I paid very close attention. “Devils?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Maybe I misheard. Devils sounds scary.”
He repeated, “I didn't say that.”
“Lanny, what are you afraid of?”
“Nothing.”
“Really? Most of us are afraid of something. Getting lost, unable to find the way home. Death. Illness. Loss of loved ones — there's a common fear.” There was mine — greatest fear, in spades. “I read an article once about phobias and you wouldn’t believe the things people are afraid of. Did you know there's a fear called anthophobia? That means fear of flowers. I mean, who’s afraid of flowers, right?” I thought he might smile. He didn’t. He seemed to have turned inward, drawn by some inward fear. I continued, “But who am I to judge? Why is it more reasonable to fear, say, open spaces — that’s called agoraphobia — than to fear flowers? Outdoor spaces won’t hurt you. And here's one you might have heard of — I don’t recall the name, something-phobia — but it means fear of being in the ocean. That’s certainly not you.”
He shook his head.
I pressed on. “But something scary can happen — say, in the ocean — and we fear the memory.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'm thinking about a story Doug Tolliver told, about you. In the channel, which is pretty much part of the ocean. About the time when you were cleaning the propeller on the Sea Spray and you hit your head and blacked out. You almost drowned.”
“I didn't drown.”
I smiled. “Good thing. Still, it must have been terrifying. Even if you don't remember the feeling now, the memory is there somewhere in you.”
After a long moment he said, “Sandy told me.”
“Oh?” I nodded. “That makes sense. She’s your sister, she’d be the one to tell you. She was evidently in the bathroom when it happened. It must have been terrifying for her, as well, coming back to an accident scene. Nearly losing her brother.”
He nodded.
“Anyway, somebody was there, close enough to help you. He jumped right in and saved you. Oscar Flynn.”
Lanny nodded.
“You remember that part?”
Lanny shook his head.
“Well then, I guess Sandy told you who was there and…”
Before I could finish speaking, the door to Lanny's room burst open and banged into the wall and both Lanny and I jumped.
Sandy Keasling stood in the doorway like an angry sea goddess.
She glared at me. “Who in the hell let her in?”
And then she glared at Lanny.
CHAPTER 29
I banged on Walter’s door and called out, “Wake up! We’re going on a treasure hunt!”
It took him a full minute to emerge from his room, venturing into the common room, looking around for the cause of the commotion. He wore his black fleece bathrobe. His face was wet from a pass at his bathroom sink. His thinning hair was wetted down, renegade bits sticking out hither and thither.
He cleared his throat and said, “A what?”
I slid my open laptop across the dinette table to face him.
He said, “Is there coffee?”
Of course there was coffee. I’d been up for an hour already. Last night I'd returned from the Keasling hacienda deeply fatigued — from a morning of diving and an afternoon of lab work and an evening trying to cajole Lanny into telling some truths. Walter had turned in early, leaving a note saying he was getting too old for extreme sports and twelve-hour work days. Old, hell. I was young and I was getting too old for this. I'd crashed right to sleep. And then woke up before dawn and went straight to the French press.
I said, “There is coffee.”
He vacillated between the kitchenette with the French press and the table with my open laptop, angling for a look.
“Go ahead,” I said. “I’ll bring you a cup.”
“You are an angel,” he said. “I’m in your debt.”
“I’m an over-caffeinated enthusiast short on sleep because I woke up thinking about sand dune restoration and I spent the last hour online Google-earthing and I'd like to get going and so I'm more than happy to bring you coffee. No angels or debts in play.” I gave him a little nudge, toward the table. “Just please check out the geography.”
We took the road southward that looped around the bay and turned off onto another road, a narrow winding road that terminated in a parking lot. This early in the morning, even with the sun shining brightly, the lot was empty. We parked and studied the Google map on my tablet and then grabbed our packs.
A decomposed-granite trail led into coastal scrub.
It felt good to hike, feet on solid ground, breathing sweet air without needing to suck on a regulator. Yesterday’s dive had been an otherworldly experience. Today I slipped back into my world.
It was easy walking for a quarter mile and then we left the trail and struck out for the dunes and the bay that lay ahead.
We reached the southern end of the bay, where it pinched off alongside the white rolling dunes. From here northward, the land was a long narrow finger that separated bay from ocean, a stretch of high dune ridges and low rolling sandy humps and hard-pack sandspit.
The finger extended about three miles northward alongside the bay and then the channel and it terminated at the mouth of the harbor.
We weren’t going that far.
Last week I’d kayaked from the channel, following Lanny deep into the back bay, beaching my kayak below an elephantine dune. This morning I’d located that spot on Google Earth. I’d mapped it. I’d studied it. And I’d found what I was looking for.
No need for a kayak, on this trip.
We followed the silty ribbon of beach that bordered the dunes. To our left, the dunes humped up, in places carpeted with green scrubby bushes. To our right, the bay began to widen. The gray-green water was still, placid.
No kayakers.
No dune hikers.
Just us.
In short order we came to a wider flatter stretch of silty beach, below an elephantine dune.
I halted. “We’re here.”
“Are you certain?” Walter eyed the scene. “After all, it was night time.”
There was an edge in his voice, and the unspoken corollary: it had been night time and I was alone and I had on a hunch followed a mysterious kayaker and I was damned lucky that I had not gotten myself into trouble. Now, in the bright light of day, I could see what an excellent landing this place provided. The tide was receding, widening the available space, but even on a high tide there would be plenty of flat land upon which to beach a kayak. And the beach led onto the picture-perfect dune, the mountain of sugary white sand that rose higher than its neighbors. It was the kind of dune that turns you into a kid again, that makes you want to scramble up and then roll down screaming and getting sand in your ears. I wondered if the Sea Urchins had come here as kids. If this white elephant had been their favorite dune.
In any case, last week it had been Lanny Keasling’s favorite dune.
I said, to Walter, “I’m certain.”
The unspoken corollary: I’d been rash, fair enough, but the mysterious kayaker was Lanny and I’d gotten a general idea of what he had done with the red float. I’d had a bit of a scare when Fred Stavis showed up, overly polite but in the end harmless. What I had gotten, at the dune, was a clue. And then last night in the Keasling hacienda Lanny had let slip a more telling clue.
Walter grunted. “Lead on.”
I started up the dune.
Walter followed, grumbling about getting sand in his sneakers.
Huffing, we trudged our way to the summit.
We were met by a welcome cool breeze, scented with salt air.