“Where’re we going?” Dad asked as he settled into the passenger’s seat.
“I’m not sure.”
A wall of thick fog engulfed us as we drove down Highway 101 toward the Golden Gate Bridge. I switched on my headlights. Husky drops of moisture clung to the windshield like glue.
“You’re going to need your wipers,” advised Dad.
“Not sure that will help.” But I turned them on anyway. The flip, flip, flip of the windshield wipers moving from side to side smeared the ever-present dirt and dust already there.
“Geez, Trisha. I can’t see a thing. When was the last time you washed your car?”
“I don’t always have time.”
I pressed the windshield washer knob and a stream of water joined the fog drizzle. The grime only smeared more.
“Press it again.”
“Okay, okay.” I pressed the button a few more times until the grime started to subside. Not that it made any difference. Dense fog forced me to slow down dramatically. The gloom even erased the brake lights of the cars in front of us.
“This is as bad as I’ve seen it,” observed Dad.
I strained to watch the road ahead. Traffic moved on to the Golden Gate Bridge, the large russet-orange bridge towers invisible even as we crossed.
“You know, they painted the towers International Orange because you could see it in the fog,” said Dad.
“Well, it’s not working. I don’t see anything.”
We were driving in a three-lane cocoon. Occasionally, a shadow of a car passed me in the next lane but disappeared before it cleared the front bumper. The hazy lights of the toll plaza glowed through the cotton ball that surrounded us. We breezed through and headed for the curve in the road that took us to 19th Avenue. I stepped on the accelerator and my weary Honda took off. I slipped into the other lane.
“Slow down, young lady,” instructed Dad. “You’re going to get us killed.”
I grumbled to myself and lifted my foot off the accelerator.
“Dad, grab my backpack. There are a couple of folders in there. Take a look and tell me what you think.”
He pulled out the files and scanned each page.
“I see numbers and some receipts. The numbers follow a pattern, but they don’t mean anything to me. Then, there are a list of cities and contacts. What is this?”
“I have an idea, but I need to study them.”
“Do I want to know where they came from?”
“No.”
“But it has to do with Earl and everything else?”
“Pretty sure.” The traffic lights now glowed green for blocks ahead.
“Have you figured out where we’re going?” Dad asked.
“The pseudo-brewery.”
“Well, a little advice. Don’t park in front of the house. Cruise by and see what you can see.”
“I don’t plan on parking.”
“You sure you’re thinking things through?”
“I’m driving in a heavy fog.”
“You were. Now, it’s about gone. Slow down! You’re doing almost twice the speed limit. You continue like this, one of your many police friends will show up. It’s time you think about what you’re going to do.”
The light turned red, and I stopped, trying to keep my composure.
“I know what I’m going to do,” I said, crisply pronouncing each syllable of each word.
“How about letting me in on your plans.”
The light turned green and we took off, gradually this time. “Well, ah… first…”
“You don’t know.”
“I do. Kind of. We’ll drive around the neighborhood until we find Earl’s car. I won’t stop at the brewery house, but just drive by to see if there are any lights on. It might be good to drive down the Great Highway.”
I turned right at Fulton Street, which borders Golden Gate Park. With the park on one side and apartments on the other, we headed in silence for the beach. The closer we got to the ocean, the more the fog returned. I turned left on the Great Highway. Waves that had crossed 6,000 miles of Pacific Ocean slammed into the beach, but the fog made it impossible to see them. I drove on the deserted road, breathing in the damp salt-tinged air.
“Got a chill to it,” Dad said.
“Yeah, but it smells good.”
We passed the two-story Beach Chalet, a popular restaurant with great views of the ocean when the fog stayed out at sea. Shimmering lights from their big plate glass windows glowed through the murkiness.
On the other side of Golden Gate Park, I turned left on Lincoln and went up a few blocks, driving through the Outer Richmond neighborhood with its side-by-side family homes. Deserted parked cars hugged the curbs. I drove past the spot where Tyler had appeared on this bike. No Tyler this time. I continued down a narrow side street that paralleled the ocean. We crept past each vacant car.
“Waste of time,” I muttered.
Then up ahead of us, to the right and almost on the next block, sat Earl’s vehicle. “Dad, over there.”
“I see it.”
I parked behind Earl’s deserted car.
“Let me check this out,” said Dad. He walked over to the abandoned vehicle and pulled on the door handle. Locked. He moved to the other side, trying each door and the trunk but they were secure. Dad shook his head as he walked back to my car and climbed in.
“Not gonna help us.”
“Well, I’m going to pay a visit to the beer maker.”
“How do you propose to do that?”
“Walk up his front path and knock on the door.”
“What if he answers?”
“I’ll ask about Earl. If he’s seen him.”
“And when he says ‘no’, because he will say ‘no,’ then what?”
“I’ll push my way in.”
“You certainly will not.”
“Oh, wait. He knows me as Arabella Stockman,” I said.
“As who?”
“A potential investor. Never mind. My idea won’t work. What would you do?”
“Well, first, I’d avoid the front door, Arabella. Go around to the back. Listen. Check the surroundings. But that’s all. I wouldn’t go in.”
“I could get arrested for that.”
“You asked me what I would do. I told you. Walk by the house. Glance at it. That’s all.”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Dear girl, if your lips are movin’, you’re lyin’.”
“I don’t know why you have trouble trusting me,” I said.
Sliding out of the car, I pulled my sweatshirt close. The northwest wind whipped the tall shrubs around and the air temperature had dropped almost thirty degrees from Earl’s house in Marin. Dad sat in the car, pointing at me, and shaking his finger. Not sure what any of that meant. I kept on going, past the spot where Tyler had disappeared and through the tall green shrubs to the other side of the Great Highway. I shivered in the chilly damp air. Behind me, I heard footsteps; they moved faster as they drew nearer.
I picked up my pace. When the footsteps did, too, I broke into a jog.
“Slow down, will you?” called Dad. “I can’t let you do this by yourself.”
Our little sprint left him out of breath.
“You scared me,” I said, staring at him.
“You don’t know anything about being safe on a street at night. I need to teach you a few things.”
“Later. Now we’re only a father and daughter out for a night stroll. No unneeded conversation.”
We continued walking along the street. A woman came toward us from the other way, walking a mixed-breed terrier. She stepped into the street giving us a wide berth, when Dad, being Dad, couldn’t help himself. He had to say something.
“If that isn’t the cutest dog ever,” he gushed. The woman beamed and launched into a story, a long story, about how she had rescued him and how skinny he was. The local appeared to be in her Ocean Beach best: a down jacket, scarf wrapped around her neck, and gloves.
I smiled and began to tug at Dad’s arm. “We have to go now.”
“Trisha, don’t be impolite.”
Dad instantly forgot about me, like I had melted into the fog. He remained completely attentive to the wrapped up lady and her little dog who sniffed at his shoes. I dropped his arm and walked a few feet away. I could see the house ahead of me.
I stopped one yard away. No lights shone in the windows. No car parked in the driveway. No signs of life inside at all. I walked up to the door and knocked, then tried the door handle. Locked. I glanced down the street and Dad had knelt next to the little dog to pet him. I turned toward the side walkway and slipped into the backyard. One trash can overflowed with debris from the beer making experiment: yeast containers and empty sugar bags. The other two sat empty. I climbed up the stairs and put my face against the window, straining to see past the kitchen into the dining room. I pulled out my cell phone, turned on its flashlight and shone it into the house.
The furniture I remembered was gone. I wouldn’t be surprised if the occupants from this house had joined the occupants from the house in Marin. But where did they go?
A curtain moved in a bedroom window from the house next door. I waved at the nosey neighbor peering down at me.
“Just checking on my friends,” I called out. The woman retreated abruptly, and the curtain fell back into place.
“Trisha? Trisha?” Dad’s voice was blown into the backyard by the wind.
I darted down the steps and made my way to the side walkway.
“Over here,” I said, walking out to meet my father. He stood with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets and his collar turned up.
“This has to be where Tyler told Earl to come. Only nobody’s here. It’s empty.”
“I could have told you that,” said Dad. “It pays to talk to people. That nice lady with the dog—who invited me for dinner next week, by the way—said they moved out a couple of days ago. The owner was the quiet type, according to her. He had a few conversations with her, mostly about keeping that sweet dog of hers off his lawn.”
“They? Who else lived there?”
“She saw a young man with a lot of hair coming and going. That could be Tyler, don’t you think?”
My zip up Giants hoodie did little to keep me warm and keep the shivering at bay. The thick drizzle from the fog had started to seep through and goosebumps covered my arms. I couldn’t wait to get back to the car and turn on the heater. Dad walked next to me in silence.
“I’m thinking Jason Chang from this house is with the Marin group from over the hill.”
“Any idea where they might be?”
“Not a clue.”
I unlocked my car and Dad and I slipped in.
“Put on that heater,” said Dad.
I turned the key in the ignition and the engine fired up. The heater switched on and a blast of damp, cool air flooded the front seat.
“Uggh! Turn it off until it warms up,” said Dad.
Earl’s car sat in front of us, still deserted.
“Before we go home, I want to drive by the beach,” I said.
Dad nodded. “Maybe we’ll find The Babe.”
I turned along the windswept road that paralleled the ocean and pulled over to the side. I grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment.
“Be right back.” I climbed out of the car and was almost blown off my feet. Trotting down to the beach, I shielded my eyes from the blowing sand. No one walked the bleak oceanfront tonight. Head bowed, I shouldered against the wind. The flashlight created a puny glow three feet ahead of me. Not enough light to even see the Pacific.
“Earl,” I yelled. “Babe. Come, Babe. Earl.”
The pounding surf drowned out my voice.
Dad leaned against the car, watching me as I jogged back up to the street.
Grim faced, I shook my head. “Let’s go.”
The car’s heater blasted away, warming the interior. “I’m going to call him again.” Dad punched in Earl’s cell phone number. It rang a few times and went to voicemail. He shrugged.
“Don’t know what else to do,” he said.
I pulled out and we started home. The Beach Chalet, moored to the edge of Golden Gate Park, floated like a ghostly ship behind the fog. A chill seeped into my bones. Earl wouldn’t be driving home any time tonight. I could only hope he was safe. Somewhere.