Under the Boardwalk

by Barbara Cool Lee

  "This is something else," she said.

  "Have you thought of any other details that might help us find him?"

  Hallie shook her head. "No. I just mean there's something else going on, not that I know what it is. I want to help, but I really can't remember anything."

  "Then we're back to square one."

  "But in such a small town—I mean, nobody can just disappear, can they?" she asked.

  "In winter, we've got a population of about a thousand, give or take a stray surfer. But it could be anywhere from three to five thousand on a summer day like this one. And there are more people outside of town, on the ranches and farms in the hills. And we haven't seen a trace of Windy and Zac yet. So yeah, it seems even here, somebody can disappear."

  Hallie leaned back in her chair.

  Deputy Serrano had switched mental gears. "How about if we listen to Zac's message, Kyle."

  Kyle handed him the answering machine, and Joe plugged it in and played the messages.

  Hallie couldn't help shivering when the disembodied voice came on: "Hi, Kyle. I'm staying over at Brandon's tonight, so don't wait up for me." Again Hallie heard the voice quaver, and now, hearing it a second time, she reconsidered her original assumption that it was just the sound of an adolescent boy's voice in transition from soprano to baritone. Was it her imagination, or was that the sound of fear? Somebody mumbled something in the background on the tape, and Zac added, "Oh, yeah. Tell Chris to feed the horses for me—give Smoky some extra grain too." The call ended, and deputy Serrano played it again.

  After the second run-through, they all stared at each other.

  "Well?" the sheriff asked. "You say Brandon's family's out of town?"

  "That's right," Kyle said. He sat down in a chair next to Hallie. "The whole call is bizarre."

  "He lied," the sheriff said.

  "It was Chris's turn to feed the horses," Kyle mumbled.

  "Really?" Joe furrowed his brow. "Maybe Zac didn't know it."

  "They switch off every week. It'd be hard for him to forget," Kyle said defensively. "He's not stupid." Kyle rubbed his forehead. "Sorry, Joe," he said. "I'm just worried about him."

  "Relax," Joe said. "We'll work this all out. So, this is all we have to go on? He called and said he was staying with Brandon and asked Chris to feed the horses."

  "Who's Smoky?" Hallie asked.

  "What?" Kyle said.

  "He said, 'give Smoky some extra grain'," she said. "Who's Smoky?"

  "Smoky? He said Poky."

  "Okay, who's Poky?"

  "One of the horses. Poker. It's a retired saddle mare Windy got a few summers ago. She just hangs out in the pasture now.

  "Does she eat extra grain?"

  "No...," Kyle said slowly. "No, she doesn't."

  "I could've sworn he said Smoky."

  "Smoky was Zac's pony," Kyle said.

  "Was?" Hallie asked.

  Kyle gave her a strange look, then cleared his throat. "He's dead."

  "What?"

  "The pony," Kyle explained. "He died a long time ago."

  "What happened?" Serrano asked. "How did he die?"

  "Oh, natural causes. He lived to a ripe old age—25 or something like that, and then he died out in the pasture under an apple tree—this was years ago, mind you. I think Zac must have been about 10 or 11."

  "Was Zac upset?" Hallie asked.

  "Yeah, sure. But we knew Smoky was going sometime. Like I said, he was real old." Kyle put his head in his hands. He looked up after a moment. "I didn't even think about it yesterday," he said. "I thought it was a slip of the tongue—he meant Poky, not Smoky. Smoky was his favorite pony when he was a kid, and you know how it is, when you're in a hurry, you might use the wrong name."

  "What do you think now?" Hallie asked.

  "I don't know. I just don't know."

  "Look," the sheriff said. "This is off the main subject."

  "Is it?" Hallie asked. They both looked at her impatiently, but she plunged ahead. "Let's look at the facts: Zac tells Kyle he's staying with Brandon (which was a lie); he asks Chris to feed the horses (it wasn't his turn); he asks him to give extra to his pony (who's been dead for five years). That's the entire message."

  They looked at each other glumly.

  "He could be trying to tell us something," she said.

  Kyle looked skeptically at her. "A coded message? This isn't The Maltese Falcon, Hallie."

  "Let's say Zac's in some kind of trouble," Hallie said, ignoring his frown. "Wherever he is he can't talk freely. He calls home, he leaves an innocent-sounding message that has something in it that only a family member would know makes no sense—the dead pony."

  "I know I said you had a vivid imagination, but you're pushing the envelope here, sweetheart."

  She set her jaw stubbornly. "More vivid than Zac's?"

  Kyle nodded. "Sorry. You're right. It's exactly the kind of thing he would do."

  "Okay," Joe said. "We'll keep that possibility open. But in the meantime we're going to canvas the town, get the word out. We've got an Amber Alert activated for all of Central California."

  Kyle handed the sheriff a photograph. "That's Zac's school picture from last fall. His hair's longer now, but it's a good likeness." He messed with his cell phone for a bit. "And here's one of Windy. Should I email it to you?"

  "Yeah."

  Kyle and Hallie left the sheriff's office, and stood together on the sidewalk. Pajaro Bay was a quiet little tourist village. There was no mystery here. The little street outside Joe's office was lined with shops in converted cottages, all colorfully painted. Baskets brimmed with pink-flowered fuchsias and red begonias. Tourists strolled along the street, some stopping to take photographs of the houses and flowers, others sipping coffee at tables in a café across the street. How could everything look so normal when Windy and Zac were missing?

  She glanced in the window of the sheriff's office. The sheriff was still at his desk, scribbling notes on his notepad.

  "Ready to go?" Kyle asked.

  She stood up. "Where do we start?" she asked.

  "I've got an idea. Come on."

  ~*~

  "Hey, Alec!" Kyle shouted.

  Across the street, a man turned, key in his hand, in the midst of locking the door to a Victorian house. When they crossed the street to meet him Hallie saw the words The Pajaro Bay Sentinel etched on the plate glass window at the front of the building. In smaller print below the name she read: All the news that fits on twelve pages. Alexander O'Keeffe, editor.

  "Established 1899," she read aloud.

  "I haven't been here quite that long," Alec said with a smile. Although it sometimes feels like it, Ms. —?"

  "Reed, Hallie Reed." They shook hands. Alec O'Keeffe was a dark-haired man a few inches shorter than Kyle, with a half-round scar on his chin, and vivid blue eyes that Hallie noticed took in every detail around him, from the way she habitually shoved her scarred hands in her pockets to how Kyle's arm settled protectively around her waist.

  "What's wrong, Kyle?" he asked.

  "I need your help."

  Alec unlocked the door to the office and ushered them inside. "What can I do?"

  While Kyle explained about Zac, Hallie looked around. The office was small and tidy, with two desks and a door that presumably led to a back office. She picked up a copy of the paper from one of the desks.

  "Sure it'll be front page," Alec was saying. "With a picture of the kids as big as life above the fold. We'll do everything we can to help. But this is so hard to believe."

  "I know," Hallie said. "It doesn't seem like this could happen in Pajaro Bay. It's hard to believe there could be any crime here."

  Alec smiled gently at her with those knowing eyes. "We've had a crime or two here, even in our sleepy little town."

  Kyle's glance flicked to Alec's scar, and Hallie bit back a question. She'd spent the last two years living with strangers' curious questions about her hands. She knew better than to put someone else
through that.

  "But that's old news," Alec said, breaking the silence. "Right now we need to get to the bottom of this story. You're right," he said to Hallie. "It's hard to believe Zac could be involved in anything dangerous. They're great kids."

  "You know them?" she asked.

  "Oh yeah. Windy interned here when she was in high school. And ever since Zac got the family history bug, he's been through our morgue a dozen times, looking for one thing or another."

  Hallie wondered what "one thing or another" a person would look for in a morgue.

  Alec read her expression. "The morgue is the place where we keep the dead newspapers—the file copies of old stories," he explained. "From before the days of online papers. Zac's got a real flair for research. And he's a born storyteller, too. If I had the money I'd take him on as a cub reporter any day. But we're not exactly the Daily Planet. There are just the two of us—Karen Martinez is the business manager/brains of the outfit—she's off drumming up advertising at the moment."

  "And you're everything else?"

  "Yup. Chief cook and bottle washer. I do have a couple of part-timers who string for me, though. I'll get on the phone with them as soon as we're done here and get them out scouring the town for info. Don't worry," he said to Kyle. "Between us there won't be a soul in the village who won't get interviewed or investigated. We'll find them." He shook his head. "It's strange. Zac was here on, um, it must have been Saturday morning."

  "You're serious?" Kyle said. "Why was he here?"

  "Doing research on family history is all he said."

  Hallie glanced at the back door. What could Zac have been looking for?

  Kyle noticed her glance. "I don't suppose we could take a look at your morgue, Alec?" he asked.

  "Sure," Alec said. "But it's just a bunch of dusty old clippings." He led them to the back room.

  "We can't get out hopes up. Zac's always doing school projects on local history," Kyle said. "There's nothing odd about him hanging out here."

  She started looking around. The room was lined with cubbyholes, a few papers filed in each one.

  Alec scratched his head and looked around at the dusty cubbyholes. "Let's see. It was something to do with the Madrigal family, at least I'm pretty sure that's what he said.

  "They're filed alphabetically, or what?"

  "By subject," he answered. "Each cubbyhole's a separate topic. And, if nobody's been screwing around with them, the stories'll be filed chronologically within the subject area."

  "I suppose this is just a waste of time," she muttered. "City Council, Logging, Fishing Industry," she read off the labels on the cubbyholes. Each file had a few clippings in it. "Earthquakes, Floods, Cougars. Cougars?"

  "Mountain lions—we've got an overpopulation problem up here in the mountains."

  "Oh. Geez, there's a lot of stuff here."

  "All the news that's fit to print."

  "You said he was looking up something about the Madrigal family?" she asked. "Did he say what subject he was looking up?"

  Alec pointed to a cubby stuffed with clippings. The label beneath it said "Madrigals."

  Hallie gingerly pulled out the pile of yellowed clippings. "There's gotta be a hundred of them here." She sighed.

  "The Madrigal family's been here as long as the newspaper has," Alec said.

  "Longer," said Kyle from over her shoulder.

  Alec left them and went back out to the office.

  She flipped through the clippings. "They're out of order," she said. She stopped at one reading "Madrigal Patriarch Dies at 79." "This one's from 1920." She started reading. "What's 'Arturo's Folly'?" she asked.

  "Pajaro Beach. Great-Grandpa—Arturo Madrigal—built the amusement park and everyone thought he was nuts—until the tourists started showing up in droves, that is."

  Hallie sat down on a stool and started flipping through the clippings again.

  "March 11, 1933," she read aloud. "Earthquake Destroys Local Band Organ. The famous Wurlitzer band organ whose melodies charmed local children has been silenced," she continued. "Today's earthquake sent the music machine crashing to the ground, and an echo of sadness was heard throughout the village. But never fear: Mayor Madrigal vows a new one will be installed before children arrive to ride the carousel this summer."

  She saw Kyle watching her. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm getting us sidetracked here." She put down the pile of clippings.

  "No," he said. "Go ahead."

  "There's no point. An earthquake in 1933 has nothing to do with Windy and Zac disappearing."

  Kyle smiled. "That sounds like my line."

  "Well, then, let's go."

  "Wait," he said. "Maybe you're right. Maybe there is a clue here."

  She brushed the dust off herself and started for the door. "You have a lot of better things to be doing right now."

  "No, I don't," he said. He hesitated, and she wondered what he was going to say. "I need you," he finally said. "I need someone who can think like Zac, someone with—"

  "—a vivid imagination?" She shook her head. "You said yourself this isn't some silly mystery."

  "We don't know what it is. Hallie, please."

  She looked at Kyle. His jaw was set in a stubborn line, but his eyes were sad and lost. She couldn't imagine what kind of hell he was going through. Raising these kids was his "mission in life," and now they were gone. Her best friend was gone. And she didn't know why.

  She picked up the clippings again. "Okay," she said. "What about this one...."

  ~*~

  Alec was just hanging up the phone when they went back out to the office a while later. "I just got off the phone with a friend of mine at GB-TV over in Great Bend—they're the nearest television station," he explained for Hallie's benefit. "I'm going to write up a brief story outline and fax it over to them. Do you have photos of them?"

  Kyle looked on his phone. "There. I just emailed you a couple of pics of each of them."

  "Good. If we hurry, we might make the six o'clock news."

  Alec sat down at his desk. "One of my stringers is out of town, but I can get at least two people going on this right away. After I've talked to them, we'll make up a flyer—how about if I start with a thousand copies?—that's one for every house in town."

  Kyle looked at his watch. "I've gotta pick up Chris and then get home. I want to be there if they call."

  Alec looked up, phone in hand. "I'll email you the flyer, so you can make some copies there. Then I'll get to distributing them around town." He turned to Hallie. "And I'm sure the TV news van will be here within a couple of hours. I'll send them your way for an interview—they'll want to hear about the accident."

  Hallie nodded, and swallowed hard. Whatever it took to help Windy and Zac.

  "Alec, I don't know how to thank—" Kyle started to say.

  "—Forget it," Alec said. "After we find Windy and Zac I'll send Karen around to hit you up for some major advertising for Pajaro Beach." He pushed them out the door. "I'll call you when I get some news."

  Outside the door, Kyle sighed. "Sometimes you forget how good your friends are until you need 'em."

  Hallie patted him on the back. "Let's go home."

  ~*~

  Kyle was out of the truck as soon as he'd set the emergency brake. He walked quickly to the ranch house, hoping against hope, Hallie knew, that the house wasn't as empty as it had been when he'd left. Chris followed after Kyle into the house.

  Standing alone in the driveway, Hallie looked at the old adobe ranch house more closely. Was there a secret hidden here? The veranda that ran along the front of the house had shaded generations of Madrigals, and the little carved saint over the front door had guarded their fates. The sense of place, of home, was so strong, she wondered if it was possible a boy—a bright, imaginative boy like Zac—would run away from here, knowing what awaited him out on the streets. But of course runaways never knew what was waiting for them, or they'd never leave home.

  She looked down the mount
ain to the coast. Pajaro Bay was carved out of the coastline in a shape like a seagull with wings outstretched, a tiny lighthouse in the bay punctuating the shape like the gull's eye. Pajaro meant bird, Windy had told her, and Hallie could see how a creative conquistador had thought to name this place. Zac, the Spanish settler's descendent in imagination as well as blood, was as connected to this land as the adobe ranch house.

  Kyle came out of the house, his expression making the obvious question unnecessary. He clutched a cordless landline phone in one hand, and his iPhone in the other. "I'm gonna look around the barn," he said to her, and headed that way. She followed.

  The barn was just a barn—full of dusty hay and old tack and farm tools. They caught Halloween lurking behind a bale of straw in search of a stray rodent to pounce on. Kyle led Hallie up through the trap door into the hayloft to point out the bats huddled together in an upside-down cluster of leathery wings and sleepy mouse-like faces. She tried to suppress an instinctive shudder at the sight. "Let's go," Kyle whispered. "They need their beauty sleep."

  Down below, they searched through several of the stalls. Nothing seemed out of place. One of the stalls was open to the pasture outside, and a handsome bay gelding waited patiently for them there, ears perked up inquisitively as they rummaged around. Hallie heard hoof beats, and then a palomino mare trotted eagerly up to push past the bay and stick her head over the partition, looking for a treat.

  "Time for your dinner, eh, Poky?" Kyle said wearily. "Here you go." And he grabbed a couple of flakes of hay to give her what she wanted.

  After finding nothing in the barn, they went back inside, where Chris helped them search the house. Windy's room was mostly empty, with only a pile of stuff Hallie recognized from their shared dorm room. She had waded through all that stuff for a year, so she couldn't see how any of it could be a clue to the disappearance.

  Zac's room was the usual chaotic mess of clothes and schoolbooks and video games that Hallie supposed most parents of teenage boys were resigned to seeing. They looked gingerly through the room, the others apparently feeling as much like trespassers as she did.