“Something like that.”
She watched me for a minute, arms crossed, then went inside.
Breakfast wasn’t a six-hundred-dollar room perk, but it was ample: eggs, bacon, biscuits and gravy. I was starving, and Jenelle kept refilling my plate till I waved the white flag and went to dress.
Cargo pants, trail shoes; a lightweight shirt, cut baggy to hide the ballistic vest and the P365 in an IWB holster. False buttons and a magnetic closure allowed for quick access. In the mirror I saw a suburban dad who had never stalked anything deadlier than the aisles at Home Depot. The look didn’t quite square with Clay Gardner’s mover-and-shaker money-guy persona. But it would have to do.
At six thirty I called Amy. Wails filled the line.
“Please, Charlotte,” she said. “He was playing with that.”
“But it’s mine.”
“You weren’t using it, and in this house we share our toys. Please give it to him.”
“He doesn’t share with me.”
“I hear that you’re upset, and I’m happy to talk to you about it once I’ve had a chance to speak to Daddy. Right now, please give the truck back to Myles.”
“No.”
“One. Two.”
“Fine.”
A crash. Stomps. The wailing got louder as Amy picked Myles up.
“Good morning,” she said.
I said, “What happens if you get to three?”
“You don’t want to find out. How are you? Has anyone shot at you yet?”
“No, but it’s early,” I said. “What about you? Get any sleep?”
“Not enough.”
I heard a tinny beep beep beep.
“Ba,” Myles said.
“That’s right, cookie,” Amy said. “The truck says beep... What’s on tap for today?”
“I’m hiking with my friend the tour guide. I have the vest on and I’m carrying. I should be back in the room by early afternoon.”
“Thank you. Please call me when you are.”
“I will. I love you. Have a good day.”
“You too. Stay safe.”
At five to seven I came down to find Beau seated at the bar in hiking shorts and a faded purple T-shirt.
“Top of the morning,” he said. “Heck happened to your car?”
“The mirror came loose.”
“Oof. You want, I can call DJ for you. He’ll fix it right up.”
I thought about Elvira Dela Cruz, dunned four hundred dollars for coolant. “It’s a rental.”
“You get the extra insurance?”
“I’m covered under my regular policy.”
“Smart. Those things are a rip-off. Okey doke,” he said, clapping. “Since you’re a man of culture, I thought we’d start here.”
He led me to the gallery wall, gave a magician’s flourish, and launched into a monologue, using the photos for illustration. Sheep grazing in the meadows. Grimy, hollow-eyed men in overalls, brandishing saws beside a vanquished redwood whose width exceeded their combined height. A pygmy steam engine dragging a wagonload of logs.
“Tracks used to run to the pier. Cove’s too tight for ships to pull up, so there was a lumber chute off the end. They call it a dog-hole port, ’cause it’s so small only a dog could turn around in it.”
Next: the Reverend Dr. Everett Swann, town namesake and mill owner, godly white beard, undertaker’s suit.
A volunteer spotter with binoculars patrolled the beach for Japanese aircraft or submarines.
That this spiel was so clearly canned didn’t make it any less entertaining. Beau narrated with gusto, winking and nudging and peppering in ironic jokes.
“Miss Vicki Jo Pelman, Queen of the Salmon, 1975. Yes, indeedy: DJ’s grandma; Dave’s mom. Seeing them two baboons, you’d never guess what a looker she was... ’Course she didn’t have much in the way of competition. Anyone who comes to Swann’s Flat in search of single women is barking up the wrong redwood.”
A showman, through and through.
“What’s the deal with the map?” I asked. “I was driving around and kept getting lost.”
“Now there’s one to break your heart. Mill shut down in the mid-fifties. After that everyone cleared out. For about ten, fifteen years it was more or less a ghost town. Everett’s son, Charlie, he dreamed up the idea to turn it into a vacation spot. He starts the pageant, buys ads, lines up investors, the whole nine. Even got the county to chip in for improvements. Then the Coastal Commission comes hollering about this dang limpet, only grows between here and Point Delgada. They sued to block. Charlie was fighting them for years, getting bled dry. One day he wakes up, takes his rifle to the cove, and blows his brains out.”
“Oh my God.”
Beau nodded somberly. “And on that note.”
He smiled and gestured to the door. “Shall we?”
The Range Rover was a stick shift, and as we reached the outskirts of town and hit the entry road, I braced for a wild ride. But Beau was graceful on the clutch, shifting and banking through gusts of white fog, anticipating potholes and rocks. He could have had his eyes closed.
A mile up he pulled to the shoulder and set the parking brake. Sword ferns nodded. I didn’t see any trail, groomed or otherwise.
While I doused myself in bug spray, he opened the trunk, taking a stout-barreled revolver from a gun safe. He strapped it on, handed me a canteen, and shouldered his backpack.
“Vamanos,” he said and marched into the woods.
Over the next hour, we hiked uphill, straddling mossed logs, stepping over roots and scat piles, while Beau delivered an unbroken stream of homespun patter.
Legends from before the white man. Colorful local lore.
Interspersed were episodes from his own free and easy childhood. He’d shot a mountain lion once.
“You tend to see them early in the morning or close to dusk. They’re skittish. They hear you coming and take off. This time, it’s the middle of the day, I’m strolling along, minding my own business. Bam, there she is.”
“That is terrifying.”
“Oh yeah. I was pissing my pants.”
“How old were you?”
“Ten or eleven.”
“Holy shit.”
“I basically lived out here as a kid,” he said. “Nothing really scared me. But man, I tell you... She musta been starving to be out in the open at that hour. She was crouching on a rock, and I can see her eyes narrowing. You don’t want to run, ’cause that sets off the predatory instinct. What you’re supposed to do is stand your ground, wave your arms, yell, get big, throw rocks. She didn’t give two farts. She hops down and starts creeping toward me. I sure as heck wasn’t going to outrun her. So I did what I had to do.” He clucked his tongue. “Right between the eyes.”
“You hit her the first time?”
“I was a pretty good shot, even then. I used to carry this itty-bitty Glock 26.”
“What about now?”
Bergstrom stopped to unholster the revolver. “S&W500.”
“Beast.”
“Oh yeah. Stop a bear. The recoil’s a bitch. Take your arm off, you aren’t ready for it.” He glanced at me. “Wanna try?”
“...Me?”
“I don’t see anyone else around.”
“I mean. Is that allowed?”
“Why not? It’s not like you’re gonna hit anyone.” He paused. “ ’Less you’re one of those gun control guys.”
“No. Not... It’s a complicated issue. No offense.”
“None taken. So let’s carpe diem.”
I said, “Okay.”
Kindly smile. “You never shot a gun before.”
“Not really.”
“All righty. Lesson one. Go on. She won’t bite.”
I accepted the revolver, aware of the other gun strapped to my body.