Big Sur is a sparsely populated region of the Central Coast of California, from the Carmel River in Monterey County south to the San Carpoforo Creek in San Luis Obispo County. There are only about a thousand year-round inhabitants—descendants of the original ranching families, visiting artists and writers, wealthy second-home owners, and people who retreat at the high-end resorts and spas cantilevered off the mountains with panoptic ocean views. Most of the locals would say they were drawn there by the natural beauty, solitude, and tranquility. And because it felt safe. The crime rate had always been low, and the small police department, with their small-town friendliness, prided itself on keeping its soulful residents and visitors secure. It also had Sergeant Cruz.
Sergeant Cruz was a fourth-generation officer who had run the Big Sur Police Department for two decades. His surname was Mexican but he came from Native American stock, Ohlone specifically, the first known inhabitants in the area. Like his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, he had taken a vow to keep their home safe.
But in the past year, there had been nearly a dozen missing persons reported—a record number for the region. Rumors were mounting from a kidnapping ring to a serial killer on the loose. A conspiracy website even speculated about an inexplicable gravity force akin to the Bermuda Triangle. The locals were growing concerned and it didn’t bode well for tourism, their primary industry.
Cruz and his department were well aware many of the missing people had some connection to Dancing Rabbit, but they had to tread cautiously. The resort was a long-standing pillar in the community, one of the biggest employers in the area, and a popular destination for visitors from San Diego to Sacramento and beyond. They needed more to go on in order to invade its walls.
Until the San Francisco Police Department released a video showing Jack standing over a corpse, holding a gun, and fleeing the scene.
Because when Sergeant Cruz showed the clip to his department, Detective Ramsey jumped to his feet. “That’s the young man that approached us when we were pulling the Mini Cooper out of the ocean!”
“The tall young man—” Detective Johnson agreed. “He was looking for his girlfriend and brother, said they were coming from Dancing Rabbit.”
“Did you follow up at Dancing Rabbit?” Cruz asked.
“We made a routine visit to inform them about Anna Gopnik,” Ramsey said, “but you know how tight-lipped they are.”
Ramsey flipped through his notes and told the sergeant, “His name is Ethan Stone.”
“I’ll let San Francisco know,” Cruz told them.
“Wait a minute,” Ramsey said. “Play the tape again. The guy that stopped had a beard, didn’t he?”
The sergeant replayed the video.
“You’re right,” Johnson agreed. “Good eye. He must have shaved. But that’s him. Definitely him.”
The last thing Big Sur needed was a retreat harboring murder suspects. So Cruz decided to pay one of its most beloved residents a personal visit.
—
Elvis greeted Sergeant Cruz with a Native American hello: “Yatahey.”
As a longtime student of the Big Sur counterculture movements, Elvis often reached out to the local Native American community to help implement some of their rituals, often trying to lure them to the Dancing Rabbit property to share their traditions with their guests. The last time Cruz had been on the property had been for a craft and jewelry exhibit. Now he was there on official police business.
Elvis suggested they go to the gazebo on the bluffs so they could talk in private. “I have to tell you that I’ve done some digging into your past since the last time you were here,” Elvis said, as if he were the cop.
“My past?”
“Did you know that your grandfather had shortened your last name in the early 1900s? Your name was Costeños. It means ‘coastal people.’”
“My grandfather changed our name to avoid problems back then, to fit in and assimilate,” Cruz explained.
“Such a shame,” Elvis said. “Such a beautiful name. Did you know there’s a native ceremony you could do to change it back?”
“No. I didn’t know that.”
“Doesn’t Sergeant Costeños have a nice ring to it?”
Cruz liked when locals acknowledged his heritage. But he also could tell that Elvis was pouring it on a little heavy to butter him up.
They went inside the gazebo and Elvis served iced tea. “Your detectives were here the other day, asking about Anna. I couldn’t tell them much. You know, people at Dancing Rabbit don’t talk about their past.”
“Right.” Cruz tried the tea and then asked, “Tell me why that is again?”
“It’s about living in the present.”
“Makes sense,” Cruz said. “But I’ll tell you what doesn’t make sense. That Big Sur has more unsolved disappearances than ever and almost all of the missing persons have stayed at Dancing Rabbit at some point.”
Elvis shrugged. “People come, people go. We don’t ask, they don’t tell. We’re all about free will.”
“I’m glad to hear that but—”
“And privacy,” Elvis added. “We protect their right to privacy so they can recapture balance in their lives… What the Native Americans call Koyaanisqatsi—life out of balance—is by definition, the nature of balance. Matter of fact, Dancing Rabbit’s philosophy is based on the inspirations of Koyaanisqatsi, Powaqqatsi, and Naqoyqatsi.”
“Within every crisis you can find a blessing or more,” Cruz said. “Well done. I respect all that, as well as your need for privacy, whatever your reasons.” Cruz reached for a folder inside his shoulder bag, “Even before Dancing Rabbit, back in the sixties and seventies, this property was known for its privacy—not to mention easy sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll—and we never intruded. But our first priority has always been safety.” Cruz took out a blown-up printout of Jack holding a gun and placed it in front of Elvis. “Do you know this young man?”
Elvis had a poker face.
“Harboring a fugitive puts other people at risk, not to mention that it is against the law,” Cruz said with a more threatening tone.
“Might be the cat that broke into our property the other night,” Elvis said.
“He broke in… Why didn’t you call us?”
“Didn’t need to. I chased him away.”
“He’s wanted for murder. He may be dangerous.”
“I see that.”
“If he’s making a run for the Mexican boarder, he’ll have to pass through here again.”
“If he comes back, we’ll be ready.”
“If he comes back, promise me that you’ll call us immediately.” Cruz met Elvis’s gaze and put his fist over his heart. “The real meaning behind Koyaanisqatsi, Powaqqatsi, and Naqoyqatsi is about not adding to the chaos.”
“I definitely don’t want to add to it, man.”
“So we understand each other?”
“We do.” Elvis put his fist over his heart to confirm. “We’re cool.”
—
Carpe Diem is a trendy wine-tasting bar tucked away in a remote hillside, popular only with the Napa locals. Brooke had been sitting there for nearly two hours, sipping wine and killing time like a bored, lonely lush, planted on a stool in the middle of the afternoon.
“Je parle très peu l’anglais,” she said to the handsome bartender, Fritz (probably a nickname). Then in broken English and a fake French accent, she told him that she was visiting from Paris so that she would be left undisturbed.
Just her luck, Fritz had been brushing up on his college French and thought it would behoove them both for him to practice. “Essaye ça Failla 2010,” he announced, bringing her a fresh glass, her third or fourth. “Ça a full-throttle notes of pears and green apples—des poires and pommes—complex layers of buttered toast, honey, and creamy lees. De Sonoma.”
“Sounds delish.”
“Prendre plaisir!” Fritz said as he moved down the bar to push a $200 Cabernet Sauvignon on a tipsy gay food critic vying for more pours and Fritz’s phone number.
That’s when Brooke noticed the breaking news on the TV above the bar, reporting the murder. They showed the security footage and zoomed in on Jack as he ran away waving a gun. Brooke spilled her Failla.
“Fritz—” she called out louder than she meant to, “would you please turn up the volume?”
Fritz didn’t seem to notice that she had dropped the French accent and suddenly sounded British. But he did notice the panic in her face and turned up the sound on the TV.
“If you see this man or have any information of his whereabouts, please contact the number below…”
The last thing she had expected was for Jack to shoot someone and flee on national TV.
And then she heard the TV announcer say, “The suspect has been identified as Ethan Stone. He is still at large and likely to be armed and dangerous…”
“What have they done?” Brooke groaned.
Rabbits can never get caught; they have to be fast on their feet, always a few steps ahead. That’s why Brooke had two invisible applications built that guaranteed that she—or any Rabbit on the run—never got caught. (The apps were invisible because they were hidden; you could only access them through settings; only if you knew where to look.) These apps were custom-made by Hounddog, exclusively for Brooke, never meant for public use. They were in permanent beta, knowing they would never get approved for market, but McQueen had agreed to make them when Brooke convinced him that a biometrics company could be used to protect people who needed protection.
Long before Brooke left Ethan, she had installed the invisible apps on the twins’ smartphones. One was called Black Box and the other was Pocket Dialer.
Pocket Dialer gave Brooke the ability to connect the twins’ phone lines, as if one of them called the other. She had a silent ring setting on her phone so they wouldn’t know when she called, and when their phone answered, she had the ability to overhear whatever they were doing. It could function like a wiretap, without a wire or a tap.
Black Box was a tracking device with real-time access. The GPS on their phones would signal their whereabouts. Other applications tracked GPS signals, but Black Box was unique because it recorded everything in close range of the phone at all times, even if their phones were shut off—just like a black box in aviation, maritime, or rail transport—so it could be used in case disaster struck, to prove what happened, assist in the investigation, or just to get answers. The apps drained their batteries a scootch, but not enough for them to notice.
She did this for their protection and safety.
Knowing that there was a good chance Ethan would come for her, despite her plea for him to stay away, she had planned accordingly.
But she couldn’t have been prepared for this.
She grabbed her phone, opened up her Pocket Dialer app, and got busy.
Fritz noticed the look on her face. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Est-ce que ça va?”
“I’m fine,” she lied.
“The Failla is not for everyone,” he said. “Would you like to try something lighter?”
“Just the check, please. I really have to get going.”
That was an understatement.