Authors: John F. Nardizzi
Ray put the notebook down. He went to his computer
and checked his email. He had a message from his friend in New Jersey—she would
be faxing over a list of numbers by the afternoon. He went back to his notebook
and, after lying in bed, dozed off.
He woke suddenly to a telephone call from the
front desk announcing that a package had arrived. Ray went downstairs to pick
it up: surveillance footage from Perry.
Back in his room, Ray drew the curtains. He always
liked the room as dark as possible when he watched video. Darkness quieted the
mind. He sat on the edge of the bed and slipped the DVD into the player. The
digital footage appeared. In the distance he could see Bobby Cherry under the
gray sky of the Bay. Seagulls wheeling, seals bellowing in the distance.
Ill-dressed tourists wandered in and out of the frame, children stuffing their
faces into cotton candy puffs. A performance artist he knew, the Gold Guy,
doused in gold paint and standing absolutely still, tourists watching
curiously. And Bobby Cherry doing his best, earnest in his efforts. He handed
out literature to the crowd, talking occasionally to sympathizers, whispering
code words about the white militia, the coming race wars. The secret camps were
in Idaho, where you shot high-powered rifles into the mountains and kept your
skin covered from the sun to glorify the paleness.
Ray paused the button occasionally, and zoomed
into Bobby Cherry, looking for something in the terrain of his skull. Watching
video footage was now commonplace, the novelty worn off for the youngest
generations. Yet sometimes you caught someone unexpectedly, without warning.
You saw the nakedness, the raw gesture. You looked for the way a man touched
his chin, hidden wiring from the mind revealed in the face. Something true and
real. At least you convinced yourself it was.
Ray needed to find something. He thought of her
again, and heat seared his face. For the next hour, he sat in the antiseptic
room, bathed in the silvery-blue light. Meditating a plan with no flaw.
Chapter 22
As she relaxed in her apartment, Moon Lee’s cell
phone rang. She saw the caller ID read “County Hospital.” She picked up after
the first ring.
“Hello, this is the County Hospital Records Office
calling for Moon Lee.”
“Who is this?”
“County Hospital,” a woman said. “Is this Moon
Lee?”
“Yes it is. How did you get my number?”
“Are you the emergency contact for Tania Kong?”
“Oh my god, is she all right?”
“She’s been in an accident.”
“Oh god!—”
“She’s in with the doctors now. She is OK. Before
I release any more information, I need to have you confirm a few things.”
“Sure, go ahead.” Moon Lee reached for a pen and
paper.
“Your date of birth?”
“June 9, 1984.”
“Your address?”
“Haight Street San Francisco. When can I see her?”
“I’m sorry, but I don't see that address listed
here.”
“Why do you have to make it so difficult—”
“Can you confirm the address for Tania we have on
file?”
“Yes, its Ashtanga Yoga Center in Inverness.”
“OK, great.”
“When can I see her? And why are you asking…”
The line went dead.
* * *
At 2:30 PM, his inbox showed the e-mail he was
waiting for had arrived. Ray clicked the little envelope and opened up a scan
with an address and phone number handwritten in black ink. Shavonne had gotten
him what he needed.
The number was registered to a place called
Ashtanga Yoga Center. It was located in Inverness, a small town near Drakes
Beach. He had spent many summer afternoons there. The center was located on
Juniper Road, a long highway lined with small cottages that ran by an inlet
surrounded with old evergreens. It was a perfect place to hide.
Ray felt real good about the Ashtanga Center. He
dialed the number. A woman’s voice answered: “Hello, Ashtanga Center,” hanging
a question on the pause. Ray asked for directions and the woman explained that
all meetings were by appointment only. He made an appointment to tour the
Center later that afternoon. He dressed in tan-colored dress pants, a powder
blue shirt, and then headed to the garage.
Ray took Highway 101 north through the greenery of
the Presidio, an abandoned army base dotted with military officers homes,
silent and stately. Fog surged over the thick steel cables of the Golden Gate
Bridge as Ray crossed the bay. The bridge was a sublime creation, with soaring
orange-vermilion towers that set off starkly against the straw hilltops of the
Marin Headlands. All around, the Pacific roiled in blue-gray waves.
The Golden Gate Bridge was a favored spot for
suicides. In the mid-1990s, the press began to report that the number of
jumpers was approaching one thousand. At the 977th suicide, a bizarre countdown
started, a perverse lottery for depressed Midwesterners lost in California,
each one hoping to be the millennial jumper, legs flailing a death dance above
the icy water. For a month, the number of jumpers surged as each suicide
mustered enough self-interest to insert themselves in history as the 1000th
jumper. The news media began a policy of not reporting the numbers, and the
1000th jumper leaped into a forced silence.
Ray drove beneath the painted rainbow above a
tunnel entrance and approached 100 miles per hour as he cleared Marin City. He
took the exit for Route 1. Past San Rafael, the lanes dwindled. He passed
through hilly farms and slid off the exit, winding his way west towards Drakes
Beach in Marin County.
Marin County was idyllic Northern California, a
land of soaring redwoods and sheltered homes built on steep slopes, where
drivers sipped six dollar lattes while wielding Land Rovers and multiple cell
phones. The days burned sunny and hot, but the night air cooled precipitously.
When the chill fog rolled down the hillsides, so pure and pristine, it seemed almost
arctic.
The GPS system showed a confusing jumble of dotted
lines surrounding Drakes Beach, a series of dirt roads winding through the
pastures. Street signs would be nonexistent: the locals were notorious cranks
and usually removed road signs each summer in a defiant act of isolation.
Ray headed north past Tomales Bay State Park. The
bay, all windswept blues and golds, stretched off to his right, while scrub
pines dotted the horizon. A stiff wind blew down from the hills. He peered into
the undergrowth on his left, looking for a road into the dense greenery.
After about ten minutes, he saw a small sign
posted on a tree that read simply ‘Ashtanga’. He braked and headed left into
the green canopy. The road ran almost straight up a hill before turning abruptly
to the right and ending on a protected ridge. A stand of pine and fir obscured
the road below. Above, the ridge was dense with eucalyptus and copse.
The Ashtanga Center was a two story, wooden
building built in the blunt Bauhaus style, an unfortunate choice for a building
that espoused a philosophy of goodwill and well-being. The fortress aspect was
lessened by overflowing potted plants and stone statues that dotted the front
of the building. A wooden deck extended to the west, and held several small
iron tables. A few cars were parked in a small dirt clearing in front of the
property.
A bell hung near the door. Ray rang and waited.
The door opened presently and a woman stepped out, or glided, or projected or
appeared—a granola ghost from the Age of Aquarius.
Appearing to be in her fifties, with long, gray
hair, blue eyes, and fine skin crisscrossed with wrinkles, the woman smiled:
“Hi! Welcome to Ashtanga. I’m Euriko Cain.” She wore a turquoise robe with a
cinched leather belt that fit her well. Her hands shimmered with a variety of
colorful rings, bracelets, bangles. The ensemble was set off by a Navajo
necklace made of mercury-colored hematite, with small figures of cut stone,
cunningly fashioned into the shapes of bears, wolves, and other animals. Her
entire demeanor radiated peace and goodwill, silent meals of sunflower seeds
and mesquite grilled tofu. Ray thought that she probably crapped no more than
twice a week.
“Hi, I’m Ray Infantino. We spoke earlier today.”
Euriko smiled, and guided him into a foyer
enclosed on three sides with sliding glass doors. Soft music played, a sitar’s
eastern jangle. Beyond the doors, he could see a courtyard decorated with jade
plants and carefully trimmed bonsai. A number of people clad in simple garb was
stretching in the courtyard. Ray smelled the sweet scent of jasmine. The entire
place was imbued with a peaceful simplicity that would have made native New
Yorkers feel like they were on Neptune.
Euriko fluttered about, talking earnestly about
herbal tea curing the horrors caused by America’s wretched affair with the
coffee bean.
“Coffee has a toxic effect on the internal organs.
It’s poisoning this country. It is a dangerous drug and has destroyed more
people than alcohol. Coffee caused the fall of the Incas.”
“At least they were awake when it happened,” said
Ray. “But I thought Pizzaro caused the fall of the Incas.”
“No, he killed the Mexicans.” Ray decided arguing
with her might dent her well-being and so he kept silent. She smiled and walked
him toward a double door. “Have you been to a yoga center before?”
“No, I haven’t. But they offer yoga at my gym. I
picked up a few poses here and there.”
Euriko sniffed a potential convert. As they walked
through the center, she managed to reference the names of various distinct and
foreign disciplines including crystals, aromatherapy, pyramids, feng shui,
Tarot, colonics, and nude yoga.
“All these combine in our color wheel of healing
modalities. You should try a few classes.” Ray walked on, nodding politely at the
blahblahblah. Still, he liked her.
As they strode through the complex, various people
walked by, nodding briefly but mostly keeping a calm, detached manner.
Euriko guided Ray to the main yoga studio, a room
with mirrored walls, heated to a toasty 90 degrees, and populated by ten
barefoot people stretching their backsides towards heaven.
“A fitting pose: the nexus of heaven and earth.”
“I beg your pardon,” Euriko asked.
“That pose, downward dog.”
“You are familiar with the poses! How nice.”
“Is the center open to the public?” Ray asked.
“Well, a certain section is open to the public,
but the majority of the center is reserved to private study. The center houses
serious devotees of yoga practice who work here in various ways to support the
center. You would need to apply.”
“I may be interested in such an arrangement. Do
you have time to show me the rest of the center?”
“Sure.” Euriko floated away from the studio. “I
didn’t realize you were considering such a big commitment.”
Euriko walked him to a locked steel door that
read: Residents only please. She opened the door with a key, and gestured for
Ray to enter. A long hallway stretched in front of him, with various doors
opening up on both sides. The decor was Spartan, mostly black and white pictures
of nature scenes, a few aloe plants or cut flowers in vases on stone pedestals.
He noticed the sound of bubbling water coming from somewhere, picked up the
scent of lavender. He breathed deeply; it really was relaxing here.
They walked down the orchid-colored corridor, and
Ray saw Tania walking right toward him.
For a second, his mind refused to comprehend the
face for which he had been searching, now physically present, right in front of
him. The thoughtfulness of her eyes struck him, and a cool thrill ran through
his gut. She walked with the firm, elegant movements of someone comfortable
with her body, her legs balanced and poised. She was attractive, the face tan
and well-formed. Her hair was short, shorter than he remembered from the
picture, and her mouth was unusual, shot through with a puffiness to the lips
that lent her a tough, almost cruel, aspect.
Ray looked at her as she approached. She was
carrying a laundry basket. She glanced at him, and moved on without smiling.
Ray walked with Euriko for a few more paces,
hardly listening. Then he stopped.
“I think I know her. Tania, right?” he said
softly, gesturing to Tania as she disappeared around the corner in the hallway.
“You know her?” Euriko asked.
“I’ve been in touch with her family. Do you mind
if I speak with her?”
Euriko touched her hair with a finger, looking
concerned. Ray started to walk back down the hallway. She then stepped quickly
in front of him. “Please wait here. Let me check with her first.”
Euriko walked back to the hallway, calling quietly
for Tania. Ray waited, not sure if she would be spooked.
After a minute, Euriko returned, looking
suspiciously at Ray. “She’ll see you in the courtyard, follow me.” Her New Age
sweetness was evaporating. Ray kept up a benign cheerfulness.
They walked down a hallway. Euriko opened a wooden
door on her left. She and Ray stepped out to a brick courtyard with a small
pool and several chairs. Tania huddled outside in a courtyard on a crude wooden
bench. She looked up as Ray approached and he saw fear break the surface of her
dark eyes. Her eyelids were sharply pinned and her mouth bent into a slight
frown.
Euriko hovered near the doorway, while another
center denizen, a bearded, skinny man, stood nearby, absentmindedly holding a
shovel. Ray sat down next to Tania, careful to keep his distance.
“Tania, my name is Ray Infantino. I’m an
investigator. A lawyer for your family retained me. They’re concerned about
you. They wanted to find out if you’re OK.”
“My family? Who?” she asked, covering her mouth
with a cupped palm. “How did you find me?”
“I did some research, talked to some people,” he
shrugged.
She sat still, assessing him. She touched her nose
absentmindedly. He started again, keeping his voice level deep, reassuring. No
sudden gestures. He tried to gauge the reasons behind her fear.
“A lawyer named Lucas Michaels hired me after you
lost contact with your family a few years go. They’re concerned about you,
Tania.”
She stared at him in a penetrating silence. Her
brows were slightly drawn in, her eyes wide.
“He told me about your family. About your father.”
Her eyes shut briefly. “I knew you had once lived in California. Are you
interested in getting in touch with your family?”
Tania looked down. “Who exactly? I mean—I’m sorry,
this is a shock. That anyone could find me so easily.” She picked
absentmindedly at a fingernail.
Euriko called over, “Are you all right Tania?”
“I’m fine,” she said, glancing quickly over her
shoulder. She looked at Ray. “So much has happened.”
“How did you end up here?” asked Ray.
“I was—you didn’t tell me how you found me.” Her
hands pressed into her thighs.
“I’m an investigator. Among other things, I locate
and interview people for a living. Databases, phone records.” Ray shrugged.
“It’s a minimal requirement for the profession.”
“Can anyone get that information?” Tania asked.
“Not easily. Most investigators only get this
information for clients they know well. But I have to admit, I was lucky with
you. So no, you otherwise would not have been easy to find. Quite the opposite,
in fact.”
He paused. “You seem worried about being found
here. Are you having problems with someone?”
Tania looked away, a mute wall of confusion. Ray
could see his words were just bouncing and clanking off a layer of invisible
armor. They sat silently, Tania staring bleakly at the red brick patio.
At last she looked up. “How did this lawyer hire
you?”
“A referral. We know some of the same attorneys in
Boston.” Tania shifted her weight, rocking slightly, but said nothing.
“Your family is worried about you. Tania, I didn’t
mean to upset you by coming to see you. Your family thinks that you might be in
some kind of trouble. They want to help. I can help. But you have to tell me
what’s going on, why you’re here.”