Chapter 15
AFTER THE CALL Stilwell remained standing and studying the wall map.
He located Soapstone Quarry on it and saw that it did appear—at least on the map—to be only a short distance from Black Jack Mountain.
He and Tash had gone on several hikes over the eighteen months they had been together, but most of those were along the coast. Hiking the interior of the island was less appealing to Stilwell, largely because he feared he wouldn’t be able to keep up with Tash, who was eight years younger and not carrying an ounce of extra weight.
Not wanting to embarrass himself, he always chose the hikes that didn’t involve climbing mountains.
Tomorrow would be different.
While he was looking at the elevations printed on the map, he noticed a road that cut away from the Trans-Catalina Trail, went east toward the mountaintop airport, then connected to Echo Lake Road.
There was no name on the map for the cutaway road, but it was a black line as opposed to the yellow line for the TCT.
According to the map’s legend, a black line was a road accessible by vehicle.
Without taking his eyes off the unnamed road, he called Tash back.
“I’m looking at a map that shows the TCT, and there’s a road that cuts away from it on Black Jack Mountain,” he said. “Any idea what that road is?”
“It sounds like you’re talking about Black Jack Road,” Tash said. “It goes east?”
“Yeah, directly east.”
“Then, yes, that’s Black Jack Road. It goes down to the ironwood grove and Echo Lake.”
“What’s the ironwood grove?”
“It’s just a protected area because the Catalina ironwood tree is slowly disappearing. There are supposedly only about a hundred groves left on the island. The one you’re talking about is the oldest.”
“Well, doesn’t grove mean a bunch of trees?”
“Ironwood trees share an underground root system. So basically, a grove is really one tree. Everything is connected.”
“Then why are they disappearing? Aren’t they called ironwood because they are strong and durable?”
“Climate change—rising temperature, drought. They may be hard on the outside but they’re vulnerable on the inside. Like you.”
“I don’t know about that. But can we get to this grove on the hike tomorrow?”
“Sure, but it’s off-trail. You think it has something to do with Angela?”
Stilwell noted her use of the missing woman’s first name.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll see you at the house and explain more. I’ve got to get back to this.”
“Okay,” Tash said. “See you at the house.”
Stilwell disconnected and went to the desk. He took a black marker from a drawer and tore a page from the scratch pad he kept next to his keyboard. He then went back to the map, held the white paper against it, and traced Black Jack Road with the marker.
He pulled out his phone and called the cell number Renée Ballard had given him. She answered right away.
“Stilwell?”
“Yeah, listen, are you still at work?”
“I’m here.”
“Do you have the backpack there?”
“Uh, no. Laffont took it downtown to the crime lab on his way home.”
“Did you take photos of it?”
“No, but I’m sure they’ll do that at the lab. What’s going on? You sound hyped up about something.”
“I am. Hold on. I’m going to send you photos.”
He took the phone away from his ear and put the call on speaker so he could use his hands. He sent Ballard the photos he had taken of the backpack before he’d sealed it in the plastic trash bag for transport to the mainland. Then he took a photo of the paper he had just traced Black Jack Road on.
“Okay, you still there?”
“I am.”
“Did the photos of the backpack come through?”
“Yes, they did. What’s going on?”
“This is kind of crazy but I noticed that on the panel under the straps of the backpack, there is kind of a squiggle made with a permanent marker. You see it?”
There was a pause.
“Yes, I see it. A squiggle. What does it mean?”
“Okay, hold on. I’m sending you another photo.”
He texted the photo of the scratch paper.
“You get it?”
“Got it.”
“Okay, you see the mark on the backpack? Compare it to the mark on the paper I just sent.”
He waited.
“Okay, they’re the same,” Ballard said. “What does it mean?”
“The mark on the paper is what I just traced off a map of Catalina. It’s a road up in the mountains that connects to the trail that Angela Metier told friends she was going to hike.”
Ballard said nothing.
“I think our killer put a map on the backpack that he left for us to find.”
“A map to where he put her?”
“What I’m thinking.”
“You’re right. This is kind of crazy.”
“But it works. It fits. I mean, what are the chances the two lines would match up perfectly like that? For whatever reason, he’s reaching out to us.”
“Like he wants to play a game of I’m-smarter-than-you.”
“Exactly.”