Guinevere took it with carefree equanimity and insouciance. “Like I said, I’m in no rush. We’ll get to Portland when we do. I’m sorry about your car though.”
“Don’t worry about it. Cars can be repaired.”
Guinevere glanced along the empty highway. “Don’t suppose you know where we are?”
“At a guess, I’d say we’re about three or four miles from Cannon Beach.”
She grabbed her back pack. “Okay, so I guess we have some walking to do.”
Sam grabbed a backpack which carried what little items of clothing he had for himself. He thought about locking the Remington shotgun in the safe in the trunk, but decided against the idea. Even though they had traveled nearly sixty miles from where the evil creature had attacked all three of them, he had an unusually strong misgiving about leaving his weapon behind. It wasn’t like him to think that way. Especially not along the idyllic west coast of Oregon.
They walked north along US 101, the Oregon Coastal highway, with Caliburn happily leading the way. It turned out they had nearly twelve miles to cover.
At 1:22 a.m. they reached downtown Cannon Beach.
With the exception of a few street lights, and the flicker of motel No Vacancy signs, the place looked like it had gone to sleep for the night.
Sam said, “There won’t be any mechanic on through the night. We’ll find a garage and get the T-bird towed in the morning.”
Guinevere glanced at the No Vacancy sign by the nearest two motels. “There doesn’t seem to be a great deal of places left to stay.”
“Yeah. I wonder what’s going on. It seems unusual for the town to be booked out midweek. Come on, there’s a few more to the north.”
Ten minutes later, they reached another motel.
Caliburn gave a soft bark.
Sam asked, “What is it, boy?”
Guinevere made a wry grin. “I think he’s suggesting the motel has some vacancies…”
Sam turned his eyes toward the motel. Its, No Vacancy sign wasn’t lit up. But neither were the lights at the front desk. Most likely the manager had gone to bed.
He looked at Caliburn and laughed. “What… you can read signs now?”
The dog ignored him, but wagged his tail with joy.
Caliburn barked again happily. His eyes fixed on something next to the main entrance. It read, Pets Welcome.
Sam shook his head. “Did you see that, Guinevere. The dog can read.”
She gave him a patronizing look. “I think he just likes the smell of the place. The place reeks of barbecued meat.”
The scent wafted in through Sam’s nostrils. Some vacationers had definitely used the BBQ earlier in the night, leaving cooked meat scraps in the nearby bin.
“All right, let’s go see if they have a couple rooms available.”
Sam rang the night bell. It was one of those electronic buttons, more like a door bell, that makes not sound, but lights up, giving the hint that it might wake up the night manager from wherever he or she was sleeping.
No one arrived after thirty seconds and Sam pressed the button again.
Nearly a full minute went by, and the lights turned on in a room at the back.
A dreary-eyed gentleman in his sixties greeted them. “Yes? What can I do for you?”
Sam said, “Sorry to wake you, sir. We’re looking for two rooms, please.”
The man shook his head. “I’m sorry. We only have one vacancy left.”
Guinevere said, “We’ll take it. Thank you.”
Sam glanced at her. “You have it. Caliburn and I will keep walking and find another.”
The motel manager said, “I’m afraid you won’t find anywhere else to stay tonight. Everywhere is all booked up.”
“Really?” Sam asked. “Why?”
“It has to do with that shipwreck that washed up onto the beach. People have come from all over the place to gawk at it. Lots of people are wondering where it came from. Of course, the fact the FBI are all over the place has done nothing to allay their curiosity.”
Sam’s interest was piqued. “Interesting. What are they saying?”
The manager said, “It was clearly a large fishing trawler, but it’s been floating out at sea for many years. Some say it’s Japanese, others say it’s Chinese. Some think it’s washed here all the way from Japan, after the tsunami all those years ago, while others argue that it’s merely been drifting out in the North Pacific Gyre — you know that great garbage vortex they say is larger than England?”
Sam nodded.
He’d seen the place. Despite the common public image of islands of floating rubbish, its density was quite low, less than four particles per cubic foot, which prevents detection by satellite imagery, or even by casual boaters or divers in the area. It consists primarily of an increase in suspended, often microscopic, particles in the upper water column. The patch is not easily seen from the sky, because the plastic is dispersed over a large area.
Sam said, “But no one has been able to locate the ship’s origins?”
“Not yet.” The motel manager crossed his arms. “Now, did you want that room?”
Guinevere answered, “Yes please. For all three of us, thank you.”
The manager ran his eyes across Caliburn. “Is she toilet trained?”
Guinevere smiled politely. “Yes, and it’s a he.”
The manager shrugged, as though he didn’t really care either way. “All right, that will be ninety-eight dollars.”
Guinevere paid in cash.
Sam said, “You sure you don’t want Caliburn and I to keep looking?”
“No. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s all right. I trust you.”
“Why? You only just met me.”
“Hey, you saved my life. I think I can trust you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Besides, you have that whole honor, courage, duty thing plastered all across your face.”
“All right. But you can have the bed, and Caliburn and I will have the couch.”
“Like I said, you have too much mensch to do anything inappropriate.” She grinned. “And as for the couch, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The hotel manager gave them a key, pointed to their room, and then handed them a local newspaper. “Here’s the article about the shipwreck, in case you wanna go check it out in the morning.”
Sam took the paper, while Guinevere took the key. “Okay, I think we will. Thank you.”
Guinevere glanced at the image of the shipwreck on the beach, with the Haystack and Needles rock formations in the background, in a dark sea beneath dense clouds. There was little of the original vessel’s hull still visible. Years of drifting in the ocean had left it encrusted with barnacles nearly a foot thick. The newspaper had highlighted a second image of a brass nameplate, with the words Hoshi Maru clearly visible.
Her face turned white and she audibly gasped.
Sam placed his hand on her shoulder, almost expecting her to collapse. “What is it?”
Guinevere said, “It came from Japan, where it was wrecked while trying to leave Minamisōma Harbor at precisely 3:12 on March 11, 2011.”
“Really?” Sam asked. “You sound pretty certain. Why?”
She swallowed. “Because my brother was on board when the tsunami hit. They never found his shipwreck.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, feeling like the weakness in the words for the moment.
She looked away. “What’s worse is he told me two years earlier that he’d run away from civilization to avoid being murdered.”
Chapter Fifteen
The motor-yacht formed a dark silhouette along the river. At a length of 180 feet and a beam of 45 feet, it was shaped more like a bullet than a traditional yacht, with a long black hull and narrow beam tapering in to a razor-sharp prow.