There were handheld GPS units out in the garage.
“You’re out hiking, you can’t count on your phone.” She remembered Danny telling her that. “They’re not as accurate as one of these, and the battery life sucks.” He had them for his volunteer firefighting and for backup on the Caravan. That one was probably gone, seized along with the plane. But the unit he took when he was out fighting fires, and the one he’d given to her, the extra stashed in the earthquake kit, those were still out in the garage.
Maybe they hadn’t been hacked.
Danny, bless him, had included the manual with the unit in the earthquake kit, with plenty of extra batteries. She grabbed a pack and went into the house to the kitchen. Poured herself another cup of coffee and sat down at the butcher-block island.
She skimmed through the manual and found the section she needed.
Press mark for your current location. Your current position will appear in the latitude/longitude window. Press enter and then enter your desired coordinates. Name your waypoint and hit enter again to save.
She didn’t recognize the map that came up at first. A topographical map with a lot of green that she assumed meant forest. Then she saw the street name near the bottom of the screen: Fickle Hill Road.
The coordinates lead to a location in the Arcata Community Forest, not more than two miles from here.
All she had to do was press go to to lead herself there.
It was 2:45 p.m. The meeting at Evergreen was at 4 p.m. Did that leave enough time to get to the location, dig a foot-deep hole, retrieve whatever was there?
What if someone saw her? Would it be better to wait until later, after dark?
But if Gary was tracking her, maybe the only advantage she had was moving quickly.
Maybe not even that.
Shit, and her car. It had just been sitting here in the garage for the past few weeks. If he wanted to plant some kind of tracker in it, god knows he’d had plenty of time and opportunity.
How to get there?
Not the rental car, all those had GPS trackers in them, and she couldn’t risk it.
Her mountain bike.
She rode down one of the trails in the Arcata Community Forest, following the directions on her GPS unit, her Emily phone in the signal-blocking bag so she could call Evergreen in case she was running late, the handle of a short shovel sticking out of a GORUCK backpack that was one of Danny’s favorites.
She also wore a fanny pack with a hidden holster, her.38 tucked inside.
Sunday afternoon, and there were people here, walking or jogging on the trails, riding horses and mountain bikes. Not huge crowds, but she couldn’t count on privacy, either. It was a nice day, mid-sixties, light slanting through the tall, straight redwoods, which absurdly reminded her of telephone poles with Christmas trees stuck on top, the scent of pine and the hint of fog to come infusing the air.
By now she’d turned off a multi-use paved road and onto a trail, roughly in the middle of the over 2,000-acre forest. She passed two hikers and a couple pushing a baby carriage with oversized wheels that looked like a tiny dune buggy. She was getting close.
Up ahead was a small bridge that spanned a creek.
That had to be it.
About two feet from the north side of the bridge was an older redwood.
She got off her bike and wheeled it over, leaning it against the tree.
The leafy green ground cover around the tree-ferns and sorrel, she thought-looked thin compared to the others. There was a patch of nearly bare soil covered over with pine needles beneath the tree, between the tree and the bridge.
She got out the shovel, swept the pine needles aside and started digging.
Chapter Nineteen
“You geocaching?”
“What?”
Michelle had seen the hiker coming: a college-aged kid with a rainbow bandana tied pirate-style over his head, leading a mid-sized mutt on a leash. She’d also smelled the weed he was smoking. She’d put the shovel aside, leaning it against the tree, and rested her hand on the fanny pack with the.38.
“Geocaching. Is that a cache?” He was a skinny white kid, not that tall, wearing a worn long-sleeved T-shirt and Patagonia vest.
“I… haven’t quite gotten there yet.”
He peered into the hole. “I didn’t think they usually buried them like that.”
“It’s… actually a scavenger hunt.”
“Oh. Cool.”
His dog, which looked like a cross between a beagle and an Australian shepherd, nosed at the pile of dirt and needles she’d dug up.
He held out the joint he’d been smoking. “You want a hit?”
“Thanks, but no. I have to work later.”
He took another draw, nodding, stubbed the joint out on the sole of his shoe and tucked it in his shirt pocket. Crouched down and gave his dog a two-handed scratch behind the ears.
Now what? Michelle thought. He seemed harmless, but he didn’t seem to be going anywhere, either.
“Well, I have a deadline,” she said. “So I better keep digging.”
“Cool.”
She picked up the shovel. He stood there, watching her.
Christ. If someone like Carlene could be one of Gary’s people, who’s to say this kid wasn’t?
Just dig, she told herself. If he tries anything, hit him with the shovel. But she didn’t think he was going to try anything. He was just hanging out, watching her dig, and he seemed extremely stoned.
Her shovel hit something solid. A tree root?
No. Something metal.
A steel box in military gray-green, about ten inches long and seven inches high. She grabbed the handle on the top and tugged.
“Need a hand?”
She forced a smile. “That’s okay. I’ve got it.”
He crouched down on his haunches, his dog sniffing at the dirt.
“Oh wow. It’s an ammo box.”
Michelle brushed it off. Whatever was in there shifted with a soft thud-a solid weight, but not too heavy. She unzipped her pack and put it inside.
“You aren’t going to open it?”
“No, it’s part of the game,” she said. “We have to bring what we find to the party, and we’ll open it there.”
“Oh.” He seemed disappointed, a kid who wanted to know what the present was. “Well, have fun with that.”
“I will. Nice meeting you!” she added. She used the shovel blade to push dirt back into the hole, quickly as she could, glancing over her shoulder at the hiker as he ambled down the trail, his dog pausing to sniff at a fallen branch.
“I’m not trying to ‘stifle your creativity’!” Helen made finger quotes, the rising red on her cheeks making the freckles stand out. “I’m just saying that all that fancy shit doesn’t sell here!”
“Bullshit. You’re not even trying to sell it!” Joseph’s face was even redder, but then, he was a redhead.
It was feeling very cramped in her little office.
Guillermo, the line cook, leaned back in his chair and sighed. She’d included Guillermo because if Joseph walked, he was the one who’d be taking over.
Michelle lifted her hands. “Guys… None of us has time for this.”
She hadn’t even had a chance to open Danny’s box yet.
“Okay,” she said. “Joseph, this isn’t El Bulli or Moto. You can’t go crazy with experiments. Our customers want high quality, locally sourced food with seasonal ingredients at a reasonable price point-”
“You’re not giving people here enough credit. They just need some education-”
She raised her hand with more force. “I’m not finished. You want to do one special a night that’s as complicated and wild as you want to make it, go for it.” She turned to Helen. “And I want you to sell it hard. We’ll offer half-price on an appropriate wine pairing. Nice bottles. Call it ‘Chef’s Adventure.’ We’ll see how it goes.”