Cape Perdido

by Marcia Muller

  STEPH PACE

  She must have passed out at some point, because all at once she was aware of cold air and hands grasping her limbs again. She was no longer in the car’s trunk, but being carried somewhere. All around her was the smell of damp, burned wood and the sea.

  The mill. They’d taken her to the mill.

  “For God’s sake, mate, don’t drop her,” Woodsman said.

  “I still don’t like this.”

  “You don’t have to like it. I said before, you do what you have to. And you, in particular, have to. Unless you want the fact that you killed Whitesides to come out.”

  “You’re threatening me?”

  “I’m telling you, it’s too late to turn back now.”

  Steph opened her eyes. The men were staggering along the pier. She could hear the partially deflated water bag sloshing in the dark water alongside it.

  Going where? A boat?

  “Dammit!” Woodsman stumbled, righted himself.

  In a labored voice, Erickson asked, “When’re the waste management people coming?”

  “Barge’ll be here at eight a.m. sharp.”

  Barge? She’d heard that the water bag was to be towed out to sea and scuttled. . . .

  Oh, no, they’re not going to do that to me!

  Steph began to struggle. The men stopped as she flopped sideways, kicked out with her right foot.

  “She’s conscious!” Erickson exclaimed, nearly losing his grip.

  She kicked harder but couldn’t break free.

  “Help me swing her over the rail!”

  “We can’t—”

  “Just do it!”

  She twisted and wriggled furiously. It did no good. As one, they swung her up and over, her back scraping the railing. She cried out as they let go of her, and then she was plummeting down, smacking hard into the water.

  Cold—oh, Jesus Christ, cold!

  Her head went under, and she began to sink.

  Can’t breathe. Can’t swim.

  She tried to kick, but her legs felt leaden. Water poured up into her nose and down her throat, making her choke and gasp. Then, suddenly, her feet hit bottom; she pushed off, clawing upward through the icy water. Her head bumped against something, and she struck out wildly. Her hands touched the rubberized bag.

  She shoved frantically at the bag. It was heavy, unyielding. With flagging strength she scissor-kicked to one side.

  And then her head broke the surface. She gasped, spitting water, feeling the cold air’s bite in her throat and lungs.

  After a moment her panic receded, and she opened her eyes. She was in an air pocket inside the crumpled bag. Through a tear some six feet away, she could see the moonlit sky.

  Got to get out of here.

  She started to paddle toward the opening. Something bulky bobbed and nudged at her shoulder. She pushed it away. It nudged again, and she turned her head and looked . . .

  Into the dead, staring eyes and bloated face of Eldon Whitesides.

  TIMOTHY MCNEAR

  Timothy parked his car in front of the motel office, went inside, and asked for Neil Woodsman’s room number. The clerk, a heavyset woman whom he’d seen around town, said, “Number eleven,” and pointed at the far wing.

  Timothy thanked her and hurried out. For a moment he stood next to his car, breathing the crisp air. The night was star-shot, beautiful, with a brisk offshore breeze. A perfect evening in a horribly imperfect world.

  He put his hand on his pocket, felt the reassuring weight of the revolver. He’d never liked hunting, had only done it to please his father. He liked it even less now, but it was a necessity.

  A logging truck barreled past, going too fast for what the sign at the edge of town referred to as a “congested area.” Timothy watched its taillights flash as it swung into the switchback; then he turned and walked toward room eleven. Faint light shone around the window curtains. He paused briefly before he knocked.

  No response. He knocked again.

  Empty, despite the light.

  As he started to turn away from the door, a woman’s voice said behind him, “I’ve already checked, Mr. McNear. Your grandson isn’t here.”

  JESSIE DOMINGO

  McNear turned toward her, his face slack with shock. After a moment he said, “How did you find out?”

  “I ran an Internet search. Neil Woodsman doesn’t exist, but Shelby McNear worked for the same Australian company as Gregory Erickson. I guess when he heard Erickson was interested in harvesting water from the Perdido, he went to him and exchanged his leverage over you for a job.”

  “Yes. Shelby is our mysterious eyewitness.”

  “Why didn’t you recognize him, your own grandson?”

  “I only saw him at a distance until we were both on the podium the day the waterbag was shot. The beard, the accent. And he was only twelve when his father took him to Australia.”

  “What made you realize?”

  “The watch Curtis Hope found on the beach. It was my father’s, and I passed it on to Shelby before they left.” He paused, shaking his head. “I’ve been incredibly stupid. The witness couldn’t’ve been anyone but Shelby. He was there in the house that night twenty years ago—he’d gotten sick, so his father left him behind with me when he and Max went to San Francisco two nights before their sailing. I was committed to a speaking engagement in Sacramento the night before I was to bring him down to the ship, and I thought he was old enough to be left alone. I couldn’t have been more wrong.”

  McNear paused, shaking his head. If possible, he looked sadder than he had earlier at the Deluxe. “Tonight I talked with my son in Australia—the first time in all these years—and he said Shelby was working in North Carolina. That confirmed it.”

  “Your son—why were you estranged?” Jessie asked.

  “Because of a mistake I made long ago with a young girl.”

  “What kind of mistake?”

  “. . . Actually, it wasn’t a mistake at all. A criminal act. Attempted rape. Robert found out, and he already knew I’d been unfaithful to his mother. It was the last straw; he didn’t want his boys exposed to a person like me, so he moved halfway around the world.”

  This old gentleman, a rapist? It hardly seemed possible. But, then, molesters came in all guises. . . .

  “Don’t judge me,” McNear added. “I’ve already judged myself.”

  After a moment she said, “It’s not my business to judge you. You’re the one who has to live with it. You and the poor girl, whoever she was. Did your son turn your grandsons against you?”

  “Yes. The one time I wrote them, I received a return letter full of hate from Shelby.”

  “Let me ask you this: do you know who killed Mack Kudge?”

  McNear looked away.

  “You do know. Was it you?”

  “No, I only disposed of his body.”

  Now she understood his anguish. “We’d better find your grandson.”

  “Yes.”

  “And we shouldn’t go alone. Let’s see if we can find Joseph or Curtis.”

  JOSEPH OPENSHAW

  Before he and Curtis could reach the pier, the two men dropped their burden over the railing. The loud splash that followed brought an involuntary cry from Joseph’s throat, sent him into a headlong rush.

  Now he recognized Gregory Erickson and Neil Woodsman. And as soon as they saw him coming, they broke and fled, angling in the opposite direction across the pier.

  Curt yelled, “Cut them off!” and ran a flanking maneuver.

  The men kept running. Woodsman wasn’t looking where he was going, and he banged into the rail and staggered. Erickson swung his head from side to side in a panic, then veered off in another direction.

  Joseph measured the distance between himself and Woodsman, went up on the balls of his feet and launched his body through the air. His shoulder and grasping hands caught Woodsman at the knees and brought him down. Woodsman cried out as he hit the ground, then began to struggle. Joseph clung to h
im, looking up in time to see Erickson scrambling toward the ruins of the mill.

  “Let him go!” Joseph called to Curt. “Help me with this one!” Woodsman twisted, smacked Joseph in the head with his fist. The blow made him bite his tongue; then another smashing blow sent pain down his arm and into his fingers. He lost his grip on Woodsman, and the man began to scramble away. Joseph pushed up, staggered forward, got his arms tight around Woodsman’s waist and brought him down again. Then Curt was there, catching hold of the bastard’s arms and pinning him facedown.

  Joseph stood, wiping blood from his lip, grabbed Woodsman’s head by the hair and shook it. “What did you drop over the side? Was it Steph?”

  Woodsman made unintelligible sounds.

  “Damn you, was it Steph?”

  “. . . Yes . . .”

  “Jesus!” He let go of Woodsman’s hair, and ran down the pier, holding his shoulder, calling out to Steph. He leaned over the rail and peered frantically down at the water bag, yelled her name.

  No answer, and no motion other than the natural sloshing of the water.

  STEPH PACE

  Shuddering violently, she pushed Whitesides’s body away. The motion of the waves returned it. She gave it a harder shove, fighting off nausea, and began dog-paddling as fast as she could toward the opening in the bag.

  From above, she heard the sounds of running feet and shouting—a voice bellowing her name.

  Joseph!

  Her lungs were burning, and blood roared loud in her ears. Her limbs were starting to go numb. She couldn’t respond, just kept paddling. Whitesides’s corpse nudged at her feet.

  “Steph! Steph!”

  Close to the opening . . .

  The weight of the water was dragging her down.

  So close . . .

  Her breath came shorter.

  And then she was there. She reached up with leaden arms, tore at the bag’s ragged edges.

  “Steph! Oh, my God . . .”

  Joseph’s contorted face looked over the rail at her, and then he vaulted it and plunged into the water. He folded his long arms around her, pulled her close. He was warm, so warm. She pressed her face against the rough fabric of his parka as he yelled for help.

  Safe. Safe at last.

  TIMOTHY MCNEAR

  The Domingo girl drove Timothy’s car through the gates of the mill. “Look!” she said. “Lights, over by the pier.”

  Stationary headlight beams burned at the front of an old van. The one he’d seen earlier, parked at Joseph Openshaw’s place.

  The girl accelerated, and the car bumped over the rise and coasted down the other side, weaving among scattered debris. She slammed on the brakes and jumped out without shutting off the motor. Timothy followed.

  The side door of the van was open, and Stephanie Pace sat inside, wrapped in a gray blanket. Joseph Openshaw was leaning in to speak with her. Some distance away he saw Curtis Hope standing at the foot of the pier, arms folded across his chest as he guarded a figure that lay on the concrete.

  Timothy’s breath caught. He heard the girl make a startled exclamation, but he ignored her and kept going, eyes on the prone body trussed up with a heavy length of rope. The bound man turned his head at Timothy’s approach. Neil Woodsman.

  No, not Woodsman. His grandson Shelby. The look was there in his eyes: anger and, even in this situation, arrogance. At times he’d been a hateful, greedy little boy, and he had grown into a hateful, greedy man.

  This is what I risked everything for.

  Now Timothy felt his long-repressed anger surface. He stared at Shelby, and damned if the young bastard didn’t curl his lip in contempt.

  Timothy’s hand moved to his pocket, his fingers caressing the gun. He brought it out and leveled it at Shelby’s head.

  “What . . . ?” Curtis Hope said.

  “Mr. McNear!” the Domingo girl called.

  He paid no attention to them.

  The arrogance and contempt faded from Shelby’s face. Then something akin to a fog bank passed over it. His eyes showed fear. His lip quivered, and he strained at the rope, whimpering.

  Curtis Hope stepped forward.

  “Keep away,” Timothy told him.

  The Domingo girl came closer. “Mr. McNear . . .”

  “Stay back,” he ordered.

  “Grandfather,” Shelby said, a sob catching in his throat. “Please!”

  Timothy studied him dispassionately. Shelby’s tone and expression now resembled those of the twelve-year-old boy who had admitted to shooting Mack Kudge and begged for his help.

  A noise downstairs woke me up. I took the gun and went to look. There was a man on the patio. I only wanted to scare him; I didn’t know the gun was loaded. But then he came at me, and I pulled the trigger. Help me. Please!

  But Shelby had seen Timothy load the gun only days before. And Mack Kudge had been shot in the back.

  Shelby had been acting then, and he was acting now.

  “Please, Grandfather!”

  Two decades, and nothing’s changed, except for the worse.

  Timothy held the gun on Shelby a moment longer, then slowly lowered it. He couldn’t do it. It wasn’t in him to kill anyone, for any reason.

  “I’ve sacrificed enough for you,” he said. “The law can have you now.”

  Shelby closed his eyes.

  Timothy turned and walked away.

  Thursday, February 26

  JESSIE DOMINGO

  Jessie hugged Steph, then Joseph. Made the usual promises about keeping in touch: if you’re ever in New York . . . maybe I’ll get out here for a vacation . . . would really be nice to see you again . . . Then she turned, took the pilot’s hand, and stepped up into the small plane. Fitch, who had returned from Sacramento the previous morning, was already there, and he helped her find the ends of her seat belt.

  “Am I ever glad to be going home!” she said.

  “Me, too.”

  “Even if I’m probably out of a job.”

  “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. The foundation’s board will appoint an interim director until they can hire someone permanent, and ECC’s work’ll go forward as usual.”

  “Will it? I wonder. Eldon, for all his faults, was heart and soul of the operation. Besides, I’m not sure I want to stay on there.”

  His preflight checks made, the pilot started the engine and began taxiing. Jessie turned to the window to wave to Joseph and Steph, but they were already walking back to his van.

  Fitch said, “Well, what else would you do?”

  “I don’t know. My immediate plans are to sleep for a week, now that we don’t have to worry about waterbaggers.”

  “Temporarily, you mean. An Alaskan water-harvesting firm is snooping around up in Humboldt County. This is an issue that’s not going to go away until it’s resolved by the courts.”

  “Well, you’re the man to do that.”

  Fitch smiled. “Jess, I’ve been thinking . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve learned a lot from you during our time out here. We make a good team. I’ve expanded my practice; I could use a good researcher and client contact person.”

  The offer surprised her. Pleased her, too. “I might consider that.”

  “Client contact is an area where I really need help. As you once pointed out, my personality—”

  “Could use some work. But nobody’s perfect.”

  And nobody needs to be perfect. That’s what I’ve learned out here. Even Casey isn’t perfect—I just don’t see her flaws. I’m going to start being me now, rather than trying to be somebody else.

  Fitch said, “I’m glad to hear you say so.”

  “What?”

  “That nobody’s perfect. Anyway, we’ll have the whole flight to New York to compare our flaws and make some plans.”

  “Yeah—with you in business class and me in coach.”

  “Oh, I meant to tell you: I had some extra frequent flyer miles, so I upgraded your ticket. Onl
y the best for my prospective employee.”

  JOSEPH OPENSHAW

  Coffee,” Joseph said to Steph. “No, a beer. To celebrate the demise of the waterbaggers.”

  She went behind the bar, got two IPAs, and returned to the booth where he was sitting. “Don’t say ‘demise.’ I’ve been having nightmares about Eldon Whitesides’s corpse.”

  He shook his head. “Not a pretty image. Jesus, what a place to dispose of a body.”

  “Gives a whole new meaning to burial at sea. But I don’t want to talk about that, not till they bring Erickson and Woodsman—McNear, I mean—to trial.”

  “Deal.” Joseph toasted her.

  Steph stared moodily around the bar area. Her eyes were deeply shadowed, her face gaunt. It would take a while for her to mend, and Joseph wanted to be part of her healing process.

  “What’re you thinking about?” he asked.

  “Another month of winter vegetables.”

  “Profound.”

  “Very.” She hesitated. “Actually, I was thinking how sick I am of the Blue Moon. And Cape Perdido. And Soledad County.”

  “Remember how we used to talk about leaving?”

  “I do.”

  “Denver, Chicago, New York—Europe, even. We could still do that.”

  “We could.”

  “No reason I couldn’t continue with my pro-environmental work in another place, or another country. But my first order of business is in Sacramento.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “To find out who embezzled that hundred and fifty thousand from the Coalition. Clear my name, so to speak. Now that I’ve returned McNear’s three thousand to him, I feel the need to set the rest right.”

  Steph’s eyes narrowed, and her mouth pulled down.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Don’t you think there’s another order of business that’s more important?”

  Now, where was this sudden anger coming from? He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “Don’t you think it’s time you set it right with us?”