Fog Noir 58 Archive

While Etta dresses, I decide where to carry the .45. Decide on my high cowboy riding boots.
Inserting the gun into the top of one, I tuck extra bullets into my motorcycle jacket pocket.

Shortly after 3:00, I phone Annabel.

“Everything OK and ready?”

“Yes. A courier delivered the diamonds from New York.” Her pained, mellifluous voice touches me. “I am a hostage too, and it is torture.”

I reassure her and to expect me around 3:45.

Etta presents herself as a grey goddess, wearing windbreaker and slacks—both grey in color—the .32 tucked into her belt, her expression set in a determined, loving look.

“I’m your invisible backup,” she says. “Worried?”

“Less because you’re here. I know you’re a good shot.”

She smiles.

On the deck, the fog greets us with grey indifference. Etta thrusts herself against me, and we hug tightly.

“We are together,” she says, “don’t forget that.”

Parting slowly, we stand transfixed, breathing in unison, our faces close. In her clear dark eyes I see my own eyes—as if I’m seeing myself—and in her exquisite face I see everything I’ve longed for in a partner. Dear God, I do so love her, so thankful she’s here.

“Let’s go,” she says.

“Wait here until I call.”

I descend the stairs, trying out the .45 in my boot, watching Etta leaning on the railing above, a grey apparition evaporating into the grey mist until her form disappears.

Checking the road 30 yards in both directions, I call for Etta.

Slinking into the garage, she tucks her small body onto the floor into deep wheel well of the MGA’s passenger side. I put the roof up, and we head down the hill.

Leaving Fairfax, I take Center Boulevard that runs in a straight line to San Anselmo. The headlamps reflect softly off the haze.

Etta peers up at me, her cheek resting on the passenger seat. The trust in her eyes touches me, and I gaze back, thankful for her presence and feeling more confident.

Cutting through downtown San Anselmo to pick up Sir Francis Drake, there’s surprisingly little traffic, as though motorists have put their cars to bed and joined them in sleep, hoping the fog is a nightmare that will be gone when they awake.

I turn up the Melville-Fielding drive and park in the roundabout.

Etta remains out of sight in the MG. I leave the .45—the butt digging my calf isn’t comfortable—and clack up the steps onto the wide brick veranda.

Annabel opens the door, grips my arm anxiously, her firm expression masking anguish.

I squeeze her hand and we go into the main room. It looks different from yesterday. With neither the chandelier nor the paintings lit, it’s as grey as the grey outdoors, and the tension in the room is thick as the fog.

“Something to drink?”

“No. Where’s Duane?”

“I do not know. He returned late in the night and left again early this morning.” She nods ruefully. “Damn him.” Annabel touches my arm. “Thank you again for how you behaved.” She glances at the huge ornate grandfather clock in the entryway to the right of Fielding’s office, and says, “It is 10 minutes yet,” and goes to the bar, shakily pours herself a seabreeze from the large, nearly empty pitcher.

I take a tumbler and toast her. “To a real lady.”

“I was a drunk and silly lady. I hope I did not embarrass you.” She averts her eyes, gestures to a small, black leather satchel on a coffee table. “The diamonds.”

I unbuckle the strap. Inside are folded pieces of paper atop four velvet bags, identical in size, tied with drawstrings. I open a pouch and see a bunch of whitish pebbles, take out one, hold it up to the muted light glowing through the vaulting, curved window.

“One of the larger stones.” She grips the edge of the heavy window drape and stares out into the grey void. “Close to five carats. Value is about 1,600 dollars. A four-carat stone is worth about a thousand. Value per carat goes up with size. Three-carat raw diamonds are worth less than 600 dollars.”

I open another pouch. “There are hundreds.”

“Exactly 1,127, from four brokers, with certificates and De Beers verification. Total weight is around 4,000 carats—a bit over 28 ounces.” She speaks authoritatively but rapidly, as if straining to hold herself together. “These bastards are clever,” she says. “Money—the serial numbers can be recorded. Rough diamonds are almost impossible to trace. They are just whitish pebbles, graded by carat weight, with some determination as to quality by color, size and shape. A three to five carat size is large enough to bring substantial money individually, but not large enough to draw attention.

There’s no record except for batches, location and quality verification by De Beers, the major mining company, which controls 70 percent of the raw diamonds in the world, and keep the price high. Sold slowly these will generate anywhere from three to five million in cut diamonds.”

I heft one of the pouches—about half a pound. Closing the satchel, I say: “Did you tell the cops?”

Letting go the drape, she faces me in the ashen room. “Duane met Sheriff Bailey secretly. When Lara is safe,” she pauses, her face puckering painfully, “or lost… phone him immediately, then phone me. Here is his direct line.”

She hands me a card, a phone number written on it, as well as hers that’s imprinted.

“Bailey thinks the abductors are professionals, which gives me hope Lara will not be harmed. Abductors, abduction—I feel better using those words, even if it all means the same.”

The telephone rings, and her composure shatters. She puts the call through the intercom with a trembling hand and shaky voice. “Melville-Fielding.”

“You got the goods, we presume.” Again the same distorted, high-pitched voice.

“With brokers’ certificates. Four thousand carats. The cost was $1,002,000 total.”

“Excellent. Is Mr. Chercheur present?”

“Yes,” I say.

“I want to speak to Lara,” Annabel says.

“Here she is.”

“Mother! Is everything OK?” Her voice breaks shrilly.

“Yes, dear. Do not worry.”

“That’s all,” the weird, helium voice returns. “Chercheur, here are your instructions. Drive to Tam Valley Junction in Mill Valley. You know the place?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a phone booth outside the carpet shop. We’ll phone at precisely 4:45. You have forty-five minutes—plenty of time, even in this soup. No police. We’ll be watching. If anyone follows you, we’ll know and Lara will be killed. Get it?”

“Yes.”

“One of our people is driving a dark red car. You may see it following you. We trust you will not be foolish and try something stupid. If you do, Lara will die immediately. Get it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“But here’s something you need to get. You give me Lara when I deliver the diamonds.”

“You don’t make demands!”

“This one… I do. No girl. No rocks. For all we know you could kill her now. When you get the rocks, I get Lara.”

“Forget it!”

“You forget it. I figure you’re doing this deal in a place you’re pretty secure about. When you get what you want, I get the girl. Otherwise, no deal.”

“We’ll kill her!”

“You do and you’re wanted for murder. You’re obviously close by. Even if you escape, you’ll have everybody looking for you. One million dollars will be the price on your head. You’ll be hunted to the ends of the earth. You’ll never get away.”

Silence on their end. On mine, Annabel looks terrified. I give her a reassuring glance, but it has no effect.

“Alright! You can have her. Now move!” He hangs up.

I turn to Annabel. “You want Lara back alive, right?”

She nods, precariously relieved, her eyes a tormented blue in the room’s dusky twilight. “Just like Glenn Ford in the Ransom! movie… but what is to stop them from killing you and Lara?”

“I can, I hope.”

“Are you armed?”

“I’m not stupid, like the guy said.”

“You will not let Lara be harmed?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Grimacing, she nods, and outside, the fog lies over the house like a blanket of fear.

I place the satchel of diamonds on the passenger seat of the MG, and drive away with the cool mist beating over us.

Etta peeks into the bag. “Wow! A million dollars.”

“Yeah.”

“How was Mrs. Fielding?”

“Scared to death.”

“And you?”

“The same.”

“Well, me too, and safe and hidden and ready to help, and I believe we’ll come out OK.”

Ahead, on Sir Francis Drake, a stoplight glows red. Halting, I engage the windshield wipers, check the mirrors. No one seems following.

On 101 south, traffic is light, and Etta scoots up but hangs low in the passenger seat. Dropping down towards Mill Valley, a sheet of darkness sweeps in, a silent shroud drawing closed until only a tiny remnant of the world remains. Passing highway signs are tinted blurs, and exit ramps can’t be seen until it’s too late to take them. Spotting one, I’m aware the next is for Stinson Beach and Tam Valley. I exit, and Etta scrunches down again.

I reach the phone booth a bit after 4:30. A maroon sedan, headlights on, sits less than a hundred feet away on our side of the road—interior obscured—probably the same car I saw yesterday.

“They’re here,” I say. “Stay down.”

The phone rings at exactly 4:45.

“Go to the phone outside the market across the road.” The man’s distorted, squeaky voice.
“Expect the call in 10 seconds.”

Dashing over to the market, I catch the second ring.

“You know the live oak tree on the cover of your book?”

“Yes.”

“You meet us there, below the big boulder.”

“Remember—I have to see Lara before you get the diamonds.”

“You’ll see her with a gun to her head.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re watching you now, and we’ll be following you up the mountain. We’ll know if you stop and call the cops. We’ll also be watching to see if you are followed. Get it?”

“Yes.”

“We take no chances. Do anything foolish and Lara dies and you die. Get it?”

“Yes.”

“Get moving.”

Heading into the haze, I give Etta the gist of the instructions.

“Strange they picked a place you know well,” she says. “Better for us.”

At times, visibility is no more than a dozen feet, and I drive slowly on Highway One. The kidnappers’ car stays far behind, showing only diffuse headlights.

“Uncomfortable?” I ask.

“Rather. How are you?”

“Nervous.”

“There’s something exhilarating in this madness. A wild mountain time,” she smiles.

“Like in the War, 300 percent alert for any danger. It forces you to stay calm.”

“Good discipline.”

“The best way to stay alive.”

“Like when we ride the bike.”

I turn right on Panoramic Highway to ascend the mountain, and she says: “We’ve never talked about it, but did you have a lot of combat experience?”

“You mean where I was having to shoot or get shot?”

“Something like that.”

“No. I kept my head down, took pictures, and everybody else did the shooting. All the shooting I did was on the range. I’d pretend I was in battle and roll around firing my .45 at targets, as if they were shooting back.”

“I practiced a lot. There wasn’t much else to do outdoors, except go walking.” She pauses. “I’ve never shot a person… but I know I can if it will save your life or mine.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“I am too.”

Climbing the mountain, I slowly navigate the nearly invisible curves of the narrow winding road, aware that hidden beyond the smoky curtain abutting the shoulder is the abyss.

We ride in silence, and after half an hour, I turn right and pass the small glowing square of the window of the ranger station. A hundred feet on, I go left up West Ridgecrest Road that runs across the mountain’s long plateau to meet Bolinas Road, where one either travels down to the sea, or across the Marin reservoir to Fairfax. The fog is as dense as it was below. The blurry headlights of the kidnappers’ car doggedly tail us.

The peak of Tamalpais rises nearly half a mile high, but only a few hundred feet above the massive, gently rolling plateau we’re traveling, a mile long and half a mile wide—grassy meadows laced by hiking trails and dotted with small woods, the sole survivors of mighty forests logged off a century ago. The origin and meaning of the name Tamalpais are as mysterious as the place itself, though popularly the mountain is known as the “reclining maiden”—how the shape of its three-peaked summit appears from a distance: resembling an immense lady lying on her back, perhaps asleep, suggesting why Marin is San Francisco’s premier bedroom community.

Etta knows how much I’ve caressed the sleeping beauty, exploring her slopes and hidden places, loving her with my camera’s kiss and receiving some of my fondest images in return. Today, she can’t be kissed or even found, resting concealed beneath the gauzy veil—a darkly opaque silver—covering everything with the same somber greyness.

A short way further, I notice a yellow car sitting cockeyed on the road’s shoulder. A shadowy black figure kneels in the grass beside it, holding a large rectangle to his head. A walkie-talkie. The guy in the maroon sedan probably has one too. And the ones guarding Lara would be in walkie-talkie range. I tell Etta.

One following. One beside the road. How many with Lara?

The sense of a closing trap touches me, but I drive on, hoping I’m driving towards a good end to what began by the sea the day before, pray I’m driving towards life, not death on a misty mountain.

Etta stares up with her deep brown eyes—distracting—I love her so.

I focus on the much blacker road, watching it unfold yard by yard, the headlights behind trailing like two tiny, hazy yellow suns.

For an isolated location, Lara’s captors have chosen well. No tourists. Not a single vehicle since leaving Mill Valley.

Because of my photograph, they’ve picked my favorite spot on the mountain for the drop, the seaside of a boulder by a live oak tree atop a ridge overlooking Stinson Beach and the southern tip of Pt. Reyes Peninsula, the Pacific stretching boundlessly beyond. I say:

“One afternoon, long ago, I saw only an endless ocean of sunlit clouds flowing out to touch the clear blue sky. I thought I was standing on the edge of the world. Now we may be standing on the edge of eternity.”

Etta chuckles, “Danger seems to reveal the poet behind your pictures.”

“It’s easier to hide behind words.”

“I hope we’re almost there. My legs are hurting.”

We discuss a plan for handling the drop. She remembers the place from our picnic, and we decide where she’ll position herself on the slope.

“I’ll be close and out of sight,” she says. “We need a code word.”

“Fug!”

“Could be ‘fog.’”

“Right.”

She chuckles. “Wonder if they’ll know what it means.”

“Only if they’ve read Norman Mailer.”

“Which I doubt. So, you say, ‘fug,’ I shoot.”

“Which I hope you don’t have to.”

We reach the spot that I recognize only from having visited there many times. I make a fast U-turn and stop on the opposite shoulder.

Etta slips out, shutting the door quietly.

I kill the engine, the headlights, quickly leave the MG, taking the diamonds, find the faint, downward trail in the shifting mist, find Etta off to the left. We lie flat behind a small knoll and gaze upwards into the silent haze. Listening, we hear only the light breeze faintly rustle the tall damp, dry grass.

A vehicle approaches. Headlights show above. The vague shape of the tailing sedan stops across the road, switching off its lights. The second car pulls up, dousing its headlamps. Doors slam, and a light emerges, flicks around the MG and murmurs of discontented voices filter down.

The light travels jerkily along the path. An instant later two foggy black figures glide silently past our hiding place and disappear a few yards further on.

Etta and I part with a kiss. I stick the .45 in my boot, and carrying the satchel, move away from the trail and descend towards the tree, alert for any movement. Etta scuttles low, keeping pace and moving out of sight to my left.

Abruptly, the live oak tree darkly emerges, a gorgeous giant of a plant, windswept branches thrusting out from its multi-trunk base and arching over the huge boulder like a great filigree fan, a ghostly tree in a ghostly world, as insubstantial as this world might appear if I were in the next. Not where I intend to be, not yet.

I circle farther left, letting the tree and boulder fade into the void, briefly glimpse Etta’s vague form only because she’s in motion, fairly certain no one is behind us. Continuing down, I work back until the boulder becomes barely discernible, then move away until it disappears.

“Hello!” I call, “I’m here,” and go low in the grass.

“Why haven’t you come on your motorcycle?” a gravelly voice calls from somewhere near the boulder.

“I can’t take Lara home on my bike. I have no idea of her condition. So I borrowed a car.” One thing I’m sure of: They weren’t watching before Mill Valley to know I wasn’t riding my bike, which means there are probably only three.

“Alright. Come forward and drop the bag when we tell you.”

“I need to see Lara.”

“No. You deliver now or we kill her.”

“Then you get nothing. I’m outta here, and you’ll never find me in this fog.”

“No. OK—we’ll give you the bitch. You step this way and drop the bag when we tell you. Then split. Lara goes free after we make sure the goods are cool.” The voice sounds different and as Vicki predicted, I recognize Todd Perry’s—Lara’s Beat boyfriend—an amateur. Maybe all of them are amateurs, thus unpredictable. The whole setup smells of death. God help us.

“No,” I say, keeping down, moving across the slope in the direction of the voice, “you show me Lara, and we do an exchange. Or else, you’ll never see the diamonds. Hey, you’ve got me beat to hell on numbers. Do you think I’m crazy enough to take on all of you?”

Silence again, longer this time.

Finally, Todd says, “OK, daddy-o, here’s the bitch.”

Two forms emerge and gain definition—one pushed forward by the other—Lara with Todd behind, probably holding a gun. Standing, I raise my hands, so Todd can see the satchel in one, the other empty.

“Lara?” I call, ready to dive if Todd trains the gun on me.

“Help!” she cries, her voice muffled by what looks like a paper sack over her head.

Lara wears the same brown blouse, pants and boots, but they’re disheveled and soiled. Her arms seem tied behind her.

“OK, man, you’ve eyeballed her! Drop the satch now, or I’ll croak her!”

Todd seems a hazy menace in the mist, still in black turtleneck and pants, his head a nebulous black shape.

“Do it, man, or they’ll kill me!” Lara shouts hysterically. “You too!”

I believe her.

“Shut your yap, slut!” Todd cuffs her shoulder with the gun butt—she yelps.

I say: “Be cool. I’ve got what you want.”

Although smart enough to use Lara as a shield, Todd seems tense and nervous—not ready to do anything. How many am I up against? What’s their plan? To give me Lara and once they have the diamonds, shoot us both?

“Here are the diamonds.” I set the satchel on a large stone. “Now, I’m backing off. You check the goods. I’ll wait, but you keep Lara where I can see her.”

Todd seems frozen in indecision, then retreats, yanking Lara with him.

She screams and stumbles disjointedly like a marionette with strings missing.

They disappear into the fog, and I say:

“Come get the diamonds, and give me Lara.”

“How do I play this game?” Todd’s voice faintly from behind the grey scrim.

“Get the diamonds, stupid!” a low voice growls softly.

Todd and Lara become visible again. She utters a sob. He cuffs her again.

As they advance, I back step and also move downhill, keeping them and the satchel barely visible in the shifting haze. I can’t see Etta, but certain she’s there. Drop to my belly in the tall grass, yank the .45 from my boot, release the safety, inch forward on my elbows.

Todd halts, his black-stockinged head twisting round—looking for me. From behind him, his other boss commands, “Go on! Get it!”

He advances towards the satchel, pauses, perhaps wondering where I’ve gone, stoops beside Lara, scoops up the bag, letting his gun drop from Lara’s head.

Lunging upward, I bring my automatic down hard on Todd’s wrist, causing him to drop his gun, and throwing both him and Lara to the ground.

I smash again at Todd with the .45, grazing his cheek, grab Lara with my other hand, rip the sack from her head and swing her downhill.

She yells in fright.

“Keep rolling and stay down!” I call.

Todd comes at me, kicking my forearm, causing me to drop the .45. I jab my fist into his crotch—he yelps, doubles over and I down him with a punch on top of his head. Todd seems stunned—immobile, at least for the moment.

I search for my gun, glancing rapidly from the grass before me to the grey mass covering the slope above. I hear Lara moving below. “Stay down and stay still!” I call, but the sound of her movements continue, grow fainter, then silent. Damn! I don’t know where she is—hope they don’t either—wishing she’d gone the other way, towards where Etta should be.

Instead of my .45, I find Todd’s gun, a .32 Browning automatic—a pistol with limited range and accuracy, but its mag holds eight rounds. Better than nothing.

Todd lunges for me and I pound his head hard with the Browning’s barrel, hoping he’ll stay down this time.

My attention shifts between Todd and the area above. Silence. A soft breeze rises and fills the air with a soothing sound, moving the mist in translucent sheets.

A minute passes, then several shots come, thudding into the ground, pinging off stones nearby—from two locations above—one from a big gun with a loud report.

I’m in the War again—and shoot back—ducking, rolling, not staying still, firing in the direction of both flashes, my eyes searching madly for the enemy. A diffuse figure to my right moves towards me firing a big gun, louder than a .45. I fire a volley back with the Browning—my aim is crap, as the form keeps coming and fires again, kicking dirt in my face. I continue shooting, rolling away. Abruptly, the Browning is empty, not that it did any good.

“Fug!” I yell.

Immediately, three shots flash from the fog bank to my right—Etta.

With a sharp cry, the advancing figure withdraws out of sight. Silence again.

“Sean, you OK?” Etta calls.

“Yes! Move so they don’t spot you.”

Searching for my .45, I worry for Lara—they’ll kill her if they find her. I wish I knew where she is, hoping she stays still. I hear a rustle. Todd is stirring.

I slide down and find Todd grappling on the ground. He’s got a gun—my .45. I stomp his wrist, give him a body kick, then bash his head harder with the Browning.

Hear movement above. A shot comes, further to the right, the big gun.

Using my .45, I fire three fast rounds at the flash above and drag Todd to his feet, gripping his black turtleneck collar, jamming my gun into his neck. “Come on, you son of a bitch, move your ass or I’ll blow your head off!” I thrust Todd upward, in front of myself.

“Help!” Todd cries. “Daddy-o’s got me! Don’t shoot!”

But they do: a human shape gains substance to my left and several shots flash before I can fire. Todd lurches. I fire the .45 twice and the shadowy figure withdraws into the grey curtain, then Todd’s dead weight sags and carries me down. I wriggle free as we fall and roll to one side.

“Sean!” Etta screams.

“I’m OK. Move!”

Reloading, I wait a moment. Another. Silence. I hurl Todd’s empty .32 upward. The whang of metal striking stone. Wait for sound or movement. Nothing. Another minute passes. I check Todd. Blood spills from his chest in two places. The pulse in his neck ceases. Pull the stocking off Todd’s head. Dusky vapor like damp dust clings to Todd’s tormented face. He died hard and I’m sorry.

I call, “Lara, are you alright? If there’s anyone around you, don’t move or answer me. Stay still.”

“Sean, please help me,” she answers faintly from far to the left.

“Shut up and change position! Etta, you OK?”

“Yes,” comes from somewhere to my right.

I crawl upward, the tree assumes form. The boulder solidifies beside it. For three full minutes I lie waiting, looking for movement in the mist, listening—then a low whimpering voice:

“Sean? Where are you? I’m scared.”

“Lara—move again, and be quiet.”

I crawl closer to the source of her voice. Are Todd’s partners still here? Not sure.

“Please!” Lara screams.

“I’m coming.” Keeping low, I dash towards her voice and drop again to my belly.

“Please untie me.”

“Just wait, OK?”

“OK,” a little sob.

A minute passes in the silent mist. Then the sound of scuffling, far to the right, wonder if it’s Etta. A shot—recognize her .32, then another shot, the big gun—then another from Etta, and a yelp. Stumbling footsteps pound up the slope.

“Etta!” I scream, and she responds:

“Everything’s cool! I think he’s leaving.”

I call: “Lara, where are you?”

“Here, here.”

I find her huddled deep in the grass below the great live oak, hands tied behind her back, blouse ripped open and pants filthy. I thank God she’s alive.

“Todd,” she says, “ce foutu baiseur de porc… I hope he rots in hell!”

“He’s dead.” I untie the crudely tied ropes. “Who were his partners?”

“I only recognized him.”

“How many others are here?”

“Two—three!” Lara grabs me. “They were going to kill me—they were going to kill me!” I hug her soothingly: “You’re safe now,” and catch a full whiff of her foul smell—a mixture of stale urine, sweat and excrement.

“Where are we?”

“Mount Tam.”

“Where on Tam?”

“You know the cover picture on my book? That’s where we are.”

“Wow! Please take me out of here, take me home. Please?”

“I will.”

“Who’s helping you?”

“A friend.”

“Please, can we go?”

“We need to get your mother’s diamonds.”

“To hell with the diamonds,” she mutters.

“I’ve got the diamonds.” A hazy Etta emerges.

“Lara, meet Etta,” I say.

Etta smiles. “Hi Lara—you OK?”

“I think I’m in shock.”

Etta twitches her nose, evidently catching Lara’s odor. “I’d be surprised if you weren’t.”

We help Lara up. She stands unsteadily.

From above, a car door slams, then an engine revs. I ask Etta:

“How many kidnappers did you count?”

“Two shooting at us.”

“Lara said maybe three.”

“Was she counting the body I found near the diamonds?”

“That was Todd Perry. Lara’s ex-boyfriend.”

“Totally exed now,” Etta quips grimly.

“Good riddance,” Lara mumbles.

Half carrying and half dragging Lara, we move up the hill towards our car, guns drawn, watching for movement. Etta says:

“I winged the guy trying to get the bag. Maybe I hit him earlier, too—or the other one.”

“You did good. I missed completely.”

“At least one has driven away.”

“One may still be here,” I say.

Lara falls. “It’s like I can’t walk.”

“Did they give you drugs?” Etta asks, lifting Lara out of the tall damp grass.

“I don’t know—I don’t think so. I wish they had.” She drops again, stands up. “Merde!”

The fog lightens, if one can call something ‘lighter’ which has gone from near darkness at noon to a softer, dusk-like grey. The mist swirls, parts briefly, and the MG, then the yellow sedan appears, seemingly abandoned across the road.

“If that’s the car they brought me in,” Lara says, lurching ahead, “I want my bag.”

Etta reaches to stop her, but Lara stumbles on and opens the rear door, emerging triumphantly hugging her big brown Hermès shoulder bag, like a child hugging her favorite doll.

Etta and I remain kneeling in the grass at the edge of the road, nervously searching the fog on the slope behind us. She says:

“Did they all leave in the other car?”

We crowd into the MG, Etta and Lara scrunching together on the passenger seat, and head quickly down to the ranger station. I say:

“Lara, please tell no one about Etta being here. This is extremely important: I was alone. Etta was not here. Nobody helped me.”

“Well, you both saved my butt for sure. I can’t thank you enough. Ever. Ever and ever. Sincerely, I mean that.” Turning away, she gives a muffled sob.

Etta hugs her. “Just remember—Sean saved your butt alone—OK?” She grins at me: “And in case you wonder, I have all my brass safe in my pocket.”

“Good girl.”

“I’m a good goirl, I yam.”

At the ranger station, Lara and I leave Etta hunkered down in the car. The ranger isn’t there, but a phone is on his desk.

Reaching a Deputy Underwood at the County Sheriff’s Department, I report on the escaping kidnappers and how to find Todd Perry’s body and possibly one of his killers wounded and in hiding. Then I call Annabel. Crying with relief and delight, she speaks to her daughter.

Driving again, I drop through the fog, taking the twisting turns with care and stop in a pullout. “There should be a roadblock ahead. Etta, you need to disappear.”

She curls tightly on the floor beneath Lara’s legs. I cover her with my motorcycle jacket, and a light throw blanket from the MG’s boot. She explains to Lara:

“My father is well-known. If the newspapers learn who I am it might hurt him. That’s why you can’t say I helped—OK?”

Three squad cars and six cops form the roadblock at the intersection with Panoramic, leading down into Mill Valley. After Lara and I identify ourselves, we’re waved through, and Etta resurfaces.

The trip becomes uncomfortable for everyone: Lara feels squeezed, unable to breathe, forcing Etta to half sit on the gap between the seats, pressing the shift lever, pressing me against the driver’s door. Taking the freeway, I drive to Ross as fast as possible, while asking Lara about the kidnappers.

“I have no idea who the others are,” she says softly. “But I’m glad, really glad you killed Todd.”

“I didn’t. They did.”

“Probably they were afraid I would identify him.”

I ask Lara what she remembers to help identify the kidnappers.

“One baiseur de porc had a gruff voice—I hate him the most—but his partner only mumbled. I hardly understood anything he said. They ran the show. Todd was their flunky. Gruff Voice was always telling him what to do, and Todd went along—le baiseur de porc.” My knowledge of French is slight, and an amused Etta translates: “Lara is saying her kidnappers mate with swine—using various determiners, singular and plural.”

Leaving Etta guarded by the gatepost lions at the foot of the Melville estate, I drive Lara up to the house.

Annabel rushes down from the front veranda and hugs her madly. Not parting from Lara, she tearfully takes the satchel of diamonds, saying, “Thank you,” drops it, and returns to embracing her most prized possession.

Departing quickly, I retrieve Etta. She says:

“It’s over, thank God.”

I give her a kiss. “Yes… thank God. And you saved us.”

“I feel like getting blind drunk tonight.”

“The cops will have questions. We did leave a dead man behind.”

“I didn’t shoot him, and I just want to stay invisible. But right now I’m starved.”

Stopping at the new Guasco’s Market across from the theatre in San Anselmo, we buy the ingredients for making chili without beans, and Etta chooses two cases of what looks like a good Cabernet Sauvignon.

Driving narrow, fog-impacted Center Boulevard to our home, she says:

“I haven’t had a good walk in days, but visibility’s so bad, I’m scared.” She giggles. “We survive being shot by killer-kidnappers, and now I’m afraid of being hit by a car—so ordinary, so normal. But not this fog. It reminds me of the final plague in DeMille’s The Ten Commandments. The black mist God sent to take all the first born of Egypt. Scary. But it’s also comforting. Protective. There’s something peaceful about it. I felt good for a while when I was alone on the mountain, before the shooting started. The fog helped us save Lara and ourselves.”

In Fairfax, I drive through the downtown to get gasoline, and we pass the Fairfax Theatre.

“Wow! Do you see that? Touch of Evil is playing! It looks like it ends tonight.” She glances at her watch. “We’re just in time to catch the only show.”

“Sure! How to release the stress of almost being killed—watch it done for fun.” We buy popcorn to assuage our hunger, and let the black and white convolutions of Orson Welles’s Touch of Evil sweep us into a mesmerizing world of grey ambiguity. At the end, we kiss in agreement—a marvelous movie. Etta says:

“Welles took a mediocre novel about a corrupt cop and created a tragedy about a cop who’s so clever he’s deceived himself, as though Welles is commenting on his career. The movie is endlessly intriguing. You’re never certain what’s coming next. Like all great noirs, it’s open to different interpretations—there are many shapes to see in its mysterious darkness.” She grins and whispers. “How did you like Marlene Dietrich?”

“I knew you’d ask… impressive.”

“I love it when she says to Orson, ‘you should lay off those candy bars.’ Now we need to lay into dinner.”