by Jeramy Gates
“You sure?”
“I’ll call if we need anything,” I said. A look of relief swept over his features. I couldn’t help giggling.
Charlotte started to climb, and I went after her. The staircase circled up the outer perimeter of the tower in an ever-tightening circle. The stairs were wide, with deep treads and solid handrails on either side. It was a two-story climb -if not a little more- but it was actually easier getting to the top of the lighthouse than the hike up the hill had been.
I glanced down a few times and saw Joe watching me from the floor. I knew exactly what he was thinking. We weren’t likely to run into any trouble up there, but just in case, he was ready to come running. Knowing Joe, he’d try it, too. He’d cripple himself in the process, but he’d try.
The control room was a small circular room about eight feet in diameter, with storm windows looking out in every direction and a door leading out onto a narrow balcony. A large electric motor at the center of the room operated the massive focal lens. To my surprise, the lamp itself didn’t actually rotate. Instead, a housing made of mirrors and lenses rotated around the bulb, directing and focusing the light out over the sea. I had never imagined it worked this way, but in retrospect it made perfect sense. It would have been far more troublesome to rig up some sort of mechanism that could spin the bulb and power it at the same time. It would be like spinning a reading lamp in circles while trying to keep the cord from getting tangled. Far easier to spin the housing around the bulb.
The room was empty, and I didn’t see any sign of Jacob having been there recently. Charlotte turned to face me, a look of grave concern etched onto her features. “Something terrible has happened,” she said. “He wouldn’t have left this running. It costs money to operate the lighthouse, and Jacob would never leave it on during the day like this.” She flipped a switch on the wall, turning the mechanism off. It idled to a stop and the lamp went dim.
I glanced outside and realized that the fog had pulled way back over the ocean. The patches of blue sky were growing, and it looked like the sun might be out soon. It was cold and windy still, but it wasn’t lighthouse weather. I feared Charlotte was right. I was reluctant to confirm her fears, but I had to admit a growing concern myself: Jacob’s disappearance was out of character.
There were other clues leading me to believe something suspicious had happened: the fishing boat drifting alone in the storm, the chair demolished in the kitchen… Even viewed as isolated incidents, they were suspicious. Compounded with Jacob’s mysterious absence, I had the uneasy feeling that we were dealing with something nefarious. Still, I looked for other explanations:
“What about the out-buildings?” I said. “I’ve seen the lights of other buildings up the mountainside. Maybe Jacob is there.”
“There are two cabins on the property where the employees live, but they would have told us if Jacob had visited. And he really doesn’t mingle with the other employees.”
“What about Gerard?”
Charlotte sighed. “Jacob has never had anything to do with my ex. He can’t stand Gerard any more than I can. None of my employees have anything to do with him, either.”
“We should check anyway. If you want, Joe and I can visit him.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll send Miguel up on the ATV.”
I was satisfied that there was nothing else to learn in the lighthouse. We went back downstairs, where we found Joe relaxing in the living room recliner. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him as I watched him climb back to his feet. Joe had been through a lot, and he’d only had about five hours of sleep on top of it all. I suddenly felt guilty about giving him such a hard time on this trip. His heart had been in the right place, after all. I was the one who didn’t appreciate all the work he’d gone to. I decided it was time to forgive him and try to make the best of the weekend. I made up my mind to apologize to him the first chance I got.
When we left the lighthouse, there was no need to climb the stairs back down to the beach. We took the trail along the top of the hill towards the inn. Joe and I walked at a comfortable pace while Charlotte hurried ahead to find Miguel. By the time we arrived, Miguel had already disappeared up the Jeep trail on the four-wheeler. We rejoined Charlotte in the lobby, where she was waiting for Miguel to call her on the two-way radio. Five minutes later, the speaker emitted a static click and Miguel’s voice said:
“Charlotte, you copy?”
“I’m here,” she said, lifting the radio close to her mouth. “Did you find Jacob?”
“Negative. Gerard says if we bother him again, he’ll call de sheriff.”
Charlotte put the handset down and met my gaze with a worried look.
“Maybe he went hiking,” I said hopefully. “Or camping?”
“No, Jacob doesn’t do those things. He’s seventy years old. He’s not interested in hiking or camping. Fishing is his life. He doesn’t just do it for money, he does it because he loves it. He needs to do it. Besides, he would never leave the lighthouse unattended at night. Not without arranging for someone to look after it.”
I took Charlotte’s hand in mine. “I think it’s time to call the sheriff,” I said.
Charlotte’s eyes brimmed with tears. I glanced at Joe. His expression was grim. She opened the cabinet behind the front counter, revealing a citizen’s band radio with a microphone. It was already running, and she turned up the volume as she pulled out the mic. She wiped her tears and gave us a weak smile as she saw our mystified looks.
“The CB is a necessity around here,” she said. “Especially in winter. The phone lines go down all the time, and I’m sure you’ve noticed, there’s not much cell service.”
I nodded. “I tried to use my hotspot to make a call last night and couldn’t find a signal anywhere.”
“Try the upstairs hallway,” Charlotte said. “For some reason, that’s the best place on the property to grab a signal.”
She flipped the channel on the CB, and dialed back the squelch a little before speaking into the mic: “This is the Lost Coast Inn calling Sheriff Hillman. Sheriff, have you got your ears on?”
We heard a lot of static and buzzing. Charlotte tapped the mic button and tried again. “Lost Coast Inn, calling the Mendocino Sherriff’s Department.” This time, we heard the broken sound of a woman’s voice respond:
“…Mendocino Sheriff’s office. Who’s calling?”
“Charlotte Rosen, from the Lost Coast Inn. I need to report a missing person… ” She proceeded to explain the entire situation. Eventually, Sheriff Hillman himself got on the line. He agreed to fly down in the police department’s helicopter.
When their conversation was over, Charlotte lowered the volume and put the mic back in the cabinet. She turned to face us. The worry lines made dark creases on her face, and between that and her running mascara, it made her look like she’d aged ten years. She looked so miserable, I wanted to cry with her. Instead, I handed her a tissue.
“Did you know Jacob well?” I said.
“I’ve known him for a few years, but nobody really knew him, if you know what I mean. I know what you’re thinking, and no, he wasn’t the friendliest person on earth, but he was hardworking and reliable. This is all so unexpected. What am I going to do?”
“Joe and I will help any way we can,” I said, taking her hand reassuringly. She squeezed it.
“That’s very kind of you. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s anything else we can do now but wait for the sheriff. Why don’t you two get some rest? It has been a horrible morning. I just feel terrible about everything that’s happened.” She glanced at Joe. “You should go sit in one of our spas. That should get you warmed up, and it might help your leg, too.”
“Breakfast first,” he said. “I’m famished.”
Chapter 9
Tanja
Chef Melville had served breakfast at seven, but Joe and I had been otherwise engaged at the time. Thankfully, when we entered the dining room at half-past-nine, the food was still availabl
e and the warming trays had done their job reasonably well. It was a buffet-style meal, complete with all the usual American favorites: biscuits, eggs, sausage, bacon, hash browns, and so forth. I loaded up a plate of two slices of whole wheat toast with organic raspberry jam, a small serving of hash browns, one egg, sunny side up, and a slice of cantaloupe on the side. It was a feast fit for a king, especially compared to my normal breakfast of toast and coffee.
While preparing my plate, I watched Joe pile enough bacon and sausage on his pancakes to give a rhino a coronary. He smothered it all in butter and maple syrup and then proceeded to fill a second plate with biscuits and gravy and a side of hash browns. I could hardly believe my eyes as I watched him build two complete meals right in front of me. It occurred to me that he might have been making one for me.
“I already have a plate,” I said when he paused long enough in the piling to glance at me.
“I know,” Joe said around a mouthful of English muffin that he had somehow stuffed in there while wrangling his two plates. “Just about ready.”
“Joe, you’re not actually planning on eating all that!”
He looked at me like I’d just asked him to write a thesis on string theory. “Huh?”
“Look at all that food. Do you have any idea how many calories are in that meal? The saturated fat alone is enough to kill you, not to mention the cholesterol…” I put my hands on my hips. “Think about what you’re doing, Joe, if not for yourself, then your family. You’re married now. You have a little girl. Don’t you want to be there for us? How would you feel if you dropped dead of a heart attack?”
“I wouldn’t feel much if I was dead,” he said with a snarky grin.
“That’s not funny, Joe. What about Autumn? How would she feel? What if you died before you ever got to take her to a father-daughter dance, or teach her to ride a bike? Or take her sailing on your boat? What if Autumn had to grow up without a daddy?”
Joe’s face fell as I spoke. By the time I was done, he had the crestfallen look of a scolded teen. He returned half the food, and then obediently followed me to a table with his head hanging low. I felt a little guilty, but just a little. I may have soured his mood, but I’d done the right thing. Joe had to learn that his life wasn’t about him anymore. It was about us. It was time for him to grow up and accept that.
We settled at one of the tables near the piano, overlooking the water. We spent the next few minutes eating in silence. It didn’t take long for me to start feeling bad about what I’d said and wondering if I’d gone too far. I hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings; just to make him conscious of the danger of living so carelessly. I reached over and took his hand.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that I love you. I worry about you. I need you to be there for us.”
“I know,” he said in a resigned voice. He leaned back in his chair. “The truth is, you’re right. I do tend to look out for myself. When my parents abandoned me, I had to be tough in order to survive. I had to be smarter and meaner than everyone else. I know it’s not right, and it’s not a good way to be, but it’s hard to turn off. It’s hard to stop thinking that way.”
“But you do it all the time. You hold the door for me; you carry the groceries and fix the car.”
“That’s different. The big things are easy. The little things -like starving myself to make my wife and daughter happy- those just don’t come naturally.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s not what I’m asking you to do. I just want you to be careful… to be responsible.”
He took a bite of sausage, considering what I said. “You know what my problem is? I’m like one of those wild dogs you see in documentaries.”
I frowned. “Dogs? What do you mean?”
“It always happens after disasters. People lose track of their pets, maybe the owners die, or they’re hospitalized. There’s no one to care for the pets, and they have to survive on their own. They revert. They turn feral, and it’s not because they started out that way. Fido may have been the best dog in the world, but after a year or two of running wild, he’ll rip your throat out if you try to pet him. I think that’s what happened to me.”
“You turned feral?” I said, giving him a slight grin. Joe didn’t smile.
“Yes, I did. And even when life got better, when I finished school and became a cop, I still had that in me. It had become part of me. That wildness, that survival instinct doesn’t just turn off anymore.”
“That sounds like PTSD to me, Joe. Have you talked to your therapist about this?”
He sighed. “A little. The thing is, I’m not sure it’s a bad thing. To be honest, I believe it helped me be a better cop.”
“You mean when you were working undercover?”
“Exactly. Those people I investigated… they were like feral dogs, too. That’s why I knew how to deal with them. I could make them believe I was like them because, in a way, I was. It was easy. It’s the other stuff that’s hard for me. Working a regular job, hanging out with regular people, being a dad and a husband… I don’t know how to do those things. And raising a daughter,” his eyes widened as he said this. “I have no idea -no idea in the world- what I’m doing, or how I’m supposed to do it.”
I squeezed his hand. “No one does, Joe. Even the people who think they know what they’re doing are humbled by raising children. There aren’t any rules for this sort of thing. The worse thing you can do is to go into it expecting something. You have to learn to accept it for what it is; to learn to take it on a day-to-day basis. That’s not so different, is it?”
His smile brightened, and his deep blue eyes sparkled like the ocean behind him. “So what you’re saying is being a parent makes you feral?”
“Something like that.”
We shared a good laugh over that. Suddenly, the day seemed brighter. I changed the subject, asking Joe what he thought about Jacob’s disappearance.
“His boat was drifting on the bay,” Joe said with a shrug. “He probably went out into that storm this morning and got hit by a rogue wave that swept him overboard. It could happen that fast,” he added, snapping his fingers.
I wasn’t convinced. “Charlotte said he wouldn’t do something like that. Doesn’t it seem a bit careless for someone as experienced as Jacob? He’s a professional fisherman with decades of experience. Why would he risk going out in a storm like this?”
“Hard to say. Maybe he’s a risk-taker. Maybe he was drunk.”
“At five o’clock in the morning?”
He tilted his head. Another thought occurred to him: “It could have been a suicide. Everyone knows Jacob was a loner with no friends. And a drinker, too. People like that have very high rates of suicide.”
“It’s possible,” I said, still not quite persuaded. “It just seems sudden. Jacob has been living here for years, and if he had suddenly become suicidal, wouldn’t there have been some indication of that? Wouldn’t Charlotte have known?”
Joe took a deep, exhausted breath and leaned back in his chair as he stared at me. “You aren’t really going to suggest that he’s been murdered are you?”
“It’s possible. You saw the kitchen. It was ransacked.”
Joe chuckled. “I saw a broken chair.”
“And the coffee pot, and the spilled vodka… You saw all that, too.”
He took a bite of bagel, forcing himself not to look me in the eyes. I knew what he was thinking. If I ignore her, she’ll give up on this silly crusade. Not a chance. “Did you see anything unusual on Jacob’s boat?”
He swallowed a mouthful of pancakes and washed it down with a drink of coffee. “Like what?”
“Signs of a struggle, like what we saw in his house. Maybe something out of place.”
“No.” Joe must have seen from the look on my face that I wasn’t satisfied. He rolled his eyes. “Look, I didn’t see anything unusual in his boat, either yesterday, or this morning. The rope came loose and it went drifting. That’s all.”
“No, that’s not all. He’s missing.”
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“I just want to know what happened. I don’t buy the idea that out of nowhere, Jacob suddenly decided to take his boat out in the middle the worst storm in a decade. The fact that he’s vanished, combined with the other evidence, just seems too coincidental.”
“Evidence? You mean the mess in his kitchen?”
“That, and the lighthouse he left running. Why would he do that if he didn’t plan on coming back? You heard what Charlotte said. This is all out of character for him.”
“Maybe,” Joe said in a resigned voice. I thought I was getting through to him, but then he continued: “Maybe we should just leave it to the sheriff. It’s really none of our business. We’re on vacation, remember?”
He took a drink of coffee, and I noticed the bloodstained bandage on his hand. “Is your hand okay? Let’s get it cleaned up and re-bandaged.”
Joe yawned. “I’m going to take a shower first. And maybe a nap.”
I didn’t argue. We took our plates to the dish tub, refilled our coffee cups, and headed upstairs. Joe undressed and headed for the shower, and I turned on the television. I wanted to check out the weather, and I had a slightly morbid curiosity as to whether any bodies had washed up on the shore that morning. I knew it was a long shot. There were miles of unpopulated coastline to the north and south, and if Jacob’s body did end up there, it could be weeks before somebody found him, if ever.
Unsurprisingly, there were no such stories. I did however, learn that the so-called hurricane we’d just experienced was actually the first in a series of storms moving up the California coast. Two more were headed our way. The second, which would hit the north coast by late afternoon, was even bigger than the first. It was expected to dump more than ten inches of rain in twenty-four hours. Flood-prone areas like the Russian River were already on alert, and residents were filling sandbags and piling them along streets and around homes. If past experience was any indication, none of it would do much good. The forecaster also warned about the possibility of mudslides.
