Блейк Крауч: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, No. 5. Whole No. 813, May 2009

“I’ll keep it in mind. Give my love to your family.”

He either hung up or the call got dropped.

Out here in the boonies, it was already quite dark, country dark. The road was right out of Atmosphere 101 in set design. It was increasingly foggy, like a translucent scrim, layered and billowing. The hill-and-dale two-lane road I’d turned onto at the end of the middling highway, as instructed, dated from before they leveled land to build roads, I guessed. It was like a little roller coaster with near-zero visibility. There were almost no cars out there, fortunately for me, because even the center line was hard to see and easy to cross, and the shoulder didn’t even amount to a place to pull over and cringe. I kept it in second gear and crept up and down, up and down, getting queasier by the minute. Marcella had said to watch for a certain small unpaved turnoff “just after the one Shell station out there,” and I had to thank the owner for having terrific lights on, because I never would have seen it otherwise. I felt so appreciative that I topped up my gas tank and asked the attendant in his little glass box if he knew where the geologists were.

“Geologists,” he said blankly. Not a good sign.

I tried a different tack. “There’s supposed to be a mobile home around here somewhere where some rock collectors or prospectors stay.”

“I don’t know. Trailer up the next road, though.”

I sighed. “Do you have a public phone?”

“Sure do. Clean bathrooms, too, especially the ladies’. Take care of it myself.”

I didn’t dignify that with comment, and phoned the hospital, where the call got routed to voicemail. Presumably Marcella was sleeping or something. I left a message telling her where I was, tucked away the gas credit-card receipt, and went looking for the turnoff.

Even though I didn’t have far to go, the fog made it seem like leagues. I could barely make out a small metal sign at the next turning, actually got out of the car and walked around and looked. It read “Western State University Geological Research Station,” with a stylized university seal superimposed over what looked like a pile of rocks or some mountains. An arrow pointed down the side road. I got back in the Honda and crept along a few hundred feet uphill in first gear until I saw a light up ahead. I turned in at a driveway with a surprisingly large parking area and could just make out a trailer like you see on construction sites, next to it a double-wide mobile home, and in front of that, a white Chevy pickup truck. I parked next to it, got out, and found out that it had license plates identifying it as the property of the State of California, and walked to the trailer, since it seemed to have a dim light inside. I couldn’t see in through the blinds but climbed up the wooden ramp to the door and knocked.

The door squeaked open and a fortyish guy with a beard, a receding hairline, and glasses he was sliding onto his nose came out onto the porch looking spooked. He wore a T-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. I took it he didn’t get a lot of night visitors.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said and, taking a likely stab, went on, “Professor—”

“Weibold,” he finished.

“Sorry to disturb you, but I had to come in person. Your aunt Marcella sent me here to see Megan.”

He really looked uncomfortable. “I haven’t heard anything from her about this.”

I smiled sheer harmlessness and tucked a naive little lock of hair behind my ear, the one without the row of piercings, which remained covered. “I’m a licensed investigator,” I said, holding up my ID wallet, which he glanced at but didn’t take. “You can call Marcella at Hoag Hospital and ask her if you like.”

His distrustful expression leapt to fear. “What’s she doing there?”

“Why don’t I come in and tell you?”

He stood to one side and let me in.

I took a quick look around. The office was anonymous in furnishings of laminate tables, file cabinets, and Scotchgarded upholstered chairs and sofa. But on the shelves, books shared space with various rocks, arrowheads, and petrified bones. The weapons and animal skulls lent a certain creepiness to the otherwise unremarkable decor.

Dr. Weibold, obviously an introvert, avoided eye contact as he waved me to a chair and asked if I’d like some coffee. I said thanks, I would, and that I’d also like to make a phone call. He said, “Help yourself to the phone and then come on over to the residence and I’ll have your coffee ready. I’ll let Megan know you’re here.”

Either he didn’t get many visitors or he was a really nice man.

I checked Hoag. Still no Marcella. Thinking she might have left a message, I checked my voicemail — to find a message from Ron Walker.

“Lane, I’m hoping you check home because I couldn’t get you on the cell, and I really gotta warn ya about those assholes you’re dealing with. I checked with my sources, and it looks like they’re major leaguers, gun dealers, part of a militia of wack-jobs who like shooting at illegals coming over the border. I believe you may be dealing with Conkling’s other sister Ruth and his brother-in-law Levi. Their surname is Halliday, and you said they were going by Holloway. Sorry to tell you, sweetie, but there’s a fugitive warrant out on Levi. He bought a small arsenal from a gun dealer who happened to be working as a confidential informant for the ATF. The feds blew the bust and our boy got away, but not before he shot and wounded the dealer. The guy’s in protective custody until they can have him testify against Levi, but first they have to find Levi. Stay away from it, Lane, and call me the minute you get this. Where are you, anyway? Why haven’t you been answering your house or cell?”

My machine played another message, from Sean, wondering the same thing.

I stood there and stared at a petrified carnivore skull.

I’d have to call back later, because the danger made talking to Megan more urgent. I had to take care of that, and then head back through the desert fog with a vow to stay away for good.

I knocked lightly and let myself into the double-wide, hearing an intermittently noisy espresso machine. In a lull between the hissing and screeching, Professor Weibold puttered until the fragrant brew was in cups, then went down the hall and came out with Megan, looking much as I remembered except for the lack of makeup and some weight loss. She was barefoot, dressed in obviously borrowed men’s clothes, another pair of khaki shorts — how did these people keep from freezing out here? — and an oversized T-shirt commemorating a science leadership conference in 1998.

I stuck out my hand, which she regarded warily for a split second before grabbing it and shaking it hard.

Before either of us could say anything, the professor broke his silence. “This is the person Marcella sent.” Frothing milk now, he went back to topping the cups and putting them onto saucers with spoons in a practiced ritual.

I introduced myself and said, “Megan, I have some things to tell you. Is this a good time?” If it wasn’t, I couldn’t exactly come back later, but I was trying to give her a little chance at control.

“I don’t know. It depends on what you want. How come Marcella didn’t come with you?”

I softly told her that Marcella was in the hospital, and why. Her eyes filled with tears, and sounding like a little girl, she matched my soft voice and asked, “Is she going to be okay?”

I nodded.

She stifled a sob that was trying to break the surface and, almost to herself, said, “Oh, Jesus, he’s going to find me and then he’s going to kill me.”

I murmured, “Your father doesn’t know where you are. Can you sit down and we’ll try to work out a game plan?”