Tule Fog

By R C Ducantlin

Amid the relentless grip of the valley's toxic fog, chilling murders, and treacherous plots unfold, creating an atmosphere of unease and suspense.

The San Joaquin Valley, once a picture of thriving farms feeding the world, has morphed into a cesspool of crime, greed, and decay. The soil singes the skin, toxic fog sears the lungs. The fog is a murder's accomplice, its shroud thickening with each death.

My name is Anthony, and I was a successful attorney. Five days of my life are missing — five days I spent somewhere between life and death. I awoke in an ICU, and they told me my heart had stopped. Now, my heart is wired to the cold precision of the computer placed in my chest. This unexpected second chance brought a chilling revelation, a plot I don't remember creating.

Mary, my new-old friend, insists I created a daring plan to put everything right. A plan I do not remember. Step one involves choosing who should live and who should die. The goal isn't just to save our home from decay but to amass power and fortune.

The smart move would be to escape — leave now and not look back. Fleeing equals death because of the computer in my chest. So, I play along, stepping into a plan I don't recall, walking a path I didn't choose.

They call me clueless, blind to the endgame I created. But will find a reason to make this second life worthwhile.

Unveil the dark secrets and tangled web of a prestigious California Central Valley dynasty in Ducantlin's Tule Fog, where age-old traditions clash with the new generation's ambitions.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: R C Ducantlin, Ltd.
• Release date: Jun 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781949211832

R C Ducantlin

Fortunately, in secondary school, my interest in reading was sparked. A close friend and an instructor, who took interest in a boy he later called ‘The rebel without a clue.,’ were instrumental in my learning the value of a good book. Both piqued my interest in reading. My lifelong friend inspired me to read J.R.R. Tolkien and I became addicted to the fantasy genre. The instructor required I read interesting historical novels for academic credit. Frank Norris, Leon Uris, and Ken Follett are inspirations and fuel my love of history. Born to a military family, it was logical that I follow the military tradition. However, after four years of “yes sirs” and scraping the wax off floors I decided there must be more fun in a corporate career. Thirty plus years of work experiences across the globe, the corporate career landed me in Colorado, where I live with my wife and I can be close to my children and grandchildren.

Book preview

Prologue

San Diego Cancer Center

May

S arah, this place is one of the best cancer treatment centers in the world. I’ve taken care of everything. The kids are with your mother. Your ex said he’d help with the kids.

Kyle? Did you speak to Kyle? How did you find him?

I have a team who can find just about anyone. Come, let me help you. Do you think you can walk into the hospital?

I can walk. It’s nice being near the ocean. The fog doesn’t form here. The breeze is nice. This campus is beautiful. Look at all the flowers.

Hold my arm. I won’t let you fall.

Anthony?

Sarah, it’s going to be okay.

You are a terrible liar. It is not going to be okay. Will you be sure my kids and parents move to a safe neighborhood? Please.

Sarah, you’re going to be there when the movers come. Isabella and Ethan are safe and will grow into good people with your help.

Kyle doesn’t get any of the money. You make sure Kyle doesn’t get a penny. Keep him away from my parents and the money.

Toby knows what the attorney should say and what a friend would tell someone who is afraid. Not known for having a kind nature, the long-time lawyer hedges. Sarah’s ex, Kyle, will probably come around when the settlement money arrives.

I’ll make sure Kyle doesn’t get any money. He has parental rights, so he will see the kids if he asks.

That’s good. He won’t come around when he learns there is no money for him. Anthony?

Yes, Sarah?

You should marry that nurse.

How do you know about her?

She’s an ER nurse, and I have cancer.

Marry is a big step. Maybe a couple of dates first. Three steps, can you make it?

I can make it. They told me you were the wrong lawyer for my case. Your reviews online are not kind. Lots of people don’t like you. I saw it in your eyes, and I like your fire. Thank you for listening to me. Thank you for ending the suit. Thank you for being kind and generous. I know it’s hard for you. Anthony, I love you for what you did for my children and me.

I’ll grab that wheelchair. Please sit. We have to find the correct floor.

Tulare County Cancer Center

June

N urse?

Mister Bertrand, Sarah has passed. Are you okay?

I am okay. I was remembering something Sarah said to me when I took her to San Diego for treatment. I’ll be okay. Thanks.

Tulare Memorial Park

August

Idon’t remember being dead. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. A floating out-of-body experience — nope. Dead relatives wanting to chat — nada. All I remember from the lost time in the ICU is a glimpse of the nurse, Grace. For someone with a powerful memory, losing five days of your life is disturbing. Life is odd. The wonders of modern medicine, more, please. I have gone from the experience of being dead to standing in this cemetery.

Grace was lovely — I wish I could remember talking to her. Remembering talking to anyone that week would be nice.

The Tule Fog surrounds the graveyard and dances among the funeral-goers. These are people I do not know. The attendees, Sarah’s family and friends are trying not to trip over the scattered tufts of grass that are desperate to hang on to life. A cloak of decaying lichen, amber and red tendrils swaddle the headstones.

A rusting iron fence hugs the boundary between the dead and the living. Once, there were acres of a lush green duvet blanketing the dead. It is too bad that this garden of remembrance was rundown and neglected before the hard times came.

There is nothing pleasant about this graveyard. Beyond the iron boundary are the homes and strip malls built on the Tulare.

Joni Mitchell got it right: They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.

Rising from the creeks and canals, the Fog lingers in a gray glow of death. The heavy haze prevents me from seeing too far beyond the fence. I know there are thousands of houses fighting to keep the moisture from finding a fissure. Cracks in the wood and stucco façades allow the mist to initiate a building’s long decline into nothingness.

The Fog cannot be stopped, and the structures are growing older and weaker. Every day is one step closer to their descent into an abyss of urban decay. Decay. Like my memory of that week — lost forever.

California’s Central Valley was an expansive marshland before the settlers came. The founders of this county named it Tulare after what the native peoples called the reeds in the lakes and swamps. The Spanish word tule refers to the bulrushes that grow in marshy lowlands. Tule became Tulare.

For millennia, nutrient-rich vapor has risen from the marshlands and bayous. Decaying vegetation climbed into the sky, suspended in liquid ether. Renewal wafted across the fertile land in a cycle of sustenance unimpeded for thousands of years. The Fog settles on the barren fields, no longer bringing only the nutrients of life.

Everyone has hidden their face since the troubles began. Waterproof coverings are necessary to protect the lungs and the skin from the sting of the Fog. In the water vapor, ions float along, slowly destroying everything they touch.

The Tule Fog has become a long death suspended in a cloud.

That’s it. It is done and dusted. The coffin is lowered into the ground, and the minister cannot leave fast enough. Mourners follow the clergyman, murmuring about where to get brunch.

No one speaks to me.

Decent people don’t enjoy talking to someone who was, not too long ago, dead.

One

Bertrand Law Office

Tulare County

March

N ot again. Son of a bitch. Something has to change. You assholes will catch a forty-five in the forehead if you keep screwing with me.

Why am I yelling at an empty parking lot? Screaming at the fog doesn’t help. Every few days, I have to collect the trash and return it to the overflowing container. The dumpster divers find nothing of value in the rubbish. I shred everything because there is nothing wrong with being thorough. Sarah liked that about me. Too bad the county banned burning. The trash thieves know there is nothing to uncover about Sarah’s case in the stinking dumpster. But they continue the hunt for information scraps because it’s their job. Scavengers are happy there’s a paycheck at the end of searching the trash for information. For a bit of money, they climb into the wretched dumpster.

This time was different. The scavenger-spies learned what I did and became angry. Instead of dropping the garbage next to the container, they threw it across the parking lot. Sifting through rancid garbage in a bin, with an odor that will gag maggots, is terrible enough. Pissing on the trash to keep away the scavengers backfired. Foraging through piss-soaked refuse is vulgar, and collecting the wet mess from the asphalt is disgusting.

I deserve the indignity.

Sarah was right. I need to be more sociable. Sarah was someone I should have listened to more often.

Here they come. Like a scene from Better Call Saul, the desperate queue Monday through Friday, beginning when the sun rises. They seek hope I cannot provide. First, I’ll finish gathering the trash. Then, wash up, make coffee, and interview potential clients.

The wanna-be clients think my law license, and one big win, gives me an advantage. There is no advantage. The Covid virus created the pandemic. The pandemic quickened the economic collapse, leaving the single enduring truth.

Survival.

People accept their reality with a deep breath of resignation. It’s the new normal. Unfortunately, too many people enjoy an existence mired in willful ignorance. Selenium and the Kesterson National Wildlife Refuge are a memory lost in the deluge of reality television.

Screw it. I’m overthinking again and must stop. Sarah always knew when I was in my head and how to pull me back. You would have thought being dead might have helped my problems with attention and focus. It is time to make coffee and interview clients.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

Señora Ramirez, I can do nothing for you or your daughter. The infection from the virus began the troubles. The pandemic lockdown triggered the economic collapse. Now, the courts are limited to emergency cases. If we could sue the manufacturers and the prior landowners, a favorable settlement would take decades. There is no money without a settlement. It would take time, time we do not have, to fight a battle we cannot win.

Waiting for Señora Ramirez’s teenage daughter to convert my message into Spanish is difficult. I feel bad making the teenager translate because I could have spoken Spanish. While waiting for the translation, I like to think. Her face and height are not typical for the child of an immigrant laborer. The girl’s father is Caucasian. Too many of the women working the fields spend their Saturday nights in honky tonks looking for a quick green card. Mexicans, Central Americans, Asians. All looking for the green paper of acceptance that is a ticket to a better future.

My conference room is private, but the mother and daughter do not remove their outer coverings. The girl has thin burns on her hands and under the makeup on her face that cannot hide the sores. Delicate wounds weep until the girl pats her cheek with a long-used tissue. I know the scars on her arms are long, lean lines. Others seeking my help have the same wounds and worse.

The pair work side-by-side in the tomato and onion fields. Their hands are disfigured from touching the dew on the plants. Long sleeves and a scarf around her neck hide what is happening to the elder Ramirez.

Helping the young woman with the words she does not yet understand is a kindness. Señorita Ramirez is fifteen, maybe younger, and Señora Ramirez is in her late twenties or early thirties. It’s hard to tell a person’s age after two decades of laboring in the fields. The sun, the dust, and the backbreaking labor are not kind. A future in the harvesting fields is the legacy migrant mothers leave their daughters.

It’s happening to everyone. I’m one of the lucky ones who can afford protective clothing. I received a burn once, which left a pockmark on my cheek. Three years ago, no one guessed rain gear and N95 masks would become as valuable as gold.

"Here is the name of a lawyer who may take your case. When the courts open again, if they open again, she can file the suit for you. She will know to carry to Sacramento to file the case in the correct court.

Thank you for your time.

Handing the page from my notepad to the daughter, the next person in line marches toward the empty chairs before the conference room door closes. Meeting in the conference room is my preference. My office is my sanctuary.

No one shakes hands now, and fist bumps have become rare. People like their faces hidden behind masks and goggles. Complaining about the loss of human contact is the new universal whine. Before the troubles, I limited shaking hands to when it was expected. The one bonus from the pandemic: No touching.

Here we go again. Another mother wants to know if I can do anything to create a future for her children. Hour after hour, this is my life, telling people they will die poor with their skin peeling away. My workday is hours of repetitive questions and answers. I live an existence that is a daily grind of delivering disappointment to people seeking help for problems that cannot be solved.

Oh well, I signed up for this. Let’s see who is next. Oh, the next person searching for legal comfort is a pretty redhead. She has pulled away her protective veil, confirming she is not from the fields. Do I know her? I know her. Maybe. Her hands are soft, and her clothes are newish. The slight frame she carries well is not suited for work in the acres of crop rows or the processing centers. She’s in her late thirties. Maybe she’s closer to my age, early forties. Applied well, her makeup is sparse. It’s time to focus.

You found a chair. My name is Anthony Bertrand, but call me Toby. How can I help you?

I know who you are, Mister Bertrand.

Great. What’s your name?

All in due time.

Leaning back, she has an air about her. Intelligent, her delightful smile is hiding something.

Nice one with the trash. My people demanded extra for the inconvenience. I paid my people and cut them loose. They will stop digging in your dumpster, but I can’t speak for others.

It’s time to sit tall and concentrate. I should have been tested for Attention Deficit Disorder in grade school, but few people knew about ADD back then. I was lucky. Teachers saw my struggle and kept me busy with lessons they knew would keep me on task. Damn it. What did she say? I need to stay in the moment, listen and learn.

Thank you. Please repeat the question.

I want to know what you have learned about the Fog. You learned why the Fog burns the lungs, didn’t you? You learned from the Myers’ case.

Mrs.

Miss.

Miss, I know what everyone else knows. Decades worth of too much fertilizer is rising to the surface and becoming suspended in water vapor. The fog carries the ammonia ions and burns the organic matter it contacts.

"That is mostly true. Mister Bertrand, we know what the Federal and State agencies and the Agrochemical companies say about the problems. The persistent fog and its toxicity are an anomaly. Only in the height of summer, close to midday, does the morning fog burn off. What was a seasonal event has become year-round hell. We have heard it all and more. ‘The toxic mist will dissipate.’ ‘The seasons will return to a normal cycle.’ ‘The fog will lose its toxicity and return to water vapor and nutrients.’ That’s all bullshit. You know it, and I know it."

Red is articulate and direct. Why hasn’t she told me her name? I know her. Maybe.

Go on.

"Before the lockdown, you settled Myers v. Montaseyor. I read everything I could find. The filings, the briefs, the discovery, and the transcripts. I didn’t find the answer to one question: How did you force Montaseyor to concede? A multi-billion-dollar settlement with a no-appeal clause is unheard of and amazing."

Well. Okay. Breathe. Red is bright and rocking. Damn, I have to find a girlfriend. Sarah wanted me to date the nurse. Don’t smile. Keep the poker face. No clues or tells.

Why is she leaning forward?

Mister Bertrand, what was not in the documents is what gave you the edge over Montaseyor. What forced a large biotechnology corporation to its knees?

She is beaming. I need to smile.

Mister Bertrand, Toby, may I ask you a few questions?

What’s life without whimsy?

First question, why did you turn down the largest private settlement six times?

I turned it down eight times, and it wasn’t the largest settlement. It didn’t even make the top five.

What changed your mind? You ended the negotiations to settle and take the money. Why did you stop pushing?

One moment.

Standing at the conference room door, facing the lobby, is an invitation for the next person in a crowd of anxious people to stand and move forward.

I’m sorry, but I will not see any new clients today. Come back on Monday.

The displeasure from the potential clients is sharp. M’fer thinks he’s Saul Goodman. Come back Monday? It is Tuesday! We have to wait another