into the Napa Valley and turned north on Highway 29 toward Mendocino.
Chapter 8
M onks waited for Alison Chapley in the parking lot of the Mendocino Headlands Inn, an older place built on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. The horizon was still light, and the surf breaking on the great ochre rocks threw up rainbows of iridescent spray; but in the redwood forests that sloped up from the coast, night had come.
They had driven their own cars and checked into separate rooms. Neither had suggested otherwise.
The motel door opened. She hurried to the Bronco, wrapped in a dark raincoat and scarf, carrying a large woven hemp bag.
“North on Highway One,” she said. “There’s a turnoff in a couple of miles.”
He drove through the streets of Fort Bragg, a town of several thousand with a harbor at the south end and a lumber mill taking up most of the north. The demographics were noticeably different than in the Bay Area: loggers, fishermen, pony-tailed ghosts of the sixties, driving vintage American pickup trucks.
She turned toward him in the seat, her back against the door.
“Thanks. This would have been tough, alone.”
“It still doesn’t feel easy.”
“Easier.”
The road that led to the Schulte homestead turned inland, a steep series of switchbacks sparsely lined with houses. It quickly became closed in with forest, dripping with mist.
“I didn’t have time to change,” she said. “Do you mind?”
He glanced over. She was unbuttoning the raincoat. He caught a glimpse of skin, with brief black bands at breasts and hips, and pulled his attention back to the winding road.
“No. I don’t mind.”
“It should be another few miles. Box 1382.” She took something from her bag and leaned forward, then came up more slowly, fingers working their way along her calves, pulling on gray tights.
Monks said, “How do you want to handle this?”
She shifted in the seat, with the sound of snapping elastic.
“Tanager’s seventeen. He’s been held back in school. Maybe he’s a little slow. Maybe because of everything that’s happened with Caymas.” She was taking something else from the bag, unfolding it. “I don’t want him to think we’re from the hospital, at least at first. I’m guessing he’s just trying to hide and get through it all. If we come at him officially he might freeze up. I’ll try to start him talking and see where it goes.”
“If we’re not us, then who are we?”
“We’re spreading the word of the Lord.” She smoothed a dress over her front, raising knees and then rump to pull it on. It was denim of a medium blue color, loose-fitting, calf-length.
“You think that’s fair to the kid?”
With sudden sharpness, she said, “I don’t think there’s anything fair about any of this. Zip me up.”
Monks did, fingers fumbling along the bumps of her spine. She retied the scarf with quick jerky motions. It was dark blue, bringing out the pallor of her face, and he realized she was not wearing makeup.
“I’m not much of an actor.”
“You’ll do fine,” she said, more kindly. “You don’t have to talk. Just look stern.”
The fog was thickening, their headlights creating a tunnel, barely penetrating in some pockets. There were no signs of habitation now except for an occasional dirt road entrance marked by a mailbox.
He said, “Long way for a preacher to come calling.”
“The Lord loveth not the spirit that is weak.”
He smiled. Clearly, she had been doing her homework.
“I heard you were getting married,” he said. “A couple years back.”
She leaned her head against the window, lips twisting briefly.
“Matthew,” she said. “A rising star in the investment world. He wanted me to quit my job. Move to a safe clean suburb of the mind, away from the slums where the poor people live. You?”
“Gail and I stay in touch.” While he had never thought of it in those terms, hrs ex, had moved to that suburb, too.
“You told me once she’d
Chapter 8
M onks waited for Alison Chapley in the parking lot of the Mendocino Headlands Inn, an older place built on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. The horizon was still light, and the surf breaking on the great ochre rocks threw up rainbows of iridescent spray; but in the redwood forests that sloped up from the coast, night had come.
They had driven their own cars and checked into separate rooms. Neither had suggested otherwise.
The motel door opened. She hurried to the Bronco, wrapped in a dark raincoat and scarf, carrying a large woven hemp bag.
“North on Highway One,” she said. “There’s a turnoff in a couple of miles.”
He drove through the streets of Fort Bragg, a town of several thousand with a harbor at the south end and a lumber mill taking up most of the north. The demographics were noticeably different than in the Bay Area: loggers, fishermen, pony-tailed ghosts of the sixties, driving vintage American pickup trucks.
She turned toward him in the seat, her back against the door.
“Thanks. This would have been tough, alone.”
“It still doesn’t feel easy.”
“Easier.”
The road that led to the Schulte homestead turned inland, a steep series of switchbacks sparsely lined with houses. It quickly became closed in with forest, dripping with mist.
“I didn’t have time to change,” she said. “Do you mind?”
He glanced over. She was unbuttoning the raincoat. He caught a glimpse of skin, with brief black bands at breasts and hips, and pulled his attention back to the winding road.
“No. I don’t mind.”
“It should be another few miles. Box 1382.” She took something from her bag and leaned forward, then came up more slowly, fingers working their way along her calves, pulling on gray tights.
Monks said, “How do you want to handle this?”
She shifted in the seat, with the sound of snapping elastic.
“Tanager’s seventeen. He’s been held back in school. Maybe he’s a little slow. Maybe because of everything that’s happened with Caymas.” She was taking something else from the bag, unfolding it. “I don’t want him to think we’re from the hospital, at least at first. I’m guessing he’s just trying to hide and get through it all. If we come at him officially he might freeze up. I’ll try to start him talking and see where it goes.”
“If we’re not us, then who are we?”
“We’re spreading the word of the Lord.” She smoothed a dress over her front, raising knees and then rump to pull it on. It was denim of a medium blue color, loose-fitting, calf-length.
“You think that’s fair to the kid?”
With sudden sharpness, she said, “I don’t think there’s anything fair about any of this. Zip me up.”
Monks did, fingers fumbling along the bumps of her spine. She retied the scarf with quick jerky motions. It was dark blue, bringing out the pallor of her face, and he realized she was not wearing makeup.
“I’m not much of an actor.”
“You’ll do fine,” she said, more kindly. “You don’t have to talk. Just look stern.”
The fog was thickening, their headlights creating a tunnel, barely penetrating in some pockets. There were no signs of habitation now except for an occasional dirt road entrance marked by a mailbox.
He said, “Long way for a preacher to come calling.”
“The Lord loveth not the spirit that is weak.”
He smiled. Clearly, she had been doing her homework.
“I heard you were getting married,” he said. “A couple years back.”
She leaned her head against the window, lips twisting briefly.
“Matthew,” she said. “A rising star in the investment world. He wanted me to quit my job. Move to a safe clean suburb of the mind, away from the slums where the poor people live. You?”
“Gail and I stay in touch.” While he had never thought of it in those terms, hrs ex, had moved to that suburb, too.
“You told me once she’d
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