called Danny Rogers’ parents to ask if I could see them urgently. It was Danny’s mother who answered the phone. My stomach knotted as I informed her that XK59 had killed her son and that I had been recruited by the CDC to determine how the poisoning had occurred. Stoically, she agreed to meet for an interview, but because she felt she would be too emotional to do so at her house, she suggested we meet at a park along the coast south of Half Moon Bay where Danny often surfed.
After picking up a car, I drove to a hotel south of San Francisco. In the sleepless hours that passed, I stared at the ceiling. At 3 a.m., hours before my alarm was set to ring, I checked out and began driving toward the coast knowing I’d reach my interview spot long before Danny’s parents were due to arrive. I drove slowly, allowing GPS to lead me along Highway 101 south, but as I traveled, I flicked on the light and filed through my wallet for a slip of paper. It prompted me to reprogram the GPS with the address to Danny’s house in Marinero. Although Danny had invited me repeatedly to visit him there, I’d never done so because of scheduling issues. The time had come to pay that visit now.
I left the freeway and began climbing the coastal hills. Moonlight pierced the fog in silver daggers only to be stanched by a thick blanket at the summit. My headlights became useless as their beams shattered into a thousand rays. I slowed to a crawl and hugged the middle of the road for fear of careening into a canyon.
The hairpin bends eased to gentler curves that wound through fields of artichoke, garlic and evergreens destined for Christmas stands. At one point, I picked up speed and sailed into a dip that sent my stomach to the floor. After gliding over a knoll and passing more farms, I came to a junction with Highway 1, the famous strip that ribbons the Pacific.
I stopped to ponder my decision to visit Danny’s home. It meant traveling south rather than north which would take me away from the interview spot. Tepidly, I turned south and passed a desolate stretch of bluffs. Five miles beyond the junction, I came to a wind-blown sign reading
Marinero
that led me to a narrow road heading away from the ocean. It scaled a hill before dropping into a valley where I came to a tackle shop, withering church, and convenience store.
After turning onto a gravel lane, a shower of stones pelted the underside of my chassis. I followed the lane up a hill, passing a meadow with cows huddled in a lifeless form that reminded me of peat piled in Irish bogs. An orchard appeared on my right, its trees laden with green persimmons. After a series of bends, the lane ended before a log cabin where a pickup truck sat in front, its tags reading
Surf’sUp
. Beyond it, off to the side across a grassy patch, the blades of a wind turbine turned in the swirling fog.
I parked the car and followed a path between surfboards standing on end among bonsai trees. It brought me to a cabin embedded in a hill such that the roof consisted of grasses and bushes. Only the front was exposed to the world, and I approached it cautiously, peering through a window into the dark interior. Seeing no sign of life, I placed a hand on the door knob but stopped short when a loud whirring startled me. I wheeled about to find the windmill moaning in a stiffening wind.
I turned the knob but the door was locked. Returning to the window, I checked to see if it might open, but it didn’t. Picking a stone from the garden, I smashed the glass and slipped an arm through the gap. With a turn of a lever, I lifted the frame and climbed in. A flick of a switch brought a lonely bulb to life that illuminated a single room partitioned into four zones: a sitting space with lounge chair, desk, and wood stove; a kitchen and small table; a bed and dresser; and a work shop with a surfboard propped on a stand.
It was a mahogany roll-top desk with sliding door that caught my eye. I approached it and lifted a photograph
After picking up a car, I drove to a hotel south of San Francisco. In the sleepless hours that passed, I stared at the ceiling. At 3 a.m., hours before my alarm was set to ring, I checked out and began driving toward the coast knowing I’d reach my interview spot long before Danny’s parents were due to arrive. I drove slowly, allowing GPS to lead me along Highway 101 south, but as I traveled, I flicked on the light and filed through my wallet for a slip of paper. It prompted me to reprogram the GPS with the address to Danny’s house in Marinero. Although Danny had invited me repeatedly to visit him there, I’d never done so because of scheduling issues. The time had come to pay that visit now.
I left the freeway and began climbing the coastal hills. Moonlight pierced the fog in silver daggers only to be stanched by a thick blanket at the summit. My headlights became useless as their beams shattered into a thousand rays. I slowed to a crawl and hugged the middle of the road for fear of careening into a canyon.
The hairpin bends eased to gentler curves that wound through fields of artichoke, garlic and evergreens destined for Christmas stands. At one point, I picked up speed and sailed into a dip that sent my stomach to the floor. After gliding over a knoll and passing more farms, I came to a junction with Highway 1, the famous strip that ribbons the Pacific.
I stopped to ponder my decision to visit Danny’s home. It meant traveling south rather than north which would take me away from the interview spot. Tepidly, I turned south and passed a desolate stretch of bluffs. Five miles beyond the junction, I came to a wind-blown sign reading
Marinero
that led me to a narrow road heading away from the ocean. It scaled a hill before dropping into a valley where I came to a tackle shop, withering church, and convenience store.
After turning onto a gravel lane, a shower of stones pelted the underside of my chassis. I followed the lane up a hill, passing a meadow with cows huddled in a lifeless form that reminded me of peat piled in Irish bogs. An orchard appeared on my right, its trees laden with green persimmons. After a series of bends, the lane ended before a log cabin where a pickup truck sat in front, its tags reading
Surf’sUp
. Beyond it, off to the side across a grassy patch, the blades of a wind turbine turned in the swirling fog.
I parked the car and followed a path between surfboards standing on end among bonsai trees. It brought me to a cabin embedded in a hill such that the roof consisted of grasses and bushes. Only the front was exposed to the world, and I approached it cautiously, peering through a window into the dark interior. Seeing no sign of life, I placed a hand on the door knob but stopped short when a loud whirring startled me. I wheeled about to find the windmill moaning in a stiffening wind.
I turned the knob but the door was locked. Returning to the window, I checked to see if it might open, but it didn’t. Picking a stone from the garden, I smashed the glass and slipped an arm through the gap. With a turn of a lever, I lifted the frame and climbed in. A flick of a switch brought a lonely bulb to life that illuminated a single room partitioned into four zones: a sitting space with lounge chair, desk, and wood stove; a kitchen and small table; a bed and dresser; and a work shop with a surfboard propped on a stand.
It was a mahogany roll-top desk with sliding door that caught my eye. I approached it and lifted a photograph
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