spreading over the lagoon.
“This is it. Let me out.”
“Hang on. Let’s see if we see him.”
I reached for my phone. Before I could peer through the contacts list, John recited Guthrie’s number. “Amazing.” I dialed. He lowered the windows, but there was no ringing, only icy gusts. “Maybe he’s got his phone turned off.”
“So it doesn’t disturb the people across the street inside their houses? Dream on.”
“Hell, just let me out! We’ve gone the length of the park. I’ll start back on the path here and meet you back at the far corner.”
“We’ll drive back. If he doesn’t show, then we get out.”
I nodded, though, of course my brother didn’t see me. Out the window, I knew, was the lagoon with its demonstration-worthy fowl tucked sleeping among the grasses at the scalloped edges of the water. Bushes sprouted around the building and the water. Trees overhung. A walkway followed the water’s edge. Not a place where noise carries.
John slowed. “You hear anything?”
“Zip.” Still, Guthrie couldn’t miss our car.
“This guy . . . How do you know—”
“If he’s reliable?”
“If he’s anything.”
“If he wasn’t reliable, he wouldn’t have work. Movie companies don’t waste money on stunt doubles who oversleep.” Guthrie’d always been dependable. Except yesterday. Except now. “Let me out!”
“Wait, I’m turning around.” He hung a U, his headlights shining off the cars parked beside the park, showing the white of the fire hydrant, the chrome of a car on the grass.
I was out in an instant, staring at the black sports car on the grass that had to be Guthrie’s.
“On the grass!” John came up behind me. “Does he park on his own lawn? But, of course, you don’t know.” He shone a flashlight onto the dashboard, the floor, the wet seats. “Looks like he got out and closed the door. What kind of guy doesn’t bother to put up the top in this kind of weather?”
“Give him a fucking break, will you? It’s six in the morning. Maybe he didn’t stop to make himself more comfortable so he didn’t hold us up. Did you even consider that?” Before he could retort, I yelled, “Guthrie! Guthrie!” I strained to hear his voice, his shoes slapping the macadam. Silence. “I’ll go this way”—I motioned north toward the Golden Gate—“you go around the corner and on.”
“6:10. Meet back here by 6:30 no matter what.”
I started off, but he grabbed my arm. “No matter what. Agreed?”
Where could he be? This was crazy.
“Darcy, you know he could just be in the bushes taking a leak.”
“Sure. You have another flashlight?”
He gave me his. I didn’t wait to see if he had a spare. I ran down the sidewalk by the street. “Guthrie?” I stopped, straining to hear any kind of response, then ran on another twenty yards and called again. It wasn’t night any more; the world was a dirty gray. At this hour on a Monday morning, cars would be pouring in from Marin County to the north, flowing along Doyle Drive onto Marina Boulevard fifty yards beyond the park. But right now there was no rumble of trucks, no sounds of brakes or horns. Across the street no lights shone from houses, no cars pulled out of drive-ways or away from the curb. And no one walked, ran, or called out from the park.
I started back, this time cutting across the grass to take the path next to the lagoon. “Guthrie!”
Water lapped softly, stirred by the wind. I thought I heard ducks or swans fluttering in their nests, but it might have just been the water. I aimed the light under the bushes. No birds and definitely no Guthrie. Where was he? I checked my phone again, even though it had been on since the last time I looked at it. “Guthrie!”
Had he had a heart attack? He was too healthy. But seemingly healthy people drop dead. The stress? Was he lying there collapsed on the grass? I arced the beam low across the lawn. Or worse, could he have fallen in the water? That was absurd,
“This is it. Let me out.”
“Hang on. Let’s see if we see him.”
I reached for my phone. Before I could peer through the contacts list, John recited Guthrie’s number. “Amazing.” I dialed. He lowered the windows, but there was no ringing, only icy gusts. “Maybe he’s got his phone turned off.”
“So it doesn’t disturb the people across the street inside their houses? Dream on.”
“Hell, just let me out! We’ve gone the length of the park. I’ll start back on the path here and meet you back at the far corner.”
“We’ll drive back. If he doesn’t show, then we get out.”
I nodded, though, of course my brother didn’t see me. Out the window, I knew, was the lagoon with its demonstration-worthy fowl tucked sleeping among the grasses at the scalloped edges of the water. Bushes sprouted around the building and the water. Trees overhung. A walkway followed the water’s edge. Not a place where noise carries.
John slowed. “You hear anything?”
“Zip.” Still, Guthrie couldn’t miss our car.
“This guy . . . How do you know—”
“If he’s reliable?”
“If he’s anything.”
“If he wasn’t reliable, he wouldn’t have work. Movie companies don’t waste money on stunt doubles who oversleep.” Guthrie’d always been dependable. Except yesterday. Except now. “Let me out!”
“Wait, I’m turning around.” He hung a U, his headlights shining off the cars parked beside the park, showing the white of the fire hydrant, the chrome of a car on the grass.
I was out in an instant, staring at the black sports car on the grass that had to be Guthrie’s.
“On the grass!” John came up behind me. “Does he park on his own lawn? But, of course, you don’t know.” He shone a flashlight onto the dashboard, the floor, the wet seats. “Looks like he got out and closed the door. What kind of guy doesn’t bother to put up the top in this kind of weather?”
“Give him a fucking break, will you? It’s six in the morning. Maybe he didn’t stop to make himself more comfortable so he didn’t hold us up. Did you even consider that?” Before he could retort, I yelled, “Guthrie! Guthrie!” I strained to hear his voice, his shoes slapping the macadam. Silence. “I’ll go this way”—I motioned north toward the Golden Gate—“you go around the corner and on.”
“6:10. Meet back here by 6:30 no matter what.”
I started off, but he grabbed my arm. “No matter what. Agreed?”
Where could he be? This was crazy.
“Darcy, you know he could just be in the bushes taking a leak.”
“Sure. You have another flashlight?”
He gave me his. I didn’t wait to see if he had a spare. I ran down the sidewalk by the street. “Guthrie?” I stopped, straining to hear any kind of response, then ran on another twenty yards and called again. It wasn’t night any more; the world was a dirty gray. At this hour on a Monday morning, cars would be pouring in from Marin County to the north, flowing along Doyle Drive onto Marina Boulevard fifty yards beyond the park. But right now there was no rumble of trucks, no sounds of brakes or horns. Across the street no lights shone from houses, no cars pulled out of drive-ways or away from the curb. And no one walked, ran, or called out from the park.
I started back, this time cutting across the grass to take the path next to the lagoon. “Guthrie!”
Water lapped softly, stirred by the wind. I thought I heard ducks or swans fluttering in their nests, but it might have just been the water. I aimed the light under the bushes. No birds and definitely no Guthrie. Where was he? I checked my phone again, even though it had been on since the last time I looked at it. “Guthrie!”
Had he had a heart attack? He was too healthy. But seemingly healthy people drop dead. The stress? Was he lying there collapsed on the grass? I arced the beam low across the lawn. Or worse, could he have fallen in the water? That was absurd,
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