Traffic was light once we got across the Golden Gate Bridge; the thirty-mile ride to Novato in northern Marin, where we turned off, took not much more than half an hour. The sun was out for the first time in more than a week, with just a few streaky clouds and a light breeze. Nice day for a drive under different circumstances. Chavez is that rarity, a genuinely happy man, but he didn’t have much to say today; he was still upset at himself for losing the McManus tail yesterday. I didn’t feel much like conversation, either. We’d done all the talking necessary when I phoned him the night before to set this up.
One of my recent birthday presents from Kerry was a GPS unit—part of her ongoing and none-too-subtle efforts to drag me deeper into the techno age. I hadn’t used the GPS much—I can’t get used to the idea of a disembodied voice telling me to turn left, turn right, go straight for x number of miles as if I were a dunce who couldn’t figure out the simple basics of getting from point A to point B. But I had to admit that the thing came in handy once you were off the beaten track and hunting a rural address in unfamiliar territory.
The Chileno Valley was several miles west and north of Novato, long and narrow and running through both Marin and Sonoma counties. Undeveloped countryside, of the sort that surprises visitors from other parts of the country who think California is all sprawling cities and suburbs, congested freeways, surfing beaches, wineries and vineyards, and tall mountains. A vast percentage of the state is still open space: desert, forests, farmland, pastureland, rolling hills and valleys that extend for miles. This valley was hemmed in by rounded winter green hills, some bare sided, others coated with live oaks and madrone. Long stands of eucalyptus bordered sections of the winding two-lane road that ran through it. Dairy cattle and occasional horses grazed in meadows and hollows. Farms and small ranches dotted the area, but they were few and generally far between.
The GPS gadget took us to the general vicinity of the number we were looking for, 8790, but neither Chavez nor I spotted it on the first pass. I had to turn around at the next address to the north, drive back at a reduced speed. No wonder we’d missed it: rusted tubular metal gate closed across a barely discernible dirt track, the number hand-painted on a drunken-leaning square of wood wired to the gate and so faded you couldn’t read it clearly from more than a few feet away. The track snaked around a small tangled copse of oak, madrone, and pepper trees and disappeared through a declivity where a pair of hillsides folded down close together. According to the property records Tamara had checked, there were three buildings on Rose O’Day’s thirty acres, but none of them was visible from anywhere on Chileno Valley Road.
Chavez said, “What now?”
“We’ll have to go in, at least far enough to get a look at the place.”
“On foot?”
“On foot.”
“Okay with me.” He flashed one of his infectious grins. “Be the first time I’ve trespassed on private property since I left the Imperial sheriff’s department.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
I pulled ahead a hundred yards or so, to where the road curved to the left and there was a wide spot next to a small creek. Safe enough place to leave the car; there was little traffic on the road this morning and nobody passing by was likely to wonder why it was parked there.
Before we got out I reached into the backseat for the pair of Zeiss field glasses I’d moved in from the trunk earlier. Then I unclipped the emergency .38 Colt Bodyguard I keep under the dash, flipped the gate open to check the loads, put a cartridge under the hammer, and slid the piece into my jacket pocket. Chavez was armed as well; I’d asked him to bring his weapon. Technically we had no right to take handguns onto private property, but there was no way either of us was going into unfamiliar territory on business like this without protection. McManus and Carson were reason enough, if they were here and if we were right about them, but it was that yellow-eyed Rottweiler that worried me the most.
We walked back along the road to the gate. The morning was cold, windless, but there were breaks in the cloud cover that indicated a partial clearing later on. It was as if we had this part of the valley to ourselves—quiet except for birdsong, no cars passing, not even a cow in sight. A rusted chain and padlock held the gate fastened to a stanchion. I lifted the lock to peer at the key slot on its bottom.
“Scratches,” I said. “Fairly fresh.”
“So they’re here.”
“Or been and gone. We’ll take it slow and careful.”
A sagging barbed-wire fence stretched away on both sides of the gate, so we had to climb over. Chavez is short and stocky and looks plodding, but he moves with a smooth muscular agility when he needs to; he went up on one of the rails and over and down all in one motion. It took a little more effort for me to get up astride the top bar, but I scrambled down quick when I heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. We ducked in among the spicy-scented pepper trees before it came into sight. Pickup towing a horse trailer. The driver didn’t even glance in our direction as he clattered by.