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The Wanderer
Robyn Carr
From Robyn Carr, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the popular Virgin River novels, comes Thunder Point – the highly anticipated new series that will make you laugh, make you sigh, and make you fall in love with a small town filled with people you'll never forget.Nestled on the Oregon coast is a small town of rocky beaches and rugged charm. Locals love the land's unspoiled beauty. Developers see it as a potential gold mine. When newcomer Hank Cooper learns he's been left an old friend's entire beachfront property, he finds himself with a community's destiny in his hands.cooper has never been a man to settle in one place, and Thunder Point was supposed to be just another quick stop. But Cooper finds himself getting involved with the town. And with Sarah Dupre, a woman as complicated as she is beautiful.With the whole town watching for his next move, Cooper has to choose between his old life and a place full of new possibilities. A place that just might be home.


From Robyn Carr, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the popular Virgin River novels, comes Thunder Point—the highly anticipated new series that will make you laugh, make you sigh, and make you fall in love with a small town filled with people you’ll never forget.
Nestled on the Oregon coast is a small town of rocky beaches and rugged charm. Locals love the land’s unspoiled beauty. Developers see it as a potential gold mine. When newcomer Hank Cooper learns he’s been left an old friend’s entire beachfront property, he finds himself with a community’s destiny in his hands.
Cooper has never been a man to settle in one place, and Thunder Point was supposed to be just another quick stop. But Cooper finds himself getting involved with the town. And with Sarah Dupre, a woman as complicated as she is beautiful.
With the whole town watching for his next move, Cooper has to choose between his old life and a place full of new possibilities. A place that just might be home.
Praise for #1 New York Times bestselling author
and USA TODAY bestselling author


“This book is an utter delight.”
—RT Book Reviews on Moonlight Road
“Strong conflict, humor and well-written characters
are Carr’s calling cards, and they’re all present here....You won’t want to put this one down.”
—RT Book Reviews on Angel’s Peak
“This story has everything: a courageous,
outspoken heroine, a to-die-for hero and a plot that
will touch readers’ hearts on several different levels. Truly excellent.”
—RT Book Reviews on Forbidden Falls
“An intensely satisfying read.
By turns humorous and gut-wrenchingly emotional,
it won’t soon be forgotten.”
—RT Book Reviews on Paradise Valley
“Carr has hit her stride with this captivating series.”
—Library Journal on the Virgin River series
“The Virgin River books are so compelling—
I connected instantly with the characters
and just wanted more and more and more.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author
Debbie Macomber
The Wanderer
Robyn Carr

www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
To the magnificent Kristan Higgins,
who is beautiful inside and out.
Contents
One (#u6eec9a31-f427-51aa-9cb6-5e0247cabf72)
Two (#uaf5ee726-ae4a-5b90-9d9d-51f3fc779d11)
Three (#u5a12b3f1-2db0-52b9-af91-76663fd872fb)
Four (#ua076ee54-2cfa-5890-869f-ad11062e4a32)
Five (#u825d8d00-c8f2-5489-b145-6219f0fe535d)
Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
One
It took Hank Cooper almost eight hours to get from Virgin River to Thunder Point, Oregon, because he was towing his fifth wheel, a toy hauler. He pulled to the side of the road frequently to let long strings of motorists pass. Just prior to crossing the California/Oregon border, he stopped at a redwood tourist trap featuring gardens, souvenirs, wood carvings, a lunch counter and restrooms. Skipping the garden tour, he bought a sandwich and drink and headed out of the monument-size trees to the open road, which very soon revealed the rocky Oregon Coast.
Cooper stopped at the first outlook over the ocean and parked. His phone showed five bars and he dialed up the Coos County Sheriff’s Department. “Hello,” he said to the receptionist. “My name is Hank Cooper and I’m on my way to Thunder Point following a call from someone saying my friend, Ben Bailey, is dead. Apparently he left something for me, but that’s not why I’m headed your way. The message I got was that Ben was killed, but there were no details. I want to talk to the sheriff. I need some answers.”
“Hold, please,” she said.
Well, that wasn’t what he expected. He’d figured he’d leave a number and eat his lunch while he waited.
“Deputy McCain,” said the new voice on the line.
“Hank Cooper here, Deputy,” he said, and in spite of himself, he straightened and squared his shoulders. He’d always been resistant to authority, yet he also responded to it. “I was hoping to speak with the sheriff.”
“I’m the deputy sheriff. The county sheriff’s office is in Coquille. This is a satellite office with a few deputies assigned. Thunder Point is small—there’s a constable but no other local law enforcement. The constable handles small disputes, evictions, that sort of thing. The county jail is in Coquille. How can I help you, Mr. Cooper?”
“I’m a friend of Ben Bailey and I’m on my way into town to find out what happened to him.”
“Mr. Cooper, Ben Bailey’s been deceased for more than a couple of weeks.”
“I gather that. I just found out. Some old guy—Rawley someone—found a phone number and called me. He was killed, Rawley said. Dead and buried. I want to know what happened to him. He was my friend.”
“I can give you the details in about ninety seconds.”
But Cooper wanted to look him in the eye when he heard the tale. “If you’ll give me directions, I’ll come to the Sheriff’s Department.”
“Well, that’s not necessary. I can meet you at the bar,” the deputy said.
“What bar?”
“Ben’s. I guess you weren’t a close friend.”
“We go back fifteen years but this is my first trip up here. We were supposed to meet with a third buddy from the Army in Virgin River for some hunting. Ben always said he had a bait shop.”
“I’d say he sold a lot more Wild Turkey than bait. You know where Ben’s place is?”
“Only sort of,” Cooper said.
“Take 101 to Gibbons Road, head west. After about four miles, look for a homemade sign that says Cheap Drinks. Turn left onto Bailey Pass. It curves down the hill. You’ll run right into Bailey’s. When do you think you’ll get there?”
“I just crossed into Oregon from California,” he said. “I’m pulling a fifth wheel. Couple of hours?”
“More like three. I’ll meet you there if nothing interferes. Is this your cell number?”
“It is,” he said.
“You’ll have good reception on the coast. I’ll give you a call if I’m held up.”
“Thanks, Deputy...what was it?”
“McCain. See you later, Mr. Cooper.”
Cooper signed off, slipped the phone into his jacket pocket and got out of the truck. He put his lunch on the hood and leaned against the truck, looking out at the northern Pacific Ocean. He’d been all over the world, but this was his first trip to the Oregon Coast. The beach was rocky and there were boulders two stories high sticking out of the water. An orange-and-white helicopter flew low over the water—a Coast Guard HH-65 Dolphin, search and rescue.
For a moment he had a longing to be back in a chopper. Once he got this business about Ben straightened out, he might get to the chore of looking for a flying job. He’d done a number of things air-related after the Army. The most recent was flying out of the Corpus Christi port to offshore oil rigs. But after a spill in the Gulf, he was ready for a change.
His head turned as he followed the Coast Guard chopper across the water. He’d never considered the USCG. He was used to avoiding offshore storms, not flying right into them to pluck someone out of a wild sea.
He took a couple of swallows of his drink and a big bite of his sandwich, vaguely aware of a number of vehicles pulling into the outlook parking area. People were getting out of their cars and trucks and moving to the edge of the viewing area with binoculars and cameras. Personally, Coop didn’t really think these mountainous boulders, covered with bird shit, were worthy of a picture, even with the orange chopper flying over them. Hovering over them...
The waves crashed against the big rocks with deadly power and the wind was really kicking up. He knew only too well how dicey hovering in wind conditions like that could be. And so close to the rocks. If anything went wrong, that helicopter might not be able to recover in time to avoid the boulders or crashing surf. Could get ugly.
Then a man in a harness emerged from the helicopter, dangling on a cable. That’s when Cooper saw what the other motorists had seen before him. He put down his sandwich and dove into the truck, grabbing for the binoculars in the central compartment. He honed in on a boulder, a good forty or fifty feet tall, and what had been specks he now recognized as two human beings. One was on top of the rock, squatting to keep from being blown over in the wind. The other was clinging to the face of the rock.
Rock climbers? They both wore what appeared to be wet suits under their climbing gear. Thanks to the binoculars, he could see a small boat bouncing in the surf, moving away from the rock. There was a stray rope anchored to the rock and flapping in the breeze. The man who squatted on top of the boulder had issues with not only the crosswind but the helicopter’s rotor wash. And if the pilot couldn’t keep his aircraft stable, the EMT or rescue swimmer who dangled from the cable would slam into the rock.
“Easy, easy, easy,” he muttered to himself, wishing the crew could hear him.
The emergency medical tech grabbed on to the wall of the rock beside the stranded climber, stabilized himself with an anchor in the stone, and held there for a minute. Then the climber hoisted himself off the wall of the rock and onto the EMT, piggyback to the front of the harnessed rescuer. Both of them were pulled immediately up to the copter via the cable and quickly yanked within.
“Yeah,” he whispered. Good job! He’d like to know the weight of that pilot’s balls—that was some fancy flying. Reaching the climber was the hard part. Rescuing the guy up top was going to be less risky for all involved. The chopper backed away from the rock slightly while victim number one was presumably stabilized. Then, slowly edging near the rock once more, hovering there, a rescue basket was deployed. The climber on top waited until the basket was right there before he stood, grabbed it and fell inside. As he was being pulled up, motorists around Cooper cheered.
Before the climber was pulled all the way into the chopper, the boat below crashed against the mountainous boulder and broke into pieces. It left nothing but debris on the water. These guys must have tried to anchor the boat to a rock on a side that wasn’t battered by big waves, so they could climb up, then back down. But once the boat was lost, so were they.
Who had called the Coast Guard? Probably one of them, from a cell phone. Likely the one on top of the rock, who wasn’t hanging on for dear life.
Everyone safely inside, the helicopter rose, banked and shot away out to sea.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes our matinee for today. Join us again tomorrow for another show, Coop thought. As the other motorists slowly departed, he finished his sandwich, then got back into his truck and headed north.
* * *
It was a good thing Cooper’s GPS was up-to-date, because Gibbons Road was unmarked. It was three hours later that Coop found himself on a very narrow two-lane road that went switchback-style down a steep hill. At a turnoff, there was only a sign that read Cheap Drinks, and an arrow pointing left. Very classy, he found himself thinking. Ben had never been known as what Cooper’s Southern grandmother had called “High Cotton.”
From that turnoff, however, he could see the lay of Thunder Point, and it was beautiful. A very wide inlet or bay, shaped like a U, was settled deeply into a high, rocky coastline. He could see Ben’s place, a single building with a wide deck and stairs leading down to a dock and the beach. Beyond Ben’s place, stretching out toward the ocean, was a completely uninhabited promontory. He sat there a moment, thinking about Ben’s patrons taking advantage of those cheap drinks and then trying to get back up to 101. This road should be named Suicide Trail.
On the opposite side of the beach was another promontory that reached out toward the ocean, this one featuring houses all the way to the point. Cooper could only imagine the drop-dead-gorgeous view. There was a marina on that promontory, and the town itself. Thunder Point was built straight up the hill from the marina in a series of steps. He could see the streets from where he was parked. Between Ben’s place and the town was only the wide, expansive beach. Looking down, he could see a woman in a red, hooded jacket and a big dog walking along the beach. She repeatedly threw a stick; the dog kept returning it. The dog was black and white, with legs like an Arabian colt.
The sun was shining and Cooper was reminded of one of Ben’s emails describing his home. Oregon is mostly wet and cold all winter, except for one part around Bandon and Coos Bay that’s moderate almost year-round, sunny more often than stormy. But when the storms do come into Thunder Point over the ocean, it’s like one of the Seventh Wonders. The bay is protected by the hills and stays calm, keeping the fishing boats safe, but those thunderclouds can be spectacular....
Then he saw not one but two eagles circling over the point on Ben’s side of the beach. It was a rare and beautiful sight.
He proceeded to the parking lot, not entirely surprised to find the Sheriff’s Department SUV already there and the deputy sitting inside, apparently writing something. He was out of the car and striding toward Cooper just a few seconds later. Cooper sized him up. Deputy McCain was a young man, probably mid-thirties. He was tall, sandy-haired, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered—about what you’d expect.
Cooper extended a hand. “Deputy.”
“Mr. Cooper, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“What happened to Ben?”
“He was found at the foot of the stairs to the cellar, where he kept the bait tanks. Ben lived here—he had a couple of rooms over the bar. The doors weren’t locked, but I don’t think Ben ever locked up. There were no obvious signs of foul play, but the case was turned over to the coroner. Nothing was missing, not even the cash. The coroner ruled it an accident.”
“But the guy who called me said he’d been killed,” Cooper said.
“I think Rawley was upset. He was kind of insistent that Ben couldn’t have fallen. But Ben had had a couple of drinks. Not nearly the legal limit, but he could’ve tripped. Hell, I’ve been known to trip on no alcohol at all. Rawley found him. Ben kept the money in a cash drawer in the cooler, and the money was still in its hiding place. The one strange thing is,” the deputy said, scratching the back of his neck, “time of death was put at two in the morning. Ben was in his boxers, and Rawley insisted there’s no reason he’d get out of bed on the second floor and head for the cellar in the middle of the night. Rawley might be right—except this could have been the night Ben heard a noise and was headed for the beach. Just in case you’re wondering, there is no surveillance video. In fact, the only place in town that actually has a surveillance camera is the bank. Ben has had one or two characters in his place over the years, but never any real trouble.”
“You don’t think it’s possible someone who knew the place decided to rob it after midnight? When Ben was vulnerable?”
“Most of Ben’s customers were regulars, or heard about the place from regulars—weekend bikers, sports fishermen, that sort. Ben didn’t do a huge business, but he did all right.”
“On bait and Wild Turkey?”
The deputy actually chuckled. “Bait, deli, small bar, Laundromat, cheap souvenirs and fuel. I’d say of all those things, the bar and deli probably did the lion’s share of the business.”
Coop looked around the deputy’s frame. “Fuel?”
“Down on the dock. For boats. Ben used to let some of his customers or neighbors moor alongside the dock. Sometimes the wait at the marina got a little long and Ben didn’t mind if people helped themselves. Since he died and the place has been locked up, the boats have found other docks—probably the marina. Oh, he also had a tow truck that’s parked in town, but he didn’t advertise about it. That’s it. There was no next of kin, Mr. Cooper.”
“Who is this Rawley? The guy who called me?”
The deputy scrubbed off his hat and scratched his head. “You say you were good friends?”
“For fifteen years. I knew he was raised by his dad, that they had a bar and bait shop here on the coast. We met in the Army. He was a helicopter mechanic and everyone called him Gentle Ben. He was the sweetest man who ever lived, all six foot six of him. I can’t imagine him standing up to a robber—not only would he hand over the money, he’d invite the guy to dinner.”
“Well, there you go, you might not have the more recent facts, but you knew him all right. That’s the thing that makes everyone lean toward accident. That, and the lack of evidence to the contrary. No one would have to hurt Ben for a handout. You don’t know about Rawley?”
Cooper just shook his head.
“Rawley Goode is around sixty, a vet with some challenging PTSD issues. He lives down the coast, where he takes care of his elderly father, sort of. He’s not real good around people. Ben gave him work. He helped out here, cleaned, stocked, ran errands, that sort of thing. He could serve customers, if no one expected conversation. People around here were used to him. I think he might’ve been homeless when Ben met him, but his father has lived around here a long time. Interesting guy, not that I can say I know him. Rawley found Ben.”
“Are you sure Rawley didn’t push him down the stairs?”
“Rawley’s a skinny little guy. The coroner didn’t find any evidence to suggest Ben had been pushed. And Rawley...he was dependent on Ben. When Ben died, there wasn’t anyone for us to contact. But don’t worry—the town gave Ben a decent send-off. He was well liked. There are better bars around here to hang out in, but people liked Ben.”
“Yeah, I liked him, too,” Cooper said, looking down. “There must’ve been a will or something. Rawley wasn’t the most articulate guy on the phone, but he said Ben left something for me. Could be old pictures from our Army days or something. Who do you suppose I should see about that?”
“I’ll make a few calls, check into that for you.”
“Appreciate it. And maybe you could suggest a place to hook up the fifth wheel?”
“There are several decent spots along the coast for tourists—Coos Bay is a nice area. You planning to hang around?”
Cooper gave a shrug. “Maybe a few days, just long enough to talk to some of the folks who knew Ben, pick up whatever he left for me, pay my respects. I just want people to know—he had good friends. We didn’t get together a lot, and it sounds like I didn’t get a lot of inside information from Ben, but we were always in touch. And since I came all this way, I want to hear about him—about how people got on with him. You know?”
“I think I understand. This place is locked up. No one would care if you sat here for a while, while you look around at other possibilities. No hookup for your trailer, but you’d be fine for a couple of days.”
“Thanks, maybe I’ll do that. Not a bad view.”
The deputy put out his hand. “I gotta run. You have my number.”
“Thank you, Deputy McCain.”
“Roger McCain, but hardly anyone remembers that. Folks tend to call me Mac.”
“Nice meeting you, Mac. Thanks for helping out with this.”
* * *
Sarah Dupre walked with Hamlet, her Great Dane, down the main street in Thunder Point to the diner. She looped his leash around the lamppost and went inside, pulling off her gloves. This was one of the things she loved about this little town—there was always somewhere to stop and chat for a few minutes. She wasn’t well-known around here, had only lived here a few months, but considering the way she was treated by her new friends, it was as if she’d been here quite a while. If she wasn’t working, she liked to take Ham down to the beach and stop off at the diner on her way home. Apparently she wasn’t the only one—there was always a large bowl of water for dogs by the lamppost. Twin benches on either side of the diner’s front door frequently seated one or two old guys, passing time.
Gina James was behind the counter of the diner. Gina took care of almost everything at the diner except the cooking. There was another waitress at night and a couple of part-time girls, but it was a pretty small shop. Gina’s mother, Carrie, was sitting on a stool at the counter, her friend Lou McCain seated beside her. Carrie owned the deli across the street. Lou was a schoolteacher who helped out with her nephew Mac’s kids when she wasn’t teaching. Two of said kids were in a booth, eating fries and drinking colas, an after-school treat.
Sarah said, “Hey,” and all three women said, “Hey,” right back.
“Something to drink? Eat?” Gina asked her.
“Could I have a water, please? How is everyone?”
“What can I say, it’s Friday,” Lou said. “I won’t be seeing the little bast—er, darlings till Monday morning.”
Sarah laughed at her. “You’re going to heaven for it.”
“If I died and went to hell, they’d have me teaching junior high,” Carrie said.
“And if I go to hell, I’ll be making pies and cakes,” Lou said.
“You have a day off?” Gina asked Sarah.
“For Landon’s football game. I’m sitting alert Saturday and Sunday, that’s the price I pay for it.”
“But no one gives you any trouble about it, do they?”
“Nah. They like weekends off as much as anyone. And I’ll gladly fly weekends if I don’t have to miss Landon’s games. It’s not as though I have any other social life.”
Carrie leaned her elbow on the diner. “Wish I had an exciting career like you, Sarah. Being a pilot beats my job, any day.”
“Tell me about it,” Lou said.
Before Gina could weigh in, the door to the diner opened, the bell tinkling. Ray Anne appeared in her version of a Realtor’s business suit—too short, too tight, too much boobage. She scowled. “Sarah, that dog should be on a leash!”
“He is, Ray Anne.” She leaned back on her stool to look out the glass pane in the door. “He’s all hooked up.”
She wiped at her purple skirt. “He still managed to get me with that awful mouth of his.”
“Well, Ray Anne, you’re just so edible-looking,” Lou said.
“Ha-ha. Well, you’ll never guess what I just saw! The most gorgeous man, out at Ben’s place. He was built like a brick you-know-what—worn jeans, torn in all the right places, plain old T-shirt under a leather jacket. One of those flying jackets, you know, Sarah. Driving one of those testosterone trucks, pulling a trailer... Handsome face, maybe a dimple, scratchy little growth on his cheeks and chin. He was talking to Mac. It was like an ad for Calvin Klein.”
“What were you doing out at Ben’s?” Lou asked.
“I was checking on a rental up the hill two blocks. You know, that old Maxwell place.”
“Then how’d you see the tears in his jeans and his stubble?”
Ray Anne dipped a manicured hand into her oversize purse and pulled out her binoculars. She smiled conspiratorially and gave her head a toss. Her short blond hair didn’t move.
“Clever,” Lou said. “Man-watching taken to the next level. How old is this hunk of burning love?”
“Irrelevant,” Ray Anne said. “I wonder what he’s doing here. I heard Ben had no next of kin. You don’t suppose cuddly old Ben was hiding a handsome brother? No, no, that would be cruel.”
“Why?” Sarah asked.
“Because Ray Anne would love a shot at selling that property of Ben’s,” Carrie said.
“That’s not true,” Ray Anne protested. “You know me, I only want to help if I can.”
“And bag a single man or two while you’re at it,” Lou said.
Ray Anne stiffened slightly. “Some of us are still sexual beings, Louise,” she said. “A notion you might not be familiar with.” As the Sheriff’s Department patrol car passed slowly down the street, Ray Anne said, “Oh, there’s Deputy Yummy Pants—I’m going to go ask him what’s going on. If I can get past the dog!”
Out the door she wiggled.
“Deputy Yummy Pants?” Sarah asked with a laugh in her voice.
“The teenage girls around town call him that,” Lou explained drily. “I don’t recommend it. He hates it. Gets him all pissy. I should tell you what kind of pants Ms. Realtor of the Year has. Maybe Busy Pants.”
Carrie’s lips quirked. “She suggested you don’t quite get the whole sexual pull. Louise.”
Lou had a sarcastic twist to her lips when she said, “If she turns up dead, can I count on you girls for an alibi?” Then she turned and called to her niece and nephew. “Hey, kids. Let’s make tracks.” To her friends she said, “I’m going to beat Yummy Pants home. Betcha I get more out of him than Busy Pants does.”
* * *
Sarah hung her red slicker on the peg in the mudroom just in time to see her younger brother, Landon, coming toward the back door of their house with his duffel full of football gear. “Hey,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I came home to get a couple of things and grab a sandwich,” he said. He bent to pet the dog. He didn’t have to bend far—Ham was tall. “Gotta get going.”
“Wait a sec,” she said.
“What?” he asked, still petting the dog.
“For Pete’s sake, can you look at me?” she asked. When he straightened, heavy duffel over one shoulder, she gasped. There was a bruise on his cheekbone.
“Practice,” he said. “It’s nothing.”
“You don’t practice on game day.”
“Yeah, well, I hope I don’t get in trouble for that. A couple of us went out to run some plays, some passes, and I got nailed. It was an accident.”
“You were practicing without a helmet?” she asked.
“Sarah, it’s nothing. It’s a small bruise. I could’ve gotten it running into an open locker. Lighten up so you don’t make me look like a girl. Are you coming to the game?”
“Of course I’m coming. Why couldn’t you be into chess or something? Choir? Band? Something that didn’t involve bodies crashing into each other?”
He grinned at her, the handsome smile that had once belonged to their deceased father. “You get enough sleep without me boring you to death,” he said. “Why couldn’t you just be a flight attendant or something?”
He had her there. Sarah flew search and rescue with the Coast Guard. There were those occasions that were risky. Edgy. And admittedly, that was part of what she loved best about it. “I trust you’ll be wearing your helmet tonight?”
“Funny. It should be a good game. Raiders are a good match. They’re a good team.”
“Does it hurt?” she asked, touching her own cheek.
“Nah, it’s really nothing, Sarah. See you later.”
She suppressed the urge to beg him to be careful. It was just the two of them; she was his guardian and family. She sometimes wanted to simply enfold him in her arms and keep him safe. Yet watching him play was thrilling. He was a great athlete, already six feet tall and muscled at sixteen. She’d heard he was the best quarterback they’d seen in a long time here in Thunder Point.
For the millionth time she hoped bringing him here had been a good decision. He’d been happy in the North Bend high school last year. He’d barely found his footing, his friends, when she’d moved them here. But she couldn’t bear to stay in the same town as her ex, in the home they had shared. It was bad enough that they still worked together.
She’d moved them so often....
She reached out as if to hug him, then retracted her arms. He didn’t want mush, not now that he was a man. So she held back.
“All right,” he said patiently. “Get it over with.”
She wrapped her arms around him and he gave her a one-armed hug back. Then he grinned at her again. He had absolutely no idea how handsome he was, which made him even more attractive.
“Play your little heart out, bud,” she said. “And do not get hurt.”
“Don’t worry. I’m fast.”
“You going out after the game?” she asked.
“I dunno. Depends on how tired I am.”
Sarah looked at him. “When I was your age, I was never too tired to go out. If you go out, getting home by midnight would be nice. No later than one, for sure. Are we on the same page here?”
He laughed at her. “Same page, boss.”
But as she knew, he seldom went out after a game.
Two
Roger McCain headed home for the day. He lived in a large house he couldn’t quite afford with three kids and his aunt Lou. He was thirty-six and his oldest, Eve, was sixteen. Ryan was twelve, and Dee Dee was ten. When he got home, his first stop was the gun safe in the garage. He locked up his guns before going into the house. Though his kids had been both lectured and trained, guns did not enter his house.
It was about five-thirty when he walked into the kitchen from the garage. Lou stood at the sink, rinsing dishes. Lou was not Aunt Bee to his Andy of Mayberry. She was sixty, but didn’t look a day of it. She wore fitted jeans, a white silky blouse, leather vest and boots on her young, trim body. Her curly, shoulder-length hair was auburn with some gold highlights and her nails were manicured in bright colors. She complained of crow’s feet and what she called a wattle under her chin, but he didn’t know what she was talking about. Lou called herself his old-maid aunt—she’d never married or had children of her own—but in truth she was young, energetic and feisty, exactly what he needed, even if it did drive him crazy at times.
Without even turning around she said, “There are tacos. The kids have eaten. Eve is going to take the van to the game tonight. She’s meeting a couple of her friends. That leaves you and me and the kids to go together. In less than an hour.”
Friday night. High school football. Eve was a cheerleader. A gorgeous, young cheerleader who resembled her mother and caused him to quake in fear every time he looked at her.
“Did it occur to you to ask me if I was all right with that—Eve taking the van?”
She turned from the sink. “It did,” she said, giving him a sharp nod. “It always occurs to me. But you say no and argue and then give in so you can pace and grumble. She’s sixteen and a good girl. She’s earned it.”
He nodded, but he hated it. His ex-wife Cee Jay—short for Cecilia Jayne—had been a cheerleader; he’d been a football player back in Coquille. Cee Jay had gotten pregnant at sixteen. By nineteen, he’d been a brand-new husband with a baby on the way.
Cee Jay left when Dee Dee was nine months old; that’s when they had moved in with Lou. Cee Jay had been so young when she left—only twenty-three. Mac wasn’t sure why he’d felt so old, as he’d been only twenty-six. But he’d been pretty busy, trying to support his family on two jobs. He was a rookie deputy, working nights, and by day he worked security on an armored car.
His dirty little secret was that sometimes he didn’t mind the two jobs. But Cee Jay, left alone too much, scrimping to get by and buried in small children, complained a lot. There wasn’t enough money, the house was small, old and falling apart, the kids were out of control, there was no fun in her life and very little attention from her husband, whom she accused of showing up only long enough to throw food down his throat and take off for the next job. She needed more money but hated that he was always working.
And then one day Cee Jay snapped. She packed a big suitcase, put the kids at the neighbor’s house and waited for him to get home from his day job. “I can’t take it anymore,” she told him. “I’m sick of getting puked on, sick of the diapers and noise, sick of this dump we live in, tired of not being able to get out of the grocery store with ten cents left in my purse. I’ve had enough. I’m leaving.”
For the past nine years, he had asked himself why he’d been stunned. Her complaints hadn’t changed, they’d just been accompanied by a suitcase. “L-leaving?” he had stuttered.
“The kids are next door,” she said. “I’m taking my clothes and two hundred dollars.”
His entire body had vibrated with fear. Dread. Pain. “Cee Jay, you can’t do this to me.”
“Yeah, well, you did it to me first. I was sixteen, Mac. Sixteen and pregnant!”
“But you were happy! And you wanted Ryan—you argued for Ryan! Dee Dee was an accident, but you—”
“And you thought that I had a clue, at sixteen or twenty-two?”
“Listen, I was only nineteen! So—we were too young, you think I don’t know that? You can’t just leave your children!”
“I have no way to support them and I can’t take this anymore!”
“Cee Jay, how’m I supposed to work and take care of the kids?”
He remembered the sound of a horn honking. She zipped her bag. “I don’t know, but you’ll figure it out. Call your aunt—she always hated me anyway.”
He had grabbed her by the shoulders and shaken her. It was the harshest hand he’d ever laid to a woman. “Are you crazy? What is this? Is that some guy picking you up?”
When he stopped shaking her, she said, “There’s no guy! That’s a cab! You want me to call the cops? Let go of me!”
Of course there was a guy. It took him all of three weeks to figure it out—some pro golfer. At first, the mystery was how she had found the time to have enough of a relationship with him to talk him into taking her away. But he caught on—girlfriends. Young mothers like Cee Jay, running around, swapping kids, stealing time for themselves. Once Mac learned his name and began following his movements through the news, the second mystery followed: why she didn’t come home to her family once the relationship was over, which took only a month or so.
He fantasized how he wouldn’t make her beg much, just enough to be sure she had had a change of heart and was ready to commit, ready to promise never to do it again. No one could ever know the depth of humiliation at not being able to hang on to the mother of your children. At the time he had lived in Coquille, and it took roughly forty-eight hours for everyone who’d ever heard of him to be talking about how Cee Jay McCain left her young husband and three small children to run off with a golf pro. He spent the next five years nurturing a fantasy that she’d eventually come to her senses and be back, if only to see her children. Then it finally dawned on him to be afraid of that very scenario—that once he’d figured out how to manage, she’d stalk back in and stake some kind of claim. So he got himself a divorce. He had to locate her to do that—she turned up in Los Angeles. They didn’t communicate. She signed the papers, relinquished custody and he let go except for a couple of tiny threads. He hated her for what she’d done to their children. And he was terrified of ever getting involved with a woman again.
It was with the divorce that they moved to the outskirts of Thunder Point, about thirty minutes east to Coquille, the sheriff’s office. Even if Mac had to go back to the central office, he could commute. It was here, in a down economy, that he managed to find a larger home, one big enough for his family—three kids, Aunt Lou and two Labs.
Since Mac had lost his parents young and had lived with Lou during junior high and high school, you’d think she’d be as terrified as he was that Eve would slip and fall into some horny football player’s lap and end up with the mess of a life her mother had. They had never talked about it; it had never been voiced. But they both knew what was eating Mac. He wanted Eve to be twenty-seven, settled and safe. Real. Fast.
And just then his daughter dashed through the kitchen, wearing her barely there cheerleading uniform. Short, pleated skirt, V-neck sweater, letter jacket, long, beautiful legs, and a head full of thick dark hair she wore down most of the time. She had the biggest blue eyes. Her smile was positively hypnotizing; he’d barely paid off the orthodontist’s bill, just in time to start on the next two mouths. Blue eyes ran in their genes but not perfect teeth. If not for the dental benefits offered by the Sheriff’s Department, his kids would have teeth growing out of their ears.
“I’ll wave to you at the game, Daddy,” she said, rising on her toes to kiss his cheek. “We’re going out after,” she said.
“Midnight, Eve,” he reminded her. As if she couldn’t get into trouble before midnight. It wasn’t that. It was just that it was all he could take. He needed his kids home and tucked in so he could relax.
“How often have I been late?”
“A few times,” he said.
“Well, not very late,” she reminded him. Then she beamed. “I think we’re going to kick some Raider tail tonight!”
And he grinned at her. She was his doll; he’d die for her, it was that simple.
When she was out the door, Lou was shaking her head. “I wish you’d get a life,” she said.
“This is my life,” he said, and sat at the table, commencing to build himself some tacos.
“You need a little more going on. Like a woman.”
“Why? You have somewhere to go?”
“I just might,” she challenged.
“Well, knock yourself out,” he said. “I can manage.”
She laughed at him. “I’d love to see that,” she said. She pulled a cold cola out of the fridge for him and sat at the table with him. “Tell me about the crime in Thunder Point, Mac. I haven’t heard anything interesting all day.”
“Well now,” he said, sprinkling cheese on top of four large tacos. “No interesting crime, but an old friend of Ben Bailey’s came to town, wanting to know what happened to him. He’s sitting in his fifth wheel out at the bar. Says he’s going to hang around a few days.”
“Ray Anne mentioned something about that. She’s not one to miss a new man in town.” Lou clucked and shook her head. “Still can’t believe Ben’s gone.”
“No one can believe it,” Mac said. Then he dove into his first taco.
* * *
Cooper moved his trailer around to the far side of Ben’s bar on the parking tarmac, pretty much out of sight of the road to 101. The small parking lot could only accommodate twenty or thirty cars, but he discovered a road toward the front of the structure that led to the beach. More of a downhill driveway, really. The road to the beach looked much kinder than that trip up Bailey Pass and Gibbons to the highway.
He roamed around the locked-up property, peeking in windows. The newest and nicest part of the whole structure was an impressive deck, complete with tables and chairs surrounding the two sides of the building with a view. But a look through the windows revealed what he considered a dump. There was a long bar lined with stools, liquor bottles on the shelf, but only a half-dozen small tables. Life preservers, nets, shells and other seaside paraphernalia hung from the walls. A few turning racks of postcards and souvenirs sat about. The place looked like it hadn’t been improved in years. He could see the dust and grime from the window. This came as no surprise. Ben had been kind and generous to a fault, good with engines and just about anything mechanical, but he wasn’t exactly enterprising. He could be a little on the lazy side, unless he had an engine maintenance job to do. And he hadn’t been too good with money; he spent what he had. When Cooper first met him, he was living a cash existence, just like his father had. He sure hadn’t been classy. Cheap Drinks. Just a kindhearted good old boy.
Cooper unloaded the WaveRunner, his all-terrain vehicle—the Rhino—and his motorcycle. There was a large metal shed at the end of the parking lot, up against the hill, but it was padlocked. He stored his toys under a tarp, locked up in chains so they couldn’t be stolen without a blowtorch and trailer.
He wandered down to the beach to the dock. There was a fueling tank perched on the end and a paved boat launch. He wondered if Ben had a boat in the shed, which was as big as a garage. The sun was lowering and it was getting damn cold on the water, unlike the Southern climate he’d come from. He encountered a few people out walking or jogging and gave a nod. He was glad he carried a Glock in his back waistband, under his jacket. After all, he was alone out here, no one knew him, and he still had reservations about Ben falling down the stairs. Big man like Ben, you’d think he’d have survived even a steep fall with only some bruises. Worst case, a broken bone.
With night beginning to fall, he headed back to the toy hauler. He’d have time to explore Thunder Point tomorrow. He figured he’d relax, get a good night’s sleep and get to know the men and women who’d been Ben’s friends in the morning.
But at around eleven, he heard the noise of people talking. He put on his jacket, gun tucked in his waistband, and went outside. He brought the binoculars from the truck, wandered around the deck. The waterfront had come alive. He saw kids on the beach, partying around a couple of campfires. From the shouts and squeals, they were teenagers. A set of headlights from clear on the other side of the beach near the town brought it all together. Ben’s place was probably most often accessed from the beach side, especially at night. Sure enough, the headlights he saw pulled right up on the sand, next to a row of all-terrain vehicles—Rhinos, quads, dune buggies.
Yep, this was a beach bar. Complete with Laundromat, bait and gas for boats. It all made sense now—in winter and bad weather, Ben likely had moderate sales, but in summers he probably did a brisk business. Folks from Thunder Point, on the other side of the beach, stopping for a soda or morning coffee when they were out walking their dogs; people from the town driving over in beach buggies to have a drink on the deck at sunset. Sport fishermen or sailors could start or end their days here.
Cooper was a little bit sorry he wasn’t going to be around to watch the summer storms roll in over the Pacific. Or the whales migrating in spring and fall. Whales wouldn’t be in the bay, but he was willing to bet the view was great from either the far edge of the cliff or the point on the opposite side of the bay.
This would have appealed to Ben for a million reasons. It was his father’s and he’d spent years here. The view was fantastic, and no one liked to put his feet up and relax more than Ben Bailey.
There was some loud popping and shrieking on the beach and he automatically reached for that Glock, but it was followed by laughter. Firecrackers. Then there was some chanting. Go, Cougars, Go. Go, Cougars, Go. Go, Go, Get ’Em, Get ’Em, Go, Get ’Em, Go!
Cheers. That’s what was going on. It was October. Football and teenagers. This was what coastal kids did after a game and probably all summer long. Coop had spent many of his early years on the Gulf, but by the time he was a teenager his parents had moved inland, away from the water to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Cooper and his friends often went out to the remote desert, away from the prying eyes of adults where they could build a fire, drink a few beers, make out with their girlfriends.
What a perfect setup. There was a whole coastline all the way to Canada, but this little piece of it didn’t have easy access. You either came at it by way of Ben’s or from the town, on foot or armed with a beach mobile. There wouldn’t be many strangers around.
He went back to his camper and settled in—door locked, gun handy. He let the TV drown out the noise from the kids until it faded away. In the morning he brewed coffee and took a cup with him to the dock, then the beach. Although he had no investment in this place, he found himself hoping they had cleaned up after themselves and hadn’t left trash all over the beach.
And what do you know? There were a couple of big green trash cans with lids up against the hill, full of bottles, cans, snack wrappers, spent firecrackers. The tide had taken out the remnants of a fire. Except for being raked, the beach was cleaned up. Who were these kids? The Stepford teenagers?
He took a deep breath of foggy sea air and decided he’d shower and hit the town. He’d like to know a little more about this place.
* * *
Cooper thought about taking the Rhino across the beach to the town, but instead he took the truck back up to 101, just to check out the distance. The freeway curved east, to the right, away from the town, and it was five miles before he saw a small sign for Thunder Point. Then it was a left turn and another five miles to access the town. He was about a mile, maybe mile and a half across the beach, or ten miles on the road.
Heading into Thunder Point from 101, he passed the high school—circa 1960s—on the edge of town. Not too big, he noted. Then he came to the main street, Indigo Sea Drive.
He had passed through a hundred towns like this, maybe a thousand. There wasn’t a lot of commerce—dry cleaner, bakery, diner. There was a very small library at the end of the street. Next to it, the elementary and middle schools sat side by side. He spotted a secondhand clothing store right next to a thrift shop and wondered what the difference was. There was a grocery, liquor store, pharmacy, gas station, hardware store and small motel. There was a dingy-looking bar, Waylan’s. And yes, Fresh Fish. There was also McDonald’s, Taco Bell, Subway and Carrie’s Deli and Catering. The Sheriff’s Department was a small storefront that sat between the deli and a boarded-up store, although a man was tearing the boards off one large window. New business moving in? Cooper wondered.
Driving around, he discovered four roads that ran downhill to the beach or marina, through the neighborhoods that surrounded the main street. The beach and the bay were like a basin dug out of the land. All roads seemed to lead either up or down—down to the marina, up to the main street, down to the beach, up to Bailey’s.
It appeared the main street and marina were the life of the town. Most of the slips were empty—fishing boats, out early in the morning, he assumed. He saw two boat-launch ramps and a fueling station. There were a number of small fishing and pleasure boats still tied up and one big cabin cruiser. There was a restaurant—Cliffhanger’s, which also advertised a bar—at the far end of the marina, far enough up the hill to avoid high tides and flooding.
He went back to the main street and drove west, out onto the point. There were houses out there, as well. On the end of the promontory was a very large home with a gated driveway. Whoever owned that house got the best view imaginable, as the point was a high, rocky cliff. From Ben’s deck he had noticed a small lighthouse, somewhere below this mansion.
It wasn’t exactly a cute little town, but there were some nice touches, like big pots of flowers in front of some businesses, old-fashioned lampposts, benches here and there along wide sidewalks.
He reasoned the best places to perch for local news would be one of the bars or the local diner. Cliffhanger’s wasn’t open yet. Waylan’s probably was, but he wasn’t in the mood for a seedy bar. He went to the diner and sat at the counter. It was either designed to be retro or it was fifty years old. By the cracks in the linoleum floor, he guessed it was all about age. The waitress was there in a flash, with a coffeepot in her hand. Her blond hair was in a ponytail and she wore a black-and-white-checkered blouse. Her name tag said Gina.
“Good morning, Gina,” he said.
She filled his cup. “And good morning, strange man. Hungry?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. What have you got for eggs?” Cooper asked.
She put down the coffeepot and leaned both hands on the counter. With a wide smile, she said, “It’s the darnedest thing, we have eggs for eggs.”
He couldn’t suppress a grin. “Mess up a couple for me. Toast, too, and...you have sausage for sausage?”
“Link or patty?”
“Patty,” he said.
“Whole wheat or whole wheat?”
“Why don’t I live recklessly? Whole wheat.”
“Good choice. It’s better for you. Now drink that coffee slow so I don’t have to keep coming back here.”
“Could I have some ice water?” He looked around. The small diner was empty of customers. “If it’s not too much trouble?”
“It’s extra,” she said. She turned and slapped the ticket on the cook’s counter.
“I can afford it,” he said. “But it might cut into your tip.”
She fixed up an ice water and placed it before him. “If it’s going to cut into my tip, I won’t charge you for it. You think I work here for the wages?” She gave the counter a wipe. “I know you’re not just passing through—there’s only two ways into this town, and both are inconvenient.”
“Two ways?” he asked, confident she was going to tell him about Gibbons to Bailey’s, down the hill, or Indigo Sea Drive, right through the heart of town.
“By land or by sea,” she said. “We are en route to nowhere.”
“I am, though. Passing through. Ben Bailey was a friend of mine and I just heard—”
She got a stricken look on her face. “Oh, I’m sorry! Man, we miss Ben around here.”
“That’s why I’m hanging around—to meet some of his friends. Ben and I met in the Army, a long time ago. We stayed in touch, but I’ve never been up here before.”
“Ben was such a nice guy—the last person I could imagine losing.”
“Who were his closest friends?” Cooper asked.
“Oh, hell, no one and everyone,” she said with a shrug. “Ben kind of watched over the whole town, but I don’t know of any one or two people he was best friends with.”
The door opened and Mac came in. He wasn’t in uniform this morning and looked just as comfortable in jeans, boots, plaid shirt and jacket.
“This is the guy you should probably ask,” Gina said. “Hey, Mac.”
He pulled off his cap and sat next to Cooper at the counter. “Ask me what?”
“This guy was a friend of Ben’s—”
“We’ve met,” Mac said, sticking out a hand. “How’s it going, Mr. Cooper?”
Cooper laughed. “Every time you call me Mr. Cooper, I wonder if my father just entered the room. My name’s actually Hank, short for Henry, but people call me Cooper.”
“Is that a military thing? Last name?”
“It started way before the Army. I’m a junior—Henry Davidson Cooper, Junior. My dad goes by Hank, but no one went for Henry or little Hank so I got saddled with Little Cooper until I wasn’t so little, then just Cooper. Sometimes Coop. Take your pick. It’s going all right. That beach can get busy at night.”
“Kids,” Mac confirmed. “They behave?”
“Not only did they behave, they cleaned up.”
“Yeah, you can give Ben credit for that. That whole stretch of beach right up to the town and marina is...was his. He let it go public. He’d walk down there from time to time when it was real active, a bunch of kids, and inform them in his way that the minute he had to clean up the beach after campers or partiers, he’d have a fence erected and close it. He put out trash cans and once a week or so he’d check to see if they needed emptying. He had rules for his beach.”
“He policed the beach?” Cooper asked.
“Yeah, but it was more about the wildlife than saving him work. He didn’t want things like plastic bags or rings from six-packs left in the sand or washing out with the tide, killing fish or getting picked up by a bird and causing harm, like strangling it. Or choking it. About once a year he’d post a couple of Private Property signs, kind of a warning or a reminder. Word spread about his place, his beach. He had regular motorcycle or cycling groups come through in summer, he called them his weekend warriors. He had a real scary-looking gang camping on the beach once but he confronted them, told them it was his property and they were welcome to use it if there were no firearms, no underage drinking, no drugs, didn’t give the town any trouble and if they threw away their trash so it wouldn’t harm wildlife.” Mac shook his head as he laughed. “He never bothered to call in reinforcements—I heard about the riders the next day, but Ben never called me. The riders kept it cool, threw away their trash and thanked him for the use of his beach. He had a way about him, you know? That incident was a long time ago and according to Ben and folks in town, in the end they were a docile bunch. Ben’s place usually attracted more graybeards, out for the weekend.”
“Graybeards?”
“Older riders—minimum age fifty or so. Ben was a pretty easygoing guy and nothing scared him. He always got along with anyone.”
“I know,” Cooper said.
Gina put Cooper’s breakfast in front of him and refilled his coffee cup.
“Good call on the eggs,” Mac said. “You tell him?” he asked Gina.
“Nope. It was his first choice.”
“Burgers here are great,” Mac said. “Sandwiches are pretty good, soup has good days, meat loaf is terrible—don’t know why Stu keeps making it, no one in this town is fool enough to eat it. It’s god-awful. He just fries the hell out of eggs, so either get ’em scrambled, over hard, omelet or hard-boiled. In fact, anything he can just fry to death or broil is pretty good.”
“Why doesn’t the owner get a better cook?”
“The owner is the cook, that’s the primary reason,” Gina said. Then, looking at Mac, she asked, “Everyone get to where they’re going?”
“Eve and Ashley are at cheerleading practice, Ryan’s at football and Lou took Dee Dee to dance. Just so you know, Eve and Ashley went in your mother’s car.”
Gina nodded but had a grave look on her face.
“You two...?” Cooper started to ask.
“Single parents,” Gina said. “Our daughters are best friends. Most of the time.”
“So you back each other up?” Cooper asked, shoveling some eggs in his mouth.
“Lotta back up,” Mac explained. “My aunt lives with me, Gina’s mother lives with her. It takes a village...where have I heard that before. You married, Cooper?”
“Nah. No one would have me.”
“Maybe it’s because you live out of a toy hauler, ever think of that?” Mac asked.
Cooper grinned. “Could be. Well, now that I have the lay of the land, I can get eggs and coffee a lot easier. Straight across the beach in the Rhino. Except, I think I got what I came for—I wanted to know what the hell happened to Ben. Have I heard everything I’m going to hear?”
“The coroner ruled on it, but I’m keeping my eyes open. It’s not an open case, but this is my town and Ben was a good guy. If I hear anything suspicious, I’ll be investigating myself,” Mac said.
“What about this Rawley Goode?” Cooper asked.
“Weird Rawley?” Gina asked with a curl of her lip.
“Aw, Rawley’s got his troubles,” Mac said. “I just hope he doesn’t wander off, now that Ben’s gone and the place is closed.”
“I was kind of hoping he would wander off,” Gina said.
“You have a problem with Rawley?” Cooper asked.
“I have a problem with the way he looks you in the eye like he can see straight through you and says ab-so-lutely nothing. It’s creepy.”
Mac chuckled. “That’s pretty much why Ben gave him a dishrag and a broom and some kitchen chores. They seemed to understand each other.”
“This place—everyone works together, understands each other, cleans up after each other, a regular Stepford...”
“We have as many idiots, assholes and troublemakers as any town, but you know what the difference is between this town and any other town?”
Cooper leaned his head on his hand. “I can’t wait. What’s the difference?”
Mac pushed his coffee cup toward Gina for a refill. “I know who they are.”
Three
Cooper learned a few things about the town and Ben. Ben had helped Gina keep her old Jeep running, for one thing, and never charged her except for parts. He’d bought ads for the backs of kids’ soccer and Little League team jerseys—Bailey’s Bait Shop. He had a bird sanctuary on his land that stretched all the way out to the high, rocky cliffs above the ocean. In addition to the eagles, there were seabirds who lived off the water but returned inland to nest, mate and lay eggs. Cooper remembered Ben emailing him something about that, more than once.
Ben apparently hadn’t done particularly social things, like volunteer as assistant coach for kids’ teams, but he attended town gatherings and meetings and ate out at the diner and Cliffhanger’s. He contributed a lot, not the least of which was the beach. This was the Ben that Cooper had known—not shy or antisocial, but satisfied with his own company. He hadn’t had a long career in the Army, just a few years. As Coop’s helicopter mechanic at Fort Rucker, he was meticulous and verged on extraordinary, but he had issues with rules, probably one of the reasons Cooper took to him. “Bailey, where’s your hat?” “In my pocket, sir!” “Why isn’t it on your head?” “Because I can’t get my head in my pocket, sir!”
He learned the marina was small in comparison to others in the region. The crabbers and fishermen who docked there lived in the town, but took most of their catch to larger harbors, although they kept some of it to sell to locals or to Cliffhanger’s. Some of the commercial fishermen had been in business for generations. The marina also held sport and pleasure boats, mostly used by Thunder Point’s residents. The bay was a safe, quiet place, protected by the promontories from hostile weather.
When Cooper parted ways with Mac after his breakfast, he said, “I don’t think there’s much reason for me to hang around, except maybe the view from Ben’s deck. What will happen to his place?”
Mac shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe there will be a search for a next of kin, or maybe it’ll sit until it’s in default of liens or taxes, then auctioned. That’s not Sheriff’s Department business. Damn shame, though. People enjoyed the beach, the bar.”
“It’s pretty run-down,” Cooper pointed out.
“If you think the outside is a little tired-looking, you should see inside. Well, people didn’t have real high expectations of the place, but it served a purpose. You may have noticed, it’s not a fancy town.”
Mac already had Cooper’s cell number, but in a gesture of friendliness, he gave Cooper his before they said goodbye at the diner.
Since Cooper had no plans or pressing business, he spent a couple of days just driving around the area—up to Coos Bay, into the hills, to the casino in North Bend—keeping his trailer as a home base. One sunny afternoon, he got out his laptop and found a chair on Ben’s deck, facing the bay. In just a few days, he’d come to the conclusion the damp, foggy morning was typical of the Oregon Coast. Sunshine usually arrived midmorning, at the latest, but it was cold enough this October afternoon to require a jacket. Before he opened his laptop and logged on, he saw her again—the woman and her dog. She threw the stick and waited for the large black-and-white dog to bring it back. The dog had the longest legs; he was half as tall as the woman. It was the same woman—red slicker with the hood up, black knee-high rubber boots, hands plunged into her pockets while she waited for the dog. She was walking toward his end of the beach, but before she was close enough for him to get a glimpse of her face, she turned and headed back toward the town.
He logged on, checking his email, looking up from time to time to watch the progress of the woman and dog. She was too far away for him to be taken by her looks, but he was intrigued nonetheless. There was something about her that was so...lonely. They probably had that in common. Cooper had no trouble getting to know people or making friends, yet he rarely did. He was a loner; he knew that about himself. It didn’t take much to turn a man solitary—being the new guy too often, being controversial now and then, a couple of unsuccessful attempts at a lasting relationship with a woman....
He sent a note to Luke Riordan—they’d been a scrappy pair of combat-ready helicopter pilots fifteen years ago and Ben had been their mechanic. Not too surprisingly, Ben had been the most stable of the threesome. So Cooper filled Luke in on the details of Ben’s death. Cooper described the property, the beach, the town and the fact that Ben’s place might end up just being auctioned.
Then he emailed his father and his oldest sister, Rochelle, to tell them where he was, although his cell was working just fine and they could reach him if there was any family business. His parents and three married sisters lived in or near Albuquerque. When he could, he made short visits to New Mexico, but he didn’t spend a lot of time there. Cooper was close to his family, but their relationship was complicated. There was a part of him that felt he’d failed them by never settling down, marrying, having a family and a stable career...and there was a part of him that thought they’d had unreasonable expectations and tried to push him in directions he wasn’t capable of going.
He heard an engine from the highway far above. He shut down and closed his laptop. Leaving it on the chair, he walked around the deck and witnessed an old pickup come down the road from 101. Even before he saw the driver, he knew this must be Rawley. The truck was ancient enough to be a classic, but the engine ran smooth. That had to be Ben’s work. The tires were new and shiny, cleaned and buffed to new-car life.
Then the guy parked and got out—yes, had to be Rawley. He was a skinny, balding, grizzled man in his sixties, looking pretty worn-out, and he wore an American flag shirt with his old jeans. He had a scarf or rag bandanna tied around his head and a gray ponytail, circa the sixties. He walked right up to Cooper.
Cooper stuck out his hand. “Rawley?” he asked.
The man’s expression didn’t even change. Rather than shaking Cooper’s hand, he put a thick envelope in his grasp. Then he turned to go back to his truck.
“Hey,” Cooper said. “What’s this?”
But Rawley kept walking and Cooper kept watching him. When Rawley got back to his truck, he didn’t get in. He leaned against the passenger side, crossed his legs leisurely, arms folded over his chest. He gave a nod and waited.
Cooper opened the envelope and pulled out a thick document, folded in thirds. When he unfolded it, he found a will that had been drawn up by Lawrence Carnegie, Attorney-at-Law. It was pages long. But on top was a lime-green sticky note that said, “Take care of things, Coop.”
He looked up at Rawley. “He wants me to take care of this?”
Rawley rolled his eyes as if to say, Right, stupid. What did the note say?
Cooper glanced through the document quickly. He’d assumed that Ben wanted him as executor, but it took about two seconds to see that Ben was leaving this place to him. Looking a little further, it appeared that included the structure and the land. And the beach? The document was four pages of legalese. There was probably something in here that explained special conditions of some kind, but that was going to take a closer, slower look. Meanwhile, he became aware of a key inside the envelope.
“To the bar?” he asked Rawley.
Again Rawley rolled his eyes, saying nothing.
Cooper almost eye-rolled him right back. But he took the key in one hand and the document in the other and walked around the deck to the ocean side, where he slipped it into the lock on a set of double doors that could open wide onto the deck. The seal on the doors was good, probably to protect against heavy storms or tsunamis. He pulled open the door and was immediately assaulted by the foulest smell he’d ever encountered. Hadn’t they said Ben had been buried? Because this smell was worse than a rotting body. It took about three steps into the bar/bait shop to realize they had septic issues, combined with what smelled like rotting fish and maybe garbage. The electricity had been turned off. He yelled, “Rawley!”
The response he got was the sound of a truck. Departing.
* * *
An hour later, Cooper placed a call to Mac’s cell phone. It was late afternoon now and the sun was shining, which did not cheer Cooper. It not only helped cook the smells in the bar/bait shop but also brought people out to the beach, walking dogs, nosing around or jogging. It was too chilly for swimming or picnicking. At the sight of someone opening doors and windows at Ben’s place, a few brave souls came close, curious. By the time they made it to the deck, they covered their noses and retreated. Quickly.
“Mac,” Cooper said into the phone. “Boy, do I have a situation.”
“What’s up?”
“Start with, Rawley brought me what seems to be a will. It’ll have to be verified, but it looks in order. Ben left this place to me.”
“Whoa. Did you see that coming?”
“He never even hinted at such a thing. Second, there was a key and I went inside. Holy mother of God, there are too many rotten things in there to count. The electricity was turned off and his bait tank is full of dead fish, stagnant, moldy water and God knows what all. And I’m pretty sure I smell septic backup. I have the doors and windows open, but the place is impenetrable. Do you know anyone? Like maybe a crime-scene cleanup crew? Or something?”
“There’s a flood and environmental cleanup company up in North Bend. Also a hazardous chemical cleanup crew up there.”
Cooper couldn’t stop a cough. “Oh, yeah, definitely some hazardous chemicals in there. Got a number?”
“Let me call ’em,” Mac said. “I’ll book the first available slot for an estimate. You planning on cleaning it up?”
“It’s not how I planned my week, but someone has to do it. I wouldn’t count on Rawley. He handed me the will and a key and took off like a bat out of hell.”
Mac laughed.
“Come out here and take a deep breath and then laugh, sucker,” Cooper said. “We might need a wrecking crew if the smell can’t be conquered.”
“I think I will come out. I mean, I’m curious. Let me make a couple of calls on the way.”
To keep from inhaling poisonous gases, Cooper took up residence on the dock. Even there, he could smell it. He was not entirely surprised when he caught sight of the Sheriff’s Department SUV coming at him, not from the road but right across the beach.
Mac pulled up to the dock and got out. He was wearing his uniform.
“You working?” Cooper asked.
“I’m pretty much always working, but I don’t drive the company car unless I’m in uniform. It’s for official business only. We have rules.” He looked up the steps to the bar and wrinkled his nose. “Hoo, boy.”
“Tell me about it. I never took Ben for a prankster. ‘Here, I’m leaving you all my worldly goods, but you might have to torch it all.’”
“You think the will is legit?” Mac asked.
Cooper pulled a thick document folded into thirds out of his back pocket and handed it to Mac. “You know Lawrence Carnegie?”
“Yup. He’s a lawyer in town. He takes care of some local stuff. I guess Ben hired him.”
“Appears so. I gotta say, I never expected anything like this. Don’t you tell someone if you’re planning to do something like this?”
Mac shrugged. “I have a will and I haven’t told anyone the details, mainly because I don’t want my kids thinking if they kill me in my sleep they’ll get a car or something. My aunt Lou, who’s in charge anyway, is the executor. And hell, I don’t even have anything worth leaving. Do you have a will?”
“Nothing fancy,” he said. “I have savings. It’ll be divided between my nieces and nephews if there’s anything left when I go—I was thinking it could help with college. And no, I never told anyone.”
Mac was flipping through the few pages. “I think I can explain Ben’s reasoning, or at least the history behind this place. Ben’s father was kind of old when Ben came back to Thunder Point. He was sick, had a stroke. That was right before I was transferred here. He was failing.”
“I remember, Ben got out of the Army ten years ago or so to help his dad,” Cooper said. “I heard something about a store here. Obviously he wasn’t real specific....”
“Well, everything was transferred into Ben’s name so that several years later, when his dad passed, there was no will, no probate, and most important, no tax issues.”
Cooper put his hands in his pockets. “How would you know something like that?”
“Purely gossip, I’m afraid,” Mac said. “The talk is that when the old man passed, there were a lot of interested buyers who assumed these hicks who ran a run-down bait shop and bar hadn’t prepared for the worst. The land is worth some money, Cooper. If there hadn’t been a trust or a transfer, the inheritance tax alone could’ve foreclosed Ben, forced him to sell. You know, there are a bunch of little moth-eaten towns around here, but we also have big resorts, the kind that host PGA tournaments or world-class hunting and draw some big money. And this area, oceanfront and five miles of natural beauty to the freeway, is prime for something like that. Something that could improve local economy. There are lots of people in town who wanted Ben to let it go. And, hey, you coming into the property...that might make people happy, assuming you’ll just sell it.”
Cooper reached into his pocket and pulled out the sticky note that had been attached to the will. Take care of things, Coop. He passed it to Mac. “That sound like he wants me to sell it?”
Mac handed it right back. “Listen, Cooper, I know he was a friend, but unless the two of you had some kind of understanding, you gotta do what you gotta do.”
“Why didn’t he just leave it to Rawley?”
“Oh, I think that’s pretty obvious. Rawley’s a little off-kilter, if you get my drift. Besides, I don’t think they were like brothers or anything—Ben was helping him out, that’s all. Ben did more for Rawley in the past few years than anyone has done for him in the last twenty-five.”
“Well, jeez. This just keeps getting more complicated. Do you suppose he’s one of the things I’m supposed to take care of?”
“No telling, pal. But I’ve got a cleanup crew coming out first thing tomorrow to give you an estimate. If you like the price, they can start right away.”
Cooper gave him an incredulous look. “Did you smell that place? Is it even possible the price could be too high?”
Mac laughed. “My aunt Lou is getting ready to burn some dinner. Why don’t you lock the place up and join us. You can’t get anything done around here tonight.”
“Dinner?” Cooper asked. He gave a long, dubious look at that road leading up to 101. It was bad enough in daylight.
“I’ll give you a ride across the beach. And bring you back tonight.”
“I thought you had rules,” Cooper said.
“We do. If anyone stops me or asks questions, you’ll have to act arrested.”
“Well, hell, you just stumbled on one of my special talents.”
* * *
Dinner at the McCain house was served in a large, warm kitchen. Three kids, three adults sat at a big round table, two Labrador retrievers standing watch near the back door. Cooper shoveled the last of his spaghetti into his mouth and then wiped his plate with a piece of garlic bread. As it was on its way to his mouth, he noticed that five sets of eyes were on him. He realized he’d eaten like a starving man, chuckled and tossed the bread onto his plate.
“There’s more,” Lou said.
“Sorry. But that was seriously delicious.”
Lou laced her fingers together and, elbows braced on the table, said, “I guess you don’t get out much.”
“I eat real well. It’s Mac’s fault. He tried to lower my expectations by saying you were burning some dinner.”
“Isn’t he cute? That he thinks he has a sense of humor?” Lou said, lifting one shapely eyebrow.
“May I be excused?” Eve asked. “Ashley is coming over.”
“Sure,” Lou said. “Ryan and Dee Dee, your night for cleanup. I’ll give your dad and Mr. Cooper coffee in the living room.”
“Aw,” Ryan whined. “Prison Break is on! Come on, Aunt Lou...”
“Sorry, I have Designing Women reruns to watch in my room.” Then she looked at Mac. “When did he outgrow cartoons?”
Instead of answering, Mac leaned toward Ryan. “You boning up for a prison break or working yourself into a corrections officer’s slot?”
“It’s awesome, Dad, they’re just so stupid.”
“I know. It’s my job security,” Mac said.
“Dishes,” Lou said, standing with a plate in each hand.
“I’d be glad to help,” Cooper said quietly. “I’m much better at dishes than cooking.”
“Shh, we’re getting out of here.” Mac stood up and poured two cups of coffee, throwing a look over his shoulder at Cooper. He lifted his eyebrows in question.
“Black,” Cooper said.
Carrying two mugs, Mac left the kitchen and Cooper followed. The Labs, one black and one yellow, followed Cooper. In the living room, where there was no TV, Mac flipped a light switch with the brim of a coffee cup and the fireplace came to life. Then he waited for Cooper to choose his spot.
It was obvious where the deputy liked to roost from the shape of the cushions on the recliner. Cooper took a corner of the couch and watched as the dogs lay down, one on each side of the deputy’s chair. “I guess you spend a lot of time in here,” he said.
Mac handed him a cup. “There’s no TV or computer in here, ergo—not a place the kids like to be. I sometimes have to compete with cheerleaders or dance practice, but they don’t want my audience. I had the piano delivered straight to the basement. A man’s gotta have a room, and hiding out in your bedroom? That’s weird.”
Cooper laughed. “Is it now?” he asked, sipping.
“Not for a woman. They do it all the time. Lou can’t wait to get away from us and close that door. But every time I go out on some strange call—disturbance or domestic or hinky sexual assault—the suspect is hiding out in his bedroom. Don’t ask me why. It’s just weird.”
“That’s kind of perverted,” Cooper said with a laugh.
“Tell me about it. Few years ago, some lunatic got in a big brawl with his mother and sister, then shot at a deputy. He was totally unbalanced, just over eighteen years old and living with his parents, hiding in his bedroom where he had fifteen assault rifles.”
“Living with his parents? And assault rifles?”
“I know. Tell me how they thought it was okay that this kid with a screw loose had a bunch of really powerful guns. Did they ever think that was, I don’t know, odd? Because I’m not the best father on record, I’m sure, but I know who forgot to flush around here.”
Right then, Cooper thought if there was anything suspicious to know about Ben’s death, Mac was a good guy to have on the case. “I bet you’re a good father,” Cooper said, but he was still half laughing. “And this is a nice house, Mac.”
“Eh, I’m getting used to it.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A few years. Dee Dee was six—she’s ten now. I bought it because it could hold this crew, was solidly built and on the school bus route, not that anyone around here would even consider the bus. They all want to be driven. They consider the bus a punishment.”
“That can cut into your schedule.”
“I have Lou. She’s a teacher—she doesn’t mind dropping them off. But we have major scheduling issues for picking up because they have all kinds of after-school activities, from football practice to piano lessons. We manage, though.”
“Your aunt Lou is a kick. And the spaghetti really was good. Very good.”
“It is, you’re right. I’m lucky there’s someone who will make spaghetti for me. It’s just that we’ve been eating the same ten things since I was ten years old.”
Aunt Lou had been cooking his meals since he was ten and was now cooking for his family? Mac must have seen his surprise, because he continued.
“My parents were killed in a car accident when I was a kid and Lou raised me the rest of the way. My wife left me with three kids when Dee Dee was nine months old. Lou has saved my life more than once.”
Cooper was speechless. His biggest worry had been the fact that he’d never been able to settle down, make a relationship with a woman go the distance. He was so far from fatherhood he couldn’t even fathom being dumped with three kids to raise.
“The house is big enough, with a generous yard, near a town small enough to know everyone. If I were a rich man, I’d have a house with a view of the ocean, but up high. Not something ridiculous, just a roomy, airy house with a lot of windows. You probably haven’t been around long enough to wonder why this place is called Thunder Point but the way the storm clouds come into the bay, the way the lightning flashes over the water...” He shook his head. “This is a really beautiful place. Sometimes I take the squad car out to the spot where the Cheap Drinks sign is and sit on the hill and watch the weather over the bay. Or watch the sunset. Or the fog lift and the sunbeams streak through.”
Coop thought about everything Mac had told him for a minute. This man had had mega challenges that Cooper had never faced. Being orphaned? Being left a single father with not one but three children? And looking so regular? Acting so normal, like it was just one foot in front of the other.
But all Cooper said was, “This seems to be a good house.”
Mac replied, “It’s good enough for us.”
* * *
While a couple of representatives from a cleanup company wandered through the bait shop, Cooper went to the dock and called the lawyer whose name appeared on the letterhead of Ben’s will. He explained what he’d found on Ben’s property. “Before I write a check for the cleanup, I should know whether this will that I’ve been in possession of for less than twenty-four hours is legitimate.”
“Absolutely ironclad. If you read it carefully, you’ll find that everything is held in the Bailey Oceanfront Trust. There is a thirty-thousand-dollar lien you’ll have to assume, however. He borrowed against the land to pay for the tow truck. Borrowed, rather than selling off any land. It’s a considerable parcel, Mr. Cooper. Mr. Bailey didn’t have any investments and very little in the way of savings, but he didn’t like having bills. There’s some cash set aside for property tax.”
“Why do you suppose he bought a tow truck?” Cooper asked.
“I couldn’t tell you. He said he needed it. You have over two hundred acres that includes beachfront, Mr. Cooper.”
“Over two hundred?” he asked in shock.
“That’s what county records show. I recommend you have the land surveyed.”
“Holy Jesus!”
“As I said, considerable.”
“You don’t understand,” Cooper said. “Ben Bailey acted like a poor boy with a bait shop!”
“As far as I know, he didn’t have much money. Ben, and his father before him, were land poor.”
Just land? Just a couple hundred acres, including beautiful beachfront property? From where Cooper stood on the dock, he could look west to the ocean and the vast promontory; south to the rocky, hilly landscape dotted with Douglas fir; east to more hills with some bad roads leading to the highway; and north across the beautiful beach to the small town and marina. He’d have to see a map, but from where he stood he couldn’t understand why Ben hadn’t done anything more ambitious than keep the lights on. Why hadn’t he cashed in at least a piece of it and built himself a decent house! Why hadn’t he found himself a good woman and settled down? Ben was a couple of years older than Cooper, right around forty. And what had he done with himself?
Cooper looked out at the land mass south of the bay. That would be the bird sanctuary. Cooper hadn’t even walked out there. Would the birds give the land up for a big house with a drop-dead view? But maybe Ben, like Cooper, didn’t want to be tied to a big house that just had to be kept in repair. And cleaned. And would echo.
But the stretch of beach from the town all the way to the tip of Ben’s land would accommodate a resort with at least a thousand rooms or a few hundred villas or condos...maybe even a golf course. How would that look, right up against an ordinary town with a bunch of fishing boats in the marina?
It would look, he thought, like a major payday.
“Mr. Cooper.” A man holding a clipboard signaled him. He was all suited up, a face mask hanging around his neck, wearing heavy-duty rubber gloves. These guys looked like escapees from a hazmat team, Cooper thought, but then they must run into a lot of real bad stuff like floods and fires. Homicide? Cooper went up the stairs and met him on the deck, wrinkling his nose. “You got problems,” the man said. “You got rot, mold, septic backup, plumbing is going bad, and then there’s the smell.”
“Sounds terrible.”
“No termites,” he said with a lame smile.
“What do you recommend?”
“We can’t turn over a good property to you unless we pretty much gut it. It needs a new septic system, plumbing repairs, and we can’t get at that mold without tearing out some walls and flooring. The good news is, you have some water-damaged, rotting wood that would have to go anyway, so you kill two birds with one stone. You let us tear out the old wood to get to the mold and we’ll only charge you once.”
“I don’t plan to keep it. So now what do you recommend?” he asked.
“You could raze it,” he said. “Sell the lot it’s on. But if you’re thinking about selling the structure, you’d have to do some serious work. Massive remodel. And I can’t guarantee you’d get your money’s worth. See how it sits right in the middle of this land? The people who own the rest of this beach and land, they’d be the ones to ask. Maybe they’d buy your lot just to get you out of here so they can put up a hotel and strip mall. You should ask.” He looked around, stretching his neck. “Not exactly a prime location for that, though. This place is kind of out-of-the-way.”
Cooper was silent a moment. “You got an estimate to gut it?”
The man ripped off the top sheet and passed it to him—$5,890.00. “That doesn’t include plumbing, septic system or removal of damaged, rotting wood. That would be another several thousand. Then you’re left with a frame, pretty much.”
“Roughly six thousand? Just to tear it apart?”
“That’s a real nice estimate. And that bar? As bars go, it’s terrible. It’s a good fifty years old. And it’s not an antique. It’s just old and cheap. And rotting.”
“Is anything on this place all right?” Cooper asked.
The guy gave a nod. “Good deck. It’s newer than the structure. And as far as we can tell, the foundation is solid—but I wouldn’t guarantee it. You have a really bad roof. If you get it in your head to renovate, I’d recommend a new roof. We don’t do renovation, but I’d bet you’re looking at over a hundred grand there. But hey, do you know what people would pay for your view?”
Cooper ran a hand around the back of his neck which, despite the cold, was sweating. “If I decide to just knock it down, can you do it?”
“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “But I can recommend a good demolition team. I can also recommend plumbers, septic repair or replacement, interior work, roofers. These are the people we work with on a regular basis—contractors of every stripe. We specialize in fire-and-flood damage—after our work is done, the rebuilding starts.”
“Don’t you ever go in and just clean up the mess?” Cooper asked.
“Pretty often. But this one is bad.”
“Just because the electricity was off for a few weeks and the bait died?”
“It was in serious decline, filling up with mold, before that happened. You might want to check with your insurance company—they might help. But this place has been neglected for a long time. Looks like someone tried to get that septic system up and running for a while, when it should’ve been replaced.” He lifted bushy eyebrows. “You?”
“No, not me. I have to think about what I’m going to do.”
“Fair enough,” the man said, sticking out his hand.
“If I decide to do something with this, how much notice do you need?”
“It’s turning winter. The schedule isn’t too bad. But if you don’t act soon, we’re going to be weathered out.”
“I’ll try to think fast,” Cooper said. “Got any more of those face masks?”
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out several. “Just so you know—they’re not that effective against the smell in there.”
“I’m sure.”
“Just out of curiosity, why didn’t you fix the place up before it got so bad?”
“It wasn’t mine until recently. The man who owned it died.”
“Really? Well, hell, man! Cash it in! The land it’s on is probably worth something.”
He knew that, Cooper did. But something about the whole thing just gnawed at him. He wasn’t going to be able to make a decision until he understood why Ben Bailey lived with mold and rotting wood. The fact that he was pretty unmotivated didn’t explain it. Ben could’ve made one phone call and traded some land for enough money to build himself something nice. “So,” he said to the man with the cleanup crew, “how much to make that fish tank and any rotting food go away?”
“Twenty-five hundred. But that won’t solve your septic problems. We can deal with that, too, short of replacing it. But that won’t leave you a sound building and the plumbing won’t be serviceable.”
“I just want time to look around the inside. And think. And brother, I can’t think when it smells like that.”
“Twenty-five hundred makes it unpleasant rather than deadly.”
“Done. How fast?”
“Tomorrow. We’ll bring in a crew, a Dumpster and some fans to air the place out.”
“Let’s do it. I have to look around in there before I can figure out what to do next. Right now I’m leaning toward a bulldozer.”
“Can’t say I blame you, Mr. Cooper.”
Four
Rawley lived in a little inland town called Elmore. Mac gave Cooper directions to his place. Besides a gas station, post office, elementary school and Dairy Queen, Elmore wasn’t much of a town. The larger town of Bandon wasn’t far away and possibly served the small population’s needs.
The house was a small, old, brick structure with a porch. That classic pickup was parked on the side, identifying the place as belonging to Rawley. The yard was well kept and the grass still green, though the trees and shrubs were showing signs of fall with either color or brown. When Cooper knocked on the door and Rawley answered, the last thing he expected was the homey, clean, orderly house he saw inside.
“Hey. Got a minute?” Cooper asked.
Rawley gave his version of a nod, which was a smirk and a tilt of his head, stepping back so Cooper could enter. Inside was a living room and dining room that looked like a woman had left it behind—lace covers on the worn arms of chairs and sofa, pictures of farm scenes on the walls, a buffet with a couple of good glass bowls on top of a fabric runner, candlesticks on the table. All old, all maintained. In front of the fire sat an elderly man in a wheelchair. He was dressed in overalls and a long-sleeved shirt—clean—and on his feet were socks only. No point in shoes if you never walked.
“Very nice, Rawley,” Cooper said, taking it in. “That your dad?”
Rawley nodded.
Cooper had never been a patient man, but this was really stretching what patience he had very thin. “I wish you’d talk,” he said. “Unless you’re mute.”
“I’ll talk when I got something to say,” he said.
“Well, there,” Cooper said. “You doing okay since Ben’s death?”
“Not hardly,” Rawley said.
Well, there you go again, Cooper thought. Honest, if not informative. “Anything you need that I can get for you, now that he’s gone?”
“Can’t think what,” Rawley said.
At that statement, the old man turned his chair around to face Cooper. He didn’t exactly hold his head up, and Cooper could see that he was very likely a stroke victim. He turned the chair with his left arm, the right kinked in protectively at his side, and the right side of his face—mouth and eye—sagged.
“You looking for work?” Cooper asked.
“Hadn’t been. Why? You gonna open up Ben’s place?”
“No, but I’m cleaning it up and clearing it out. It’s got troubles—rot and mold and dead fish. Tomorrow a crew is coming out to clean out and remove the fish tanks, rotten food, trash...”
“Police locked it up and wouldn’t let me in,” Rawley said by way of explanation.
“I know. And the electric company turned off the power,” Cooper said. “The result is a stink and mess. But once they get the place so I can breathe in there, I have to go through his things. You know—pitch, give away, sell, whatever. There might be some things in there you want. If you help out, I can pay you what Ben paid you.”
Rawley grinned and showed off a stunning set of dentures. “He paid me a ton.”
“Gimme a break, Ben didn’t have shit. And he couldn’t tolerate a lie, either.”
“Eight dollars an hour,” Rawley said. “When?”
“In three days, I guess. Your dad okay alone if you work?”
The old man inhaled sharply and briefly lifted his head. It looked like he scowled, but with the uneven features, it was hard to tell. His good eye narrowed.
“He’s okay. If I work, the neighbor checks on him twice a day. I leave him fixed up for what he needs.”
“Okay, then. If you’re interested.”
Rawley gave a nod. No questions, no suggestions, no commentary.
“Rawley, I don’t know what I’m going to do with the place. Fair warning. This could be a week of work and that’s all. I might just tear the place down and sell the land.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Rawley said, apparently unconcerned.
“Yeah, I guess.” Cooper scratched his neck. “See you then.” He turned to leave.
“Hold on,” Rawley said. He went into the kitchen, which was just through the dining room arch, then came back with a package. Cookies, wrapped in Saran, no plate, no ziplock bag. “Can’t be much around that toy hauler for snacks. They’re sugar-free, on account of Dad.”
“Right,” Cooper said, accepting them. “Thanks. That’s real nice.”
Rawley just shrugged.
Cooper left with yet another mystery about Ben. Rawley lived in a house that was well cared for, yet Ben’s place was mostly a wreck. How did that add up? Did Rawley take care of himself, but do a sad job for Ben?
Once in his truck, Cooper tried a cookie. Not bad, for sugar-free. Soft and tasty. He just shook his head.
* * *
Three days later, the smell wasn’t too bad and Cooper could get inside Ben’s place without choking. He had the electricity turned on; it not only offered functional lighting in the shop, but he ran an extension to the trailer to save on his generator. Just having a crew there to take out garbage and install fans brought attention to the place, and when the weather was decent, people who were out on the beach felt a need to wander closer, to find Cooper on the deck or the dock. Usually they would stop to say hello or hang out for a while, to ask what was going on. A kayaker rowed up to the dock, got out and asked what was going to happen to the place now.
“I don’t exactly know,” he said honestly. “I guess I’m responsible for it, but I’m not interested in running a business.”
“Neither was Ben,” the guy said, laughing. “But people around Thunder Point liked the place, even if we didn’t want to go inside too much.”
“What did you like it for?” Cooper asked.
“Gossip and drinks, mainly. And Ben used to pick up his deli food every couple of days from Carrie—when he couldn’t talk her into delivering. She’d do that if her daughter was free to mind the deli. That’s good stuff, Carrie’s stuff, and Ben never even marked it up. He had egg sandwich kind of things for the morning, sandwiches and pizza for later, desserts and stuff. It was good. It was all wrapped—he didn’t cook it. Know what I mean?”
“All I saw in there was a microwave and a stove and oven that looked...” He didn’t want to say ancient, but although the kitchen was spotless, the appliances didn’t look very reliable. The bar, though small, was neat and well stocked. The glasses, though dusty, looked as if they’d been washed, not that he’d trust them.
A man and woman with a dog saw him on the dock and said, “You’re the new guy, right?”
“I guess I am.”
“I’m Charlie and this here’s Donna, the wife. So, when you gonna open up?”
“Don’t know that I will,” Cooper said. “For now I’m just cleaning the place up. I’m not much of a cook...”
“Ben didn’t really cook. He warmed.”
“Did Ben live on egg sandwiches and deli stuff?” Cooper asked.
“I don’t know,” Charlie said. “He was good with drinks. All drinks. Coffee, cappuccino, wine, beer and liquor. If the day was nice, I’d end up here with a bunch of guys from town for a drink or two. Sport fishermen came here for a few before taking their boats over to the marina.”
“What about Cliffhanger’s? Or Waylan’s?”
“Cliffhanger’s is expensive and Waylan’s is a shit hole. But they have HD TV. The owner is trying to make it a sports bar. If you open up, get a TV.”
“Gotcha,” Cooper said.
Cooper and Rawley went through Ben’s living quarters, which were, to his surprise, tidy. He suspected Rawley had taken care of that, too. Ben had been in possession of a minimal wardrobe. “You want the clothes?” he asked Rawley.
“Too big for me,” he said. “I could use some old shirts and sweats for Dad. The rest could go to the VA.”
“Sure,” Cooper said.
“I’ll take ’em home and wash ’em up first. Then drop ’em off at the VA.”
“That’s above and beyond...” Cooper said.
“They deserve that. At least.”
Cooper was impressed. He was beginning to suspect that Rawley was a good and generous man, under his grump and grumble.
Ben had an old TV and stereo, a boom box—apparently he hadn’t graduated to the iPod yet—and bookcase that held many books about Oregon wildlife, mostly birds. He found Ben’s laptop, their primary means of communication the past ten years, and therein he found out a few things about Ben that he might’ve known if he’d been paying attention. Ben was an involved ornithologist. He might not hold any kind of degree, but the history on his computer showed almost daily visits to websites and blogs about birds, further explaining the preserve on his land.
Cooper had walked through the preserve all the way to the high cliff edge towering over the Pacific a few days earlier. The growth was thick but he’d found what appeared to be a seldom-traveled path through the spruce, Douglas fir and shrubs. The bright colors of fall battled with the dark green of fir trees; among the ground cover he saw withered plants he was willing to bet sprang into bloom with the spring and summer warmth. He’d spotted the remnants of many old nests, perhaps abandoned for the winter. There were some shells and some dead eggs, not to mention a few low-flying seabirds threatened by his presence. One lone eagle circled overhead for a little while. There was one tree in which perched a few birds that looked like small cranes.
Ben had saved a lot of online documents about bird preserves, about rare and endangered birds. There were pictures on his computer, pictures he’d taken himself—he was an avid bird-watcher. And there were large, high-powered binoculars hanging from nails all over the place.
He also found that Ben had saved many emails from Cooper and from Luke Riordan but very few from other people. It spurred a memory of an email Cooper had gotten from Ben, in which he casually said, “Since my father passed a couple of years ago...” Cooper had thought, a couple of years ago? He hadn’t notified his friends of his father’s death?
And then Cooper asked himself, who would he write about something like that? While Cooper liked a lot of people, he could count his good friends on one hand.
But Cooper had sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces and nephews who were always in touch. At least he was connected.
It was going to take him a long time to get through all of Ben’s saved emails, but over time he’d manage. There could be information in there about his intention for the property. There could even be some stray clue about what led to his death, if he had some issue with an enemy no one really knew about. He doubted it, but it was worth checking.
The weather was good that afternoon. Rawley had gone home with a lot of laundry to do and Cooper relaxed on the deck with the laptop. He counted nine kids on the beach—two wearing wet suits with paddleboards and oars out on the still bay, four batting a volleyball around, though they didn’t have a net set up, three girls parked on the sand, talking. There were three ATVs lined up behind them, although he hadn’t seen them arrive.
Cooper was just enjoying his view and the kids seemed to be having good, clean fun. There was a little monkey business—a guy grabbed a girl, stole a kiss, got punched, which made him laugh hysterically and then chase her, catch her, get a more receptive welcome the second time. The two guys with the boards went almost to the mouth of the bay, where the Pacific waves were high and challenging. Inside the bay was smooth as silk, dark as ink. Wet suits, very intelligent—the air was cold and the ocean much colder. But they were obviously pros; they barely got their feet wet. In the summer, Cooper bet there was a lot of snorkeling, maybe diving, maybe running surfboards out beyond the bay.
He shot a note off to his sister Rochelle and told her this was a pretty cool place, in fact. He had no idea what to do with it, though. Dry camping in the fifth wheel was not exactly convenient—he had to find a trailer park, dump the lav and reload potable water every few days. But he could at least run off the bar’s power and not his battery. He hadn’t told anyone in his family the extent to which he was tied to all this—he didn’t want any advice. His family, especially his sisters, was very good at telling him what he should do.
He saw the dog again, but not with the girl this time. A young man or boy was with him, throwing a ball for the dog as he walked. Husband? he wondered.
Then he saw the guy trying to give the kids on the beach a wide berth, walking all the way down to the surf to get by them without contact. The guys, six of them, two in wet suits, made a line across his path. The dog walker went the other way, headed inland for the hill, calling the dog to follow. The teenage boys reversed their position, blocking him again. The dog, half as big as a human, cowered behind his master.
Cooper, who had been in way too much trouble for fighting when he was younger, could see the fight brewing. He knew what was coming, and it was six on one. Then the guy who must be the ringleader shoved the loner. The loner stood taller; his shoulders widened a little, ready. The ringleader was seriously talking him down, leaning into him, verbally assaulting him. Then he shoved him again and the loner put his fists up.
“Not gonna happen, assholes,” Cooper said aloud to no one. He put down the laptop. Then he stood, put two fingers in his mouth and rent the air with a deafening whistle.
They all turned to see him standing on the deck of the now-defunct bait shop. His legs were braced apart, hands on his hips, and he watched. He hated bullies. He was ready to leap over the deck rail and barrel down to the beach to stand up for this guy, even though the guy, the loner, might be the problem. It didn’t matter if the loner had done something terrible, you don’t do that—you don’t attack someone in a fight that isn’t fair and balanced.
The teens watched him; he watched the teens.
Then the barricade wisely separated and the loner passed, headed for Cooper’s dock.
He wasn’t headed for Cooper. He went to the bottom of the steps that led up to the bar and sat. From there he threw the ball for the dog. Cooper let this go for about five minutes, then he descended to meet the guy. A very cranky-looking teenager looked up at him and said, “Thanks for that. I guess.”
“You guess? Would you rather I just watch them beat you up?”
“They probably wouldn’t have.” He looked back down to accept the Great Dane’s ball and throw it again.
“Probably wouldn’t have?” Cooper asked.
The kid shrugged.
“Have a little disagreement with your friends?”
The kid looked up and laughed. “Dude, they are not my friends!”
“Who are they, then?”
“Teammates. And that’s all.”
Cooper took another two steps down and sat on a step even with the kid. “You throw the last game or something?”
The kid gave him a very impatient look. He held on to the ball, all slimy with dog spit. The dog sat and panted happily, full of expectation. “You wouldn’t understand,” the kid said, finally throwing the ball.
“Wanna try me?”
The kid shot him an angry look. All defensive, hurt, full of impotent rage, and Cooper thought, Holy shit—that’s me! About twenty years ago or so...
“I’m the new kid,” he said. “Just moved here. Just in time for football, which was my fatal mistake. I wasn’t supposed to get on the team, much less make touchdowns. The asshole on the beach, he’s a senior. Team captain. He was counting on three things this year—being all-conference, being homecoming king and getting laid by every cheerleader in Coos County.”
Cooper had a strange reaction to that. First of all, being the new kid felt all too familiar to him. Getting in fights, though long ago, was fiercely memorable. Homecoming king—not Cooper! And cheerleaders? When he was in high school, he hadn’t been lucky enough to even date one, let alone anything more. He thought about Mac’s daughter, whom he’d met when he’d had dinner with the McCains a few nights ago. Eve was a lovely, virginal, delightful sixteen-year-old cheerleader who no one should be allowed to touch. Just to be ornery, he asked, “How many of those things are you going to rack up?”
The kid looked at him incredulously. “Seriously? Like I could ever get all-conference or get a date. Come on.”
“The kid who shoved you—who is he?”
A bitter laugh. “Jag Morrison. Crown prince of Thunder Point. And yes, that’s short for Jaguar, if you can believe anyone would name their kid that.”
“Shew,” Cooper said, shaking his head.
“Yeah.”
Cooper let that settle a little bit. Obviously there was some very bad blood there. It could be about anything—about this kid being a better ball player, about a girl, about anything. Finally Cooper asked, “Your dog have a name, kid?”
He laughed without humor. “Are you ready for it? Hamlet. It’s Danish.”
“You could use a tougher dog.”
“Tell me about it,” he said.
“How about you? Name?”
“How about you?” he shot back.
“Sorry,” he said, putting out his hand. “Hank Cooper. People just call me Cooper.”
The kid relaxed a little. “Landon Dupre.” He shot a glance at the teenagers on the beach, who were not going anywhere. It occurred to Cooper that they were looking for a second chance at bullying and intimidating Landon.
“Nice to meet you, Landon. So, what do your parents have to say about this new-kid issue you’ve got going on?”
“I don’t have parents.”
“Ah. So who do you report to?”
“Report to?” he mimicked with a mean laugh. “Gimme a break.”
“Look, I’m trying to figure out, in the nicest possible way, if your parents back you up, if you’re a street urchin, in foster care or just plain contrary.”
“I live with my sister,” he said. His voice dropped, as did his chin. It was either a measure of respect or misery.
“Ah, the girl in the red slicker.”
Landon looked up at him. “You know her?”
“I know the dog—she’s had him out on the beach a couple of times. He’s hard to miss, big as a horse.”
“And dumb as a stump.”
“Now, you shouldn’t put him down like that,” Cooper said. “You might damage his self-esteem.” Then grinned at the kid. “Why’d you get him?”
“My sister got him for me. He was a rescue—his owner had to deploy. It was her idea of some kind of consolation prize because she moved me right before my best season ever.”
The dog was back, dropping the ball, sitting expectantly, saliva running out of his jowls. “Hamlet, here, he has a drooling issue.”
“It’s horrible. I don’t know what was wrong with a good old German shepherd.”
Cooper laughed in spite of himself, happy he was not this kid’s guardian. “Why’d you move here?”
“Divorce.”
“You’re divorced?” Cooper asked facetiously.
Landon’s head snapped around at Cooper and, seeing his smile, melted a little bit. “She got divorced, couldn’t afford so much house, wanted a smaller town so she could keep track of me better—which I so appreciate, if you can understand. And she didn’t enjoy running into the ex. Now I get that, but really, do we have to move to Podunk, Oregon, where the natives just want to kick the shit out of me every day? Seriously?”
“Have you told her?” Cooper asked. He almost looked over his shoulder to see who was talking. This was the weirdest interaction he’d ever had. He sounded like his father.
The kid’s chin dropped again. “I’m not hiding behind my sister, dude. Besides, she’s got her own troubles.”
Cooper, who had big sisters, absolutely got that. But all he said was, “Is this ‘dude’ thing almost over? Calling everyone dude? I never caught on to that....”
“Well, dude, you might wanna catch up.”
“Or you might,” he said. “So, anyone back you up? I mean, anyone? Teachers? Ministers? Corrections officers?”
“Funny. You’re a real comedian.”
“I am, huh. But I’m serious, everyone needs a wingman. I got in fights when I was your age. I don’t know what it was about me....”
“Want a second opinion?” he said.
Cooper laughed at his sarcasm. “Okay, never mind. I think I’m catching on.”
“Ben,” Landon said. “Ben was my friend.”
Stunned, Cooper was silent. Then he put a hand on Landon’s shoulder. “He was my friend, too. I’m sorry, man.”
“Yeah. Well. Whatever happened? It shouldn’t have.”
He gathered strays, Cooper thought. He gave Rawley work, protected Landon and made sure Gina’s Jeep was running. Who knew how many others he helped? He protected the birds and fish. He had a lot of friends and no real friends. He took care of the town in his way, keeping this little piece of beach safe.
Five
The weather turned stormy not long after Landon finally made his escape across the beach to the town. The bait shop could get pretty lonely during a storm. Cooper guessed that with the wet Oregon weather, there were plenty of nights like this. So he showered in the trailer, then took the truck the short way into town, across the beach, and decided it was time to hit Cliffhanger’s for a meal.
It wasn’t crowded, which came as no surprise. He had watched the fishing boats come in before the rain clouds and the last of the sunlight left the bay, and he supposed those guys were happy to be home, eating a hot meal in front of a warm fire. There was a large hearth in the restaurant that could be seen in the bar and it made him think of Jack’s place in Virgin River. A lot could be done to that old bait shop of Ben’s to make it a cozier hangout—like a fireplace, for starters, he thought. Then he told himself to stop it—no matter what some piece of paper said, he really had no stake in it. He was only going through the motions for Ben’s sake. For some reason, his old friend trusted him.
He hadn’t expected to see a familiar face in the restaurant, so he was pleasantly surprised when he realized Mac was sitting at the bar, nursing a beer and talking to the bartender. He wasn’t dressed for duty tonight. Cooper approached and said, “Hey, Deputy.”
“Cooper,” he said, putting out his hand. “What brings you out on such a wet night?”
“Food,” he said, sitting up at the bar.
“Cliff, bring my friend Cooper a beer.”
“Cliff?” Cooper repeated with a short laugh. “That’s convenient.”
“Yeah, right,” the guy said. “What’s your pleasure?”
“Draft,” Cooper said. “This must be your place, Cliff.”
“Must be. Menu?”
“Thanks.”
“Just get the grouper,” Mac said.
Cooper peered at him. “And how do I want that done?”
“He’ll have the grouper. Just trust me. So, what’s happening on the other side of the beach?”
“Got most of the smell out, went through most of Ben’s things, donated, threw away stuff, you know. It’s not functional. Ben was working on that septic system way back when I was waiting for him to meet me in California. I guess he never quite got it fixed,” Cooper said.
“So, what next?”
Cooper drank some beer. “I don’t know. I’m thinking. I pulled down part of a wall—I don’t know if there’s mold or rot. Maybe it needs to be leveled. I don’t know.”
“You’re still here,” Mac observed.
He took another swallow of beer and shook his head. “Feels like unfinished business around here. I find out something new every day, but half the time it leaves me with more questions.”
“About his death?”
“About his life,” Cooper said. “How’d he make ends meet? He bought deli food from the deli, but he didn’t mark it up....”
“I think Carrie gave him a break,” Mac said. “He bought all his supplies, including liquor, from big-box stores and I bet he made a decent profit on that. I mean, there was no rent, right?”
“He took care of things. Of people. I have Rawley working again, for now.”
Mac grew serious for a moment, then put a firm hand on his back, as if to say thanks.
“I ran into a kid on the beach today who was Ben’s friend, so he says,” Cooper went on. “Ben’s created a habitat for those birds on the point. I feel like I should find out what Rawley needs before I leave. Like I owe it to Ben. I wonder, though...he took care of people but everything is broken down to the point of falling apart. How’d he live?”
“I don’t think making money was ever a priority of Ben’s, but don’t quote me. You probably know more about his business than I do. Than any of us do.”
“Well, he didn’t have much money, for one thing. And didn’t worry about it, from what I can figure out. Why didn’t he give that place to someone else? Why didn’t he give it to the town?”
Mac laughed. He took a pull on his beer. “The town would’ve sold it. Like I said, there are people in town who like things the way they are—simple. Then there are people who think a big business on the bay would be good for the town.”
“What do you think?” Cooper asked.
He gave a lame shrug. “I think a big business, like a golf resort or something, would turn us into a town full of busboys, waiters, maids and valets. I think it would put Carrie’s deli, the Pizza Hut and the diner out of business. But it could help the chamber of commerce and commercial fishermen, especially if we ended up with a five-star restaurant at that resort. You want to know what I’m talking about? Drive up to Bandon Dunes. People come from all over the world to stay there, play golf there, hold events from business conferences to weddings there. It’s really something. Very high-class. There’s a lot good about it. And the help comes from Bandon.”
“It’s work....”
“And not to be taken lightly,” Mac admitted.
“It could help the local economy,” Cooper said. “Increase the value of your property.”
“It could,” Mac said. “You’ve been here about a week. Have you told anyone about Ben’s will?”
“I might’ve mentioned I was responsible for the bait shop, but you’re the only one with the details. You and Rawley.”
“Well, Rawley doesn’t talk. People are already assuming things that are probably true—like that you own it. And you could sell it.”
“There’s still a little legal wrangling to be done,” Cooper said. “I don’t have to hang around for that, though.”
“Why are you still here?”
“As near as I can explain, I want to understand Ben’s intentions, if I can. That doesn’t mean I’m planning to meet his expectations—maybe I just can’t. But I owe it to the guy to see if I can figure them out before I make a plan.”
Mac glanced over his shoulder, glanced back and said, “Well, get ready to make a plan, Cooper. Incoming...”
Almost before he finished his sentence, a woman appeared. She was at least fifty-five, but trying to look thirty-five. Her suit was some kind of satiny red material, low cut to reveal her cleavage. The miniskirt exposed legs that were short, and her pumps were high, very high. Hair bleached blond, of course. Nails, long and red. She wasn’t dressed for church; in fact, she’d look pretty at home with a pole to swing around.
“Well, Mac, how are you?” she said, leaning toward the deputy for a cheek press and kiss-kiss. “And who is your friend?”
“Ray Anne, meet Cooper. Cooper, this is Ray Anne. Cooper was a friend of Ben’s.”
Her face crumpled on cue. “Oh, Cooper, I’m so sorry for your loss. Ben will be greatly missed.”
“Thank you. Pleased to meet you,” he said. But he knew beyond a doubt that Ben didn’t have a relationship with this woman. In contrast, he had understood Ben’s relationship with Rawley almost immediately.
There were a few minutes of chat, Ray Anne asking after Lou and the kids, wondering if any progress had been made on that traffic light in town. Did Mac hear anything about a “domestic situation” involving Charlie and Donna? To which Mac replied, “No, was there a situation?”
Without answering, she turned to Cooper. “I heard a friend of Ben’s was in town. How is everything out at his place?”
“A wreck,” Cooper said. “I’m exploring ways to deal with it.”
“Well, if you need any help, feel free to call.”
A business card appeared; she was a Realtor. Apparently, the woman knew sleight of hand. That card must have been in her hand the whole time, yet had remained invisible until her strike. Cooper looked at it briefly, looked back at Ray Anne, smiled and said, “Thank you.”
“I know every good contractor in the area, no matter what you need—paint, flooring, structure damage, anything...”
She knew everything. “Mold removal?” he asked.
“Yes!” she said, beaming. She tapped the hand that held the card. “Just give me a call. That’s my cell. Anytime!”
“Appreciated,” he said. The grouper arrived.
“There’s your dinner,” she said. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around town. Take care. And let me know if there’s anything you need, Hank. Always more than happy to help a friend.”
Mac and Cooper turned to their identical dinners. Cooper took a bite. “This is good,” he said.
“Told ya,” Mac returned.
“So, she knows everything. She probably knows my social security number. You introduced me as Cooper, but she called me Hank. I’d bet she knows the acreage on Ben’s place.”
“That would be my guess,” Mac said.
Cooper ate a little more grouper. “And I bet I could get laid for a couple hundred acres.”
Mac turned toward him and, with the slightest smile, said, “You can get laid for just talking about it.”
Cooper tried not to laugh, as Ray Anne was still working the room, taking a run on the bar, then stopping off at tables. “This common with her?”
“I think so,” Mac said, eating more of his dinner. “You’re the first newcomer we’ve had around here in a while, however.”
“You ever, um, experienced that?”
“The attention? Or the payoff?” Mac asked.
“Well, since we’re sharing confidences...”
“Cooper, I work in this town. My kids go to school here, my aunt’s a teacher here. Lou’s known Ray Anne a long time. In a word, no. I have truly dense areas in my brain, but not that dense. Really, she’s not my style. I never did have a mother fixation.”
“I never had a mother who looked like that,” Cooper said.
They ate in silence and by the time Cooper pushed away his plate, Ray Anne had left the restaurant. “So, Mac, did the family desert you tonight?” he asked.
Mac sat back. “Not exactly. It’s Lou’s bunco night with some good friends from Coquille and she’ll be out late. I picked up a pizza for the kids and ran for my life.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I stood at the door, threw it in and said I’d be home in two hours. They jumped on it like starving hounds.”
“Two whole hours?” Cooper asked with a laugh.
“I have to check homework. If I don’t check homework, Lou’s on me like a cheap suit.”
“Checking homework. That can’t be so bad.”
“You checked homework lately, pal?”
“Whose homework do you think I’d check?”
“Well, that’s not the point, Cooper. The point is, it’s torture. If I were in school now, I wouldn’t have graduated sixth grade. In short, I’d rather give up a nut. But that’s the price of fatherhood.”
* * *
Lou stood in front of the bathroom mirror in only her panties, gently lifting her breasts. Then she took a side view and sighed. Although they were small, she felt they drooped to an unflattering degree; they used to be perky. She let them go. Then with her fingers gently pulling at her cheeks, back toward her ears, she wondered for the millionth time if she could look ten years younger with a face-lift.
“Lou, come back,” Joe called from the bedroom.
I’m not greedy, she thought. Just ten years.
She sighed again and went back to the bedroom. Joe Metcalf was fifty and, besides being handsome, he was in terrific shape. George Clooney shape. He was strong as an ox, wide-shouldered, flat-bellied, with long legs, big wonderful hands and beautiful teeth. As she approached the bed, he turned off the TV and opened his arms. “What were you doing in there?” he asked, his lips going immediately to her neck.
“We call it freshening up,” she said, tilting her head back to give him more of her neck.
“I bet you were brooding.”
“Now why would you say that?” she asked, pulling back.
“Because it’s something you tend to do. I think all our problems would be solved if you brought me out of the closet. Why are you keeping me a secret, Lou? Why am I still ‘bunco night’?”
She hesitated. It was so complicated. Mostly it was his age—ten years younger. Even though his hair would be gray if he grew it out, with that shaved head, he could pass for forty-five. “I don’t want the kids to feel vulnerable, to feel like my attention could be sliding away from them.”
“It won’t, Lou. We’ll spend whatever time together is reasonable for you. I have kids, too.”
“Yours are on their own.”
“Thank God,” he said with a sigh. He rolled onto his back but he kept an arm around her. Joe was the divorced father of a son and daughter, twenty-five and twenty-three, respectively. “They still have way too many needs, however. A wallet drain.”
“They’ll be married with children before you know it,” Lou said. “And so will mine. And I’ll feel like a great-grandmother. Oh, my God.” She dropped her head onto his naked shoulder.
He laughed at her and his hand found her ass. “Best-looking great-grandmother in the state, maybe the country.”
She lifted her head, messy red-gold curls flopping around. “When you’re seventy I’ll be eighty. Eighty.”
“Christ, like you’re screwing a nineteen-year-old. I hope I live to seventy. I can’t wait to see what you bring to eighty!”
Lou and Joe had met through an online dating service. They made a date for coffee and he looked, well, mature. When she asked, “How old are you?”, he answered, “How old do you want me to be?” She had answered, “Fifty-nine,” and he said, “Consider it done.”
It was weeks before she learned the truth. She thought he just looked damn good for his age, which men had an annoying tendency to do. It had been programmed that way by the world—men became distinguished while women faded and aged.
He’d been divorced for ten years, had tried dating from time to time but nothing really clicked and he wanted to meet someone he had things in common with who would join him for movies, dinner, social things. Oh, he liked to eat, went to movies seldom, but... “Okay, the truth? I wanted to have sex again before I died. With someone I liked.”
What a coincidence. So did she.
He was a retired air force colonel who now worked for the Oregon State Police as a trooper. It was his mission to retire, for the second time, at sixty. And now that he’d recovered from his divorce—his ex was remarried and his kids had completed college—he could count on a comfortable old age. Part of his job in Coos County was to assist the Sheriff’s Department. That was a little close for comfort for Lou.
“I don’t see why,” he argued. “Police people are like a family. They intermarry all the time.”
“Marry!”
“Well, we have to be going somewhere!” he said. “Besides, Mac and I get along fine. He likes me. We work well together when we have to.”
“Let me think, let me think!” she had pleaded. She’d been pleading that for a year.
But Lou’s little secret was that this was all she’d ever wanted. If she’d met him when she was twenty-one, she’d have married him in a heartbeat—provided he hadn’t been eleven. She’d have been a good wife to him. In fact, what she’d always wanted was a home, a spouse, kids. Crazy as it seemed now, she’d never even come close. She had been twenty-five when her brother and sister-in-law had Mac, thirty-five when their deaths left him orphaned and she became his parent. She’d been only forty-four when Mac came to her and confessed his girlfriend was pregnant, and fifty when Cee Jay left him and the three kids. While raising Mac’s kids was hard work—cutting into her social life and sleep, costing time and money—if she could, she would kiss Cee Jay for giving her these precious children.
Once or twice a week, she met Joe. Sometimes they went out for dinner, sometimes they stayed in, sometimes they even went somewhere other than his house for the night. She stole a long weekend from her family to go to Victoria with him—that was fabulous. He brought out her best self and she adored him. She just didn’t want to saddle him with an old woman, which she felt she would be before long. And she didn’t want anyone to laugh at the idea that she thought she was young enough for this, for him. Not the way they laughed at Ray Anne. Even Lou found Ray Anne ridiculous.
He slid down her panties. “It’s up to you, babe—I don’t want to push you too much and I’m not giving you up. But I sure like the way you play bunco.”
* * *
There were two situations that always tempted Cooper to cut and run. Being at complete odds with his environment, as with the Army or certain jobs. Or feeling a little too comfortable and secure. That had happened to him a few times, a couple of which were very difficult. There were a couple of times he’d been with a woman with whom he thought he could go the distance. He’d had visions of the kind of happy home his parents had. When it didn’t work out, he was dealt a double blow—he was not only informed he’d let the women down, a painful enough thing for a man who’d been doing his best, but he had suffered the pain of loss and isolation. Naturally he tried to avoid both—work unsuited to him and women he couldn’t hold on to. For the past several years, he’d avoided romantic relationships that could gut him in the end. That whole not-sleeping, feeling the deep ache that came from failure, enduring the sudden loneliness of being rejected...it was bad for his disposition. He only got involved with women he didn’t care about too much. He just didn’t like the risks he associated with settling down.
Cooper thought it might be in his best interest to put up a for-sale sign on this beach property and take off. It might be the safest thing to do. But the train wreck of a bar/bait shop tugged at him. He wasn’t sure what that was about. He had no real stake in it. It was a gift, a piece of luck.
It was nice to be back on the water, even though the bait shop was a pimple on the otherwise beautiful landscape. It was a disaster; fixing it looked about as easy as scaling Everest. He didn’t know where to start—or whether to start.
Cooper couldn’t remember ever having such difficulty making a decision. He generally made his decisions too fast, without really thinking things through. Enlisting in the Army, taking a job or quitting a job. Then there had been two engagements, five years apart, that were probably doomed from the start even if he hadn’t seen it. He surprised himself this time. The Cooper he thought he was would have either sold or leveled that dying old shack by now.
He felt an odd sense of peace. And it scared him to death.
* * *
A couple days later, Cooper found himself watching a quiet sunset with an empty beach. The fishing boats had docked. Cooper headed for town, the long way. He thought he’d like either a burger at the diner or pizza. But as he approached the high school, he saw the football field was all lit up, the parking lot overflowing. He could hear cheers and the thumping of high school band music even with the windows up. He turned in to the school, drove around to the back and then hunted for a space but ended up on the back overflow dirt lot. There were buses representing the Carver High Badgers and as he walked toward the field, he could see that both the home and visiting bleachers were full.
By God, the whole town was there.
He paid his five bucks, but the bleachers were so crammed, he just hung around the end, standing. There was an announcer on the loudspeaker. He saw Eve on the sidelines and wondered which of the cheerleaders belonged to Gina. He watched a few plays. The score was 10–7 in favor of the Badgers nearing the half. He picked up from people that Thunder Point never beat Carver High, at least not in too many years to remember. And then, with the clock ticking down to the half, there was a fumble, a recovery and— “Dupre has the ball and runs it! Going, going, and we...have...touchdown! Sixty yards and touchdown for the Cougars!”
The team, the cheerleaders and the fans were all roaring. A few of the Cougars rushed the quarterback and high-fived, hugged and slapped him on the back. The score went to 10–13, Cougars. They kicked and got the point just before the half, when both teams jogged off the field and were replaced by the band.
There was a rush on the concession stand and even though by now Cooper was starving, he saw the line was long and dense. He’d be better off taking his chances on Cliff’s or the Pizza Hut.
“Kid’s a natural athlete,” said a passerby on his way to the concession stand.
“We haven’t seen anything like him since I’ve lived here,” said another.
Maybe things weren’t as terrible for the kid as he believed—the team and the crowd seemed to approve of his game. Despite the growls of hunger Cooper was suffering, he wasn’t going anywhere.
After standing there for about ten minutes, with a steady stream of people moving in and out of the bleachers, someone said his name.
“Cooper? Cooper, what are you doing here?”
He turned to see Gina, blond hair down tonight, wearing a Cougars sweatshirt under her jacket. “I was on my way into town and saw the game, so I just stopped off here. So, which one is yours?” he asked, tipping his head toward the cheerleaders.
“The redhead on the end—that’s Ashley. Right next to her is Mac’s daughter, Eve.”
“I spotted Eve. I had dinner at Mac’s one night and met the kids,” he said.
“You want to sit with us? We’re right up there,” she said, pointing. “We can cram you in. We try to get here early and hold seats on the fifty yard line.”
When he turned to look, Mac was standing, waving his arms. For the first time he thought, maybe there’s something going on there. Mac and Gina. It would make perfect sense. A couple of single parents, a lot in common...
He liked Gina—she was pretty and sassy. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I’ve never seen so many people at a high school game.”
“The town gets into the local sports,” she said. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, there isn’t a big entertainment industry here. We’re the real Friday Night Lights.”
“Sure, I’ll come up. Thanks.”
“I’m on my way to the bathroom. See you for the second half.”
Cooper went to the bleachers to sit with Mac and Lou. Mac pulled a cola out of a small cooler and offered it. The kids were off running around the bleachers, looking for anyone to sit with but their family.
The dancers joined the marching band on the field, about a dozen of them. Cooper told them what Gina had said about the town being the real Friday Night Lights.

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