I get back into the car, swing around, and head back toward the highway.
A half-dozen ideas on how I might get into the place flicker through my mind – disabling the guard, climbing the metal fence, renting a small boat and arriving by sea, cutting through the barbed wire, posing as a delivery person – but I reject each one after a few seconds of contemplation.
They share the same risk. What if I get caught? If the perimeter of Mystère is this well defended, I’m sure that there are interior defenses. And the house – with my kids isolated somewhere within it? The house will be a fortress.
If I go in now and I get caught, I don’t think Boudreaux would hesitate to kill me. He’d tuck me away somewhere until the performance was over, and then I’d be disposed of, along with the bodies of my sons. Somewhere far from here, would be my guess. Maybe just dumped at sea.
I’ve gone past the gates and guardhouse and I’m rounding a curve when a squad car comes into sight. I assume it’s simply on patrol until suddenly it lights up like a Christmas tree, then swerves to block my way.
I wait, in my seat, a good citizen. I remind myself to take a deep breath. I used to get mouthy with cops who stopped me for speeding. But after a decade or so of going in and out of combat zones, I’ve learned to curb my issues with authority. Sometimes the baby soldiers at checkpoints are so nervous, stoned, or indifferent to the lives of others that almost anything could provoke a hail of gunfire.
I reach into my back pocket, extract my license, open the glove compartment, and take out the rental papers. It seems to take a long time for the cop to get out of his car. Then he taps on my window. I roll it down. I see he’s young, early twenties. Bad skin and one of those trooper hats with the brim.
“What’s this about?”
“License and registration,” he says.
One of those. I sigh, hand them over. He scrutinizes the documents, then heads back to his patrol car. He’s in there for a long time, maybe ten minutes, before he saunters back. He returns my documents. “What’s your business here, sir?”
“I took a wrong turn.”
“You ‘took a wrong turn.’” He looks at me. “Hunh.”
I try to keep myself from jabbering. Less is definitely more in a conversation like this. The kid has the gift of patience though, and I can’t keep my mouth shut. “I was just trying to get a look at the ocean,” I say. “I guess it’s not the best time for sightseeing. Night. Where is the road to the public beach, anyway? Isn’t it around here somewhere?”
He cocks his head. “You staying around here?”
“Breakers Inn,” I tell him, happy to answer this question. It’s an upscale place, the kind of spot an upright citizen stays in.
He nods. “You know why I stopped you?”
I shake my head.
“Down to Mystère [he pronounces it Mister], they called in a complaint. Car cruising by real slow. I’m thinking a poacher or maybe some guy casing the place for a burglary.”
“No,” I say, with a smile. “Just a tourist.” I reach back for my seat belt, start to pull it across my chest.
“Step out of the car, sir,” he says.
“What?”
“You can see the ocean just fine from the Breakers Inn.”
“But you can’t walk on the beach,” I protest. “That’s all I wanted to do. Come on, I-”
“Something’s not right here,” he says in a staccato voice. “Step out of the car.”
I do. He tells me to put the palms of my hands on the hood. He frisks me. He tells me to maintain the position while he calls “backup.”
Twenty minutes later, a second squad car arrives, lights blazing. There’s a brief conversation – the upshot of which is that the two troopers concur they have probable cause to search my car. They snap plastic cuffs on me as “a precaution.”
In the forty seconds between when they begin to search the rental car and the moment they find the gun, I fight the temptation to jump out of the squad car and run. I force myself to think of the boys. I can’t help them if I get shot in the back, which is the likely outcome of jumping out of the squad car. How could I let this happen? I could shoot myself for driving around with the gun on me. What was I thinking? What do you get for illegal possession of a firearm? What are the gun laws like here in California?
Two and a half hours later, at 2:04 P.M., I’ve been processed. I’m in orange coveralls, in the temporary lockup in Santa Rosa, which is the county seat of Sonoma County. I’ve been read my rights. I will be charged with illegal possession of a firearm. The gun itself is the subject of a separate inquiry. I only hope it wasn’t used to murder anyone.
I agonized over who to call, but eventually decided on my father. Even though I woke him up and he sounded terrified, I knew he’d find me a good lawyer.
“Dad?”
“What, Alex?”
“I’m in a hurry. There’s not much time.”
“What do you mean?” my father asks, his voice full of fear. But then he withdraws the question. “Never mind. What do you need?”
The night goes on and on and on. At first, all I can think about is how many ways things can go wrong, how the remaining time can drain away. I believe, from what I read about the rope trick, that the performance will occur in the early morning of August 10, before the fog burns off. It’s August 9. When is court in session? Nine, I’d guess. When will my case be called? Who knows?
I pace. I can’t sit still. When the audience is seated and ready for the performance of the legendary rope trick, when one of my boys joins Byron Boudreaux on stage as his assistant (the other already hidden until the moment of his triumphal emergence), will I still be here, pinned down in the Sonoma County jail?
And even if the lawyer does show and succeeds in springing me, how will I get into Mystère?
CHAPTER 46
The lawyer shakes his head. “You picked the wrong county for this,” he tells me. “This is Yupville with some hard edges, and we like to keep those elements under control. What I’m saying is that your north coast yuppies really frown on guns. It’s gonna cost your dad a bundle to spring you.”
“But you do think they’ll set bail?”
“Oh, yeah. Unless Judge Upshaw had a real bad night. I mean, it’s your first offense. Your friends came to bat for you – had to get ’em up in the middle of the night, but I rounded up some testimonials. And let’s face it, your personal situation works for you. Someone abducted my kids? I’d probably be strapped, too. Question is – why didn’t you do it legal?”
I just shake my head.
“The only loose cannon is that gun. You bought it in a park, from an illegal immigrant?” He narrows his eyes and winces. “Who knows?”
At ten-fifteen, I’m arraigned.
“Your Honor, I think that the state would be safe if Mr. Callahan were to be released on his own recognizance.”
“Our notions of security differ, Mr. Doncaster. As Mr. Juarez” – he indicates the assistant district attorney – “has pointed out, Mr. Callahan has no ties to the community. No job, no local contacts. As such, there’s an implicit risk of flight.”
“But this would be a first offence. Otherwise, Mr. Callahan is an upstanding citizen. And Your Honor must take into account his recent suffering. Counseling about the proper channels for his understandable grief and anger might be an appropriate response-”