Winter Tides

by James P. Blaylock

  He slowed down when he passed Goldenwest Street, since Casey nearly always stopped for a wave check north of the pier. Sure enough, there was the truck, parked along the side of the Highway. Edmund moved into the left lane and drove on past, turned left at 7th Street, and pulled into the liquor store parking lot, where he cut his lights and waited, letting the engine idle. There were no other cars parked at the curb, but with dawn approaching, there soon would be. Next stop was Magnolia Street, where Casey would pull off into the turnaround by the lifeguard headquarters—no place to commit a murder. After that he’d either turn around or head south to Newport; either way it would be too late for any action. It was now or never.

  He watched his brother get out of the truck and walk past the parking meter and across the grass toward the ocean. Because of the fog and the darkness, he would have to climb the stairs to the beach and walk nearly to the water’s edge to check the waves, which ought to give Edmund plenty of time. He shut off the engine and climbed out of the car, wearing a pair of surgical gloves and carrying a gas can and a nearly empty vodka bottle—a quart that he’d bought two days ago at the supermarket. He had poured it into the empty gas can along with a second quart of vodka, then topped the can off with a half gallon of pure ethanol.

  Predictably, his brother left his surfboard in the bed of the truck. If he decided to stay and surf, he’d return for his board and wetsuit, and the truck would sit here on the roadside for the next three or four hours. The alcohol would evaporate, and Edmund’s plan would remain merely a good idea.

  But if Casey decided to drive on, to check out one more spot …

  Edmund loped across the empty Highway, carrying the gas can, which he set on the curb in front of the truck. Then, hurriedly, he followed the path his brother had taken to the stairs. There was no sign of him. Obviously he had gone on down to the beach. Edmund returned to the truck and raised the hood, then leaned in underneath and found the distributor cap and the wire that ran from the distributor to the coil, just like in the photo illustration from the repair manual that he’d bought at Pep Boys. He gripped the wire at its base, tugged and wiggled it halfway out of the coil, and then sloshed vodka and alcohol on it out of the can, pooling up the alcohol on the manifold. He splashed the liquid everywhere over the engine, dumping it through the open cable holes in the firewall. Then he shut the hood carefully, leaning hard on it to latch it. He spent five seconds listening hard for the slap of Casey’s bare feet on the stairs, but he heard nothing but the sound of the ocean and the rumble of a car as it passed.

  He dumped alcohol on the hood for good measure, pouring it along the base of the windshield. The fog was with him once again: the dewy truck would mask the wetness of the alcohol, and the alcohol, of course, would burn even when it was diluted with water. He opened the driver’s side door, lifted the beach towel that covered the torn seat upholstery, and soaked the exposed foam seat cushion. He splashed it on the door panel and poured it under the wet-suit and the trash that littered the floor, splashing more across the top of the trash before flicking liquid up under the dash. He emptied the rest of the can, finally, shaking out the last drops, then shoved the vodka bottle back underneath the seat where his brother wouldn’t see it when he climbed in. He shut the door carefully, and without a backward glance ran back across the highway, opened the trunk of his car and tossed in the gas can and the gloves, and then climbed into his car again, where he waited with the engine running.

  He took a deep breath and settled down for the show. It would be safer to drive away, of course. But he had to watch it happen; he had to get it on film, the only permanent record of performance art. He pictured his brother climbing into the car, cranking the engine, the first creeping blue alcohol flames when the spark from the half-disengaged coil wire ignited the fuel….

  “A surefire thing,” Edmund muttered in a cowpoke accent, then laughed at his own joke. The whole thing had been perfect. Casey had set himself up with his piglike truck knee-deep in garbage. The old broken-down seats and the wetsuit and the trash could have soaked up two gallons of alcohol, just like Casey himself. A man’s car was an absolute reflection of his personality, after all, and …

  Casey appeared right then, a shadow in the fog. He came straight around the front of the truck, opened the door, and stood for a moment in the street as if he were making up his mind about something. He looked at his watch. Get in, Edmund commanded silently, and abruptly Casey did get in. Edmund heard the old engine roar into life, and he half expected a big whoosh of flame, the truck going up like a funeral pyre.

  Nothing apparently happened. Casey sat there for a moment or two with the engine idling, looking through the windshield at the fog. Then the truck moved slowly forward. Edmund prepared to follow him. He put one hand on the video camera, switching it on, and drove out toward the street, watching the truck pick up speed. He couldn’t afford to fall behind now, not if he wanted this on film.

  He saw something now! Flames, flickering up along the rear edge of the hood, dancing blue flames in a skirt along the base of the window. “Yes,” he muttered, slapping his hand against the steering wheel. “Burn.” The truck accelerated, heading south, and Edmund followed, running the light at 7th and looping around behind the truck, which was swerving erratically now, fifty yards ahead. Edmund grappled one-handed with the video camera, pressing the record button and steadying it against the dashboard.

  There was fire inside the cab now, not the blue of an alcohol fire, but the yellow flames of the trash going up, the seat cushions burning. A reek of black smoke poured out of the rolled-down window, and the truck veered sharply across two lanes, angled across the intersection at Main, jumped the curb and sidewalk, and crashed into a stand of queen palms in front of Maxwell’s, the old boarded-up pierside restaurant. The truck stopped dead, and both doors flew open with the impact.

  Edmund slowed way down, craning his neck, desperate to see what would happen, aiming the camera as well as he could, but still moving. He whooped out loud, the sound of his voice mingling with the sudden howl of a police siren, right behind him. Shocked by the siren, he dropped the camera to the seat and looked into the rearview mirror, which reflected the flashing blue lights of a patrol car. He accelerated—not running, but as if anxious to get out of the way.

  The cop pulled over to the curb and leaped out of the car, and Edmund kept going, moving the camera to the floor and dropping his coat over it. Watching the review mirror for any kind of pursuit, he drove south to the Huntington Towers before turning off the highway.

  56

  “A CAR FIRE?” DAVE SAID. “DID HE GET BURNED? WHAT the hell happened?” The waiting room at Humana Hospital was mostly empty and smelled of fresh paint and upholstery. Nancy’s eyes were red from crying, but she was composed now. Her long blonde hair was pulled back in a heavy ponytail. She’d just been walking out the door to go to work when the phone had rung with the news of Casey’s accident. She’d called Jolene, looking for the Earl, and Jolene had given the news to Dave when he showed up for work.

  “The burns aren’t bad,” she told him. “He hit the windshield hard, though, and the doctors think he’s got a subdural hematoma, that he’s bleeding in the brain. They did a CAT scan, and I guess they’re going to open him up to relieve the pressure.”

  “Open him up?”

  “Drill a hole in his skull. That’s how I understand it. The doctor acts like it’s no big deal, but …”

  Dave realized that she wasn’t going to finish the sentence, that she was crying again. “I don’t think it’s all that uncommon, Nance. The brain works itself out. It’s a weird organ.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said after a moment. “Anyway, he has some burns on his legs and arms, but nothing worse than second degree. A cop was right there when the truck hit the tree, and he got the flames out as quick as he could. Casey had got out of the truck and made it down onto the beach. I guess he was trying to reach the water.”

  “He still wanted to get som
e waves,” Dave said. Nancy didn’t laugh. “How’d he get out of the car if he hit his head that hard? Maybe the injury’s not that bad.”

  “Adrenaline. That’s what the doctor said. When he was fighting to get out of the truck and put out the fire, the adrenaline blocked the bleeding. Then when the adrenaline backed off, he started bleeding again. He’s been on and off, you know. First he’s dingy and then he’s okay. It’s scary.”

  “He’ll be all right, Nance.”

  “Yeah,” she said flatly. There was relative silence in the waiting room now, the brief sound of a bell from up the hallway, the elevator doors opening and shutting.

  “What did you mean about him getting cited? Earlier, over the phone. Did they arrest him? What did they charge him with, hitting a tree?”

  “An open container in the car.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Nancy stared at him, as if he’d said something utterly idiotic. “Well, Dave, it’s true,” she said. “You know how much he drank. You and I have talked about it more than once. So don’t act like it’s a shock. He’s a big boy. You don’t have to stick up for him.”

  “And you do know he quit?”

  “He’s quit about ten times, Dave. There was an empty quart of vodka in the truck. It looks like he spilled it all over the place when the fire broke out. The alcohol apparently flared up. According to the police, it’s easy to test for vodka residue in the upholstery and floor carpet. Even his wetsuit burned. You’re not allowed to burn your own car up and run into a tree like that. Turns out it’s against the law.”

  “Vodka,” Dave said flatly.

  “That’s what it was. A vodka bottle. They’re not lying, Dave. The cop didn’t rescue him and then plant a bottle in the truck.”

  “Of course not. But did you ever see him drink vodka? I mean aside from in a bloody Mary or something?”

  “That’s the liquor of choice for the alcoholic who’s hiding it. I’m not all that naive, Dave. I watched my father go down that same road, morning till night. Casey stayed up late and kept himself company. He left in the morning with a thermos full of coffee. Who knows what he put in his coffee? If you haven’t lived with an alcoholic, you can’t imagine.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dave said. “I guess I can’t imagine. If you told me that they found a can of Budweiser, then I could imagine. This was at five this morning?”

  “Yeah, about.”

  “Then he was on his way to the beach.”

  “Of course he was. Casey was always on his way to the beach.”

  “Well I can tell you that he never drank before he surfed, Nance. He just didn’t. Alcohol doesn’t go with the vibe, if you know what I mean. It kills your reaction time. It makes you stodgy. When you drink you don’t want to surf, you want to drink. And when you drink, what you want is another drink. You want to keep the buzz. If you’re out in the water for three hours, the buzz is going to die and leave you feeling stupid. I’m telling you the truth; he wouldn’t have been drinking at all before he surfed, not even beer, and he certainly wouldn’t have been drinking vodka out of the goddamn bottle.”

  “Don’t lecture at me, Dave. I didn’t find the bottle in his truck; the cop did. I’ve been living with Casey’s drinking for years, putting a smile on my face, pretending there was no problem. I’ve always been afraid of this kind of thing. All those years and he never even got a DUI. All I can tell you is that if he’d hit another car instead of a palm tree, he’d be in a hell of a lot more trouble.”

  “Yeah,” Dave said, lowering his voice. “You’re right. I don’t mean to be arguing with you. It’s just that … I don’t know. I mean, I can buy there was a fire and all, but there’s something dead wrong about the vodka bottle. And not only that, but he and I talked this out just a couple of days ago. Casey and I made a sort of deal, I guess you can say. He might have fallen off the wagon, Nance. All kinds of people do that every day—better people than me. But he would have told me if he did. I know he would have told me.”

  “It was early. Maybe you weren’t up yet,” Nancy said.

  Dave stared at her. She was shook up. There was no point in arguing this now. “When can I see him?”

  “I don’t know. They chased me out. The Earl was here, but he left. He’s coming back in a little bit.”

  “How is he?”

  “The Earl? He looks like hell. He’s coping, though, or at least he seems to be. The doctors are pumping him full of positive statistics. You know how he is. It’s like Casey’s got tonsillitis or something. The Earl’s not into negativity.”

  “You’ll give me a call when he can have visitors?”

  “Right away. And I’m sorry I’m bad company. Thanks for having some faith in Casey. But he needs a reality check, Dave. We all need a reality check.”

  “That’s the truth,” Dave said. He stood up and tried to smile at her. “I’ll be at the warehouse most of the time. Call me.” She nodded, and he left, heading out through the glass doors and walking through the parking lot under a dreary sky.

  57

  “THAT WAS THE GIST OF IT,” DAVE SAID TO ANNE. “Nancy’s pretty upset. You haven’t met Nancy?”

  Anne sprayed dark gray shading onto the edges of the etched Styrofoam blocks of the palace. The compressor grumbled into life, pressurizing the sprayer, and Anne waited until it fell silent again before she answered. “No. I only met Casey once. Seemed like a nice guy. Edmund had a little bit of contempt for him. He called him a beach bum, I think.”

  “Well, I guess he is. He’s an interesting guy. Drinks too much, or at least he used to. He happens to be my best friend.”

  “So I’ve gathered.”

  “Well, it looks like he might have been drinking before he drove the truck into the tree.”

  “Anybody else hurt?”

  “Just him. He’s got some sort of brain hemorrhage. They’re going to operate to relieve the pressure.”

  “Well, he’s a little bit lucky anyway. He’d be in trouble if he’d hurt anybody else.”

  “He’s lucky. You’re right about that. He also happens to be absolutely honest, at least outside of the drinking. And as far as I know, he’s even been honest about that. He never hid it from me.”

  “He didn’t have to. There’s lots of stuff you don’t have to hide from your friends. You hide things from your family. Sometimes it’s the people you love the most who you hide things from.” Anne switched paint jars, cleared the gray paint out of the spray tip, and misted the base of the stones with moss green, then stood back to take a look.

  “I can’t argue with that,” Dave said. “And there’s a lot of really complicated family politics in the Earl’s case, a lot of trouble over the years that’s been overlooked. The Earl’s got a pair of rose-colored glasses that would fit Godzilla. Sometimes I wish I could borrow them.”

  “It’s a little late for him to take them off now.”

  “I wouldn’t want him to. But I’m really having a hard time with the cop finding an open container in Casey’s truck. I just don’t believe it. Casey was on the wagon. And not only that, but in all the years I’ve known him, he never drank before he surfed. It was maybe the only good reason he had not to drink, except Nancy, of course.”

  “Yeah, but drinking’s a kind of a downhill slide, isn’t it? Sooner or later it gets the upper hand. I’m sorry to talk in clichés, but it’s true. He might have different habits now than he had ten years ago.”

  “If he does, he’s kept them a secret from me. And he wasn’t the kind of guy to keep secrets.”

  “So what are you saying, exactly?”

  “I’m saying that something’s wrong. They found an open bottle in his car. I don’t think he put it there.”

  “Who did?” She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and looked at him, setting her airbrush down on a keg.

  Dave waited for a moment before he responded. He felt as if he were crossing a line, committing himself to a course of action that he couldn’t quite
imagine, but that would change things irreversibly. “I think Edmund put it there. I shouldn’t even tell you this, but Edmund’s been stealing property from the Earl. He’s been quitclaiming real estate into his own name and probably selling it. I talked to a tax accountant who I think was notarizing the deeds. I told Casey about it the other morning, and it didn’t surprise him at all.”

  “What did he say he was going to do about it?”

  “Nothing. He’s a beach bum. He doesn’t give a flying damn about his brother’s greed. And what Edmund’s stealing is just a piece of what the Earl owns.”

  “But with Casey dead, Edmund gets the whole thing, not just pieces.”

  “That’s how I read it. The Earl’s heart is a basket case. He could be in more trouble over Casey’s accident than Casey is.”

  “How did he do it?”

  “Who?”

  “Edmund. You’re telling me that he lit the truck on fire, planted the bottle, and ran the truck into a tree with Casey in it?”

  Dave looked at her. “That’s just what I’m saying. There’s way too many fires breaking out around here. I think Edmund’s lighting them. Every damned one. He’s completely screwed in the head.”

  “He’s in Mexico, remember? He wanted me to go with him. I saw the plane tickets.”

  “That doesn’t change my mind. He could hire someone to do it easily enough. And maybe he’s not in Mexico. Maybe he just told everyone he was going to Mexico. We didn’t check.”

  “How do you check?”

  “I have no idea, but I’m going to find out. And in the meantime, I think we better change the locks on your apartment.”

  “Today. I’ll call Mr. Hedgepeth.”

  “Forget Mr. Hedgepeth. I’ll change them, and then you’ll know you have every copy of the key. We’ll bolt that connecting door, too, from your side.”