Page 19 of South of Nowhere (Colter Shaw #5)

19.

Time Elapsed from Initial Collapse: 4 Hours

A brief shower in the camper.

First, Colter, then his sister.

The Winnebago could handle the water; Colter had had an extra tank installed, not wishing to have to rely on finding a campsite hookup if a job turned urgent.

He wondered, however, how sturdy the filtration system was. It was processing an excessive amount of mud from the SUV rescue.

Colter had plenty of clean clothing. Dorion also had gym bags in the back of her SUV. She was planning on getting a motel room later, but that was not a priority. The Never Summer still poured and splashed and roared, and the levee gave up its bulk inch by inch, moving closer by every minute to the destruction of the town of Hinowah.

As for the family of the hour—the Garveys from Bakersfield—they had been examined at County North Medical Center and released, having sustained no serious injuries. The only changes of clothing they had were at the bottom of the Chevy Suburban watershed, but as part of her disaster preparation, Dorion had arranged for scores of dry outfits in all sizes to be shipped from several emergency way stations she knew about in Northern California. They could shower and change in the college gymnasium. Sonja’s mother and brother, whom they’d just visited in Oregon, would arrive to take them back north to sort out insurance and find new wheels.

And gadgets too. Colter imagined, with some amusement, the horror the children faced because not a single electronic device had survived.

George had used a borrowed phone and offered Colter boundless gratitude. He said if there was anything that he could ever do for Colter, he need only say the word. He would be happy to offer his family-owned business’s services to Colter and his family for free.

And what exactly was that? Colter was thinking food service or computer repair or accounting.

No, the man was a mortician and proud of it; his funeral home had been in the Garvey family for three generations.

Laughing, Colter took the info, reflecting that the man’s profession and the art of survivalism were largely in opposition. But perhaps the man’s skills might come in handy if he ever needed research into the nature of the business. He recited his email address and they disconnected.

Colter and Dorion were watching the sandbag team when he heard a man’s voice. “Not good.” It was Ed Gutiérrez, who’d just been to the edge of the north side of Route 13 and measured the width of the levee again with an app on his phone. “Situational erosion’s taken another two inches off the interior in the past hour, three on the top. Water’s like a damn sandblaster.”

Dorion called Sergeant Tamara Olsen. From her reaction, it was clear the news she was getting was not to her liking.

After they disconnected, she said, “Helicopter with the superglue’s still grounded. I asked if they could truck it in, but she said it has to be applied from the air.”

“Any ETA?” he asked.

“No.”

Maybe soon. The rain continued to grow less fierce and the drumming on the canvas roof was bordering on pleasant—or would have been, if not for the circumstances.

It was then that Starr noted Colter’s battered cheekbone. “Hey. You all right? You banged into something in the SUV?”

“No. Earlier when I was checking out the drone tag, off Route Thirteen.”

Dorion, who had studied first aid extensively for her job, examined the torn skin. “Wash it.”

He knew she was right and did as she’d said—using bottled water and a small packet of liquid soap he pulled from his backpack. The pharma industry makes huge money off antibiotic lotions and sprays. But most minor wounds are best treated with simple soap and water. Anything stronger often destroys tissue and makes the healing process much longer and more painful.

“Accident?” Tolifson asked.

“No. Battery.”

A frown from the mayor.

Starr said, “I don’t think Mr. Shaw means that like Delco, Mayor. He means he got attacked.”

“My God.” He seemed shocked. Hinowah was probably not known for barroom brawls.

“What happened?” Dorion asked.

“Went to look at the place my drone geotagged as a possible hit on the SUV. Then he came up behind me. Probably forty-five years old. White, six two, two twenty, beard. Red hair. Took off before I got a picture. Objected that I was trespassing.”

“Where?”

Colter explained about the bridge and the creek.

Tolifson was frowning. “Don’t know that’s anybody’s property.”

“Maybe Mr. Redding’s,” Starr said.

The mayor said, “Gerard Redding. Owns that copper mine.” His brow furrowed. “Not a particularly pleasant person.”

“And that’s putting sugar on it,” Starr said. “A good percentage of the town works for him. But the man you described, your battery-er? I don’t know anybody who fits that description—anybody who’s a troublemaker, that is.”

Dorion asked, “What would he want to protect? I mean, copper’s valuable, but…”

The mayor flipped drops of rain from his face. “Industrial secrets? Copper mining’s low margin. And they have to purify the ore at the source—before it ships. Has all sorts of secret techniques. Probably thought you were a spy from a competitor.”

Starr said, “That land’s not posted. He can’t do anything without trespassing you first.”

On private property the owner can throw you off for any reason or no reason at all. But you can’t be arrested until you’ve been “trespassed”—meaning a formal complaint has been filed against you.

“And he can’t take matters into his own hands, no matter what,” Starr offered. “My guess, he’s a squatter and just plain wacko.”

Tolifson asked, “You want to file a complaint?”

“No. Just get word around to your folks. He’s dangerous. No idea if he’s armed or not.”

“Handle that, wouldja?” The mayor glanced sideways.

Debi Starr nodded and began typing into her phone. “What was he wearing?”

Colter described the clothing.

“Wedding ring or other jewelry?”

“Didn’t really notice.”

“Okay. Smell like he’d been drinking?”

Tolifson said, “Debi, give the man a break. Just get the word out. Big guy with a beard. Nobody’s going to be sniffing any suspect’s breath.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Well…Was listening to a podcast. True crime. Detective in L.A. solved a murder because he smelled whisky on the suspect’s breath and on the victim’s too. Meant they’d been drinking together even when the killer had an alibi. He’s in jail for life; the fake alibi-er is doing fifteen.”

Colter added, “Funny thing about that. His aftershave. Expensive. Even though he looked like a mountain man.”

“Now, that’s worth jotting. Anything else you can remember?”

“After I suggested he get down on the ground—”

Starr laughed.

“I searched him. Money, but no ID. No car keys. Nothing.”

Tolifson considered this, and came to no conclusion.

But the younger officer was nodding, taking this information in. “That was on a podcast too. Pros sometimes leave all their identifying stuff at home when they get an assignment to kill somebody…Maybe he was on the lam. Hiding out here. Hm.”

Tolifson was shaking his head. “Come on, Debi.”

“Stranger things’ve happened. Can’t think of any at the moment but they must have.”

Ed Gutiérrez said he was going to continue the evac operation and returned to his SUV. Dorion said she would join him, but Colter received an email and saw the sender. He told his sister to hold on a minute.

The note was from his lawyer Tony, who was reading through all the material Colter had dropped off as he sped to Hinowah.

Someone—bless them—had brought a Keurig coffee machine. He nodded toward it with a querying glance. “Let’s take five.”

“Sure.”

He and his sister each made a cup and, at Colter’s suggestion, stepped to the end of the third tent, the one at the bottom of the downward slope of the hill. Maybe Tolifson and Starr were expecting a horde of responders from the county and state; as it turned out, the first tent was sufficient. This and the one in the middle were empty except for a few chairs. “Something I need to tell you.”

Dorion eyed him closely and remained silent.

“I heard from one of Ashton’s associates.”

“The university in Berkeley?”

“Yes. He told me a woman had contacted the school, looking for the Compound. First name Margaret.”

“She knew about the place?” Dorion frowned, concern growing on her face. Its existence was a carefully guarded secret.

“She didn’t leave her number.”

“There’s something about the way this story’s unraveling, Colt. What’s the punch line?”

“She’s his daughter.”

Dorion was still for a moment. “All right.”

He explained that when he’d learned about the mysterious woman, he’d gone right to Ashton’s study and began his search, unearthing the document about getting the girl into a grade school. “He had an affair with a woman not long after we moved to the Compound. She had a baby by him. I checked the dates. She’s roughly your age.”

Three years separated the younger siblings. Russell was six years older than Colter.

She asked, “The safe house in San Francisco? The one he kept from us? That’s where they met, I guess.”

“Probably. I searched it when Russell and I were looking for evidence about Ashton’s death. But I didn’t notice anything about a Margaret or any woman Ashton might’ve known.”

Dorion stared out over the town. Colter’s eyes followed. In the mist the scene looked snowy, quaint, like a Christmas village. Dorion gave no outward reaction to the news. She had had a fine relationship with her father until his final years, when he grew paranoid and hostile. Mary Dove, a licensed MD, kept him on antipsychotic medication, but sometimes, Colter learned later, he palmed the pills and flushed them, presumably believing that they were part of an elaborate plot to poison him or control his mind.

When Dorion was thirteen she and Ashton had a falling-out. His boot-camp survival training included a final exam: rappelling down a hundred-foot cliff at night. The girl was an expert mountaineer—a better climber than Colter and Russell had been at that age—and she’d taken on rock faces scores of times, some even higher than the one he’d picked. But that night she’d said simply, “No.” She saw no point, and had a mind of her own even at that age.

Ashton had grown furious and, when Russell intervened, his father pulled a knife on him.

The overwhelming tension finally broke, and Ashton vanished into his room, leaving the children badly shaken.

Some years later, when the subject of that evening came up, Dorion had told Colter she felt that was the moment their father died. “I know it’s his mind, I know it’s the wiring. I didn’t hate him or resent him. It’s just that man was not my father anymore. Somebody else took his place.”

Now, Colter handed his sister his phone. “Here’s what I just got from Tony.”

Colter:

Found a letter to your father. Has to be from the woman your father had the affair with, Margaret’s mother.

Ashton, I am owing you my soul. I am owing you everything. But it is not safe. It is never safe. THEY are out there. You know who they are. And they are after me. I see a shadow and I cringe. I hear a loud bang and I am jumping out of my skin. I hear a phone ring and I am wondering, will it explode, they can plant bombs in phones you know.

I know what you’ve told me about survival, and I try to survive but sometimes it just seems so difficult. Overwhelming.

They’re out there. Hiding, waiting.

I wish I could stay calm. And tell myself it’s my imagination, but the voices are screaming at me.

You told me I had to ignore them.

But I can’t.

And so I did what you told me not to do.

I went to Eddy Street.

You know what I mean.

Yes.

I didn’t have any choice.

Forgive me.

But they’re after me, all of them are after me.

No choice, no choice…

Yours in devotion and love,

Sarah

Tony’s message finished by saying he was going to keep searching. He still had about five inches of documents to go through. He would let them know what he found.

Dorion said, “She sounds like Ashton when he was off his meds. All right. Margaret, the daughter of Ashton and Sarah, has surfaced and is now looking for the Compound. Any thoughts on why?”

“Sarah’s mental issues get worse, and she kills herself. Either because she’s completely unhinged. Or—”

“Because she begs Ashton to leave Mary Dove and marry her.”

His nod confirmed that that was what he was thinking as well.

“Margaret, now in her twenties, discovers something that makes her think Ashton was responsible for her mother’s death. It’s time for revenge.”

Colter said, “Another scenario. Sarah was married too. She gets pregnant by Ashton and has the baby. The husband finds out and kills her. Margaret blames Ashton.”

“Little extreme.”

“But look at the syntax of the letter. There’s a foreign tone about it. European or Mediterranean or Latin? Relationships can be fiery. Misogynistic too.”

Dorion conceded this was true. And added, “Even if he doesn’t kill her, though, he might have thrown Sarah out, cut her off completely. She led a terrible life. Ashton won’t help because he’s married and has a family of his own. Sarah dies impoverished. And that sets Margaret off.”

In his reward business, Colter Shaw was well aware of the intricate soap opera plots that were people’s lives. This teleplay was no more outlandish than any other that bloomed when the orbits of two people overlapped.

“But get even against who? She has to know he’s dead. It’s public knowledge. The most basic research would have shown that.”

“Which means Mary Dove might be the target.”

Colter added, “Or us.”

“Positive reasons she’s looking for the Compound?”

“Ashton told Sarah and their daughter everything about his other family. But Margaret went off to school to study abroad, got a degree or two and has come back to reconnect.”

“Maybe we should have nicknamed you the Optimistic One.”

“Just ask me the percentage likelihood.”

She lifted her palm.

“Ten percent it’s innocent. Why is she asking third parties about the Compound? Any research would tell her about me and the reward business. I’m in dozens of articles and podcasts. And Google takes you right to my website.”

“That means ninety percent she wants to kill us and burn the Compound to the ground.”

“Not exactly,” Colter said. “Remember there’s that other percentage.”

“The unknown. The percentage that it’s something else, something we can’t figure out just yet.”

“Right. I’d say ten percent innocent, fifty percent she has murder or mayhem on the mind, and forty percent who-the-hell-knows.” Colter thought for a moment. He added, “And she mentions going to Eddy Street. What’s that about?”

A part of San Francisco’s Tenderloin District. Back then it was an unsavory place, to put it mildly.

Dorion shook her head.

He said, “Well, the important thing is to get Mary Dove out of the Compound.”

“We can’t just call. News like this isn’t phone worthy. Let alone text worthy.”

He agreed. “But we can’t get back to the Compound while this”—a nod at the levee—“is going on. And even if we did tell her that her stepdaughter is looking for her— Wait. Is she a stepdaughter?”

“No, no relationship between Mary Dove and Margaret.”

Colter could never keep family connections straight. “Even if we did tell her on the phone, you know what she would do.”

“Stay and defend the place.”

“It’s just a matter of time until Margaret finds the Compound.”

“We need to get Mary Dove here. Stat.”

Dorion’s eyes had been scanning the town. She turned back to her brother. “I know how to do it.”

“How?”

“Simple. I’m just going to ask.”

“And why would she?”

“Oh, she will. Believe me.”