Going to the Bad (21 page)

I found the key where Bud always hid it—in the bag of empty beer cans next to the motor oil. Despite a new coat of exterior
paint, Bud's mobile home had only gotten older in the years since I'd been there. The same green shag carpet covered the living room and hallway.

There was no sign that anyone had used the place in months. The toilets and pipes had been winterized. It seemed unlikely I'd find anything here relating to the shooting.

I sat down in Bud's favorite living-room recliner. He'd worn a groove in the old thing that I fit nicely into. I thought of him in the ICU and wondered if I should have gone in with Rod to see him.

I phoned the hospital to ask for an update. The ICU said there hadn't been any change. Bud's monitors continued to show no sign of brain activity.

I switched on the TV so I wouldn't have to be alone with my thoughts. After staring at the KJAY Yule log for a few minutes, I got out my cell phone and opened the web browser. If I couldn't hack into Mida King's bank account, maybe I could get in using her own password.

When I'd spoken with her earlier in the day, Mida had said
bougainvillea
was the password to cancel her emergency-response service. Maybe like most people, Mida used the same password for multiple things. During her illness's acceleration, she'd probably needed to keep things simple.

I began checking websites of the four biggest national banks trying to find the one Mida used. Since many people's e-mail addresses also served as log-ins, and older people were fond of AOL, I used
[email protected]
in combination with the password
bougainvillea
.

When that failed, I attempted another round with just
midaking
as the log-in. I'd tried two banks and failed, then the third accepted me. Within seconds I was looking at a joint account shared by Mida, Sally, and Brandon. I started to click it open, but stopped.

Just below was a second link for a mortgage account in Mida's
name. It had been opened just two weeks prior. Someone had mortgaged the farm for $300,000.

There was no sign of the money. The regular checking account was actually overdrawn. It wasn't easy on my phone, but I scrolled back through the weeks. Mida's Social Security at the beginning of December was the last deposit. I saw a check written to Kern Home Health in November and guessed it was for the aide Mida used to have.

Then I reached the second bombshell. It wasn't the $10,000 deposit on November the second, or the similar deposits on the second of every month. That's what I'd expected to see. It was whom they were from. The deposit was described as “ELECTRONIC/ACH CREDIT Warner Co., Inc PR PAYMENT.”

Cousin Leland had been taking care of Mida.

The $10,000 a month and Mida's Social Security appeared to be the family's only monthly income. Mida, Sally, and Brandon were all living off that money. The utilities, groceries, even Brandon's college tuition, were all paid from this account. How desperate had the family been when the December deposit hadn't come through?

I'd got cold and sleepy sitting in the chair, so I stood. A nap sounded seductive, but I knew if I went down, there'd be no getting up until morning. Canceling the meeting would have been my first choice. I'd sought out Mrs. Paik hoping she or her husband would be able to corroborate or contradict things that Warner and Mida King had told me about Bud's past. How could her granddaughter do that? She hadn't even been alive in the fifties.

Still, the girl had been sure of herself and her information on the phone. The least I could do was meet with her.

I found a bedroom used entirely for storage and decided to fill the remaining time looking through boxes. Anything newer than the fifties I ignored, which it turned out was everything.

Disappointed, I glanced at my watch. Fifteen minutes before I needed to leave for the meeting.

I did some jumping jacks to ward off the cold. The tips of my fingers were tingling and I wanted to go back to the van and blast the heater. Instead I slid open the closet panel. Inside were more boxes and a dresser. I opened the top drawer.

Living in Bud's house in Oildale, I'd often wondered why there were no pictures or memorabilia of my father. He was in group photos with my mother, sister, and me, but there was no proof that he'd ever existed as a child.

The proof was in this drawer. There were report cards, the program from his high school graduation, and a postcard he'd sent Bud from his honeymoon with my mother. I reluctantly put it all aside for another day and continued to look for things that might help me understand what had happened to Bud.

The chest's second drawer was full of sweaters and marijuana. Not a large enough amount to sell—the pot, not the sweaters—but still enough to be a crime. I put on a scratchy wool crew neck that felt hand knit. The material was incredibly warm and smelled like Bud. It wasn't exactly a good smell, but it brought tears to my eyes.

I opened the final drawer and felt a rush of excitement. A jacket with Bureau of Land Management patches from Bud's time in Alaska sat on top. Underneath the aging fabric were documents and other memorabilia from the same time. Old black-and-white pictures of the wildland firefighters taken in what were probably rare off hours sat with a survival handbook and a small ax. I moved the book and the ax to the side and froze.

Letters bundled up with old twine. If they were from the same time in Bud's life as the rest of the contents of the drawer, then I may have hit pay dirt.

I didn't have time to read them there, so I took the bundle and left to meet Mrs. Paik's granddaughter.

I was five minutes late to the meeting, but that was okay. She was late too. A thin layer of snow had accumulated in the dirt clearing beneath the
THINK SAFETY
signs. Their purpose is to warn vacationers about water safety, and they make their point by
keeping a running tally of drownings. This time of year the area around them is deserted.

I stayed in the car with the heater running and read the letters. The cream-colored paper had probably been expensive in the early fifties. Something about the weight of it was romantic and couldn't be duplicated today.

They were all from Erabelle and sent to Bud in Alaska. Her feminine cursive matched the feel of the paper. It sounded as though they'd begun an affair shortly after his discharge from the army. Erabelle, only eighteen at the time, believed herself to be deeply in love. She began the first letter by asking Bud to return to Bakersfield and marry her.

Her brother, Leland, did not approve. He thought Bud was good enough to be his best friend, but not good enough to be his brother-in-law. Erabelle didn't care. She offered Bud the jewelry, saying they could use it to start their life together. It was her legal property, and she would use it to chart her own destiny away from Leland's meddling.

The final letters were hard to read. Not because I felt guilty for invading her privacy—the woman had lost her moral authority when she colluded to offer me a bribe—but because Erabelle abandoned pretense and even pride. She wrote of her love, her devotion, and her faith in the only man she'd ever loved.

None of Bud's replies were there, but judging from Erabelle's exuberant final letter, he must have written to say he was coming home to marry her. Joy was evident not just in her words, but in the wild, sloppy lettering. Leland was still going to be difficult, but what did it matter?

Except they hadn't got married. They hadn't even seen each other in fifty years. Had Bud returned only to end the relationship for good? Was he that heartless that he'd raise her hopes only to crush them?

I started reading them again from the beginning, but wasn't disappointed when the girl arrived and I had to stop.

I lowered the window. “Are you okay? You're late.”

She rubbed her nose with a gloved hand. “My mom and dad wouldn't go to sleep.”

She rubbed her nose again, as though it had lost feeling. That's when I noticed she was on a bike. “You rode a bike here in this weather?”

“It's no big deal.” She tried to shrug, but her bulky winter jacket muted the gesture. “I'm practically eighteen. I know what I'm doing.”

I had the wisdom not to contradict her, despite that the entire clandestine meeting felt like an immature lark. “Why don't you get in the van with me? I've got the heater on.”

She left the bike and climbed into the passenger seat. “Is Bud going to get better? I only knew him for a couple weeks, but I really loved the old guy.”

“The doctors will know more tomorrow.”

She would probably have noticed I'd dodged her question if she hadn't been so desperate to get her gloves off. “I hope they catch whoever did this to him. If it helps you to know about Grandma, I'll tell you, but my mom can't find out.”

“I doubt it's even important.” I shifted all the air vents so they were pointing at her. “I heard that your grandfather served in the army with Bud. I thought he and your grandmother might know details of Bud's life back in the fifties, after the war.”

She held her fingers directly in front of the hot air. “My grandfather's dead, but even if he were alive, he couldn't help you. He didn't serve in the army or know Bud.”

“That's what your mother said.”

“But she doesn't know what I know about Grandma.” She obviously relished this reversal in the parent-child balance of power. “Grandpa Paik was her second husband. It's the first who was friends with Bud.”

“Why is that secret?”

She rolled her eyes. “Because it's different in Grandma's
generation. Being divorced was really bad. Even if your husband went out for a pack of smokes and never came back.”

That got my attention. “Her first husband disappeared?”

She nodded. “Deserted her a couple years after the war ended.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Not really. Grandma said it was right after he and Bud got back from Alaska.”

“This guy was a smoke jumper too?”

She nodded. “I think he and Bud met in the army, then signed up for firefighting together. Sort of like they were brothers-in-arms.”

“Do you know his name or what happened to him?”

“You don't get it.” She started to roll her eyes again, but stopped herself. “Grandma doesn't like talking about this stuff. She only admitted the first marriage existed because I was doing a report for school and noticed some of the dates didn't match.”

I wondered if this man might have been involved with Carter King and the robbery. Both men knew Bud and both men skipped town around the same time. “I need to call your grandma in Arizona. I have to find out her first husband's name.”

“Why?”

“Because he might still be alive and I need to talk to him. I think he might know something about what led to the attack on Bud.”

“She'll just hang up if you call. You should talk to her in person.”

“I can't go all the way to Arizona right now.”

“Duh, it's Christmas.” She lost the battle and finally rolled her eyes. “Grandma's flying in to Bakersfield tomorrow.”

We put the bike in the rear on top of the tarp and I drove her home. The romance of our secret rendezvous had worn off and she seemed eager to get to bed.

I returned to Bud's place with the intention of spending the night. I parked in the carport, then found the propane tank out
back. Before turning on the heat and going to bed, it seemed wise to make sure everything was in working order. I was brushing old snow off the rounded metal top when a powerful flashlight beam hit me full in the face.

“Hello?” I raised my hand to shield my eyes. “Who's there?”

“I'm the park manager.” It was a woman's voice. “I got a call about someone inside Mr. Hawkins's house.”

“It's okay. I'm Bud's niece.”

She pulled her coat tighter over her robe. “He didn't tell me anyone was using the place.”

I showed her my ID. After I explained about Bud's being in the hospital, she apologized for coming on so strong.

“Another resident called from down the street and said there were lights on in Bud's place and a pickup truck was circling the park.” She gestured behind her to my news van. “If he'd said you were driving that, I'd have known who you were right off.”

“Why's that?”

“Bud couldn't be prouder of you. He brags all the time about how you work for the news.”

I was so moved that it took me a moment to realize what she'd said. “Who said a pickup was here?”

“Sam, who lives down the street.” She pointed toward the lake. “He saw lights on half an hour ago, then a pickup truck was driving around the park.”

Had someone followed me from Bakersfield? The police were looking for a pickup in connection with Bud's shooting. Was his attacker now following me?

“Do you mind helping me check the doors and windows?” I said. “I want to make sure no one broke in while I was gone just now.”

We finished quickly. There were no signs of forced entry, but the locks were cheap and flimsy. Despite the late hour, it seemed prudent to drive back to Bakersfield. The idea of sleeping alone here gave me the creeps.

“Has anything else unusual happened?” I said after locking up the mobile home. “Anyone hanging around?”

“No,” she said, but then reconsidered. “Just, well, someone called for Bud yesterday at the park's general number. That's hardly sinister, but it was unusual.”

“Called you?”

She nodded. “They had his address, but no phone number.”

“Who was it?”

“A woman. Didn't leave a name. When I said Bud wasn't staying at his place, they hung up.”

“Do you have caller ID?”

“Sure, but it didn't show a name, just a number.”

We drove in our separate vehicles to her office. It was in the first mobile home as you drove in the park. The air inside was warm and smelled of fresh paper and printer ink, with an undercurrent of home cooking. I guessed the one interior door led to her personal living space.