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

“Mrs. Atwater?” I call into the gloom.

It is so quiet; I feel I almost hear an echo.

Instinct leads me. Sometimes it is the only thing we’ve got.

When I reach out and snap on a light, I hardly even realize I’ve thrown stealth out the window until light floods the room, illuminating a squalor so complete, I want to step back. Everything is mean. Nothing here is fine. And there is a smell that I don’t recognize right away. It’s not bad, exactly, but for me it does not have a good association. I snuffle it a bit before I realize what it is: it smells like a low-rent thrift store. The kind of vast establishment that makes you regret your consumerism, because it is the kind of place plastic clothes go to die.

There aren’t a lot of clothes, though. A visit to the bedroom shows drawers open, their contents mostly gone. I’m beginning to get the feeling that Mrs. Atwater has cleared out.

It’s all catching up with me and I’m suddenly very sleepy. I find myself fighting off the urge to lie down on the unappealing bed, Goldilocks-style, and get some much-needed shut-eye. I don’t though. For one thing, it’s gross. For another, I just feel it would be a really, really bad idea.

I press on. There are other rooms. I come to a back bedroom even dingier than the ones I have passed through. I’m guessing it is or once was Atwater’s, though I have no way of knowing for sure. It’s a small room that houses a saggy bed, a chipped dresser, and a damaged bookcase. I run my eyes over the spines of the books there, stopping at A Catcher in the Rye, whose inclusion would amuse me if I were in a mood to be amused. I keep going, and pass over—and then come back to—A History of California’s Central Coast. The book is old, and when I open it up, I see that it is “Property of San Pasado Junior High.” I figure he’s got a decade or so of late fees to cough up.

A page midway through the book has been folded sharply down. “The history of Morning Bay.” There is a photo of one of the founders of the region and he is standing on the porch of the house he built in 1929, when his original 1880s house had burned down. The cutline says the house is situated above the town, with a view out to sea at the end of San Miguelito Ranch Road.

A big house at the end of the road. I have the feeling it is abandoned.

All at once, I know where I’m going.

CHAPTER FORTY

AS I DRIVE, I think to call Curtis.

It is strange to me, that I should feel pulled to do so; I who have been operating alone so long. But I like the way the team has felt on this one. And somehow, I like Curtis, trust him. It feels good to have someone at my back.

The call goes straight to voicemail and I imagine that, even now, the team might still be at the hospital. Interviewing Emma. Interviewing her folks. Waiting for outcomes. Waiting.

I tell his voicemail what I’ve been up to. Let him know I’m heading to Morning Bay and that he should call me as soon as he’s free so I can tell him what I’ve discovered and we can swap notes. When I disconnect, I wonder at the easiness I feel in this bit of sharing. It’s because we both have an interest in the outcome, I tell myself. Our goals are not so very different, even if our methods are entirely.

As I drive, the dog’s head suddenly pops up from the back seat, looking for attention. I realize he is balancing his back feet on the seat, with his paws on the console that divides the front buckets. He couldn’t have managed this stunt even a week before. He is growing. Less of a baby already. More like a young dog. But maybe it’s just because of all he’s seen.

When I get to the Morning Bay turnoff, I have to stop at a gas station and ask for directions: Google Maps doesn’t list any San Miguelito Ranch Road. But, as I’d hoped, the kid working in the store knows exactly where it is: a local secret, in a way, he tells me. The road is not official, and maybe it’s on county or private property: he is unsure. But he tells me how to get there. He tells me which way to go.

The track is deep and windy. A forest road that every so often turns in such a way that you get a glimpse of lights. I have the feeling that, if it were daylight, there would be beautiful vistas out to the sea. At night, though, there are just different intensities of darkness.

I press on.

I have a strong feeling that, when I get to the house, I will find Atwater there. With that in mind, I cut the lights and coast along in darkness for a bit. I go slow so I can make out the twin ruts in the road.

The trees thin and I feel I am near my destination. I stuff the Bersa into my purse, tell the dog I’ll be back in a while, and head out on foot.

Walking, it is dark. So dark. Once my eyes adjust, I can see the old road I am following, but only just. I stumble along carefully, hoping I won’t be stumbling too far. It’s hard going.

After a while, I turn a corner and feel rather than see the trees thin out completely. And there is a house in front of me. None of the windows are illuminated, and I feel hope sink to my stomach. No one is here.

I find the entrance easily enough. It is large: twice the height of a normal door. I am certain