I approached the front gate. Behind it a dog began barking madly. A security camera cast its blank eye on me.
I rang the buzzer and knocked. The barking got louder.
I rang again, waved to the camera. “Mr. Bock? Anyone home?”
The gate shook as the dog snarled and clawed and hurled itself against the wood.
I followed the fence toward a gravel driveway. I could hear the dog snuffling, tracking me.
Tall swinging doors blocked the driveway. They were bolted from the inside and gave about an inch. Close-packed cedars and pines eliminated any sightline to the house. Though I did get a good close-up of a black snout and gnashing teeth.
I jogged to my car for pen and paper, writing that I was interested in Mr. Bock’s property and would be in town for a few days, staying at the hotel. I signed Clay Gardner and added the email address I’d created as part of my cover.
I didn’t see a mailbox or slot. I wedged the note between the gate door and the frame.
A loud pop rang out.
Initially I didn’t perceive the sound as a gunshot. My mind read it as a snapping branch.
The second shot cleared up any confusion, decapitating my passenger-side mirror.
I ran, diving into the driver’s seat and punching the Start button. Pressed flat against the console, I shifted into reverse and gunned it down the block; swung around, hit Drive, and stomped the gas.
In the rearview I saw a man emerge from the woods, a long gun propped on his shoulder, his features effaced by glare.
Chapter 9
I put a healthy distance between him and me and pulled over to assess the damage.
The mirror dangled on wires, its plastic neck shattered. Examining the side of the car, I couldn’t find the scrape left by a passing bullet, which meant that he’d been shooting straight-on, from somewhere in the trees to the left of the front gate.
If he’d hit what he was aiming for, it was a hell of a shot.
What do you do if you no longer feel safe?
I leave.
The sun was dropping fast. I doubted I could make it to the main highway before nightfall, and driving that dirt road in the dark was suicidal.
I rationalized.
He could’ve fired at me as I was getting away. He hadn’t.
He wanted me off his property. That was all.
But what if?
My note told him where to find me.
Visions of a lunatic, kicking open the hotel door and blasting away like some deranged parody of a Western movie.
My gut tightened.
I disconnected the wires, stashed the mirror in the footwell, and drove to the marina, parking at the hotel and crossing the plaza toward the boat lot.
I’d give it some time, see if he showed up.
The wind had slackened as evening came on. I jogged down the ramp to the cove. The concrete was steep and slick with sand. Low tide revealed remnants of the pier, rotted pilings that gasped to the surface between waves.
A woman stood on the beach. She was heavyset, with a blunt gray bob, clad in a matronly skirt and a fisherman’s sweater. She smiled at me and went back to watching the sunset.
I gave her a respectful margin.
The sky had separated into layers, a band of molten brass at the horizon and above it steel wool shot through with iridescent fuchsia. Blood-red water lapped at the rocks. Into this luminous scrim were cut the silhouettes of landforms, cliffs and trees, coal-black lumps of coastline.
The world as negative space.
The woman humped over to join me, natural as can be.
“Never gets old,” she said.
“How could it?”
“Most folks take things for granted.”
“That’s why most folks are unhappy,” I said.
She nodded. Pointed west. “See that?”
“What am I seeing?”
She cackled. “Japan.”
I laughed.
“Maggie Penrose,” she said.
“Clay Gardner.”
“Where from?”
“Bay Area.”
“How long are you in for?”
Seeing me hesitate, she tilted her head. “Everything all right?”
“Sort of. I was out for a drive and someone shot at me.”
“Oh jeez. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. But he knocked the mirror off my car.”
“How awful,” she said. “Did you see who it was?”
“I was looking at a house on Black Sand Court.”
“Ah. That’d be Al.”
“You know him.”
“I know everyone and they know me. Nature of the beast.”
“I’m trying to decide whether to call the police.”
The idea appeared to amuse her. “Feel free. Don’t expect them anytime soon, though.”
“That’s unnerving.”
She shrugged. “We don’t need them. We look out for each other. It wouldn’t work any other way.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It is. I grew up looking over my shoulder. Now I keep my door unlocked and my keys in the ignition. It’s that kind of town.”
“Al’s door is most definitely locked,” I said.
“I’ll have a word with him.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Well and good, but we can’t have him going around scaring the pants off the tourists.”
“Really,” I said. “I don’t want to upset him worse.”
“Al? He’s harmless.”
I looked at her.
“In a manner of speaking,” she said. “He just likes his privacy. But as you wish.”
The sun had sunk into the water. From her skirt pocket she withdrew an LED headlamp.
She tightened it on her forehead phylacteryishly and switched it on. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
She humped up the ramp, headlamp bobbing.
I waited for the brass band to cool before heading up to the plaza.
All quiet on the western front.
In my hotel room I phoned Amy from the landline.
She was fine, the kids were fine, my mom was being a huge help.
“She’s with you right now, isn’t she,” I said.
“Mm-hm.”
“Can I talk to them?”
“Hang on, I’ll put you on speaker... Say hello to Daddy.”
“Hi everyone,” I said.
“Daddy, I can’t see you,” Charlotte said.
“It’s a phone call, not a video,” Amy said. “You can talk to him.”
“Daddy, I had a great day.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Tell me about it.”
“I made Foodland.”
“Wow. That sounds amazing. What’s Foodland?”
“Daddy,” she said patiently. “It’s a land for food.”
“Right, how silly of me. Is Myles there? Buddy?”
“He’s smiling at the phone,” Amy said.
“Hi, Clay,” my mother said.
“Hi, Mom. Thanks for taking care of everyone.”
“You’re welcome. Are you having fun?”
“Sure am. Honey, do you have a second?”
“Let me call you once they’re in bed,” Amy said.
“You have the number?”
“I wrote it down. Say good night to Daddy, everyone.”
“Good night, Daddy.”
“I love you,” I said.
“Talk soon,” Amy said and hung up.
I took a towel down the hall to shower. I was dusty and grubby and sore from hours of driving. Running my hands over my scalp I became aware of the seam of scar tissue. Another scar — shorter, thicker, and uglier — bunched atop my right thigh, the flesh like eraser rubber. I had ceased to see or feel them, and I’d buried the memory of the night I got them: the last time someone had taken a shot at me.