“Seriously, Monty, how many of those shirts did you bring with you?” I asked incredulously.
IN A PARKING lot behind one of Davis’s many fraternity houses, Harold Wombler stood next to his pickup’s dented fender issuing instructions to an eager group of freshmen initiates in black trench coats and tennis shoes. Afterward, each pledge departed for the racecourse starting line carrying a rubber mask fashioned into the caricaturized hair and face of the Mayor of San Francisco.
As he saw the last of his stooges off, Harold climbed into the truck’s cab to await the start of the race. He cranked the rickety engine to start the heater and turned toward the amphibian passengers beside him on the front seat.
“Amazing what you can convince young people to do these days.”
“WELCOME TO A
rainy Stage Two of the Tour of California.”
Harry Carlin attempted a cheerful greeting as Will Spigot stared forlornly out the front of the broadcast booth next to the Stage Two finish line in downtown Santa Rosa. Cold streams of water ran down the outside of the booth’s windowpanes. The colorful banners ringing the street sagged with moisture.
“The riders will be zipped up today,” Carlin continued briskly, “trying to stay dry as they trek across California’s wine country.” He attempted to evoke a silver lining. “It’s sure to be a scenic stage even with this bit of weather that’s moved in.”
Spigot turned grimly from the window. “You have to marvel at California’s advertising genius,” he said crankily. “They’ve got the whole world convinced it’s nothing but blue skies and sunny beaches out here.”
Carlin blushed uncomfortably as Spigot muttered under his breath. “I could have ordered up this slosh back home in England.”
“Oh, and here’s the starting line chap from yesterday,” Carlin pointed out, eager to change the subject. He gestured to the television monitor providing live feed from the Davis starting line. The screen showed a tall, skinny man stripping off his rain jacket and marching confidently out of the hospitality tent. “They’re going to let him have a second try at it today since the ceremony in Nevada City was, ah, hmm, interrupted.”
Spigot leaned over the monitor, squinting his eyes at Monty’s green cycling outfit. “That’s a very distinctive outfit he’s been wearing. I reckon he looks like a giant elf.”
With a last steadying gulp of air, Monty strode in front of the wide ribbon stretched across the starting line. Photographers leaned in as he raised the ceremonial scissors . . .
FROM THE SIDELINES,
Ivan Batrachos watched the fraternity pledges move through the crowd. Even amid a sea of raincoats and umbrellas, this group was easy to pick out. The bare, skinny legs poking out from beneath their trench coats left little doubt of their intentions.
Sure enough, as the riders congregated behind the starting line ribbon and the announcer ushered the Mayor’s Assistant Life Coach out front with his ceremonial scissors, the trench coats made their move. The moment before the cameras began to flash, the pledge brothers dumped their coats and sprinted across the street. After standing, dumbstruck, in front of the severed starting line, Monty howled in indignation and charged after the masked men with his scissors.
Ivan allowed himself a rare chuckle of amusement as he moved beneath the dry eaves of a dormitory to study a road map of Northern California. Once he’d memorized his route, he folded the sheet of paper so that the portion depicting the city of Sonoma faced outward and slid it into the chest pocket of his leather jacket. He fit a visored helmet over his closely shorn head, hopped on the motorcycle he’d stolen the previous morning from the National Hotel parking lot, and set off through the increasing downpour for the Sonoma Valley.
Chapter 38
INTO WINE COUNTRY
WHEN I FINALLY
caught up to Monty, he was sitting on a curb next to one of the fraternity houses, wet and shivering. His nylon green shirt clung to his skin, making his torso look like a frozen pickle. His naturally curly hair had shrunk up into tight, shiny coils, each one sopping with moisture and dripping down onto his shoulders. His pale face looked gaunt, and his teeth were chattering loudly.
His physical discomfort, however, had done nothing to dampen his indignation.
Once again, his tormentors had reclothed, removed their distinctive rubber masks, and slipped away into the crowds. Monty had apparently come close to catching one of the streakers before he disappeared—or so I gathered from his monosyllabic reporting.
“Nearly,” he sputtered, holding his hands out in front of his chest with about a foot’s distance between them. “. . . had him . . .” His arms collapsed to his sides, his fists clenched in frustration.
I helped Monty up from the curb and draped his raincoat over his shoulders.
“Criminal ch-ch-charges,” he spit out as I steered him in the direction of the van, where the cats were waiting in their carriers.
MONTY WRAPPED HIMSELF
up in a cat towel—I refused to offer him my sleeping bag—and collapsed into the front passenger seat. He began to defrost under the full blast of the heater as the van motored out of town toward the interstate.
I was still trying to figure out how I might convince him to make a pit stop in Sonoma. Unfortunately, I couldn’t use the race route as an excuse. I’d picked up a pamphlet at one of the hospitality tents detailing the course for Stage Two. While the riders would be cutting through the center of Napa Valley, their path would miss Sonoma by about fifteen miles to the north.
The heater and the cat blanket apparently combined to sooth Monty’s despondent state and offended feelings. By the time the first signs giving notice of the Sonoma turnoff began to appear, a pinkish glow had returned to his thin cheekbones, and his nylon shirt was almost dry—albeit now covered in a thick coating of white cat hair. I raised my eyebrows expectantly as he cleared his throat.
I couldn’t have been more surprised by the first complete sentence he’d uttered since I’d picked him up from the curb.
“Do you mind if we stop off in Sonoma on our way back?”
THE ROUTE LEADING
into wine country, one of Northern California’s major tourism draws, was well marked from all directions. The state had installed ample signage to ensure potential wine purchasers didn’t get lost along the way. I, of course, had Isabella’s backseat navigational support to help me. She had an uncanny ability to spot and call out relevant road signs, even if she couldn’t actually read them.
Rupert, on the other hand, was far more interested in the contortions Monty was performing in the cargo area, where he was trying to change from his green cycling outfit into a suit and tie. It turned out his motivation for the spontaneous stop in Sonoma was an impromptu meeting with the Mayor’s Life Coach that he had arranged while waiting in the hospitality tent earlier that morning.
“Not as much room back here as I thought,” Monty said as he bonked his head on the metal roof.
I kept my eyes focused on the road, trying to ignore the nervous intuition gnawing at my gut. I couldn’t help but feel wary of yet another coincidence facilitating my progress along the trail marked out by the toy bears’ flags. I was starting to suspect that I was following a path laid far more recently than my uncle’s death a year ago. With each bear I collected, I could be stepping further into a trap.
I shook my head and took in a deep breath. The Bear Flag Memorial was on the corner of Sonoma Plaza, a large green park situated around City Hall. What harm could possibly come to me in such an open public location?
As Monty’s struggle with his clothing continued to produce strange sounds in the back of the van, I reached into my coat pocket and twisted my fingers around the toothpick handle held by the most recent toy bear. Given my history with Frank Napis, I didn’t want to think too hard about that question.
THE ROAD BECAME rural as soon as we exited the interstate. Rolling green hills dotted with grazing cows presented a picture postcard of bucolic bliss. Even in the morning’s gray drizzle, the serene landscape helped lull my anxiety.
Before long, the cows were bumped for a far more valuable commodity. Never-ending trellis lines combed across the rolling countryside, the supporting structure for thousands upon thousands of grape vines. Each individual plant had been painstakingly pruned and manicured down to a round clump of leaves perched atop a long, slender trunk. From the rain-streaked blur of the van’s front windshield, I had the impression we were passing fields of fluffy green flamingos preening their leafy feathers in the wet, billowing breeze.
We caught a few glimpses of the area’s famous wineries as the van chugged along Napa Valley’s southern tip. Immense stone castles with elaborate archways provoked a fairy-tale mystique. Designed to enhance the wine-tasting experience, these glamorous structures provided a visual palate to match that aspired to by the wine.
As we passed from one valley to the next, the castles disappeared, and the narrow country road transitioned into a far more traditional farmland scene. Just as prominent in the local wine industry as its flashy neighbor, Sonoma was more discreet in displaying the fruits of its success. Parked along the roadside next to these vineyards, you were just as likely to see a tractor as a Mercedes.
Perhaps Sonoma’s graceful handling of the recent years’ wine celebrity had something to do with its mature age. The town’s historical roots ran deep into California history. Over a hundred and fifty years ago, Sonoma was the Mexican Territory’s northernmost military post, the last stop on the Mission Trail that connected twenty-odd churches and a small handful of presidios.
When the Mexican government disbanded the mission system in the 1830s, the church-related infrastructure built up along the trail fell into disuse. By the time of the Bear Flag Rebellion in 1846, Sonoma’s ramshackle mission and all-but-abandoned presidio were left guarded by the oneman army of Mariano Vallejo. He held a lonely post, the only notable Mexican military figure north of General Castro’s encampment outside of Monterey.
An even-tempered administrator and an enthusiastic host, Vallejo was well-liked in the sparsely populated region between Sutter’s Fort and Yerba Buena. He considered himself more Californian than Mexican and was openly amenable to the prospect of U.S. annexation—a future which he saw as inevitable. Vallejo no doubt participated in many lively separatist conversations with guests to his modest adobe.
As the van circled the perimeter of Sonoma Plaza, we passed the crumbling remains of Vallejo’s Bear Flag–era home, attached to the still-intact Sonoma Barracks. The buildings were located across the street from the Bear Flag Memorial I had come here to visit.
Despite my concerns about Frank Napis, I felt a growing sense of anticipation as I drove by the monument, which stood in a clearing at the edge of the plaza. This was the site of the famous Bear Flag Revolt, the central topic of Clem’s lectures, and the focal point, I suspected, of the trail of toy bears I’d been following. Perhaps here, I thought hopefully, I would finally figure out the nature of Oscar’s Bear Flag–related treasure.
Monty was still straightening his tie in the rearview mirror when I picked out a parking space on the plaza’s west side—closest to the restaurant that would host his lunch date, farthest from the corner with the Bear Flag Memorial.
I had determined that this was my best strategic line of attack—I could approach the next designated location from a safe Napis-surveying distance and keep Monty as far away as possible from my investigations. So far, he had been too wrapped up in his streaker drama to pay much attention to what I was doing, but eventually, I knew, his curiosity would kick in. I planned to keep him in the dark for as long as possible.
“Okay, well, enjoy your lunch,” I said briskly as Monty helped me pull the stroller out of the van.
“You’re sure you don’t want to join us?” he asked as he attached a waterproof nylon cover to the stroller’s main handle. The optional implement was designed to provide additional shielding protection to the occupants in the carriage. The weather had temporarily let up, but the dark clouds above us promised there was more to come. “The cats will be fine in the stroller, but you might get a little wet walking around.”
“No worries,” I replied quickly, eager to set off on the hunt for my next Bear Flag clue. I pointed to the jacket I’d just pulled on over my shoulders. “I won’t melt.”
I reached into the van to retrieve the first cat. Rupert was apparently unconvinced of the rain-repellant properties of the nylon cover, but after a brief struggle, I managed to stuff him into the carriage compartment. Focused on the search for the next clue, Isabella was far more accommodating. She leapt inside and immediately took her seat.
“
Mrao
,” she chirped up at me, indicating she was ready to go.
Monty bent down to check his appearance in one of the van’s side mirrors as I started off down a sidewalk. Fifteen feet along the path, I passed a newspaper kiosk that had recently been filled with its afternoon edition. I could guess the contents of the lead story without reading the glaring headline.
Plastered across the paper’s front page was a photo of a long-legged man in green cycling gear chasing after a group of streakers in rubber masks. The angle of the shot focused on Monty’s apoplectic expression, strategically cutting out the unprintable body parts.
“Let’s get going before he sees this,” I said with a giggle, increasing the speed of the stroller. I had just turned into the plaza’s park area when Monty’s anguished screams rang out behind us.
ON THE OPPOSITE
side of the plaza, a man with a shorn head and a thin scar running down his left cheek slunk around the edge of the Bear Flag Memorial. In a small crevice on the monument’s boulderlike base, Ivan Batrachos quickly found what he was looking for. He wrapped his hand around a dingy brown package whose outer surface had a slick waterproof coating. He paused for a moment, sizing up the small bundle. It was just the right size to hold a toy bear holding a tiny paper flag.