Roadside Crosses

blocks. Against the wall were two cabinets, one gray metal, one uneven white wood. Inside were large stocks of canned goods, boxes of pasta, soda and wine, tools, nails, personal items like toothpaste and deodorant.
    Four metal poles rose to the dim ceiling, supporting the first floor. Three were close to each other, one farther away. They were painted dark brown but they were also rusty and it was hard to tell where the paint ended and the oxidation began.
    The floor was concrete and the cracks made shapes that became familiar if you stared at them long enough: a sitting panda, the state of Texas, a truck.
    An old furnace, dusty and battered, sat in the corner. It ran on natural gas and switched on only rarely. Even then, though, it didn’t heat this area much at all.
    The size of the basement was thirty-seven feet by twenty-eight, which could be calculated easily from the cinder blocks, which were exactly twelve inches wide by nine high, though you had to add an eighth of an inch to each one for the mortar that glued them together.
    A number of creatures lived down here too. Spiders, mostly. You could count seven families, if thatwas what spiders lived in, and they seemed to stake out territories so as not to offend—or get eaten by—the others. Beetles and centipedes too. Occasional mosquitoes and flies.
    Something larger had shown an interest in the stacks of food and beverages in the far corner of the basement, a mouse or a rat. But it’d grown timid and left, never to return.
    Or been poisoned and died.
    One window, high in the wall, admitted opaque light but no view; it was painted over, off-white. The hour was now probably 8:00 or 9:00 p.m.—since the window was nearly dark.
    The thick silence was suddenly shattered as footsteps pounded across the first floor, above. A pause. Then the front door opened, and slammed shut.
    At last.
    Finally, now that his kidnapper had left, Travis Brigham could relax. The way the schedule of the past few days had turned out, once his captor left at night he wouldn’t be back till morning. Travis now curled up in the bed, pulling the gamy blanket around him. This was the high point of his day: sleep.
    At least in sleep, Travis had learned, he could find some respite from despair.

Chapter 39
    THE FOG WAS thick and briskly streamed overhead as Dance turned off the highway and began to meander down winding Harrison Road. This area was south of Carmel proper—on the way to Point Lobos and Big Sur beyond—and was deserted, mostly hilly woods; a little farmland remained.
    Coincidentally it was close to the ancient Ohlone Indian land near which Arnold Brubaker hoped to build his desalination plant.
    Smelling pine and eucalyptus, Dance slowly followed her headlights—low beams because of the fog—along the road. Occasional driveways led into darkness broken by dots of light. She passed several cars, also driving slowly, coming from the opposite direction, and she wondered if it had been a driver who’d called in the anonymous report that had sent her here, or one of the residents.
    Something . . .
    That was certainly a possibility but Harrison Road was also a shortcut from Highway 1 to Carmel Valley Road. The call could have come from anybody.
    She soon arrived at Pine Grove Way and pulled over.
    The construction site that the anonymous caller had mentioned was a half-completed hotel complex—now never to be finished, since the main building had burned under suspicious circumstances. Insurance fraud was initially suspected but the perps turned out to be environmentalists who didn’t want the land scarred by the development. (Ironically, the green terrorists miscalculated; the fire spread and destroyed hundreds of acres of pristine woods.)
    Most of the wilderness had grown back, but for various reasons the hotel project never got under way again and the complex remained as it now was: several acres of derelict buildings and foundations dug deep in the loamy ground. The area was surrounded by leaning chain-link fences marked with Danger and No Trespassing signs, but a couple of times a year or so teens would have to be rescued after falling into a pit or getting trapped in the ruins while smoking pot or drinking or, in one case, having sex in the least comfortable and unromantic location imaginable.
    It was also spooky as hell.
    Dance grabbed her flashlight from the glove compartment and climbed out of her Crown Vic.
    The damp breeze wafted over her, and she shivered