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  When I got to the road I turned left, rather than back the way I’d come. The pavement curved to the southeast, following the perimeter of the DeCarlo property. After nearly a mile I spotted another driveway and pulled the MG under the drooping branches of a live oak. Got out and continued on foot, keeping close to the high stone wall.

  The driveway was blocked by iron gates, set into massive pillars; the gates were locked, and an intercom system next to them was the only means of getting inside—an option not open to me. Through the bars I could see the blacktop stretching along an avenue of eucalyptus to a house on top of a rise: wood and stone, massive like the pillars. An old house, dating from the 1800s.

  I stepped back and studied the wall. Too high to climb easily and, besides, the wire strung along its top would be sure to trigger an alarm system. DeCarlo was a cautious man, intent on protecting what was his—including his “boy.”

  I went back to my car and settled down to wait. Maybe my visit would provoke some activity.

  The sun was dipping behind the coastal ridge and the shadows were lengthening. I’d been sitting here for close to an hour, during which no one had arrived at or left the ranch. I was thirsty and uncomfortable, both from sitting in the cramped car and from the speculations that crowded my mind. My stomach growled; I lusted after a bacon cheeseburger.

  In Monterey I’d spotted a Jack in the Box, so I gave up the wait and headed back there.

  7:51 P.M.

  The offices of DeCarlo Enterprises in downtown Monterey were closed. I kept going through the business section and the tunnel under the Presidio to Lighthouse Avenue, then uphill to Archer Street. The windows of Austin DeCarlo’s house glowed softly; a Jaguar and a BMW sat in its driveway. He was home, and he had company.

  I was trying to decide whether it would be wise to approach him under such circumstances when the front door opened and two couples came out, went to the cars, and drove away. Seconds later the garage door slid up and a silver Lexus backed out; as the door slid down, I started my engine and prepared to follow.

  To the cross street, right on Lighthouse, through the tunnel, and a series of jogs to Franklin Street. When the Lexus cut to the curb, I idled at a stop sign, watching the driver get out: a big man whose gray hair gleamed under the streetlight as Joseph DeCarlo’s had gleamed in the late-afternoon sunlight. His son? Had to be.

  Austin DeCarlo went around and opened the other door for his passenger, a thin woman with a long cascade of dark hair, dressed in a flowing tunic-and-pants suit. As they walked hand in hand along the sidewalk, I parked and went after them.

  Half a block ahead, a dozen or so people stood outside a restaurant, drinking wine and talking as they waited for tables. The smells borne on the breeze brought to mind my favorite Greek eatery in San Francisco. This one was called Epsilon, obviously a popular place. DeCarlo and the woman moved through the crowd and went inside. As I came closer I saw them being seated at a window table with the other couples who had earlier come out of his house.

  I watched them through the window, feeling like a waif out of some silent-film melodrama. Ever since I’d studied that Newsweek photograph, I’d suspected that Austin DeCarlo and Saskia Hunter were my birth parents, and his father’s reaction to me had more or less confirmed it. Approaching this man could change my life in ways I might not like. Perhaps knowing as much as I did was enough; I didn’t need to have actual contact with him. Besides, this was a public place; he wouldn’t appreciate me making a scene.

  What do you care if he doesn’t appreciate it? The man abandoned you before your birth. Hanging back on grounds of good manners is an excuse because you’re afraid.

  I pushed through the crowd and opened the restaurant’s door, waved the maitre d’ aside and went over to the window table.

  “Austin DeCarlo?” I said to the gray-haired man.

  He’d been studying the wine list, and when he glanced up his mouth twitched in irritation. He had his father’s strong features, but their lines were blunted by years of good living; the glaring eyes that turned up at me were the same faded blue. “Yes?” he snapped.

  “My name’s Sharon McCone. I believe you knew my great-aunt, Fenella.”

  His mouth sagged open and he stared at me. I stared back, at a loss for further words. After a moment he set down the wine list and ran an unsteady hand over his chin. Shook his head as if to deny what he was thinking. I remained speechless, afraid of what I’d set in motion.

  The couples at the table leaned anxiously toward DeCarlo. The woman he was with touched his arm and asked, “Austin, darling, what’s the matter?”

  Her voice brought him back to his surroundings. He glanced almost furtively at the other diners, then back at me. “My God,” he whispered, “you’re the image of your mother!”

  Even though I’d more or less expected such a reaction, DeCarlo’s words caused a physical shock wave. Something caught in my chest and for a moment I felt as if my heart had stopped; then it began racing. I flashed hot and cold, and everything shifted—his face, the diners at his table, the rough-plastered walls, the tiled floor. I grasped the back of his chair for support.

  He stood quickly, and through the riot of my emotions I heard him making excuses to his party—something about me being the daughter of an old friend, which sounded insincere to me and must have seemed the outright lie it was to them. I felt his hands grasp my shoulders none too gently as he began steering me toward the door. Saw diners at the other tables watching us with curiosity and concern. He didn’t stop till we were several storefronts away, then turned me around and peered intently at my face. Shook his head—again trying to deny who I was.

  I found my voice at last. “Let’s go someplace where we can talk privately.”

  “I can’t deny it,” Austin DeCarlo said. “The proof’s in your face.”

  We were seated at opposite ends of the sofa in a room that took up the entire third story of his house. The semicircular windows on the north and south walls reflected us, father and daughter, our postures wary and tentative. In contrast, his Irish setter, Rupert, lay relaxed on the cushion between us.

  At first DeCarlo had been downright skeptical of my story, demanding proof that I was who I claimed. I showed him my identification, the petition for adoption, and the Newsweek photograph, and then he began to internalize the fact that he was face to face with his forty-year-old daughter. Then, looking even more shaken, he went to light a fire and pour brandy.

  Now I asked, “My mother—she was Saskia Hunter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she still living?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Boise, Idaho.”

  “You’re in touch with her?”

  “… Not really. It’s complicated.”

  “How?” I raised the brandy snifter to my lips, my hand unsteady. In spite of the fire, I couldn’t get warm.

  “Let me start at the beginning.” DeCarlo shifted toward me, hooking one elbow over the back of the sofa. “In 1958 I was traveling around the country with a friend. We were both sick and tired of the Valley, and my father and I hadn’t been getting along. He wanted me to learn the family business so he could retire and ranch, but I couldn’t see myself traveling from office to office to check up on how the plant-tissue analyses were going. So my friend and I bought a used Triumph and went on the road.” He smiled. “I’d like to think we were forerunners of the guys on Route Sixty-six, but I suppose in reality we were pretty naive and small-town.”

  I jiggled my foot, both nervous and impatient. The last thing I needed now was a fond reminiscence about his youthful travels.

  He noticed my impatience and hurried on with his story. “Anyway, after five months the car broke down in Fort Hall, Idaho, and while we were stuck there waiting for parts, I met your mother. She was seventeen—pretty, smart, and had a wild streak. Her parents didn’t want her to see me, but she’d sneak off and meet me at the auto court where my friend and I were stayi
ng. When the car was fixed, he bought out my interest and moved on. I rented a room from some friends of Kia’s and took a job in a café. Before long she moved in with me, and in the winter she got pregnant.”

  “So you left her.”

  He narrowed his eyes, stung by the accusatory note in my voice. “That’s not the way it was.”

  “How, then?”

  He made a tentative move to touch my shoulder, stopped midway. “Look, I know this isn’t easy for you. It certainly isn’t for me. Can we not make judgments just yet?”

  “You mean, can I not make judgments. I’ll try. Did you love her, Austin?” I didn’t know why whether I’d been conceived in love or not should matter, but it did.

  He considered for a moment. “I thought I loved Kia. I must have, because I asked her to marry me, even though we hadn’t been getting along for some time. And she must’ve loved me, because she accepted. But she was still underage, and her parents wouldn’t consent, so we decided to run off to Nevada. Then the photograph of us with Fenella McCone appeared in Newsweek.”

  “Fenella was a relative of Saskia’s.”

  “Distant, but she was very fond of her. I’ve always suspected she had a hand in your adoption. Kia hadn’t known her long, but she told me she knew she could always turn to her in an emergency. And I guess she did.”

  “So the photograph appeared in Newsweek…”

  “And my father saw it. Up till then, he had no idea I was living with Kia. I went home before Christmas, stayed a couple of weeks—which didn’t please Kia one bit—and gave him a story about working on a ranch outside of Billings, Montana. He approved of that, assumed that eventually I’d come home for good.”

  “What did he do when he found out where you really were?”

  “Chartered a plane and flew to Idaho, intent on dragging me home. He’s a difficult man—”

  The scene at his ranch flashed through my mind. “Difficult? He’s a control freak!”

  DeCarlo raised his eyebrows. “You know him?”

  “I spoke with him briefly this afternoon, right before he set his security guy on me.”

  “Tony? Did he hurt you?”

  “No. I can take care of myself.”

  He smiled faintly. “You sound like Kia. She’s one tough woman. Of course, I’m pretty tough myself. You inherited a double dose—”

  “No,” I said, bristling at his laying claim to how I’d turned out, “I get that from my adoptive parents.”

  DeCarlo was silent for a moment. “Did you tell my father who you are?”

  “Didn’t have to. He figured it out right away. Said the same thing you did—that I look like Saskia Hunter. Anyway, he arrived on the reservation…”

  “And a friend warned us in time. He loaned us his truck, and we decided to skip Nevada and go to northern California, where Kia’s favorite uncle lived. She thought he’d let us stay with him, maybe lend us some money. And he agreed to, but my father traced us, busted into his house a few days later. Kia wasn’t there, she’d gone to the store for some groceries. My father sent me home with his ranch foreman, said he’d take care of things. And… I went. I never even got to tell her good-bye.”

  I frowned. “Weren’t you kind of old to be following your father’s orders?”

  He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees, head drooping. “Yeah, I was, but where my father’s concerned I’ve never been a strong man. Back then, in many ways, I was just a boy.”

  Just a boy, in his twenties. I couldn’t relate to that. By the time I was the age he’d been when he left Saskia Hunter, I was working to pay my college tuition bills.

  “So you just left Saskia to your father’s mercies,” I said.

  “Her Uncle Ray was there to protect her.”

  “She had to rely on an uncle, rather than the man who’d made her pregnant.”

  DeCarlo closed his eyes. “Sharon, I thought you weren’t going to make judgments.”

  “It’s damned hard not to. As a woman, I can empathize only too well with her predicament.” I took a deep breath, got my anger under control. “Okay, what happened when your father came back to the ranch?”

  “He said he’d taken care of things by settling money on Kia, and that she’d told him she never wanted to see me again.”

  “You believed that?”

  He hunched his shoulders, rolled his empty snifter between his palms. “As I said before, Kia and I hadn’t been getting along. And I had no reason to doubt my father; he’d thrown money at problems my whole life.”

  Problems: two human lives, my mother’s and mine. That’s all we’d been to him.

  “You never tried to find her?” I asked. “Or me?” My voice was raw with hurt.

  He didn’t notice; he was caught up in his own pain. “I found her a year later. She was living in Moscow, Idaho, planning to start college there in the fall. She told me she’d put you up for adoption. She was afraid if she kept you, my father might try to take you away from her.”

  I pictured the expression on the old man’s face as he’d loomed over me that afternoon. “Not too damn likely! He didn’t want any half-breed granddaughter perching on his family tree. Hanging from it, maybe.”

  “… He’s not that bad.”

  “I’ll have to take you word for it. So that was the end? You just decided to pretend I didn’t exist?”

  “I didn’t want to, but Kia was very angry with me and refused to tell me anything about the adoption.”

  I drained my snifter, held it out for a refill—giving myself time to cool down. Maybe he was right; maybe I was too quick to judge. After all, he’d been frank with me, admitting to his errors and weakness. When he passed the glass back, I asked, “Do you know what happened to my mother after that?”

  “She completed college and law school at the University of Idaho. Married a fellow attorney, Thomas Blackhawk. They were in private practice together in Boise, and since he died a few years ago she’s devoted her efforts to Indian causes.”

  Saskia Blackhawk. The name was vaguely familiar. Maybe I’d read about her somewhere.

  “Did she have other children?”

  “A son and a daughter. They’re in their twenties now.”

  I felt an odd twinge. My birth mother had given me up, but gone on to have other children. I had a half brother and sister who probably weren’t aware I existed. “You know a good bit about her,” I said. “Why did you follow her life and career?”

  “… I thought you might initiate a search and get in touch with her.”

  “You could’ve initiated a search yourself. There’re plenty of resources.”

  “I know.” He shook his head wearily. “But by the time they became available, so many years had gone by…”

  So many years, and here I sat with a stranger. A man who described himself as tough, but in reality was weak. A weak man who was my father, but didn’t seem like a father. Suddenly my anger drained and all I felt was empty. I needed to be alone.

  When I said I had to go, DeCarlo protested. He wanted to hear about my life. He wanted me to be his houseguest. I refused, told him I’d call in the morning. Then I fled to the refuge of an impersonal room on motel row.

  LISTENING…

  “Is she still living?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Boise, Idaho.”

  “You’re in touch with her?”

  “… Not really. It’s complicated.”

  That’s a significant silence. You’re either in touch or not in touch with someone. What’s complicated about that?

  “Not really” implies a degree. Is he saying he’s been in touch with Saskia Hunter Blackhawk since she told him she put me up for adoption? Recently, perhaps?

  About what? Me? Somehow I doubt that.

  “Why did you follow her life and career?”

  “… I thought you might initiate a search and get in touch with her.”

  “You could’ve initiated a search yourself. T
here’re plenty of resources.”

  “I know. But by the time they became available, so many years had gone by…”

  Listen to that hesitation. He’s not being candid about his interest in Saskia. It isn’t because of me; in the next breath he all but admits he’d given up on locating me. The way his words trail off tells me he didn’t really care that much anymore.

  So why keep track of Saskia? Does he still love her? No, he’s not sure he ever did. They’re connected for some other reason now. And it is complicated.

  Tuesday

  SEPTEMBER 12

  12:31 A.M.

  “Shar, are you ever gonna let me get a decent night’s sleep?”

  “Just one favor, Mick. One little favor. Did you locate any material on DeCarlo Enterprises’ Spirit Lake development?”

  “Yeah. It’s on your desk at the office.”

  “Oh.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I need you to fax it to me at my motel in Monterey. Right away.”

  Sigh. “Okay, I can do that pretty quick. What’s the fax number there?”

  I read it to him.

  “I suppose you dragged the motel clerk out of bed to get use of their machine?”

  “Not exactly. He was dozing in front of the TV.”

  “Someday I’m gonna have T-shirts printed up. They’ll say ‘I was robbed of my sleep by Sharon McCone.’ I’ll sell millions, make my fortune.”

  I read the curl of flimsy paper with growing shock as I sat on the bed in my motel room. My natural father had shaded the truth when it came to his current connection with my birth mother.

  Shaded? Hell, he’d painted it pink and tied it up in pretty ribbons!

  The information Mick had provided said that DeCarlo’s Spirit Lake project was embroiled in controversy. A group of Modoc Indians in the nearby town of Sage Rock had brought suit against the development company, claiming tribal ownership of the lake and a thousand surrounding acres, stemming from an 1860 treaty with the federal government. The Modocs considered the lake sacred, and were opposed to any form of development.

  In a brief filed with the U.S. District Court, an attorney for DeCarlo Enterprises stated that the 1860 treaty was unauthorized by the government. Furthermore, the only valid treaty between the tribe and the federal authorities was negotiated in 1864, and removed the Modocs from California to a Klamath Indian reserve in Oregon.