“We heard shots,” Val said. “Did…?”
“One of the SWAT team is dead. Burton shot him. A few of your patients are scraped and bruised, but they’ll be okay. Winston Krauss was eaten.”
“Eaten?” The color ran out of Val’s face.
“Long story, Val,” Theo said. “Mavis set it all up after you guys left. Catfish and Estelle came in and drew the monster out. Winston was sort of the bait.”
“Oh my god!” Val said. “She said something about my not being in trouble.”
Theo held his finger to his lips to shush her, then nodded to where Sheriff Burton lay on the ground. “It never happened, Val. None of it. I don’t know a thing.” He spun her around and unlocked her handcuffs. Then did the same for Gabe and Howard.
The gaunt restaurateur seemed more morose than usual. “I had really hoped to lay eyes on the creature.”
“Me too,” said Gabe, putting his arm around Valerie.
“Sorry,” Theo said. To Val he said, “The reporters from those helicopters are going to be here in a few minutes. If I were you, I’d get out of here.” He handed her the keys to the Mercedes. “The district attorney is sending a deputy to pick up Burton, so I’m going to stay here. Will you give Molly a ride back into town?”
“Of course,” Val said. “What are you going to tell the reporters?”
“I don’t know,” Theo said. “Deny everything, I guess. It depends on what they ask and what they got on tape. Having lived most my life in denial, I may be perfectly suited for dealing with them.”
“I’m sorry I was—I’m sorry I doubted your abilities, Theo.”
“So did I, Val. I’ll call you guys and let you know what’s going on.”
Gabe called Skinner and they loaded into the Mercedes, leaving Theo and Molly facing each other. Theo looked at his shoes. “I guess I’ll be seeing you.”
She stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. Then without a word she crawled into the back of the Mercedes with Howard and Skinner and closed the door.
Theo watched them back away, then turn and head across the pasture and out of the cattle gate.
“You’re going down with me, Crowe!” Burton screamed from the ground.
Theo spotted something shiny lying in the grass near the back of the Suburban and went over to it. It was Molly’s broadsword. He felt a smile breaking out as he picked it up and went over to where Burton was lying.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Theo said. “I suggest you exercise that right. Immediately.” Theo plunged the sword into the ground half an inch from Burton’s face and watched the sheriff’s eyes go wide.
Thirty-three
Winter in Pine Cove is a pause, a timeout, an extended coffee break. A slowness comes over the town and people stop their cars in the street to talk with a passing neighbor without worrying about a tourist honking his horn so he can get on with his relaxing vacation (damn it!). Waiters and hotel clerks go to part-time shifts and money slows to a creep. Couples spend their nights at home in front of the fireplace as the smell of rain-washed wood smoke fills the air, and single people resolve to move somewhere where life is a full-time sport.
Winter near the shore is cold. The wind kicks up a salty mist and elephant seals come to shore to trumpet and rut and birth their pups. Retired people put sweaters on their lap dogs and drag them down the street on retractable leashes in a nightly parade of doggie humiliation. Surfers don their wetsuits against the chill of storm waves and white sharks adjust their diets to include shrink-wrapped dude-snacks on fiberglass crackers. But the chill is crisp and forgiving and settles in a way so that the town’s collective metabolism can slow into semihibernation without a shock.
At least that’s the way it is most winters.
After the coming of the Sea Beast, winter was a juggernaut, a party, an irritation and a windfall. News footage from the helicopters was beamed out over satellites and Pine Cove displaced Roswell, New Mexico, as the number one crackpot travel destination. There wasn’t much on the tapes, just a crowd of people gathered on the shore and the fuzzy image of something large in the water, but with the footprints and the eyewitness accounts, it was enough. Shops filled with cheesy serpent souvenirs and H.P.‘s Cafe added to the menu a sandwich called the Theosaurus, which was the official scientific name of the Sea Beast (coined by biologist Gabriel Fenton). The hotels filled, the streets congested, and Mavis Sand actually had to hire a second bartender to help serve the imported wackos.
Estelle Boyet opened her own gallery on Cypress Street where she sold her new series of paintings enigmatically entitled Steve, as well as the new Catfish Jefferson CD entitled 'The What Do I Do Now That I’m Happy? Blues.'
As the story of the Sea Beast spread and was sensationalized, interest rose in an obscure B-movie actress named Molly Michon. Discs and videocassettes of the Warrior Babe series were remastered and rereleased to an enthusiastic audience, and the Screen Actors Guild came down on the producers like an avenging accountant angel to capture a piece of the profits for Molly.
Valerie Riordan’s practice stabilized as she struck a balance between therapy and medication and she was able to schedule a sabbatical to join her fiancé, Gabe Fenton, on an oceanographic expedition aboard a Scripps vessel to look for evidence of the Theosaurus in the deep trenches off California.
After he testified against John Burton, putting him away for life, winter settled on Theophilus Crowe like a warm blessing. In the second month of his recovery, he realized that his addiction to marijuana had been nothing more than a response to boredom. Like the child who whines away a summer day because there’s nothing to do, but makes no effort to actually do anything, Theo had simply lacked the ambition to entertain himself. Sharing his life with Molly solved the problem, and Theo found that although he was often exhausted by the demands of his job and his lover, he was never bored. Molly’s trailer was moved to the edge of the ranch by his cabin. Every morning they shared a hearty breakfast pizza at her place. In the evening, they ate dinner on his cable spool table. She answered his calls while he was at work, and he ran interference with the geeky fans who were rabid enough to seek her out at the ranch. Not a day passed that he did not tell Molly how special she was to him, and as time passed, the narrator in her head fell silent and never spoke again.
There was no winter in the deep submarine trench off California, two miles down. Everything was as it had been: a dark pressurized sameness where the Sea Beast lay by his black smoker, grieving for love lost. He stopped grazing on deep water worms that grew on the rocks and his great body began to waste away under the weight of the water and the years. He had resolved never to move again—to lie there until his great heart stopped and with it the throb of heartbreak—when sensor cells along his flanks picked up a signal. Something he had not felt for half a century, the signature of a creature he thought he would never feel again. He flipped his tail and shook off the crust of loneliness that had settled over him, and that organ buried deep beneath his reptile brain picked up a message coming from the female. Roughly translated, it said, “Hey, sailor, want to get lucky?”
Acknowledgments
My thanks to Dr. Kenneth Berv and Dr. Roger Wunderlich for their advice on mental health and psychoactive drugs; to Galen and Lynn Rathbun for help with biology and rat tagging information; to Charlee Rodgers, Dee Dee Leichtfuss, and Jean Brody for manuscript readings and comments; to Nick Ellison for agent stuff; to Rachel Klayman for patience and precision in her editing; and finally to all those people who were willing to share their experiences with antidepressants and other psychotropic drugs—you know who you are, you crazy fucks. (Just kidding.)