by Terri Thayer
The surf grew higher. Storms offshore had whipped up the waves. Rain was predicted for later. Action felt good. I felt myself waking up, my muscles coming alive and begging for more. The cobwebs started to lift from my brain.
A knocking noise startled me, and I looked around for the source. There was no other person in sight. I heard it again, and turned my head. Out in the shallow water of the cove, a sea otter was lying on its back, bouncing an abalone shell on a rock lying on its chest, getting ready to feast.
I felt my heart rate return to normal. Buster was right. He’d told me I’d been living in the city too long, away from nature. I had to get used to the noises that were a normal part of life in the wild—not sirens, or kids skateboarding by. I wondered if he and I could spend more time down here. A few hikes, maybe even a scuba trip would help me get back to Mother Earth.
I climbed a rock, looking out to sea. The expanse of the Pacific was overwhelming. I sighed. Too bad Buster wasn’t here to share it with me. I felt lonely in this view of emptiness.
I looked back, but couldn’t see Tony. I climbed over the rocks, feeling their slippery surfaces, and moved carefully back onto the designated route, still moving away from Tony and the quilters.
A couple of hundred yards ahead of me, the path was closed for construction, orange cones and caution tape forbidding egress. I stopped, trying to figure out where to go next.
Below me, the rocks made a precarious walkway. The fog was affecting my field of vision. I could see a couple of hundred yards ahead of me, but no further, so I moved back toward the road.
An old Volkswagen van was parked in the sandy shoulder. When I was in college back east, my new roommate had asked me what kind of bus my family drove. In New Jersey where she was from, everyone assumed all Californians surfed and drove old beat-up VWs. While singing Partridge Family songs in harmony, no doubt.
The tune of “Muskrat Love” came to me. Damn Buster anyhow for giving me an earworm.
Ahead of me was a larger outcropping that jutted out into the ocean. A sign read, “Since 1968, forty-five people have been swept out to sea. The waters here are dangerous and changeable. Use extreme caution. Stay on the path.”
But I’d lost the path. Then the fog lifted a little, and ahead of me I saw something.
Someone had disobeyed the sign. A lone figure stood on the edge of a high rock. Hard to tell for sure, but it looked like a woman, her long red curls whipped straight out behind her. She stood on the edge, arms spread Titanic-like, as though she was playing queen of the world. She was wearing a patchwork cape, made from what looked like silks and velvets, like a crazy quilt.
Those fabrics would be ruined by the salty spray. I yelled at her to get back. I took several steps toward her.
I moved around a pile of rocks, and suddenly I saw her again. As the wind whipped through her hair, I was reminded of the cypress in the park a few miles along, their odd asymmetrical growth pushed by wind and shaped into strange sculptures that bore little resemblance to trees.
This was one place where you could see the wind, or at least the results of its force.
The woman wasn’t looking at me. She was very close to the edge. My heart stopped for a moment as a loose rock skittered from under her foot and fell the twenty feet to the ocean below, then was lost in the foam.
“Be careful,” I called, unable to stop myself. She looked so ethereal, so otherworldly—I didn’t know if she could hear me or if she knew how close she was to the edge.
The cliffs were not high here, but the water was cold and deep. I knew the water off the Monterey coast was ten thousand feet deep in places—dark cold waters where strange creatures lived and giant kelp forests grew. Not good for human survival.
“Move away from the edge,” I called, feeling the winds whip my words away. She gave no sign of hearing me.
I walked slowly, not wanting to startle the woman and have her trip and perhaps fall from the rocks because of my voice. I couldn’t be responsible for this woman’s life. Or death.
Time slowed, as I pushed my foot in front of myself, scattering rocks in front of me. I froze. The noise I made seemed so loud to me. I was sure I’d given her reason to start. But she was still standing, watching the horizon line, as if looking for answers on the high seas. Facing the emptiness. The void.
The rocks around her were wet, despite their height above the shore. Waves could, and did, wash up this far. People were always drowning, dragged out to sea by rogue waves and wicked undercurrents.
“Miss? Hello?” I yelled. “Can you hear me?”
Where were Tony and the quilters? I looked back where the path had been, but couldn’t see them. I called for him, but I didn’t want to take my eyes off the woman in front of me, so my call was snatched away by the wind.
She turned. Her skin was pale, and I wondered if she was from another time or place. Or if I was imagining her. I blinked, but she was still there. A large wave hit the rock, the spray scattering majestically. She had to be getting wet, but she didn’t flinch. The idea of permanent water stains on her cape made me sick.
I was approaching the woman now, but she turned back to the surf, completely absorbed in the sight of the sea crashing into the rocks.
I looked back to see if Tony was behind me yet. I yelled for him again, but there was no answer.
I turned back to the woman on the rock.
But she was gone. I looked up to the road, expecting to see her striding away. No one was there. She had disappeared.
That was ridiculous. I had looked away for a moment. There was no one else around. I hadn’t heard anything, just the relentless motion of the waves crashing against the rocks, and being sucked back out again.
Where did she go? My heart beat wildly. She hadn’t had enough time to get to the roadway, and I had a clear view of the path ahead. I waited to see if she appeared further along the path, but there was nothing.
My heart leapt into my throat. What if she’d gone over the edge? A wave might have pulled her in, joining the ranks of so many others. John Denver had gone down in his plane not far from here, and I remembered reading about a honeymooning couple swept off a rock at Lovers’ Point. Waves were unpredictable.
I walked past the rope, feeling a little like the time I’d crossed the yellow tape of a crime scene.
On the rocks below was the cape of many colors, spread-eagled, the red lining like a gash.
I glanced around. No one was visible on the path. Tony and the quilters were somewhere behind me. I took a step toward the street. The road was empty. The surfers I’d seen earlier were a half mile up the beach, protected in the cove. Even if one happened to look up right now, there was no way anyone could come help me.
She was gone. Nothing. I scrambled down the rocks, grabbing a weed for a hold. My hand slid off and I fell on my butt, digging my heels in to stop my downward slide. I sat there. It would do her no good if I went in after her. People died on the coast all the time trying to save their companions.
I pushed myself backward to the relative safety of the sandy ground, and lay there, panting. My breath was coming in waves, my stomach roiled as though it wanted to give up its contents.
I looked into the sun, veiled behind a curtain of fog, blinking away the spots that appeared in front of my eyes. I tried to comprehend the vast open space where once the woman had stood in front of me. How had that happened?
The ocean had swallowed her, with not so much as a burp. She was nothing to the vast expanse of water. The tide continued its path, in and out. I shivered, feeling suddenly lonely again. A cloud crossed in front of the sun. The wind picked up.
The gloom I’d felt this morning returned. I’d seen more dead bodies than most people. Had I woken up somehow knowing what lay ahead for me today? I needed to stand, but felt my knees buckle. The last thing I wanted was
to know the future, especially when it involved dying.
I reached for my phone. Of course, it was not on my hip.
The sound of a car got me to my feet. I ran to the road. A VW bus passed me slowly, rumbling by, gears grinding, shrieking as it maneuvered the slight rise. I waved at the driver, trying to get her to slow, to pick me up, but she didn’t see me, and the van just continued its laboring ascent, still moving faster than I was.
There was no sign of Tony and his crew. I didn’t realize how far ahead of them I’d gotten. I raced back toward them, toward Asilomar, toward help.
Finally, I heard Tony and saw him on his haunches pointing into a tidal pool. I called to him. He stood, and excused himself from the group.
“Tony!” I stopped, trying to catch my breath. A sudden stitch in my side caused every gasp to cut me. I gulped.
“Come with me,” I got out, letting my hand slip into his palm and pulling on it. I felt instantly calmer. This was my big brother. Holding his hand, showing him something, was a familiar, visceral action, taking me right back to my childhood. Except instead of a broken robin’s egg on the sidewalk, I was showing him where someone had died.
“I saw a woman fall into the ocean,” I said, whispering. I didn’t want the quilters to hear me. There was no point in ruining their day, too.
Tony understood, and turned to his tour group. “Sorry, folks. I’ve got to cut our time short. It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”
He tipped his hat and we took off down the path.
“When? Where?” Tony was moving quickly now.
I thought about how long it had taken me to run back here. Too long. The ocean was cold. “Probably ten minutes ago.”
“Was she struggling? Did you see her break the surface?”
“No,” I said. “One minute she was on the cliff, the next minute she was gone.”
Tony stopped, waiting for me to catch up. I was breathing like the Niles Canyon Railroad. “You never saw her again?” Tony said. His eyes, looking out on the water, were troubled.
I shook my head, seeing on his face that it was hopeless.
Tony turned away and spoke into his walkie-talkie. “I’ve got a witness who saw a person go into the ocean.”
He waited for an answer, then gave our location. “I’m headed there now.”
He turned to me. “Show me.”
His gait slowed, and the urgency had gone out of his voice. This was not a matter of life and death anymore.
I showed him the cape. It had floated out to a rock, the water flowing over it shifting the fabric, making it look like it was alive.
“That’s hers,” I said.
Tony climbed down nimbly, so unlike my earlier stumbling. I reminded myself this was his job. He was good at it, focused and strong. I felt a wave of pride.
He stood looking out to sea, then fished the cape out of the water.
Within minutes, we were joined by the Lifeguard Rangers, the Coast Guard, trucks from the local fire department. The Pacific Grove Police and Monterey County Sheriff’s Department cars lined the roadway. Talking quietly, the group divided duties. Tony joined the rangers in roping off the area. Lifeguards in wet suits went into the water where the woman had disappeared. A boat offshore launched a small craft. A helicopter came over the horizon.
The bustle of activity left me drained, and I leaned against a rail fence. The other quilters had decided to go back to Asilomar and wait for news, but the police wanted to talk to me.
Tony found me. I could feel my lower lip trembling but was unable to stop it. “Are you cold?” he asked.
I nodded. Feeling cold was easier than what I was really feeling—dread.
Tony fetched a blanket from a patrol car and offered it to me, wrapping me like a burrito. He gave an extra tug, bringing the material around my neck.
“Sorry,” he said. “These things take time.”
I knew that. Tony had been away while I’d solved two murders in the last year. We’d never really discussed my role. I let him think I was the innocent baby sister he’d left behind. I was okay with that.
“Did she fall, Dewey?” Tony asked. I shook my head. “Lose her footing?”
“I don’t know,” I wailed. I felt a welling of sadness fill my chest. “She was there one minute, gone the next.”
“She took off her cape,” he said.
I nodded, not wanting to acknowledge what he was saying.
“It had to be deliberate,” Tony said thoughtfully.
I closed my eyes. I tried, but I couldn’t think of an alternate scenario. Whoever this woman was, she’d decided to end her life in the Pacific Ocean. How awful.
Tony put a protective arm around me, and squeezed. “I’m sorry you had to see that, sis. I’ve seen more than my share of suicides. They’re always an inexplicable waste.”
“Can I take your statement?” A Pacific Grove cop approached us. He was a middle-aged man with a deep tan that I’d bet didn’t extend past his collar. Right now, his face was creased with worry.
“Detective Graham,” he introduced himself. “Let’s walk back the way you came.”
A crowd was gathering at the edge of the road. Tony stopped to make sure they stayed well back. A couple of surfers, wetsuits peeled down to reveal pasty chests, and a cadre of older men watched the proceedings. One geezer was extremely excited about the helicopter, pointing and jabbing his friend with his walking stick. We walked until we were out of earshot.
I led the detective to where I’d first seen the woman. I filled him in as he took notes.
“I guess you see this a lot,” I said.
He smiled kindly. “Too often to suit me,” he said. His eyes slanted downward, a permanent sadness etched into his wrinkles.
I wanted to ask him the question I hadn’t asked Tony. “Do you think I could have saved her?”
“No,” he said softly. “If anything, she may have been waiting for a witness.”
A witness? The thought chilled me. Why me? The words almost escaped my lips but I choked them back. I knew there was no good answer.
“Is it okay if I go back to Asilomar?” I asked. “I’m staying there for a conference.”
“Sure,” he said. “Best thing you can do is return to your routine. We’ll handle things out here.”
I was glad to be out of it. Tony could tell me what happened later. I headed back toward the gates that led to the Asilomar boardwalk. My feet felt like bricks, and my thighs burned as though I’d walked straight uphill for miles.
By the wooden Asilomar sign, I heard my name being called, and turned. The rescue effort was out of sight.
It was Paul Wiggins. “Dewey, right?” he said.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice rising in fear. This was the man Mercedes had threatened with a gun yesterday. I took several steps backward and looked over my shoulder. Now I could see the edge of the fire and rescue truck. I moved further away from Paul. I wanted to be sure someone could see us.
My foot slipped on the gravel as I backpedaled and I nearly tripped. He put out a hand to steady me. I pulled my arm away, nearly toppling over in the process.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Still trying to get to Ursula, my wife.” He seemed to be trying to sound wounded, but it was pitiful. “Mercedes has the wrong idea about us.”
I doubted that. Women don’t usually reveal their husbands to be batterers just for the sake of conversation.
I held up my hand. I shivered. “Sorry, I don’t have time for this.”
A siren sounded. Paul’s eyes looked past me. “What’s going on back there?”
“A woman was swept off a cliff,” I said, refusing to say more than that.
Paul’s expression froze. “Did you see her?” he a
sked me gruffly.
I nodded. Words couldn’t get out of the tightness that was my chest and throat right now.
He grabbed my upper arm. “Tell me.”
“Ouch,” I cried. I pushed his hand away. My heart raced. I willed Tony to look my way.
Paul’s face softened, although his eyes remained steely. He held his hands up and away from me. “I’m sorry, I’m just so worried about Ursula.”
He reached into his coat pocket. I flinched, but he only pulled out a picture.
“Is this her?” he said, his hand trembling. I took the print from him, turning away so he couldn’t see my face. I didn’t want to be so exposed in front of this man.
A tall auburn-haired woman looked defiantly into the camera. Her smile was slightly crooked, the result of a broken jaw, according to Mercedes.
I felt the jolt of recognition cross my face. This was the woman I’d just seen standing on a rock in the Pacific Ocean. I glanced at Paul, but he was looking at his wife.
“It’s the last picture I took of her. She was leaving for the airport,” he said.
Defiance was the last thing I’d expected to see on Ursula’s face. I didn’t know any battered women, but I’d expected to see a tired woman, worn out from fighting an indefatigable enemy. One that lived in her own home. In her bedroom.
Maybe Mercedes had overreacted to Paul’s presence yesterday. God knows she was prone to overstatement. This woman looked proud. And hopeful.
I tried to let him down easy. “I can’t be sure of what I saw,” I began. I was not convincing anyone, including myself. I’d never be an actress.
He took back the picture, trying unsuccessfully to fold it into a neat package again. I could see I’d shot an arrow into his heart.
“It was her,” he said. “I had a feeling she would do something like this—”
“The police, the rangers, the Coast Guard, they’re all looking for her,” I said. “Don’t give up hope.”
He crumpled the picture in his hand, clutching it so tight, his knuckles turned white. I flinched at the sight of his fist.
