Storm Runners (8 page)

T
he first For Rent sign he saw in Fallbrook was for a guest cottage. The main house was owned and occupied by the Mastersons and their young son and daughter. The Mastersons were early twenties, trim and polite. She was pregnant in a big way. They were willing to rent out the cottage then and there, so long as Stromsoe would sign a standard agreement and pay in advance a refundable damage deposit. The rent wasn’t high and the guest cottage was tucked back on the acreage with nice views across the Santa Margarita River Valley. A grove of tangerine trees lined the little dirt road leading to it. Bright purple bougainvillea covered one wall of the cottage and continued up the roof. It had an air conditioner, satellite TV, even a garage.

Within forty minutes of driving up, Stromsoe had written a check for first and last month’s rent and deposit, and collected a house key and an automatic garage-door opener.

Mrs. Masterson handed him a heavy bag full of avocados and said welcome to Fallbrook and God bless you. Included in the bag was last week’s worship program for the United Methodist Church.

Frankie called him around noon and asked him over for lunch before their drive south to the studio.

“I just moved to Fallbrook,” he said.

She laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“The butterflies sold me. And I’m minutes away if you need me.”

She was silent for a beat. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“WHAT ARE THE wooden towers for?” he asked when the lunch was almost over.

“The one in the picture?”

“The ones in the Bonsall barn.”

Frankie set her fork on her plate. Her expression went cool. “For meteorological instruments,” she said. “I study weather. How do you know about them?”

Stromsoe explained waiting for the idling car and seeing nothing until Frankie came blasting out of the dark in her Mustang.

“So, Mr. Stromsoe—are you a bodyguard or a snoop, or a little of both?”

“You’re being stalked. I hear a vehicle idling near your house. Half an hour later, you leave your home on a code red. What would you have done?”

“Followed me.”

Stromsoe nodded. “Who’s Ted?”

Stromsoe tracked the emotions as they marched across her face—embarrassment, then irritation, then confusion, then control.

“Came right up and listened in, did you?”

“Yep.”

“I don’t like your attitude right now.”

“It comes from thirteen years of being a cop.”

“But you’re a private detective now. You have to act polite and charming.” She smiled. It reversed the stern lines of her face and Stromsoe remembered a time when he actually had
been
polite and maybe even a little charming.

“Ted’s my uncle,” said Frankie. “He’s a retired NOAA guy. That’s National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration. They study climate and report weather.”

“I apologize for following you. I was slightly worried.”

“I’m glad you were worried. That’s why I pay you. You were curious too.”

He nodded.

“The towers are made of redwood and finished with a weather seal,” she said. “They’re twenty-two feet high, and we anchor the legs in concrete on-site.”

“Where do you put them?”

“Mostly around the Bonsall property.”

“You sit on the platforms to escape from yourself?”

She smiled and colored. “No. I told your boss the property was a place I went to be alone, because I didn’t want him asking the same questions you’re asking now.”

“Who cares if you study weather?” asked Stromsoe.

“I was a lot more relaxed about it until I saw that guy on my fenced, posted property, inspecting one of my towers.”

Stromsoe wondered about that. “Are there commercial applications to what you’re studying?”

“Possibly,” said Frankie Hatfield.

“You think the stalker is a competitor?”

“I don’t believe so.”

Frankie explained the value of weather prediction. Its applications were endless—agriculture, water and energy allocation, public safety and security, transportation, development—you name it. When you studied climate you had long-term charts to go on, she said, and generalities became apparent. But predicting
weather
was a whole different thing from predicting climate. Within a general climate, the weather itself could be very unpredictable. That’s where she came in. She was trying to find ways for extremely accurate thirty-day forecasts. Right now, the best they could do was five days. Seven tops, but even NOAA had dropped its seven-day radio forecasts because they were so often wrong, useless, and sometimes even dangerous.

“Global warming is interesting but it’s not my thing,” she said. “I’m interested in telling you what’s going to happen—I mean
exactly
what’s going to happen—
exactly
where you live, one month from now. The precise temperatures, wind, and humidity. The exact amount of precipitation, if any.”

“I didn’t think the conditions arose thirty days ahead.”

“They do but they’re not apparent. That’s where I come in. I’m on the verge of nailing a way to see and measure them.”

Stromsoe waited for that smile again but it didn’t come. He watched Frankie Hatfield’s face as she stared out the window of her dining room to the bright Fallbrook afternoon. She didn’t blink. A flat patina came over her eyes, and it looked as if she were seeing nothing, lost in a thought that overrode vision.

“Right on the verge,” she said quietly, glancing at her watch. “I guess I should go to work.”

FRANKIE AND HER crew shot the live spots around downtown that evening—outside the ballpark, in front of the old Horton Grand Hotel, up on the Cabrillo Bridge leading into Balboa Park. She wore a polka-dot sundress with a white cotton jacket, and a straw fedora. Her weather forecasts were almost identical to the ones of the day before, making Stromsoe wonder how challenging a San Diego meteorologist’s job really was.

Frankie did say that it was looking more and more like the jet stream would carry the low-pressure system into San Diego County, and that Sunday night would very possibly be wet. Monday looked “promising” for rain too, with two more low-pressure troughs “stacked up” behind the first.

The little crowd that had gathered groaned at the thought of a wet weekend in mid-October.

“Rain is life,” said Frankie, smiling. “Sorry.”

The urban settings in which Frankie did her stories made Stromsoe hypervigilant and a little nervous, and he realized how limiting his monocular vision was when it came to surveillance. He wondered if he could accurately fire the Colt Mustang .380 he carried on a Clipdraw on his belt. He hadn’t fired the thing since the bomb. This was one more reason to regret his two-year decomposition in Miami, though at the time it had seemed his only choice. A time for casting out stones.

By Frankie’s last broadcast at 8
P.M
. Stromsoe hadn’t seen the stalker, much less entertained drawing his sidearm.

Just after nine o’clock he was once more following her through
the dark orchards toward her home in the fragrant Fallbrook night. The butterflies lilted through the beams of his headlights.

Again she pulled into her garage and again Stromsoe stopped to make sure she got into the house safely. He heard the dogs start barking inside again too, and he wondered what it was like for this young woman to live alone in the middle of ten acres of avocado and citrus trees, with two dogs, a stalker, and a gun.

She came up to his window, pulling up the collar of her coat against the October chill. Her hat sat back at an end-of-the-workday angle.

“Come in for a cup?”

“I’d like that.”

F
rankie pushed open the French doors to let in the breeze and the smell of the orange blossoms into the living room. Ace sniffed systematically at Stromsoe’s pants. White-faced Sadie lay down and looked up at him.

“I read those articles about you,” she said. “And Dan Birch told me some things.”

“So, are you a weather lady or a snoop or a little of both?”

“I haven’t followed you anywhere yet.”

“You might have a better chance of running down your secret admirer than I did.”

“My money’s still on you,” said Frankie.

Stromsoe nodded.

“I want to say I’m sorry that all those things happened to you and your family,” she said. Her voice was softer than Stromsoe was used to, more confidential. “I felt very strongly that you had endured more than your share. And your wife and son, well, there’s nothing I can say that would do them any justice.”

They were silent for a moment.

“They got the guy, so there’s some of that kind of justice,” said Stromsoe, trying to be helpful.

“There’s no justice when the irreplaceable is taken away,” she said. “Someone’s vision, someone’s life.”

“No. After that you settle for what’s left.”

She looked down at aged Sadie. “Dogs have less problems with that.”

Stromsoe smiled and nodded. For a moment they sat and said nothing. He listened to the frogs and crickets.

Frankie was gone for a while, then back with tea service and a basket of biscotti on a tray. She set it down on the coffee table between them.

“Dan told me you took some time off,” she said.

“Yes, down in Florida mostly. I was here for part of the trial.”

“Are you satisfied with the life sentences?”

“Yes.”

“I would have wanted death,” said Frankie.

“At first, I did too,” said Stromsoe. “Then I realized that if you aren’t alive you can’t suffer.”

“Brutal and true,” she said.

“Exactly. I’ve seen Pelican Bay. He did a year in the Security Housing Unit, which is so bad it can drive men crazy. But he conned his way out. Still, the line is nobody’s idea of fun.”

“Line?”

“The general population.”

Frankie swirled a tea bag through her cup. “I can’t compare any tragedy of mine to yours,” she said. “My parents are alive. I’ve never married and have no children. A good friend died of cancer when we were both twenty-one. That’s the biggest loss I’ve had.”

“I think we’re measured by what we give, not what’s taken,” said Stromsoe. “That was awfully pompous. I mean, I just now made it up. I was talking about you, not me.”

She looked at him with a frankly evaluative cock of head. Again they said nothing for a few moments.

“You seem like a good man, Matt. I’m done with my questions for now. I just like to know who I’m in business with.”

“No apology needed. Questions bring up memories and memories can be good.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.”

“It took a while, but now I do.”

“Will you tell me about them someday, your wife and son?”

“Okay.”

More silence, during which Stromsoe drank his tea and looked out to the very distant lights beyond the avocados.

“Want to see my pickled rivers?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“Come on back.”

The first room off the hallway contained three rows of glass-topped exhibition tables as might be found in a museum. Each row was lit from above by strong recessed bulbs.

But instead of rocks or gems or spiked insects there were mason jars filled with varying shades of clear liquid.

“One hundred and eighty-two rivers, creeks, and streams,” she said. “So far. They have to run year-round to qualify. Eight of them don’t even have names, which I think is majorly cool. My furthest one is the Yangtze in China. My favorite is the Nirehuao in Southern Chile. Very sweet to the taste, very clear, and full of large trout. I boil and filter the water before I taste it. I’m not a complete fool.”

“No, I can see that.”

Stromsoe noted that each mason jar was approximately three-quarters full. Some had sediment on the bottom. In a small stand beside each jar was a color photograph of the body of water, with the name, location, date, and time of day handwritten in elaborate cursive script. On another stand was a map of the world with a tiny blue-, red-, or white-headed pin marking the location.

“Blue for river, red for stream, white for creek.”

“What’s the difference between a stream and a creek?” he asked.

“A stream is a small river. A creek is a small stream, often a tributary to a river. A creek can also be called a branch, brook, kill, run, according to where you go. The truth is there are creeks bigger than streams
or
rivers. The terminology isn’t precise, which adds to the romance and fun of it.”

Stromsoe nodded as he toured the tables. The woman had traveled to every continent to collect jars of river water.

“Why not lakes?” he asked.

“It has to be moving water. That’s just a personal standard I have.”

Stromsoe stopped at the Nile and looked at the pale, sandy-colored water.

“They didn’t turn out quite like I’d hoped,” she said. “I thought each jar would have a kind of spirit to it, something talismanic. After fifty rivers I realized a jar of water is pretty much a jar of water, though
the argument has been made that we drink the same water that Jesus did or Hitler or Perry Como. But when I sign up for something, I’m in for the duration, you know? I go down with the ship. I don’t quit on anything, ever.”

“I’m impressed,” said Stromsoe. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a passion displayed so literally and scientifically.”

“I am a scientist.”

“It clearly shows. Interesting that different rivers have different shades of water.”

“Isn’t it?” asked Frankie. “Really, a hundred and eighty-two shades of water in one room. And each one is from just one
fraction
of its river. Some people might consider this a useless collection of jars. But aren’t they lovely? I had this idea of emptying them all into a clear, curvy, tube like they make for hamsters, and running the little river all over the house.
World River,
I was going to call it. But who wants a river in a tube? They actually have one—the Lower Owens comes out of a concrete tube into the Gorge Power Plant. Then it comes all the way to L.A., mostly in a tube. Weirdest thing to put a river inside something. Makes you want to let it go, like an animal in a cage.”

Stromsoe saw that there were more tables around the perimeter of the room. These were glass-topped also, and contained rocks.

“Those are just river, stream, and creek rocks,” she said quietly. “One from each.”

Stromsoe moved slowly from table to table. Some of the rocks were beautifully shaped and colored; others were dull and common.

“The Blackfoot in Montana has the best rocks,” she said.

“Very nice, almost red,” said Stromsoe.

“If you get that one wet, it has owl eyes.”

“Unusual.”

“The Liffey River jar broke on my way home from Ireland,” she said. “Customs at LAX took the Mures River from Romania, which broke my heart because Vlad the Impaler drank from it. They said it was illegal to import because I hadn’t purchased it. Then Security at San Diego confiscated my Congo from Zaire right after 9/11, which you know darn well Conrad touched. So I’ve got some replacements to get.”

Stromsoe turned to face her. “Is part of your interest which people have touched which river?”

“Part. A river is liquid history.”

“I like your collection.”

“Thank you. What do you think of me?”

“You’re one of the least ordinary women I’ve ever met.”

She blushed and shrugged. “When I hit five-ten in the eighth grade I figured, hey, I’m not ordinary. Collecting rivers was easy after that.”

“Not ordinary is good.”

She nodded. “Well, I’m great, then. Maybe we’ll finish that tea.”

AFTER HE LEFT Frankie’s house, Stromsoe waited at the end of her road again but the red Mustang never materialized. He saw no stalkers or suspicious vehicles. The coyotes hustled by.

He retraced his way out to the Bonsall property, parked in a tight little turnout just past the gate, and walked up the rise. There was no pickup truck out front, no lights on inside. Stromsoe got his flashlight and walked down the dirt road in the waxing moonlight. It had been a while since he’d noticed the difference twenty-four hours can make in the amount of moonlight.

The sweet smell of water hit him—what little river was it that flowed through here, he thought, the San Luis Rey?—no wonder she bought a parcel. He heard owls hoo-hooing to one another from the trees but they stopped as he got closer.

The big sliding barn door was locked. So were both of the convenience doors, front and rear.

He stood on an empty plastic drum and jimmied a window with his pocketknife, climbing through with great slowness and pain. He hadn’t twisted himself into such complex postures in years.

Inside, as he moved his flashlight right to left, he saw in installments the same basic scene as last night—the workbenches in the middle, the tables along the far wall cluttered with their beakers and bottles and drums, the office in the back.

But the second tower now stood complete beside the first. Stromsoe went over and touched it, smelling the clean odor of freshly cut redwood and waterproofing compound.

He went to the tables against the far wall and looked at the labels on some of the containers: sulfates and sulfides, chlorides and chlorates, hydrates and hydrides, iodides, aldehydes, alcohols, ketones.

This close to the chemical containers the barn smelled different—the air was sharp and aggressive.

Stromsoe walked over to the corner office, following his light beam. The door was open and Stromsoe went in. He flicked on the lights and the large, neat room came to life. There were bookshelves nearly covering two of the walls. There was a long table with a computer and peripherals, a phone/fax, and a copier. There were four weather-station monitors with current readouts for exterior and interior temperature, humidity, wind velocity and direction, barometric pressure, daily rain, monthly rain, yearly rain. There was a black leather chair on wheels.
The top of the table was littered with notebooks, science journals, and loose papers held down by rocks. Stromsoe lifted a piece of gray-and-black granite. The sticker on the bottom said
San Juan River, 8/1/2002
in Frankie’s ornate handwriting.

On the office walls were framed black-and-white photographs of a young man with a thin face and a cutting smile. In most of the pictures he wore a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a necktie, and fedora. In some he was standing on towers that looked just like the ones out on the barn floor. In others, he was using gloves and longhandled tools to mix something in five-gallon drums. The smile was self-conscious and playful. It was hard to place the year. Stromsoe guessed the 1920s. He could have been Frankie Hatfield’s great-great-grandfather. A moonshiner? A country still? That would explain the containers, the towers, maybe even the guy’s smile.

Stromsoe went to one of the bookshelves and scanned titles. Most of the books dealt with the sciences—chemistry, astronomy, physics, biology, hydrology, meteorology. Some were state history. But most were about weather and weather forecasting. And most of the volumes appeared to be decades old.

Stromsoe picked one out:
Semi-Tropical California: Its Climate, Healthfulness, Productiveness and Scenery,
published in 1874. It was hardcover, with illustrations, charts, and maps. There was a 1907 edition of
The Conservation of Natural Resources
by Theodore Roo sevelt. And an entire shelf devoted to
Weatherwise
magazines dating back to 1948.

But the shelves along the other wall held more recently published books and articles:
Deepest Valley: Guide to Owens Valley,
1995;
Water and the California Dream,
published in 2000;
Weather Modification Schemes,
2002; and
Cloud Seeding in Korea
from 2003.

There were booklets and stapled abstracts:
Daily Weather Maps, Weekly Series,
collected since 1990;
Making the Synoptic Weather Map,
1998; and
Useful Symbolic Station Models,
published in 1999.

Stromsoe moved down the shelf and looked at titles. On one shelf he found a stack of national weather maps. He could hardly make sense of them for all the symbols and designs. On another, two boxes labeled
letters from g-g-g’pa
. He opened one. The first envelope he lifted out had a return address for Charles Hatfield of San Diego. He set it back in the nearly full box.

A handsome leather magazine holder caught his eye. The first magazine was
The Journal of San Diego History
from 1970. On the cover was an illustration of the same man pictured on the office walls—slender, wearing a suit and hat—apparently analyzing the contents of a test tube of some kind.

The title of the article was “When the Rainmaker Came to San Diego.”

He scanned through the article. “Professional rainmaker” Charles Hatfield had contracted with the drought-stricken city of San Diego to bring forty to fifty inches of rain to the city’s Morena Reservoir in 1916. He was to be paid ten thousand dollars, but only if he was successful. He set up his wooden towers near the reservoir and mixed his “secret chemicals” that he guaranteed would bring rain. A short time later it started raining and didn’t stop. So much rain fell it overflowed the reservoir, flooded the city, broke a dam, and ruined thousands of acres of property. Hatfield was run out of town without being paid.

The last part of the article was interviews with experts who said that Hatfield’s success was simple coincidence, that his secret chemicals were bogus, that Hatfield was a hustler who simply studied the weather patterns for San Diego and tried to defraud the city.