Naomi Hirahara - Santa Cruz Noir

Frank’s mugshot looms over the article. His hair looks greasy. His round face wears a slight smile.

I close the computer and turn on my phone. I have a text Zia sent to me and Ben. She made it to the top percentile in her torts exam. I text back, “Congratulations,” then pace around my house. I could call Frank to tell him I saw the article, offer sympathy, let him know I tried my best to help him with his probation officer. Or I could contact Lindsey Johnson and confess my lie. But I decide it’s better to act like nothing has happened. Lindsey Johnson can’t help me with Frank. No one can.

I watch the sky lighten outside. I figure Frank thinks I did everything I could to protect him from Lindsey’s suspicions. He has no way of knowing that I ignored her request to ask me more questions.

My classes are sparsely attended. Some of my students show up in full Halloween costumes, a few wear fuzzy ears, funny hats, face paint. Colleagues at all three schools joke and gossip by the mailboxes, but I avoid them.

A few of my evening students at SJCC are excited to talk about an essay I had them read about why so many people believe in ghosts. The conversation digresses when Yesenia, wearing fuchsia wings and twirling a glittery wand, tells the class about an episode of Ghost Hunters where they record a voice saying, “They killed us all.”

“It’s not a belief,” Yesenia says. “It’s a real event.”

Jorge, whose first essay attempted to prove the existence of God, tells Elena that ghosts aren’t in the Bible and are against God.

George, a cigar and science-fiction enthusiast, whispers, “They killed us all,” and laughs.

One of my students, Neda, a young Baha’i woman from Iran, says, “It’s why there is freedom of religion. Yesenia can believe in ghosts if she wishes.”

“Yes,” I say, “I believe that’s true.”

Tatiana, who has slept through most of the class, lifts up her black-hooded head and asks if I’ve given back the papers yet.

“No,” I say. “Sorry.”

She rolls her mascara’d eyes. “When will we get our papers back?”

“Soon,” I say.

The moon is a dim shard over the parking lot. A faculty member dressed as Willy Wonka walks past me and waves with his top hat before getting into his car and driving away. Mine is the last car in the lot. I hurry toward it, and another car pulls in and drives slowly toward me.

“Miss! Miss Janet!” It’s Frank calling from an open window. I can see his thick hand waving.

I pretend I don’t notice him and toss my books, my papers, and myself into the car. My tires squeal as I pull out of my parking spot and then make a sharp turn onto Moorpark. I take the freeway entrance so fast I feel the car pull to the left. I slow down and look in the rearview mirror. All I see is the usual anonymous flow of white lights behind me.

My GPS insists I take Bear Creek Road, so I exit Highway 17 and begin the winding journey up the mountain. A tailgater appears behind my car with its high beams blinding me. Frank’s following me , I think. But I remind myself that I am usually tailgated on Bear Creek. The driver will probably turn off any minute.

The tailgating continues. I speed up. The driver behind me speeds up. I see a small road up ahead, pull out onto it. The tailgater speeds past me. I start on my way once more.

In a few minutes, I’m being tailgated again. The driver slows down and brakes, then careens forward toward me, off again, then forward. I look straight ahead to ignore the brights that keep rushing my bumper. The driver stays behind me till Boulder Creek when I pull over at the New Leaf Market parking lot and let the car pass.

I make my way down Highway 9 through Boulder Creek. Joe’s Bar and the brewery are open, but no one is lingering out in front.

As I pass the shuttered Brookdale Lodge, a black car pulls out behind me. It stays close, honks, backs off, gets close again, flashes its lights. I accelerate and swerve on a curve, nearly hitting a car in the narrow oncoming lane.

I speed faster. My steering wheel makes a whimpering sound on the curves, the sound of Frank’s yelping dog.

I turn left onto Love Creek Road. The car stays behind me. I skid past the toy box at the slide. The dolls are scattered in the road. I drive over them. One gets caught up in the wheel and bleats sickeningly.

My phone buzzes again, startles me, and my foot slips off the accelerator. I am losing control, but I’m afraid to slow down.

I’ll drive to my nearest neighbors, the Burmese cat breeders. I often see their lights on late. If that car keeps following, I’ll yell for them to call the police.

Love Creek forks uphill to the right where the pavement ends. My phone buzzes, and I reach for it. A text from Frank. I see the word “probation,” and my car fishtails. The back wheels leave the road. The car pauses before falling, then tumbles upside down and onto its side. It happens slowly and — somehow — carefully.

My headlights shine into the oak brush. There is blood in my hair. I’m covered in student papers that were in the passenger seat. I unbuckle my seat belt and try to sit up. Something is holding me down. I grab the steering wheel and try to pull myself up toward the passenger-side door above me, but I don’t have any strength.

A shadow moves outside. It stops. I say, “Help.” My voice is barely audible.

The shadow gets closer. I hear a man say something, and then I realize the radio has turned on. Calm, low voices are murmuring on NPR, though another station is coming in too, with music and static over the voices. My phone buzzes. I tell my hand to reach for it. My hand doesn’t move.

I hear, “Miss! Miss!” The shadow? Or is it just the radio?

I want to see who is standing there on the other side of my cracked windshield. I can’t see anything. The headlights are out. My phone buzzes and buzzes like a trapped insect skimming a windowpane.

“Miss? Miss?”

Mount Hermon

It was cabin time: sharing and praying. Karen Abe was sitting on the floor when one of the girls got up from the circle and stared out from the wire netting of their open-air windows.

“I think something’s going on in Twenty-One,” she said.

A chill went up Karen’s spine. Lisa Tanizaki was in Cabin Twenty-One. They were best friends — or at least that’s what other people at Paradise Park Camp would say. They lived three blocks away from each other in the San Fernando Valley, and had always gone to New Hope Church. Every summer they went to a Japanese American Christian camp here in the Santa Cruz Mountains.

Karen was assigned Cabin Twenty with Rachel Kubota from their same school, plus four girls from Monterey Park, whom she referred to as the Lukewarms — and their cabin leader, Wendy Kanegoe, a sophomore at Cal State LA.

Wendy tried to call the Lukewarm back to the circle and focus. But then she also rose and looked outside. The rest of them followed, Karen at the rear, leaving their Living Bibles and the tan-covered four-scripture law tracks on the ratty carpet.

Every light was on in cabin Twenty-One. It glowed yellow with a tinge of algae green. Outside, flashlights from spectators blazed dots in the darkness. Karen inhaled the grapefruit burn of Douglas fir and smoke from the nearby campfire.

“Some girl’s getting exorcized,” a chubby boy in shorts called out from the dirt pathway. He was new to camp. Karen had heard that he had just accepted Christ at group worship last night.

The Lukewarms squealed and gathered tightly as if that would keep them safe.

The boy waited a few minutes as if he expected them to join him. When no one did, he disappeared across the way to see what was happening.