It was as I remembered: a broad expanse of hummocky mounds and then a shallow descent onto dune waves, with the sea winking in the distance. Of course last time the sea had shone by moonlight, and this morning it shined bright blue in the sun. Excellent visibility.
I rotated slowly, looking along the seaward dunes, then looking along the transverse line of the dunes toward the north, toward the harbor, then looking along the line south in the direction we had come, where the dunes gradually disappeared into bluff tops that overlooked the sea.
This entire sand dune ridge, running south and north, was patched by shrubs and grasses and succulents. It was a fragile construct, stabilized by vegetation against the onslaught of winds and sea spray and rains.
Here and there, it needed a little help.
In particular, a swathe of dune vegetation was undergoing rehabilitation. Don't you know about not walking on little plants? Lanny had said last night. You don’t walk on them, and you don’t dig there.
This morning, with the bird’s-eye view of Google Earth, I had spotted one area marked by thin wire lines.
Now, I put my eyes on the scene and looked for the fence.
Lanny had appeared from that patch of spiky dune bush, just over the summit.
Of course, that did not mean he'd buried the float there. He'd surely been able to hear us, me and Fred Stavis, calling his name. He might very well have zigged and zagged before making his appearance.
Walter unslung his pack and dug out the binoculars.
“Never mind,” I said, “I see it!”
It was several yards to the north, a strand of wire that caught the sunlight, the rest of the fencing hidden from my line of sight by the hillocky nature of the dune crest.
We tramped up and over the offending hillock and came to the fenced-in swathe of baby plants. The fence was an affair of gray wire strung from metal eyebolt post to post, low to the ground, a fence of suggestion: this area is off limits.
I grinned, and shot a glance at Walter. He was frowning.
“What?” I said.
“This is it?”
“Unless there’s another section that’s fenced, that didn’t show up on Google Earth. There could be. It’s a snapshot in time. But this one’s right in front of our noses. And this is a hop, skip, and a jump from the place where Lanny appeared.”
“You're certain?”
I was certain. “Okay, I’m Lanny. I come here to bury the red float. Why here, all the way into the depths of the bay? I could have chosen a dune closer to the channel, to the kayak shop, so I wouldn’t have to paddle so far. But instead I come here. Let's say that’s because I used to come here as a kid, because I know the lay of the land, because it’s night and I seek the familiar. And maybe I come here because I’ve been here recently enough to have seen the vegetation rehab project — to have seen the fencing. And you know what? A fence is a crackerjack landmark in a field of dunes. So I choose the spot to dig in relation to the fence, so that I can return if need be to find the spot again.”
Walter said, “A spot outside the fence, correct?”
“Definitely. I’m deeply sensitive to the environment, I would never set foot inside the protected area. In fact I’m appalled at the suggestion.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you dug inside. I was implying that, if you did indeed choose a spot in relation to the fence—outside—we are talking about a good deal of territory.” Walter put his binoculars to his eyes.
“Well yeah.” I took another long look at the fenced area. It stretched in both directions from the crest, toward the sea and toward the bay. “But I must have chosen a spot near the top. Otherwise why climb up to the ridge? I mean, I was up high enough to overhear voices that night, and I came along the ridge crest, more or less. Surely I wouldn’t have…” I trailed off. I had to admit that even up high it was a lot of territory.
“If I were Lanny,” Walter said, still glassing the fence-line, “I would choose a spot based on the geomorphology.”
I said, with an edge, “Who made you a geologist, Lanny?”
“I don’t need to be a geologist. I just need to look for a good place to dig a hole.” Walter lowered the binoculars. “I’ve made a fine start. I’ve chosen a parabolic dune, after all.”
I said, “Parabolic, Lanny? As in an arcuate feature?” I examined the sweep of the dune. I saw it, the U-shaped depression, the form of the parabola with its wings pointing upward and its convex U pointing downward. I said, “You take my breath away, Lanny, with your amazing expertise.”
Walter cast me a grin.
I said, slightly ruffled, “I presume you're going to tell me where Lanny would choose to dig?”
“I can make a prediction.”
“You're going to predict where a man with a trowel would choose to dig? A non-geologist?”
Walter took a trowel from his pack. “I am now a man with a trowel.”
“You're a man who knows what parabolic means.”
“Yes I am. You run off kayaking to the dunes at night and return with an interesting tale, and I start to study dune morphology.”
“You didn't mention it.”
“It wasn't pertinent.” He raised the trowel. “Now, it is. Now I can tell you that geomorphic features are predictable in their development. Parabolic dunes often develop from small depressions called blowouts. A blowout is a wind-scoured gap in the dune ridge. Blowouts are most common there because the dune crest is the site of maximum wind acceleration.”
“Well then. Somewhere near the crest.” At least I’d got that bit right.
“A man with a trowel could do worse than choose to dig in a place that is already in a deflationary form.” Walter tucked the trowel under his arm and cupped his hands. “A place with established structural integrity, where the walls won't collapse as the man is trying to dig in the loose sand.”
“The blowout.”
“Which Lanny Keasling stumbles upon in his search for the perfect place to bury the red float. Which he calls a hole. Which suffices.”
I nodded. “But we’re not going to wander around until we stumble upon it, because we know where to look. More or less.”
“With a dash of luck,” Walter said. He shouldered his pack. “Shall we go see if we can find a developing blowout?”
We found two.
One was a broad saucer-shaped depression. The other was a deeper narrower cup-shaped depression.
We selected the cup because it was adjacent to a fence post, because that was one more point of reference, should Lanny wish to find his burial site again.
We did not have to dig far. Troweling down half a foot brought us to a piece of black plastic, which upon further excavation turned out to be a garbage bag wrapped around a cylindrical object.
We swapped trowels for latex gloves.
We removed the bag from the hole and set it on the sand.
We slipped off the rubber bands securing the bag.
Still on hands and knees, we opened the bag wide and peered at the object inside.
It was a red float.
Walter said, softly, “Well well.”
Yeah.
It was real. I had theorized for so long, never entirely certain that the red thing I'd glimpsed in Joao Silva's mesh bag on board the Sea Spray—the thing Lanny had squirreled away in his duffel bag — was indeed a float. When we found the yellow float in Robbie Donie’s shrine I had thought that’s the shape of the thing Lanny took—but I was going on supposition and memory. One solid thing I’ve learned in my work is that memory is a slippery fish. And easily shaped by desire. I had wanted to fit the mysterious red object into the parameters of the case. Once we discovered the yellow float, the glimpsed object became in my mind a red float.