Exposure (26 page)

“I suppose not, no,” said Helene. It seemed like a rather slender reliability report to offer to Hank, even if Wally had ever thought to mention it to him – which seemed extremely unlikely. But beggars can’t be choosers. Especially not desperate beggars who were being hounded across three continents at the last count.

Helene couldn’t think of another question and Charlie had remained largely silent. So that was it; Barbara had given them as much as she could. Which wasn’t much at all.

“Will you… will you come back and see me?” whispered Barbara.

“We’ll try,” he said, his smile fading. “We’ll try.”

Barbara nodded her head slowly, her sad mouth twisting further downwards. She’d probably heard a lot of people say they would try to help her. She stepped backwards into the house and was about to lock the door when she turned and said,

“You know: I’ve got used to living like this. It’s only been three years but sometimes it seems like it’s always been this way. Sometimes I think I could live like this for a hundred years – but it’s the hope that kills me.”

Without another word or a backward glance, Barbara locked the door and Helene heard the deadbolts shooting back into place.

Helene felt very, very angry. People’s lives were being ruined by a government that was supposed to care about them. It was sick. And she was going to do her damndest to stop it. The tiny patch of garden felt contaminated and Helene wanted to get the hell out of there. But first Charlie had to spend several precious minutes resetting the laser alarm before they could move on.

They made the exhausting climb up the escarpment in silence and Helene didn’t even bother to swear when it started to rain, making the ascent even more hazardous. Time and time again, her nails were torn and bleeding from slipping on the loose scree, and even Charlie was beginning to tire as he pulled her up yet again as she fell to her hands and knees yet again. The rest of the climb was a nightmare of burning muscles and grazed palms and Helene was too tired to speak.

Forty minutes later she collapsed gratefully into the car, dozing, headlights in the road a mere memory as Charlie drove her back to the Wigwam Motel.

At least they had one more sliver of information: they knew how to find one of the Gene Genies.

Chapter 18

Helene had wanted to check out of the Wigwam Motel straight away but Charlie vetoed the suggestion.

“We don’t want to go off half-cocked,” he said. “Besides, I need to sleep and you’ve looked better. It’ll take us five or six hours to drive over to Carmel. If we leave after breakfast we’ll arrive mid-afternoon. That’ll give us time to scope out the place and find out a bit more about Hank Wolford.”

Helene was exhausted but wired. She tried to relax by filling the bath with the hottest water she could stand and soaking in it, but instead of it making her feel sleepy, she felt like she’d had a shot of pure adrenaline and was wide awake. She tiptoed round the living room, listening to the soft, throaty breathing of Charlie in sleep. She would have liked to peep through the door of his room that he’d left ajar, and watch the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, but she was afraid he’d wake up to find her standing over him like some creepy voyeur.

Instead, she typed up the most recent events into the notes on the computer and spent a couple of hours searching for information on Howlin’ Hank Wolford and possible variations on the spelling. It turned out that Barbara was right in one important respect: Hank was a regular at the Hog’s Breath open mike night – and there was a session due in two days’ time. If they couldn’t find him before then, at least they had a shot of tracking him down.

She used all the techniques he’d shown her for tracking down a person: taxes, bank accounts, parking fines, welfare cheques – anything and everything she could think of to find a person online. But Howlin’ Hank was a ghost. If it weren’t for his love of the guitar, he’d have been impossible to find. She supposed it wasn’t so surprising – he was one of the Gene Genies after all, and he’d know how to hide a trail.

There was, however, a Dolly Wolford living in Carmel. A sister, maybe? A wife? Maybe a mother or a daughter. Helene trawled birth certificates and marriage certificates but came up with zero. She tried under Dorothy, too, but still nothing. If the woman was related to Howlin’ Hank, it was impossible to prove online. Even so, Helene made a note of the address. Being a journalist was a lot like being a detective: you never knew what was going to be a clue and what was going to be a red herring. Information was kept until you knew which category it fell into.

Eventually, with no more useful jobs to do, she lay on her bed, willing herself to sleep. But the bastard mistress Sleep was playing away: instead Helene spent the night wrestling with the covers and lying in a knot of sheets, eyeballs as dry as Injun country.

Light was creeping through the thin curtains when Helene gave it up as a bad job and left the wreck of her bed. A quick, chilly shower revitalised her more than hours of thrashing about failing to rest.

She toasted half the loaf bought as supplies, and started frying bacon. After a short time she heard the sounds of life from Charlie’s room and soon he stumbled into the kitchen, hair on end and eyes sleepy. Who needed an alarm clock when frying bacon did the job so much more congenially?

Helene couldn’t help smiling: he looked so young and vulnerable, even though she knew both were an illusion.

“Blimey,” he said, happily. “Bacon sandwiches! I could get used to waking up to those every morning.”

“Nah,” said Helene. “Think of your cholesterol levels in ten years’ time.”

“I’d rather not,” he said. Then he looked at her speculatively. “Perhaps I need a good woman to look after me.”

“I rather suspect,” said Helene archly, “that you’d prefer a bad one.”

He smiled enigmatically and contented himself with chewing his way through an obscenely large plateful of food.

“Haute cuisine,” he said at last, leaning back in his chair and stretching his hands behind his head.

“I’m not just a pretty face,” she replied.

“I never doubted that,” said Charlie, almost seriously.

Helene turned away, the dirty dishes providing her with an excuse to lean over the sink. When she felt in control of her voice again, she told him what she’d learned during her night of wakefulness.

“I can’t help thinking that Dolly Wolford must be connected to Hank Wolford,” said Helene. “It’s such an unusual surname.”

“It’s certainly worth a try,” he agreed. “Let’s give Ms Wolford a call, after we’ve visited the Hog’s Breath Inn.”

They had a plan. Sort of.

It took only minutes to pack up and sign out of the Wigwam Motel. Helene felt almost sorry to be saying goodbye to the jaunty lodges. It had been rather fun waiting for John Wayne to wander in, pretend to speak Sioux or Cheyenne. Helene had always suspected that the real life Native Americans must have played a few practical jokes in those films from the fifties and sixties: instead of saying something serious like, ‘Whiteman speak with forked tongue,’ they were probably saying, ‘Whiteman is an asshole with hot air shooting out of his exhaust’. She’d have to take the trouble to find out some day.

They drove west, the sun already well overhead, skirted Los Angeles, a smudge of dirt on the horizon, and drove north up Interstate Five, a road running parallel to the Pacific Ocean from Mexico to Canada.

They stopped at a roadside Taco Bell half way into their journey and Helene watched in amusement as Charlie loaded up with more calories: a thick tortilla called a chalupa, chilli beef and a smattering of salad. She made do with a limeade sparkler: lemon and lime soda poured over ice.

Finally they turned west again and made their way into downtown Carmel. It was the most un-American town Helene had ever seen: it was more like a sort of Hispanic Poundbury-on-Sea. There was even a thatched cottage selling sweets. Helene wondered if they’d wandered onto some giant movie set by mistake.

But the SatNav showed they were bang on target and directed them to the Hog’s Breath Inn. They managed to find a parking space not too far away; Charlie insisted that transportation shouldn’t be too far away should a quick getaway be required.

The Hog’s Breath Inn was built partly of red brick and partly of whitewashed adobe construction, with several buildings arranged around a pretty courtyard, a huge chimenea at the centre.

They took a seat at the bar and Helene picked up the menu. It was vaguely Tex Mex with an emphasis on meat. Charlie browsed the menu over her shoulder but suddenly his hand shot out and grabbed it from her.

“Wow!” he said. “Look at this: You can have a Dirty Harry Burger and a Dirty Harry Dinner… this is Clint Eastwood’s place – I’ve read about it!”

“Yes, I know,” said Helene calmly. “Can I have the menu back now, please?”

“But this is immense!” he said. “I mean, Clint really comes here… the man’s a legend. We could see him any moment!”

“I doubt it,” said Helene, amused by Charlie’s puppy-like enthusiasm. “He probably hires people so he doesn’t have to come in.”

“Let me dream, Helene,” he said crossly, frowning at her. “Clint was my hero when I was a kid: he was just the coolest – ‘I know what you’re thinking: Did he fire six shots or only five? Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kinda lost track myself. But being as this is a 44 calibre Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you’ve got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?’ I mean, the man’s a genius!”

Helene laughed out loud.

“This makes it all worthwhile,” she said smiling. “I think you should have the Dirty Harry Dinner in honour of the occasion.”

Charlie leaned over and kissed her cheek and Helene laughed again.

She ordered herself the seared tuna with pineapple, ginger and coconut wasabi, then watched while Charlie chewed his way through sirloin, wild mushrooms, horseradish and roasted garlic mashed potatoes. She wondered if they sold Benecol in America.

Much to Charlie’s great disappointment, Dirty Harry seemed to have the afternoon off. After hanging around longer than necessary, he reluctantly agreed it was time to leave. Instead they walked back to the car and re-set the SatNav to take them to Dolly Wolford’s place, a few miles out of town. Helene promised that they’d try for Dirty Harry again if they had the chance. It was a bit like promising Barbara Manfred that they’d try to come back and see her – one of those empty promises that are made so easily and mean nothing.

Even with electronic guidance and satellite technology, it wasn’t easy to find the right address for Dolly Wolford, but eventually they drove past an unmade road with a battered looking mailbox hanging forlornly from a post.

“That’s it,” said Helene.

“Yep, looks like,” agreed Charlie and reversed the car to re-take the turning.

“Do you think we should go in on foot?” said Helene.

“No,” he said. “Probably best if she hears us coming. We don’t want to scare her.”

When they reached the end of the lane, ‘shack’ seemed too grand a word for the building in front of them. A motley collection of tired wooden planks seemed to stand upright without any visible means of support. The broken windows had been stuffed with newspaper and mended, at least for now, with duct tape.

Helene was afraid to knock on the door in case it fell off its rusting hinges.

“Bloody hell,” said Charlie. “Do you think anyone lives here? This place gives me the creeps: it’s all a bit too much ‘Duelling Banjos’ for my taste.”

Helene had to agree: there was something of the whiff of Appalachian hillbilly about it. If she’d been by herself there’s no way she would have entered. The fact that she was prepared to go in reminded her of how dependent she’d become on Charlie. She wasn’t sure she liked the change.

Helene knocked tentatively and called out at the same time.

“Miss Wolford! Hello?”

“I’m right behind you,” said Charlie. “But if a pack of cross-eyed in-breeds answers the door, let’s get the hell out of here.”

He probably wasn’t joking.

Helene knocked again and after a long silence, they heard the sound of heavy footsteps.

“Whaddya want?” shouted a deep voice.

“Oh, hi!” said Helene, trying to sound chirpy, but not salesman chirpy. “My name’s Helene and this is Charlie and we’re looking for Howlin’… er… for Hank Wolford. You’re the only ‘Wolford’ in the phone book and we wondered if you were related – and if you are, where we could we find him.”

“Who sent ya?” growled the voice.

“Barbara Manfred,” said Helene clearly.

There was a long pause.

“Yer a liar!” barked the voice, sounding nearer now, and very angry.

“No, really,” said Helene desperately looking at Charlie for help. “We saw her less than 24 hours ago. She was in rather a bad way. We’re trying to help her: her and her dad. ‘Wolford’ was the only name she could give us.”

“Prove it!” the voice snarled.

“Um… does Matthew Hopkins and the ‘Malleus Maleficarum’ mean anything to you?”

Helene felt ridiculous saying it but maybe it would work better than ‘Abracadabra’.

Slowly the door opened, trembling unhappily on its ancient hinges, and the most enormous woman stared out at them. Helene took in the colourful house dress, laddered tights, huge fluffy slippers and fists the size of a leg of lamb. Miss Wolford was no slip of a girl. In fact…

“Er, excuse me for saying so,” said Helene, “but you’re Hank, aren’t you?”

“Well, aren’t you the clever one?” said Dolly/Hank. “Saw clean through my disguise.”

“It was tough,” said Helene shakily, “but I’m a journalist so I’m trained to be observant. Er… great slippers by the way.”

Charlie had taken a step backwards and was staring at Dolly/Hank with undisguised astonishment.

“Bloody hell!” he said softly.

Which was twice in two minutes, from a man not much given to swearing.

“You’d better come in,” said Dolly/Hank.

Helene chewed nervously on her lip as she followed the hulking creature into the stygian gloom. She would have given almost anything to have her head torch right now. It would be a bloody silly place to break an ankle by tripping over a dead squirrel or falling through the floorboards into some homemade oubliette.