Cape Perdido

by Marcia Muller

  She paused, then said to Jessie and Fitch, “I know the town mustn’t seem like much to you. You’re seeing it on a dreary winter day. And, of course, it’s about as different from New York as anything can get. But I’ll tell you, when I came here on vacation from Maine, on a beautiful fall day, I fell in love with the area. So I went home, packed up, and moved.”

  Lee Longways, a tall, lanky rancher and longtime board member, added, “A lot of us have been here for generations. Both in the town and up on the ridge. The Cape’s not just our home; it’s a way of life. We have an affinity for the land and the sea. When we realized that commercial water harvesters could just come in and take what we’ve always considered ours, without putting back a dime into the community, well . . .” He shook his head, his weathered face creasing in a frown.

  Jessie Domingo leaned forward. “That was in the spring, when you first became aware of the threat?”

  “May, it was,” Longways said. “Aqueduct Systems filed applications with the state water resources control board in January, requesting permission to siphon off eighty-six hundred acre-feet of water annually. That’s a lot—yearly rainfall can amount to as little as thirty inches or as much as seventy-five, and if there were several drought years, the Perdido would be left with hardly any water at all. Anyway, it wasn’t until May that Jane here caught wind of the applications and broke the story in the Calvert’s Landing Weekly Gazette.”

  Jane White, a tall blonde reporter, laughed. “That’s me—ever quick on the uptake. Actually, I’d heard rumors about the applications a couple of months before and alerted my editor, but at first we laughed them off. The idea of somebody taking our water for free and towing it to southern California in giant rubber bags . . . Well, it was too preposterous. But then, when I began studying the regulations for California’s public trust lands, I realized how serious the situation was. Lands in the public trust are defined as types of property of such high public value that private ownership should be limited, and they fall under control of the state. The water board has the right to grant Aqueduct Systems permission to siphon off water from the Perdido—a dangerous precedent for use of all California’s navigable waterways.”

  “And,” Bernina said, “there’s good reason to fear that the board might rule in favor of the waterbaggers: their project would benefit southern California, which is the more politically powerful portion of the state.”

  Lee Longways’s wife, Jenna, a strongly built white-haired woman who had been one of Joseph’s grade-school teachers, nodded. “That’s right. But political clout aside, the Friends have put up a good fight. We’d always been this little group of do-gooders. We’d go up and down the river dragging old tires and other junk out of the water, rally volunteers each spring to clean up dead trees and debris washed down by the winter storms, kept the beaches tidy in the summer when they’re heavily used. We didn’t know squat about mounting a campaign to influence the state to act in our best interests—but we learned fast.”

  “You bet we did,” Bernina said. “Over the summer and fall, the Friends persuaded the Soledad County Board of Supervisors to pass a resolution protesting the water grab. We organized community meetings to raise public awareness of the danger to the environment, bringing in ecologists, hydrologists, and water rights attorneys—all of whom expressed negative opinions about Aqueduct Systems’ project. Because Aqueduct’s applications to the state were as yet incomplete, they declined to send representatives to any of our meetings.”

  Joseph realized that Jessie Domingo was looking at him, her eyebrows raised questioningly. Before he’d taken leave of her at the motel, she’d confided that he was one of her heroes, that she had read both books he’d authored, and had followed his career since college. She must be dismayed, he thought, to find her cultural icon more interested in a hunk of bloody meat than the spirited conversation, so he set down his fork and said, “The more people found out about what Aqueduct wanted to do, the more they got involved. Our local assemblyman contacted me in Sacramento, where I was living at the time, and asked me to help, so I moved back here in September.”

  “And really whipped us into shape,” Lee Longways said.

  “No, you whipped yourselves into shape.” To Jessie Domingo, Joseph added, “They sent representatives to water board meetings to see how they operate. Gathered signatures on petitions. Showed property owners how to fill out forms protesting the grab. Then they reached out to other communities up and down the coast that might be vulnerable to this sort of thing. Our congresswoman came out on our side. Still nothing from Aqueduct.”

  “I’ll tell you,” Bernina said, “the silence from that corporation and the state water board made the community edgy. Talk of the water grab got ugly in the Deluxe Billiards, our one nontourist saloon. People’s tempers rose. Some folks suggested that if the application was granted, there would be nasty repercussions. They speculated on what kind of rifle would be best suited to take out a water bag, and which tools would rupture pipe. Others talked about how easily a pumping station far upsteam in the woods could be vandalized.”

  Curtis spoke for the first time. “Folks around here own a lot of guns, and they aren’t afraid to use them.”

  “Use them too damn often to settle their disputes,” Jane White commented.

  Joseph decided to steer the conversation away from that tack; to his way of thinking, Bernina talked entirely too much about possible violent solutions to their problems. “In December,” he said, “Aqueduct completed the application process and contacted us. Their CEO, Gregory Erickson, proposed that they come here this month and float one of the bags, so we could see for ourselves how they’d look, and be reassured that they’d have no adverse effect on the appearance of the coast. And he offered to answer any and all questions at a community forum. Something about his proposal sounded suspicious: none of the shoreline here is public property. Where, we asked him, was he going to float the bag? And that’s when the other shoe dropped. Timothy McNear was going to give them access to the land the old mill stands on. And not just for demonstration purposes, either. When the state water control board granted their petition—when, Erickson said, not if—McNear had promised them the right to trench and lay pipe across the mill site.”

  Joseph had been over this ground so many times before that he could recount what had happened without engaging either his brain or his emotions. Now he was surprised to find himself becoming angry. Surprised to hear the strong vibration in the voice that, for his whole career, he’d used to rouse crowds to action. Since his departure from Sacramento and return to his childhood home, he’d more or less just been going through the motions, but on the eve of the public forum, he found himself really caring again. Maybe, he thought, the old fires were not dead after all.

  Jenna Longways said, “Jane wrote a press release so we could break the story statewide. Newspapers and TV stations finally took notice. Joseph convinced us of the advantage of bringing Erickson to town for the forum, and urged the Friends to accommodate him. And when your foundation”—she nodded at Jessie and Fitch—“offered their assistance, he decided to take them up on it.”

  Jessie said, “Once you accepted our offer, things happened fast at the foundation.” She looked at Collier, whose gaze was once again wandering around the restaurant, and Joseph thought he detected an impatient twitch at the corner of her mouth before she went on. “Fitch, who’s the most recent addition to the panel of attorneys we call on for expert assistance, agreed to take on the project within twenty-four hours. And I received the assignment the next day. The foundation’s researchers worked overtime to prepare the files we’d need, and . . . well, here we are.”

  Steph came up behind Joseph and spoke in a low voice. “Gregory Erickson’s assistant just called. Asked Kim for a table for four. If I’d answered the phone, I’d’ve put them off till you people were gone, but she told them to come ahead.”

  Joseph sighed. “Not much to be done about it, then, is there? But I wou
ldn’t expect trouble. They’re southerners—polite people. And we’ve been known to behave, too.”

  “Most of you.”

  He followed the direction of her dark gaze, along the table to Curtis.

  “Let me handle him.” He stood and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, feeling her long dark curls brush the back of his fingers. Quickly he moved away and went to stand beside Curtis’s chair.

  Curtis looked up. “What?” he said.

  “The waterbaggers have reserved a table. They’ll be here shortly.”

  “And you’re gonna tell me to make nice.”

  “Now’s not the time for a confrontation, friend.”

  “It damned well should be the time. For the Perdido. And for our people.”

  Our people.

  Joseph realized that by the phrase, Curtis did not mean the Pomos as a whole, but only the hundred or so tribespeople who claimed as their own sixty acres of land tucked deep in the hills above Oilville. And the irony behind the word “our” was not lost on him.

  Curt, he knew, had found many reasons to put distance between them, the most convenient of which was Joseph’s turning his back on the collection of trailers and prefabs and rusting Quonset huts that they’d once both called home. Joseph was neither proud nor regretful of his defection, but it had given Curt a reason to hate him. Now he wondered about the connection Curt had made between the Perdido and the Pomos, since the river did not run through tribal lands. Spiritual, he supposed.

  He said, “Don’t give them the edge they need, Curt.”

  The door of the restaurant opened, and heads turned as Gregory Erickson and his administrative assistant, Neil Woodsman, stepped inside. Two other people, whom Joseph hadn’t seen before, followed.

  Erickson ignored the hostile looks directed toward them by most of the diners as he surveyed the room. He was what Joseph thought of as a typical upper-class southerner: slender, with prominent teeth, high cheekbones, a pale complexion, and a rapidly receding hairline. He and the two men behind him appeared agitated. Woodsman—sandy haired, bearded, and stocky—looked calmer as he stared at the Friends’ table. In seconds all four started toward it.

  Curtis stood, tossing his napkin on the table, and Joseph braced himself to restrain him. The waterbaggers stopped a few feet away from them, Erickson placing his hands on his hips and leaning forward belligerently.

  “Which one of you bastards did it?” he demanded.

  Joseph tensed, felt Curt go taut beside him. Lee Longways’s chair scraped on the floor as he rose.

  “What seems to be the problem?” Joseph asked.

  “As if you didn’t know!”

  Erickson’s face darkened with anger. Joseph glanced at Woodsman, was surprised to see him wearing a look of wry amusement.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Joseph said.

  “Well, somebody in this place does!”

  “If you’d calm down and explain—”

  “You want explanations?” Erickson’s voice became shrill. “Come on over to the motel and see for yourselves!”

  He whirled and headed toward the door. Woodsman shrugged and motioned for Joseph and Curtis to precede him. As one, Curtis and the others in their party followed. Erickson was striding well ahead, but he stopped on the highway’s shoulder as a semi sped past, blasting on its horn. Then he ran across the pavement.

  “What the hell’s the matter with him?” Curt said.

  Joseph didn’t hazard a guess.

  Erickson had reached the far end of the parking lot by the time the rest of them crossed the highway. Two white midsize cars stood there, and even at a distance Joseph could read the graffiti spray-painted on them.

  WATERBAGGERS OUT—OR ELSE!

  NO WATER GRAB!

  FUCK YOU!

  The first two were slogans of the Friends’ protest campaign. The latter, Joseph thought, was less than original but fit well in a small space.

  As they drew closer, he saw that the two front tires of each car were flat. Erickson was in a full-blown rage now, marching around the cars and flailing his arms as he pointed at them. “One of you did this; I know you damn well did!”

  Joseph made a calming gesture. “Mr. Erickson—”

  “You couldn’t work things out in a civilized manner; no, not a bunch of hicks like you. I won’t stand for threats and intimidation. I won’t!”

  Neil Woodsman stepped forward. “Gregory—”

  “Shut up! Just shut up and call the sheriff! I want these people arrested. All of them.” Erickson stalked off toward one of the motel units.

  Woodsman stood staring after him. “Off his meds,” he muttered to one of the other Aqueduct personnel.

  “Jesus,” Bernina said, “this guy heads a big corporation?”

  “Well, they are rental cars,” Jenna Longways told her. “Nobody wants to deal with something like this.”

  “Yeah,” her husband said, “but that boy’s got a severe anger-management problem.”

  Woodsman turned on him, eyes narrowed.

  To avoid any further conflict, Joseph reached into his pocket for his cell phone and held it out to Woodsman. “Call nine-one-one and get the sheriff out here.”

  STEPH PACE

  Steph shut down the computer and pushed back from the desk, took off her reading glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. Another day’s accounts balanced, the receipts in the bag for night deposit. Through the wall between her tiny office and the kitchen, she could hear the dishwasher groaning. Soon Tony Tomasini, bartender and jack-of-all-trades, would bang the back door on his way out, and then she would be alone.

  What a day! First Timothy McNear’s inexplicable appearance. Then she’d found that the tomatoes had been omitted from her produce order. Kat Puska had called in sick before the dinner service, leaving her twin sister, Kim, to deal with the customers, so Steph had filled in. And finally there had been the confrontation with the waterbaggers.

  Gregory Erickson’s lack of control had surprised her. During his two previous visits to the restaurant, his demeanor—and that of his staff—had been low-key, as if they wished to avoid any potential conflict with the townspeople. But the damage to their rental cars, which the sheriff’s deputies seemed to consider a teenage prank, had really set Erickson off.

  Another surprise was Curt’s behavior. She’d expected him to respond to Erickson’s accusation with in-your-face belligerence, but he hadn’t. Joseph’s calming influence, probably. Even after all these years of estrangement he had that power over Curt. Decades-old ties bound them—bound her as well. Ties like the filaments of a spider web, allowing some movement but never enough to break free.

  She didn’t want to think about that now, although she’d done little else since Joseph’s return to the Cape. Seeing him on a near daily basis brought back the past in ways that her sporadic encounters with Curt didn’t.

  Nearly midnight by the ship’s clock on the wall. She should go home to bed in order to be fresh for tomorrow’s breakfast service. But the dream-troubled nap she’d caught late this afternoon had been a mistake; it would surely rob her of sleep for hours. She got up, put on her coat, and made her nightly security check. Outside, she walked the block to the bank and put the deposit bag in the slot. Then, instead of returning to where her car waited at the restaurant, she continued north to the public beach access at Cauldron Creek.

  The creek was so named because it emptied into a deep wave-carved basin where, at high tide, the water roiled about, tossing the stones that were trapped there to the surface and creating the illusion of bubbles. It was low tide now, and Steph picked her way down a steep trail and through the debris at the bottom of the basin, then climbed the sandbank on the far side. Across the beach the surf lapped placidly, making a soft shushing sound. Steph turned north again, away from the winking lights of town.

  A steady offshore breeze tousled her curls, bringing with it a strong and vaguely unpleasant odor from the kelp beds. The cliffs curved ahead
of her, dark and rugged, spilling down in huge, jagged slabs to meet the sand. At an outcropping that had always reminded her of a crouching prehistoric creature, she stopped, catching the smell of cigarette smoke. She peered into the shadows, saw an orange tip glow and then fade.

  “Hey, Steph.” Curt’s raspy voice.

  “Hey, there.”

  “Come join me?”

  Now she could make him out, seated halfway up the creature’s humped spine. She hesitated before replying, having no desire to join him or anyone else, then said, “Why not?” and scrambled up beside him.

  “Smoke?” Curt asked when she was settled, her back against the rough ledge.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Gave it up, huh?”

  “That and a lot of other things.”

  He didn’t respond, but she saw his eyes glitter as he drew on his cigarette.

  “How come you’re not at the Friends’ meeting?” she asked.

  “They don’t need me. They got their New Yorkers now.”

  “You think those people can turn this situation around?”

  Curt shook his head. “Nah, they came in too late. Don’t see how they can pull a convincing case together in time for the hearing. Not that the lawyer the Friends hired was doing so good, either. I’m afraid tomorrow’s our last battle, and it’s gonna be a bloody one.”

  “You’re expecting more trouble, then?”

  “Yeah. But I’m not gonna manufacture any, if that’s what you’re thinking. Joseph warned me against giving the waterbaggers an edge that they can use against us. Too damn bad whoever tagged those cars didn’t think about that.”

  “Kids.”

  “Probably—although I wouldn’t put it past some adults in the community.”

  “Who?”

  “Nobody specific, just the good-ol’-boy contingent.”

  A silence grew between them. Curt smoked and stared out to sea. When a wave boomed at the end of the outcropping, Steph started.

  “You’re jumpy,” Curt said.