Endings by Linda Richards (portable ebook reader .TXT) 📗

Then, suddenly, the road ends, and I find myself startled. I had been expecting an old airfield, no one around. What I find is different. I see a chain-link fence seven or more feet high with three strands of barbed wire on top. A weathered sign at the gate announces that this is “Camp Verde.” Even though it is supposedly a decommissioned military base, the fence appears to be perfectly serviceable: there are no holes that I can see, though even without the sign, I would have had no trouble determining that I was in the right place. The old hangars and the airfields themselves are distinctive. Purpose built. And I see what I imagine would have been barracks as well as other buildings whose purposes I can’t discern from a distance.

I follow the fence as far as I can in the car. This turns out to be not terribly far. Much of Camp Verde is off the road. After I’ve driven as far as I can, I drive a little further and park at the nearest pullout.

The day isn’t hot, but I pull the car into shade. Though there appears to be no absolute need to do so, I put the dog on a leash and walk him for a bit. I don’t have a clear idea of how long I’ll be gone and I’d like him empty. More to the point, if there is anyone around, a lone woman walking a dog will invite little interest and it gives me a chance to look around unobserved, though on our brief walk we don’t see anyone at all. I hear the buzz of high-tension wires from somewhere nearby, though I don’t see them and the air is redolent with the scent of things growing and dying. Pleasant forest smells, nothing to cause concern. I stay alert for any change in the air anyway.

After our short walk, we return to the shady spot where I parked the car. When I open the door, the dog jumps onto the back seat happily enough. I crack the windows, lock the door, grab the Bersa from the trunk. I load the gun, then once again pop it into my purse, even while I think that, considering the way things have been going, I should maybe get a little backpack or something I could sling over my shoulder. It seems possible I will have to scramble or possibly even climb. Doing that with a designer handbag over one shoulder seems somehow wrong, and never mind impractical. A fashion crime that also doesn’t help move things forward.

Back at the fence, I begin a circumnavigation. I don’t bother keeping to cover because I haven’t seen anything that makes me think I need to be cautious. I see long gray runways. Cracked. Weeds poke through the concrete here and there: in the end, nature always wins. The whole scene is like a poster for a place that is asleep. And then a sign of life: I think I see a feral cat near one of the buildings, but when I look again, it has disappeared.

At the fence, I am able to see something I couldn’t from the road. Parked beyond one of the buildings, and I can only see a sliver of it, but there is no doubt: it is a white van. My heart lurches when I realize what it is and what it might mean.

At the sight of it, I fade back into the shadows. If it is him, I need the support of surprise on my side even though, at a glance, the situation is hopeless. The fence looms high above me, topped with razor wire even if it wasn’t impossibly tall. I can see no way in. But he is in there. And if he is there, I can get in there, too.

The gatehouse is boarded shut. It doesn’t look like anyone has used it in a really long time. There is graffiti etched on it in yellow paint. “Go hard or go home,” and other shouts of defiance, meaningless without context.

I follow the fence line for half an hour. The ground is uneven in places and the going is hard. I am thankful that the day is neither hot nor cold. Either of those would have made the exploration less pleasant. But it is a perfect Central Coast early afternoon, the weather so lovely you don’t notice it at all.

When I am as far from the road and the gatehouse as possible, I find a break in the fence. It is small. I have to get down low and wiggle through, pulling the Coach with its deadly load through behind me. At one point, I feel my shirt catch and tear. I don’t think the rip is very big, but it hasn’t done much for the health of my shirt.

Despite the drama and the dirt and the rip, after a while, I do get through. It’s taken a few minutes, but now I am standing on the business side of the fence, brushing dust and plant debris off me, ready to move forward.

Though I have that in mind, I am somewhat frightened of the moving. I hadn’t really thought I’d be able to find a way in. Now that I have, I’m not quite sure what to do with myself. Once again, I am asking: What do I hope to accomplish? Why am I here?—And it’s not a philosophical question.

I move forward anyway.

Up close, the buildings are as dried out and unused as they had appeared from the road. They are mostly boarded up, with broken windows and other signs of abandonment. I am quiet, and I keep to the shadows. Beyond the element of surprise, I don’t have much going for me. It would be good to understand the situation fully before I make any kind of move. But it’s a big place. I have to find him