I picked up speed as I passed Dave Dell's glass bowl. The house was huge but shabby from up close— gray paint scarred by wind and salt, lowered curtains, no signs of inhabitance. The next property meandered along the bluff, fronted by clumps of rough-cut shrubbery and backed by pines twisting spastically. Rickety steps to the beach dangled— the bottom dozen steps had been sheared off.
As I continued south the breeze picked up, and now I was working a bit just to keep from veering back toward land. A few minutes later the first sign of riptides appeared— narrow pipes of coiling water braiding the skin of the Pacific. As I passed over them the kayak bucked, then settled down gently.
Three more estates, two with intact steps so steep they were little more than ladders. Norris's tale of a fast-vanishing beach might have been hyperbole, but signs of erosion were obvious in the furrows that corrugated the bluffs. An outcropping of rock fingers stretched into the water, and I pushed the kayak farther out to sea, skimming the eastern border of a floating mass of kelp. Suddenly, the sun hid itself again and the water got dark. I was a good fifteen yards from the tide line when Tony Duke's funicular came into view.
Duke's property was wider and higher than those of his neighbors, and his property line was more sinuous— a series of S-curves created as the cliff twisted and relented. The hillside had been planted with succulents, but all that remained were scraggly gray-green patches, and the erosion scars were long and deep, impossible to mistake for anything but inevitable. Down below was Duke's patch of beach, a spoon-shaped hollow visible only from the water. The funicular was a low-key affair, redwood car and dark metal tracks blending in with the mountainside. The passenger compartment rested atop the cliff, shadowed by a brown metal arch that I assumed was some kind of power source. The tracks dropped from the hilltop to the sand in a near-vertical drop, adhering to the dirt as if by magic. If plants couldn't take root, could metal bolts be trusted?
Someone thought they could. Nestled in the spoon were a woman in a beach chair and two small white-blond children. I was too far away to make out the woman's age. Her big straw hat and blowsy white dress provided no help. The kids looked to be around three or four. The smaller one— a girl in a pink one-piece bathing suit— sat in the sand, legs splayed, digging with a bright orange shovel and adding sand to a green bucket. Several feet in front of her a naked boy ran along the shore, kicking water, picking up clumps of seaweed and tossing them ineffectually at the ocean.
The woman's body was loose in a way that could mean only sleep or hypnosis. In the sand near her right arm, something glassy kicked back reflection.
I stopped rowing, backpaddled to remain in place, and watched them. The naked boy saw me, stared back, raised his arm. Not a greeting— a tight-fisted wave, combative. The woman didn't move. I resumed rowing— slowly. The breeze bumped me over a riptide, and water splashed into the boat. The air was colder, and the pool around my bare feet had become an ice bath. When I was well past the Duke estate, I looked back. The little boy had lost interest in me, was in thigh-high water, splashing.
I drifted past several more properties, caught sight of a couple of cathedral-sized houses but no people. The wind had grown adamant, and my feet, immersed in salt water, were numb. I crossed a few more rips, found easy water, sat there for a while, bobbing and staring out across the ocean, wondering why I'd come. A shadow passed over the kayak as a pelican— a big, fat, gray creature, maybe the bird I'd seen atop the pier— glided toward the horizon. I watched the bird cross the kelp bed and settle. Waiting. Dipping, retrieving, gulping. Oblivious to anything but the task at hand, a jowly monarch.
I rowed a bit more, hit increasingly angry waves. Fifty minutes had passed since I'd slipped into the wet suit. Time to get back.
I'd be bringing back no tales of naked babes for Norris and nothing of an evidentiary nature for Milo. The little towheads were most likely Tony Duke's second installment of offspring, and the woman could be anyone.
As I began the row back I decided not to tell Milo of my little ride. Maybe he'd call today, maybe not. One-handing the kayak into reverse, I began my return trip. Rowing faster and staying as close to the shore as the shallows would allow, because the wind had kicked up the waves. Working up a chilly sweat by the time the funicular appeared.
The cable car remained at the top, inert. But the woman in the white dress was on her feet now, hatless, running, golden hair streaming, arms spread wide. Her mouth open too, as she raced for the water.
I was too far to make out the words, but I could hear her scream and the tone was unmistakable: panic.
The little girl in the pink bathing suit hadn't budged, and the orange shovel was still in her hand. But no sign of the naked boy.
Then I saw him. A little white dot bobbing in the water, maybe twenty yards due north of the kayak.
Just a towhead, no arms. Bouncing like a Ping-Pong ball, so insignificant that I might have mistaken him for flotsam— a stray bit of Styrofoam.
The golden-haired woman ran into the ocean just as the ocean swelled and the boy disappeared. I rowed toward the spot where I'd spotted him. Saw the riptide— tight, luminous, funneling.
No sight of him.
The woman was in the water. The little girl had gotten to her feet and was toddling after her.
I began rowing frantically, found my progress too slow, wormed my way out of the kayak and dove into the icy water.
Even a quiet ocean can make a man feel weak. This ocean cared nothing for my self-esteem.
I dove, stroked, dove, stroked, fixing my eye on the spot where the boy had gone down. Thrown off by the rips and by waves, now freshly stoked by a full-force wind. The funnels weren't strong enough to pose a danger to someone of my size, but they slowed me down, made it harder to focus on my destination.
I swam as hard as I could, got close to the spot— still no sign of the boy—there he was, ten yards farther out, face whitened by sunlight, bouncing— no sign of his arms, but he seemed to be staying afloat— treading water, good swimming skills for his age, but how long could he last? The water was icy, and I felt my own muscles clog. I threw myself into the currents, concentrated on keeping his blond head in my sights. Watched helplessly as he went under again, and when he resurfaced he was five yards farther from shore— being rolled out to sea, slowly but inexorably. The woman's screams sounded behind me, audible above the roar of the tide.
I changed course, widening the angle of juncture as I estimated where the rips would take the boy and swimming toward that point. Thinking about all those drowned kids I'd evaluated at Western Peds. Active little boys, mostly. Survivors with damaged brains . . .
I reached the spot. No boy. Had I miscalculated? Where the hell was he? A quick glance back at the shore told me I hadn't lost my bearings— the woman in the white dress was swimming too. But she'd covered only a third of the distance, was having trouble as the garment bloused about her like a deflated parachute. Behind her, the chubby little girl edged toward the water. . . .
I started to warn her, caught sight of the boy's head, then his entire body— fifteen feet ahead— tossed like a scrap of kelp as a wave pushed him up and dunked him out of sight, and now he looked scared. I raced toward him, only to see gravity return him to the depths yet again. His arms were thrashing wildly— losing control.
Flinging myself across the riptide that had snared him, I reached out, got hold of wet hair, a skinny arm, then a small, bony torso that writhed in my grip. Circling his body with one arm, I held his head above water and began paddling back toward land.
* * *
He fought me.
Kicked my ribs, butted my chest, shouted in my ear. Tiny teeth bit down on my earlobe, and it was all I could do not to let go.
Strong for his size, and despite his ordeal he was feisty. Growling and spitting, intent on chomping my ear again. I managed to pinion both his arms and forced his head away from mine using my chin as I continued toward the beach. He howled and bucked and butt
ed his little skull against my collarbone.
When the water shallowed sufficiently, I stood and held his thrashing little body at arm's length. His scrunched-up, triangular face emitted a hoarse cry of outrage. Good strong lungs, nice-looking kid. Four or five.
“Down!” he screamed. “Put me down, shit-poop asshole! Down!”
“Soon enough, my little gentleman,” I said, catching my breath.
Behind me a woman sobbed, “Baxter!” and slender white hands tipped by long red fingernails yanked the boy from me.
I searched for the little girl.
In the water up to her knees. The woman in the white dress was hugging the boy, her back to the little girl.
I pointed. “Should I get her, or you?”
The woman swiveled sharply. Young— very young, same triangular face as Baxter. Green-blue eyes followed my finger, and she froze. The baggy dress had soaked her to the skin, gauzy white cotton deepening to flesh tone as it clung to her torso, outlining too-full breasts, the grayish purple assertion of nipples, a sweep of abdominal swell, tiny tidepool of navel pit, the stippled outline of white lace bikini panties, labial cleft visible beneath the lace.
“Oh!” she said, but she still didn't move, and the toddler was now up to her waist, laughing and splashing. Tiny little thing— two and a half was my guess— with plenty of baby fat, a convex tummy, a bud-mouth open in wonderment. White hair top-knotted, sand crust on her belly. The wind was strong enough to rustle the trees along the bluff, and foot-high breakers slapped the sand.
“Baxter,” said the woman, voice quivering. “Look at what Sage is doing. You guys are going to kill me.” Still holding the boy, she moved toward the girl, tripped, fell, dropped the boy, who ended up with a mouthful of sand and began choking and screaming.
I hurried toward Sage. Hearing the woman call out, “Ohmigod, I'm so stooopid!”
* * *
I reached the child just as she fell on her rear and gulped water and broke into sobs. When I swooped her up, she stopped crying immediately. Giggled. Touched my lip with a tiny, gritty finger. Giggled again and tried to poke my eye.
“Hey, cutie,” I said.
“Cootie. Heh heh.” Poke, poke. I restrained the finger, and she found that hilarious.
I carried her back to the blond woman and handed her over. Baxter's mouth was clean and grinning crookedly. He glared at me, proclaimed, “No fish,” and shook his fist.
“He thinks he was fishing,” said the woman. “He thinks it's your fault he didn't catch anything.”
“Sorry,” I said.
Baxter scowled.
“Big fisherman,” said the woman. “I can't believe he actually did that. He never did it before.”
“That's kids,” I said. “Always something new.”
“No fish,” opined Baxter.
“Fiss,” echoed Sage.
“What, you have an opinion too, you little wild thing?” said the woman. She bent and stared at both kids. “That was silly— really silly. Both of you were silly, right?”
No reply. Baxter had turned profoundly bored, and his sister's attention was taken up by the sand at her feet.
The woman said, “You wild, wild things— for all I know there are sharks out there that could eat you! Sharks!” To me: “Isn't that true?”
Before I could answer she repeated, “Sharks! To eat you!”
The possibility made Baxter smile wider. But for a few sand scratches on his chest, he looked unscathed.
“Oh, you think it's funny. Would you like that? Huh? Would you? To be eaten by a shark— gobbled up like you're his Big Mac or something? Would either of you like to be a Big Mac?”
“No way,” said Baxter, cocking one leg. “I eat him.”
The little girl giggled.
“You're impossible,” said the woman. “You're both impossible.”
She straightened, folded her arms under her breasts, turning the nipples into twin torpedoes. She had a husky but girlish voice, beautiful, lightly freckled white skin, looked barely out of her teens. Full, soft lips, dainty chin, long neck, and the green-blue eyes were enormous and widely spaced under plucked eyebrows. No makeup, but for the extravagant red talons and toenails glossed in the identical shade.
“Fuckin’ shark,” said Baxter.
“Fug shaaf,” said the girl.
“Oh, Jesus,” said the woman, grabbing each of them by the hand and shaking her head. Breathing hard and fast, but her breasts barely moved. Too big and too firm, and the rest of her was too slender to support a chest that robust. Solidity, courtesy the scalpel.
I don't think I stared, but maybe I did, because she seemed suddenly to become aware of her body— of being, for all intents, stripped naked by the second-skin wet dress. She gave a tiny, knowing smile, flipped her hair, peered into my eyes as I forced them to keep away from the curves below. Trailing her eyes— now I saw flecks of amber in the big, clear, green-blue irises— down her own body. Then her gaze shifted to me as she conducted a quick appraisal of my wet suit. Smiling again, she turned and, clenching a child in each hand, dragged them back to the spot where she'd fallen asleep. Walking slowly, with a swivel-hipped, tiptoe prance that jiggled her rear.
I followed, and she had to know that, but she paid me no mind all the way to her beach chair. The straw hat lay half-buried in the sand. The shiny thing I'd seen from the kayak was an Evian bottle. I realized I'd forgotten about the kayak and turned sharply.
The boat had come aground, upended, almost square with the spot where I'd brought Baxter the ear biter to shore. I jogged over, pulled it out of the tide's way, became aware of the throbbing in my ear, touched the lobe, inspected my finger. No blood, but those little teeth had done their job and the flesh was still dimpled and hot.
Back in the spoon-shaped shelter, the woman in the wet dress remained on her feet, saying something to both kids. Sage looked up at her, but Baxter's attention had drifted back to the ocean, and when he moved toward the water the woman held him back.
Then she waved at me. I jogged back.
“Please tell him,” she said, when I arrived. “There are sharks out there. Right?” Smoothing down the soaked dress, pressing the fabric flush against her skin.
“Fuckin’ shark,” said Baxter, growling happily and gnashing those killer teeth. “Eat eat eat eat eat eat! Grrr!”
Sage laughed.
“Well, aren't there?” the woman demanded of me. “Big killer whites or whatever— as big as dragons— like from Jaws?” She gnashed too. Small, sharp white incisors of her own. Her nipples had swelled to cherries.
“There just might be some kinds of sharks in there,” I said to the kids. “Sharks and all kinds of other fish.”
“There you go,” said the woman. “Listen to this man, Bax, he knows. With all those sharks and fish and sea monsters in there, you'd be nothing but food, right?”
The boy chortled and tried to break free once more. The woman held on to him and whined: “Stop, you're hurting my arm— you are really going to kill me. Wild thing— and you should know better too, Sage-a-roo-roo. What got into you, you always hated the water!”
Sage dropped her head. Her lips trembled.
“Oh, no,” said the woman scooping her up. “Don't start crying, now— c'mon, sweetie nibbins. C'mon, c'mon, no tears now, you're a good girl, you don't have to cry— good girls don't have to cry.”
Sage sniffed. Cried.
“Oh, please, Sagey. Mommy just doesn't want anything to happen to you. Okay? You understand?”
Sage's nose began running, and she licked away snot. Baxter said, “Ew, boogers,” and yanked on his mother's arm.
She yanked back, raised her voice. “Now just set yourself down— both of you.” Pushing both children down onto the sand. “Good. Now just stay there— don't move or . . . no TV and no pizza or F.A.O. Schwarz or Digimon or Pokémon or nothing. Okay?”
Neither child responded.
“Good.” To me: “You must think I'm a horrible
mother. But he's impossible, never sits still. When he was a baby, every time I walked through a doorway carrying him he used to stick out his head and—bump! Banging his head on purpose! Raising these lumps! I used to worry everyone would think he was abused or something, you know?” A glance back at Sage: “And now, you too!”
The little girl said, “UUUUU!”
The woman blew a raspberry. Smoothed her dress again, heightening the virtual nudity. “She's usually my good one. What a day.”
I smiled. She smiled back. Stuck out her hand. “I haven't thanked you, have I? I'm really horrible— thank you sooo much. I'm Cheryl.”
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