“Come on, Doc. I’m on your side. You must know Peters wanted to send someone else. You know why I made ’em send you, don’t you?”
Fletcher supposed the answer would be forthcoming.
“Take a look around you, homes. Sonny’s gone. Robbie’s gone.” Harmon laughed once more. There was nothing mean-spirited about it. It was just the way you laugh sometimes, when you see a thing for what it is. “Take a look at who’s still here. These other pissants . . .” He looked toward the sea, dismissing them with a wave of the hand. “All they care about is the check.”
“A check would be nice,” Fletcher said.
Drew Harmon just looked at him. “Shit, Doc, you wouldn’t know what to do with a check if you had one, and neither would I.”
• • •
They went on after that, a final steep descent which was more of a climb than a hike. As they went along this part of the trail—if, in fact, one could call it by such a name—Fletcher noticed for the first time that Drew had strapped the diver’s knife he had till now carried in a pack onto the calf of one leg. He had not seen Drew wear this article into the water before and could not imagine what use he had for it now, unless perhaps he intended to dive for his supper before returning to the beach. Fletcher came close to asking him about it, but they had come to a particularly treacherous part of the descent, and by the time they reached a flat rock overlooking a narrow sandy beach, his attention was focused on the sea below and he had forgotten about the knife.
It was a break of stark but not uncommon beauty, a shallow bay ringed by granite. Drew Harmon seemed to view it with great enthusiasm, proclaiming it the queen of the coast.
Fletcher saw only a horseshoe-shaped inlet, perhaps a mile across, half a mile deep, at whose outermost edge swell lines could
be seen bending themselves across the point. In fact, they had been watching such lines for the last two legs of their descent, seductive undulations of the ocean’s surface, dappled in sunlight, the product of a warmer clime. Seen from closer quarters, however, one might discover just what became of these lines as they found the reef and it was not, Fletcher believed, a pretty sight. He saw them now for what they were—cold and unforgiving, dull mounds of dark green water, as if the very cliffs had somehow made union with the sea and which offspring were then loosed, hissing and crashing, upon the glassy waters of the rocky inlet. Fletcher supposed he made a sound of some sort. He could not rightly say what it was. He was aware of the big man, smiling at his side.
“Thar she blows,” Drew said. “It doesn’t get much prettier.”
Fletcher looked at the rocks and the waves that broke there. He did not reckon them any bigger than what they had seen at the river mouth. Perhaps not as big and if there was any doubt left in his mind as to the veracity of Kendra’s story, the sight of the break before him served to dispel it. For if this was being presented to him as the end of their journey, it was clear to him that the journey had never been about the place. It had been about the past, or something in it, and would come to no end one could rightly call by that name.
The trail continued to the beach. As they passed along it, Drew offered instruction as to currents and line-ups, the position of rocks. They went out together, pushing through the shore break, angling across smoked glass as the outside sets caught the first rays of light, shimmering as they rose and stretched, wanting only someone to ride them to make them real.
• • •
They paddled side by side for a short distance, then separated, each finding the line-ups suitable to his purpose. The waves came on like two-story buildings making twenty knots. They hooked around the point, mirroring the granite walls, exploding upon the glassy flats.
Fletcher soon became engrossed in what he was about, the thrill of the hunt settling upon him once more, and, in fact, he could not say that he was sorry he had come. It was only the death of the boy he
regretted, and he saw then how it would be. There would be recompense, and there would be work. The landscape itself suggested them and he turned his camera to the waves. He saw them framed by granite cliffs, their steel gray faces finding reflection upon the sea.
The sky broke to a pale blue as Fletcher watched Drew Harmon catch his first wave. He saw the man stroking down the face of mirrored wall, saw him jump to his feet in a single fluid motion set in contrast to the way Fletcher had seen him move on dry land. He sighted through his lens as the surfer drew out the kind of deep, carving bottom turn which had once been a signature move, and was still a thing of beauty, perfectly timed and executed. In fact, all of his moves were done with precision and power. There were no lip bashes or floaters, none of the maneuvers worked out to score points in surfing contests and even though these waves were a little big for such items one could see that such was not the man’s style. It was too pure and too clean for the admittance of cheap theatrics and there was something about it which broke Fletcher’s heart to see. It was a statement, a last will and testament written on the watery face of the world and there were none there to witness save for Fletcher himself and he was humbled in its presence for it was the thing itself.
Fletcher shot through the first big drop and turn. He stroked a few yards to his left, wanting a better position as the wave lined up on an inside bowl. He focused quickly as Drew set up for the section and it seemed to him a good sign, as if the two of them were in sync. He sighted through the lens and yet even as he began to shoot, he saw Drew Harmon fall. He went off his inside rail into the face of the wave and Fletcher thought it an odd miscue, both in place and in attitude, and he saw clearly that having thus fallen the surfer was sucked cleanly up the face and deposited over the falls. At which point a sharp cracking noise rang out, echoing across the water, caught between the walls of stone and as Fletcher heard it he knew what it was, without doubt, without confirmation. He knew what it was and he knew why Harmon had fallen. He had fallen because he had been shot.
K
endra was in the sweat lodge. She was going through the men’s clothes when she found Drew’s book. She had given up dancing. Those little pills the Doctor had given her were the ticket and she meant to have some more. And then she found the book. She laid it aside at first and went back to looking through the clothes. At last, she found what she was looking for in the pocket of Jack Fletcher’s parka. Unhappily there were only three left. She took them for herself. She assumed there were more where those came from and though the Doctor might be mad when he found them gone, she was sure he would forgive her. He was a kind heart, she thought. He would know. When she had taken them, she picked up the book and sat with it at the doorway to the smokehouse, in the early light.
She could not say she was surprised by what she found, not in light of what had transpired. Nor could she say that she was not
moved. For it was all right there. She found it in his careful notations, in his descriptions of places and waves, in his listings of tides and intervals, of boards ridden, of companions, when there were companions to be had. It was all there, for someone with eyes to see. For Drew had logged today’s entry as well. And he had logged it beforehand, in the hours before dawn.
He had camped, he said, with his wife and Jack Fletcher, an old friend and photographer, in the cemetery north of Neah Heads. The swell was a strong one, generated by a large winter storm showing intervals of twenty-five seconds. It had been preceded by a small depression which had given them rain throughout the night but which he expected gone by morning. He was pleased that he was among friends, for he intended this as his last session. He regretted that he would be unable to provide details afterward, for he believed it would be an epic morning and he intended to ride as many waves as possible. He was riding a new board on which he had drawn in the tail and moved his fin and he was looking forward to seeing how these changes might affect the handling characteristics of his design in waves of some respectability. It was at this point that Kendra Harmon heard the first shot.
• • •
From the smokehouse, she crossed the grass and came to the trail. She reached the cliffs and looked down on the glassy water and she could see the two surfers and she could see the other thing as well, the dark shape which circled.
She heard a second shot and saw below her the short skinny Indian, the boy with the rifle she had not considered much of a threat. He had his back to her and before he could fire again, she dug a stone out of the ground and threw it at him.
It hit him between the shoulder blades, and when he turned and saw her on the trail above him, his face twisted and he stepped backward toward the precipice. She picked up more rocks and went down the trail throwing. It did not occur to her that she might be shot. Some of the rocks missed. Some found their mark. The boy ran. He was headed uphill now, in the direction of the cemetery though by no discernable trail. He ran through the rocks and scrub,
stumbling as he ran. Kendra watched him. She saw him hit the grass and that was where Sheriff Blacklage found him as well.
Kendra could see both of them from where she stood. She saw the young man raise his rifle. She saw the sheriff draw his gun. She watched as both men fired and missed. The sheriff came on, the boy too, both firing and missing, and when they were close enough to hit one another with spit, she saw the sheriff come up alongside the boy’s head with his .45, and she saw the boy crumple like a leaf in the wind.
The thought which occurred to her then was that she had seen him live when she should have seen him dead. She had cut his lifeline and he was still alive, leaving her to conclude that perhaps it had not been her after all. Maybe it had all been dumb luck. Or maybe she had found what she came for. She had found the other pain and it was Drew’s. At which point, she was stricken and turned to the sea. But she could not abide what she saw there. She swayed with the wind, dizzy with pills, with want of food. If she wanted to, she thought, she could just let herself go. The wind would take her. It would do with her what it would, and it was consequently with some degree of will that she determined it to be otherwise. Her life was on the land. The sea was behind her.
F
letcher saw Drew Harmon one more time. He saw him back on his board, paddling in a curiously broken motion. He saw something else as well, ahead of Drew. He saw two sea lions in a big hurry, their sleek heads breaking the surface of the water. The animals were traveling fast enough to generate small V-shaped wakes. Fletcher was looking at the wakes when something bumped his board, and though he had never felt the likes of it, he knew instinctively just what it was.
For a moment, he remained locked in place. The shark, drawn no doubt by the scent of blood, had come to check him out. Fletcher had two choices. Paddle or float. As he could not quite bring himself to put his arms in the water, he did the latter. A choice by default. He waited as some dim primordial intelligence circled unseen in the depths below, then watched, as Drew Harmon disappeared without a trace.
A set wave thundered on the bay. Drew reappeared, clinging to
the deck of his board, man and board springing up from the depths like a cork loosed from the bottom of a bowl. White water made pink with blood arced in rainbird patterns before the sky. A dorsal fin appeared in the water between Fletcher and Drew. The dorsal was about two feet high. And then the shark rose. The great hump of his back appeared. Fletcher saw the water parting before it, white-capped ripples trailing in its wake. For a moment, the shark swam directly at him. Suddenly it turned, showing him a portion of jaw. A great, unblinking eye. It rolled toward him and then away, a blinding 180-degree turn. He saw the flash of a tail. He raised a forearm, caught the blow and was knocked from his board.
He thought it would take him then. He opened his eyes to an icy grayness, awaiting the strike. There was nothing. He floated to the surface. The wooden gun was floating nearby. He reached it with a stroke and pulled himself back onto the deck, still waiting to feel it, the death grip on a leg, the thing that would take him. The sea was empty. Nothing but sunlight on water. There were no dorsals. There was no sign of Drew Harmon, or of his board. It was as if it had never been.
He heard the explosion of a wave close at hand. He turned to find this play with the shark had left him dangerously close to the impact zone. He watched as a huge wave feathered and broke. A line of white water head-high rumbled toward him. There was no fighting it. No pushing under or through. He could let it roll him, or he could turn toward the beach in the hope of running with it, which was what he did. He shoved as much of the board as he could out in front of him, so as to keep the nose from the water, and clung to the rails well back of the midpoint.
The white water hit him in a explosion of light and cold. It pounded his back, driving his ribs into the board but propelling him forward with great speed, giving him to understand that he had been far enough out front, that he would ride it toward the beach.
He pulled himself forward on the board, fairly skimming over the water now, the rough stuff behind him, the beach drawing close and, in time, he could feel the white water loosen its grip. He could sprint paddle now, over the inside bar and into the trough which ran along the beach, just short of dry sand. In light of what had just
transpired, it was no doubt the thing to do. The course of prudent behavior. He put the board up on one rail and rolled, allowing the white water to roll on past him. He righted himself and looked back toward the horizon and the place from which he had come.
There was still white water foaming around him. The sky was washed in light, filled with the mist generated by the power of the waves. Distant lines wrapped around the point and peeled toward the beaches below the cliffs. There was still no sight of Drew Harmon. No indication of anyone paddling toward the shore. Fletcher looked toward the cliffs but there was nothing there to see. He pulled the camera from its rubber pocket where, quite miraculously, it had remained, held to the deck of the board. He pointed toward the cliffs, scanning with the lens. Nothing there save brush and stone.