8th Day Read online

  I knew what he was asking. "I'm pretty sure she's good people, Tom. And she could use a break."

  "I guess it can't hurt to give her a try, then."

  "I owe you one," I said.

  "Oh, hell, Cass. You owe me so many already, what's one more?" We both laughed, knowing it was true.

  "In that case, can you run a name for me?"

  There was only a brief pause before I heard his familiar sigh. "What are you looking for?"

  "Missing person. It's probably nothing, but, before I go chasing shadows, it'd be good to know if she's already been found. All I have at the moment is a name and last known address."

  "Let me grab a pen."

  I gave him what little info I had on Annie Sisson.

  "How soon you going to want this?" he asked.

  "Couple of hours?" I said, knowing how this would go over.

  "Cass! I'm up to my ass in horse manure right now!"

  "I'll make it up to you," I said. He didn't say anything. He was waiting.

  "How about pan-fried filets with a tarragon-cognac cream sauce?"

  "Go on," he said gruffly, like he wasn't really sold yet.

  "And sautéed chanterelles with lemon-buttered artichokes."

  "I like those garlic mashed potatoes you make," he said, getting into the spirit.

  "Well, we could do that."

  "What about dessert?"

  I sighed. "Raspberry topped chocolate mousse?"

  "Done!" he said. "I'll hold you to this, Cass."

  I laughed and hung up before he had time to change his mind, then went to work on what I could find out about Annie Sisson myself. Booker would be able to tell me if she'd landed in the morgue or jail. But assuming that wasn't the case, there were a number of things I could learn on my own.

  I booted up my Mac and logged onto the Web, accessing my favorite detection link called Little Brother. Relatively new and considerably more expensive than other subscriber links that probed into the personal lives of private citizens, Little Brother was quick, user-friendly, and well worth the monthly fee. In less than an hour I knew Annie Sisson's social security and driver's license numbers, her age, DOB, parents' names, address and phone number, her last two places of employment, the name of her bank, account numbers, and her credit history. Using these bits of information, I was able to access more personal background and, by filling in the blanks, I began to visualize the person behind the smiling face in the Camp Turnaround brochure.

  Annie Sisson had grown up an only child in Wheatland, Wyoming and left home at seventeen to put herself through college at Colorado State University before transferring out west to Fresno State and then San Diego State. She was still paying off her student loans. Though armed with a teaching credential, rather than pursuing that career, after college she'd joined the Peace Corp. Apparently her stint with the Corp had been cut short, because two years later she was working at an Institute for the Blind in Seattle, Washington. A year after that, she'd hired on at Camp Turnaround, where she'd been for just over two years. A call to her parents' number yielded a recorded message revealing that Harold and Irma Sissons still lived in the house Annie Sisson had grown up in. I'd been hoping to actually talk to them, to find out if she'd come home for a visit, but that would have to wait. I hung up, not leaving a message, and thought about what I knew.

  Annie would be twenty-seven now. Still unmarried, still apparently searching for a niche. Had she left Camp Turnaround as abruptly as she had the Peace Corp and the Institute for the Blind? She seemed to change jobs and towns as readily as underwear. Was she running from something? Or had something happened to her at Camp Turnaround, as Maddie Boone insisted? One thing I did know, she hadn't used her Visa or Mastercard or even a gas card since she left. But I knew I was no closer to knowing the truth than before, and when Booker called back to say he'd come up with a big fat zero, I wasn't surprised. If something sinister had happened to Annie Sisson, no one, except maybe Maddie Boone, knew about it.

  I switched gears and spent the rest of the day researching Camp Turnaround, learning what I could about its history, philosophy, track record, and general layout. I also researched other reform-type schools for comparison.

  One of the things that struck me during my initial fact gathering was that Camp Turnaround was not an accredited institution. They claimed that 80% of their kids graduated from high school and that their teachers were highly trained, but nowhere in their literature did they use the word licensed, credentialed, or accredited. Maybe that's why they could afford to be a thousand dollars a month cheaper than some of the others I read about.

  That was another thing. I couldn't believe the amount of money people paid to ship their kids off to these places. Five to six thousand dollars a month wasn't unheard of, and that wasn't including expenses, which could cover anything from clothing and medical needs to property damages, which were mentioned frequently. Gracie was right, I thought. These kids were bad-asses.

  But, aside from the fact that they didn't actually cite specific accreditation, Camp Turnaround sounded pretty good. Situated in an old mining camp, it was both picturesque and isolated. The photographs in the brochure showed heavily treed forests nestled beside wide-open pastures complete with running streams and grazing horses. In addition to offering a competitive curriculum, the place boasted a working horse ranch, computer-driven machine shop, technology training, physical fitness program, group and individual therapy sessions, small class sizes, one-on-one counseling, and an intensive behavior modification program. With only eighty students and over a dozen staff members, the student-adult ratio was ideal. Actually, I could see how parents of a troubled teen might see the place as the miracle they'd been waiting for. And there were plenty of parental testimonies to that effect.

  Once I'd satisfied myself that I knew as much as I could about Camp Turnaround, I completed the online application. Based on what I'd read, I had a pretty good idea what they were looking for, and I concocted a story that I felt would satisfy their needs. I was a currently unemployed, loner-type who had teaching experience and a slightly jaded past. I didn't say all this, of course, but I painted the picture just enough to provide the image. Less than two hours after I'd sent the application, I received a phone call from Camp Turnaround.

  "Miss James? This is Ida Evans, Administrative Director of Camp Turnaround? We received your application for the substitute teaching position. Would you be available for an interview tomorrow?" She had a slightly southern twang and sounded a little breathless.

  "So soon?" I was trying not to sound too anxious.

  "The position is to be filled immediately. You did say you were available?"

  "Oh, yes, of course."

  "And you have previous teaching experience in the language arts?"

  Before I could answer, she gushed on. "That's terrific. It says you've worked with troubled teens before. In what capacity, if I might ask?"

  I had used a little creative license there, figuring all teens were pretty much troubled to some extent. "Teaching assertive discipline, mostly. In junior high school." Which basically meant that when a kid screwed up in my classroom, I gave them the teacher look and they quit screwing around. Classroom discipline had never been a problem for me, but I didn't elaborate.

  "Wonderful. We use a behavior modification program here ourselves, with components not unlike assertive discipline. So, you can make it tomorrow?"

  "I'll be there. What should I bring?"

  "Well, in the event you are selected, I suppose you should be prepared to stay. We're a long way from the nearest convenience store, if you know what I mean. But, really, all you need is your clothing and personal necessities. Food and lodging are provided, of course, as are conveniences such as laundry, entertainment, and healthcare services. You saw on the application what kind of clothing to bring? We do have a dress code here. And the evenings can be quite chilly."

  "Yes, I saw that. It shouldn't be a problem. Anything else I need to know?"


  "You saw the directions and the map? Be prepared for a bit of a drive. We are in a rather isolated locale."

  "I can probably be there by noon," I said.

  "Wonderful. We are so looking forward to the interview, Miss James. Call if you get lost."

  With that, she hung up, leaving me with the feeling that Gracie had been right. People probably weren't beating down the door for interviews. I suspected that anyone who bothered to drive all the way out there would be hired on the spot.

  Packing was a challenge, because the cats decided to leap into the suitcase and duffel bag respectively, roll onto their backs, showing spotted bellies, waiting expectantly for me to tell them that it was all a big mistake — that I wasn't going anywhere. I can lie to people, but cats are another story. I did my best to explain while packing around them. I slipped my .45 between a pair of Levis and a hooded sweatshirt, tucked my cell phone inside a rolled up pair of socks, and wrapped my PowerBook inside a down jacket. I zipped my lock picks in one inside jacket pocket and a roll of duct tape inside the other. I wasn't sure how I was going to hide these items, or if I'd even need to, and there was a good chance I wouldn't use any of them; but nonetheless, I felt better taking them with me.

  Once I managed to zip my bags closed, I called my best friend, Martha Harper, in Kings Harbor.

  "Oh, ho," she crooned. "So the great martyr is alive after all." This was, of course, in reference to my estrangement from Erica Trinidad, which Martha thought was exaggerated sainthood on my part. That I hadn't felt much like socializing since the breakup had Martha worried.

  I laughed. "Alive and even starting to kick a little," I said.

  "Good! It's about time. Tell me you're calling to invite us out for a weekend of great food and wine."

  "Actually, I was wondering if you could look after the cats for a few days. I know it means a drive and a boat ride, but Rick and Towne are in Hawaii, and, well, I hate to ask anyone else." Meaning Erica. Martha knew exactly who I meant.

  "Are you kidding? I'd be happy to. Maybe Tina and I can spend a couple of nights out there. It's been a while since she's been to the lake. Where you going?"

  "Remember Grade Apodaca?"

  "How could I forget? Gracie-the-Wonder-Butch. Isn't that what you called her?"

  "Not to her face."

  Martha chuckled. "So what's up?'

  I told her.

  "Sounds kinda hinky, Cass. But maybe it'll be good for you to get away." Meaning away from Erica, who was presently living two coves away in her lakefront home. She'd been there off and on since we'd broken it off, and even though we'd managed to avoid each other, living in a tiny resort town made it impossible not to be aware of each other's presence. I knew when she was at the library, the hardware store, or a restaurant. When her car wasn't parked at the marina, I couldn't help wondering where she was. As much as I wanted to disagree with Martha, I knew she was right. Erica's presence on the lake was stifling me, even if we never saw each other. Last night's dream was new proof of that.

  Somewhere I'd read that to give yourself to someone once and get burned was a learning experience. To give yourself to the same person a second time, and get burned again, was stupidity. I wasn't sure what doing it a third time would count as, but I wasn't about to find out.

  "You still there?" Martha asked, sounding a little worried.

  "Yeah. But you're absolutely right. I'd do this for Gracie anyway, but part of this is for me."

  "Jeez, Cass. You may actually be going smart on me." Martha laughed that deep, throaty baritone that always reminded me of pancakes with warm syrup, and I found myself relaxing a little.

  "So tell me what the little beasts need, aside from the usual."

  "Just lots of hugs, Mart. I may only be gone a day or two; I'm not sure. I've got to get hired first."

  "Oh, you'll get hired. Knowing you, you'll be running the place in a couple of days. Just promise to be careful."

  I promised and hung up, beginning to look forward to a little adventure, even though that familiar tingle I sometimes got at the base of my spine had suddenly flared up out of nowhere and a brief flicker of the tunnel dream resurfaced, making me uneasy.

  Chapter Three

  Sunday morning, the May rain had turned to drizzle and I was more than a little wet by the time I pulled my boat into its slip at the marina. There were a lot of nice things about living on a lake without road access, but there were times when I'd have welcomed a big dry garage attached to my house instead of a boathouse down on the dock. Still, I wouldn't change the way I lived, I reminded myself as I toted my bags from the boat to my Jeep Cherokee in the marina parking lot. I couldn't help notice that Erica's Miata was gone from its usual space and wondered if she'd left for good, or was just off on some adventure of her own. I willed the thought from my head and tossed my stuff into the back of the Jeep. I shook off the rain and climbed into the Jeep, settling in for the long drive. The sky had begun to lighten, with pinkish orange hues shouldering in on the clouds to the east, but no one in town was out and about yet, as far as I could tell. Just as well, I thought. For some reason, I felt like a bandit making a clean getaway.

  Maybe it was because I was the one leaving town this time. Good ol' stay-put Cassidy who kept falling for the same woman, who kept pulling the same disappearing act every time things got too good. I shook my head, still angry at myself for being such a fool. How could I keep making the same mistake? There was no question that Erica was still as beautiful as the day I'd met her. She was easily the sexiest woman I'd ever known. Strong and sensual, sharp-witted, yet seductively alluring, she kept me on my toes. But it was as if Erica Trinidad felt compelled to sabotage her own well-being. Just when we had reached that point of intimacy when ecstasy blends with contentment, Erica found another reason to bolt. There was always a different reason, but in truth, it was always the same thing. Erica was scared shitless of commitment. Just because I understood it, didn't mean I had to put up with it. Erica was going to have to grow up on her own time. Or someone else's. I'd already given her way too much of mine.

  I gunned the Cherokee and headed north, then east, then followed the road north again, willing my thoughts away from Erica, making myself think over what I knew about Maddie Boone. No matter how much of a bad-ass she'd become, I thought, no kid deserved to be whisked away by strangers in the middle of the night. No wonder she was ticked off! But had she really seen someone murder Miss Sisson? Or was this just a prank to get attention?

  I turned up the volume and listened to Annie Lennox's almost perfect voice. The windows down, I sang along with the CD, letting the miles race past along with the cedar and fir that lined the highway and the wild blackberry bushes that crowded the asphalt wherever the sun managed to break through the evergreens. The farther northeast I traveled, the better the weather seemed to get.

  By the time I reached Portsmith Grove, a tiny, now defunct logging town midway between Portland and Salem, I was feeling decidedly better. The town, or what was left of it, reminded me of dozens like it scattered across the Pacific Northwest. The once thriving timber industry had left a string of dilapidated ghost towns in its dying wake. Once the mills closed, people of working age moved on, leaving the towns to those too old or feeble to work. From the number of now closed bars, diners, and pool halls along Main Street, I could tell that Portsmith Grove had once thrived. There had been a schoolhouse, a post office, a general store, and two hotels. One of the hotels was still operating, though I doubted the No Vacancy sign was needed much. Surprisingly, two of the town's bars had also survived the exodus, and one of them was already open for business, a couple of rusted pickups parked outside.

  At the edge of town, I slowed, checked the map, turned east on a dubiously marked county road, and began to climb. The road snaked upward through a forest thick with fir and cedar. I crested a hill and hit the brakes. For miles, on either side of the road, the beautiful trees had been clear-cut. Ugly patches of stripped land where the loggers h
ad decimated the forest lay before me. I'd seen clear-cut land before, but never so much of it, so suddenly. New growth had poked through the rubble and debris along the forest floor, and I knew that, in another fifty years or so, the trees would be big enough to cut down again. Not much consolation for the deer and bear who'd inhabited the forest, I thought glumly.

  I continued my slow trek, dodging potholes the size of possums every twenty feet or so. The road had not been maintained in years, making driving a challenge. But there was no traffic at all — in fact I hadn't seen another vehicle since leaving Portsmith Grove — and I began to think that there was a fine line between peacefully remote and eerily deserted.

  According to Gracie's directions, Camp Turnaround was fifty miles northeast of Portsmith Grove, away from anything resembling civilization. According to my odometer, I'd gone about half that when the ravaged land was blessedly replaced by healthy forest again, leaving the ugly scars of logging behind. After another fifteen miles of picturesque wilderness, I reached a patch of the old two-lane road that had been recently graded and tarred, a sure sign that I was getting closer.

  Patience is not usually one of my virtues, but this time I didn't mind the slower pace. It gave me time to work on my cover and to work out a plan. If something had happened to Miss Sisson, someone besides Maddie Boone had to know it. Which meant Maddie might be in real danger. If someone was watching Maddie, I'd have to be careful when I talked to her. Either way, I'd find out soon enough. At the top of the next rise, not fifty feet away, I could see a brightly painted wooden sign arched over the road announcing the entrance to Camp Turnaround.

  I'm not sure exactly what I'd expected — perhaps a barbed-wire-enclosed compound with militaristic gendarmes guarding the entrance. Instead I was taken by the unexpected beauty as I rounded the last bend and descended into one of the lushest, greenest valleys I'd ever seen. I slowed to a halt and sat gaping down at the vista. Camp Turnaround lay sprawled before me, nestled in what seemed miles of pristine meadows surrounded by woodlands on three sides, a steep rocky mountainside on the other. No wonder they don't escape, I thought. Who in their right mind would want to leave?