Looking for Yesterday (11 page)

“The Chapel of Our Lady?”

A small, white Civil War–era church tucked into the trees near the center of the former military base. I’d been there for a wedding a few years ago. “I can find it.”

“Be there. Eight thirty. Come alone.”

Jesus, had I suddenly morphed into a character in a forties B minus movie?

“Who is this?” I demanded.

“Somebody who can help you—eight thirty. Be prompt.”

“What’s this about—?” But the person hung up.

Male? Female? I couldn’t tell.

Chapel of Our Lady: unused at this time on a Wednesday night, but not necessarily a dangerous place, due to its proximity to other buildings such as the old Officers’ Club.

An anonymous caller who claimed he could help me? Pretty unlikely.

Come alone? No way.

I should ignore the call. A prank, that was all it was. Maybe.

But how many people had my cellular number? Well, too many. I’d have to consider keeping this one for business and getting another for personal calls.

But for now…

7:55 p.m.

The Presidio of San Francisco has been part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area since 1994, when the army turned it over to the National Park Service. An active military base since 1776, when it was established to defend San Francisco Bay and Mission Dolores, it passed from Spain to Mexico before becoming a United States outpost south of the Golden Gate. The sprawling acres are mostly wooded, with a scattering of former army buildings that are now devoted to a mix of commercial and public use. Its governing body, the Presidio Trust, has been financially independent since 2006—seven years before the act of Congress stipulated it should be.

The views are spectacular, much of the terrain hilly and fragrant with pine and eucalyptus. It is a place to escape the tensions of the real world, relax and contemplate. It is not a place to wander on a dark winter night, and I didn’t intend to stray from my car until my “helpful” caller revealed himself.

Mick—whom I’d brought as backup—and I waited on Moraga Street, within sight of the little chapel. Its white façade gleamed in the outside lights that were focused on it. In spite of the distance I could hear traffic thrumming on the bridge and foghorns bellowing grumpily out to sea. The rain had let up around six o’clock, but the mist was thick. Only one vehicle was parked in the area—a dark van some distance down the block—but there was no one around it.

The absence of people didn’t fool me; I knew that in the thickets homeless encampments abounded, sheltering families who had lost their homes in the latest financial debacle and other dispossessed people from all walks of life, many of whom had jobs but nowhere to live. They arose in the morning, cleaned up in the restrooms, and got on with their lives as best they could. They were the unseen, forgotten remnants of our middle class, which soon, if the economy didn’t turn around, would be wiped out of existence.

The Presidio was also known as the perfect place for criminals to hide. Mass murderers, drug dealers, and fugitives had sheltered there, as many court transcripts attested. I wasn’t about to risk an encounter with any of them.

Beside me, Mick fidgeted. I’d interrupted another of his evenings.

“I know you’re annoyed by getting called out on such short notice,” I said, “but it’s too dangerous for me to come alone.”

“I’m not annoyed with
you
.”

“Well, you seem that way lately.”

He sighed.

“Mick, what’s wrong?”

“What isn’t?”

“Start with the least annoying and progress up the list.”

“One of our neighbors keeps stealing our newspaper.”

“So cancel your subscription and go online or watch TV.”

“Shar, I may be a techie, but I like the feel of newsprint. Besides, you can’t spread out your computer or TV on the kitchen table and dribble jam and spit orange pits on it.”

“Then run a surveillance. Trap him or her. They’ll be so ashamed they’ll never do it again. Next problem.”

“This fuckin’ economy. Alison’s worried about her job.”

“Everybody is, especially in the financial sector.”

“That’s comforting.”

“But,” I said, drawing the word out, “Hy and I have a financial planner who has twice saved our assets—and asses—by astute moves. I know he’d be thrilled to save yours, too. And if a position suitable for Alison turns up, he’ll be sure to put in a good word. I’ll give you his card tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

“Next problem.”

“Both of us hate living in that high-rise, but property like it isn’t selling.”

“Have you put the condo on the market?”

“No.”

“Here’s the name and number of a super real-estate agent whom I went to college with.” I clicked on the address book on my phone and read the information off to him. “She’s the one who represented your dad and Rae when they bought the Sea Cliff place.”

“Thanks again. You’re the greatest.”

No, I wasn’t. Those problems were relatively minor. I said, “You’re welcome. Next problem—and I expect it’s a biggie.”

Long pause. “Okay—Alison. She might be pregnant.”

I caught my breath. In the dark car, I couldn’t see if he was pleased or displeased. “Is that so bad?”

“Shar, you know I love kids, but I’m not ready for that kind of responsibility yet.”

“And Alison?”

“She’s never wanted any—at least none of her own. Apparently there’s some birth defect running through her family.”

“What kind of birth defect?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think she’s even sure. One of those things where the family ships the kid off to some home and then never talks about it.”

I thought of Marissa Warrick, the damage her siblings suffered because of their parents’ inability to acknowledge her death and deal with how it happened. They’d never talked about Marissa again. Alison’s family’s not coming clean about the birth defect was similar.

I said, “Alison should request medical records, find out.”

“I’ve told her that, but she keeps not getting around to it.”

“How far along is she?”

“Nearly two months.”

“Missed periods could be caused by stress about the markets, losing her job.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried to tell her that? All she says is that she’s been regular like clockwork her whole adult life.”

“Has she come to any conclusions about what she’s going to do if she is pregnant?”

“She’s leaning toward abortion.”

“And you?”

“Like I said, I love kids, but this isn’t the time. Besides, it’s her body, her decision.”

“No, it’s both of yours. And I sense you have reservations.”

“Abortion’s such an ugly thing.…”

“Mick, nobody really likes the idea of abortion. Oh, I know there are people who have no qualms about it. But in some cases, it can make or break a woman’s life.”

“Shar, what’re you trying to tell me?”

“Unwanted children sense they are unwanted, no matter how the parents try to mask it. Usually they lead troubled lives.” I thought about Jamie: she’d told me her mother was into having babies in quantity, and her father was into having groupies. She’d sensed that her conception had happened for complicated and less than desirable reasons; fortunately her innate talent seemed to have saved her. But what of the three younger Little Savages? Maybe they’d escaped the toxic environment in Charlene and Ricky’s household in time. They certainly seemed fine, in spite of frequently being shuttled by private jet between home in San Diego and home in San Francisco. But I did sometimes worry about the younger boy, Brian.…

Mick said, “Shar, what’re you
really
trying to tell me? There’s a subtext here that I’m not getting.”

It was a secret I’d held close for many years, since my junior year at UC–Berkeley. Only Hy, Hank, and my long-term friend Linnea Carraway knew. I struggled with the words, but my throat closed up. I shuddered, swallowed.

Finally I said, “I had an abortion. In college.”

“Oh, Shar—”

“It was the result of a one-night stand. A guy from USC that I would’ve never gotten near if I’d been sober—but I wasn’t. And I was only nineteen; I had nothing to offer a child. But I knew if Ma and Pa found out they’d insist I have it and raise it. Catholics, you know.”

“So you…?”

“Yeah. It was a tough decision. I’ve pretty much put it behind me, but sometimes I wonder…”

“About your life? How it’d have been different? What the kid would’ve been like? The burdens it would’ve imposed?”

“All of that. Sometimes I think that I was so selfish.”

“Well, maybe you were, and maybe you did the right thing. Think of all the stuff you’ve done for all the people—”

“That’s no excuse.”

“Not an excuse, but a reason. The tricky questions in life are all about what and who you are—or want to be. Will you talk to Alison, please? Ease her mind?”

“As soon as she’s ready.”

We lapsed into silence. Still no one had approached the church, either on foot or by car; the van remained dark. The chapel gleamed pure and white, the cross at its top drawing my gaze.

Was it reproaching me for my actions during that terrible time in college? No, it was simply an inanimate symbol of something I no longer believed in. Actually, I didn’t have many clear memories of what I’d gone through only a sense of helplessness, a sense of need, and then a sense of relief. I’d pretty much blocked out the incident. Maybe it was time I dealt with it as a grown woman.

My mother’s incessant childbearing—four, and in the middle they’d adopted me. Charlene’s similar pattern. My brother John was a good divorced father to his two boys, but my brother Joey had died a junkie, and my youngest sister Patsy now had five children by four different men.

True, Ma was Catholic and there hadn’t been as many methods of prevention in her day. You couldn’t really blame John’s divorce or Joey’s addictive personality on growing up in a houseful of kids, but I sometimes wondered if Joey, the quiet but rebellious one, had lacked the attention he needed to set him on a less destructive path. And Charlene and Patsy had blindly followed Ma’s example.

I’d never wanted children. It used to embarrass me to admit it; after all, it wasn’t a “natural attitude” for a woman. But then I’d connected with many other women who felt the same way and realized it didn’t make us unwomanly or unfeeling or downright evil. It was mainly that we sensed we wouldn’t be good parents, and that would be unfair to our offspring.

I love kids, young adults even more. And a good thing too, because I have all these young people—both related and not related—who flock around. They aren’t mine, but in some ways they are, and I care for them as I would for my own. It’s been a pleasure watching them grow and change, but without the ultimate responsibility for them.

8:20 p.m.

A car, gray, one of those nondescript models whose shape always makes me call them “sausage cars,” pulled up at the corner of Moraga and stopped. A figure got out and moved into the dark to the west. Looked like a man, but I couldn’t be sure.

Mick said, “I’ll check it out.”

“Stay out of the light. And be careful.”

“Right.”

I switched off the light above the rearview mirror so it wouldn’t go on when he opened the door. He slid from the car and melded into the darkness. I sat, watching and waiting, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, and thinking about that voice on the phone. It had sounded familiar, but I was certain I hadn’t heard it recently. Not in connection with the Warrick case, anyhow.

It wasn’t long before Mick slid back into the car. “Whoever he or she is, I can’t locate them. To the right of the chapel there’s a patch of open space with stained glass windows overlooking it. The back and left side are wooded. That’s where I guess he is. We should call the cops—”

“Not yet.” I opened my door.

Mick grabbed my arm. “Shar, let me go with you. It’s too dangerous alone—” And then he saw the .357 Magnum I’d just removed from my purse.

“I’ll be all right,” I said. “Give me ten minutes. If I’m not back by then—”

“I’ll come running.”

I closed the door with just the slightest click and moved slowly across the intersection. At this time of night, there was little traffic—none at present. It was cold, and fog misted the treetops. Eucalyptus, cypress, and pine trees—many more than a hundred years old—crowded in on my right; their combined pungent smells filled my nostrils. Although I was some distance from the Bay the wind was chill and briny. Again I heard the bellow of the foghorns. Lights winked here and there from what I knew were pale stucco houses with red-tiled roofs, but they were screened by the trees and dimmed by the mist.

In spite of my brave words to Mick and the comfort of the .357, experience had taught me that many of these nighttime meetings ended up in firefights and fatalities. I had no idea who this person was or why he had summoned me here.

At the other side of the road I paused, avoiding the lighted front of the chapel, and listened. Heard nothing.

Okay, which was the best approach? On the side with the open space and stained glass windows, I’d make an easy target. Of course, so would he. If I moved close to the shrubbery he might try to jump me. And he might be armed—a flashlight, a gun, God knew what else.

So confuse him.

I continued along the road to the left, moving away from the chapel lights’ glow. After about a hundred yards, I found a break in the shrubbery and slipped through. The small sounds I made sounded glaringly loud to me. I stopped to listen, but heard nothing but the wind.

When I reached the back of the chapel, the terrain there wasn’t as overgrown as I’d thought it would be. Cautiously I moved forward, slipping my flashlight from my left-hand pocket. Stiffened when a dark shape crouched beside the chapel wall materialized ahead of me.

My foot slipped on the needle-covered ground, and before I could surprise him, the noise alerted him. He whirled, straightened, and rushed at me. I had a swift impression of a Giants baseball cap, a beard, a blue-and-yellow athletic jacket, as I dodged to one side.

He staggered past me, then righted himself and came at me again. But he tripped over something and went down in a forward sprawl. By the time he pushed up, I had the flashlight as well as the .357 trained on him.