of future need, and no buyers exist for Wyvern. Of the numerous military
bases closed following the collapse of the Soviet Union, some were sold
off to civilian interests, transformed into tracts of houses and
shopping centers. But here along California’s central coast, vast
reaches of open land, some farmed and some not, remain in the event that
Los Angeles, like a creeping fungus, should eventually cast spoors this
far north or the suburban circuitry of Silicon Valley should encroach on
us from the opposite direction. Currently, Wyvern has more value to
mice, lizards, and coyotes than to people.
Besides, if a would-be developer had placed an offer for these 134, 456
acres, he would most likely have been rebuffed. There is reason to
believe that Wyvern was never entirely vacated, that secret facilities,
far beneath its increasingly weathered surface, continue to be manned
and to carry out clandestine projects worthy of such fictional lunatics
as Doctors Moreau and Jekyll. No press release was ever issued
expressing compassionate concern for the unemployed mad scientists of
Wyvern or announcing a retraining program, and since many of them
resided on base and had little community involvement, no locals wondered
where they had gone. Abandonment, here, is but a refinement of the
sophisticated camouflage under which this work has long been performed.
I reached an intersection, where I stopped to listen. When the restless
moon rolled out of its covers yet again, I turned in a full circle,
studying the ranks of houses, the lunar-resistant darkness between them,
and the compartmentalized gloom beyond their windows.
Sometimes, prowling Wyvern, I become convinced that I am being
watched not necessarily stalked in a predatory way, but shadowed by
someone with a keen interest in my every move. I’ve learned to trust my
intuition. This time I felt that I was alone, unobserved.
I returned the Glock to my holster. The pattern of the grip was
impressed into my damp palm.
I consulted my wristwatch. Nine minutes past one o’clock.
Moving out of the street to a leafy Indian laurel, I unclipped the phone
from my belt and switched it on. I squatted with my back against the
tree.
Bobby Halloway, my best friend for more than seventeen years, has
several phone numbers. He has given the most private of these to no more
than five friends, and he answers that line at any hour. I keyed in the
number and pressed send.
Bobby picked up on the third ring, “This better be important.” Although
I believed that I was alone in this part of Dead Town, I spoke softly,
“Were you sleeping? ”
“Eating kibby.” Kibby is Mediterranean cuisine, ground beef, onion, pine
nuts, and herbs wrapped in a moist ball of bulgur and quickly
deep-fried.
“Eating it with what? ”
“Cucumbers, tomatoes, some pickled turnip.”
“At least I didn’t call when you were having sex.”
“This is worse.”
“You’re way serious about your kibby.”
“So entirely serious.”
“I’ve just been radically clamshelled, ” I said, which is surfer lingo
for being enfolded by a large collapsing wave and wiped off your board.
Bobby said, “You at the beach? ”
“I’m speaking figuratively.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Sometimes it’s best, ” I said, meaning that someone might be tapping
his phone.
“I hate this crap.”
“Get used to it, bro.”
“Kibby spoiler.”
“I’m looking for a missing weed.” A weed is a small person, and the term
is usually but not always used as a synonym for grommet, which means a
preadolescent surfer.
Jimmy Wing was too young to be a surfer, but he was indeed a small
person.
“Weed? ” Bobby asked.
“A totally small weed.”
“You playing at being Nancy Drew again? ”
“In Nancy work up to my neck, ” I confirmed.
“Kak, ” he said, which along this stretch of coast is not a nice thing
for one surfer to call another, though I believed I detected a note of
affection in his voice that was almost equal to the disgust.
A sudden flapping caused me to leap to my feet before I realized that
the source of the sound was just a night bird settling into the branches
overhead. A nighthawk or an oilbird, a lone nightingale or chimney swift