The Wonder Test Page 9

  She sips her coffee, seems to be considering her options, then blurts out a name. I don’t write it down, just commit it to memory.

  “It would have been on Valleywag, Recode,” she rationalizes. “Forever after, I would have been the tech exec who meets up for quickies in cars. This industry isn’t exactly female-friendly. Once the public gets the scent of a scandal, things can go sideways. There would be repercussions for the company.” She peers at me from red-rimmed eyes. “I know,” she says. “So freaking predictable, a Silicon Valley techie with no moral compass. I’m sorry. I really am.”

  She’s getting defensive, so I dial it back, try to reestablish the rapport. “Whatever happened to your swimmer from college?”

  “Ah,” she says. Her eyes dart up and to the left, honestly recalling the memory. “I fucked it up. I panicked and split. Seeing a pattern here?”

  “We all have regrets.”

  “She got married, had children. I went back to my old boyfriend. Shithead lawyer, good on paper, bad in bed. Then I got married. Then I got divorced. I should’ve stuck with the swimmer. I see that now. She looks fantastic.”

  “You still hang out?”

  “No. She does the Ironman Triathlon every year. I DVR it. Sometimes I check out her Instagram.” The hint of a smile. “So on top of it all, I guess you could say I’m a stalker.”

  20

  Kinshasa is one of the most dangerous cities in the world. Why, then, are the diamond sellers able to travel the downtown streets daily, carrying bags of expensive diamonds, with no fear of theft?

  Caroline’s eyes are red and puffy from crying. I hope it’s not something Rory did.

  They slide into the back seat, sitting close together. “We got the results back from the Wonder practice test,” Rory says before I even ask.

  “You have a very smart son who has a very dumb girlfriend,” Caroline mumbles.

  I don’t even know where to begin unpacking that sentence. Girlfriend?

  “Tonight is movie night at the school,” Rory announces cheerfully, trying to distract us all from what Caroline just said.

  “Movie night?”

  “The fundraiser. Remember, they made us buy tickets?”

  “Right.” I’ve written so many checks to that school, I have no idea what I’ve bought.

  “Can Caroline come with us?”

  “Of course. Parents out of town?”

  “Yes,” Caroline says.

  “Where?”

  “Vienna, I think.”

  “Your father is a diplomat?”

  “Yes,” she says. “My mother is”—she pauses—“a diplomat too.” The way she meets my eyes in the rearview mirror, I suspect she knows they’re more than diplomats.

  “That’s interesting,” I say.

  “Interesting for them.”

  When we return to campus at six thirty in the evening, the soccer field is decked out in twinkling lights, a movie screen showing the candy factory episode of I Love Lucy. Rory and Caroline head to the food line. I watch as they make their way across the field, arms touching. Caroline’s hand reaches for Rory’s, their fingers interlock, and she stands on her tiptoes to plant a quick kiss on his cheek.

  I have one goal tonight: to find Gray Stafford’s parents. This afternoon, I ran Bill Stafford’s name and checked out the shady business dealings that led to his stint at Lompoc. I also looked into his software start-up, but nothing came up. In photos of Bill and Lacey from charity events over the last several years, they look like a typical Greenfield couple. They’re about the same age, probably met in college or grad school. He’s well dressed and tan, a little thick in the jowls. Her long platinum hair, smooth forehead, and toned physique point to countless hours in barre class and the aesthetician’s chair.

  Scanning the field, I locate the two of them sitting on a plaid blanket. I weave through the crowd and wedge my blanket in beside them. By the time the movie starts, the night is dark and cold. Rory and Caroline have disappeared. I try to make conversation with Lacey, but she’s not interested. She looks considerably older than she did in the photos taken just two and three years ago, her forehead etched with deep lines, her hair brittle. After a tortured attempt at small talk, I offer, “I’m Lina, new in town.”

  “I know who you are,” Bill Stafford replies.

  Although I instinctively dislike Bill Stafford, the way he exudes arrogance, my gut tells me that Gray’s disappearance wasn’t related to his dad’s business dealings. Lacey ignores the exchange, sipping wine from a plastic cup and scrolling through her phone.

  At first, I don’t recognize Gray when he returns to sit with his parents. With hair down past his shoulders and a San Francisco Giants jersey hanging off his thin frame, he barely resembles the photos of the bald, rescued boy. The only empty spot on his family’s blanket happens to be right next to me. When his mother tries to switch places with him, pointing out he can’t see the screen from there, he replies, “I don’t care.”

  His tone isn’t rude, just jarringly emotionless—the same flat affect I’ve witnessed in so many trauma victims over the years. His plate is nearly empty, just lettuce and watermelon, a few green beans. Any armchair psychologist might speculate that the once-promising athlete, in the aftermath of his ordeal, is protecting himself by changing his body, making himself less noticeable. I could be wrong, but the whole vibe—the long, straggly hair, the ill-fitting clothes, the whiff of body odor—seems to be a wall he has built purposefully.

  “Did you catch the Giants game on TV last night?” I venture, ignoring Bill Stafford’s glare.

  Gray doesn’t look me in the eye. “I watch all of them.” Then he talks about Gorkys Hernández batting leadoff, Johnny Cueto and his hair.

  A shadow of the kid he once was is still visible in Gray’s strong shoulders and his height, attributes he can’t hide no matter how much he tries. His vocabulary and sentence structure, however, are not as finely formed.

  “Are you a Warriors fan too?” I ask.

  His dad stands abruptly. “Son, let’s go.”

  “What about Ben?” Gray wants to know.

  “He’s spending the night with James,” Lacey replies.

  “He should come home with us,” Gray says, a note of panic in his voice.

  Lacey puts an arm around her son’s shoulders. “Your brother will be fine, sweetheart.”

  Gray stands up and steps off the blanket, holding the paper plate in front of him, as his mother quickly folds the blanket and his father gathers their things.

  Gray leans down to pick up a compostable fork that he has let drop to the ground. “You’re Rory’s mom, right?” he whispers.

  “Yes.”

  There’s something haunted and intense in his green eyes. “Rory will be fine.”

  Or, at least, I think that’s what he says. But I can’t ask him to repeat himself, because his mother is tugging him away.

  I watch them threading their way between the blankets and food trays, this tragic family, every mother and father glancing up at Gray as he passes, some more obvious than others.

  In the car, as we’re driving Caroline home, I ask if they have plans for the weekend.

  Caroline frowns. “The school has me seeing a math tutor on Saturday, typing tutor all day Sunday, the reading technician Sunday night. That stupid test is all anyone cares about.” And then she launches into a tirade against the Wonder Test, the school, and the American system of education. “In France the school system is so rigid, everyone tells me it will be better in America, but c’est la même chose!”

  When she’s angry, Caroline’s French accent becomes even stronger, a bit of French peppered in with the English. She directs me left on Forestview, and then droite on Oakhurst. Her home sits behind a huge iron gate with brick columns rising up on either side. A mail slot is cut into the left column, above it an
engraved gold plate bearing the name Donadieu. As we approach the property, she pulls out her iPhone and presses a few buttons. The imposing gate yawns opens. The wide, tree-lined driveway goes on for half a mile, the trees ultimately giving way to a view of a massive turn-of-the-century stone mansion.

  “This is your house?” Rory says.

  “I know. It’s a little, how do you say . . . a little beaucoup.”

  The house is famous around here. Even by Greenfield standards, it’s grand. It was built by the French government for their ambassador more than a century ago. The architecture is stately, the shrubbery indigenous to the French countryside, the clay in the driveway mined in Bordeaux. It was all designed to be a French refuge on the edge of America—to make the ambassador and his family feel at home, even when they weren’t.

  The house is dark except for a sconce on the porch and a dim yellow light emanating from a corner room on the third floor. A window must be open, because I hear Edith Piaf’s “Non, je ne regrette rien” spilling into the night.

  “Someone’s home?” I ask.

  “Blandine. The house manager. You do not want to tangle with Blandine.”

  Caroline thanks me for the ride, gives Rory les bises—left cheek, right cheek, left, plus a peck on the lips—and hops out of the Jeep. As she approaches the porch, the massive front door swings open, and she disappears inside the mansion.

  21

  A twenty-foot boat is being rowed by ten men, a ten-foot boat is being rowed by five men, and a twenty-nine-foot sailboat is being sailed by two women. Which boat is moving faster and why? Illustrate your answer.

  A text message arrives from George: Have to pay my new friend, can you witness?

  Am I allowed to do that on LWOP?

  LeSaffre says yes.

  When?

  1 p.m., same bench? BTW this guy knows me as Damien.

  See you then, Damien.

  I park on a residential street near Coyote Point and walk the path toward the meeting spot. Instinctively, I double back twice to make sure I’m not being followed. The tradecraft is second nature. You don’t just stop looking over your shoulder after sixteen years in the business. I arrive four minutes early and wait on the bench.

  At 12:58, I spot George walking toward me with a slender man in dark slacks. From their body language, I understand that George has made significant progress in the relationship. As they approach, the source puts his arm around George’s shoulder. George tilts his head, confiding something. The source smiles. I stand and walk toward them.

  “This is my friend Anne,” George says.

  The man reaches out to shake my hand. Firm handshake, damp palm. “Nice to meet you, Anne. Damien speaks highly of you.”

  “Likewise.”

  I feel George slide something surreptitiously into the side pocket of my purse.

  “Anne was kind enough to bring something for you,” George says.

  I reach into my purse and pull out the envelope George just deposited there. From the thickness and weight of the envelope, I can tell it’s about five thousand dollars. George and I have done this many times. I open the envelope, pull the blank receipt out, and hand the envelope to George, who passes it to his new friend. The friend quickly slides it into his coat pocket. He does what they always do, some more discreetly than others: runs his hand over the envelope, squeezing to feel the size. The motion is almost imperceptible. He’s done this a few times himself.

  George gives me a pen and a small notebook. I initial the receipt, using the notebook as a surface, and George does the same. As he gives the pen to his friend, he says to me: “Where are my manners? My friend here is known as Wheeling.”

  “Yes,” the man says, understanding, writing the word “Wheeling” on the source code name line.

  For years, George has chosen his source’s code names from a poetry anthology he keeps at his desk. As Wheeling folds the paper, I remember others who came before him—Quartet, Raven, Red Wheelbarrow, many others. The source names I devised were more playful: surfing terms suggested by Fred—Over the Falls, Pointbreak—or the names of candy bars no longer in production: Marathon, Hi-Noon. Sometimes you choose a name for someone you think will be a minor source, and seven years later, when you’re still in the weeds of a case that won’t go away, you wish you’d given it more thought. Maybe one day I’ll tell you about Nickel Naks.

  I hand George the receipt, nod to his friend. “Thank you, Wheeling.”

  “No,” the man replies in his halting accent. “Thank you, Anne.”

  22

  David Bowie once said that it’s not who does something first that matters, but rather who does it second. Explain why he was right using historical examples from the hard sciences.

  Pedaling through the streets of Greenfield before sunrise, I have a clear purpose beyond the ride and the doughnuts. I pedal all over town, including around the golf course, looking for Mr. Beach. My shirt is drenched in sweat, and I’m about to give up when I get a glimpse of the bushy hair and electric-blue shorts on Forestview.

  He’s really moving, even faster this time. I hold back, tailing him from afar as he turns up Oakhurst and loops back toward ­Ripley. I set the stopwatch and odometer on my phone. If he senses me trailing him, he doesn’t let on. It’s when I’m checking the ­numbers—a five-minute pace on wet tarmac, uphill, forty-eight-degree weather—that I realize where I know him from.

  My father ran track in high school. Even into his sixties, he took regular runs down California Drive to the track at Burlingame High. On Saturdays, he always had the TV tuned to a track meet. Every four years, he’d camp out in the living room and watch the Olympic track and field events. He got me interested in running when I was in high school, long enough to show me I had inherited some of his genes, long enough for me to win a few races. Ultimately, I gave it up, opting for a good bike ride instead.

  For years, I listened to his lengthy monologues on the current state of track, absorbed trivia about the latest big star in the mile or 1,500. How many times did I sit side by side with him in our house in San Bruno, kicking back in matching recliners, watching old videotapes of Olympic events and other legendary races? Dave Wottle, Jim Ryun, Lasse Virén. He had them all in a box beside the TV. I bet that box is still around here somewhere.

  Why do I tell you this? Because I’m certain that Mr. Beach is not Mr. Beach. Sure, he is Mr. Beach to the students and everyone else in this town, but not to me and not to a smattering of track fans who remember a race from a wet January day in 1983. The Kezar Mile. Maybe you’ve heard of it.

  Before metrics, the mile was the race. Arguably the most important track event in history was that day in Oxford, England—May 6, 1954—when Roger Bannister ran the first four-minute mile. An even better race took place months later in Vancouver, the Miracle Mile, when Bannister and his Australian rival, John Landy, met. More than 100 million people listened to the live radio broadcast. On a work trip to Vancouver a couple of years ago, I drove out to the stadium to see the famous statue from the race: Landy in bronze, forever caught looking over his left shoulder while Bannister flew past him on the right, a potent reminder never to lose focus, never to take your eye off the finish line.

  Anyway, by 1979, dozens had run a four-minute mile, but no one had done it in San Francisco. So the Golden State Brewing Company planned a race to bring the first four-minute mile to the city by the bay. A one-time, one-off event to promote their new brand of beer. They called the race the Kezar Mile. They offered a huge cash prize, so the race attracted all the big names. But the day of the race, it rained, crazy rain, sideways rain, whipping over the ocean and straight up Irving Street. Because the prize money would only be awarded to a runner who broke four minutes, most of the big-name competitors scratched. There were rumors the company would cancel the event, but the ticket refunds would have been too expensive. They postponed it from 10:00 a.m. to 1
1:00 a.m. and then to noon, waiting for the storm to let up. It never did. By 3:00 p.m., when the first runners started to gather on the track, most of the crowd was long gone and the remaining few were drenched and shivering.

  Just as the race was finally about to start, the organizers discovered that the rabbit they’d hired had disappeared. A rabbit, if you don’t know, is paid to set the pace for the real runners, keep things moving, break the wind, help everyone else go faster, and then pull off right before the final lap.

  At the last second, some guy steps out of the stands and offers to be the rabbit. The announcers don’t even get his name. He has bushy red hair, and he’s wearing ripped-up shorts, old waffle trainers, and a T-shirt from Glen Park Hardware. As the cameras pan in on the real runners, you can see they’re skeptical of his abilities. The mic even catches one of the announcers asking his cohost: “Is that the rabbit or just some homeless guy?”

  But they need a rabbit, and this guy has volunteered, so the organizer puts him out there. When he takes off in a flash, the other runners fall in line behind him. There’s the Olympian, Mike Torre, and the Brit, Gavin Telfer, Florent Briand, and this Finnish guy I loathed, Ute Vironnen, with his sharp spikes that came up too high and his sharper elbows that swung far too wide.

  My father’s video of the race is burned into my memory. When the rabbit is still leading the pack after two straight fifty-nine-second laps, the announcer stops referring to him as the rabbit and starts referring to him by the name on his shirt, Glen Park.

  “Glen Park, Ute Vironnen, Mike Torre, Gavin Telfer, Florent Briand, down the back stretch . . .” The announcer was an Irish guy who was famous for his hysterical shouts following soccer goals. To this day, his call of the Kezar Mile is more famous than the race itself—the hyperbole, the screaming, the final home-stretch narration that was used for years in the opening credits of ABC’s Wide World of Sports. “Glen Park, drenched in rain, the wind threatening to blow these runners off the track, Ute Vironnen, Mike Torre fading, Briand all but washed away in the flood . . .”