The Breakers

by Marcia Muller

  Or maybe I was the only one she hadn’t wanted to know, because of the off-and-on prickliness of our relationship.

  I tapped on my brother John’s name from my cell’s contact list. Not available, leave a message. Same with sister Patsy. Charlene was living in London for the year; it was the middle of the night there. Best not to talk with her until I’d spoken with Ma’s doctor.

  4:47 p.m.

  “I’ve decided,” Dr. Ralph Germon said, “to tell you about your mother’s condition in spite of her wishes for strict privacy. It’s in her best interests for family to know what’s going on.”

  “Her neighbor mentioned dementia.”

  “Dementia is a nonspecific diagnosis. Frankly, I think the relatives have more difficulty dealing with it than they do with Alzheimer’s.”

  “Why?”

  “Alzheimer’s is supposedly a known disease. It has a name—although I would say we know very little about it. Dementia—well, it conjures all sorts of strange things in their minds.”

  “What’s the prognosis of my mother’s dementia?”

  “Not too bad. Other than it, she’s in reasonably good health. She could live for many more years.”

  “But the quality of her life…?”

  “She is also cheerful. She tells jokes. She even…flirts a little.”

  That was Ma.

  “And she has recently taken up knitting. Scarves, in particular.”

  Oh, God, “many more years” of hand-knit scarves!

  “If she returns home,” the doctor went on, “and I recommend she eventually does, because elderly people are most comfortable in familiar surroundings, she will need a good deal of care for a while, perhaps full-time. A nursing home—”

  I blocked out what he was saying. Katie McCone in a nursing home? No way. For one thing, they’d throw her out within a week for wreaking havoc. Ma had always been a rabble-rouser.

  “For now, what about family visits?”

  “I don’t think that’s advisable. She was very emphatic that no one, especially you, know about her condition.”

  “Why especially me?”

  “She didn’t explain, but I wouldn’t take it personally. The impaired mind doesn’t work rationally.”

  You could bet I was going to take it personally.

  Rae stuck her head through the doorway. I motioned her in.

  “Doctor, I’ll need to continue this discussion tomorrow. I have an important meeting now.”

  Rae frowned, looked around the empty office, and shrugged.

  The doctor and I set a time for a next-day call, and I broke the connection.

  Rae asked, “What’s the matter? I take it this important meeting was an excuse to get off the phone.”

  I massaged my temples and explained the situation.

  “That’s terrible news,” she said. “I barely knew my parents, and when the grandma who raised me died, I never shed a tear. She was a mean old lady. But your ma—she’s special.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you going to visit her?”

  “For some reason she doesn’t want me to. I don’t know if that extends to the rest of the family or not. I can’t get hold of any of them.”

  Rae sat down in one of the clients’ chairs. “Why would it only extend to you?”

  “As you know, we haven’t always had the best of relationships.”

  “True. What does the doctor think?”

  “He mentioned a nursing home. Can you imagine Ma—”

  “Jesus! No way. How long’s she going to be where she’s at?”

  “I don’t know. Medical people—they don’t keep you informed on anything.”

  Rae looked thoughtful, twirling one of her red-gold curls around a finger. “Well, here’s one solution—how about I go down there? I’m pushy enough to find out what’s what. For all we know, this doc could be pimping for an expensive nursing home he owns a percentage of. That sort of self-interest does happen. You can’t be too careful these days.”

  “I suppose you’re right. The goddamn lust for profit.”

  Rae’s offer was a relief, yet I felt conflicted. This was my mother we were talking about; I really should be the one to go to her.

  I said as much, and Rae replied, “What’re you going to do? Hold her hand? Besides, when family shows up, it makes too big a deal of what’s going on. I can just say that Ricky’s doing a concert in the area and I decided to tag along.”

  “But she’ll know that he’s not.”

  “I doubt she reads the arts and entertainment section of the paper. Or much of anything now.”

  I sighed. “Okay, you go. Tell her I’ll be down to see her as soon as I can, whether she wants me to or not.”

  “Will do. And I’ll let you know right away how she’s doing.”

  Rae, I thought as I watched her leave, was an exceptional friend. When All Souls’ budget had stretched enough for me to hire a much-needed assistant, I’d located her through a want ad. She’d looked somewhat bedraggled and unsure of herself when she came for her interview, but exuded an endearing quality that made me ask her back a second time, when I hired her on the spot. Life had not been going well for her, as she was mired in a marriage to a perpetual student who did nothing to help pay the bills. A few months of success with the co-op ended that situation, and from there on it was up and away.

  By coincidence, she met my brother-in-law, country musician Ricky Savage, on the very day my sister Charlene kicked him out of her life. They began a whirlwind affair, complete with tabloid coverage, about which we all had our doubts, but what we’d said couldn’t last had lasted. Rae proved to be a good stepmother to his six kids by Charlene; Ricky quit the philandering lifestyle that had been at the root of his difficulties with my sister; they married; and then—to all our surprise—Rae became an author. The slim suspense volume called Blue Lonesome led to others, and she was now firmly established in a highly competitive field.

  And she still could find the time to help me out with my problems.

  Bless her.

  5:10 p.m.

  Over the phone Carolina Owens said, “We got no recognition on the voice of the caller who hung up on your office manager, or the woman who called you at home.”

  “Dead end there, huh?”

  “Well, yes. Frankly, from what you’ve told me about the missing woman, she doesn’t sound like one to play those kinds of games. Do you have any recordings of her speaking at a different time and in her normal fashion? I’d like one for my files.”

  After a little thought, I said, “Yes. A while back she did a TV spot for the rehabbers’ organization she founded. She was proud of it and gave me a copy.”

  “Okay, send it on over.”

  “Will do. Thanks, Carolina. Send me your bill.”

  “No bill—just give me a gallon of squid ink for my birthday.”

  9:30 p.m.

  Dark here by the water. Cold too.

  I leaned my elbows on the seawall near the Breakers and stared out at the ocean. The low-tide waves made slurring sounds as they washed against the broken sandstone and cement slabs below the wall. Fog swirled, and the horns under the bridge responded; even the rush of tires on the Great Highway was muted. The wind, growing stronger by the minute, tangled my damp hair and lifted it from my shoulders. The salt spray felt like a stinging slap to the face. I couldn’t see anything except the faint phosphorescent shimmer of an occasional whitecap and the very dim lights of a freighter out in the shipping lane.

  The Outerlands were a ghostly, lonely place after darkness fell. Fascination had drawn me here, but now I was in the grip of inertia. Wasn’t that what Zack Kaplan had called the reason he stayed here year after year—inertia? No, he’d said “lethargy.” There was a shade of difference between the two: inertia was a state of not changing; lethargy was worse—just plain laziness.

  Neither was working on me now; what I felt was closer to obsession. I couldn’t stay away from this place, and couldn’t go
forward until…

  Until what?

  Until I found a lead on what might have happened to Chelle here. Until I found a new direction to pursue. Until I knew what Zack had wanted to tell me.

  But, no, that wasn’t the whole truth. The Breakers harbored a secret that would give me an important answer to—

  A door slammed somewhere behind me, and footsteps began slapping along the pavement from the north. Men, three or four from the sound of them.

  They were laughing, wisecracking, having a good time. Harmless night out with the buddies.

  “Whadda you get when you cross a sea lion with a bed?”

  “A Sealy mattress.”

  “Hur-hur-hur!”

  “What did the buffalo say when his son went off to college?”

  “Bi-son.”

  “Thassa good one!”

  “What’s the difference between your wife and your job?”

  “After five years your job will still suck.”

  “Woo-hoo!”

  The jokes continued, each one raunchier and mostly derogatory to women.

  I glanced at them as they neared me. Three—two heavyset, one slender. Clad in ski caps and parkas and jeans. Nothing threatening about them, but, given that last joke, a harmless night out with the buddies could turn ugly…

  I looked away, shifted my weight, and slid my hand into my purse, to the compartment where I keep my .38.

  “Hey, there’s one now!”

  Oh, hell. Here we go.

  Rough voice: “Hey, baby, whatcha doin’ here all alone?”

  Another: “You lookin’ for some company, darlin’?”

  I said coldly, “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  They kept moving toward me, close enough for one of them to put his hand on my shoulder. I removed it. The wind carried smells that made my gorge rise—whiskey and stale sweat and a curious odor that in animals of all species warns of aggression.

  “Hey, it talks!” the slender one said.

  “What else d’you think it might do?” the heavyset one whose nose resembled a pig’s snout asked.

  “Hur-hur-hur.”

  Oh, dammit, this is the last thing I need to deal with now!

  “Yeah, what else can you do, baby?”

  I took a step back.

  “Hey, bitch, we’re talkin’ to you.”

  The .38 slid easily from my bag. “You want to know what else can I do?” I asked, bringing the gun out and up so they could see it. “I can shoot.”

  Pig snout had been about to make a grab for me. Now he froze.

  “Jesus Christ,” the slender one said, “she’s a cop!”

  Don’t disabuse them of the idea.

  “You want to be placed under arrest for violating Paragraph 1440, Part B of the California Penal Code? Intimidating an officer.”

  What I was doing was risky. I wasn’t actually impersonating a cop, but it wasn’t ethical behavior either. And while I’ve been known to dip into the penal code for occasional light reading, I had no idea if there was a Paragraph 1440, Part B.

  The men retreated—slowly, with their hands up in front of them, the way people do when they don’t want their fear to set you off.

  I raised the gun higher, sighted along the barrel. And they turned tail and ran, scrambling and staggering across the Great Highway.

  I didn’t ease my grip on the .38. Rage boiled up, threatening to choke me.

  My finger tightened on the trigger. My arms tensed, and I assumed a shooter’s stance.

  Then my hands started to shake.

  Jesus, I almost fired after them!

  Suddenly my legs went weak. I stared down at the gun. I’d carried it with me for years. Twice it had saved my life. Several times I’d used it to quell dangerous situations. And, out of necessity, I’d killed with it.

  Now it felt strangely foreign in my hand.

  Slowly I sank down, slid through the gap in the seawall and along the steps that gave access to the empty beach. Crumpled to the damp sand, pressed myself into a corner between the wall and the stairs. Stared at nothing.

  I didn’t want to think about what might have happened if things had gone bad. For a while I crouched there, shivering, not from the icy temperature but from the coldness within myself.

  God, what kind of a world are we living in, where a person can so easily give in to anger and stop caring about the consequences?

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 9

  7:10 a.m.

  Restless night, dreams flowing through my subconscious.

  The usual: Reenactments of previous close calls. The terror at the US/Mexican border. The plane crash in the Mojave Desert. The explosion in the mine above Tufa Lake. The frantic escape from a small Caribbean island with a nine-year-old girl whose life was at risk.

  I sat up, clutching at my chest, trying to force air into my lungs. The phone rang and cats scrambled from the bed.

  Hy. “Hey, McCone, I caught a ride with a pilot buddy in Amsterdam. We’re at Kennedy right now, and he’s taking me through to SFO with a couple of stops in between. I’ll be home tonight.”

  “You and your worldwide buddy network. I love it.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Ma’s in the hospital.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “I don’t know. Rae’s going down to Pacific Grove to check on her.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No, not right away. She doesn’t want me there.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged, then realized he couldn’t see me. “She wouldn’t say.”

  “Odd. She’s usually so outspoken.”

  “You don’t have to be polite—we both know she’s mouthy.”

  “Well, yeah. But that’s not all that’s bothering you. I can hear it in your voice, and I’ve been getting some bad vibes from you for the last couple of hours.”

  “Rotten dreams, that’s all…”

  “What kind of dreams?”

  “Oh, they’re only replays of how some things might’ve turned out if I’d…gone the other way.”

  “What things?”

  “Oh, Ripinsky, not now. I’m muddleheaded and tired.”

  Pause. “My buddy’s motioning me toward the plane. I’ll call you back when we’re airborne. I want to know what’s plaguing your sleep.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  7:29 a.m.

  “Okay,” he said when he called again twenty minutes later. “So let’s hear about those dreams.”

  “As I told you before, they’re just replays.”

  “Of what?”

  I explained, briefly—he’d been present at or knew about each incident.

  “Common denominator?” he asked.

  “Split-second life or death.”

  “And the outcomes?”

  “Hazy. But mostly death.”

  “Whose?”

  “Well, I’m the one dreaming them. Who do you think?” I was fully awake now and feeling testy.

  “What incidents? Consider them again.”

  “The crack-up in the Mojave—that came out okay. And I got Habiba off Jumbie Cay. And at the mine above the lake—”

  “We saved each other’s lives.”

  “And at the border—”

  “You saved my life. McCone, you went the right way every time.”

  “But what if these past few days I haven’t? What if…?”

  “Stop that! Any news about your mother?”

  “No.”

  “Well, what’s happened at the agency since we last talked?”

  I told him about my case, and my near-disastrous encounter at the seawall. “I felt so out of control that it’s very lucky I didn’t fire on the scumbags. And you know what kind of attention that would’ve gotten me from the neighbors—and the cops.”

  “But you stopped yourself in time. You went the right way.”

  “But what if I’m off course now?”

  “Then get off
your ass and change your course. See you tonight.”

  7:52 a.m.

  I pouted in bed for a while. Felt it was my privilege after being rebuked by my own husband. But the more I pouted, the more I felt he was right. Both about changing my course and about getting off my ass. Fortunately I had the cats to remind me to do the latter.

  Alex was the larger one: male, a black shorthair with enormous paws that he used to snatch up any attractive morsel he fancied. Jessie, the female, was smaller, also black, but with a white bib and white paws that were no less effective at grabbing any article she found interesting. I once had to rescue a hummingbird from her; how she’d managed to glom onto anything so quick and alert, I’d never know.

  Kibble and fresh water in the dishes. Breakfast for me: nothing. I’d had cold cereal, hot cereal, waffles, pancakes, eggs of all varieties, and toast stuffed down my throat from kindergarten to high school graduation. After I’d gone out on my own, I’d vowed to have no more of that. Yes, they say breakfast is the most important meal of the day, that your senses will be dulled and your very survival compromised without it. Well, maybe I can be a little dull at times, but considering what I do, I’ve survived admirably.

  Take that, Post Toasties!

  8:55 a.m.

  Will called as I was leaving for the office. “I’m closing in on this Damon Delahanty,” he said, “but he keeps moving from place to place, and it’s frustrating the hell out of me.”

  “Which places?”

  “A rental house—no, more of a shack—in Oakland. A flat in the Inner Richmond. An apartment in Daly City. Then back to the Richmond. And now—no trace of him.”

  “All those different places in the four years since he was released from prison?”

  “He’s either restless or a lousy tenant.”

  “E-mail me the dates and addresses for each, and keep searching. What about this Wendall Manning, the party guy on Jardin Street?”

  “Parties are what he’s all about: ran a store on Upper Market for twenty-seven years that rented costumes and sold balloons, invitations, funny hats, paper plates, other table decorations, even ice sculptures. I guess he must’ve delivered truckloads of his merchandise to the Breakers, since he called it ‘a real rockin’ place.’”