CHAPTER 69
The rescue patrol was amazed they were still alive when they dug them out two days after being buried by the avalanche. For one thing they weren’t even close to being dressed for it, nor did they have any food or essential tools to stay alive below ground for all that time.
Their rescuers weren’t offered any specifics as to how Robert and the others managed to survive, and their desire to ask questions wilted as they were overcome with the feeling something completely weird had just occurred. Why were their clothes so dry? Was that a healed gunshot wound in the woman’s back? The space inside the chopper suddenly began to feel constricting. No one talked much as they flew toward Portland.
****
A wave broke and speeded onto the beach. Robert, too lost in thought, was struck against the ankles by the foaming cold water before he’d even had a chance to react. He took a few quick steps inland before he knew he was too late. His shoes and pants were already sopping wet.
The greenish wave retreated, overturning rocks and shells beneath it. After the water had completely receded, Robert’s sneakers decided to squeak like a rusty hinge. But there was also the distinct sound of joy, and when he raised his eyes he saw Peggy and Connor doubled over, dropping sand dollars as they made no effort to rein in their laughter.
Stepping toward them Robert began to imagine himself as a circus clown. He lifted his knees high and made both of his shoes fart and squirt seawater. He didn’t stop until he and his family had collapsed on the sand laughing, until their sides hurt and Nugget ran over and shook water on them. Later, while they sat around the fireplace drying out and sipping hot chocolate topped with marshmallows, Connor took up his colored pens and captured the joy they’d felt on the beach that afternoon.
CHAPTER 70
There was something about the man that put him on edge. Was it the wry smile on his blistered lips, or the pale gray eyes working hard inside their notches of sun damaged, wrinkled skin? And then there were the hands to consider. The man’s hands were dyed with blood and his fingernails were blackened and chipped back to the quick.
Robert watched him remove another limp fish carcass from the gore-crusted pickle bucket. Slime ran down from the ragged piece of flesh and onto his wrist before disappearing beneath the sleeve of his threadbare flannel shirt. He carefully hooked the meat inside the crab trap and the disturbance caused several of the flayed fish already there to sway briefly with life. A stomach-churning stench rose from the trap like a small toxic cloud, and when it hit Robert and Connor their eyes watered and they had to turn their heads away to keep from gagging.
The man stood up, tall and bony like a scarecrow. He lifted the crab ring and set it in the small boat with Connor and Robert.
“Thanks.” Robert said. He revved up the small motor behind him.
The crab-baiter grinned and lit up the stub of a cigarette he’d been saving in the corner of his mouth. “One day you’ll get used to it too. If you’ve done it as long as I have.”
Robert looked into the man’s eyes once again. Whatever he’d seen there earlier was gone. Just a harmless old guy whose job was to bait the traps for the tourists, someone who probably snuck off when things were slow in the afternoon, to a place where he could drink a couple beers and catch some sleep. Someone who may have once lived in the city as Robert once had…
He didn’t have many bad days anymore. He spent hours each day combing the beaches with his family. Gradually they learned about the secrets only the locals knew, like the best places to fish from the jetty for perch or what kinds of storms brought to shore the most treasure. Some mornings after Connor had gone to school and Peggy was busy with projects of her own, Robert and Nugget would go exploring the entire day.
He learned to enjoy his time alone with his dog. He spent much of it meditating on the currents and waves, until it felt as if some primal part of him was finally in sync again after having spent so many restless years feeling disconnected, like a clock that’s forgotten its purpose of telling time.
He felt himself becoming whole once again. He’d made peace with the young man he’d been forced to abandon at college long ago, the one who’d been drawn to the world by a deep fascination and thirst for knowledge. When he watched the harvest moon rise over the coastal mountains to the east he was not afraid when he saw the ghostly shape of a red mountain swelling above the rest, as thin as a giant silk scarf billowing in the storm-scented breeze from the north.
Robert called Nugget to his side and together they walked off the beach, through the small town and into the dark woods that lay beyond.
THE END
About the Author
Dennis Yates (born 1963) is an American writer of novels and short stories. He is a native of Portland Oregon, and a fan of long road trips. He often dreams of the red canyons of the Southwest.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2011 Dennis Yates. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
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ISBN: 978-1-937387-93-8 (eBook)
Version 2011.11.08