by Mara Purl
A hundred feet below the bluff, the sea pounded. An October storm had been traveling the South Pacific, and even this far north, the Central Coast reverberated with the effects. “Generating winds of up to fifty miles per hour . . . ” she remembered her KOST-SATV colleague saying on this evening’s broadcast.
On her left, the terrain fell away to the ocean—now nothing more than an inky, undulating mass. To the northwest, the flash of the Piedras Blancas lighthouse winked in the darkness, sweeping across the landscape to reveal a ghostly skeleton of the unfinished mansion.
Even by its outline, she could tell this Clarke House held something special in its design. Having studied the architectural drawings, she found the reality of the physical structure intriguing. Though she’d read that some of the locals objected to its massive size being ostentatious and out of place, she could see it also fit the site as though it belonged. The way skyscrapers fit Manhattan.
The image of a cityscape seemed incongruous, and she stood still a moment longer, waiting for it to make sense. Funny, when I was a kid growing up in this little town, all I wanted to do was get away—get to a big city. And I did. But now I find myself drawn back here. Yes, that was it . . . processing the fact that, after her many travels, she should find herself once again in Milford-Haven.
For one thing, there was the job with KOST in Santa Maria. After several years on-camera for the broadcast networks —mostly NBC —she’d made the switch to satellite. Just this month the FCC’s deregulation of the market had become official, and 1996 would probably make the history books as a turning point for the TV business. She’d taken the title of Special Correspondent, which meant decent pay and great freedom to develop her own content. Her three-part piece on adoption had just been shown in the Central Coast region. Part three aired Sunday—two days ago.
She was already gathering material for her next three- parter on earthquakes, a story that would be taking her to San Francisco, then to Japan and to Turkey. My bags are all packed. I’m spending three days in San Fran researching the ‘89 Loma Prieta quake. Then I leave for Tokyo from there.
Now, there was this story that had brought her to Milford- Haven. What a strange homecoming. I should come back in the daylight, visit the newspaper where I had my first job . . . see what’s the best little spot for breakfast these days . . . walk on Touchstone Beach. If my wandering soul has a home, it’s probably here.
Chris took a step away from the bluff, aware once again of the dark that surrounded her. What am I doing here now? Pursuing a lead, as usual. She sighed. Better get this over with. Wish I’d worn sturdier shoes than these flats. Chilled in the wind, she pulled her jacket closer and drew on the pair of leather gloves she’d tucked in her pocket.
Adjusting the long diagonal strap of the compact purse she wore slung across her body, she hefted her flashlight and clicked it on. She picked her way over construction debris and uneven terrain toward the front of the house, where eventually stairs would lead up to the entrance. Stepping onto a narrow plank that trembled under her feet, she dashed upward, then leapt off to stand just inside the foyer. Ack! I thought it was dark outside—but inside it’s pitch black.
Chris stood still, trying to focus. Minutes passed, yet her pulse wouldn’t settle. Shifting her feet, she tried to find a piece of floor unlittered with . . . what? Nails, concrete clumps, snips of wire? Still she waited, hoping her eyes would make a further adjustment to the unrelieved darkness.
The house seemed to sway with the wind and crashing surf, unsteady on its underpinnings. That’s an illusion, I’m sure. It’s my own legs that’re unsteady. Dammit it, Chris! You know what they say about Curiosity.
She stood in what would undoubtedly be the living room —an expanse framed by a crosswork of beams, exposed for now, with a space left open on one whole side for a future wall of glass. I was right. The lines are good, and the view will be spectacular.
On the opposite wall, flagstone had already been fashioned into an oversized fireplace. It seemed curiously complete in this incomplete room—except for the rectangular hole with the ends of a ladder just visible.
The plans showed a hearthstone goes there—imported marble. She’d noticed this detail had shown up on both sets of plans. Remember, one detail can make the story. Reed had always told her that, and he was the best reporter in the business. He did get in trouble once, though, covering that story in Ohio. Safe home after reporting in Vietnam, and then he’s almost killed in that deserted house. He told me later he had the feeling he shouldn’t go there.
A chill swept over her now, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck tingled. What’s my intuition saying? I should leave this place. This swaying, unhallowed structure menaced with its protruding metal splinters and ragged concrete edges.
But what was this so-called intuition that she shouldn’t have come here? Wasn’t that just fear? After all, she’d been led to this location—vectored here by one clue after another. I can either be a wimp, or a good reporter. Logic says there’s something to be discovered. I have to find out what.
The first clue had been little more than an inkling . . . or more like a rankling, she recalled. Learning a mansion was being built in Milford-Haven—a first for the cozy artist-town —she’d called Sawyer Construction for an interview. Foremost among her list of questions was whether or not the likelihood of a new earthquake code would present fresh challenges either to design or to construction.
Geography, geology, seismology . . . these were three of Chris’s pet subjects. Ever since the 1994 Northridge earthquake, she’d been tracking not only press coverage, but also published scientific papers about the possibility of new building codes. That quake had included what the seismologists called “unexpected moment frame damages.” FEMA was now looking carefully at steel strength and possible detrimental effects on connection design.
Before conducting any interview, Chris always did careful research to be better prepared with good questions. But, she admitted, I also do it to butter-up my subject. The odd thing was that Jack Sawyer—rather than being flattered by the attention of a reporter who could speak at least some of his own language —had seemed by turns diffident and defensive and, ultimately, disingenuous. A man with something to hide?
A sound—a snap of fabric?—yanked her from her thoughts and sent her heartrate skyrocketing. She held her breath and heard the sound again. Like an exhalation, plastic wrapped over vacant window openings was sucked and pulled against the tape holding it to the framework. Just the wind. Perhaps the house itself was breathing, trying to expel its bad humors.
Chris took a step onto something that rolled under her foot, throwing her off balance. She caught herself by bracing against a low cinderblock wall, tearing a piece of skin from her palm. She yelped in the dark, but at least the jab of pain had served to sharpen her attention.
The reasons she’d come here began to return to her mind in an orderly progression. First, there’d been the call from an anonymous tipster that there might be something strange about the plans for the Clarke House. She’d confirmed this with her own investigation, discovering the house had two sets of plans. She’d needed an explanation, but hadn’t wanted to tip her hand to Sawyer too soon.
Then my source called me again. He was right about the plans. Chances are he’s right in everything he says about this house. He was an illusive informant—a phone contact she thought of as “Mr. Man,” since he refused to give his namewho called with tantalizing fragments of information. She tried to fit them together like so many shards of broken crystal, clear and sharp-edged.
He’d said to meet him here, so here she was trying to gather more fragments of this story, and she found herself resenting it. Joseph will be waiting at Calma with a clandestine dinner for two. Tonight’s our make-up date after our little tiff. He planned a midnight supper . . . all the more romantic for the secrecy, the hour . . . and the rapprochement.
The thought hastened her, and she tried again to focus on the
incomplete room. Lifting her flashlight, she began inspecting the spaces framed by raw beams. She stepped through an opening. This will be the kitchen. She could see where the crew had marked identifiable icons for drains and faucets, lines to indicate cabinets and pantry. All of this seems normal enough. Where's the story? I wonder what Mr. Man wants to show me?
One thing that’d varied between the two sets of plans was something about the steel: different manufacturers, but also different grades. She figured a quick look at exposed steel beams under the house would reveal which steel had actually been used.
How do I get down there? She walked from the kitchen across the expanse of the living room and discovered a stairwell against the far wall. But at the moment it contained neither stairs nor a plank. She thought back for a moment. Oh . . . there was a ladder in that opening by the fireplace. Cursing again, she began walking carefully toward the gaping hole.
Just then another sound reached her—closer than the persistent wind and crashing surf. What was that? A scrape . . . a footfall? Or is that Mr. Man? About time he got here. But I didn’t see any headlights. What if it’s not him? Clicking off her flashlight, she pressed her body against the closest beam. I’m alone in a windswept rattletrap of wood beams and metal scraps, and I should’ve been home doing my nails before driving to Santa Barbara to meet Joseph.
She breathed deeply and tried to picture herself arriving home, refreshing her polish and makeup, locking the door behind her, starting the SUV’s engine. Details. They were always her best defense against fear.
She listened a moment longer, hearing no further scraping. Just my nerves. She clicked her flashlight back on, then continued toward the hearth-well. The ladder itself seemed to disappear into the depths. “It’s the blackest hole I’ve ever seen,” she muttered. “Blacker than a black cat’s ass—on black velvet.”
“There’s a quick way down there, Ms. Christian.”
“Ahh!” She whirled toward the voice that’d burst out of nowhere. “Who—?” That’s not my contact’s voice. Her throat spasmed, and she gulped air, her heart pounding louder than the surf. “Where—?” She gasped. “You just about scared the. . . .” Struggling for calm, she clutched her flashlight and tried to keep its beam from bouncing across the man’s features.
His seamed face loomed over a hulking physique. Any distinguishing marks? Yes! I thought it was a shadow, but that’s a mole on his left cheek . . . size of a quarter. Can’t really see his eyes. She inhaled. “What . . . what are you doing here?”
“The question should be what are you doing here, Ms. Christian. I work here.” The voice was steady, self-assured.
“Of course you do.” Why does he know my name? She struggled for a casual tone. “Good thing you’re here, because I could really use some help.” A laugh erupted from her throat like a burst of static from a malfunctioning radio. “Actually, I wanted to look around in the basement, but it’s so hard to see in the dark.”
The guy said nothing. Chris wondered how long she could keep producing an uninterrupted stream of words, hoping to use them like a protective force field. Keep talking. Redirect the focus to him. “Say, you didn’t even bring a flashlight.”
“Very observant.”
Get a conversation going. “Guess we both counted on moonlight.”
“Not with these clouds.”
“You must know the house real well if you work here.” Burly muscles, heavy work boots. “One of the construction crew, huh?”
“Right again.”
“Well, listen, I’m running late for an appointment and someone’s waiting for me. He tends to get upset when I’m not on time. I’ll come back in the daylight when I can see better.” She made a move away from the hearth-well, but it only brought her closer to him. As she took another step, her foot caught on something, pitching her forward.
The worker’s arm shot out in front of her, his large hand capturing hers as she regained her balance. He couldn’t stop the impulse to catch me. She stood toe-to-toe with him now, and could smell alcohol on his breath as he exhaled. Probably a bourbon drinker, she noted, unable to stop cataloguing details.
His hand opened suddenly. She slipped hers free and stepped back. Has his brief moment of gallantry put him enough off balance that I can appeal to him? Don’t I always reach people with my authenticity and with my words? She looked up into the weathered face, trying to make eye contact, but could see nothing more than a glint. “Thanks so much for taking care of me.”
He paused, then smiled. “Oh, I haven’t taken care of you yet.”
Damn! “But you’re about to, am I right?”
A chuckle rumbled in his barrel chest. “Too right.”
Good! Maybe I did reach him this time . . . I made him laugh.
How many times have I talked my way out of a tight spot? How many times have I played out this kind of scenario in my head?
Time seemed to slow, and her perspective shifted until she watched the stand-off between herself and burly-guy from a slight distance, as though she were discussing the angle with her television camera crew. It’s an over-the-shoulder two-shot, like one of my interviews. Then we cut to a close-up that shows the mole, the craggy face—trying to give the audience a chance to read his expression.
Now her view altered and the setting was a Western: a black-hatted hulk blocked the path of a red-dressed spit-fire. Whose story is this? When did it happen? Why are we in the Old West? She almost seemed to recognize the scene . . . from a story by her favorite writer, Louis L’Amour. Never let the opponent gain the advantage, his narration advised. Don’t wait. Make the first move.
The scene shifted again, and now she saw herself as Emma Peel in The Avengers. Skilled in martial arts, undaunted by her precarious predicament, the heroine faces her adversary. Emma kicks out with those long legs, takes her man by surprise.
Suddenly, Chris found herself standing in her own shoes, opposite her own bad guy. He might be bigger, stronger, more massive, but maneuverability was on her side. It’s now or never!
She clicked off her flashlight and hurled it at his head. She’d already chosen exactly what direction she would run—past him, not away, because that would be unexpected. In the sudden blackness she knew she’d have a second’s worth of advantage. It was just the second she needed.
She leapt forward, and saw his fist too late. It impacted her temple with the force of an explosion, hurtling her backward into the gaping hearth-well. Her body seemed to hang for a moment, suspended in space—until it smashed against the dirt, forcing the last molecule of air from her lungs. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.
Her eyes blinked in the dark, her mind searched for options. She saw his huge feet land on the dirt near her, and kept her eyes still. If he thinks I’m already dead he’ll just leave me. Don’t breathe!
He was carrying something . . . a shovel. No! He stepped on its edge, forcing it into the big pile of soft earth, lifting a load of it, moving it toward her head.
Just before the dirt hit her face, she closed her eyes. I’m covered enough now that he can’t see me. I’ll breathe soon.
Another shovelful landed on her chest, its weight sodden. Now another was flung over her face.
It’d been too many seconds since air had found its way into her lungs, and with a sudden clarity, she realized she had never taken that breath.
Desperately, she inhaled, but she found no oxygen. Only the wet, sandy home-soil of the Central Coast.
Chapter 1
The autumn storm tore at the clouds covering Milford- Haven, revealing a swollen moon that hung over a coastline frothy with agitated surf.
Miranda Jones watched the distant flash of the lighthouse for a moment, then looked away from her window to focus on a narrow band of thick paper scrolled across her studio floor. Inhaling deeply, she dipped the tapered fibers of her immense paintbrush and struggled to lift its wet mass from the inky bucket, then swept a black streak across the white paper.
She held the t
hree-inch diameter brush handle upright—its top reaching to her waist—and resumed her bent-knee, wide- footed stance. Hoisting the fully saturated brush, she began the dance that would drag it rhythmically along the paper, creating a vertical image.
Placing her bare feet on the sheet, she stepped backwards, the weight of the sodden brush causing her arms to shake. Yet each motion synchronized with both the soft shakuhachi flute music that played over her stereo, and with the call the paper itself seemed to be whispering in her ear.
When she reached the end of the sheet, she walked back to her starting point, replaced the brush in its bucket, and stood entranced, her soul soaking up the experience even as the image soaked into the paper.
By now her studio was permeated with the distinct aroma of the sumi ink. Concocted of palm ash and glue, it also contained traces of camphor and musk oil. She inhaled again, agreeing with the legend that promised the ink’s special odor helped to induce the perfect meditative state.
She’d placed four black stones—smoothed and rounded from tumbling for years through the nearby surf—as weights to hold the scroll in place. Now they almost blended into the image, as though she’d added four extra smudges of ink. But, in fact, the stones would be removed and weren’t part of what she’d painted. She scrutinized the piece. When the stones are removed, will the piece look incomplete? Yes . . . it needs something more.
She felt the idea, more than she thought it. Focusing on an unfilled portion of the paper, she reached for a smaller brush that stood ready in its own bucket. She lifted it, then let her hand sweep through a series of motions. When she’d replaced the smaller brush, she closed her eyes and bowed over the paper, signaling the completion of the current scroll. My teacher would add a touch of vermillion . . . but I’m not ready for that yet.
During art school a few years earlier, she’d completed a course on sumi-e, and since then she’d occasionally used the ancient Japanese ink-wash painting as both a meditation and a discipline. Traditionally, it was both, from the almost ritualistic grinding of the ink stone into water, to the careful handling of brushes whose hairs were trimmed to a delicate point.
