I waited for him to ask the next obvious question. He didn't. I answered anyway. “What we did find was a monitoring instrument cage. You know anything about that?”
Lanny shook his head, hard.
“It seems the sort of thing Jacques Cousteau would set up. Keep watch on the ocean.”
Lanny said, “Jock is dead.”
I nodded, in sympathy. “The thing is, that cage is a likely site where the yellow float originated. You know the float I’m talking about? You remember—the other day on your beach I showed you the photo on my cell phone. And Walter explained that we found the float in a hiding place that Donie used.”
Lanny said, “Oh.”
“And then, if you’ll recall, we explained that the diver you and Sandy rescued—Joao Silva—had a dive bag with a similar float, only colored red.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know about it.”
“Well,” I said, “here’s the thing. I think maybe you do know. Because I believe I saw you take the red float from the dive bag and put it in your duffel bag.”
“Don’t call me a thief.”
“I’m not. A thief steals something for gain and I don’t think you were doing that.” That was a hair-splitting definition but I wanted to make the distinction. I added, “I think you’re a good man who was trying to help somebody.” That was true; I did think that. “Maybe protect somebody, like the diver?”
Lanny’s brown eyes moistened.
I thought then of the poisoned sea lion on our beach, eyes so large and brown and full of pain and fear. And Silva the poisoned diver on the Keasling beach, eyes wild and full of pain and fear. And Lanny looked at me now with something in his eyes akin to that. Fear, pain, distress. Guilt? If I were kinder, I would tell him it’s okay, never mind, let’s drop it and you can tell me about that bluesy rock concert.
Instead I said, “That's why Walter and I came to your beach the other day. To ask you about the red float. And then, after the diver got poisoned, you disappeared and we didn’t get the chance.”
Lanny blinked back the tears.
I pressed, “And then that night, at the dunes, I got the chance to find out where you hid the float.”
“No.”
“I think yes.”
“You followed me.”
I said, brusquely, “Look Lanny, when I found you up on that dune you were wearing a pack big enough to hold a two-foot long float. There was a trowel in the pack’s side pocket. Are you going to tell me you didn’t dig a hole somewhere on the dune and bury that float?”
“I’m not telling you anything.”
I nearly laughed. “Well thanks for being honest about it.”
He whispered, “It’s hard.”
“What’s hard, Lanny?”
He shook his head.
“Is it hard keeping a secret because you’re trying to protect somebody? And you don’t like keeping secrets? I don’t blame you. That is hard.”
“I didn’t say any of that.”
“Is it Fred Stavis you’re trying to protect?”
Lanny flinched.
“I mean, Fred showing up at the dunes, saying he followed you because he was worried about you... That sounds like two guys who have each other’s backs.”
“He's my boss.”
“I know.”
“And he’s my friend.”
“Is he?”
“Yes.”
“So what was the trowel for, Lanny?”
“It was just in my pack.”
“Oh, right, from the sand-castle building. Okay, let's brainstorm. You went out to the dunes because it’s pretty at night. And you brought the trowel in case you needed a pit stop.”
Lanny went red.
“Look, I know about bathroom necessities in the outdoors. I hike, I backpack. I use a trowel. Is that why you brought the trowel to the dunes?”
He went redder. “I don't do that.”
“No?”
“You're not supposed to bury...that...in the dunes.”
I waited. I'd shocked him into protesting what he would not bury. I pressed, “Then what did you bury in the dunes?”
“Nothing, I didn’t, you shouldn’t, didn’t you see the fences, don’t you know about not walking on little plants?”
I hadn't seen any fences. But I sure planned to look.
I said, “Did you bury the float in a fenced area, thinking nobody's going to trespass there and find it?”
He shook his head.
“Okay, let's go back to that day on your beach. To the poisoned diver. You got very very upset and you said something. You didn't mean to say it out loud but you let it slip—the way we say things when we’re shocked and not being careful. Do you remember what you said?”
He shook his head.
“You said I broke it.”
He was mute.
“What did you break, Lanny? Something on that instrument cage at Cochrane Bank? Maybe something that released a float? The yellow float that Robbie Donie found? Or maybe there were red floats there, too... Like the red float Joao Silva found?”
“I didn't break any floats.”
“Well then what did you break?”
He sealed his lips.
“Damn it Lanny, you're such a big protector of the dunes, of the sea, you idolize Jacques Cousteau, you’re so proud of your nickname Sea Urchin, you live right here on the ocean’s edge. You worry about that sea, don’t you? Well you should. Because I saw something this morning that sure worried me. Let me tell you what I saw, when Walter and I and Detective Tolliver went diving at that site on Cochrane Bank. I saw a dying kelp forest, I saw a graveyard where sea animals were gray and shriveled, I saw water full of dying plankton that came down from a huge algal bloom on the surface. You know anything about all that?”
He shook his head, hard.
“And I saw a lot of jellyfish.” Saw, hell, I got wrapped in jellyfish.
He was silent.
“They're called comb jellies. I googled them. They thrive in polluted waters.”
“I don't know about jellyfish.”
“Well sure you do. You pulled Joao Silva aboard after he got stung by a purple-stripe.”
“That's all I know about jellyfish.”
I thought, you protest too much. I wondered why. I said, “I've heard that jellyfish are becoming a problem. What do you think?”
“I don't know.”
“That night we went to the dunes, did you see all the jellyfish in the channel?”
He shook his head.
“Really? There were jellies that looked like fried eggs and blue flowers and see-through saucers...”
“Moons,” he said.
“Moons, yeah, that’s what they looked like. Guess that's why they're called moon jellyfish.” Aurelia aurita, on Dr. Russell's slideshow. “It's weird that you didn't see them, there were so many. Pretty, but a little creepy too. You know? Like...”
He whispered something. It sounded like devils.
I paid very close attention. “Devils?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Maybe I misheard. Devils sounds scary.”
He repeated, “I didn't say that.”
“Lanny, what are you afraid of?”
“Nothing.”
“Really? Most of us are afraid of something. Getting lost, unable to find the way home. Death. Illness. Loss of loved ones—there's a common fear.” There was mine—greatest fear, in spades. “I read an article once about phobias and you wouldn’t believe the things people are afraid of. Did you know there's a fear called anthophobia? That means fear of flowers. I mean, who’s afraid of flowers, right?” I thought he might smile. He didn’t. He seemed to have turned inward, drawn by some inward fear. I continued, “But who am I to judge? Why is it more reasonable to fear, say, open spaces—that’s called agoraphobia—than to fear flowers? Outdoor spaces won’t hurt you. And here's one you might have heard of—I don’t recall the name, something-phobia—but it means fear of b
eing in the ocean. That’s certainly not you.”
He shook his head.
I pressed on. “But something scary can happen—say, in the ocean—and we fear the memory.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'm thinking about a story Doug Tolliver told, about you. In the channel, which is pretty much part of the ocean. About the time when you were cleaning the propeller on the Sea Spray and you hit your head and blacked out. You almost drowned.”
“I didn't drown.”
I smiled. “Good thing. Still, it must have been terrifying. Even if you don't remember the feeling now, the memory is there somewhere in you.”
After a long moment he said, “Sandy told me.”
“Oh?” I nodded. “That makes sense. She’s your sister, she’d be the one to tell you. She was evidently in the bathroom when it happened. It must have been terrifying for her, as well, coming back to an accident scene. Nearly losing her brother.”
He nodded.
“Anyway, somebody was there, close enough to help you. He jumped right in and saved you. Oscar Flynn.”
Lanny nodded.
“You remember that part?”
Lanny shook his head.
“Well then, I guess Sandy told you who was there and...”
Before I could finish speaking, the door to Lanny's room burst open and banged into the wall and both Lanny and I jumped.
Sandy Keasling stood in the doorway like an angry sea goddess.
She glared at me. “Who in the hell let her in?”
And then she glared at Lanny.
CHAPTER 29
I banged on Walter’s door and called out, “Wake up! We’re going on a treasure hunt!”
It took him a full minute to emerge from his room, venturing into the common room, looking around for the cause of the commotion. He wore his black fleece bathrobe. His face was wet from a pass at his bathroom sink. His thinning hair was wetted down, renegade bits sticking out hither and thither.
He cleared his throat and said, “A what?”
I slid my open laptop across the dinette table to face him.
He said, “Is there coffee?”
Of course there was coffee. I’d been up for an hour already. Last night I'd returned from the Keasling hacienda deeply fatigued—from a morning of diving and an afternoon of lab work and an evening trying to cajole Lanny into telling some truths. Walter had turned in early, leaving a note saying he was getting too old for extreme sports and twelve-hour work days. Old, hell. I was young and I was getting too old for this. I'd crashed right to sleep. And then woke up before dawn and went straight to the French press.
I said, “There is coffee.”
He vacillated between the kitchenette with the French press and the table with my open laptop, angling for a look.
“Go ahead,” I said. “I’ll bring you a cup.”
“You are an angel,” he said. “I’m in your debt.”
“I’m an over-caffeinated enthusiast short on sleep because I woke up thinking about sand dune restoration and I spent the last hour online Google-earthing and I'd like to get going and so I'm more than happy to bring you coffee. No angels or debts in play.” I gave him a little nudge, toward the table. “Just please check out the geography.”
***
We took the road southward that looped around the bay and turned off onto another road, a narrow winding road that terminated in a parking lot. This early in the morning, even with the sun shining brightly, the lot was empty. We parked and studied the Google map on my tablet and then grabbed our packs.
A decomposed-granite trail led into coastal scrub.
It felt good to hike, feet on solid ground, breathing sweet air without needing to suck on a regulator. Yesterday’s dive had been an otherworldly experience. Today I slipped back into my world.
It was easy walking for a quarter mile and then we left the trail and struck out for the dunes and the bay that lay ahead.
We reached the southern end of the bay, where it pinched off alongside the white rolling dunes. From here northward, the land was a long narrow finger that separated bay from ocean, a stretch of high dune ridges and low rolling sandy humps and hard-pack sandspit.
The finger extended about three miles northward alongside the bay and then the channel and it terminated at the mouth of the harbor.
We weren’t going that far.
Last week I’d kayaked from the channel, following Lanny deep into the back bay, beaching my kayak below an elephantine dune. This morning I’d located that spot on Google Earth. I’d mapped it. I’d studied it. And I’d found what I was looking for.
No need for a kayak, on this trip.
We followed the silty ribbon of beach that bordered the dunes. To our left, the dunes humped up, in places carpeted with green scrubby bushes. To our right, the bay began to widen. The gray-green water was still, placid.
No kayakers.
No dune hikers.
Just us.
In short order we came to a wider flatter stretch of silty beach, below an elephantine dune.
I halted. “We’re here.”
“Are you certain?” Walter eyed the scene. “After all, it was night time.”
There was an edge in his voice, and the unspoken corollary: it had been night time and I was alone and I had on a hunch followed a mysterious kayaker and I was damned lucky that I had not gotten myself into trouble. Now, in the bright light of day, I could see what an excellent landing this place provided. The tide was receding, widening the available space, but even on a high tide there would be plenty of flat land upon which to beach a kayak. And the beach led onto the picture-perfect dune, the mountain of sugary white sand that rose higher than its neighbors. It was the kind of dune that turns you into a kid again, that makes you want to scramble up and then roll down screaming and getting sand in your ears. I wondered if the Sea Urchins had come here as kids. If this white elephant had been their favorite dune.
In any case, last week it had been Lanny Keasling’s favorite dune.
I said, to Walter, “I’m certain.”
The unspoken corollary: I’d been rash, fair enough, but the mysterious kayaker was Lanny and I’d gotten a general idea of what he had done with the red float. I’d had a bit of a scare when Fred Stavis showed up, overly polite but in the end harmless. What I had gotten, at the dune, was a clue. And then last night in the Keasling hacienda Lanny had let slip a more telling clue.
Walter grunted. “Lead on.”
I started up the dune.
Walter followed, grumbling about getting sand in his sneakers.
Huffing, we trudged our way to the summit.
We were met by a welcome cool breeze, scented with salt air.
It was as I remembered: a broad expanse of hummocky mounds and then a shallow descent onto dune waves, with the sea winking in the distance. Of course last time the sea had shone by moonlight, and this morning it shined bright blue in the sun. Excellent visibility.
I rotated slowly, looking along the seaward dunes, then looking along the transverse line of the dunes toward the north, toward the harbor, then looking along the line south in the direction we had come, where the dunes gradually disappeared into bluff tops that overlooked the sea.
This entire sand dune ridge, running south and north, was patched by shrubs and grasses and succulents. It was a fragile construct, stabilized by vegetation against the onslaught of winds and sea spray and rains.
Here and there, it needed a little help.
In particular, a swathe of dune vegetation was undergoing rehabilitation. Don't you know about not walking on little plants? Lanny had said last night. You don’t walk on them, and you don’t dig there.
This morning, with the bird’s-eye view of Google Earth, I had spotted one area marked by thin wire lines.
Now, I put my eyes on the scene and looked for the fence.
Lanny had appeared from that patch of spiky dune bush, just over the summit.
Of course,
that did not mean he'd buried the float there. He'd surely been able to hear us, me and Fred Stavis, calling his name. He might very well have zigged and zagged before making his appearance.
Walter unslung his pack and dug out the binoculars.
“Never mind,” I said, “I see it!”
It was several yards to the north, a strand of wire that caught the sunlight, the rest of the fencing hidden from my line of sight by the hillocky nature of the dune crest.
We tramped up and over the offending hillock and came to the fenced-in swathe of baby plants. The fence was an affair of gray wire strung from metal eyebolt post to post, low to the ground, a fence of suggestion: this area is off limits.
I grinned, and shot a glance at Walter. He was frowning.
“What?” I said.
“This is it?”
“Unless there’s another section that’s fenced, that didn’t show up on Google Earth. There could be. It’s a snapshot in time. But this one’s right in front of our noses. And this is a hop, skip, and a jump from the place where Lanny appeared.”
“You're certain?”
I was certain. “Okay, I’m Lanny. I come here to bury the red float. Why here, all the way into the depths of the bay? I could have chosen a dune closer to the channel, to the kayak shop, so I wouldn’t have to paddle so far. But instead I come here. Let's say that’s because I used to come here as a kid, because I know the lay of the land, because it’s night and I seek the familiar. And maybe I come here because I’ve been here recently enough to have seen the vegetation rehab project—to have seen the fencing. And you know what? A fence is a crackerjack landmark in a field of dunes. So I choose the spot to dig in relation to the fence, so that I can return if need be to find the spot again.”
Walter said, “A spot outside the fence, correct?”
“Definitely. I’m deeply sensitive to the environment, I would never set foot inside the protected area. In fact I’m appalled at the suggestion.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you dug inside. I was implying that, if you did indeed choose a spot in relation to the fence—outside—we are talking about a good deal of territory.” Walter put his binoculars to his eyes.
“Well yeah.” I took another long look at the fenced area. It stretched in both directions from the crest, toward the sea and toward the bay. “But I must have chosen a spot near the top. Otherwise why climb up to the ridge? I mean, I was up high enough to overhear voices that night, and I came along the ridge crest, more or less. Surely I wouldn’t have...” I trailed off. I had to admit that even up high it was a lot of territory.
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