentatively on the door.

“Greg? You home yet?”

He shrugged at the silence. “Apparently not. Come on in.”

He assumed the demeanor of a charming host and made Renata comfortable, sitting her at a round antique table while he poured iced tea and put a pre-cooked chicken casserole in the oven.

“How much time do we have?”

“Class starts officially at one fifteen, so about forty-five minutes. Have you figured out what you’re going to talk about?”

“I was thinking preparations for law school, other legal careers like paralegals and legal secretaries—”

“That’ll be perfect! See, there are basically two tracks at South Fork. One is a small group of kids who are planning a university education … the others take mainly vocational classes with a goal toward logging, agriculture, homemaking, that kind of thing, and are just looking for a diploma. For vocational, the school offers agriculture classes and a robust FFA club—that’s Future Farmers of America—wood shop, metal shop, typing, et cetera. The college-prep classes attract a smaller group who compete for the few scholarships available as well as other kids who are straddling both worlds and considering community college. CR—that’s College of the Redwoods—even offers satellite classes in Redway. In fact, there’s a girl in this class who’s earning college credit as a sophomore—”

Renata smiled. “Would that be Amanda?”

Ian laughed. “I see you’ve met her. Probably at the library.”

“What sort of track was Jennie on?”

He sighed. “Hard to know. She took a couple of college-prep classes but mainly she wanted to dance—and we don’t offer dance classes or PE classes with dance components. We can’t even afford a band, though the kids have been petitioning for one for over a year. She kind of switched on to drama, but her parents—at least her father—weren’t comfortable with that, either, though I managed to convince him that Our Town wasn’t ‘anti-Christian.’”

Ian rolled his eyes. “There are some religious maniacs out here, real Moral Majority types—always trying to pull books out of the library or tell Virginia and I what we can’t teach. And don’t even get me started over sex ed. Our school board meetings can be positively medieval.”

A brief knock on the door was followed by Greg Copely, hesitantly stepping through and shutting it behind him.

Ian shot a swift glance toward Renata, walked up to Greg, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. The other man recoiled, terrified.

“She’s OK.” Ian’s voice was urgent, imploring. Then he turned to Renata. “I knew you were safe when I saw you in Sweet Ivy’s. That’s another reason I invited you.” He turned back to look at Greg. “We’re gay. And we’re terrified.”

The story poured out of Ian while he filled water glasses, served chicken and rice pilaf, and got everyone napkins.

Fear was driving Ian Sharpe … and not the fear of being arrested for murder or even being suspected. Fear of being forced out of town, away from an area he considered his home, deprived of a necessary recommendation for another job.

He loved rural California—had spent time east of Humboldt near Chico—and enjoyed teaching students who’d never heard of Ibsen or Tennessee Williams or Salinger. Renata also guessed that he also probably had more than a little interest in the local economy.

Greg was far less talkative, the type who would prefer to ignore a problem in the vague hope it would go away. But he, too, wanted to stay in Humboldt, teaching … and he wanted to stay with Ian.

Renata hadn’t expected a confessional. But then, Mike had warned her that newcomers became whatever Humboldt residents needed them to be …

“So what do you mean, Henry Jones was ‘less than discreet?’”

Greg threw a look to Ian, who sighed. “He was set up. We think by Steve Hamlin, right after he arrived in Humboldt. Why and how a stranger to the community could waltz in and exert that kind of influence we don’t know—we even heard Hamlin was a kind of nomad, traveling around and begging and preaching—but, whatever, he was immediately tight with Rory Peterson, and it was Rory and Wayne Hunt who threatened Henry with arrest.”

“Arrest? What was the charge?”

“So this former student—he’d barely graduated, was taking classes in what we call our continuation school—a place for troubled kids, basically, kids who for whatever reason can’t handle the routine and rigor of even basic high school classes—anyway, as I say, he’d barely graduated and just turned eighteen. The kid—Charlie Leppert is his name—had set fire to a restaurant in Myer’s Flat when he was sixteen. Three years ago, he was the main suspect for a motel fire in Redway … except that no one was ever charged.”

“Let me guess … Peterson promised to make the arson go away if Charlie contacted Henry with maybe an inappropriate suggestion?”

Ian nodded vigorously. “Exactly. We think Hamlin was behind it—he’s a little lower key now, but he was all Elmer Gantry when he first arrived in Humboldt, breathing fire and born-again brimstone. Peterson and Hunt were waiting for Henry when he showed up at the Ponderosa Motel in Garberville, which is where Charlie told him to meet.”

“But—but Henry hadn’t actually done anything, right? And Charlie was legal age—”

Greg’s voice was hoarse. “Didn’t matter. I mean, he shouldn’t have gone, Charlie was an ex-student and it was stupid, but they … they threatened him with a solicitation charge. Told him sodomy is against the law and they’d be on him until they caught him in the act. Told him he needed to sell up and go and never come back.”

“Wait—you said ‘sell,’ right? What did he have to sell?”

“His property in Alderpoint—Hamlin bought it. Used to be a small lumber camp—Rader’s was the bigger one, right next door—Henry wanted to make it into a bird sanctuary.”

No one spoke for a few seconds. A kitchen clock shaped like a sunflower made a clicking sound.

Renata stared at the table. Evergreen Corporation. HCI. CAMP. The airport. Missing people and dead girls …

“Henry was a civics teacher … didn’t he try to fight? To tough it out?”

Ian extended his hands like a supplication. “Charlie had been in one of Henry’s classes as a freshman. And he was dim enough and sick enough to be made use of by Hamlin and Peterson. So Henry did what he could, and for what it’s worth”—he turned to Greg—“You know he swore he went over there only to talk Charlie into seeing a counselor and getting some help”—he turned back to Renata—“Henry called George, our former principal, and gave him the gist—and George, bless him, quit in protest. Meanwhile, Henry sold his property to Hamlin the day after the motel frame-up for just a couple of thousand dollars over what he owed on it—it was worth a lot more—and packed up what he could to store at Virginia’s house for shipping later, and then the day after that Peterson and Hunt drove him to the Eureka airport.”

“And no one has done anything? No one has exposed Peterson and Hamlin?”

“Mike knows some of this. So does MacKenzie at Cabbages and Kings. And obviously George and a couple of the other teachers—Virginia, of course. But there are too many people who think Henry got what he deserved and don’t really care how or why it came about. If it had been a male professor and a female student, it wouldn’t have mattered so much, but … I mean, I believe what he said about Charlie, I really do, but that’s because I knew him. I don’t think he was trying to pick up that boy. What’s so awful is that no one knows the full story—the real reason it happened, the entrapment, the forced sale, and everything else. They don’t want to get involved. They don’t want to challenge the system … not when it keeps a roof over their heads or a summer home in Baja.”

Ian glanced at his wristwatch. “We’d better start heading for class. But I think you understand why we’re scared. We’ve got a little property we’ve invested in up in Myer’s Flat. What if Hamlin decides he wants to buy it? If they find out we’re gay, they could do anything to us—anything at all—because we’re so … so vulnerable.”

On the way back to the school, Ian kept conversation short, shiny, and bright. He mentioned he was originally from Los Angeles, that he’d wanted to direct theater but became an English and Drama teacher because it was a steadier paycheck. He took Renata by the arm when they were within view of the school and didn’t mention Jennie or anyone else until they were walking down a hallway. Renata gestured to a bank of lockers with several small bouquets of flowers and a teddy bear on top.

“Jennie’s?”

He nodded. “The top locker, there in the middle.”

“Do you know who had the lockers around her?”

“No—Edith Fletcher would. She’s the school secretary.”

Ian stopped outside a closed door. They’d heard the alarm bell ring when they were crossing the street, and most of the class seemed to be already inside and waiting.

He whispered: “You ready?”

She nodded. He slipped on a wide grin, threw open the door to an onslaught of teenage chatter, and walked inside.

Renata kept details to a minimum. These were the sophomores who were already planning for college, who were taking the PSAT to practice for the all-important SAT their senior year. Eyes on the clock, she wrapped everything up with about five minutes to spare.

Applause erupted on cue, and Ian stepped up to the front to see if there were any questions. Several hands raised, and most of the questions were simple and straightforward, other than Amanda asking whether an undergraduate criminal justice degree would be beneficial if your goal was to practice environmental law. A couple of students wanted to know more about how the FBI worked.

A brunette with braids raised her hand shyly.

“Do—do policemen go to law school?”

Renata smiled. “No—police officers usually attend an academy or major in criminal justice in college. They enforce the law, and they need a good understanding of the criminal codes and the laws that cover what they can and can’t do in their jobs. But they don’t practice law like attorneys do.”

A couple of kids in the third row nudged each other and a boy about sixteen with long, shoulder-length hair stage-whispered from the back “Some of ’em don’t follow it much, either.” The room broke out into a kind of hushed titter.

Renata held up a hand. “All law enforcement officers or officials are supposed to understand and be aware of the law—and recognize that they are never, under any circumstances, above it. In fact, the job of the criminal defense attorney is to make sure that the police or sheriff protects the rights of the accused under the Constitution—to make sure we don’t suffer from corrupt law enforcement and don’t devolve into what is called a police state, like Nazi Germany. By defending the accused, defense attorneys defend everyone.”

Another girl, this time a redhead, piped up. “Like Joyce Davenport on Hill Street Blues?”

Renata grinned. “She’s an excellent example and her husband the captain is a good cop. Great TV show!”

The kids laughed and Ian came back front and center, standing very close to Renata.

“OK, gang, the bell’s about to ring, so go get a head start!”

The noise rose to a crescendo as desks were shoved, books were dropped, and bodies herded toward the door. Amanda gave Renata a knowing look on her way out.

“That was fabulous, Natalie. They can be a tough crowd to win over. Thank you so much for agreeing to do this.” The school bell rang and Ian kissed her on the cheek, much to the delight of the kids still in the room.

She gave him a hard look. “Walk me to my car?”

He threaded his arm through hers and once again they promenaded down the hallway, drawing grins and flirtatious looks from a couple of boys ogling Renata and a handful of girls looking dreamy over Ian. The young blonde from earlier was in the crowd, face full of adolescent tragedy.

They reached the Mercedes. She opened the door and asked, “Would you mind sitting in here with me for a second?”

He seemed surprised but slid in and closed the door.

“I can’t tell you how good it feels to be able to trust someone else—”

She turned to him, voice flat.

“Why does Phyllis Dawson think you ‘corrupt’ girls?”

Ian’s face turned red.

“Look, I have nothing but sympathy for you and Greg. You can trust me to keep your secret and I understand why you’re scared. But you’re going too far.”

“She’s a poisonous old bitch. I’ve—mentored a couple of girls—”

“‘Mentored’? You mean you’ve skated along the edge. Professed your friendship and led them on? Maybe took them out on a quasi-date in order to ‘mentor’ them properly? Anything to protect you from Henry’s fate? Look, Ian—you can get forced out just as easily if people think you’re a straight pedophile. You should be scared of a lot more than what happened to Henry Jones—they’re looking for a serial killer, for Chrissakes. If you keep giving Phyllis ammunition, you’re nominating yourself for the number one suspect.”

He was staring at the floorboard. His voice was a whisper.

“I—I’m in a panic. I don’t want to lose Greg. Or my home. I don’t know what to do.”

Renata sighed. “From what you told me, it’s pretty obvious Henry wasn’t driven out solely because he was gay. Hamlin wanted that land and Henry’s sexuality made him vulnerable to blackmail. Take some steps—legally—to protect your property. You’re not protecting yourself by flirting with teenagers—you’re just putting yourself in more danger. And it’s not fair to those girls you’re using.”

He raised his eyes to hers and she nodded. “You wanted me here today in large part because you sensed I was sympathetic and I could act as a beard—no, don’t lie to me, Ian, I’m not blind. I’m an adult and I understand and I’m OK about it. But using and manipulating those girls—your students—that’s not OK. That’s never OK.”

Ian stared straight ahead through the windshield. Then he silently opened the door and walked away.

Buddy wasn’t at the counter when she walked in The Bus Stop—the young woman she’d seen a couple of days ago was working, face buried behind a People magazine.

Renata crossed to the news rack.

Still no Post, but there was an updated New York Times, dated Friday, September 20th.

Less than a week ago. The day she landed in Garberville.

She grabbed two Cokes out of the refrigerated section, bought both copies of the newspaper—which didn’t seem to register with the clerk—and quickly crossed the street toward the library, waiting for a break in foot traffic before opening the door and sliding inside.

Josie was waiting for her at a large table. Renata spread open the Times.

There—section B again. Person of Interest Named in Grinkov Murder.

A source close to the District of Columbia’s Metropolitan Police confirms that Renata Drake, twenty-five-year-old sister of murder victim Josephine Drake, is a person of interest in the September 9 slaying of Sergei Grinkov, son of the Soviet Ambassador, in Washington, DC …

A small, blurry high school graduation photo stared at her from the two columns of print.

Renata sank into the wooden chair.

Breathe, in and out, stay in the present, Ms. Drake, the present …

The present? What present? No time, no past, no future, only fear and panic and running, running as far and as fast as she could, fight or flight and this was flight, running until she could stop feeling, stop living, one last hurdle across the finish line, the track going around and around and around …

Her hands gripped the edge of the table and her knuckles showed white.

Goddamnit, no. No.

She’d come too far. She wasn’t going back. Not. Going. Back.

She inhaled sharply, gulping air. In and out, in and out. Steady, stable, sound. Think, Renata, think …

Was this the trigger? Was this the time?

The photo was blurry and small. Whatever ran in the Post would be bigger. Her hair was longer now, and she was older—face thinner.

Should she dye her hair? Maybe. Red might work. She couldn’t bleach it. Could never go blond …

The article gave her name, age and former employer. The link between Grinkov, Josie’s murder, and Renata was laid out for all to see because the cops had finally found her dream diary … the perfectly planned, if imperfectly executed, blueprint for terminating Sergei Grinkov.

Jesus Christ. They’d found it.

She pried her fingers off the edge of the table and held them to her face, eyes shut tight, rocking back and forth, back and forth …

Why not a nationwide APB? Maybe there was one out by now. They knew she’d skipped. They’d be asking everyone about her, co-workers, cousins, neighbors, Kirk, Joe, Dr. Bechtel …

Not that the diary left much room for doubt.

She opened her eyes, forced herself to run through the lines again. They’d discovered it in a garbage can, close to the parking lot of the Peek-A-Boo strip club where she’d dumped Grinkov’s body, something else she couldn’t remember doing.

The … Peek-A-Boo? Wait—something off about that. The Peek-A-Boo site was improvised, spontaneous. Not in the plan. How the hell did her stolen diary wind up near an impromptu crime scene of her own making?

What the fuck did she actually remember? Think, Renata, think …

A dark restaurant? Club? Music—electronic dance music. Loud, insistent. Man she was with … blank face, big grin, lots of teeth. Grinkov? Must have been Grinkov. Then opening her eyes—opening her eyes and seeing him there … the blood, the knees … then dark, dark pain, swallowing her, spinning, spinning and waking up again, this time in bed, no blood on her clothes, still in nightclub clothes, bait for Grinkov, the kind she hadn’t worn since Josie—

She shut her eyes and opened them again, willing herself to stay anchored, stay in the present. The present, the present, the present …

The article mentioned she’d reported the diary stolen from her apartment on August 2nd.

No mention of the other diary, the day-by-day journal detailing her struggle to stay focused, to stay sane, to not drift away completely. No mention of her father’s gun, either, and everything had been stolen at the same time …

She shook her head.

Feet on the ground. Anchored. Must stay anchored.

She snapped open the Coke, felt the carbonation scratch her throat.

There was something … something she was on the point of remembering the other night. Something about Grinkov. Something about her father’s gun. It was always the central focus of her plan, executing Josie’s killer with their father’s .38 …

The memory, searing and tearing like a red-hot brand, flashed across her, and she could see, could see herself …

Eyes heavy, lids barely lifting from where she sat slumped on the concrete. Raising her head, too big for her neck, too big to be carried, no balance, but she managed, and there was Grinkov, red holes where his knees used to be and shot in the forehead, dead center. She’d planned to do it from the side, right temple. A quick, clean shot with her father’s old revolver …

She ran over the article once more.

No mention of any gun found.

Her head tilted back. If she could only remember …

Remember what? Killing him? Pulling the trigger, like she’d fantasized? But her father’s gun had been stolen, so what had she used?

She’d been in such a bad place for the few weeks before, since June, really, headaches worse, blackouts more frequent. Took time off of work—sick leave. Knew she was in danger of losing her job and didn’t care … so hard to care about anything. Maybe finally killing Grinkov was an attempt to save what was left of her, sessions with Bechtel be damned. Maybe she’d blacked out to protect herself, at least some part, the defense attorney, the cop’s daughter.

But where was the gun? Where was the fucking gun? Maybe they’d just withheld the information, common enough tactic. Maybe it had been her father’s gun, and she’d thought it was stolen but had found it again, found it and used it.

Murder in the first degree, your honor, the first fucking degree …

She jumped up and started to pace along the library table, up and down, up and down.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. What to fucking do?

There were two issues of the paper and she’d bought them both. Eureka would have more, but no one except Benedetti knew her in Eureka, and hopefully he was too goddamn busy to read the New York Times. There wouldn’t be another out-of-town paper until Sunday, and if the feds were low-pedaling her as a person of interest just six days ago, she doubted they’d gone straight to post-office posters. She probably had a few days—not weeks—but at least a few more days.

The photo was old, small and blurry. Her name was Natalie Connors and no one—no one—had a reason to link her to a Renata Drake.

She was close—close to discovering something and too fucking close to being discovered, but she could risk staying a little longer, risk learning a little more. It was a gamble, a gamble with the only thing she had left, but she was helping, goddamn it, and helping herself at the same time.

Helping with memory. With what she’d done.

And now … now, finally … she wanted to remember.

Afternoon sunlight was still streaming through the windows of the Garberville library when Renata finished off the second Coke bottle and looked again at what she’d written in the notebook.

Notes steadied her. Work steadied her. And God knows she didn’t have much time.

Henry Jones—Hamlin property—HCI

Location? Next to Rader’s … is this why they wanted it? Buildings? Storage?

What and who is HCI? Did Hamlin pay off Henry’s mortgage then transfer title to the company? Evergreen Corporation … plan started at least 3 years ago. Arrival of Hamlin?

WHO IS HAMLIN?

She underlined the last three times. Hamlin and his Bible-thumping Pied Piper act. Where did he come from? If she could just grasp the outline of what they were doing, how the parts added up, especially the connections to Jennie …

A small tap on the door interrupted her. She was at Eve’s old desk, knowing she wouldn’t be able to hear Amanda from the back. She rose from the chair and opened the door enough for the girl and her oversized backpack to squeeze through.

“You did a good job in class today.”

“Thanks. I had fun. Your question was excellent, by the way.”

Amanda nodded. “Sharpe’s kind of creepy, isn’t he? A lot of girls think he’s cute—I mean, eww, he’s old, for one thing, and that awful mustache … gross. Anyway, you aren’t going with him or anything, are you? ’Cause I saw the way he was holding on to you—we all did. Everybody was talking about it on the bus ride home.”

Renata straightened up the sign in the window. “No, Ian’s just a friend. Maybe a little too demonstrative.” She turned toward Amanda and smiled. “So what kind of book are you looking for today?” She checked her watch. “You’ve got about twenty minutes max, if that’ll work.”

Amanda set her backpack on a nearby table with a loud thump. “I can find it in less than five and then tell you our theories if you want.”

“Sure. I’d like to hear them.”

Renata made sure the door was locked. About a minute later Amanda came from the back stacks clutching a thick book to her chest.

“It’s dark back there, but I found it.”

Renata held out her hands for the book and looked at it curiously. “A collection of essays on Henry James? What are you reading?”

“The Turn of the Screw. I’m done with O’Neill—that was a project in Drama, anyway—I don’t act or anything, I like to stage-manage and do research. This’ll help me with the CR class I’m taking.”

“Ian mentioned you were already earning college credits. Here—I marked the book on the inside with today’s date. Er … how long did Ms. Cannelly allow them to be checked out?”

“Two weeks—but I always bring ’em back before then. This one won’t take too long—I think the governess was a psycho. So … you wanna know what we think about the murders?” As she spoke, Amanda pulled up a hardback chair close to the desk.

“I do. But remember—don’t tell anyone else—and make sure your friends don’t, either. It’s—dangerous, Amanda.”

“Oh, I know, don’t worry. I mean, people might not believe what Stacy thinks, because she exaggerates stuff, but everyone knows I’m smart and that I wouldn’t make things up.”

“How many friends are in this group of yours?”

“Five. All girls, and we all know how to keep a secret.”

Renata smiled. “OK … let’s hear it.”

Amanda paused for a second to assemble her thoughts. “Well, we all agreed the most logical place is South Fork because all the girls were students. That means someone who’s a student or works at South Fork.”

She started ticking off her fingers. “So, one—students. Amy was killed in 1982. Me and my friends were in junior high, but we remember it, of course. Right behind the Miranda Market! There was a creepy guy in metal shop—Luther Crowley—a lot of us figured it was him, because he was always pestering Amy, and he was stupid and just seemed like the kind who’d repress and repress and then just … well, kill.”

Renata frowned. “I haven’t seen his name pop up anywhere.”

“They never arrested him, if that’s what you mean. His father worked construction and his mother was a hotel maid at Camelot Inn. He dropped out, went to continuation school, and never finished. I think he’s working construction with his father somewhere near Covelo—that’s a long way east of here. But he was really creepy, believe me. He was friends with another creepo named Charlie Leppert.”

Renata jerked her head up. Charlie Leppert—the arsonist who set up Henry Jones.

“Leppert? You’re sure?”

Amanda leaned forward eagerly. “Yeah—is he a suspect, too? He’s not around South Fork anymore—I think he sometimes works with Luther in Covelo and when he doesn’t, he still lives with his parents in Myer’s Flat.”

“Who else at South Fork?”

“There’s one of the janitors, Alfred Hayes. He was fired the next year—they caught him—um—masturbating in the men’s room. I don’t think he’s around anymore, but you never know—he could be lurking somewhere, spying on everyone—”

“What about the teachers?”

Amanda looked at her steadily. “Sharpe’s one of our suspects. He’s too—he’s too friendly to girl students, for one. But we’re kind of divided about him—Tiffany likes him, and Stacy’s number one is Coach Dawson—Assistant Coach, I mean. I don’t understand why everyone calls him Coach when he’s not actually the coach—I mean he teaches social studies!—but whatever, there’s something—wrong—about him. I think it’s an Oedipal complex. Definitely an Oedipal complex.”

Renata cleared her throat. “Anyone else? The principal, for instance?”

“Williamson?” Amanda nearly snorted. “He’s not smart enough not to have been caught. In fact, that’s the problem with all these suspects—whoever this is isn’t dumb. I mean, we were even looking at Buzz Boford, the agriculture teacher, and he’s as dumb as a post. One of the girls got suspicious because we heard he kept showing up late to class and acting really hyper-macho—but if you take one look at him you know he’s doing coke.” She nodded importantly. “Red nose rim, sneezes a lot. Anyway, somebody must’ve talked to him because lately he’s back to being slow-macho with no red nose.”

“Amanda—who is your suspect? The person you suspect the most?”

The girl bit her lip. “Well … my theory is unorthodox. I think it’s that born-again Hamlin.”

Renata bent forward eagerly. “Why?”

“For starters, he arrived three years ago, and he was, like, all over the place—like he was famous or something! Showing up at football games, preaching in the park down by the airport—”

“There’s a park down there?”

“Oh, yeah. Hamlin hung around giving Sunday sermons when he first arrived. Doesn’t do it now—too important, I guess. Anyway, he started talking up this school he was gonna found and everything, and at the same time—he’s just really, really creepy. I mean, creepier than anyone else I’ve mentioned. And his family …”

“I’ve seen them.”

“Then you know! They all act brainwashed or something, like—like what I’ve heard about Charles Manson and the SLA and all those people. And besides that … well, Stacy tried to make friends with his daughter Chastity—and I mean, who gives a name like that to anyone—well, Cher, I guess, but she’s allowed—anyway, she actually spent the night up there.”

Amanda whispered the last part as though the words themselves were dangerous.

“What happened?”

“Stacy wouldn’t tell me exactly … all she said was he got—got ‘touchy.’ When they were doing some kind of group prayer. Touchy to Chastity and touchy to her.”

“When was this?”

“Last summer. She stopped—well, she couldn’t be friends with Chastity after that. I mean, we feel sorry for her an’ all, and we’d help her run away if we could.”

“Was Chastity friends with Jennie or the other girls who were killed?”

Amanda shook her head. “I don’t think Chastity has any friends. I heard her sicko father was trying to get her into Rainbow Girls or something—I think that was last year, too.”

“Amanda—do you remember where they were all living before he bought the place in Alderpoint? That was three years ago—the same time Henry Jones left.”

“Oh yeah, the civics teacher. I didn’t know him—he didn’t teach anything at the junior high. I don’t know where they were staying—I kinda thought they were living in the park in tents or something—but they were friends with the sheriff, so he didn’t run ’em off. Anyway, he’s my chief suspect. He’s smart enough to get away with things—and creepy enough to—to do what happened.”

Renata nodded. “Thanks, Amanda. I really appreciate you talking to me. All this is very helpful.” She handed over the book. “Now comes the hard part—keeping quiet about it all.”

Amanda was sliding her backpack back on. “I know. I won’t tell. Neither will anyone else in our group. And I hope you get something out of Becky—she won’t talk about anything—I think this whole thing is making her sick.”

Renata unlocked the door and lowered her voice. “If you hear or see anything else you think is important—you know where to find me. You can always leave a message under the door if I’m not here.”

The girl looked up at her eagerly. “I know you’re doing research and everything … will you keep me in the loop?”

“As much as is safe. I promise.”

Amanda squeezed out through the door, throwing her a backward smile. “See you in a couple of days.”

Renata pulled a stack of Redwood Records in front of her. Three years ago, when it all started—three years ago with Hamlin and the harrowing of Henry Jones. She concentrated on the Thursday editions—lighter on news, heavier on public notices.

Outside, the town was gearing up for early evening, footsteps, chatter, dogs barking, car doors slamming. She blocked it all out. Couldn’t block out the fear she lived with, that kept rising up and threatening to swallow her, but she could set it aside.

The present, Renata, stay in the present …

Shadows stretched themselves across the back of the dusty bookshelves, the dirty back window dimming to almost dark. She flicked on the lamp and kept going, writing furiously in the notebook.

Finally, she sat back, aware of her surroundings again, eyes searching for Josie and finally spotting her asleep on the cot. She stretched and realized she was hungry.

But she’d found a connection. Tenuous, but when combined with everything else …

Renata looked at her watch again. It was 5:45 and time to talk to Mike.

She pounded again on the door. Where the hell was he? So much to catch him up on …

There was some shuffling and it finally cracked open, a blinking, bloodshot eye peering out at her before the door suddenly flung wide and Chris Salazar stood in front of her, grinning. He was wearing tight faded jeans and an unbuttoned blue cotton shirt, stained with what looked like grease spots.

He said: “Hey, pretty lady. C’mon in.”

His eyes were roaming over her body and he wasn’t trying to hide it. Renata didn’t move.

“Is Mike here?”

“He’ll be along, he’s just cleaning up the press. Had a late run today and almost didn’t get the paper out, which never happens, not with Mike, anyway … I don’t think he’s ever missed one, or at least not in a long time. He said you might come by, told me to watch for ya.”

Chris scattered miscellaneous papers, mail, and receipts off a chair, sending them flying to the floor. “C’mon in. I won’t bite. Not unless you want me to.” The white teeth flashed again. “Come in and sit down.”

Renata took a breath. She was wearing the Ka-Bar. It wasn’t dark outside. She hesitated, then crossed the threshold, perching on the chair he’d cleared.

He just stood there, grinning at her, his head bobbing as if he were hearing music. Before she could ask him a question he blurted out, “Wanna tour? Mike ever show you the whole place?”

“Uh—no, actually. I’ve only been in this room.” She gestured around the composted mess of the antique desk, the chair, paper plates with food on them, newspapers and other paper scattered and stacked on every flat surface.

Chris shook his head. “His mamma didn’t raise him right … c’mon, it won’t take long—not all that much to see.”

Renata hesitated again. His come-ons bothered her. Scared her. He was the right age, with physical attraction … then again, maybe he was just what he seemed—a randy young stoner out to have a good time. Maybe she could learn something.

She stood up and headed a few feet into the narrow hall after him.

There were two doors on the right and one on the left. He walked to the end of the hallway, which stopped at the foot of a stairway and curved around a corner to the left until it culminated in another, rougher door. The hallway itself was a couple of cheap braided rugs over a parquet wooden floor, well-cleaned and smelling of Pine-Sol.

Chris jerked a thumb toward the door in the wall behind him, which was as old as the building and spattered with what looked like grease or ink. “OK, so through that are the steps to the basement, and the basement is where all the magic happens.” He laughed. “Mike’s down there now, so we won’t bother him.”

He nodded his head toward the staircase. “Up there are three rooms. Mike’s bedroom, a place for me to crash, and some other junk room he stores shit in.” He blinked for a second and added: “Uh, please excuse the expression.”

“Do you usually stay with Mike? I mean—actually live here?”

Chris shook his head, the matted waves and curls bouncing a little. “N-no. I, uh, gotta place of my own, but it’s, uh, not so easy to get to, ’specially at night, so I bunk here sometimes twice a week when the paper’s printed. Unless I find better company.” The easy, knowing smile slid back across his face. “C’mon, Nattie, there’s more.”

He strode a few feet back down the hall. “Now, this here”—he pushed a swinging door—“this here’s the kitchen. Not much to look at but it meets our needs.” He held the door open for Renata, who brushed by him and gingerly stepped inside.

The kitchen hadn’t been remodeled since the 1940s. Broken tile, a large white sink stained with years of decaying food, a small counter where a Mr. Coffee incongruously lodged, and a giant old stove, the kind with a large flat surface—this one with dents, grime, and rust—and a big oven and trash burner for extra convenience. To the left of the room, against the wall where the staircase climbed on the other side, was a newer refrigerator. In the middle stood a scarred round table stacked with a few dirty dishes left over from breakfast and three mismatched wooden chairs. Wooden cabinets in need of repainting hung above the sink.

“Like I said, not fancy but we can make eggs and bacon and coffee and whatever. Right across the hall is the most important room in the house—you got it, the, uh, bathroom.”

He crossed the hall in a few steps, turned a white porcelain knob and pushed the door open. Beyond him Renata could see a smallish room, this time dating from the ’50s or ’60s, with an old clawfoot bathtub surrounded by a cloudy plastic curtain, a small sink, mirror and medicine cabinet on the wall, a couple of cans of Comet and bottles of Pine-Sol, and a rather grand-looking toilet.

Chris leaned in closer. “We got a big ol’ utility sink in the basement, and that’s where we do most of our cleaning up after a print run or after Mike’s done in the dark room. He’s got one of them half-bathrooms upstairs, too.”

He took two steps forward and opened a door on the same side of the hallway as the kitchen. “Now this—this is where we relax. We call it The Den.”

The room was a long rectangle, filled with a big TV and a huge brown Naugahyde couch. A couple of bean bags littered the floor, along with a floor lamp, a side table with another lamp straight out of 1970, and a small bookcase with an acoustic guitar leaning against it.

On the water-stained coffee table were two pairs of clippers—the kind used for snipping bonsai plants or in this case, marijuana buds—and a couple of bongs on top of an old Redwood Record. In the corner were three milk crates filled with record albums stacked next to a stereo and speakers. A large California flag and a Bill Graham poster for The Who filled the walls.

“We get HBO!” Chris announced proudly. “You, uh, wanna wait here for Mike? He’ll be up in a minute.”

On cue, footsteps could be heard from below, coming up the stairs. Chris grinned at her and stuck his head out the door. “Hurry it up, you lazy-ass! We got company!”

Renata heard the basement door open and a few seconds later Mike appeared, wiping his hands with a towel. He was shirtless but with no visible tattoos. His biceps and pecs were well-defined and he smelled like Irish Spring.

He was grinning. “Nattie! How’d it go at South Fork? I figured you’d come by—Something I should know about?”

Her eyes darted from Mike to Chris and back again. “Nothing urgent. You guys should take a load off and I’ll catch up with you after work tomorrow.” She turned toward Chris. “Thanks for the tour.”

“Anytime. Day or night.” The smile flashed again.

Renata stepped through the den door and headed toward the front of the house. Mike kept in step beside her, forehead creased.

“You sure you don’t wanna talk?” he asked in an under-tone.

She shot a glance toward Chris and shook her head. “Later. Right now I’ll just take a paper.”

A fresh cabbage and beet salad from Pathways helped her frozen piroshki dinner. She read the new Redwood Record while she waited for Martha and Becky to arrive at eight, her little alcove in the back of the library warmed by the yellow light bulb and the smell of microwaved meat.

She’d missed the chance to tell Mike about Benedetti, about passing the lead forward.

Because she wasn’t comfortable with Chris Salazar.

Mike had presented his publishing partner as an affable stoner, someone who didn’t think much beyond tomorrow on the growing, harvesting, and grooming calendar.

He was young, without obligation, footloose and fancy-free … a “ladies’ man.”

He was the kind of attractive that would seem both adult and accessible to an adolescent girl.

And then there was the night someone tried to break in …

Who was Chris Salazar? Did he have any goals? Any ambition? Any plans? He just seemed so … so blank. So happily empty. Like a one-celled organism. Someone who existed out of habit and the enjoyment of physical sensation.

Was there any darkness in that void? The kind of darkness and perversion that made a serial killer?

The knock on the door was twenty minutes early, and was nearly drowned out by the thunder of a logging truck driving down Redwood Avenue.

Renata had moved toward the front as she’d done when expecting Amanda, so she caught the light tapping—almost a scratch—at the door.

By now it was dark, the movie had started at the Garberville theater, and from the ’49er Bar down the street, Johnny Paycheck was joining the unemployment line.

She cracked open the door. Two pairs of wide, scared eyes were staring at her.

She motioned with her hand and the girls quickly glided inside.

Becky’s dark head contrasted with Martha’s blondness and added to the general sense of gloom that hung about her like a rain cloud. She was well-developed for sixteen and kept her shoulders hunched, as if she didn’t know what to do with her breasts.

This was Jennie Dayton’s best friend. The girl who knew her the best, the girl she was supposed to stay with the night she was taken.

Martha, as usual, took the lead.

“Um—we, uh, we had a chance to get out early, so—so we hope that’s OK—”

She’d need to make these two trust her. Quickly—before Becky bolted. The girl’s eyes, when they weren’t staring at the darkened library, darted back to the door.

“Of course it is. Any time is good. Why don’t we go back here—there’s more light.”

She bustled a bit, pulling out chairs at the big table and turning on the desk lamp, then setting out a couple of Coke cans she’d picked up at Pathways and some sesame-honey candies.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a lot of snacks on hand, but help yourself to some Coke and candy. The sesame is good if you haven’t tried it.”

The girls perched on the two wooden chairs, Martha reaching for a candy and unwrapping it, with Becky echoing her. They looked at Renata expectantly.

She cleared her throat.

“So … I, uh, I’m working with Mike at the Redwood Record—”

“He’s not putting any of this in the paper, is he? My mom said he’d like to profile me an’ all, and she’s all happy ’cause of scholarships an’ stuff, but I don’t want—”

Renata held up a hand. “No, no—don’t worry, Becky, like I told Martha, this room and what we say in it—well, it’s sacred. Like a church. Personal, private—nothing goes beyond it unless you want it to. I work with Mike, not for Mike. I mean, he pays me for taking photographs but about this—I guess you can say I work for Jennie.”

The dark-haired girl sat back down, eyes large and focused on Renata. Martha leaned against the table, voice intense.

“Do they know? Do they know yet?”

“No. But they will eventually. What I’ve been told is that the FBI is kind of keeping an eye on things, but they’ve left the area and the investigation is still with the Humboldt County Sheriff. There’s a detective named Paul Benedetti in Eureka—he’s the lead investigator—and I think he’s someone to trust.”

She met their eyes. “The hard thing is to get everyone who knows something to talk about what they know—because every little bit of knowledge helps narrow things down. Some people don’t even realize they know something valuable—something that could break the case.”

The two girls looked at each other for a couple of seconds before Martha turned to face Renata. “We know who that cop is. He was around last year when Dawn was killed, and we’ve seen him at South Fork a few times. I guess—I guess maybe you should ask us what you want to know. And then—maybe we can ask you some stuff.”

Renata inwardly exhaled. “That sounds like the right way to start. OK, so one of the things—I guess you’d call it a clue—one of the clues is that there was somebody Jennie had a crush on—or thought was a boyfriend. I know she had a lot of, uh, goals, ambitions, dreams—”

Becky leaned forward eagerly. “She wanted to be a dancer! You know, like MTV and Solid Gold and stuff. Jennie loved to dance, but her father’s a real asshole and wouldn’t let her.” Martha nudged her and she paused for a second, then asked “Is it OK to cuss?”

“Cuss away. Was this guy part of that? Dancing, I mean? And do you remember when she first mentioned him to you?”

The girl’s forehead wrinkled and she looked at Martha. “It was, like, last year, right? Right before summer? Or was the semester over already—”

Martha shook her head. “I think you told me about it over the summer. Jennie never talked about him to me—I mean, like, she hinted around and stuff, like saying she needed a new dress to go out and I was, like, go out where, your old man won’t let you go out, but she would, like, just smile as if she had a secret. That’s all I remember—and that was—God, I don’t know—July, I think.”

Becky was studying the floor in deep concentration. “Yeah. I think—I think she mentioned something right before summer, and she definitely talked about the guy in July. She was all excited for the Fourth, you know, like she was gonna be able to do something other than wave a sparkler. I mean—I honestly thought she was making it up, you know? ’Cause how is she gonna get out and away from her father? An’ this guy—I mean, she made it sound like they’d gone to a club or something, somewhere special, and danced together.”

“Did she describe the place at all? Or the guy? Did he sound like he was—or maybe had been—a student at South Fork?”

Becky bit her lower lip. “Alls I know about the place is—I don’t know, it sounded weird. She said something about a ‘perfect dance floor’ and a lot of—of slow dancing and gliding and stuff, and they did some disco even though it’s old and they slow-danced to the same song, like, four times. She called it ‘their’ song.”

“Did she tell you the song title?”

“Yeah—I think it was something like ‘I’m Gonna Love You a Long Time,’ or something. By that singer—she used to be super popular when we were little,”—she nudged her friend—“ ’member, Martha? That one in, um, that movie—FM, that was it!”

“Linda Ronstadt? ‘Long, Long Time’?”

“Yeah! I think that’s the one. I remember thinking it was a really old song.”

“So you also probably got the feeling that this guy was older, too.”

Becky nodded vigorously. “Oh, yeah. Nobody at South Fork. She talked about him like he was—I don’t know—like he was famous. Like she’d be famous. It was weird.”

“Did the place—the way she talked about it—or the—the boyfriend—remind you of anyone?”

“No way. That’s—that’s another reason I thought she, like, just made it up. I mean, I couldn’t blame her—her father’s a real asshole, like I said. I mean, he was getting her into Rainbow Girls and all, and that’s like making her a nun, practically.”

“Did she—did she give you any description of him at all?”

Becky turned red and glanced at Martha again. “She said—she said he was, you know, studly and all. Muscles. And foxy, super foxy. Like Rick Springfield or, or Tom Cruise or something.”

“Becky—forgive me for asking—but—Jennie was a—was a virgin, right? She’d never had sex?”

The dark-haired girl shook her head and her voice quavered. “She was—she was ‘saving’ herself. But she—she was thinking about it. Back in July—with him. Like I said, I—I just kinda shined her on, you know, figuring she was making it all up.”

Martha opened a Coke can and offered it to Becky. “Here—drink some.”

The girl swigged it down and set the can back on the table with a sigh. “I’m OK. I’m all cried out.”

“Was your locker next to Jennie’s?”

“Yeah. We used to store stuff in each other’s sometimes.”

Renata bent forward. “Do you know if—and this is super important—do you know if this boyfriend of hers ever gave her anything? Like a—like a necklace, for example?”

Becky raised her eyes to meet Renata’s. “Yeah. I saw it, even. It was—we were at school … she was spending the night later on. The same day she … yeah. I saw it. I—I was, like, so shocked ’cause I figured this guy was made-up, you know? So I told her she’d better tell me all about him that night. And then—that night—”

“I know. Deep breath, OK? In and out. That’s right. Have some more Coke.”

Renata waited a few moments while both girls swigged from the can. The dark-haired girl looked up at her again.

“It’s OK. I can talk. You wanna know what it looked like … it was a choker, like, solid gold, not a chain except at the back where it fastened. And on the front it was engraved—it said ‘I Love You.’ No date or anything—I remember thinking it was weird that he didn’t at least put her name on it, you know?”

“How heavy was it, do you remember?”

She shook her head. “I never touched it. Jennie had it wrapped up in a bandanna and untied it when we were at the lockers and showed it to me. She was so proud … then the bell rang.”

“Do you remember if she had her diary with her that day?”

“Oh, yeah. I even reminded her to bring it later, so she could, like, look things up if she forgot. She wrote down everything. I wanted to hear about it all, now that I figured it was all real. She promised to bring it. She always had it with her.”

“Did you—did she ever give you the feeling that this boyfriend was a—a teacher? Or someone at the Masons, maybe, someone she met through the Rainbow Girls?”

Becky’s reaction was immediate and decisive. “No fuckin’ way was it someone at the Rainbow Girls. She hated that shit. I’m only in it because my mom made me.”

Martha interrupted her. “The Rainbow Girls are, like, nice an’ all—we’ve got friends in there—but most of ’em are in it because their parents made them. And it’s—well—it’s like Becky said—all Little House on the Prairie an’ all. Long dresses and God and nothing about, like, modern stuff and life and music an’ …” She broke off and stifled a giggle, poking Becky with her elbow. “Can you imagine if they heard The Clash—or even Duran Duran? They probably think Madonna is the Antichrist or something …”

“So you’re saying there aren’t any young men associated with the Masons that would fit the, er, image of Jennie’s boyfriend.”

Becky shook her head. “No way. I mean, we all know the Masons and they’re mostly the same old geezers in the Rotary Club, though Rotary has other people and women, too, mostly business people in the area, and they’re much more modern, not like a—a cult or something. My mom’s in it. They’re parents of—of people we know.” She looked at Martha meaningfully. Martha turned her head away, face reddened.

“All right. What about a teacher? Or—someone else in the community? You mentioned a cult, Becky. Do you think—do you think it would be possible for Jennie to think she was in love with a married man? Someone like—someone like Steve Hamlin?”

Both girls recoiled and looked like they’d been asked to hand-clean a well-used port-a-potty.

“Aw, Jesus—fuck no, Miss Connors, fuck no! That old pervert couldn’t fool Jennie—can’t fool anybody at South Fork. Everyone knows he’s a pervert—me and Martha figure he’s the number one suspect because he is a pervert—I mean, he’s probably—probably molesting his own daughters. That’s what we think, anyway, but just try to mention it to any of our parents or so-called counselors or so-called adults and they act like we’re just—what do they call it?—being overdramatic.” She snorted. “Overdramatic, my ass. It’s not just a Bible he’s thumpin’.”

Martha elbowed her again and added: “We don’t know about the teachers. Mr. Sharpe, maybe, but everyone else is just so old.”

“What about the assistant coach, Mr. Dawson?”

Martha’s eyes opened in surprise. “Coach? Ew—that’s gross. But I guess—I mean, technically speaking, he’s not, like super-ancient, but—but gross.”

Renata studied them thoughtfully. “Do you have any, um, theories—suspects—in mind?”

The two girls looked at each other. Martha spoke. “Like Becky said, that Hamlin creep. Not that he could be the boyfriend Jennie mentioned. But, like—we don’t know that the—the killer was the boyfriend, right?”

“No, we don’t, not for sure. But he’s the best lead—the best—let’s just say the best source of information. So we need to identify and find him.”

Martha nodded. “We think—we think it’s maybe some guy from Eureka, or something. Maybe from St. Damian’s. We play ’em pretty often and we all—we all like to, you know, flirt with the other team, even though we’re cheering for South Fork.” She looked up suddenly and urgently. “One thing you’ve gotta know, Miss Connors—it wasn’t Marcus. Marcus was Jennie’s friend, not her boyfriend. Don’t listen to anyone who says different.”

Renata shook her head. “Don’t worry. I know it wasn’t Marcus. I’ve talked to him, too.” She looked from one to the other. “What about … Chris Salazar?”

Becky raised her eyebrows. “Well … he is kinda foxy an’ all, but he’s a little fast—I mean, last my mom heard he was shackin’ up with some woman in Cooks Valley who’s like twenty years older than him.”

Martha added: “There are a few girls at South Fork who like him—a lot. But … they’re kind of fast, too.”

Becky snorted. “Sluts, you mean,” and Martha poked her again.

“So you’re saying he’s, um … not the romantic type? But this boyfriend was? Like a kind of Prince Charming?”

Martha nodded. “Yeah. Like, someone really sweet … gentle. With manners. Like Christopher Reeve in that time-travel movie.”

Becky added: “Not like anyone we know, right?” and nudged Martha, whose eyes fell to the floor, color rising in her face again. She looked up to meet Renata’s eyes.

Her voice was quiet. “I’m—me and Scott—we’re not together anymore.”

Becky gestured with her head toward Renata. “Go on, Marth. Tell her why. Tell her—tell her the whole thing.”

Renata made her voice gentle. “Breaking up hurts, I know. But you’re—you’re much better off without him, Martha. He’s bad news. He and his friends ganged up on Marcus.”

Martha’s eyes were watering and she looked away. “Yeah. I know,” she said simply. “He, uh, wanted me to spend the night with him tomorrow—his mom’s usually out-to-lunch on white wine and his stupid father’s gonna be at some meeting in Alderpoint with that Hamlin creep and creepy Sheriff Peterson and that old shit-kicker Rader—they’re meeting up at the football game beforehand—”

Renata bent forward. “They’re all meeting at South Fork tomorrow? What time?”

“Game starts at six. Scott said—Scott said something about his father being away all night after the game—I guess they’re all staying with Rader or something. He just—he just wanted to, um, to—”

“Get in your pants,” interposed Becky. She gave Martha a meaningful look. “You should tell it all.”

Martha turned her head away. “Nothin’ to tell.” The words were indistinct, murmured.

Jesus … tomorrow was an all-hands-on-deck meeting for Evergreen Development and Holding Company—overnight business in Alderpoint—they weren’t even bothering to hide anymore. A chance, an opportunity … how could she break in, maybe find out what they were doing, trace that tenuous connection to Jennie?

Renata asked suddenly: “You guys are the Bear Cubs, right? Don’t you have a—what do you call it—a mascot? Someone in a costume who cheers at the sidelines? I thought I saw one at the St. Damian game—”

Martha looked at her in surprise. “We used to. Darrell used to do gymnastics and stuff and gave us a break sometimes, but he’s not regular this year. He, uh—some people gave him a hard time about it after the last game and he kind of quit.”

“They ridiculed him because he’s a boy?”

Martha threw a glance at Becky. “Um … yeah. Plus, he’s—well, I think he’s at the continuation school this semester. So he’s not eligible.”

Becky spoke up. “It’s where you go when you’re in trouble or you make trouble—bad grades, fights, drugs—it’s like a last chance to graduate kinda thing.”

Renata sighed. “I see. Look—do you think—I used to cheer in high school—do you think I could borrow the costume tomorrow? Help you a little and then … do some other stuff?”

Both girls looked at her dubiously. Becky spoke first. “Why do you wanna dress up as the Bear Cub, Miss Connors? I mean, what’s that got to do with Jennie?”

“The group of men you mentioned are involved in something—something I think is illegal. Whatever it is might be connected with what happened to Jennie and the other girls … Hamlin’s part of it. If possible, I’d like to—to—”

“Spy?” asked Becky helpfully.

Renata cracked a grin. “Basically. If I could get hold of some evidence—some solid, tangible, physical evidence—”

Martha interrupted with authority. “Are you sure you can cheer? Like, the moves and all? I’m lead varsity and this is a big game—we’re playing Fortuna—”

“I remember a lot—offense, defense, general stuff—and I can fake the rest.”

The blonde studied her for a few seconds and then nodded. “OK. If it means helping Jennie—but you’ll need to meet us early. We usually start at five … how about four thirty? You know where the library is?”

“I think so. If not, I can find it easily. Library at four thirty. Thank you, Martha.”

The girls looked at each other and Becky shrugged. Martha turned back to Renata, face set with resolve.

“OK. Now we ask some questions. We wanna know why you’re—why you’re doing all this? I mean—you’re not getting paid, you’re not into dope, you’re not even from California. Why do you care so much?”

She owed them the truth. As much of it as she could tell them.

“I lost someone once. My—my sister. To a killer. Very similar to, uh, what happened to Jennie and the other girls. And—well, my father was a cop. That’s the reason I went—why I’m going to law school. So when I arrived here, Mike—Mike met me and told me he could use my help, and I thought—maybe I could—maybe I could help find who did this, make sure it didn’t happen to someone else.”

Becky broke the silence. “Did they find who killed her? Your sister, I mean. Was he caught and punished and everything?”

Split-second pause. “Yes. Yes, he was.”

Another pause. Martha made it a statement. “And you’ll tell us if you find something out, right?”

“I’ll tell you as much as I can legally and for your own safety. You’ve got to be super-careful—not just because you’re targets because of age and everything, but—because you know things. You absolutely cannot tell anyone about Jennie’s boyfriend or that necklace—not anyone. We’ve got to make sure you’re safe first. Eventually you’ll need to talk to Detective Sergeant Benedetti. My plan is to get some general information to him but he’ll want to speak with you himself, once you’re protected and more comfortable with the idea. We can do it in stages.”

Becky’s face looked doubtful. “You sure that Benedetti is OK? I mean, he looks nice an’ all—Crystal thinks he’s kinda hot, actually—but I don’t exactly trust the cops up here …”

“I can understand why. But he’s in Eureka, not Southern Humboldt. He seems OK to me.”

Becky nodded, then looked over at Martha and poked her with an elbow. Her voice was soft.

“Tell her, Marth. Tell her all of it. It’ll—it may help. It’ll help you.”

Martha, head down, nodded. When she looked up, her eyes were clear.

“What Becky wants me to tell you happened a long time ago. In junior high. I was—I was walking to the cupcake shop—the one Coach Dawson’s mom owns—in Miranda, and I took a—took a short cut through some woods behind the school to cut across South Fork, and some—some boys followed me. They were … they were led by Scott. And they—they raped me.”

Renata’s mouth went dry.

“Do you know who they were?”

Becky said: “Know? She sees ’em every fuckin’ day! Scott thinks he’s owned her ever since …”

“I’m—Jesus. I’m sorry, Martha. And I—I thank you for telling me. Did you ever—ever think of going to the—”

“Police? Like who—Sheriff Peterson?” Becky’s voice shook with anger. “Now you know why I won’t talk to anybody about Jennie. Why Martha shut up like a clam and goes to school and still sees those bastards every day—why my own mother does business with their fathers. They’re all in the fuckin’ community, all one big fuckin’ happy family. I—I asked someone once about the—the statuary—”

“Statutory limit?”

“Yeah. Three years. So it’s too late now. Now she just lives with seein’ ’em every goddamn day—”

Martha grabbed her friend’s arm. “It’s OK, Becks. I can—I’ve learned to deal with it. They—they didn’t really mean to—”

“Bullshit. They meant to.” The brunette turned to Renata. “She’s never told anyone except me. So whatever you do in that stupid Bear Cub costume—get something on Peter Schwartz. Get something on all of them.”

They left soon after, both promising to meet Renata the next afternoon by the library, both swearing to complete silence, both looking up and down the street before squeezing out the door and heading around the corner and up the hill to Becky’s house.

Renata ran a palm along her forehead where it ached.

Just when she thought she’d mined the last crime out of Southern Humboldt.

Three girls murdered. A teacher set up and driven out of town, a woman systematically destroyed. A crooked holding company run by a crooked cop, a rich pot-grower, an ambitious businessman, and a religious huckster who was most likely abusing his own family…

And one girl (and was it only one?) raped by a gang of boys she grew up with, boys she saw every day, boys she was expected to date, to go to prom with, to settle down with and marry …

And above it all, the branching, serrated leaves of Cannabis sativa, a benevolent plant of many uses (The Declaration of Independence was written on hemp paper! Buy a hemp wallet—much more ecologically friendly than cotton! Smoking pot is an analgesic!), green, fragrant, a botanical miracle, and growing nowhere better than the steep, timbered hills of northern California, nowhere better than the unique and special terroir of Southern Humboldt, where the governor’s assembled militia flew black helicopters over grazing cattle and redwood groves and arrested the citizens who’d adopted the plant as their very own, angered and oppressed by the unjust and unfair laws that outlawed its use, growth, and sale (It won’t kill you like tobacco! It’s safer than alcohol!) and at the very same time, thanking Jehovah or the Great Benevolence Above or whatever Power dictated the actions of mice and men and the cannabis plant, thanking them all, over and over, every day and in every way, for the fact that the lush, green crop was illegal.

Because the day that it wasn’t, the fucking roof would fall in.

Renata stayed up too late, but that was to be expected. There was the shock she’d expected and several she didn’t, and none of them were quiet and all of them raged and roared and focus was getting more and more difficult.

She swigged some water.

So much to unpack from what Becky had said. So much to unravel, to check.

There was what she’d eked out from Redwood Record reports, too—what she didn’t tell Mike, because Chris was there …

Was Chris a dancer? A Prince Charming? What about Luther Crowley or Alfred Hayes?

And what was this Evergreen meeting about? Why was it urgent? Why the whole night? Did Hamlin, Schwartz, Rader, and Peterson have anything to do with the murders?

The Record had dutifully printed recent purchases in the area and government news that trickled in from the more populated areas of the state—the same areas that helped bankroll the high dollar operations for weed. And she’d noticed a few things …

As soon as CAMP began, there were rumors from Sacramento that the taskforce wanted to expand the airport in Garberville.

Evergreen’s property purchases—down the road, by the park, over by the current little airstrip—started popping up at the same time. And an even funnier thing about them—all five purchases predated by only a couple of weeks a major CAMP raid.

As if—and she’d seen so many westerns as a child with her father that she’d grown to like them—as if they knew the railroad was coming to town and wanted to buy up the land where the tracks were laid. As if—as if they might even have something to do with when and where those tracks would be laid.

What if? What if they not only knew but controlled it? Who was in the company?

A landowner of longstanding, the dominant landowner in a remote, hilly region with next-to-no infrastructure or oversight. A landowner that leased his land and never sold it.

A sheriff not of the law but of Nottingham, with no Humboldt Robin Hood in sight, one who ran a teacher out of town in order for a particular property purchase to be made by another creature of the dark, not the pied and piping exterminator of four-legged vermin but rather the spiritual leader of the two-legged type, a vagabond preacher with peculiar peccadillos who planned to open a palace of retreat, a place where many contacts from his many holes could reemerge in a haze of semi-legitimacy before vanishing again to parts unknown, and perhaps taking with them certain packets of certain products, a kind of Amway distribution center, full of the consciousness of High.

And finally, there was the businessman, the respectable and loud “community leader,” the Big Booster and the Big Noise, the man who stitched it all up into a regular routine with an IRS number and an incorporation in Delaware.

Renata nodded her head. She could almost see it, in CinemaScope and Technicolor. And tomorrow, if she was lucky—and very, very careful—maybe she’d find a copy of the script.

V

For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak.

William Shakespeare, Hamlet,

Act II, Scene 2

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 27th

Friday was a blur of bathrooms and hospital beds, vacuuming low-pile carpet and scrubbing emergency room blood stains from another car crash, this time on Highway 1.

Renata worked through it all mechanically, smiling at nurses, chatting about the weather with patients, nodding respectfully to the doctors. By now she welcomed the rote habit of repetitive physical labor, even with little sleep and adrenaline pumping to her fingertips … it allowed her room to think. By the time she clocked out at three, she’d developed at least a rudimentary idea of what to do at the game.

She half-ran, half-jogged, and arrived at Mike’s door out of breath.

There was no response to her pounding knock, so she tried the knob. The door swung open and she stepped into the familiar entry room with its stacks of newspapers, pizza boxes, and buried telephone.

“Mike? Mike, are you there?” She looked around, listening.

Nothing.

A frown creased her face. He hadn’t mentioned any interviews the day before… and surely he would have told her, would have wanted her to take photos. Where the hell was he?

She opened the den door. A couple of beer cans on the ring-stained coffee table, nothing else new.

Tried the kitchen. The dishes had been mostly washed but no Mike.

Impatiently, Renata mounted the stairs, remembering Chris had told her Mike’s room was there. Maybe he was sleeping …

To the right were two doors in close proximity. She knocked on the first door, then pushed it open a discreet few inches, expecting to find a sloppy bed piled with dirty clothes and possibly Mike. Instead, she walked into a large, mostly empty room, a polished wood floor with a few Bill Graham rock posters from the ’60s on the wall, some cardboard storage boxes and an old steamer trunk, more records and an old Victrola-type player, and about five or six wooden type cases for the press occupying about a quarter of the space. What she presumed was a closet door faced her across the floor, painted a dirty blue and white like the rest of the room.

A squeak from the floorboard behind her made her pivot. Mike was standing there, grinning at her.

“Hey! I was downstairs—I thought I heard someone call—”

“I did. I don’t have much time, so I came up to see if you were asleep or something—”

He laughed and gestured for her to follow him back downstairs. “That’s just my storage room. But you weren’t too off-base, ’cause sometimes I do crash during the day. What’s the hurry? We’ve got a lot to catch up on—”

“Yeah, I know.” She looked toward the basement door. “Chris with you?”

“He’s back in Alderpoint, taking care of his own business. What’s going on, Nattie?”

“They’re having a meeting at the game tonight—Rader, Peterson, Hamlin, and Schwartz. Remember the corporation I told you about—the one buying land by the airport? It’s called Evergreen Development and Holding Company and they’re the principals—the owners.”

Mike’s eyebrows rose. “Shit—this may be big. You say they’re meeting tonight? At South Fork?”

Renata checked her wristwatch. “There’s a lot more to tell you, like I think they’re working with CAMP and growers and it’s a big fucking deal—I’m not sure yet how the connection to Jennie fits in, but everything’s Alderpoint-focused. I don’t have time to go into it now, but I wanted you to know. I’ve gotta go.”

He grabbed her arm. “Wait, Nattie—I’ve gotta get to South Fork, too, and report on the game. I figured you could take photos for the paper again. Why don’t you drive with me—you can tell me more on the way—”

She shook her head and pulled away. “I’m sorry, Mike. I can’t. Not tonight. I’ll catch you up tomorrow. Or maybe even tonight after the game, if the timing works.” She looked up at him. “By the way—why didn’t you tell me Paul Benedetti asked about me? If there’s a cop asking questions, I’d like to know.”

Mike grinned. He moved an inch or two closer and she could smell Irish Spring and aftershave.

“Maybe I was a little jealous. Benedetti’s single—he might make a move. I’ve already got Chris to worry about.”

“Mike … how much do you really know about Chris?”

Again, he looked surprised. “Enough to call him a friend and a brother. Enough to know his faults and his virtues and trust him with my business. Hell, I’d trust him with more than that. Look—are you leaving right this minute? ’Cause I really wanna know what’s going on—”

She checked her watch again. “No time. I’ll fill you in as soon as I can, I promise.”

Renata hurried out the door and hustled to the library, thankful when the three people across the street had passed far enough along to allow her to slip inside.

She bit her lip. The Ka-Bar on her belt would be awkward inside a costume and identifiable without one—better leave it here. She unzipped her over-the-shoulder small bag … what to bring? She pulled open the top drawer of Eve’s desk and threw in a few paper clips and a pencil. What else, what else … She closed her eyes, contemplating scenarios, then opened them again.

Bobby pins, she remembered. Bobby pins.

Renata grabbed a small pack of brown bobby pins, a Chronicle and an egg salad sandwich from The Bus Stop, keeping conversation with Buddy brief and light.

She climbed inside the Mercedes and started up the engine. It was a little sluggish. She’d need to see Friedrickson about it before leaving town, before disappearing like so many visitors to Humboldt seemed to do …

She let the car warm up and opened the newspaper.

Nothing about Grinkov, nothing about her.

She exhaled.

Another day. Another day to keep working.

She opened up the sandwich, took a bite and pulled away, heading north for the off-ramp to 101 and Eureka. Too bad there wasn’t time to give Mike a debrief. Besides, she needed more than a debrief … more like a de-escalation. He’d been openly flirtatious, probably encouraged by the fact that she hadn’t pushed back against Chris’s more obvious come-ons.

She shook her head. Fucking complications she didn’t want, didn’t need, could never afford, for however long this new life lasted.

Mike was technically an attractive guy, if not her type—too Humboldt—and it was dangerous enough to work for him, to be friendly. But there could be no honesty, no intimacy of any kind … just the paper-thin veneer of a phony ID and the projection of a character she’d named Natalie Connors, a part of herself that she could navigate between the sociability necessary to seem “normal” and the protection she needed to stay free.

A fucking tightrope act. She’d let on more to Becky and Martha than anyone else because they shared a bond—a bond of understanding. A bond of victimhood … of survival.

And now that the Times had carried her name, her photo, how much time did she really have left? The FBI may not be in Miranda but they were watching Humboldt, eyes on the area, and every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday brought new threats—the clock was ticking like a fucking nuclear warhead, tick tock tick tock tick, click and BOOM …

Breathe. In and out, in and out …

Renata hunched forward closer to the window and with difficulty wrenched her thoughts back to Evergreen. What about Donald Austin? Was he involved? Katherine Turner believed in his innocence, or at least obtuseness, as she’d described it. And she was nobody’s fool. Was he cleverly crooked or just an inept attorney who suffered from a distinct lack of curiosity?

She took one hand off the wheel and swallowed another bite of egg salad.

Paul Benedetti looked like Mr. Clean himself, but with Peterson involved in whatever scheme Evergreen was pulling, in whatever crooked enterprise or connection to Jennie, Amy and Dawn, the whole damn department was compromised. So that meant the feds or the state police, and she couldn’t risk personal questions from either one.

Benedetti … she truly liked Benedetti. Liked him too much to be extradited back to DC by him.

So that left Mike. Mike, the intrepid journalist, the newspaper man who printed all the Humboldt news whether fit or not … Mike would have to give them the evidence, answer the questions, make the case.

And what was the case? Maybe she’d luck out at the game and find something to expose the malfeasance and graft behind Evergreen and Higher Consciousness, Inc., the whole rotten enterprise, untangle the sticky web of theft and drugs and pay-offs and racketeering and property development … maybe she’d get luckier and discover a connection between the men and Jennie’s murder.

She at least had to try.

Renata shook her head. Who the hell was the older boyfriend, the Prince Charming? Who was the man Jennie was going to meet—the man who’d gifted a necklace to three girls before strangling them?

Martha and Becky were too young, still too naïve to recognize that the schoolgirl fantasy was a tale of horror, a terrifying, twisted mirror of an adolescent crush. They clung to the hope that an innocent boy from Eureka gave Jennie that choker, clung like it was a life raft to a world where human beings weren’t devoured by their own darkness, incapable of such atrocity, such evil.

Renata knew better.

He’d cultivated Jennie like a flower, watching her bloom, delicately opening hopes, dreams, fantasies. All part of a plan, his plan, a plot, fable and fairy tale … the climax of which was murder and rape, penetrative or not, sadism and sexuality satisfied only by complete ownership of another human being.

Ownership to a psychopath was the ability to control, to use and then destroy, over and over again … ownership was their fetish, their reason for existence, whether individual or mass, a single, solo serial killer or a system. Whether it was Charles Manson, American slavery, or a Nazi concentration camp.

Who was Humboldt’s serial killer? Was it Chris, the “ladies’ man” according to Mike, “fast”, according to Becky and Martha, sexually aggressive according to her own eyes and ears … Chris, who had probably tried to break into the library?

Or was it someone else, like Hamlin or Luther Crowley or “Dead Ed” Dawson, whom Mike seemed suspicious of?

No one was completely off the list.

No one.

Renata sighed as she turned off on the Miranda exit, glancing at the highwater mark from 1964 in her rear-view mirror.

Only a little time left to do what she had stayed to do, to do what she couldn’t do in DC.

She flicked her eyes to the rear-view mirror. Josie was looking out the window.

“I love you, Josie,” she whispered. She slowly rolled the Mercedes into a pullout across the street from the parking lot in front of South Fork High School.

The school seemed mostly deserted, but she could hear loud voices and whistles from the field and a buzz of commotion from the school office.

She cut across the lawn and behind a large conifer, out of sight of any faculty member who might walk out of the office, and headed for the small, square building with the library sign that stood isolated and freestanding from the long rectangular halls that comprised most of the school.

Checked her watch. Only 4:18. Maybe ten minutes for a quick reconnaissance.

The library was dark, no lights through the tinted windows, and the door was locked. She stepped to the left of the building and toward the rear. Three more of those low, rectangular school-hall buildings formed part of a square around what looked like raised tennis courts. Whistles, yelling, and the unmistakable sound of cheerleading grew closer and clearer.

She tried a door to the hall nearest her and it opened. She padded softly down the tiled corridor, noticing announcements for scholarships and tutoring on the walls, along with some diagrams of cars, and, farther down, a large display for the local 4-H, complete with photos of pimply-faced, husky teens holding up blue ribbons next to various goats and cows.

Ian had mentioned metal shop and agriculture classes, Future Farmers of America. For a school of such miniscule size, the faculty’s dedication to serving the widest possible range of students—from Virginia Esposito’s Shakespeare to a diagram of a DeLorean—was impressive.

She exited the building. Steps led up to four tennis courts, with another school corridor of classrooms behind and below them, and through a small gap between the rear building and the perpendicular hall she’d just left she caught a glimpse of the bleachers.

The coaches—Brendan Buck and “Dead Ed”—were discussing something on the field, players were sitting on the sidelines talking and a couple of girls, still dressed in street clothes, were milling around.

Better get back to the library.

She hurried through the hall of vocations and peeked around the front of the library building.

Becky and Martha were both waiting for her.

The girls were already in cheerleader uniform. Both were nervous.

“C’mon, we gotta hurry.”

Becky followed Martha’s lead, and they all headed to the building Renata just came from.

“There’s a super-big bathroom in here and it’ll be empty ’cause Miss Mason, the home ec teacher, is helping Miss Ames—she’s our cheer coach and the PE teacher.”

“Do you use any music or is the cheering always a capella?” Renata asked.

Becky shrugged. “Sometimes we play a tape. We used to have a band—but now we’ve got drama class instead. Only enough money for one at a time. We’ve got a choir, though, and some of us made a group, kinda like The Go-Go’s …”

“C’mon, Becky!” Martha was holding the door of a girls’ restroom open. “We don’t have time.”

The room was large—five stalls and a small anteroom complete with lockers.

“We use it when we try on clothes we make in home ec,” Becky added helpfully. Martha was digging out a big brown furry costume from a lower locker and a cartoonish Bear Cub head from the one next to it. She stood up, handed them to Renata.

“I hid ’em in here earlier. Try it on.”

Renata climbed in the furry brown jump suit and zipped it up. Snug, but not too tight. She cautiously lowered the head over her own.

Becky peered in at her. “Can you see? Can you hear OK? Darrell always said he couldn’t see anything and was constantly bumping into us—”

“I’m OK. It’s stuffy but I’m OK.” Her voice was muffled, but that would help disguise it. “I can see straight on, just not peripherally.”

Martha was looking at her skeptically. “But can you cheer? ’Cause we need you to cheer.”

Renata took a deep breath, summoned a memory, and struck a pose.

“Themistocles, Thucydides, The Peloponnesian War—

X squared, Y squared, H2SO4.

Who for? What for? Who we gonna yell for?

Goooo, Bear Cubs!”

She managed a semi-split without splitting either her pants or the suit. Martha was grinning.

“Not bad. We don’t know that one, but if you can follow ‘Hold ’em, stop ’em, knock ’em down,’ and ‘First and ten,’ and ‘Offense, offense,’ and ‘Get that ball,’ you’ll be fine. And we always do ‘Give me an S,’ a lot.

Renata took Becky’s proffered hand, stood up and took off the Bear Cub head. “Thanks, you guys. I’ll be careful with the costume, too. You want me out right after the start?”

Martha nodded. “Practice is at five and the warm-up’s at five thirty—the game starts at six. Come about five minutes later and we should be in the first or second play. The coaches will be too busy to ask questions—Miss Ames’ll be watching our formations, and Miss Mason’ll be making sure our uniforms hold up—besides, they’ll probably just think Darrell got permission. He was only transferred to continuation a few days ago. And I think the freshmen won the Spirit Bell, so they’ll be watching for stuff going on, you know, under the bleachers and all.”

“Speaking of bleachers … does much go on at the games?”

Both girls looked at each other and Becky shrugged. “Not really. Too many teachers around.”

“Good.” Renata smiled. “Looks like a lot of people are here already.”

“It’s a big game, means a lot.” Martha gestured with her head. “C’mon, Becks, we better get back. Miss, uh, Miss Connors—”

“Please call me Nattie.”

“OK, Nattie—put the costume back in these lockers when you’re done. So long as it’s before everyone leaves—that’s when all the buildings will get locked up and I’ll get in trouble if it’s not back where it belongs.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure. And thanks again, you two. I’ll let you know when—well, you know where to find me.”

Martha nodded. “One more thing—Peter Schwartz, Bill Rader, and Sheriff Peterson always like to stand on the sidelines by us. Like where they were at the St. Damian game. Hamlin usually sits in the first or second row.” She gave Renata a searching look. “Good luck.”

Outside the football field, everything else was quiet except for the administration building. She couldn’t afford to be recognized, though, and without a crowd to hide in she’d be noticed if she wandered in the open … which meant she wouldn’t be able to spot Schwartz, Hamlin, and the rest drive in and park.

Renata sighed. Best to try to get a look at the crowd and the bleachers from that school hall.

She retraced her earlier path and peeked through the rear door. There were already more people on the field. Two women—probably the teachers Martha mentioned—were speaking to a couple of girls in cheerleading uniforms while Martha, Becky, and six other girls practiced a pyramid formation.

The boys were suited up, some sitting on the sidelines while others practiced tackling drills run by Ed Dawson. He seemed to enjoy a rapport with them, encouraging them more than correcting them. The coach, Brendan Buck, was squinting at some charts with a couple of what were, Renata supposed, the quarterback and key offense players.

A few other adults and families were trickling in to find seats, including Virginia Esposito, Ian’s colleague in the English department, and someone she thought might be the agriculture teacher Buzz Boford, at least from Amanda’s description. She heard clanging and noticed a gaggle of young teens gathered around a large but portable bronze bell, laughing and flirting.

The possible Buzz and another man about the same age—this one shorter and not as stocky, but wearing a large blond mustache—were in conversation. They appeared to be arguing, then came to an agreement, and Buzz started walking in her direction, the other man following.

Renata ducked back inside and made for the women’s restroom, cracking the heavy door open a couple of inches, listening. A couple of minutes later she heard them, apparently heading for the men’s room next door.

The man with the mustache was speaking. “You sure it’s the good stuff? Not cut with crap? I mean, that seems too cheap—”

Boford’s voice was lazy. “Fuck off, Coddy. You worry too much. Hamlin knows I know where he lives. I know where all the bodies are buried in fuckin’ Humboldt—”

“Maybe not the best line to use right now, Buzz …” murmured the other man.

They were opening the bathroom door. Boford laughed as he entered.

“You got that right, buddy.”

Renata let the door close softly, entered one of the stalls and pressed her ear to the wall. Water running, some flushing, some talking. Nothing clear.

She frowned, stepped back to the bathroom door and cracked it open again. About two minutes later the other door opened.

The one called Coddy was speaking. “I can’t afford much—”

Buzz was sniffing and tilting his head back and he snapped it back down to stare at his friend. “When it’s this good you don’t need much. Hell, you can always take a vacay during Christmas break and resell it.”

“True. And it’s not”—he hesitated—“it’s not interfering with work or anything?”

They started to walk toward the outside door. “Coddy, you worry too much. My kids love me. My wife loves me. I’m Buzz Boford, for fuck’s sake. Just stick with your classes and the yearbook group and let it fucking go. Sally would be glad to see a little extra bread and trust me, this shit’ll help you show her a better time than she’s ever had—it’ll make a new man outta you.”

Boford laughed again, slapping the other man on the back as the door swung shut behind them.

Renata waited for another five minutes before stepping out of the restroom.

Another score for Hamlin, this time cocaine. That fit in with her ideas about Evergreen.

She crept quietly toward the door the two men had exited through and took another peep at the bleachers.

The crowd was growing, though the bleachers were big enough to dwarf the entire school population and then some. Across the field, the smaller opponent seating was dotted with families wearing white and blue.

She spotted Mike to the right and in front of the bleachers, holding the camera, and speaking to a woman wearing a blue and gold sweatshirt with Bear Cub Booster printed on it. Above him, she caught a glimpse of Ian and Greg, already holding coffee and donuts, and toward the upper rows, Marcus, surrounded by three or four other students. Even MacKenzie Scott was in attendance, watching from a top-row bleacher with an amused look on her face.

Then Renata spotted Peter Schwartz standing on the center sideline with Rory Peterson.

She pulled her head back out of instinct. Checked her watch.

Fifteen minutes to go.

Renata inched to where she could see them again. They didn’t seem to be talking—weren’t even that physically close to each other. Schwartz was yelling out things to his son, who was still practicing catches on the field, while Peterson stood about six feet away sipping coffee and smiling.

A couple of lanky, shadowy forms were writhing underneath the bleachers, but soon crawled out, laughing, transforming back into sophomores hiding the Spirit Bell from unwary freshmen. Martha was right—the crowd was a little too thick with adults and teachers to encourage much else. She noticed nearly everyone headed for seats close to the Snack Shack.

The general noise and excitement was increasing, and Martha, Becky, and the rest of the cheerleaders started warming up the crowd. About two minutes later, Hamlin showed up, moving his way down the second-row middle bleachers toward Tom Friedrickson. Even from a distance, Friedrickson’s smile and posture looked forced. Hamlin immediately tried to engage him in conversation.

Hamlin’s wife trailed him, with the three girls and the young son. They sat in the fourth row, Chastity on the far end. Her older sister’s gaze was fixed on her father, along with a kind of stretched, manic smile. The mouse-like mother held on to the ten-year-old, who seemed subdued for her age, dressed in a floor-length flowery dress with a dirty lace edging. The boy fidgeted and nibbled on a donut. None of the other children had anything to eat.

Renata noticed that the adults and kids seated on the bleachers around them scooted away, an act more subconscious than deliberate.

A sizeable crowd was bustling in from the Snack Shack and she was getting nervous. Between the wired-up teams on the field, the ramrod posture of the coaches, the frenzied cheering and the high-pitched yells from the bleacher-boosters, raw intensity surrounded the field like an electric fence. Schwartz and Peterson were now talking. They’d both noticed Hamlin, but nothing too obvious.

Where the hell was Rader?

She was about to go change when she finally spotted Rader walking along the sideline toward Hamlin. He made a gesture for the bearded man to join him. Hamlin smiled at Friedrickson, patted him on the back, and followed Rader to the second row on the relatively empty left side, farthest from coffee, donuts, and hot dogs.

Only a few older teens sat in the area and no one was close to them. The two men spoke briefly and then the whistle blew and the coaches took the field for the toss.

Renata hurried back to the restroom.

Second play after kickoff, South Fork ball on their own forty-third. The Bear Cub bounded in front of the crowd to a few cheers, mostly from the underclassmen and some young mothers with baby Bear Cubs of their own.

Renata couldn’t see anything that wasn’t straight in front of her and her hearing was muffled. She turned around until she could catch Martha’s attention. Martha gave a nod and Renata joined in a “Gooo, Bear Cubs!” offensive cheer. The other cheerleaders looked surprised and some were laughing. One large, hearty girl bumped into her purposefully and hissed: “Whoever you are, you’re not any better than Darrell, so stay out of my way!”

Another first down on the Fortuna Huskies’ forty-two yard line brought the crowd to its feet, and Renata hopped, jumped, and pranced to the other side of Lumberjack Girl and closer to midfield, where Peterson was standing with Schwartz, who was pumping his fist in the air and whooping. The voice on the loudspeaker—who sounded like Buzz Boford’s buddy Coddy—credited Scott Schwartz with the last fifteen-yard rushing play. Hamlin and Rader were still sitting together, not talking much.

She threw her arms up to exhort the crowd, the noise and the costume making it nearly impossible to hear anything else until South Fork’s offensive march was stymied with an immediate tackle on the next handoff. The noise fell again to almost a hush on third and eleven and Ed Dawson called a timeout.

She joined in with the cheerleaders in “Give me an S” and positioned herself closer to Schwartz and Peterson. When she turned her head to check on Hamlin and Rader, she was surprised to see their bleacher empty. She suddenly felt a jostle on her left and pivoted to find Rader brushing by her. He and Hamlin were joining the other two on the sidelines.

She did an air jumping jack and backed in closer to where all four men were now standing. Schwartz’s attention was focused entirely on the field.

The quarterback—a tall, slim kid—hiked the ball and passed toward the sideline under pressure. A Huskie caught it and was immediately tackled by Scott Schwartz, who also yanked at the other boy’s facemask. A referee blew his whistle. Fifteen yard penalty and it was Huskies’ first and ten at the South Fork forty-four.

The crowd quieted down. Even within her limited field of vision, Renata could see a number of people leaving the bleachers to get coffee, Coke, and snacks. She joined the cheerleaders in “Hold ’em, stop ’em, knock ’em down.”

The men were still on the sidelines talking. Schwartz’s back was stiff and his fists were clenched. Hamlin grabbed his arm and Schwartz angrily pulled it away. Peterson put a hand on Schwartz’s shoulder and after a few more words, they started walking together toward the empty end of the bleachers, Schwartz’s body language still jerky and argumentative.

A cheer erupted from the opposite side of the field. Fortuna was first and ten at the South Fork twenty-yard line.

The four men slid into the empty front row at the far end of the bleachers, Rader, Hamlin, Schwartz, and Peterson on the outside.

Martha was leading another “Defense” cheer but Renata noticed the girl’s eyes had followed Hamlin and the rest of the group. Renata bounced over toward her—trying to stay away from Lumberjack Girl—and made a big gesture toward the Snack Shack with her costumed paw. Martha glanced again toward the men, then back toward Renata and nodded once.

So far, so good.

Renata bent forward in an exaggerated mime of preparing for a race and suddenly ran by the entire set of bleachers, raising her arms, clapping her pawed hands, and working up the Bear Cub fans still seated.

As quickly as she could—running was difficult, too, with her shoes stuck inside large padded feet—she ducked to the right of the first set of bleachers closest to the Snack Shack and into the walkway about fifty feet behind. It ran next to the raised tennis court and school hall that was her base of operation.

She stood for a moment on the concrete and caught her breath.

No one there that she could see or hear.

Still couldn’t risk taking off the Bear Cub head.

She crept quickly toward the back of the more remote bleachers she’d spied out earlier. A loud groan erupted from the crowd, and the announcer broke the news that it was first and goal, Huskies.

She turned around, again checking both directions. No one in sight.

Evergreen Development and Holding Corporation was still occupying the same row, and she was only a few feet behind it.

The Bear Cub head brushed against wood and metal and Renata crouched even lower, crawling along dry ground and grass littered with empty cigarette packs. She inched toward the front until she was on her knees and out of headroom and almost directly under where the men were sitting.

The first-quarter whistle blew. She was holding her breath and she let it out, little by little.

Carefully, she removed her only protection—the Bear Cub head.

Schwartz was complaining and his mood was foul. “I still don’t see why we need to meet so sudden—I barely had time to get the papers ready—”

“But you brought them.”

“Of course I fucking brought them!”

“With you?”

Schwartz snorted. “They’re not on my person, Hamlin. I’m not an idiot and I’m here to watch my son play football, whatever the fuck you all are doing—they’re in my briefcase, in my car. I care about my son.”

“I care about my family, too.”

Peterson said softly: “Maybe a little too much …”

Hamlin’s voice sharpened and he shifted his position. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The sheriff responded with real anger, forgetting his usual jocund persona. “It means we’re here because Benedetti and the FBI are searching for a serial killer and you’re a goddamn suspect, that’s what. Sometimes I don’t know why I brought you in, Hamlin—we got a good thing going and you’re fucking it up.”

Short pause. They were all breathing hard, stiff, bristling, bellicose.

Hamlin turned defensive, almost whiny. “Yeah? I’m not alone, if I am. We got other threats. Too many people know too fucking much—that Duncan, for instance? When did he suddenly get off wanting a fucking cut? How does he even figure? We’ve been working for over three fucking years—and I’ve done my share and more and you know it—and he just got elected County Supervisor last year, and—”

A roar from the crowd. Third and goal, Fortuna.

Peterson calmed down and spoke almost lazily. “Don’t worry about Duncan, Hamlin. Worry about how you get the fucking feds off your ass and worry about people drumming you and your—peculiarities—out of town. You weren’t this fucked up ten years ago before all the born-again crap. No, I mean it—I’ve heard talk. If I didn’t know you were good for the distribution, I’d fucking do it myself—we don’t need complications. What we need is to just sit tight.”

Hamlin turned his preacher voice back on. It sounded like a purr. “I hope that’s not intended as a threat, Rory.”

The sheriff sighed. “Of course not. But consider it a warning. Lay off for a little. We’re a chain and we can’t afford a weak link.”

The bleachers shook as the crowd jumped to its feet and screamed. The announcer, excited, reported that it was fourth and goal, and that the Huskies were going for a touchdown.

Schwartz was still standing and shouting “Defense!” at the top of his lungs.

Another pause from the Evergreen bench. Then Rader spoke up. “What about Donald Austin? He ain’t figured out anything, has he?”

Schwartz sat back down and made a deprecating noise. “He doesn’t think. He doesn’t get paid to think, so he doesn’t bother to think. No threat there. I told you the local attorney would work out, and he’s respectable, and that’s a good, smart tactic.”

“And Wayne Hunt? He’s not cut in, but—”

Peterson smoothed the waters again. “Hunt will shut up. He’s got his own thing going and he knows I know about it. And Benedetti isn’t much. He’s straight, but he’s by himself. We’re cool, boys. So long as you brought the distribution lists for LA and SF and Seattle, Peter. And the pay-offs, of course. Speaking of which, Bill, were you able to talk the CAMP guy into product instead of cash?”

“No, I think he’s figured out something about the airport—I wish that asshole Mike would stop printing notices about real-estate sales—”

Hamlin interrupted. “You worry too much, Rader. Besides, you never sell anything. You lease, remember?”

Rader grunted. “Except that once, because Schwartz said to put it in the company. But somebody’s gotta worry. It’s my land, ain’t it? All right, so I’m careful. I’ve got a right to be. And you’d better be. That girl was found on my property. And you and your habits ’ll get you nailed for it, you mark my words—you better lie low, Hamlin. Oh, keep the school bullshit running, but for God’s sake don’t feed suspicions. I mean, I’ve wondered about it myself. People figure if you’re a pervert once, you’re a pervert twice.”

Hamlin stood up, fists clenched. “I didn’t kill that girl.”

Once more, the crowd rose, Schwartz’s voice booming above them all, shouting “De-fense! De-fense!” as the announcer, with relief in his voice, called a sack on the Huskies’ quarterback and first and ten for the Bear Cubs on their own nine-yard line.

After claps and whistles, the men sat back down.

Schwartz said: “Can we hurry up whatever this is? I figured we’d talk in Alderpoint.”

Hamlin started in again and Peterson’s voice was conciliatory. “Now, Steve, you know Bill here’s a hick from way back. Don’t take it personal. He means well. Just tryin’ to get us all to be extra cautious.”

Hamlin grunted. Longer pause. Schwartz stood up and shouted “Go, Twenty-Nine! Move that ball!”

The preacher cleared his throat. “You have any trouble collecting lately, Peterson? Anything that won’t be on Schwartz’s paperwork?”

“No, they’re all scared. The FBI shit has also done us some good. They’re all ready for the first and some even paid early because they had the cash.”

“Speaking of early, why don’t we leave the game and get on up to Alderpoint—”

“No. I wanna see my son play. There’s only a few minutes left in the half and this is a big game. If you’re so hot to see the lists, Hamlin, you can check them out for a few minutes during halftime. We’ll sit in my car.”

The lists.

All that evidence … pay-offs, distribution, a perfect narrative of perfect crime and corruption …

Renata bit her lip. She needed those papers.

Peterson yawned. “You two do what you want. I’ll wait till tonight. Crowd’s coming back for this next series and we’re too conspicuous here. Let’s get back to the sidelines.”

She hurriedly replaced the Bear Cub head and scooted backward on her heels until she could stand up a little more and back out from under the bleachers. Glanced at the game board.

Only seven minutes left in the second quarter, and the Bear Cubs were marching, now on their own twenty-yard line. She should rejoin the cheerleaders but duck out again before the half and before any of them got too curious about who was wearing the costume. Besides, she needed to find Schwartz’s car, and that meant being on the spot near the gates to watch for him and Hamlin.

She jogged back around to the other side near the Snack Shack, which was already doing brisk business in anticipation of halftime lines. The South Fork quarterback stepped back and threw a long pass which was surprisingly plucked, held on to, and counted down at the Fortuna forty-eight.

The crowd was roaring, the Spirit Bell clanging, and she ran in front, waving her arms, until she was next to the cheerleaders and just to the right of Peterson and Schwartz on the sidelines. Rader was rooted on the same bench as earlier, and Hamlin had moved into the bleachers with his family.

She noticed a short, cheerful, athletic-looking woman in a jogging suit smiling at her from the sidelines, and another woman, not smiling, with a Dorothy Hamill cut and a five-year-old maxi dress.

Probably Ames and Mason, the PE and home ec teachers.

Renata did another air jumping jack and danced over to join the cheerleaders, who were in the middle of “First and ten.” Lumberjack Girl was still glowering at her so she stayed on the side with a couple of smaller girls and Becky. Becky was grinning and clearly in her element, echoing Martha like a good lieutenant.

Who’s got the ball? We’ve got the ball. Who’s gonna score? We’re gonna score …

The Fortuna defense was rattled. South Fork ran for another twenty yards and then another ten and the two-minute warning sounded with first and goal. Fortuna took a second timeout. Schwartz was red in the face and hoarsely shouting “Twenty-Nine! Twenty-Nine ! Give the ball to Twenty-Nine!”

The crowd in the bleachers was on its feet and staying there; Ames was jumping up and down herself and encouraging the girls to get in a pyramid for the final push of the half.

Renata managed a semi-split and some more dancing, waved her arms and ran down the sidelines back toward the Snack Shack. She needed to get in a position where she could see enough to track Schwartz but stay hidden, and if she waited any longer—score or no score—she’d get swallowed up by Bear Cub boosters, some of whom would be curious about their mascot.

She made for the gym, taking a right along the bleachers then a left around the side of the building. The crowd reached a new frenzied crescendo behind her—South Fork must have scored. That would mean one more timeout for the Huskies and a mass migration to the Snack Shack.

She jogged through the small concrete plaza in front of South Fork’s gymnasium and then up the sidewalk to School Road along the other side of the campus. The gym building wasn’t square—it had evidently been added on to in pieces—and a kind of small, inside corner near the field gate offered a niche, a view of who was coming and going, and a little protection.

To Renata’s surprise, Ian was standing there, smoking a cigarette.

A few people were already starting to filter to cars, grabbing jackets, water bottles, and cigarettes. Ian looked surprised when she jogged in front of him and gave him a big wave with a bear paw.

“Darrell? But I thought you—”

She leaned in closer and whispered: “It’s not Darrell. It’s Nattie Connors. I need your help.”

“Nattie? What the—”

“Shhh. No one can know I’m here.”

He dropped the cigarette and rubbed it out with his foot. “What the hell is going on?”

Renata positioned herself into the corner. No Schwartz and Hamlin yet.

She made a motion for Ian to step closer and in front of her.

“What are you—I can’t be seen standing this close to Darrell—he’s got enough troubles—”

She raised her voice to a muffled croak. “Only for a few minutes. Can’t tell you more. You owe me, Ian. Just pretend to talk to me for a few minutes. You can back up now.”

The whistle blew, and the voice on the speaker announced proudly, “And at the end of the half, it’s South Fork seven, Fortuna zero.”

“Jesus Christ, Nattie—”

“Who is that announcing the game?”

He blinked for a moment in the middle of agonizing. “That’s John Codsworth, the auto-shop teacher. Now, are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?”

She shook her head. “Even if people figure out I’m not Darrell, they can’t know I’m me. Stay here for a second.”

She moved to the far corner and peeked around it. Most of the attendees had surrounded the Snack Shack and were talking about the game. Several, including Tony Williamson and Virginia Esposito, were strolling toward the gym, probably heading for the restrooms. She caught a glimpse of Schwartz and Hamlin on the periphery of the crowd and retreated back to the interior niche.

“Just a couple more minutes, Ian. It’s important—believe me.”

He stared at her, shook his head, and lit another cigarette. “Why do I feel like I’m in an episode of I Love Lucy?” he asked the air.

Schwartz and Hamlin strode quickly past, headed straight for the gravel parking in front of the one-story windowed building on the opposite side of School Road.

Ian watched Renata’s Bear head move as she tracked them.

“That’s the continuation school where your predecessor is supposedly attending class.”

The lot stretched down School Road and was a gravel strip that held about fifteen cars parked perpendicularly. Schwartz marched to a new-looking Chrysler Town & Country station wagon. It was freshly washed and waxed, unlike most of the dusty and mud-spackled trucks and cars surrounding it.

He opened the back hatch and took out a black leather briefcase, then gestured for Hamlin to get in the passenger side while he slid behind the wheel.

Ian waved a hand in front of Renata’s face. “You still in there?”

She turned toward him. “Yeah. Walk with me to the administration building.”

“But Greg’s buying hot dogs and I—”

“C’mon, Ian.”

Together, silently, they walked down School Road. As Renata suspected, the crowd was focused on buying food and drink, fetching food and drink, and using the nearest bathroom. The school was quiet and empty the closer they came to the Avenue of the Giants. They walked to the door of the admin building and Ian asked: “Now what?”

Renata smiled beneath the Bear Cub head. “Now we’re even. Thanks. I can’t afford to be spotted, and I figured your presence would help keep any curiosity at bay. Anyone who saw us would probably think I’m one of your drama students.”

“But what is this all about? Are you working for Mike? I saw him—he’s taking pictures—”

She shook her head. “I’ll tell you when I can. It’s too dangerous. Go on back to your hot dog, Ian. Thanks again. And remember: you didn’t see me.”

He gave her a half-grin. “You’re right—I didn’t.”

Renata sidled into the restroom and locker area where her clothes were stashed, removed the costume head, leaned against the lockers, and took a deep breath.

She had to get those papers.

A lot would depend on how the game progressed—Schwartz was wrapped up in the blue and gold but the rest of them didn’t give a rat’s ass. They could get bored, maybe even talk Schwartz into leaving early. Timing was tricky … if she left too early, she might be followed by one of the coaches—she’d been damn lucky to avoid both Ames and Mason during the first half. If she left too late—it would be too late.

Renata looked up. Footsteps down the hall—one pair, maybe two.

She quickly put the Bear Cub head back on and positioned herself behind the restroom door.

No voices, just a couple of muffled whispers. Probably kids.

The footsteps stopped short of the restroom, then the handle turned suddenly and Martha and Becky stepped inside. Renata emerged from behind the door and Becky jumped back and gave a sharp yelp.

“Fuckin’ A—you scared the shit out of me!”

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to.” Renata took off the head again. “You guys OK?”

Martha nodded. “Yeah, but you may not be. We were hoping we could find you … third quarter’s gonna start in about five minutes—we told Coach Ames we needed to pee.”

“What’s going on?”

“The Coach. She knows you aren’t Darrell, but she wanted to know who you are. And Becky—”

Worry contorted Becky’s face. “We had to make up something quick—I said you were my older cousin Tina and you do cheering in college and you wanted to help us win an’ all—”

“—and now Coach Ames wants to meet you and see if you can maybe talk to the rest of the girls about collegiate cheering and stuff,” Martha finished. “I don’t think you’ll be able to avoid her.”

Fuck. Some of the South Fork faculty were almost too caring about their isolated students. She needed the costume to protect herself—not only from the officers of Evergreen Development and Holding Company, but from being expected to hand over any testimony or evidence. Any serious legal involvement would mean identity checks, and identity checks would mean—

Becky was fidgeting. “We gotta get back. You—you still wanna come?”

“Yeah. ‘Tina,’ you said? What school?”

“Uh—I think I said UCLA or maybe USC—one of those LA schools—”

“We’ll make it UCLA. Any last name?”

“Didn’t give her one.”

“OK. I’ll play mascot for as long as I can in the third quarter. The latest I can leave is right before the fourth, maybe sooner. I’ll fake an injury—leg or something—and when you see me limp, you may need to distract the coach somehow. I’ll hightail it and leave the costume in the locker. That work?”

Becky nodded. Martha said slowly: “I guess. But what are you gonna do? Have you found out anything?”

“Yeah. But I can’t tell you about it right now. It’s too dan-gerous—and I’m still in the middle of everything. I’ll think of some kind of excuse you can give the coach next week, OK?”

Becky nodded again. Renata pulled the Bear Cub head over her own and gestured with a paw.

“C’mon, girls … let’s go help win the football game.”

As soon as Renata trotted out on the field with Becky and Martha, the smiley woman in the jogging suit made a beeline for her.

“Tina? I understand you’re Becky’s cousin.” Her voice was almost a shout, as the players were assembling for the kick-off and fans on both sides of the field were screaming.

Renata nodded her always-smiling Bear Cub head and waved to the crowd.

Felicity Ames patted her on the shoulder, leaned forward, and shouted some more. “Good of you to put in this work for us! Let’s talk after the game—I’d like to see if you wouldn’t mind encouraging some of our girls to go to college.”

The whistle blew and South Fork kicked the ball to the Huskies.

The return broke a lot of tackles and the back was finally and desperately brought down by the kicker at the South Fork thirty-eight.

The girls were already urging the Bear Cubs to “Hold ’em, stop ’em, knock ’em down” and Renata joined in with a few standard moves while Coach Ames retreated to the sidelines. Miss Mason was nowhere in sight—maybe she’d given up on the uniforms for the rest of the game.

Renata scanned the crowd. Rader was sitting in the empty bleacher row, smoking a cigar; Hamlin was still with his family; Peterson was drinking a beer on the sidelines while Schwartz was pacing back and forth and yelling “Defense! Defense!” every few seconds.

Next play, Fortuna scored a touchdown.

The newborn sense of optimism from the first quarter grew up, grew old, and died with South Fork’s lead. The crowd was no longer riveted; people started talking to neighbors and friends or checking the time on the clock or wandering about or buying more food and coffee.

The faculty clung to their responsibility for morale—Ian and Greg stood and applauded a long series of defensive plays, and even Magda Jensen and Principal Williamson, deep in conversation, paid enough attention to keep up.

“Dead Ed” Dawson—visibly sweaty and red—took lanky strides back and forth between Coach Brendan Buck and the few players left on the bench, making sure the plays were read and understood.

By the middle of the third, Fortuna held a fourteen-point lead.

Crowd restlessness increased, and Renata could sense it in her quarry—even Schwartz looked bored. Fuck, she should leave the field now—fake a pulled muscle—but there was Coach Ames, smiling and watching her. So she kept on cheering, sweat pouring down her back in the hot, furry suit, and not just from the workout.

The stadium lights exposed the Bear Cub boosters still in seats. Hamlin’s family was fidgety, especially the ten-year-old. Hamlin barked something to his eldest daughter, stretched, and walked over to join Rader.

Peterson was out of beer and Schwartz’s head was in his hands. His son played offense, and the South Fork offense had barely been on the field.

Renata checked the game clock. Only three and a half minutes left in the third quarter.

C’mon, South Fork, just one play—one play was all she needed. One good play and no one would notice the mascot limping off the field …

A little less than a minute later, the Huskies’ quarterback, cocky and confident, threw a pass twenty yards down the field. One of the cornerbacks, a thin kid who had come off the bench, caught it and ran another twenty-five yards past scrimmage.

It was South Fork first and ten on the Huskies’ thirty-five yard line.

The crowd left in the bleachers went wild—Renata spotted Phyllis Dawson screaming for her son and Marcus whooping from one of the top seats. More people trotted back from the Snack Shack and environs.

Now—it had to be now.

Three air jumping jacks in a row, and on the third one, as she came down, she grabbed her calf muscle. Ames was speaking to one of the other girls—the Lumberjack, in fact—and Renata threw her arms up to encourage more noise from the crowd and then limped as quickly as she could in the opposite direction.

On her way past the end set of bleachers, she looked up to see Ian Sharpe staring down at her.

She dodged one teenaged couple smoking pot in the dark on the gymnasium steps and took a hard right back through the tennis courts and into the metal shop and agriculture building. Got to the locker room and climbed out of the Bear Cub costume, folding it up and stuffing it in one of the lockers. Slung her purse over her shoulder and donned the Bear Cub head again and cautiously headed back through the door.

Renata stuck to the periphery of the campus, walking as quickly as she could, thankful for the lack of lighting and the darkness and silence from the Avenue of the Giants.

Thank God for that turnover—and the Cubs must still control the ball, given the occasional shout wafting dimly over the buildings to School Road.

Schwartz’s late model Chrysler was parked near a street light, perpendicular to a dirty white propane tank, itself squatting directly in front of the rectangular building labeled with a wood sign as South Fork Continuation School. She hurried forward, staying in the shadows, the noise from the game increasing as she drew closer.

Renata peeked around the corner from where she’d waited with Ian. No one coming, not yet, so the game was still competitive. The Bear Cubs hadn’t given up.

She couldn’t see the score or the clock—probably at least two minutes into the fourth quarter.

Not much time.

She quickly removed the Bear Cub head and crossed the street with her back to the field gate, then ducked in front of Schwartz’s car and put the head back on.

Two other cars—a green Ford Pinto and a black Ford half-ton truck—were on either side of the Chrysler.

Renata crouched low and then crawled to the passenger side of the station wagon, gravel digging into her hands. She sat up on her heels and opened her purse, taking out the small pack of bobby pins and removing one. Then she cautiously raised her head so that she could see through the side window.

The Chrysler wasn’t locked.

She exhaled, hard, and stuffed the bobby pin in her jeans pocket.

A loud yell from the field. A South Fork offense meant she’d have enough time … was it a happy yell or a groan? Shit, she couldn’t tell, just focus on the briefcase …

No black briefcase in the front seats, so she scooted down to the back door, passenger side.

Slowly, Renata tried the handle … the door opened with a click.

She stopped, listening. Crowd noises again, but … dispersed.

Jesus, South Fork, hang on …

The briefcase had been casually thrown on the back seat.

Holding her breath, she inched it across the leather seat and dragged it out on the gravel and tried to open it.

It was locked. Combination lock.

Shit. Her lock-picking skills were minimal, with or without a bobby pin or paper clip, and there was no fucking time …

Another yell from the field.

Maybe she could break it. She checked her small, over-the-shoulder bag. Her mother had taught her to always carry a nail file, and … yes! There it was, with her comb and an old ChapStick.

By now her hands were sweaty. She was almost directly in front of the gate to the field, by the side of Peter Schwartz’s Chrysler, crouched on gravel and trying to crack open his briefcase.

At least she was wearing the Bear Head. Oversized, yes, but no one could give a description of her face, not even with the street and field lights.

A cheer erupted from the bleachers again, the loudest she’d heard all night.

Shit! The game was probably over and she hadn’t even heard the whistle.

They’d be leaving, the other men pushing Schwartz to finally go.

She bit her lip.

Couldn’t take the briefcase. The theft would be obvious the minute Schwartz got in his car. Peterson would probably call for a fucking roadblock. She’d never get away with it.

No, she needed the papers, not the container. The container could take a nice long drive to Alderpoint, get hauled out by Schwartz, and then all hell could break loose.

The nail file snapped on the lock.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck …

She was starting to hear voices—individual or small groups. Shit …

This was a four-number combination lock. What would it likely be? What was important to Peter Schwartz?

More voices carried over the early autumn air. She even thought she heard Mike talking. The game must be over.

Goddamn it—

Schwartz was how old? What had she read in the Record in all those articles on “community leaders” Mike liked to run? He was forty, wasn’t he? Born in ’45? Maybe …

1945 was not the combination.

More voices. Kids, mothers, fathers. They all sounded happy but tired. She crouched even lower, trying to disappear into the Chrysler’s fuzzy shadow. No one would be able to spot her in the dark, but the lights from the field were still bright enough …

Schwartz. She heard Schwartz. And he was talking to Peterson, hyped up and full of pride.

“I told you they’d win if they went for it on fourth down! Now aren’t you glad you didn’t leave early? Christ, a game like that only happens once a generation …”

Maybe … a hundred or so feet away?

Bear Cubs, Bear Cubs—Schwartz graduated when? 1963? Fuck, they’re almost here, just try it—

The lock opened.

She popped the case, grabbed the fistful of typed and handwritten forms and papers and stuffed them under her Humboldt County sweatshirt.

Peterson was laughing. “Schwartz, you’re hopeless—I’ll see you up there.”

Renata was frozen in the semi-dark, hunched on her heels at the side of Peter Schwartz’s station wagon as he made his way toward her. He was just a few feet away, he’d see her, they’d find her …

Scott Schwartz suddenly shouted somewhere across the street. “Hey, Dad—look! I got the game ball!”

Schwartz walked back toward the gate to talk to his son.

Renata opened the rear door another couple of inches and threw the briefcase inside.

She crabbed and crawled along the gravel in front of the car on the left and two more after that, until she arrived at an empty parking space.

Then she stood up, tucked her big Bear Cub head down, and rushed down School Road as fast as she could.

Virginia Esposito was in conversation with Magda on the other side of the street. Buzz Boford and his mustachioed friend Coddy were also strutting around with a bunch of the players by the admin building.

Renata hurried on, crossing behind a tree on the front South Fork lawn. She was nearly at the library when she turned to look back and caught a glimpse of the Chrysler waiting in a long line to turn south on the Avenue of the Giants.

She clutched the papers to her chest and ran back to the restroom, kissed the Bear Head and stuck it in the locker next to the rest of the suit, then ran out of the building again.

She waited to cross the street, keeping her head low and her face hidden under the hood of her sweatshirt, her body shielded from oncoming car lights.

She ran across and opened the door of the Mercedes.

Renata sat there for several minutes until the traffic from School Road died out. Then she backed up and also headed south, the papers from Peter Schwartz’s briefcase next to her on the passenger seat.

Past the highwater mark on 101, the only traffic seemed to be from the football game.

Renata stayed just under the speed limit, encouraging everyone local to pass.

Kept glancing at the papers to reassure herself they were still there.

God, how she wanted to pull over and look at them—she’d thought about doing it back on the Avenue of the Giants, but figured any Highway Patrol or—God forbid—Humboldt County Sheriff would stop by to check why a car was parked there after nine at night.

At least a car that wasn’t on Rory’s pay-off list.

She glanced in the rear-view mirror. Josie was looking out at the river.

Fuck it.

Renata swung right at the first southbound exit to Redway, an old road that snaked around the South Fork of the Eel River for a couple of miles before arriving in Garberville’s bedroom community, passing by dilapidated redwood signs in need of paint and a spelling lesson, advertising “Privite” cabins down a rutted dirt road on the river.

Small-town lights yawned out of the darkness. She passed the seafood restaurant and rocky road to Shelter Cove on her right, then more modern hostels with more accurate spelling, neon trapezoids offering Air conditioning and Color TV.

Motel parking is too conspicuous, can’t just pull over to the side of the road …

She made a sudden swing into a large gravel lot on the right, well-lit where it bordered the Old West-style steak restaurant she’d noticed before. The Steel Spur was still open, the red cocktail sign warmly beckoning.

The Mercedes rumbled by a few other parked vehicles: four-wheel drive trucks with gun racks in the cabin, lighter pickups, a jeep or two and a couple of station wagons. Someone even drove a Jaguar, and Renata idly wondered if it had been purchased with dope money.

Wasn’t everything in Humboldt?

She pulled into a distant spot, well-shaded, away from the hospitality of The Steel Spur.

Turned off the engine.

Took a flashlight from where she’d stowed it in the glove compartment.

Then she reached for the pile of papers, not even realizing she was holding her breath until she felt a tightness in her chest.

Jesus Christ. The Motherlode.

The papers told a story. She’d already gleaned the outline from her study of the Redwood Record, but here it was, black and white, names, numbers, figures. Even a handpicked judge and compromised jury could follow it.

Evergreen Development and Holding Company existed as a front for a criminal organization. Each member played his role; each member took a percentage of total profit according to his risk.

It was admittedly clever—even sophisticated. And it relied on a kind of fellowship, of intimacy, that only a small town could provide.

In the beginning, there was Rader—Rader with his inherited land, land that had been overgrazed and clear-cut, land near a three-building town that had dried up and blown away when there was nothing left to chop down.

No more trees, and cattle didn’t pay enough, so the Humboldt pioneer spirit, with pluck and resolve and the American motto of never questioning a matter of personal desire, kicked in, pulled up its bootstraps, and was soon knee-deep in marijuana—a lusciously green and useful plant that grew in Southern Humboldt like the redwoods along the Avenue of the Giants and offered all the bonuses of a no-questions-asked, tax-free, get-rich-quick American Dream.

So Rader hung on to his land, his ancestral home. But he leased it—and he leased it to growers, and only growers.

He owned the land and risked the land and therefore earned the biggest profit.

Like a condo owner in Manhattan, he offered amenities, too: manicure and storage sites in the supposedly abandoned buildings left from timbering days and all-important protection in the form of Rory Peterson, Humboldt County Sheriff, who promised to keep CAMP off everyone’s back.

Peterson’s cut came in second—he’d managed to twist his way into Chief of the Southern Humboldt Division, after all.

For lessees who needed or desired it or were coerced, there was also a built-in distribution channel for the drug, tracked and operated by the wandering preacher himself, Steve Hamlin, who wandered from the wilderness into a veritable Garden of Eden, a man who could shed his skin at will before disappearing, again, into a crack, a hole, only to reemerge once more to preach the gospel.

Hamlin, as head of an ever-oscillating network and headmaster of the center of that network, a “school” and “retreat” incorporated as Higher Consciousness, Inc., placed third in profiteering.

And Evergreen … Evergreen touted their services as the ultimate cannabis co-op, a syndicate of sinsemilla, wherein everyone made a profit and everyone was happy.

But of course, all happiness comes with a price. On top of Rader’s lease fees, Evergreen took a cut of everything—every lessee had to cough up 30 percent of the take, a kind of sharecrop arrangement that paid for the pay-offs and kept the amenities flowing.

Those who didn’t were busted by Sheriff Peterson.

Those who still balked were turned over to CAMP.

No fewer than five CAMP personnel were involved in the scheme—all received pay-offs from Evergreen.

Once the crop was harvested and manicured, it attended school—in the form of Hamlin’s Bible retreat. From there—from the all-important location they’d ruined a man’s life to acquire—reefer was disseminated throughout the west coast by Hamlin’s agents and fellow fundamentalists.

And all might have merrily continued, the wheels of corruption spinning smoothly, the marijuana trade never really winding down, just consolidating, Evergreen growing until Rader’s thousand-plus acres became a magic green carpet ride, first of cannabis and then of dollars, one of the largest drug cartels in the state.

But then someone got greedy—probably Peter Schwartz.

Schwartz was the odd man out, the Rotary Club leader who acted as a front, the Mason who could chat up the low-level political aristocracy of Humboldt County. He was the bottom-feeder of the syndicate, his risk decreed the lowest. He had no land of his own, no protection, no web of drug runners. What he had was business experience and the glad-handing showmanship of a real-estate developer.

And that’s exactly what he—and Evergreen—did.

Someone—probably Sheriff Peterson—had known enough about the coming of CAMP to not only prepare for it, but to profit by it. Everyone knew it was a traveling troupe, staged for politics, soothing the concerns of Orange County retirees. But Peterson understood it was the Eighteenth Amendment all over again.

CAMP birthed Evergreen, along with the growers who funded it and the growers who didn’t, as an entire county and community studied the daily ticker tape on the pound price of Cannabis sativa and strategized accordingly.

CAMP was their genesis, their guarantee of value and return on investment.

Evergreen couldn’t control the entire taskforce, of course, but well-placed pay-offs helped smooth the transition from the pre-CAMP, anything goes, small-time farmer era of the late ’70s to black helicopters flying over the 101 Café. And someone—probably Schwartz—realized they could profit even from the non-cooperative elements of the multi-agency effort.

Every major bust brought more publicity and glory to the taskforce, more kudos for California’s gung-ho governor, and more need for a bigger airport … bigger busts required more air support. More air support required more than a strip in a cow pasture.

So, using Peterson’s information, Evergreen usually bought land right before a big, legitimate bust. Like a robber baron plotting what to buy before the railroad rumbled in, their syncopated syndicate spurred more weed trade, which upped the demand for CAMP, which then made more busts, which then drove up pressure to expand the airport.

And guess who stood to profit when that airport was built?

The pattern was clear, and that pattern of purchases—along with Schwartz’s clumsy attempts to hide the sales behind Evergreen—was what had betrayed them. Greed exceeding its own capacity …

Renata held the flashlight on the list of names and pay-offs, shaking her head.

And then a hand hit the windshield.

She couldn’t breathe. Snapped off the light, laid the list back on top the pile of papers in the passenger seat and shoved her purse over them.

A face and a strong flashlight pressed itself against the driver window.

The face smiled when it saw her, big teeth, mean, cruel little eyes.

Wayne Hunt.

“Little Nattie, isn’t it? Thought it was you. What you doin’ in the parking lot, Nattie? Isn’t it a little late?”

He tried to open the door but she had locked it. Before he could say anything else, she forced a smile on her face, pulled up the lock, opened the door, and stepped out.

Anything to get him away from the car.

She glanced around quickly. Only a couple of trucks left in the lot. Hunt’s patrol car was pulled up about twenty feet away. She hadn’t even seen his lights.

Renata plastered on a grin, head hanging sheepishly.

“Yeah, I gotta work tomorrow, but I drove out for a walk in one of the groves on the Avenue of the Giants—”

He casually placed a heavy arm on her shoulder. “Not by yourself, I hope—we got a serial killer up here somewheres—”

“It wasn’t that dark when I left—but you’re right, Sheriff, as always. I’ll be more careful next time.”

The “as always” helped. He dropped his arm and showed his teeth again.

“Shoulda picked up that shotgun you talked about at Buck’s. Gotta mind yourself these days to stay safe. So what’re you doing out here with a flashlight? It’s a ways from the Avenue. You having car trouble?”

“Oh, no! Pastor Friedrickson sold me a wonderful car! No, I—I was just”—she tried to look embarrassed—“I was just trying to write about the redwoods. They’re so beautiful—so inspiring! I get a little overcome sometimes and wanted to write down things before I forgot.” She hung her head again. “I know it was dumb.”

Hunt threw his head back and laughed and laid his arm on her shoulder again. “Well, if that ain’t a kick. Little Nattie with her itty-bitty knife in one hand and a pen in the other.” He was steering her, slowly but with a tight grip, back to the car. “So you wanna be a poet or somethin’, huh? An’ here I thought you was goin’ to law school. Well, my suggestion is to leave the knives to the boys and stick with your pencil and rhymes. You wanna know somethin’ ’bout guns, you just let Doris know and I’ll teach you.”

He leaned close enough in her face for her to smell whiskey on his breath. He was grinning open-mouthed, red tongue pressed against large teeth.

“Go on home, little Nattie. Go home where it’s safe. And remember what I said. I’ll be glad to … teach you.” He nodded, as if to himself, and then turned and walked back to his car. Renata watched him, then opened her car, crawled in, and locked the door.

Her hands were still trembling.

She rolled up the papers and shoved them under the passenger seat, waiting until she could see Hunt’s backup lights in the distance, turning north.

Fuck. That was a threat. A sexual threat, too. She recognized sexual predation when she saw it, especially after …

Goddamn it.

Renata held her hands up to her face, cupping them and breathing into them.

All this work … all this risk. And she had the proof now, proof of homegrown organized crime, as green and flourishing as the plant they hid behind. But was the drug syndicate called Evergreen connected to Jennie’s murder? No one had mentioned Jennie’s father, Al Dayton—and he was Schwartz’s friend, and Schwartz was very much the junior partner. Peterson and Rader seemed to suspect Hamlin. What about Rader himself? How much did anyone know about him? What was behind the tight-lipped Gary Cooper act? And what about Peterson?

She remembered something her father had told her when she was ten.

Nothing worse than a crooked cop, Renata. Nothing worse …

Peterson was crooked, yes, but was he a serial killer?

And Peterson wasn’t the only crooked cop. He’d mentioned Hunt had his “own thing” going on. Was Hunt—could Hunt be the killer? He was slowly killing Doris until one day soon when he’d forget to calibrate. Cruelty required calibration and control, and as long as he could break her bones and bruise her tissues, as long as he could maim her and let her live to feel it, let her live to cry and to beg him to stop, she’d be alive. Then he’d go too far and he’d rearrange the scene to make it look like ol’ accident prone, “Horsefeathers” Doris had finally stubbed her toe one too many times.

She inhaled suddenly, needing air.

Hunt was a killer, but in her guts she knew he was not the one who murdered Jennie. No teenage girl, no matter how naïve, could romanticize Wayne Hunt.

She switched on the ignition. The Mercedes chugged but didn’t turn over.

Damn that snake-oil salesman …

She tried again and it started. Probably needed new spark plugs. She’d get up to Eureka and check it before she left, when all this was over …

Renata pulled out into the road to Garberville. Over. At least Evergreen would be over. She just needed to get the papers to Mike and tell him enough to convince him to deliver them directly to Benedetti. Under no circumstances should he pass anything on to Hunt. She’d tell him about the killer, someone young enough, charming enough, to groom a teenager before he took her life. Mike already knew Benedetti and she could try to convince Marcus and Becky to come forward.

She was only a source, and sources were confidential.

The north end of town loomed as she drove up the small hill, passing the cemetery and Square Foot Surveyors, a miniscule grocery market and a laundromat, before facing the gauntlet of the taverns lined up on both sides of Redwood Drive.

It was quieter than she expected, though the strains of honky-tonk still wailed from the ’49er and the Rusty Nail Saloon.

She looked down at the gas gauge. A quarter of a tank gone, but it was after eleven. She could wait till tomorrow. Hell, she could get some rest and see Mike tomorrow after work and deliver the papers then …

Renata turned into the parking lot behind the library still thinking about Hunt.

Not much going on in town after the game … Hunt wasn’t looking for anything in particular tonight …

Fuck!

Peterson. The radio.

As soon as he realized the papers were missing—as soon as they finished blaming Schwartz or Hamlin and as soon as they’d looked every goddamn place possible in Schwartz’s car, Peterson would radio Hunt and he might remember her with the flashlight.

Maybe Evergreen was already imploding, Rader and Peterson and Hamlin and Schwartz cannibalizing each other before the authorities even got involved, biting and snapping like she’d witnessed at the game …

Renata retrieved the papers then peered into the dark and mostly empty parking lot before quickly slipping out of the car. She scurried around the corner, looking both ways on Redwood.

A couple of people by the movie theater, probably coming from a bar.

She tucked her head down and walked as fast as she could to the library, hanging back until she saw the two men pass her, then unlocked the door, squeezed inside, and shut and locked it behind her.

Exhaled.

Peterson and the rest had no reason to suspect her of anything. But the missing papers were still a time bomb and she’d need to act immediately—no waiting until after work tomorrow to see Mike, just give him the goddamn evidence and let him handle it …

She turned on one light in the back, glancing at the string and cat bell she’d used as a door alarm.

The killer—the reason she’d stayed in Humboldt—was still out there.

She shook her head. Get the papers to Mike. Tell him about the choker, the diary. He’d get all the evidence to Benedetti.

Renata grabbed the other flashlight from a table and started rummaging through Eve’s desk. She found a worn manila envelope, the kind that closed with a string, and put the papers inside.

She studied the package doubtfully. Rummaged again until she located an old green accordion file with three slots. She stuck the envelope inside it, closed the button clasp, and tucked it under her arm.

Mike might even be up, processing photos from the game. Hopefully Chris wasn’t crashing tonight … she remembered how he’d smelled, his well-developed body, his bold flirtation and aggressive sexuality.

Young enough. Attractive enough. And Mike had mentioned something about Chris owning property in Alderpoint. He had means and opportunity. He knew Garberville, knew the entire area, knew about the room where she was sleeping …

Renata shivered. The back of her neck was cold. She set the flashlight on the mattress and spotted a red bandanna she’d set on the dresser. She picked it up and tied it around her neck.

The next publishing day was Tuesday, so Chris probably wouldn’t be there.

Even if she was waking him up—and it was only just after midnight, after all—Mike—the person who’d involved her from her first day in town, who’d explained CAMP and the marijuana trade, who’d confessed his fears of the predator within the community and his hopes that the killer was ultimately external to it—Mike, with what was under her arm, would be happy she woke him.

She smiled to herself and walked out the library door.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 28th, 12:17 A.M.

The knock sounded loud in the cool night air, any aberrant late-night noise from Redwood Avenue confined to the bars.

No answer. She could see a light was on in the front, business part of the building—if you could call Mike’s mess of papers, desks, and assorted junk business.

She tried again. Waited a few minutes. Shivered a little, even with the sweatshirt.

Fuck it, this couldn’t wait.

Renata firmly anchored the green accordion file under her arm and tried the doorknob. It opened, and she stepped into the fully lit entrance area, blinking her eyes and adjusting to the glare.

“Mike? Mike, it’s Nattie!”

No answer.

“Mike—are you here? It’s important—it’s Nattie!”

Silence.

She frowned. Was he downstairs? Maybe in the dark room? Or maybe he was upstairs, actually asleep? It was past midnight, after all …

She hesitated, then started up the stairs. Probably just conked out and forgot to turn off the lights. He should lock the door, though, small town be damned.

Both bedrooms were shut and dark on the landing, but the middle room—the one Chris had mentioned as a junk or storage room—that was open about a foot and yellow light carved out a bright cone on the landing.

Renata hesitated again. If he was in his bedroom, he was definitely asleep … if he was in here, why didn’t he answer her?

She cleared her throat and tried again, her voice sounding loud and invasive.

“Mike? Mike, you awake? …Where are you? It’s Nattie! Mike?”

One beat, two beats, three beats …

She bit her lip and pushed open the door further.

The junk-cum-storage room was still mostly empty. The record player dust cover was pulled upward and some albums were stacked alongside. She recognized the FM soundtrack, One Step Closer by the Doobie Brothers, Linda Ronstadt’s Greatest Hits, and Blue Öyster Cult’s Agents of Fortune.

No Mike.

Something buzzed in her mind and she swatted it away, walking absent-mindedly toward the middle door of the room, the closet she’d noticed on her previous visit. It was open now, just an inch or two, and a dim light was coming from it.

A creak, some steps—treading from below. He’d been in the goddamn dark room!

She turned back to the landing to see him as he emerged from the basement. His face lit up when he looked up at her.

“Nattie! I thought I heard someone call—I was just downstairs developing—that was one hell of a game for the Bear Cubs! You got something for me? I know it’s late and you get up early, but we haven’t talked in so long—can you stay and fill me in?”

She smiled down at him. “That’s why I’m here. Wait till you see what I’ve got!”

He grinned broadly. “Just let me clean up a little. I’ll be back up in a couple of minutes—meet me in the den.”

He started to climb back down the basement stairs, leaving the door open behind him. A wave of elation hit Renata and she couldn’t stop smiling. She started toward the staircase but the gap in the still-open closet door in the storage room caught her eye.

What the hell—might as well see what Mike’s teddy bear looked like when he was five—

She hurried back across the smooth wooden floor and opened the closet door wider.

Typical Mike, typical mess, just like the front of the house … piles of boxes, mostly, some clothes, storage bins, no compromising souvenirs from childhood …

A glint of something caught her eye. She glanced toward the left at a stack of several shoeboxes of various sizes, labeled with different letters written in Sharpie.

A boot-size box on the top was open slightly, the box with a large J in red ink, the lid askew.

Something gold inside.

She moved aside the lid.

Photos. Photos of a blonde girl.

Jennie.

Jennie in a disco dress, Jennie dancing …

Jennie dead.

She took a step backward.

Mind not working not real not real not real not real …

Heavy tread again, coming up the basement stairs.

There. On top.

Gold choker.

Next to it … next to it … next to it …

Small, cheap green book marked Diary in gold letters.

Some other part of her brain took over while the main part screamed and screamed and screamed some more …

“Nattie? You in the den?”

He was downstairs.

Quick, tear off the bandanna. Pick them up—pick them both up. Stuff them in, stuff them in … Josie was with her, Josie stood next to her, Josie was telling her what to do.

Footsteps on the stairway … this stairway …

Door won’t close all the way.

Closer, closer, closer, closer

Shove the bandanna in her back pocket, turn toward the player, pick up the album.

She’s holding it, breathing (how the fuck is she still breathing?), when he walks in the door.

Smile is easy, voice a little less.

“I thought I told you to wait for me in the den.”

Turn with a smile, smile, girls, smile, first lesson in charm school, smile, smile, smile

He approaches her, puts his hands on her shoulders.

“What did you find out? What’ve you got to show me?”

Keep holding the album. Start toward the way out. Keep it easy, easy, nice and easy …

“C’mon down to your den. I’m—I’m tired from the game. Wanna sit.”

His eyebrows raise. “You must be. Got a little short-circuited, huh? I can’t wait to hear why!”

He stays in the doorway and makes her brush by him on her way out to the landing. She’s still holding the album. Looks down at it. Starts down the stairs.

Starts breathing. Starts lying.

“I’ve always liked Blue Öyster Cult. Especially this album. ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper.’ Great song.”

He raises his eyebrows again. “I figured you for more New Wave and New Romantic stuff, you know, Eurythmics and Duran Duran …”

“Oh, I like a lot of music. Linda Ronstadt, too.”

Mix up truth make it convincing just keep talking and don’t stop never stop

They reach the floor. He laughs a little self-consciously.

“Hey, with me the ’70s never died.”

Walk to the front not too quickly, don’t run, the exit, the escape, bright lights, lots of mess, papers, junk, maybe something there …

“I thought you wanted to sit in the den, Nattie—”

“Too tired. I’d probably fall asleep. This is brighter.”

Flash the smile, show the teeth

She perches on the edge of an old-fashioned desk chair, muscles ready, taut, ready set go …

Door’s behind her.

He sits near her, slightly behind, across the desk. Puts his arms behind his head, leans back, grins.

“Well, out with it. What’ve you been up to? What’ve you found that’s so exciting you’re willing to get by on, like, three hours sleep? I didn’t see you at the game, by the way, so wherever you were hiding, it worked.”

Sets the album on the table, left hand resting on a domed glass paperweight with a cannabis leaf trapped underneath. Cold to the touch.

“Too bad Chris isn’t here to hear this …”

Mike shrugged. “It’s a Friday night—he’s either drinking, getting high, or doing both at the same time. I’ll fill him in when I see him tomorrow. So, what’s up? What’s this about? Evidence on the serial killer, or—”

Voice comes quick, too quick, unnaturally high, like a squeak.

Like a squeaky, helpless little mouse …

“Evergreen. The company I told you about. Nothing on the killer yet. Just what the, uh, sheriff and his pals have been up to. Hamlin—Hamlin is still a possibility.”

He leans forward eagerly. “Tell me.”

She recites the story, describing her searches in the Record, outlining the trip to Eureka, finishing with overhearing them at the game. Then a brief summary of how they functioned, how far the corruption had rotted through Humboldt County. Rotted like dead things, dead girls he’d butchered, and who knows how many there were …

Steady steady steady get through it and you can walk out the door then run and run and run and never stop

She sounds too flat, too unemotional. Too unreal. Breath too shallow, pacing off.

Pulls up her eyes, forcing herself to look at him again, to see the charm and the good looks and all the promises about being made “famous” in the hometown newspaper.

Tries to smile. “So that’s the story. I, um, couldn’t wait to tell you. It’s big news—probably will be picked up nationally, even. You’ll get all the credit.”

She stirs a little, as if to stand up. His brow wrinkles and he wheels himself closer to her, covering her right hand with his.

“I hope you realize credit isn’t my motivation—never has been, with any part of this.”

Good—he’s still acting …

“This is utterly amazing work you’ve done—true journalism, Nattie. But—what about proof—the deeds? Up in Eureka? Is that what you’ve brought to show me?”

He reaches for the folder under her arm.

She pivots out of the way.

“I’ll get it out for you. It’s just a sample. I wasn’t sure you’d be here or be asleep so I left the rest in the library.”

Gives her a look. Sits back.

“O-kay. So show me.”

She opens the folder and pretends to look. Affects a self-deprecating laugh. “That was dumb. I thought I put one in here, that’s why I brought it along. Must have gotten a little too excited. See, I stole Schwartz’s briefcase tonight.”

“You what?”

“Stole his briefcase. I found papers proving everything I’ve told you—names, dates, amounts.”

He jumps up, ecstatic, moves in close, close enough to smell, reaches out as if to grab her head and kiss her and she springs out of the chair and shrinks back.

He looks at her, hard.

Twists his head to look back at the stairway landing, then comes back slowly to face her.

One beat, two beat, three beat …

Oh, Jesus Christ, he knows, he senses it, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

Soft voice. “Nattie … what’s in that folder?”

He’s walking toward her. “C’mon, Nattie … what’s wrong with you? It’s Mike, Nattie … Mike. I brought you in, remember? You’re here because I wanted you to be here … what’s in that folder?”

Malevolence violence malevolence violence killer killer killer

He’s stalking her now, only a few feet from the door, but he’ll corner her, overpower her, trap her, kill her, just like Jennie, just like Josie …

Her left-hand fingers close on the cannabis paperweight.

She awkwardly swings it around and it thuds against the side of his face by his ear, striking bone and flesh and he screams.

She grabs the doorknob, slow motion, twisting it open, pulling the door …

Outside, outside, run to car (lock the doors, lock the goddamn doors!) find the keys start the ignition …

Engine chugs. Doesn’t start.

He staggers out, one hand braced on the door post, shaking his head.

Try the key again, turn the motor, turn the motor …

Fails again.

Mother of God start the fucking engine start the fucking engine turn over turn over turn over

He stumbles toward her, crosses the street.

She turns the key. Car starts.

Foot down, back up fast.

He swerves and changes direction, stumbles to his car, parked in front of the Record building.

Blind blind where was she small streets all dark no streetlights no markers hospital remember hospital

Josie is beside her, Josie knows …

Breathe in and out in and out in and out

Breathe. Drive. Fast.

Renata finds Redwood Avenue and exits north on 101.

Time regains itself and so does reality, no longer eons passing as minutes, no longer moments trapped like a fly in amber.

Mike was the serial killer. Mike was the fucking serial killer.

The bright yellow headlights of the ’78 Oldsmobile stayed behind her, even when she punched the Mercedes for every gram of German engineering it possessed.

One car length between them, consistent, confident, gloating.

It was sport to him, the outcome assured, stalking something that was trapped, something that was helpless, something he thought he owned …

Renata’s hands tightened on the wheel.

No street lights, solid darkness, trees all around and river to the right. Just the deer and raccoons and porcupines and possums and bats. No lights except the one that he kept her in, the Cutlass’ powerful motor purring behind her.

How much gas did he have? A full tank? She looked down at her gauge. Gotta reach Eureka.

Gotta reach Eureka.

But then again—why? Who was gonna save her? If she tried to find a cop—one who wasn’t crooked—they’d run her ID. Check it against the Illinois database. And then it would be finished, everything done, last flight, last stop, last chance for freedom would be over whether or not she deserved it … and she wasn’t sorry for killing what needed killing but wished she could remember it and wished she had the guts to haul herself in and tell them why she did it, tell them about Josie and the other girls he’d sacrificed for kicks, go ahead and live in prison until she didn’t but she couldn’t and so she wanted to live despite not wanting to live, that was it, Doctor Bechtel, she wanted justice but she wanted to live and the two weren’t compatible.

Renata took a sharp intake of breath.

Relentless lights still behind her. He could see her outline and she was blinded to his.

He’d read her, all right. He’d sensed vulnerability. Thank God she’d never confided in him fully. But he knew, he knew, figured out she was hiding something. Hiding at least from the cops, else why wouldn’t she be driving up somewhere to an isolated house or trailer and knocking on doors, shrieking for help?

Who would show up? Hunt? And once he searched her vehicle and found the Evergreen papers and listened to whatever story Mike made up about the diary and the necklace, his word against hers, and who would believe anything she said—they’d frame her even before they realized they didn’t have to.

People disappeared in Humboldt County, disappeared because there was nowhere to run, no one to run to, no protection under the law or without it …

So now, here they were. On an endless dark road, a lonely freeway of green trees, green water, nature watching quietly, waiting to see if it would have to shut its eyes once again.

If she stopped and tried to flag down a rare motorist on 101 after midnight, he’d kill her. If she ran out of gas and tried to hide, he’d track her and kill her. No one to hear her, no one to see her except the animals, silent witnesses. She didn’t even have the “little knife” Hunt had taunted her about.

He knew Southern Humboldt, she didn’t. All she knew was a fucking View-Master reel and a postcard and a highwater mark from 1964.

She checked the rear-view mirror again. Took another breath, slower this time.

No, she had herself. She had will. She had Josie.

Her only real bet was to pick the place to hide—somewhere with a chance, not a dark grove where the redwoods looked down in horror, cathedral blasphemed, not South Fork where—if she didn’t make it—a teacher would get blamed when they found her.

She checked the mirror once more.

What the hell.

Highwater mark it was.

She punched the gas to the floorboard and gained some distance, Mercedes jumping ahead. Used up the gas but she only needed a few minutes, and if this didn’t work the gas wouldn’t matter. He hung back a few car lengths as if amused.

The exit to the Avenue of the Giants, Miranda and South Fork High loomed ahead. The exit that crossed the river over a modest little bridge built after the 1964 flood washed out the previous one.

On the drive back from the game (Tonight? Was that just a few hours ago?) she’d noticed a dirt road next to the bridge that looked like it led down to the river, the highwater marker just above on the 101 side of the embankment.

She waited until the last possible moment to swerve into the exit, stomping on the brakes and making a sharp right instead of going straight and then another sharp right after crossing the bridge and finally pulling into a little gravel parking spur.

In her headlights, the dirt road looked like it had been washed away by previous winter storms, leaving a steep, broken ledge about fifteen feet in front of her. She cut the lights, turned off the car, grabbed the folder and walked to the edge. The riverbed was a good thirty or forty feet below, rocky and littered with washed-up logs and trees, the embankment cut like a concave lens, bedrock and sharp boulders protruding from shale and slate on the way down.

The Oldsmobile was crossing the bridge. She quickly ran into some trees and dense bramble to her left, stifling a yelp when she twisted her ankle on a fallen tree branch, then waited, crouched, letting her eyes adjust. Pulled the hood from her sweatshirt up.

The moon was almost full.

He pulled up slowly, beside and a little behind the Mercedes, and almost leisurely crawled out, leaving the Olds still running. He walked to her car, the palm of his hand stroking its surface, then flung open the passenger door. Looked briefly in the rear seat, then back to the front, and threw open the glove compartment with a bang, grabbing her flashlight.

There was blood on the side of his face, and it looked contorted and misshapen in the moonlight. Then he braced both hands on her car hood and raised his voice, eyes searching the darkness.

“C’mon, Nattie … I know you can hear me. You took something from upstairs, didn’t you? Something that belongs to me. Just give me back my things and everything will be all right. We’ll have a little fun together. I’ve been patient and so have you …”

He reached into the Olds and shut off the motor. Then he lightly touched his fingertips to his swollen face and winced.

Headlights stabbed the darkness and the post for the highwater sign lit up and reflected beams from a car driving by on 101.

From where she was crouching, a deer track wound to the edge of the embankment farther down river on the left. It looked like a softer slope, not a cliff edge, and she quickly followed the track, eyes adjusted to the bright moonlight, then hunkered down on her butt at the top, starting to slide on loose gravel and dirt toward the river. The angle was steep but not a drop-off.

He was listening. The gravel and tumbling pebbles made a skidding sound.

He looked back and forth, and started moving toward the left, bending back manzanita and madrone and small redwood branches, slicing the dark with her flashlight.

She slid a few more feet. She couldn’t see yet if she’d hit water.

He was growing impatient.

“C’mon, Nattie! We don’t have all night …”

He ploughed ahead, shoving aside more tree limbs and manzanita bushes and blackberry vines, flashlight dancing through the woods and wild growth, coming closer.

She closed her eyes and tightly secured the folder under her arm.

It was like jumping off the diving board when she was seven, like climbing to the top of her favorite tree and falling, like seeing the face of her uncle when he couldn’t look at her, saying something about her parents and a car accident, like getting the call the morning that Josie … that Josie …

Renata gave herself a push and slid down the embankment for what seemed like a lifetime and then her feet hit a beached tree branch and she rolled, tumbling over it into gravel and dirt and dry river rock, her hands and face skinned and knees bruised.

She stumbled forward on her hands and knees, ankle almost buckling, and groped for the folder. It had landed by another log about eight feet from her, dry and safe.

Wincing, she stood up, using the log as a prop.

No water, no river.

She’d landed … somewhere. She blinked, rubbing her eyes with her sweatshirt arm.

A bar of river gravel and river rock, smooth and dark. The South Fork of the Eel flowed about twenty feet in front of her. It looked deep at this location.

Now he was angry. “Goddamn it … where the fuck are you? You’re a fucking thief—thief, thief, thief, thief … ” With each repetition she could hear him striking bramble and plants with her flashlight, as if knocking down her protectors.

He’d be able to see her soon—find her if he followed the deer track.

Maybe she could go left … she shrank back against the embankment, looking for a place to hide, and pulled her hood up once again. Beached trees were too small … no caves or cracks that she could see … she bent forward and picked up a smooth rock, clutching it in her right hand, shrinking once more into the rich, alluvial soil and bedrock at her back, holding her breath …

His flashlight was just to her right now, getting closer … hitting reflective animal eyes and cursing again … then closer still, moving down the deer track and following her path to the river.

“Did you slide like the snake you are?” he muttered. “Slide down to the mud and hide? That’ll make it easier …”

He was nearing the edge.

Josie I love you I tried to protect you and I failed you I failed you and I tried to find you justice I’m sorry Josie God I’m so sorry

The beam was almost upon her …

He heard a noise. Startled, he pivoted suddenly to his right. Froze for a few seconds, then clambered back along the deer track to where the cars were parked.

Aimed the flashlight downstream toward his right, at the riverbed under the bridge.

He began to laugh, a strange, echoing sound in the cool, quiet darkness of river and trees.

“I knew it. I knew you wanted me. You’re the one, Nattie—the one I’ve been waiting for. I’ve known it from the beginning, and now—now I see you have, too. I forgive you for my face … I know you didn’t mean it. You’re mine, and we’ll be together, like we both knew we would be … Where? Oh, yes, under the bridge is perfect! Oh, my God, how perfect. This way? This is the path? So that’s how you beat me down there … I thought you were on the other side. Stay there—just like you are—I’m coming.”

He opened his arms wide, as if to embrace her, embrace the night, a beatific smile shining through the blood on his face. The flashlight in his right hand was still trained on something under the bridge, and he walked confidently and exuberantly, arms outstretched, toward the edge of the embankment where the road abruptly terminated.

“I see it now—a trail lined with gold. Like the necklace you should be wearing … I’m coming, Nattie—I’m almost there and we’ll be together. Forever. I’m gonna love you, Nattie, for a long, long time …”

Mike Richards was facing the bridge and stepped down on what looked to Renata like a narrow deer trail on the side of the embankment, at least for an instant, but his feet made no contact with the earth. His left foot hung in empty, dark air, tilting him off-balance, his right leg following into nothingness as he spun downward and backward, his scream mangling the silence before he hit rock and dirt and water. Renata’s flashlight struck a boulder before bouncing, dimming, and finally going out.

No more sound came out of him.

She looked up toward where he’d been looking under the bridge.

Josie still stood there, shimmering, until she melted back into the moonlight.

She didn’t know how long she stayed there, looking at the stars. She’d never seen as many stars in her life and doubted whether she would see that many again.

Time was so slow in the dark, the redwoods with their centuries, even millennia of life, the earth with its eras and ages, building mountains from plains and seas from deserts and then back again, and the stars, so distant, each one a looking glass into an incomprehensible past.

Eventually she moved, rejoining the more temporal things, the eyes that watched her curiously, the occasional light that would pass by on 101.

It took about thirty minutes to find a way off her islet and cross a shallow, rock-filled split of the river about two feet deep. She crossed it carefully, aware of her aching ankle and knees and the slick algae on the smoothly rubbed stone, of how easy it would be to cross it and slip and fall and break her neck.

She walked upstream. She made sure he was dead.

His neck was twisted at an angle bodies can’t make. At least live ones. He was face down in the South Fork of the Eel River, his arms still outspread.

She searched for the flashlight—couldn’t afford fingerprints to come up.

Washed it in the river and then, with the broken flashlight in hand and the all-important green accordion folder still tucked under her arm, she walked to where Josie had stood and found a winding footpath that emerged at the top of the very end of the bridge.

Three cars had crossed the bridge. None of them stopped. If they’d seen cars parked in the gravel turnout, they’d know that any car in the darkness was likely there for one reason and that reason was the sole economic support of Humboldt County.

The Olds was unlocked. She found the bandanna, still faithfully wadded down in her jeans pocket where it had cushioned her descent to the riverbed, and removed first the diary and then the choker and placed them, one at a time, on the passenger seat.

Before she shut the door, she prodded the choker with a bandanna-covered finger.

There—I love you was engraved in script on the back.

She left the keys in the engine, depressed the car door locks, locked it up tight.

Her Mercedes started up on the first try. She gave it a pat on the wheel.

There’d be car tracks, footprints, signs of another person. But once they found the diary, found the necklace, found his prints on them both and searched the Record building and found the closet with all the other shoeboxes, she didn’t think they’d put discovering who that person was on the front burner of criminal investigations in Humboldt County.

Renata backed up and turned left at the road, toward South Fork.

Miranda Market was nearly as dark as the trees around it. Only the small cold cases glowed with a dim artificial light, easily outshone by the moon.

She parked about thirty feet away, facing north, grabbed a dime and a quarter from her small stash of coins in the ashtray and walked back to the phone booth. No traffic on the Avenue of the Giants except the occasional raccoon or possum or coyote crossing the road.

She looked at her watch, forgetting again that the case was smashed and it had stopped running after she’d made it down the embankment. That was at about twenty to two.

A small phone book hung in the booth and she hit the key for an operator.

“Operator? Hello, Operator? Yeah—an emergency. Highway Patrol. No, Highway Patrol, nobody else—an auto accident. Looks bad—injury, maybe even worse. Yeah, I’ll hold.”

She counted to twelve while the operator connected her and another phone rang. A gruff voice picked up once she reached twenty-one.

“Hello, Highway Patrol? Serious accident. Looks like someone’s in the river, hurt or dead. Uh, northbound 101, the Miranda exit. By the bridge. Car’s on the Miranda side. No, sorry—gotta go.”

Can’t explain why she couldn’t stay by the scene or tell them more about what she reported or hang around to be interviewed.

Couldn’t explain that she needed to make the call here, at Miranda Market, where Amy Fulton had been murdered.

She held down the disconnect toggle.

They’d dispatch someone with surprise—not usually the place for auto-accidents compared to the southern, treacherous, two-lane stretch by Leggett—and they’d find him and the car and they’d call in the sheriff and his body would be brought in to the Garberville hospital.

The sheriff, however, was still a problem.

Benedetti’s card was still in her purse, which was still in the library. She couldn’t remember the number.

Renata opened the small combined yellow and white pages again. Maybe small-town trust extended into northern Humboldt, too … Bingo.

Paul Benedetti. Lived on 9th Street in Fortuna.

She took a deep breath, deposited the quarter and called the number.

It rang six times until a sleepy male voice answered “Hello?”

“Detective Benedetti, I’m sorry to wake you up and I don’t have much time so please listen. Mike Richards is the man you and the FBI are looking for. No—please—don’t interrupt. Let me finish or I’ll hang up. He’s dead. He’s in the river at the Miranda exit off 101. No—I didn’t. No—listen, I won’t tell you, and I will hang up—OK. There’s crucial evidence, including a choker—a necklace—one that a high-school student—Becky MacIntyre—can identify as something that a boyfriend gave Jennie—and Jennie’s diary—they’re in his car parked by the bridge. There’s more stuff in the Record building—shoeboxes with—with trophies. Search the closet of the middle room upstairs. Yes … yes. No, I can’t.

“No, wait—there’s something else. In my possession is documentary evidence of a criminal syndicate that involves Rory Peterson and a county supervisor, among others—that’s another reason you need to get to the diary and choker as quickly as possible … no, I don’t think they’re related, not directly. Yeah. Yeah. No—flat out, no. I can’t be involved and don’t ask why. I’m phoning you as a—as a confidential informant. But I want to hand off these papers—I can’t explain it and you don’t want to know. No—I mean it, I’ll just go to the State Police …

“OK. OK. So here’s what I want to do. I want to drop these papers off at your house—near your house. Is there a park nearby? Rohner Park? I can find it. Any landmark? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. So the Depot Museum sounds best. Old train car? How about if I leave the papers in the caboose—yeah, that’ll work. No—I mean it, don’t ask. And don’t assume. I know—I know you think you know, but for God’s sake, let me try to help without getting involved—I’m asking you as a human being, not just a cop … OK. What time is it? OK, then don’t show up till four. I mean it—if I see any cars I won’t stop.”

A voice broke in to demand ten more cents. Renata deposi-ted it.

“Do we have a deal? No involvement. Confidential informant. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yeah, immediately. OK. Thanks, Detective. Thanks.”

She hung up the phone.

Renata exhaled a long, deep breath. Then she stretched, arching her back to look at the tall trees blending into the night sky and the billion billion stars above her.

She wasn’t sure what time it was. Time was out of joint. Trauma always bent time out of joint. Come to think of it, Hamlet was as much about trauma as anything else …

Kept her eyes on the gas gauge. The wonderful old ’67 gas gauge, wonderful old Mercedes, just over forty miles and then back again, c’mon c’mon c’mon …

Couldn’t think. Didn’t want to think. Couldn’t afford to think. Just react, just do, one step, one rotation of the wheel, one mile at a time.

Renata kept to the speed limit, her foot sore from its frozen position, maintain, maintain, watch for eyes along the road, eyes that had protected her, helped her …

Shove it away. Shove it all away.

Just … react.

She found Rohner Park easily, right along Park Street. Home of playgrounds, a rodeo, lawn, and redwood trees and a transported old railroad depot, now a museum, from when railroads twisted by the twisty river, driving lumber south and goods north, stopping at all the one-stop towns.

She drove by, eyed the quiet green space, empty swing sets and lonely picnic tables with a few lights piercing the dark by the old depot, then doubled back and parked under a tree.

Rummaged in the glove compartment and found some Kleenex she’d stashed. That would help.

Carefully, using her dirt-spattered red bandanna, still stuffed in her back pocket, she slid the papers out of the green accordion folder. Then she methodically (what time was it? she’d said four o’clock, hopefully she was early, hopefully she wouldn’t stumble into Benedetti or another cop, waiting for her …)

Took a breath. Began again.

Methodically brushed the papers, front and back, with tissues.

Prints would be smudged, of course, but they’d find enough evidence to nail Evergreen without readable prints on this particular paperwork. Somewhere were actual accounting books—probably with Schwartz—police records, bank statements, telephone calls …

Finally finished. Wiped the folder down, slid the papers back inside.

She pulled the hood over her head and started walking toward the park, the cold, moist air feeling like ice on her legs. She wondered why and then remembered.

Jeans still damp from the river.

A sign on the depot museum read “1893” and a railroad car from what looked like the same era was parked beside and in front of it.

Her Reeboks made little sound. She stayed out of the periphery of the street light that illuminated the old station and walked all the way around it.

She looked up at the dark canopy of trees. No sign of dawn. No birds, just bats.

Probably about 3:15 or so.

She edged along the narrow border between railroad car and trees, circumnavigating it, eyes on the road to the park.

All clear.

A motor in the distance somewhere started up.

She approached the back end of the train car, handling the accordion folder with her bandanna, and slid it through the black metal fence that ringed the rear.

It made a soft thud when it fell over, flat, on the bumpy steel floor.

She backed up, watching, until she was in the trees once again.

Then she cut across one of the paths and ran, emerging on Park Street once again, started the Mercedes and headed south.

Fifty-one miles across the trees … Garberville, California is waiting for me …

Her body desperately wanted to shut down, so Renata sang nonsense rhymes to old songs to stay alert on the long, dark drive, her eyes on the gas gauge, then the road, left and right, watch for the animals, then the rear-view mirror, expecting white and red, a siren rupturing the peace, the stillness, then breathe and then back again to the gauge …

She was down to under a third of a tank. If she reached Garberville, it would be on fumes, a wing and a prayer. Was there a saint of gasoline consumption? Her mother was Catholic … she should know these things …

The questions, unstoppable, bubbled up by the time she reached the Weott exit. Questions she was too tired to fight anymore. Questions she now welcomed as something to keep her awake, keep her focused on the gauge, keep her focused on driving.

Why did he bring her in? Involve her? He’d begged her to assist him, to investigate … Had he always planned for her to be a victim?

Probably. Though she wasn’t the preferred age … at least of the victims they knew about. Or was it to help him groom the next one?

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He must have enjoyed that. Along with the thrill of keeping the prey close, the prey actually working with him and for him, the confidence and arrogance that he could control everything and everyone, especially young women. And maybe he was worried, too, something nagging, something that the students, the kids—Jennie’s friends—knew that could endanger him. Maybe Jennie herself had mentioned it …

“Talk to the kids,” he’d told her, his ultimate game. And the choker, the cruelest of tools, and the diary, the most sadistic of trophies, would damn his memory forever, along with the rest of what he’d enshrined in his dance-floor room, the hardwood parquet smelling like Pine-Sol, Linda Ronstadt crooning of love, Blue Öyster Cult preaching death and love as one and the same.

And ironically that game is what finally ended him. Whatever was inside him (couldn’t call it a soul, never a soul) was damned long ago, but now he was finally removed from his hunting grounds, taken away, isolated, alone in a dark eternity, because he didn’t deserve to smell the fir needles and laurel leaves, feel the cool ocean air on his skin, watch the green-gray river flowing by, find absolution in a redwood grove.

He didn’t deserve life.

And Josie … Josie …

She saw the lights under the bridge before she knew what they were. Red and white, sharp and violent against the green-black night.

Unconsciously, she slowed down. There—the 1964 highwater mark …

His body would be examined, cause of death, drugs, foul play. And the evidence was safe. Peterson couldn’t appropriate it for his own uses if he arrived before Benedetti because Benedetti knew about it too, knew about the evidence and knew about Peterson.

She drove on, the lights in her rear-view mirror, eyes once more on the gas gauge.

Just above empty.

C’mon, Mercedes, c’mon …

Oh, how he’d played her. Initially she’d been cautious, even wary, and she’d held back what Marcus told her, not understanding why Mike trusted Hunt, was blind to Doris, but still … didn’t question it enough. But by the time she’d finished reading all those issues of the Record, witnessing and understanding the impact he’d made on the community … she’d felt his charm. Maybe she wanted to feel it. And Chris had been his straw man all along, but he dangled suspects like candy, manipulating her, manipulating everyone. Who knows how long he’d been operating—how many girls and women? How many?

She hunched forward. She’d almost been one of them.

Not once, but twice, that night in the library.

Because she’d trusted him, believed him and, yes, had felt his attraction.

Shook her head. Change the channel.

He must have known something about Evergreen—or suspected it. He’d layered it in to his story, promoting CAMP as the answer or, at the worst, a local like Rader or Peterson, sounding so plausible, so convincing. But he’d planted Jennie’s body on Rader’s property in Alderpoint. Why? Because he knew they were breaking the law and therefore vulnerable? A premeditated frame to throw scent off himself in safely pointing a finger at their crime? So that he’d have more than one scapegoat if the authorities got too close?

They’d probably never know. Psychiatrists would study him, books would be written, documentaries filmed, movies made. And in doing all of it, they’d give him what he wanted … memory.

Even if it was a damned one.

The exit sign to Garberville reflected in her lights, and she patted the steering wheel once again. She crawled up the hill to the row of bars, fervently blessing Pastor Friedrickson and believing the Mercedes to be the best car she ever owned.

Renata turned down Conger Street and turned right on Locust, coming up to her parking lot the back way. There were two Humboldt County squad cars with lights on in front of the Record building, and a black van and third sedan were pulling up just as she drove by. Two officers in uniform were shutting off Church Street.

Renata kept driving. She made a right at the end of town down on Melville Road, then turned right again on Redwood.

She glided the car to rest in front of the library, patted the hood, locked the library door behind her, made sure the sign was up saying it was closed, and fell on the mattress, muddy shoes still on her feet.

VI

Truth is truth to the end of reckoning.

William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure,

Act V, Scene 1

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 28th, 5:00 A.M.

The alarm rang, raucous and urgent, wrestling her out from wherever she was into now.

Renata stumbled to the telephone, barely conscious, and called Doris’s number at the hospital from memory.

At least something in her worked.

It rang and rang and rang. Finally a message machine. She cleared her throat. It was raw, deep, hoarse.

“Sorry, Doris—it’s Nattie. I’ve got food poisoning. Been throwing up all night. Be out for at least two days. Apologies to you and Midge and everyone else …”

Food poisoning wasn’t far from the truth … she could barely stand. Midge would take over, the part-time janitor who worked when Renata had two days off. Midge would be grateful for the extra money. She’d be the one to clean up the emergency room …

Renata groped her way back to the cot and fell into bed.

There was a noise. Faint at first, but steady. Repetitive.

Incessant.

She woke up with a start, sitting straight up. God, what time was it? Light was always dim in the recesses of the library …

Glanced at her alarm clock. It read 5:35 p.m.

Shit!

She jumped up, realizing that someone was knocking on the door.

And the knock was getting louder.

She froze, wide awake, body sore and stiff and full of pain.

She was sure Benedetti had recognized her voice. He wasn’t stupid and maybe he was going to haul her in, promise be damned … or Jesus—maybe the feds had finally caught up to her, that agent in Eureka checking her name …

She crept to the door. Opened it a crack.

Three girls stood before her, Martha and Becky on the left and Amanda on the right, all looking anxious. Three voices started in at once.

“Oh my God, you’re here, we thought—”

“I’ve been looking for you all day—”

“You’ll never believe what’s happened—”

Renata held up a hand and rubbed her eyes. She pushed open the door, reddening sunlight flooding the dim interior, and gestured for them to come in.

Suddenly self-conscious, they were quiet. She nodded toward the long wooden table by Eve’s desk.

“Sit down. I know we need to talk.”

Renata yawned and shook her head like a dog waking up from a bad dream. Her stomach rumbled. She smiled at the girls arrayed before her, each in a seat at the table.

“I’m glad to see you.”

Words poured out in a flood.

“They shut school down after lunch and I came by to see if you’d heard and you didn’t answer, so I went to the hospital and you weren’t there and then I came back later and found Martha and Becky looking for you, too—”

“We were worried sick, Miss Connors—we thought something might have happened to you—I mean, you don’t even know what happened, and people are looking for you—”

“Not the main cop, though,” Becky added. “But what you need to know is that Mike Richards was the killer! And he’s dead!”

At that all three sat back expectantly, waiting for the shock to appear.

Renata’s eyes were somber. “I know.”

“You know? How do you know? Did he try to kill you? Did you kill him? Did you tell the police?”

She held up a hand against the fusillade. “Let’s start at the beginning. Amanda, you mentioned South Fork shut down?”

“Yep. They summoned us to the gym for an announcement and told us that the school was closing for the rest of the day. They didn’t give us a reason, but word had been getting around all morning—someone said they’d seen police cars at the Redwood Record building, and someone else said they heard someone died at the Miranda bridge—”

Becky broke in. “Yeah, it didn’t take long to put two and two together, and we all were—well, I mean, no one could believe it. We talked about it and all but we couldn’t believe it!”

Martha said quietly, “I could. He used to watch me, sometimes, when I was eating at Hamburger Haven.”

Renata’s face tightened. “He fooled me, obviously. I thought it was probably Chris Salazar.”

She looked up at them. “So is that why you were worried about me? Because of him?”

“Everybody knows you were working with him—and Sheriff Hunt was asking where you were, ’cause you didn’t show up at work this morning—”

“Ah. I see. But you said something about a ‘main cop’ earlier—”

“That was Detective Benedetti,” added Becky. “He had a news conference on TV with the FBI this morning. They’re holding Chris Salazar for questioning, too, because he crashed with Mike so much, and I guess they want to make sure this was a one-man thing. They said they didn’t think he’d killed himself on the bridge an’ all because serial killers don’t kill themselves and that they think it may have been a drug deal gone wrong and then someone asked him if they were looking for any other victims and he said yes, they were looking at past unsolved murders and Crystal’s dad was there and he said Hunt was whispering after that and people started asking about where you were—”

Becky drew a breath and Amanda broke in. “Yeah, and the whole reason Hunt was even there is because Rory Peterson is on leave! And you’ll never guess what else—”

Martha interrupted with a shy smile on her face. “Hamlin was arrested for big-time drug dealing. And we heard Bill Rader and Scott’s father are being held for questioning about some big drug scheme, too. Plus they’ve asked Becky to come in tomorrow to identify some stuff of Jennie’s.”

Renata quickly turned to Becky. “I’m sorry they got to you before I could warn you. It was … the only way at the time.”

The girl brushed it away. “I’m glad. I’m proud to—to help Jennie. I figured you’d have to tell somebody, eventually … I guess they need to still prove everything, even though he’s dead.”

Amanda interjected. “So naturally with all this news we were worried.” She eyed Renata’s clothing and face. “I think you should take a shower or something.” She pointed. “And your watch is broken.”

Martha added, “Yeah. You should definitely be seen in public—like, maybe Hamburger Haven or something, just so you’re around. But not before changing. You, um, you look like you went swimming and slept in your clothes.”

Renata laughed. It felt strange, coming out of her throat. Strange but good. Natural.

“How about I take a quick shower and change my clothes and then I’ll buy you all dinner at Hamburger Haven? Least I can do for my rescue crew.” She grinned.

“I can’t. Mom’ll have something waiting.” Amanda hoisted a book on the table. “Here’s the one from before—can I check out more than one?”

“Of course, Amanda—and take your time.”

The girl happily stepped into the stacks and Martha leaned forward with a whisper. “Is what happened—you know, Mike and Hamlin and all—related to what you were doing at the game? Is that how you found out?”

Renata looked from Martha to Becky, then called out to Amanda. “I’m going to the back, Amanda, to take a shower. Choose up to five, OK?”

A voice rose from behind the literature section. “OK, thanks, Miss Connors!”

She gestured for the other two to follow her, and while she dug out another pair of jeans and a T-shirt and sweatshirt, they talked.

She gave them an abbreviated version about Evergreen and her activities at the football game, just mentioning “paper evidence” and explaining that Hamlin, Peterson, Rader, and Schwartz operated like the mafia.

“Will they all go to prison? For a long time?” Martha’s voice was anxious.

“I sincerely hope so.”

The girl exhaled suddenly and the word exploded from her mouth. “Good. And what about—him? Mike. You weren’t surprised—you already knew all about it—and you look like you were there—all muddy and everything—”

Renata looked down at the floor. “Martha, I’m sorry. What I’ve told you about Hamlin and the others is confidential, and don’t ever discuss it with anyone—it’ll be difficult, I know, but please don’t do it. But this—I can’t talk about—about him at all. It’s too dangerous.”

“But the danger’s gone—he’s dead—”

“There’s all kinds of danger from all kinds of places. The cops and the FBI will be here for a while, gathering evidence, trying to figure out how many murders he got away with before now—cases previously unsolved. It’s a way of giving some—some solace to the families of victims, people whose daughters or wives or sisters or moms have disappeared, because by the time a serial killer is caught, he’s usually committed more murders than the authorities have evidence for. And there will be media—lots of media. Magazine articles, TV stations, movie crews, eventually—”

Becky’s eyes were huge. “Movies? In Garberville?”

“I’d imagine film crews for the national news are already on the way. A serial killer combined with an organized crime syndicate is big-time. You guys will probably be interviewed. And—well, you’ve got to be careful. Careful what you say, careful what you do. People will try to—to exploit you.”

“I think I understand. Like, taking advantage and stuff. But you don’t have to worry—Becky and I can take care of ourselves. We’re nearly seventeen.” Martha looked over to the stacks. “We can take care of Amanda, too.”

Renata smiled. “Thank you. That’s what I wanted to hear. And that’s why I can’t tell you anything—there’s all kinds of danger. For all of us.”

Becky tilted her head as if puzzled. “But why for you? You know the law—you’re going to law school—or are you? Are you going to stay? Stay in Humboldt?”

She looked at their hopeful faces.

Pang of sadness.

“I—I wish I could. But I’ve got to leave—very soon.”

She added, trying to distract from disappointment: “I’m jumping in the shower and then it’s hamburgers, fries, and shakes, all around!”

There was blood on her fingertips and she didn’t count the bruises.

The girls were waiting for her. She could nurse herself later.

She towel-dried her hair and clambered into her last clean pair of jeans, T-shirt and sweatshirt, buckling on the Ka-Bar knife with the sheath. Found another clean bandanna, a blue one.

They were waiting for her by Eve’s desk. Amanda was holding five books of various sizes, looking very contented.

“You sure you can’t go, Amanda?”

The girl shook her head. Renata spoke softly.

“Thanks for worrying about me. You know, you’ve got your pick of careers in front of you … just go toward what makes you feel the best. Whatever makes you the happiest, every minute, every day. Listen to yourself and you’ll know. You could be a detective, a doctor, a psychologist, a theater critic … even a librarian.”

She opened the library door and all the girls sidled out. Amanda turned toward her, grinning.

“Thanks, Miss Connors. I mean, Nattie. I always forget. And thanks for the five books! It might take me a little longer—”

“Take your time. I think the library will be open—really open—soon.”

Amanda stared at her, started to say something but checked herself. She met Renata’s eyes then reached out and shook her hand like they were in a country club, her young face serious and a little sad. Then bravely, stoically, shoulders squared, she walked down the street, not once turning back.

Hamburger Haven was buzzing with adults and teenagers. Buddy from The Bus Stop, even Friedrickson and his family.

She felt a few eyes on her. Felt the whispers, too. Becky and Martha wandered off after ordering to find big-brained Joey and Matt and Crystal and Betsy, who’d stopped fawning over Martha and was now best friends with Crystal.

The girls wandered back once the food arrived. Renata had insisted on their ordering anything and everything, so between the burgers, sides, and shakes they filled four trays.

The town was breathing again. A black helicopter flew overhead, roosting for the night, but no one looked up.

No one cared.

The killer was gone. He’d been part of the community but not of it, someone who arrived five years ago and adopted Southern Humboldt as his personal killing field. He’d chronicled their lives while he stole them, and now … now he was gone.

The girls were speculating on what would happen to the Hamlin family.

“Shit, I bit my tongue.” Becky’s cheeks were bulging with burger. “I just hope they’ve got somewhere to go. I mean, I’m not all that hot on shrinks and shit, but if ever anybody needs ’em …”

“What do you think will happen, Miss—Nattie? Will they be OK? I mean, Chastity and Charity were always OK. Charity seemed kinda—well, crazy. But who wouldn’t be?” Martha shivered. “I thought for sure it was him. I wish—” she lowered her voice. “I know it’s not Christian of me but I kinda wish he were dead, too.”

“Prison’s not pleasant. And if they find that he’s committed other crimes—but then, it all depends on people willing to speak up. To speak out. And that’s difficult—particularly for women, it’s difficult.”

Becky grabbed her strawberry shake and removed the top. “Whaddya mean ‘difficult’? What’s so difficult about it?”

“Well, you didn’t want to talk about—you know—until Martha convinced you. It was hard.”

The girl swallowed a spoonful of unmixed ice cream. “That’s because I thought it might be—I dunno—crossing her memory or something. I’d promised not to tell.”

Martha spoke. “I think she means, Becks, it’s like—it’s hard. Because there’s feelings involved. And as women, we’re—well, we’re supposed to be, like, mothers, all nurturing, and as wives all supportive and stuff. And so … and so we get confused. Even when we’re being hurt and—and all. We kind of—kind of lose ourselves. As—as people.” She lifted her eyes to look at Renata. “Is that it?”

Renata nodded. “That’s it, Martha. Don’t ever lose yourself. Speaking up—speaking out—that helps you hold on. Hold on to what’s important. Don’t let anyone, anywhere, at any time, no matter who they are, make you feel less than you are. Make you feel owned. Because the ones who want to hurt you—who are hurting you—will try. They want you to be quiet, obedient … in fact, they count on it. And if you don’t speak up—especially about the past—it … well, it disappears. It’s forgotten.” She shook her head. “Crimes get lost that way. If you talk to Mrs. Schumann—”

“That crazy old German lady? The one who talks to herself?”

“Yes, Becky. Talk to her sometime. Ask her questions, about World War Two and the Holocaust. She survived. And she talks about it so that the memory—the crime—won’t be forgotten.” She added, speaking gently and holding Martha’s eyes, “Crimes are remembered to honor the victims because sometimes it’s the only justice we can give them.”

Becky was on the last bite of burger and combined it with a fry. “Hey, speaking of forgetting—you know the whole cousin thing? Don’t worry about it. With all this”—she extended a hand as if she were in a showroom—“Coach won’t remember. Too much going on.”

Renata laughed. “That’s a relief! So what do you two plan to do in a couple of years? Go to college?”

Becky rolled her eyes. “That’s all Mom ever talks about. I’m going for sure. Trying to work on scholarships—I’m pretty good at basketball—”

“You’re awesome at basketball!” Martha interrupted. She sighed. “I’d like to go—maybe be a teacher. I like kids.”

“Teaching is one of the most important jobs there is. Teachers mold and shape the future.” Renata smiled. “I hope you both get into good schools where you’ll learn a lot and be happy.”

Becky shrugged. “It all depends on money—Mom doesn’t grow dope, so she’s not rich. I mean, we all depend on it, I guess, but she doesn’t deal with it personally. We can always go to College of the Redwoods and then maybe Humboldt State.”

Martha’s voice was wistful. “I’d like—I’d like to go somewhere outside of Humboldt—I mean, I love it here, but just to see, I don’t know—cities and hot desert places and be able to travel, go to Europe … I think I’d like that.”

They were all silent for a minute, giggles and exclamations from Matt and Crystal’s group filtering out to their table.

Renata stacked up her empty burger wrapper and fry boat. “Say, do you guys know where Marcus and his mom live? I’m surprised he’s not here—”

Martha interrupted a final pull on her chocolate shake to say: “I do—they live above the laundromat. Becky and I can take you there—”

“That’s OK, you’ve got a lot of people here to catch up with. I can find it.” Renata stood up from the table, spoke softly. “Thanks, you two. I appreciate you looking out for me. I’m, uh … I’m proud of you. Proud to call you friends.”

Martha turned pink and looked away and Becky grinned. Becky waved and got up to empty her trash and then ran over to join Matt and Crystal. Martha asked, her voice low: “You going away, Nattie?”

“Yeah. Very soon.” Her voice was gentle. “I meant what I said, Martha. I’m proud to know you.”

The girl bit her lip. “You think I should tell someone, don’t you? About—about what happened to me. But Scott’s father is in trouble—Scott must feel terrible—who knows what’ll happen to his family—”

“Martha, you don’t have any responsibility for Scott. For how he feels, for what happens to his father. His father committed a crime. So did Scott. We don’t even know—we don’t know if you were the only victim. It’s generous and kind of you to feel pity, to feel empathy. But the person you need to think about—to really take care of—is yourself. It’s your decision. Do what you think is right. What will help you. Never forget your own worth—and don’t ever let anyone else take it away from you.” Renata squeezed her hand. Then she headed down Redwood Avenue toward the laundromat.

Katherine opened the door, startled out of speech.

“Mrs. Turner—Katherine—I’m sorry to disturb you at home—”

The other woman recovered herself, waved her inside. “No, no, it’s fine. Marcus is doing his homework”—she raised her voice—“or is he reading that X-Men comic he thinks I don’t know about?”

A laugh originating around the corner moved closer and Marcus strode into view. His face bore hardly any signs of the fight. “Ka-Bar! No way did I expect to see you. What’s up?”

The flat—the upstairs of the laundromat—was small, neat and clean, furnished with newish furniture, well-kept, in warm colors. The rhythm of tumbling dryers could be heard below, like a comforting metronome.

Katherine led her into the living room. A few comics lay on the butterscotch couch, along with algebra and biology books on the coffee table. Everyone sat down.

Katherine’s eyes asked the question. Renata started again.

“To answer your question, Marcus—a lot. But you guys know that. I came by because I’m—well, I’m taking off and before I go I just wanted to make sure I, uh, thanked you, Katherine, for—”

“For telling you about that corporation? You’re sure you’re not here to apologize for making use of the information?” The other woman held up a hand. “Unnecessary. I knew what I was doing. I was worried about Donald, to be honest. The DA in Eureka’s asked me in next week—purely informative, they say. I don’t think I have any reason to worry …”

“You shouldn’t have. That doesn’t mean it’s out of place. But I know you know that. Is Mr. Austin—”

“On a boat in Shelter Cove. Vacation canceled.” She sighed. “He’s not a bad man. Just not a very bright one.”

“He may get disbarred. Have you made any plans—places to go?”

Katherine shook her head. “The semester just started—I don’t want to yank Marcus out of South Fork. I’ve got a little put by and I can commute north. We’ll get along.”

Marcus looked up from his X-Men and interrupted her. “I can get a job—”

His mother’s voice was sharp. “You’ve got a job. Your homework. Go do it.”

He made a disgruntled face, picked up the two textbooks and stalked off to the dining room. “See you, Ka-Bar.”

Renata watched him, grinning. “See you, Marcus.” She turned back to Katherine. “Is he really doing OK at South Fork?”

“Well, I don’t think Scott Schwartz will be leading any more gangs anytime soon. He’s been making it very hard on Marcus since we moved here, which is another reason I didn’t mind telling you about his father. No, Marcus is doing fine. He’s actually rather popular. Scott’s ex-girlfriend—”

“Martha Thompson?”

“Yes—she’s become quite friendly with him. So there are ways and there are ways. No, I think we’ll be at South Fork until he graduates, provided I can find a job. I’m saving for his college fund.” She smiled at Renata, then her face fell. “Of course, everyone is upset—and relieved—about the other news. You worked with the man—I’m sure you must be horrified. Did you have any idea, any inkling?”

“None. I was—well, shocked doesn’t begin to cover it. But yes—relief sets in early. Relief and a small sense of justice in that he’s dead.”

Katherine was quiet. Then she said, softly: “‘We will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.’ Not that Dr. King was speaking about death or revenge or anything like that, but—I do feel cleaner here, somehow. Despite all the pot money and everything else. Cleaner—as if water has washed away a sin.”

It was almost seven o’clock by the time Renata said goodbye and walked up the hill toward the gauntlet of Garberville’s drinking houses. The scattered streetlights shone brightly, no fog in the air, and even the music from the ’49er was subdued for a Saturday, the char smell from the Sequoia Steakhouse less acrid, the voices lighter, easier, on the road to a less corrosive inebriation.

In front of the Garberville Movie Theater, a line had formed down the sidewalk to buy tickets for The Journey of Natty Gann, a Disney movie that was packing the house with families and kids, the parents sipping coffee and conversing with neighbors, the kids playing hide-and-seek and waiting for the doors to open. Virginia Esposito was there, along with “Dead Ed” Dawson and a woman who wasn’t his mother. By the time Renata reached the library door, the theater was open and the smell of freshly popped and buttered corn wafted across the street.

She unlocked the door and walked in, leaning up against the door behind her, drinking in the sight and smell of the library, the sounds of Redwood Avenue outside, the musty wood, the stacks of old books and yellowed paper, the green, sharp smell of redwood and fir and rattlesnake grass with an occasional whiff of a joint from somewhere along a Garberville street.

And for the first time in such a long, long time … she felt hope.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 29th

Renata woke up early out of habit and used the time to pack.

Then she indulged in a long, hot, steaming shower, probably straining the old water pipes in the library building.

The water felt luxurious, even decadent, but her body still couldn’t relax.

Couldn’t cry. Couldn’t process. It would take time—time she didn’t have.

Today was Sunday, and there would be another New York Times, maybe even a Washington Post. There would be national news crews coming to Garberville, journalists trying to interview anyone who had any connection to Mike Richards.

She put back on her relatively clean clothes. The ones from Friday night she rolled up in a plastic bag for later disposal.

Church bells were chiming when she stepped out onto Redwood Avenue. The churches would probably do good business today.

Breakfast at Café 101 was good and she enjoyed it, eggs cooked perfectly over-medium, toast not too hard, bacon not too soft. The waitress was regaling every customer, local or visitor, with stories of “the serial killer” and how she always knew there was something off about him.

The Bus Stop was busy but Buddy Small was still chatty and full of the latest news.

“Hey, Nattie—how’ve you been? Can you believe what’s goin’ on in little Garberville? Hey, didn’t you say you were working for him? Mike Richards?”

She picked up two copies of the New York Times, dated September 23rd, and the single copy of the Washington Post with the same date.

“Only took a few pictures for him once at the St. Damian football game. Yeah—that’s quite a shocker. I guess you just never know …”

Buddy waxed on about how he kind of always suspected something wrong about Mike Richards and she made the right noises at the appropriate moments. The Sunday Times-Standard was full of the serial killer—how he may be connected to some unsolved murders in Portland—and Steve Hamlin and Rory Peterson and Bill Rader. She picked up a copy and added it to the pile.

“I’ll also take the map of Arizona, and two more bandannas—one red, one blue—and that pair of knit gloves. It’s getting colder outside—”

“Sure thing, Nattie. Gloves always come in handy.”

She smiled and paid and rushed back across the street to the library.

She opened the Times-Standard first.

Hamlin was being held on multiple charges and his family was in protective custody. Sheriff Peterson, still on leave, was about to be charged and Rader was being held without bail. Schwartz was still being questioned. County Supervisor Duncan had also resigned …

Renata nodded. Ten-to-one Schwartz would turn state’s evidence.

She could expect CBS and NBC and ABC up here today, at least local affiliates, and CNN and national feeds by tonight or tomorrow. Eureka’s airport was big enough for connecting flights to San Francisco and all points east.

She took a breath and opened the Washington Post.

The story was on page ten. More specifics on the crime scene. Same graduation photo, but bigger and clearer.

Still not named a suspect, still a person of interest, but it was only a matter of time …

Renata sank into Eve’s office chair.

The Times ran a truncated version picked up from AP, same photo as before. She turned back to the Post article and read it through again.

Fuck.

Something wasn’t right, something didn’t make sense, the world upside down, her mind a kaleidoscope, spinning, spinning into night …

The murder weapon was a .38 revolver police issue that according to sources belonged to Renata Drake’s father, now deceased but formerly a police officer in Chicago, Illinois. The weapon was found in the public storage facility room where the murder took place …

The gun. Her father’s gun. The gun from her diary-script, the gun that had been stolen with the diary …

Memory—memory—cleansed by fire, purified by water, distilled by truth—memory flooded her like the waters over the Eel, washing away everything else …

Where the hell had the gun come from? Remember, Renata, remember …

Looking up through eyes too heavy to open. Bullet hole in his head, holes where his knees should have been. And there—across from where she was propped up on concrete—there.

There.

The missing gun. Her father’s gun. In front of Grinkov. Fifteen, twenty feet away from her.

Not in her hand, not by her hand. Not anywhere near her.

A panic rose in her chest as she sat stunned and silent in the chair, eye of the hurricane. What the fuck? The gun was stolen—GONE. How was it there? How? She’d filed a fucking police report—had the cops found it and returned it and she’d wiped that fact from memory? Had it ever been stolen? Christ … Jesus Christ …

She sprang up, walked the wooden floor of the library, pacing back and forth. She wouldn’t have dropped the gun in front of Grinkov and just passed out against a wall and left it behind—she knew what to do, had rehearsed it over and over, written it in the diary …

Clean the gun. Throw it in the river. And before that, drag the body into the car and dump it where he’d thrown Josie’s, in front of the Pussy Cat strip club.

But Grinkov hadn’t been found at the Pussy Cat. She’d dumped him at the Peek-A-Boo.

Or had she?

Shallow breathing, sweat along her scalp line, but not because she was disassociating, no, not because she was going to black out.

Because she was remembering …

Her forehead was lined with effort, eyes closed. She remembered the nightclub, going out that night. Someone had phoned her … couldn’t remember who. Someone she trusted.

And then seeing—him. Grinkov. Laughing, shorter and slighter than she’d imagined, mouth gaping and red like the maw of fucking hell.

Drinking, drinking something … with someone …

And then waking up and staring across the storage shed—the one in her fantasy, the one in her diary, the storage shed she’d rented where Josie had been murdered—and there he was.

Slumped against a wall, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

More pain, head hurting, spinning into nothing. Was she dead? Not yet. Hurt too much.

Couldn’t remember getting in his car, convincing him to go to the storage unit, none of the elaborate script she’d rehearsed in her mind.

Couldn’t remember putting her father’s revolver to his temple and pulling the trigger, making sure he was wrapped in the plastic tarp, dragging his body like a firefighter, lifting dead weight into the car like she’d practiced at the gym, blood and brain smearing on her plastic raincoat.

Couldn’t remember the prayer to her parents, the absolution she longed for, the tears she shed for Josie.

No. None of it.

Just … waking up inside the unit, passing out again, and then …

Waking up fully in her own bed.

She hadn’t packed her Westclox yet, and it ticked, the sound reverberating, around and around and around …

Time she didn’t have slowed down and stretched, long and thin and almost to the breaking point.

Maybe she couldn’t remember because she hadn’t committed the crime.

Renata stared ahead into the dim light in the library, dust motes falling on the old wooden tables and chairs like a gentle rain.

Maybe … maybe she’d been framed. Maybe somebody stole her diary, her father’s gun … and used them to frame her.

And she’d helped them. She ran, her frailty and her vulnerability and the very essence of her soul, her love for her sister, weaponized and used against her …

The only garage in Garberville open on a Sunday was the Phillips station down by the Old Mill and the redwood gift shop.

It would be more expensive than Eureka but quicker.

She drove in and talked to a skinny man of indeterminate age who seemed more grease than human. He hemmed and hawed but agreed to get the plugs and oil changed and anything else that stood out.

Only problem is she’d have to bring it back after lunch. He was working on a Chevy right now.

Renata checked her watch and frowned. “What time is it?”

He shrugged. “’Bout nine thirty, I’d say.”

“Can you get it done by tonight? Say, by six? For a little extra?”

The skin beneath the grease seemed to brighten at the mention of more money. “Cost you an extra fifty.”

“Done. I’ll see you around noon.”

“Best if it’s a little later.”

She filled up the car and quickly drove back to the parking lot, presently clear of police vehicles, though yellow tape across the door of the Record building was still trembling in the light breeze.

When she opened the bookstore door, MacKenzie looked up from stocking a shelf. “I was wondering when I’d see you. Are you all right?”

There was no one else in the store. The bookstore owner added: “It’s early. Most people don’t show up until eleven. Sometimes ten. But if I’m here, I always open up. So, again—are you all right?”

Deep exhale. How—freeing it would be, to unburden herself. Freedom for her, a prison for MacKenzie …

“I’m—OK. Truly.”

MacKenzie looked at her steadily. “If you’re sure.”

Renata shrugged. “As sure as I can be. How’s Chris? He wasn’t mentioned in the Eureka paper today …”

The other woman walked toward where Renata was thumbing through a Let’s Go USA travel book. “Oh, he’s been released. He’s fine. No charges. And he’s stepping up, teaming with someone I don’t know from Leggett to help print the Redwood Record. Oh, yes, he wants to keep it up—intends to buy the building when the FBI and the police are through with it. He’s—he’s grown up, very suddenly. Full of purpose.”

“I’m glad. Sometimes trauma and shock have surprising results.”

MacKenzie eyed Renata again. “Hamlin is banished, you know. He’ll be put away for quite a long time. And his drug connections apparently reached right into South Fork, because I heard that Buzz Boford and John Codsworth won’t be teaching school tomorrow. His family—well, I think they’ll receive some help, though who knows if they’ll be able to make use of it. As for the others … Rader is minimized. Of course, he didn’t have much to do with the community to begin with, just name and property that had been around for a long time. His family—daughter, son, son-in-law—all implicated, of course. And Peterson—I think you must know about that. It’s just a—feeling I have, but I think you may actually have had something to do with all of this, Nattie Connors … anyway, Peterson is gone for good. Of course, that leaves us with Wayne Hunt. He’s been placed in charge at the Garberville substation.”

Renata didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, she picked up the travel book. “I’ll take this. And about Hunt … that is unfortunate. At least in my view. I’m on my way to see Doris right now.”

MacKenzie rang her up. “That’ll be $8.95.” She handed Renata her change. “In my view as well. But who knows? Maybe I’m wrong. Or maybe the reckoning isn’t over yet.” She met Renata’s eyes. “And don’t worry. I may think what I think but I don’t always tell everyone what that is. You’ll always be safe with me.”

“Thanks, MacKenzie. You’re a—a special person. I’m glad to know you.”

“You make this sound like a goodbye.”

“It is. Or will be soon. But—I won’t forget. You or the bookstore. You might get a postcard, from time to time.”

MacKenzie’s voice was soft. “Under what name?”

Renata knocked on Doris’s office door. No answer.

Tried the knob. It was locked.

A nurse walking down the carpeted hall stopped her. “Natalie Connors, right? They’ve been looking for you—”

“Who’s ‘they?’ I’ve had food poisoning—I called Doris and left a message—”

“Doris has been gone for two days. Her husband is worried sick about her, says she might have hit her head and wandered off. He was worried about you, too. Doris hasn’t been … well.” The nurse dropped her voice on the last word, changing its meaning to “sober.”

“Anyway,” she continued, “we had to bring in Midge and the accounting people and the head of HR didn’t know what happened to you—we were even afraid that—that—”

“No, I’m OK. I had food poisoning, that’s all. But I’ve heard the news. I’ll go get it straightened out with accounting—it’s down this hall and to the left?”

The nurse nodded. Renata’s steps were quick. She knocked on the door and a male voice beckoned her inside.

It was a curly-headed man in his late forties she’d met once before. He was sitting at a white desk eating a spirulina bar.

He waved her inside, mouth full. “Miss Connors—c’mon in. We’ve been anxious about you since you didn’t show up yesterday or today. What happened?”

“Bad case of food poisoning. I called Doris very early Saturday morning—”

He took off his glasses and cleaned them with a cloth. “Ah yes, Doris. We’re worried—very worried—about her. Seems like just as one worry goes away, another replaces it.” He looked up at her with myopic eyes. “You phoned her, you say?”

“Yes, Mr. … I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.”

“Luckinbill.” He sighed. “Well, unfortunately Doris has been gone and so we had no idea. We had to replace you, you see, indefinitely …”

She smiled. “That’s quite all right, Mr. Luckinbill. Not about Doris, I mean—I’m worried about her, too. But about me. I—I’ve had some family news and I need to be on my way—unexpectedly. So if you wouldn’t mind cutting my final check … I’d appreciate it very much.”

His eyes looked just as big when he put the glasses back on. “Certainly, Miss Connors. I hope everything is copacetic, as they say. Thank you for the services you’ve performed for the hospital.”

“Thanks, Mr. Luckinbill. I’ve enjoyed it.”

She waited for the check, mouth dry and adrenalin pumping through her.

Doris—she couldn’t leave without seeing—finding—Doris …

The rest of the hospital was quiet now, no sirens, no anticipation of a dead girl on a stretcher. Just the regular rhythm of life and death, youth and age, the ills and injuries of a tight-knit town and community.

But a woman was supposedly missing—more likely already dead or most certainly injured. Hunt would take advantage of the one fact everyone knew … Doris drank. Drunk people did careless, stupid things, things that put them in danger. Things that could kill them.

But surely someone, someone in Garberville, must recognize what Hunt was—must realize that Doris’s drinking stemmed from his abuse …

A frowsy, permed blonde dressed in a large blue print handed her the check.

Renata gave one last look around Southern Humboldt Community Hospital and hurried out the door.

She found a telephone booth in front of Friedrickson’s gas station. Phone book attached.

There—Wayne Hunt—1740 Maple Lane, Garberville.

The Mercedes started on the first try and Renata turned down Maple Lane.

In the blocks beyond where it connected to Redwood Avenue, the street climbed, narrowed, and become one lane. Occasional houses and barns clutched the side of the steep hill under cover of Douglas fir, madrone, and a few redwoods.

Jesus, let her be in time …

Hunt was the acting chief now, which meant he should be at the substation. But given the police and federal presence still sniffing at the Record building and Peterson’s arrest, he might be lying low. Nothing to see here, just good ol’ boy Sheriff Wayne Hunt keepin’ quiet and doin’ his job, stalwart of the community, worried about his wife …

He might be at home.

1550 … 1622. Getting closer. The road kept winding and she almost slid into a gully trying to make room for a Toyota pickup coming down the hill.

Finally, the house on the left. Turnout up the hill from the mailbox.

She pulled over.

1740 Maple Lane was a nice-sized wood-frame house and substantial barn parked on a slightly more gentle slope than its neighbors. Looked like the buildings had been added to the property about fifteen years earlier.

Hunt’s truck was parked in front of the house. As far as she could see, he wasn’t in it.

She reached over to the bag from The Bus Stop and put on the gloves. Buddy said they’d come in handy …

Renata climbed out, listening.

Songbirds. A car motor somewhere higher up Maple. Red-tailed hawk.

She picked her way over rocks and gravel to the truck, moving quietly all around it.

Tried the door. Unlocked.

Two rifles, one with a scope, still stacked in the gunrack.

Her hand strayed to the Ka-Bar on her belt, remembering what Hunt had said that night, the stink of whiskey on his breath.

Remembering what he’d said that day in the Army-Navy store …

She flipped open the glove compartment—and there it was.

The .22 revolver Buck described. Saturday Night Special.

The one without a serial number.

Gingerly, she picked it up. It was loaded.

She closed the compartment, shut the door with an audible click.

Waited. No noise.

The porch creaked when she stepped on it and she froze. The door was heavy redwood. So was the house.

Still no signs.

Any sounds inside would be well-muffled, even if neighbors weren’t at such a distance.

She hesitated for a split second, then tried the knob.

She was past knocking.

The interior was a crimson dark with plenty of brocade and leather furniture. No one in the living room on the right, drapes closed, coffee table out of place and cigar smoke still hanging in the air.

Standing on end and leaning against the wall was a baseball bat.

Even from a distance, she could see the thick end had blood on it.

Oh, God …

She pivoted to the left …

Doris.

On the floor, slumped against the wall in the dining room. Bloody face, swollen and misshapen, eye badly hurt and swollen shut. Dislocated left shoulder. Broken left hand.

Only the obvious injuries, not the internal ones …

Renata knelt quickly, setting the .22 on the floor.

“Doris—Doris, it’s me, Nattie—Doris, I’m gonna go call someone, get you out of here—Doris, you with me? Stay with me, Doris …”

She ran to the kitchen. Dishes were broken all over the floor, others piled up here and in the dining room. A pot of spaghetti, at least three days old, sat on the gas stove, maggots squirming in the red sauce.

She found an unbroken glass, filled it with water.

“Doris—here. Some water. Drink a little of this—can you?”

The woman on the floor looked at her dimly with one good eye and made a noise. Painfully, slowly, she sipped from the glass. Her hair, shorn of the protection of her normal wig, was thin, gray and had been torn from her scalp in a couple of places.

“Don’t you worry. We’re getting you out of here—just need to find the phone …”

The phone was in the living room, behind a leather recliner and torn out from the wall.

Renata ran back to Doris.

“Here, one more sip—the phone’s not working, I’m gonna go get help—”

Doris squeezed with her right hand, tried to say something.

Renata stood up and a car door slammed.

Too close.

Fuck—fuck fuck fuck, hadn’t heard an engine drive up, house built to be soundproof …

Heavy footsteps thudded directly outside.

Renata looked around, back and forth … bent down to pick up the .22.

Wayne Hunt kicked the door open.

His eyes widened when he saw her and he drew out his .44 and pointed it at her head.

Doris was wheezing, almost a squealing sound.

He moved the gun toward her. “Shut the fuck up or I’ll finish it, right now.”

Then he looked up at Renata and grinned, long teeth gleaming in the darkened light of the house.

“Too late, little Nattie—you’ve come to play too late. Told you I’d teach you about guns and other things. An’ I would’ve, too. Teach you a lesson. Maybe you’ll learn it better than this bitch did.” He nodded his head toward Doris.

“Now, put down the gun. That’s a cheap little bastard, right there, which is one thing I woulda taught you. Crooked as hell. You gotta have some kind of aim to make that hurt, and I don’t think you’ve got it.” He gestured with the .44. “Put it down, now. I’ll make it official—you’re under arrest.”

Anger.

Anger was her friend, not just an enemy, not just something to bottle up, swallow, because it scared other people, people too frightened, too slow, too dull to feel and act. It scared her, too, and after—after she’d woken up from the blackout she was afraid, oh God, so afraid of what she’d done, of what she couldn’t remember.

Afraid of herself.

But now she welcomed the rage, the fury, the strength and speed and quickness it gave her body. Welcomed it with open arms.

She stared at the thing in front of her disguised as a man and cocked the gun in her hand.

Her voice was slow, clear and deliberate.

“Fuck you, Hunt. You defile that badge.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Mexican standoff, huh, little Nattie? You know, I was lookin’ for you. Figured you might have something to do with all this shit happening. Just a hunch. So I ran your ID. No one’s heard of a Natalie Connors matching your description in Cook County. Nobody.” He took a step closer.

“Stay the fuck back unless you want a bullet in your forehead.”

He stopped, amusement and genuine puzzlement creasing his face.

“So who are you, little Nattie? Who are you? I know you’re somebody who won’t mind her own fucking business”—his features and tone shifted brutally—“and now you’re gonna pay for it. Resisting arrest is a serious offense—on top of trespassing, breaking and entering, maybe even burglary, and certainly false identification …”

Renata reached in, reached through the anger, tried to find something to hold on to. Something to save herself.

She looked down the gun sight. Nothing worse than a crooked cop …

Memories of her father.

The uniform, the coat, the car. The gun at the top of the closet, always afraid of it, never touching it.

Until her father taught her how to shoot.

Her father.

Rage shook her voice but not the .22.

“What you did—what you’ve done—get the fuck out of here or I’ll—”

“What? Shoot? With that?” He laughed again. “Shoulda bought your bear gun when you had a chance. But then, I don’t really think you’ve got it in you, little Nattie. I don’t think you do.”

The .22 probably wouldn’t kill him, not with one shot, but goddamn it, just one bullet, if she could place one bullet somewhere …

Renata quickly lowered the gun and aimed it at his crotch. His face compressed together into something alien, filled with a rage and violence more physical than hers, more palpable—she could even smell it.

He stepped forward and held the .44 at Doris’s head.

“Drop it or I’ll blow her fucking brains out. What’s left of them.”

Renata held his eyes, breath shallow. “Step back and I will.”

He cocked his head on the side and grinned. “You better. This gun’s big enough to finish the job from the other side of the fuckin’ room. I’ll count down from four … four … three … two …”

She crouched down and placed the gun next to Doris.

Stood back up, unsnapped the holster and drew out the Ka-Bar.

He laughed, holstered the .44.

“I warned you about knives, little girl. I don’t need this to handle you.”

Never, never, fucking never …

“Don’t be so sure, you bastard.”

He stepped closer, still grinning. “Oh, I’ll handle you all right. And then I’ll haul you in and arrest you and you’ll be in a jail cell, and whatever happens to you there … well, I can’t be everywhere at once, can I? I’m a busy man, especially now. And nobody’ll be around to know or care or hear. Just like this old sack of shit.” He kicked at Doris with a boot but missed.

Hunt’s tongue came out, his mouth partially open, and he took another step forward.

Renata crouched as she’d been taught in self-defense class, Ka-Bar in her right hand.

Help me, Dad, help me fight …

And then Doris made a sound.

A high, wheezing, keening sound, a sound that seemed deafening, thunderous, not weak or broken at all.

The sound of nemesis, of judgment.

Of reckoning.

Hunt turned his head in surprise. And Doris’s bruised and battered right hand brought up the .22 from the floor and shot him in the throat.

Bang. Bang bang bang bang bang.

The gun was empty. It fell to the floor.

He stood upright for a second, blood gushing from his throat, his cheek, his left eye socket, and three spots on his chest.

Then he crumpled like an old newspaper, melting and fading into the gutter, until there was nothing left to look at.

“Doris—Doris, I’ll go now—I’ll get help—I can call Benedetti in Eureka—”

“No. Wipe—wipe the gun.”

The voice was not Doris’s. It croaked. Broken but commanding.

Renata whipped out the new bandanna in her pocket and wiped the gun.

“Barn. Pot. Pot-grower—killed him.”

Her one eye was holding both of Renata’s.

“You’ll say it was a pot-grower. That Hunt was crooked, growing himself, and a pot-grower killed him. Yeah, that—that should make it easier. Don’t worry about me. I won’t say anything to anyone. I’m—I’m leaving Humboldt. You won’t see me again, and I wanted to say goodbye and that’s why—” She stopped for a second. “That’s why I came. To find you. I was—I was worried.”

The eye wandered toward the rear of the house. “Bed-room. Behind … painting. Safe. 73 … 39 … 55.”

“73-39-55. Got it.”

She rushed through the rest of the house until she reached what looked like Hunt’s bedroom. Behind a cheap reproduction of an English fox hunt was a wall safe.

Renata turned the knob. Her fingers were shaking.

Opened it up.

The inside was capacious.

Six banker bags full of cash. At least a hundred grand.

She picked them up and held them in her arms and brought them to Doris.

“Is this what you wanted? It’s all here. You want me to put it back now? I need to get you medical help—”

“No. Take it.”

Renata’s mouth opened and shut. “Doris, I’m gonna go get help now—”

“No.” The voice was definitive through the pain. “Yours. Take money. Kickbacks. From Rory. And dope. Take it. All of it. He didn’t—didn’t know. I knew. Take it.”

She knelt closer to Doris and picked up her right hand. “You want me to take this money? And you’ll say—Hunt was killed in a theft by other dealers? They stole the gun from his truck and killed him with it?”

Doris shut her eye. “Take it.”

“I can put it in an account for you under a different name—”

“Take it.”

“But Doris—”

“Go. And—thank—you.”

Renata stood up. “I’ll try to do some good with it, Doris.”

The woman’s eye wandered from the ceiling back down to her face.

“I’m heading out so I won’t see you again. But I’m gonna go get some help right now. Hang on, Doris. And … thank you for saving my life.”

She put the water glass in Doris’s right hand, picked up the gun and placed it on Doris’s left side by her dislocated shoulder.

Then she quickly picked up the money—it was heavy—and holding the bags together like a giant stuffed animal, she made it to Hunt’s truck.

No one on the road. His police car was parked next to the truck.

She scurried to the Mercedes and dumped the money in the back seat.

No time to think, to feel.

No time.

Stopped at the first phone booth she found. Dialed the substation … surely there’d be a deputy on duty, transferred from Eureka …

After five rings, a bored voice answered. “Garberville substation. Naughton speaking.”

“Officer Naughton, I want to report a shooting. I heard guns on Maple Lane—up by—well, I think Sheriff Hunt’s house. And his wife’s missing—yeah, shots. I was just driving by … you should probably get an ambulance up there, just in case … uh-huh. OK, tha—no, I don’t want to leave a name.”

Renata closed her eyes.

She couldn’t cry and she’d quit praying when Josie was killed, calling out to a God she no longer believed in. So she thought of the trees and the animal eyes from Friday and the green river and hillsides …

She could pray to the redwoods.

And her parents.

And she knew Doris would be all right.

Then she opened her eyes and checked her broken watch.

Even broken, she was running out of time.

Renata drove quickly down Redwood Avenue and pulled up beside the credit union, adroitly dodging a woman with a double baby carriage in the middle of the street, and rushed through the door.

The wall clock read 11:55.

Just made it.

The young man with the prominent Adam’s apple looked surprised when she said she’d need to close her account.

“Was there a problem, miss?”

“No, not at all. I’m just moving out of the area. Can you cash this last paycheck for me? Thanks, I appreciate it.”

The Army-Navy store was next. As she stepped into the car, an ambulance wail was climbing the hill behind the town.

The store wasn’t busy. Sunday was the day when Americans were supposed to think about God and family before returning to guns, booze, and football in the afternoon, and at least in Garberville, at least today, there would be a lot of people giving thanks. Buck was watching some kind of hunting channel. He looked up and grinned at her when she came in.

She surveyed the store, the shelves of hats and clothes and weapons and gear, everything from canteens to camouflage coveralls.

Funny how all emotion was pushed out of her. No horror, no sadness, no shock.

Even the anger had fled, leaving her feeling weak but pliable, more flexible, a willow in a windstorm.

“Hello, hello! What can I do you for this time?”

She picked out five sweatshirts, all with hoods and various military affiliations. No plain ones available. Two Navy, two Army and one Marines. Next were T-shirts, seven of them, in black, white, camouflage, just basic and no insignia. Finally jeans. Three pair and two pair of camouflage pants.

New underwear and socks would wait till later.

She looked under the glass at the watches. “I’ll take that one—date, time, stopwatch. Good in water, too, right?”

“Oh, yeah. Seals use that one.” He looked at her curiously. “Why don’t you just throw that other one away? You don’t need two watches, especially a broken one.”

She slid her broken watch on to her right wrist and put the new one on her left.

“It’s a good-luck piece.”

Renata carried the two big bags of clothes to the car and heard the siren again.

Much closer.

The ambulance was turning in to the hospital.

She sat in the Mercedes and waited until the siren stopped. Then she drove to the southern top of Redwood Avenue, made a U-turn, and drove back down and reparked in front of the library.

Took a few minutes to surreptitiously stuff the bankers bags into the shopping bags from The Bus Stop and the Army-Navy store and make sure they weren’t visible. Then she hauled everything inside in two trips, looked around, locked the door, and left again.

Drove up to the gas station and honked. Grease-Man came out and nodded.

“Pick it up by five thirty.”

She took one last long walk down Redwood Avenue and back to the library, passing the Frosty Freeze, where Amanda and her friends would meet the following week, deliberating leftover mysteries, and Hamburger Haven, the gathering place for Southern Humboldt’s teens, where relationships would begin and end and gossip would be shared and friendships would endure.

Football would continue on Friday nights and so would South Fork, the teachers fighting for more money, struggling to cultivate culture and education and the arts in a town that resisted change, that had, in some ways, resisted it for a long time.

Renata looked around, afternoon sun bright on the wooden storefronts and neon signs advertising Coca-Cola, the colorful motel signs and the feed store advertising alfalfa on sale.

There was Sweet Ivy’s, up the street, where the health-conscious dined, and the Old Mill where the Rotary Club grew sleek and fat, and Becky’s mother’s insurance agency and Mountain Mama and Stonehenge and Sorenson’s and her room at the Camelot Hotel and The Bus Stop and Smith’s Sporting Goods.

And finally, her home in Humboldt County, the Garberville Library.

She found more stationery and envelopes in Eve’s desk.

First she wrote to MacKenzie and placed the note in a large manila envelope. Then she addressed four other, smaller envelopes: to Amanda, Martha, Becky, and one to “South Fork Band Fund.”

She stuffed three thousand dollars each in three of the envelopes, and five thousand in the last.

Then she wrote another note, this time to Katherine. Her envelope contained ten thousand dollars.

All the smaller envelopes she slid into the now bulgy manila one.

Finally, she looked at the remaining cash bags.

Must be close to a hundred and fifty thousand left.

Dividing it up into sections, she packed it behind the lining of her suitcase. That would have to do until she could figure out something better.

Some tidying was in order. Pack and consolidate bags, leave trash in the can.

She smiled to herself when she found the postcard of her mom and dad standing by the One-Log House.

She never did get to see the damn thing.

More packing, make the bed, empty the refrigerator and don’t forget the toothpaste. Don’t forget Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Wipe as many prints as she could remember.

One more look around.

She’d miss this place.

Renata unlocked the door and stepped out, not sidling, not hiding. Then she walked around the corner to Cabbages and Kings.

This time there were three people there, browsing. She smiled.

MacKenzie looked surprised. “I thought you were leaving?”

“I am. Had something else to finish up.”

The bookstore owner halfway turned her head toward the hills behind Garberville, then looked back at Renata. “I’m glad you returned. There was a book I wanted to give you.”

It was Renata’s turn to look surprised. “Thank you. Which one?”

MacKenzie placed it in her hands. “The Odyssey. I don’t know how much of a Classics fan you are—”

“I loved D’Aulaire’s Book of Greek Myths growing up.”

“Well, this is a must. It’s a going-away present. Odysseus on a long journey, trying to get back home.”

Renata met her eyes. “Does he ever get there?”

The other woman smiled. “He does. Takes him ten years, but he does.”

Renata pulled out the large manila envelope. “I’ve got a couple of other things for you, too. It would be best to open that envelope in about a day or so. There are other envelopes inside. You’ll know what to do with them. Oh, and if you wouldn’t mind, could you call the Humboldt County Library and tell them they need a new librarian?”

MacKenzie laughed. “Of course. Hopefully Amanda will have enough to tide her over.”

Renata grinned. “Five books. Thank you, MacKenzie. Thank you—for everything.”

The other woman nodded. “I’ll look forward to that postcard.”

One last hamburger at Hamburger Haven.

The buzz was soft, some high-pitched giggling and mild male boasting, a kind of eternal dance of adolescence, this time shadowed by what life is always shadowed by, the average complaints, the everyday sins, the torments and ecstasies, the challenges and capitulations, the triumphs and failures. Human strength and human weakness, some more, some less.

No longer shadowed by what had stalked among them.

The weaknesses were still there. And they would always be there, human terror and hurt and pain and cruelty, exacerbated by a perverse and broken system—one in which an entire community depended on breaking the law for economic survival. The latest venality, the latest malfeasance, was countered for now, but it would be back, different agents, different forms.

Renata coated her last French fry in mustard.

She hoped Chris would succeed with a new Redwood Record, reporting on those weaknesses when they became more grievous sins. Hoped he would keep reporting on the corruption … the price for Garberville’s survival.

And she hoped real change would come eventually and last, change that recognized the fragility and ineffable beauty around them … land that had been butchered and scarred to build houses in San Francisco and yard decks in Palo Alto, then exploited and poisoned to grow a different kind of crop.

Maybe people would look around them and learn and follow MacKenzie’s lead.

Because there was a community here, despite the crime and corruption, maybe even because of it. A perseverance of human spirit she’d felt when she learned of the ’64 flood, a determination, a raw, human-animal will to survive. Despite the criminality that underpinned their existence, this was a real town.

A real home.

She picked up the car and topped off the gas tank. The Mercedes was tuned up, with two new tires, new spark plugs and an oil change. According to the smiling, grease-stained mechanic, it was good for another three thousand miles.

She drove one more time down Redwood Avenue, parked in front of the library facing north and packed the car, twilight casting red shadows on the library door. Let’s Go USA was in the passenger seat beside her.

On her way out, she taped a sign to the library window. It read Opening Soon.

Neon lights glowed in the distance, Garberville and Southern Humboldt receding, but not the people in it. She thought of Doris and Ian and MacKenzie and Paul Benedetti and Buddy Small. Of Ed Dawson and Virginia Esposito, of Katherine Turner.

And she thought of the kids who wouldn’t be kids much longer, and indeed, probably weren’t now. Of Marcus and Martha and Becky and Amanda and the freshmen with their Spirit Bell and the skinny quarterback and Crystal and Matt and Joey.

She thought of them all.

Southern Humboldt would continue. Southern Humboldt would survive.

Her foot was steady on the pedal.

She’d go east across the mountains over by Fortuna and then down again, maybe to New Mexico. She was sure there was a View-Master reel on that, too.

She’d remember. And with every memory, she’d be closer to finding out the truth. Who had used her mind like Grinkov had used her sister’s body.

Like Odysseus, she’d eventually get back home.

Renata rolled down the window and breathed in the green, the scent of redwoods filling the car, filling her.

Pure benevolence.

And when she passed her holy sign, the highwater mark of 1964, she thought again of what Katherine Turner had said, the lines that Dr. King had spoken when God spoke through him.

Tears finally rolled down Renata’s face.

She couldn’t see her anymore, but Josie was there. Josie would always be there.

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