A Stranger Lies There Read online

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  1972

  Desert

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  City

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Sea

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  White Water

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Author’s Note

  Copyright

  For Ronda, who brought this stranger to life

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to: Michael Murray, Ruth Cavin, Barbara L. Taylor, Melody Hampton, Sharleen Bazeghi, Reed Dinsmore, Toni Plummer, Tanisha White, Lisa Santamaria, and my family, especially my wife, Ronda Hampton, and my daughter, Allison.

  1972

  They let loose with the fire hoses around eight, two hours after it started. Somebody shot a flare gun into a tree and the dry pine needles ignited, turning the tree into a column of fire. The hard, horizontal rain suddenly stopped as the water was redirected toward the flames. They crackled and warped, licking the night sky. Glowing embers dropped like bombs onto the roof of the administration building.

  I knew what it must’ve looked like from above: an anthill that had been disturbed, everyone scattering in all directions, eyes wild, faces lit orange and white by the flames and the floodlights over the area. I was almost to the edge of the mall, where the trampled grass ended. It was getting harder to avoid the billy clubs and the men in riot gear. The woosh of the water cannons couldn’t drown out the blaring megaphones. A metallic screech pierced through, impossibly loud, and I turned to see the microphone stand onstage topple over. An amplified thump silenced the feedback. Then the water hit the electronic equipment, on loan from the music department, and sparks exploded, as if in slow motion, like fireworks from a great distance. Blue-white flames joined the orange ones above. The sound system began shorting out, a steady buzzing sound gaining volume. To my left, I caught sight of Turret fighting his way through the crowd before someone with a handmade sign staggered into him. The reinforced posterboard got him above the eye, drawing blood. Then the lights went out.

  * * *

  A half mile away, I finally reached Rowland House and started up the stairs to the second floor. The dormitory was nestled in a pine forest on the other side of a wooden footbridge spanning a small creek on the eastern edge of the UC Santa Cruz campus. Most nights you could smell pine needles and wild berries, and the ocean if the wind was right.

  But not tonight. Tonight smoke was in the air, a physical manifestation of the rebellion that had taken over. A warm glow spread into the western sky, back where hundreds of students still hadn’t gotten it out of their systems. It could have been a football game, except for the sirens and the mechanized voices from the megaphones, and I thought I heard glass breaking too. A helicopter suddenly streaked overhead, blades thwacking, heading for the vortex. I watched its spotlight recede to a point, then continued up the steps in my damp clothes.

  There weren’t many people around. I was one of the few that had made it back, so far. Ellen’s apartment was three down, and I found the door slightly open. Joni Mitchell drifted out, tranquil and serene. As I stepped inside, the record skipped and stuttered, spewing gibberish. I walked over and lifted the needle.

  “Hello?” Ellen called out from the bedroom as I drifted toward it. “I’ll be right out,” she said.

  I stopped in front of her open door. She was lifting her damp shirt over her head. Her breasts were soft and milky white, nipples still hard from the cold water we’d been doused with. I found myself staring, unable to look away. Ellen smiled. I took a step closer, heart pounding. Still smiling, she gently closed the door.

  “There are some towels in the bathroom,” Ellen said from behind it.

  I didn’t bother. Went back into the living room, then the kitchen, where I found a beer in the fridge. It was next to some sprouts that were a little too green and a carton of chocolate milk. After opening it, I walked to the window and took a look outside. The beer made me shiver and I put it on the windowsill. Outside in the courtyard a few people had started a bonfire, but it was only to dry off. They danced around the flames in a shamanistic display, enraptured by the heat.

  Ellen had come into the room behind me. “Where is everybody?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Lost ’em,” I said, turning around. “Just like you.”

  Ellen smiled again and went into the kitchen. Picked up a glass from the counter, and after dumping what was in it into the sink, filled it from the tap. She’d changed into another T-shirt with a suede vest over it and blue jeans with butterfly patches sewn into the fabric.

  “It was wild out there,” she said after taking a few gulps, standing there in the kitchen. Her long silky hair shone in the overhead light. It was parted in the middle and secured with a beaded Indian headband.

  I turned back to the window and watched them dance out by the fire. “It was bound to happen,” I said, picking up the beer. “Probably worse up front, wasn’t it?” Ellen had made her way through the crowd as it went on, drawn by the words coming from the stage. Rory and Greg and I had hung back together, taking it all in, joining in the chanting that rose up every now and then. Glenn was about to follow Ellen, but he’d glanced at me for a second and changed his mind.

  “Nice to see everybody so fired up about it,” Ellen said. She took a seat on the couch in the window’s reflection.

  Earlier today, the committee on presidential debates had denied the third party candidate, Tom Duncan, a place in the upcoming televised debate. Called him a fringe candidate with no serious stake in the campaign. He was against the war, for civil rights, and liable to shoot his mouth off at all the wrong times. But Duncan was passionate and idealistic, with a huge following among the college-age segment of the population. In other words, he was scary as hell to the political establishment.

  The cops had shown up almost immediately, sparks in a tinderbox, and things had escalated quickly. Which was exactly what they’d wanted, I supposed, all for the evening news and middle-class America—youthful rebellion run amok.

  Ellen got up and switched on the TV. As expected, the sounds of protest blended with what was still going on outside.

  “We made the news,” she said enthusiastically.

  No kidding, I thought, seeing Turret appear in the courtyard alone. Passing the bonfire, he stopped and did
a little dance before moving on. I could’ve sworn he was mocking the others, who seemed oblivious.

  “Glenn’s back,” I said as he reached the stairs. Ellen jumped up to meet him at the door.

  “Oh, what happened?” she asked when she saw the blood above his eye, reaching up to put her hand on it.

  “Motherfuckers,” Turret muttered, striding past her into the kitchen. Ellen followed him, found a towel, which she proceeded to wet, then started dabbing his forehead with it.

  “Goddamn pigs with sticks,” Turret explained. He leaned back against the sink while Ellen tended to him.

  I knew he was lying about what had happened. That it wasn’t the cops with their billy clubs, but a fellow protester with a cardboard sign. I kept quiet anyway.

  Greg came in then, running his hand over his wet hair, those water hoses not sparing anyone.

  “Any sign of Rory?” Turret immediately asked him.

  “Smoking a bone with 1A,” he replied, which didn’t surprise me. They always had the choice stuff down there, and Rory never could pass up an offer.

  “’Cause we got some serious talking to do, you guys,” Turret said, still in the kitchen with Ellen.

  When she finished with him, Turret went to the refrigerator. “Anyone want a beer?” he asked, looking inside. Before anybody could answer, he took one out and closed the door. Put the bottle in the opener on the edge of the countertop and smacked his palm against it. The cap fell and rattled around on the floor. Turret ignored it. He guzzled a third of the beer and came over to sit on the couch next to Greg. Ellen sprawled in a beanbag chair, one eye on Turret, the other on the TV. I stayed standing near the window.

  “Look at those fuckers,” Turret said, shaking his head, referring to the authorities trying to restore order.

  Greg nodded. “City statute says we have the right to assemble peacefully—”

  “You think that’s going to stop them?” Turret interrupted impatiently. “I been telling you guys, we gotta do it another way. All our flower-power, peace and love b.s. ain’t gonna get it done, man. They just laugh at us. Right before they smash our heads against the wall.”

  Ellen winced but then nodded. Greg just stared at him, uncharacteristically quiet. Normally the most talkative one in the room, Greg tended to speak in a rapid-fire stream of words, like he was afraid his audience would lose interest if he didn’t get it out all at once. A political science major with a short afro and almond-shaped eyes, he aspired to one day open a political consulting business. I knew him through Ellen, who’d met Greg in one of her philosophy classes.

  We watched TV quietly for a few minutes. The newscaster talked about how many arrests had been made. Ellen closed her eyes, seemed satisfied that the injustice done to her candidate had inspired such outrage on campus. A petite blonde with emerald eyes and a dreamy smile, she’d roped Greg and Rory and me into running flyers and going door to door for Duncan, who had an office downtown. Ellen was drifting toward a sociology major. I’d settled on history, with no particular emphasis yet. We’d also met on campus. I’d been trying to pursue something with her since the semester started, but she’d casually brushed me off without actually saying “no.” Then we’d met Turret.

  This was in the student union bar near the end of last semester, right after Duncan’s campaign speech in the university gymnasium. Ellen had been flushed and glowing, excited by Duncan’s growing support, and the place was wall-to-wall people all talking about the address. We were in the back near the pool tables. A neon Hamm’s beer sign lit Ellen’s face, coloring her pale blond hair softly. She’d just convinced us to help out on the campaign, and bought us all a round in honor of our pledge. She raised her drink, a sparkle in her eyes, and said, “To victory,” as we clinked glasses.

  “A better world,” Greg offered.

  Rory was drunk. “To splitting the curl.”

  I’d hesitated. “To victory,” I finally said.

  I remembered the crack of the cue balls then, turning to see them scatter on the green felt of one of the tables. When I turned back, someone else had joined our group.

  I’d never seen him before, though he stood out pretty well. A few years older than us, late twenties or so. He wore a white button-down shirt and pressed black jeans, shined patent leather boots. Medium height. Hair long on top and short on the sides, long sideburns almost reaching his jawline. Quick, intelligent eyes behind John Lennon glasses, and a forceful, confident way of speaking that made you want to listen.

  He’d started by asking Ellen if she wanted a drink, correctly assuming her leadership role, then launched into a debate with her and Greg about the politics of the counterculture, whether we’d ever be accepted by the mainstream establishment. Turret thought then, and still did, that our methods were all wrong. That we should try sneaking in through the back door, right under their noses. Ellen, challenged by his viewpoints, took to him immediately and welcomed him into our circle.

  Then Turret disappeared for a few weeks. Time to “check us out,” he said. Later on, I wondered why we hadn’t done the same for him. But we started meeting a few times a week, and continued through the summer. Always at Ellen’s place, which had also been checked out. Turret was real careful, agents and listening devices everywhere. The get-togethers had to be spur of the moment. Ellen would get the word from Turret and track each of us down in person.

  A few weeks ago, he’d told us his idea. Each meeting since then had been on the same subject.

  Tonight would be no exception. Down below, the bonfire had been abandoned, the flames starting to die down. I heard someone coming up the steps, then stop halfway.

  “That stuff is so good, it oughtta be illegal,” Rory drawled in a cracked, mellow voice to his new friends in 1A. “Next one’s on me.” Then he appeared in the doorway, held on to the jamb to steady himself before veering toward the last spot on the couch, between Greg and Turret. He sat down heavily, bouncing the cushions.

  Turret scowled and got up. Went into the kitchen and put his empty bottle on the sink.

  “So what’s going on?” Rory asked casually. He was a lanky surfer with sun-bleached hair that was always tangled and a permanent grin on his face. Rory knew Ellen from the beach boardwalk where she went to sketch sometimes. Laid-back and relaxed, he had offbeat political views and no visible means of support.

  Turret came back with a kitchen chair, put it next to the couch and sat down. Leaned forward with his hands folded. “You guys thought any more about what I said?” he asked. I wondered if Turret had planned to bring this up tonight, or whether he was taking advantage of the situation outside. Fan the flames while they were hot.

  Nobody said anything for a moment, then Greg spoke up.

  “You’re talking about a bank robbery. I thought we were committed to nonviolent protest. Peace, man. People could end up dead this way.”

  Turret put his head down, shook his head before speaking. Since meeting us, he’d let his hair get longer and shaggier, and right now it was wet and hanging in his face. “A lot of our friends have already died, fighting in a war nobody wants. How many will it take before we wake up?” He looked at each of us in turn. “And look what our peaceful protests got us today. Cops coming in and instigating, making us look bad. It’s us versus them right now, and they got the power. But if we try and beat them at their own game…”

  “And how are we supposed to do that?” Greg asked. “How does robbing a bank get us anywhere?”

  “I told you. We don’t keep the money. It goes directly, in small chunks, to Duncan’s campaign. Give him a leg up, buy TV time, legitimize his candidacy. That’s what it takes nowadays.”

  “You think a little cash is gonna solve everything?” Greg asked. “I seriously doubt it.”

  The rest of us kept quiet, watching Turret and Greg go back and forth.

  “Maybe not right away,” Turret answered. “But it’s a process. Duncan probably won’t win this time, but the more familiar he is to people, the
better chance he’ll have in four years. Right now, the only time anybody sees him is when those stuffed shirts on TV choose to cover him. And when is that? When there’s a bunch of hippies chanting his name and burning flags. They already won’t let him on the debates. But if he can get out there on his own terms, buying ads … that’s a whole different ballgame.”

  “I don’t know, man,” Rory said. He coughed loudly, hit his chest a few times to clear it. “A Dillinger? Sounds pretty radical to me.”

  “Look,” Turret responded, “our generation has tried a lot of different things, without much effect. Protests and marches don’t do it. Blowing up draft board offices and recruiting centers just turns people against us. We wanna make real changes, we gotta do it from the inside. By getting the good guys into office, into power. Like it or not, that takes money. A lot of money. This is one way to do it.”

  Turret stood up, on a roll now. He paced back and forth, enumerating his points with his hands. “Think about it you guys. The bank I’m talking about finances the Rand Corporation, one of the biggest war machines in the country. Who do you think is electing the politicians, so they can continue selling guns to the very people they’re putting into office? Not you and me, brother. It’s companies like Rand and the bankers that finance them who are in bed with those fuckers in Washington. It’s blood money, man. It deserves to be taken, to get someone like Duncan elected so he can fight for the causes we believe in.”

  “What about all the people who’ve put their savings in that bank? What do we say to them when their money is gone?” Greg asked.

  “It’s all insured Greg, you know that,” Ellen answered. “They won’t lose a dime, the government will pay it all back.” She smiled and turned to Turret. “Far as I’m concerned, that’s another plus to this idea. We’ll be sticking our hands in big government’s pockets.”

  Turret agreed. “That’s right. This is win-win all the way. We hit the warmongers where it hurts, help get a few of our comrades into office, and make the government pay for it all at the same time! It couldn’t be more perfect! All we gotta do is have the balls to get it done, to fight for what we believe in.” He paused for emphasis. “You guys have what it takes? Or you gonna let others do your fighting for you?”