“He might have bitten the hand that feeds him.”
“I doubt it. I’m sure he had the full blessing of his station. They know which way the popular wind is blowing.”
Rob, deflated, slumped into an easy chair. He wanted to be angry, but found himself unable to focus his ire. Sure, he was the prime target, but he wanted a co-conspirator. Maybe Lewis, for leading him down the primrose path. Or Deb, for failing to be supportive. No. It all came back to him.
“I fucked up,” he said softly into the phone.
“Yes, you did.”
“So now what?”
She expelled a long, slow breath. “We’ll talk about it when you get home.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means we’ll talk about when you get home.” She hung up.
A string of firecrackers exploded in the street outside the condo, but failed to startle Rob. He found himself half hoping it might have been an assassin’s attempt on his life.
SHACK, ALONG WITH several thousand others near the beach, had watched the sun, wrapped in cloaks of gold and orange and salmon, sink into the sea with the grace of a dowager bidding adieu to the world. Now, he paced along Ocean Road, to the rear of the crowd that had seated itself on beach blankets, sand chairs, and driftwood to await the town’s annual fireworks extravaganza. He hoped against hope to spot Alex, but time verged on running out. In the growing darkness, it would soon be impossible to spot anyone. And the questions he had would go unanswered, at least on a face-to-face basis.
So, maybe one more recon sweep past her house. He trudged toward Manzanita Avenue, the street he thought would take him to Alex’s. He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when she appeared, striding toward the beach on the opposite side of the road. She apparently hadn’t spotted him, or at least recognized him in the dusk, for she didn’t slow or acknowledge his presence as she drew abeam of him.
“Alex?”
She halted and squinted in his direction.
“It’s me, Shack.”
“Oh. I thought you’d be packing. Don’t you have to leave for Portland early in the morning?”
“It’s good to see you, too.”
“Yeah, well . . .”
He moved across the narrow road, now devoid of traffic. “Alex—”
“Hey, we had deal, remember? Dinner, then you’d be out of my life forever. That was the agreement.” She stood with her hands on her hips, daring him to come closer.
He stopped. “I’ve been trying to find you for the last couple of days.”
“I was out of town. My daughter invited me to a barbecue last night.”
“Did she come back with you?”
“What is this? A criminal investigation?”
“Why are you so damn hostile, Alex? I came here to apologize. I know I treated you badly. Let’s at least try to part in peace.”
“Good idea.” She made a peace sign with her right hand. “Peace. Good bye.”
“Why Skylar?”
“What?”
“Why did you name your daughter Skylar?” He put a slight emphasis on Sky.
She hesitated, then retorted, “Why not?”
“How old is she?”
Alex pivoted away from him and stepped off the road into the sand dunes.
“Twenty-four, twenty-five?” he called after her.
She halted, glaring at him. She stripped off her sandals and held them in her hand. “One more step, and I swear to God I will call the cops. Stalking. If you want to challenge me on my home turf for battery, fine. Give it a go, and good luck.”
“Tell me, Alex. I have a right to know.” The words came out harsh and commanding.
“You abdicated your rights, you bastard.”
“She’s my daughter, too, isn’t she?” he yelled.
The fireworks display launched with a sudden series of artillery-like explosions that rocked the night. Skyrockets detonated overhead, showering the beach in multi-colored pyrotechnics. A second fusillade of sharp, loud bangs followed, echoing through the gloaming as fiery stars wobbled from the sky, tumbling onto the sand like drunken butterflies.
Alex sprinted into the crowd.
Shack called after her, but she’d disappeared, swallowed by the spectators, the noise, the man-made lightning.
“Skylar,” he whispered to himself. Alex’s reaction had validated his hypothesis. He had his answer. He had a daughter.
Chapter Fourteen
Two Hours
Manzanita
Sunday, July 5
ROB ARRIVED AT Lewis’s shortly after eight in the morning. Lewis already had coffee on the table along with a half-dozen bagels and two tubs of cream cheese, different flavors. Rob mumbled a thank-you and took a seat. He welcomed the coffee. The typical summer chill of the Oregon coast had returned. A flannel overcast hid the top of Neahkahnie Mountain, and gulls, fighting a stiff headwind, hovered stationary over the beach.
Lewis sat across from Rob and took out a notepad, the same one he’d used a week earlier. He studied it as he sipped coffee. Rob remained silent, staring out a window into the gloomy-looking morning, the scene matching his mood.
“In your dream,” Lewis said after several minutes, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, “you said it appeared to be the Fourth of July.”
Rob nodded.
“You mentioned you could see a banner advertising the parade flapping in the wind.”
Rob shrugged. “Yeah.”
“And people bundled up, waiting for the parade, you thought.”
“I could hear bagpipers, too.”
“But not see them. You said the sounds seemed to be growing more distant.”
“Yes.” Rob couldn’t figure out where Lewis was going with this.
“My point is, maybe the people weren’t waiting for the parade, maybe it had gone by already. You said the sound of the pipers faded away completely. So I think, in your dream, the parade wasn’t approaching, it was leaving, gone; the fading music being metaphorical.”
Rob took a bite of a pumpernickel bagel and chewed on it before answering. Finished, he said, “So what? Coming, going? What’s the difference? There was no quake and tsunami yesterday. I got it wrong.”
Lewis looked down at his notepad again, then tapped his forefinger on something he’d written. “You said the people in your dream were bundled up.” He waited for Rob to respond.
“Jackets and sweatshirts, yes.”
“The day was cool and windy then?”
Rob closed his eyes and tried to re-imagine his dream, his nightmare, his vision, whatever it had been. “So it seemed.”
“And overcast, you mentioned.”
“You took pretty damned detailed notes.”
“Something I got used to doing when I was involved in counseling.”
“So what’s with the forensic reconstruction of the weather?” Rob took another bite of his bagel.
“Think about yesterday. Not the one in your dream, the one we enjoyed in reality. Sunny, warm, almost calm. Kind of unusual for the coast.”
“What’s your point?”
“A member of my congregations, oh, maybe ten or fifteen years ago in Portland, was a meteorologist. One of the excuses he liked to use when he missed a forecast was ‘right forecast, wrong day.’” Lewis let the statement hang.
Rob nodded his head slowly, understanding dawning on him. “So you think I got the day wrong. What about all the people I saw on Laneda? That was a holiday crowd.”
“Today’s still part of the holiday. The streets will be jammed. And today, unlike yesterday, folks will be decked out in jackets and sweatshirts, just like in your dream.”
“I dunno, Lewis.” Still smarting from yesterday’s disappointment, Rob stood
and walked to the window.
“Look out there,” Lewis said. “Cloudy, breezy, exactly what you described to me.” He rose from his chair and moved next to Rob. “Your vision, what you experienced in your dream, is valid, I strongly believe that. We just misinterpreted the timing.”
“Yeah. What if it’s next year’s holiday, or the year after that?” He paused. “Once burned . . .”
Lewis lowered his chin to his chest, as though contemplating Rob’s concern. “Okay, how about this?” he said after a moment. “In your dream, you said your kids, Tim and Maria, were with you. How did they look? Any different from what they do today, like older or more mature? They’re at an age where a year or two can make a huge difference in appearance.”
“They didn’t seem any different. I certainly didn’t have the sense they were older. It seemed to me everything was happening as if it were today.”
“There. You put your finger on it. Today.”
Rob wheeled. “You really think?” His heart rate suddenly ticked a few beats faster. He wanted to believe, but his scientific-objective-skeptical nature jumped to the forefront, shaking a cautionary finger at him, and crying, “No, no, no.”
“Yes,” Lewis said. “I really think.”
“I don’t know. Even if that’s correct, what do I do? Go public again? Say, ‘Oops, sorry. I didn’t get it quite right the first time around. The end of the world wasn’t yesterday, it’s today!’? I’m not sure I’d believe me.”
Lewis stared at the floor, seemingly mulling over various options.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said finally. “Why don’t we sit down with just one reporter instead of going in front of the pack? One correspondent of our choosing. That way we—you—don’t get torn apart in a feeding frenzy.”
“Who are you thinking of?”
“Amanda Jeffries, that gal from KGW-TV.”
“Oh, yeah. That went well, didn’t it? She and I hit it off famously. Lewis, I love you to death, but sometimes, I swear, you just go stupid on me.”
“No, listen to me. You locked horns. Big deal. She’s skeptical, as a journalist should be, but she’s also smart. I think we can plead our case with her. She’ll listen, give us a fair hearing.”
“I doubt it.”
“Come on. Let’s try it.”
“No.”
“No? You’re going against advice of clergy?”
Rob rolled his eyes. “You’re retired.”
“That makes my wisdom less valuable?”
“Wisdom, really?”
“Here’s the thing, Rob. You believed in your vision twenty-four hours ago. You told me it seemed so real you sensed you were there. Nothing fundamental has changed since then except our interpretation regarding the timing of the event. The event itself, your vision, is still valid. We can only lose by sitting on it.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Lewis shook his head. “Don’t. You’ll only come to the wrong conclusion. Besides, the clock is ticking.”
Rob reran the nightmare through his mind. It remained powerful, palpable: the shaking, the surge, the black water, the fear, the inevitability of tragedy.
“I don’t suppose I can trash myself any worse than I have already,” he said.
“I’ll call the station in Portland,” Lewis said. “They’ll put us in touch with Ms. Jeffries.”
A HALF HOUR later, Amanda Jeffries knocked on the door of Lewis’s house. Lewis opened the door for her and her cameraman. Outside, the KGW-TV communications truck sat on the side of the street.
“Coffee?” Lewis asked, as the two news people entered the house.
“No, thank you,” Amanda said. “I’d prefer to wrap up our interview as quickly as possible so we can get back to Portland. My news director said you had some additional information for us?”
“We do.”
“An apology, perhaps?” There seemed a note of triumph in her voice.
Rob stepped forward. “No, an explanation.”
“About why your prophecy blew up?”
Rob evaluated her question. “In part,” he said. “But also an explanation about why the danger hasn’t passed.”
“Really.” The word came out coated in skepticism and sarcasm.
“Give us ten minutes,” Lewis said. “Then you decide whether to go ahead and do an interview.”
Amanda looked at her cameraman, who shrugged. “Okay,” she said, “ten minutes.”
The cameraman seated himself on a sofa while Amanda, Rob, and Lewis sat around the table. Rob and Lewis recapped the analysis and discussion they’d had earlier before Amanda arrived. She sat silently, listening and jotting notes on an iPad.
After they’d finished, she remained quiet, drumming her fingers on the table. She stood and paced to the window where she looked out at the truck. She turned. “Sorry,” she said, “I’m afraid I’m not a true believer. I just don’t see where the credibility is. You’ll have to admit, it was pretty flaky stuff to begin with.”
“Not flaky,” Lewis countered. “Different, certainly, but not off the wall.”
“Difference of opinion then,” Amanda said. “It’s still basically black magic and not scientific. I work for a news organization. You probably should get in touch with the National Enquirer or Globe with your concerns.”
“Lives are at stake,” Lewis said. “This is time sensitive, not a joke. We asked for you because we thought you’d give us a fair hearing.”
“I did. What I heard is the same stuff I heard Friday. And that didn’t work out. You unnecessarily frightened a lot of people.”
“Apparently not that many,” Rob said. “The streets looked pretty damned crowded yesterday.”
“And maybe we didn’t frighten people as much as we raised their awareness,” Lewis added.
“It’s still all based on a vision, a dream,” Amanda said. “What are you going to do? Come out every day with an updated interpretation? Martin Luther King, Jr., had a dream, and more than fifty years later it still hasn’t come to fruition.” She turned to her cameraman. “Come on, Dawson. Let’s get out of here.” She flicked her head, a dismissive gesture, tossing her hair out of her eyes.
“If it’s news you want,” Rob said, a bit more sharply than he intended, “maybe you should hang around for a couple of hours. You’ll get an exclusive.”
“A couple of hours?” Amanda said. “What happens in a couple of hours?”
Supplementing her query, Lewis shot Rob a “what’s up” look.
“In my dream,” Rob said, “my wife and I had stopped for coffee. We don’t drink coffee in the afternoon.”
A deathly stillness filled the room. The quiet seemed to settle over everyone as if it had weight.
Amanda broke the hush. “It’s just before ten. So two, three hours at the most?”
Rob nodded.
“I don’t know.” She turned to her cameraman, Dawson. “All the other trucks have left, haven’t they?”
“Probably.”
Amanda stared hard at Rob. “Okay, I know you believe even if I don’t. I’ll give you a three-hour benefit of the doubt, just on the slim chance we’ll score a news coup.”
“You suddenly believe?” Lewis whispered to Rob.
“Yeah, for some strange reason I do. At least for the next few hours.”
“You need to get something on the air,” Lewis said to Amanda, his voice authoritative, as if coming from a pulpit.
“Not gonna happen,” she shot back. “It’s still all smoke and mirrors without a credible, scientific foundation.”
“It’s okay, Lewis,” Rob said. “She’s right.”
“You’re on her side now?”
Amanda flashed Rob one of her disarming smiles, and opened the door to leave. “Whe
re should we position ourselves?”
“Go back to the upper end of Laneda. You’ll at least be out of the tsunami zone there.”
She nodded and stepped out into the cool, gray morning. Dawson followed.
Lewis turned to Rob. “We should have pressed harder to get an alert broadcast.”
“I don’t think so. She wasn’t going to capitulate. But the mere fact a news crew is hanging around with a sat truck may raise a few questions and start some buzz going.” He looked out onto the road, beginning to fill with people heading to church, to breakfast, maybe for an early walk on the beach.
“Besides,” Rob continued, “if people aren’t already prepared for something to happen, they aren’t going to be in three hours.” He paused. “Or three minutes.”
Cannon Beach
JONATHAN ARRIVED early at the old creek bed to resume his efforts to open the locked box he’d unearthed the previous day. Zurry trotted by his side, stopping occasionally to sniff at doggie points of interest. Jonathan wore a lightweight vest to ward off the morning coolness, and a carpenter’s tool belt from which he’d slung a heavy-duty bolt cutter, hatchet, hammer, several large chisels, and a pair of locking-jaw pliers—all items he thought might be useful in breaching the chest. He’d also brought along, in his backpack, several empty boxes and a dozen or so canvas bags . . . just in case. “I know,” he said to Zurry, “counting my loot before opening the treasure chest.” If that’s what it is.
He found the landmarks, the Doug fir and mossy boulder, easily enough, and within a matter of seconds spotted the location where’d he’d been working, undisturbed from the way he’d left it.
He unsheathed the digging tool and once more uncovered the chest. He dropped to his knees and studied it. Slicing through the rusted iron padlocks seemed to offer the best opportunity of breaking into the box. He retrieved the bolt cutter and fitted the cutting blades over the shackle of the lock on the left. He stood, bent over the hole, and muscled the yard-long handles of the cutter together. The corroded lock proved no match for the leverage supplied by the heavy-duty tool, and the shackle split with a satisfying crunch.
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