We took the same road we’d driven the day before to the Sonora Hills Cellars. Outside Sulfur Springs, we passed the barren flat where the trailer homes of Paradiso baked under the sun. The Border Patrol didn’t stop us this time. In fact, we saw no sign of them or any other animals, human or otherwise. The only movement was the shimmer of the land all around us as waves of heat rose up. We were both quiet. I didn’t know what Rainy was thinking. Me, I was chewing like crazy on the question of her mysterious phone calls.
Trust. An easy word to say. One syllable. Comes readily off the tongue. Also a thing easy to believe in, to advocate for, to hold in lofty regard. But putting it into practice? Good luck with that one. You share your life, your body, your dreams with another human being. You tie your fortunes together with sacred vows. But the truth is that you always keep some deep part of yourself separate from all that. You hold a place inside that’s only for you and that you never let anyone else into. Hell, after she died, we found out even Mother Teresa had secrets too dark to share.
That’s where I was, driving through the desolation on Old Douglas Road.
“Cork,” Rainy finally said.
“I’m right here.”
“Do you trust me?”
Like she’d been reading my mind. Or with Rainy, more likely my heart.
“You asked me that same damn question this morning. You’re not making it easy for me, Rainy, but the answer is still yes.”
She was quiet, her eyes to the south. “There are things I can’t share with you, not yet. Other people are involved. It’s terribly complicated. And I can’t imagine that it has anything to do with Peter’s disappearance. I know what’s going on is dangerous for us, but this is about my son and keeping him safe. When I can, I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”
“Could I be dead before that happens?”
She looked at me, her eyes serious and beautiful. “God, I hope not. Because wherever you are, there I am also.”
We turned onto the lane that cut through the vineyards, under the stone arch, and pulled up to the warehouse, with its great stainless-steel vats. The door was closed. No motorcycle, and the F-150 pickup was gone. We got out and walked to the house. The bell, when I rang it, gave out three deep, sonorous chimes. It was almost a full minute before Jayne Harris opened the door, clearly surprised to see us but smiling.
“We don’t mean to bother you, Jayne. We’re looking for Jocko.”
“He and Frank are checking the new plantings in the south vineyard,” she said.
“Still expanding?” I asked.
“Diversifying. Adding new resistant varieties.”
“Resistant to what? This heat?”
“Would you like to come inside?”
“Thank you,” Rainy said.
It was blessedly cool in the house and just as quiet as the first time we’d visited.
“May I offer you something to drink?” Jayne asked.
I shook my head. “No, thanks.”
“If you have a moment, let me explain a few things,” Jayne said. She indicated the living room, and we all sat down. “To answer your question, Cork, the heat isn’t the problem. A few years ago we lost a major part of our vineyard to GLD. That’s short for grapevine leafroll disease. A lot of the vineyards in the area suffered. Since then, we’ve been working with more resistant varieties. It’s slow going. Vines take quite a while to produce. This new variety seems to be doing well, but we monitor everything closely. Or Frank does. That’s his territory of concern. He’s the wine guy.”
“And you’re all about the business,” I said.
“It’s what I do,” she said. “I’m a Minnesota girl, Cork. I met Frank ten years ago at a conference in Minneapolis. I was there offering advice to small business people on planned growth. Frank was a widower, I was divorced, we hit it off. His family had been in cattle here, but raising beef profitably is tough, and Frank wanted to do something different with the land.”
“The vineyards,” Rainy said.
“They call this area Napa-zona. The soil here on the plateau is similar to the area around Burgundy, France, and the microclimate is Mediterranean. It’s perfect grape country.”
“So this is home now,” I said.
She smiled. “For better or for worse, isn’t that how the vow goes?”
I heard it as resignation, and I understood. I’ve always believed that if Minnesota is in your blood, it’s hard to be completely happy anywhere else.
Rainy said, “Would it be difficult for us to find Frank and Jocko?”
“Not at all. Just go back to the main road and head south. You’ll come to a little dirt lane that runs along the edge of that section of our vineyards. Can’t miss it. We planted a row of yews. You ought to see Frank’s pickup from there. But I can call his cell phone and have him and Jocko meet you here.”
“That’s all right. We’ll find them and let you get back to your business.”
“You wouldn’t believe the paperwork,” she said and stood to see us out.
We returned to the main road and headed south. At the end of the vineyards, we found the line of yew trees marching toward the hills and the dirt lane that ran alongside them. We saw no sign of Frank’s pickup. We stepped out of the truck and stood in the silence of that landscape, the deep green rows of vines on one side of the yews, the pale green-yellow of the grasslands on the other.
“What now?” Rainy asked.
A hot wind blew up from the direction of the border, and carried on it was a peculiar sound.
“Listen,” I said.
Rainy cocked her head, then pointed. “There.” A black shape cut low across the sky. At that distance, it appeared no larger than one of the vultures we’d seen circling earlier in the day. “A biplane.”
We found the landing strip cut into grassland near a gathering of cottonwood trees in whose shade stood a little ranch house and a couple of outbuildings. The biplane sat at the end of the strip in front of a small hangar. Frank Harris’s pickup was there, too. As we drove up, Harris and Robert Wieman, the man who called himself Jocko, turned and watched us come.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Frank said amiably.
“Spotted Jocko’s biplane,” I said. “I thought you gave up crop dusting.”
“I still fly. Just not for money,” Jocko said. “Something we can do for you folks?”
“We’d like to talk with you. It’s important.”
The old man studied my face, then Rainy’s, then glanced at Harris.
Harris shrugged, gave a nod, and said, “Looks like they made you, Old Turtle.”
*