by Jeramy Gates
Val couldn’t help but smile. There was something about Riley; something about his meekness, his humility, that made him seem not only harmless but also helpless. She wanted to protect him. To help him. She wanted to muss up his hair and un-tuck his shirt.
“All right,” she said.
“Perfect. Just give me one second.”
Riley circled around the ambulance and approached a young woman standing next to a sedan at the side of the road. He pointed at Val. Valkyrie noticed the woman’s gaze lingering on her. Riley said something to the woman and then hurried back. As he reached her side, Val noticed that the woman was still staring at her.
“Your girlfriend?” she said as they walked over to the Packard. Riley opened the door for her.
“Jackie? No, she’s my assistant editor. She’s the one who pretty much holds things together.” He closed the door, walked around the front of the car, and settled into the driver’s seat. His eyes lit up and he let out a low whistle as he ran a finger across the burl wood dash and the brass gauges. “They don’t make ‘em like this anymore. Where’s the starter button? On the floorboard?”
“No, it’s there on the dash.” Riley pressed it, but nothing happened.
“I’ll have to do that for you,” Val said, reaching over. She pressed the button and the engine rumbled. Noticing Riley’s confused frown, she explained: “It has a fingerprint sensor. Nobody can start this car but me. Unless I bypass the sensor, of course.”
“I take it back,” Riley said. “They never made them like this. Was that your husband’s idea?”
“That and a few other updates,” she said. “He loved this car. I think he wanted it to be a spy car. You know, like James Bond.”
“Sounds like a cool guy.” Riley put the car into drive and slowly began weaving his way through the crowd.
“He was. When we bought our farm ten years ago, we found this car in the barn. Tom worked on it for two years. He replaced all the rusted metal, rebuilt the engine… he even put new axles on it. He used to tinker on it all night long. I’d have to yell at him to get to bed, just like a child. After he died, I got rid of everything else, but I just couldn’t bring myself to sell this car.”
“Good call. But if you do ever decide to sell it…” Riley said with a grin.
“I’ll keep you in mind,” Val sighed.
The sun had already set by the time they reached the coast. Riley took his time navigating down the narrow, winding Highway 1 to Bodega Bay. It took over an hour to get back to the hotel, a good twenty minutes longer than it had taken Valkyrie to make the same drive earlier. When they arrived, Val invited Riley up to her room. When she saw the nervous look on his face she said, “You do still owe me dinner tonight, remember?”
“Oh, right!” he said, obviously relieved.
Val tried to conceal her amused smile. Back in the room, she invited Riley to watch TV while she showered.
“I’ll just be a few minutes,” she said.
He settled onto the couch with the remote. Val rested her cane against the dresser and tossed her jacket onto the bed, revealing her 1911 and shoulder holster. Riley glanced at it, but didn’t say a word. It was, after all, completely normal for a federal agent to carry a firearm.
Val laid the gun -still in the holster- on the nightstand, and then slipped out of her blouse and slacks. She examined them for bloodstains and decided they’d have to be steam-cleaned. She glanced at Riley and he jerked his gaze away so fast he must have sprained his neck.
“Never seen a grownup woman in her underwear?” she teased.
“Of course I have,” he mumbled. “I’ve got broadband.”
Val laughed as she headed for the shower.
After Val had cleaned up and changed into some fresh clothes, they strolled down the boardwalk together, making their way towards the High Tides restaurant. It was a cool but clear night, and the lights of the restaurant lit up the harbor. The sound of voices drifted out over the water, and the smell of fresh seafood enveloped them. Even before they got inside, Val could see the place was packed.
“Let’s have a drink at the bar first,” she said. “After today, I need something to take the edge off.”
Riley happily agreed. He hadn’t witnessed the accident, but he’d seen the aftermath. The couple settled into a corner at the end of the bar where they could talk. Riley ordered a rum and coke, Valkyrie a martini. He watched her take a sip of the drink, and then another.
“Are you okay?”
Valkyrie stared into her drink. “Better than I expected, to be honest.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know. A man died in my arms today. There wasn’t anything I could do for him. I tried to make him comfortable. I told him it would be okay, and then… then he died.”
“I’m sorry. You must remember that it wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could to prevent this from happening.”
“Maybe, but deep down inside I know I failed him. I failed all of those people, and half a dozen others. The bodies keep piling up. The strange thing is, even though I feel sorry for him, I just don’t… I don’t really feel it. I should want to cry, but I don’t. It’s hard to explain.”
“In your line of work, you see terrible things. Over time, that can change how you feel. You can become jaded.”
Valkyrie took another drink and leaned back. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s it. I’m just jaded. But when I think about him, when I see him staring at me, and the light going out in his eyes, all I can think about is… How peaceful he looked.”
“I don’t think that’s unnatural,” said Riley. “Who wouldn’t have a conflicted reaction to something like that?”
Valkyrie put her hand on his and gave it a squeeze. “You’re a good man, Riley. I don’t know why, but I feel comfortable talking to you. I feel like I can trust you.”
“Of course you can.”
She stared into his eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth of her drink oozing through her limbs. She fought the urge to reach out and unbutton the top button of his shirt. Valkyrie took another drink.
“Let’s talk about something else,” she said.
After that, they kept their conversation to lighter subject matter: schools they’d attended, films and novels they enjoyed, and so on. The conversation took frequent turns, but at every stop, Val became more convinced that the two of them had absolutely nothing in common.
Riley liked documentaries and foreign films, both of which put Valkyrie to sleep every time, without fail. The reporter liked to read nonfiction and classical mythology, while Val enjoyed a well-plotted mystery, or occasionally, a good romance. Riley had studied journalism all his life and dreamed of moving to San Francisco or New York, where he would work for a big time publication and win a Pulitzer. Valkyrie on the other hand, would have hated fame, and she only went to big cities when she had to.
After forty-five minutes and several drinks, they finally took a table. The host seated them on the west side of the restaurant, next to the water. A row of tall windows stretched out along the wall, offering a spectacular view of the entire bay. The lights were low in the dining area, and a single red candle burned on every table. Val soaked in the romantic ambiance as she scanned the menu.
“It smells heavenly in here,” she said. “This place is fantastic. What’s good?”
“It depends on what you like, I suppose. They have some of the best clam chowder you’ll find anywhere. The salmon is always fresh and the seafood pasta has scallops, which is a rare treat these days.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever had scallops,” Val said. “I’m afraid this Midwestern girl knows more about steak and potatoes than seafood. Why don’t you choose for me?”
When the waiter returned, Riley ordered two plates of seafood pasta with salad, appetizers, and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. Their waiter was a middle-aged man, balding, well dressed, and flamboyant. Something in his body language made Valkyrie wonder if it was all an act.
“Is he gay?” she said quietly after the man had left the table.
“Obviously,” said Riley.
“He didn’t look at you twice.”
“What?”
“Think about it. You’re not a bad looking guy. You dress well. You’re not married. Shouldn’t he have looked to see if you were wearing a ring at least?”
“Maybe he’s married, or attached already.”
“Maybe. Do you suppose that a straight man might get more tips by pretending to be gay?”
“Are you serious?”
“Why not? I mean, it might not fly in Idaho, but California…”
“Are you saying that you think our waiter is a straight guy pretending to be gay?”
“I don’t know… why don’t we ask him?”
Riley glanced nervously around to see if anyone else had been listening in on their conversation. His face turned bright red and he looked like he might have a heart attack. Val burst out laughing. “Sorry Riley, I’m just having fun with you. I wouldn’t embarrass the poor man that way.”
“I hope not! Imagine if you were right about him!”
“I wasn’t talking about him,” she said with a sly grin.
The wine came first, followed by salads. By the time their main course arrived, the bottle was empty and Riley ordered a second. By then, he was definitely more relaxed, and Val was feeling warm and tingly. She wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol, or just the effect of watching Riley loosen up, which was quite entertaining.
Halfway through their dinner, he glanced at her and Valkyrie realized she’d been staring at him.
“What?” he said. “Never seen a reporter stuff his face before?”
Val laughed. “Now that you mention it, no, I haven’t.”
“Seriously, why were you looking at me like that?”
“Just trying to figure out who you are,” she said, taking a sip of wine. He cocked an eyebrow.
“Bond, James Bond. Didn’t you get the memo, Moneypenny?”
“Moneypenny? I’m not the secretary type. Can I be the villain?”
“I suppose we could arrange that. But we’d have to come up with a new name for you. Some sort of crude double entendre. I believe that’s how it works.”
“We’ll have to work on that,” said Val. “I have a few ideas. You’re quite a different person when you relax, you know that?”
Riley stiffened a little, suddenly self-conscious.
“Oh, stop that,” she said. “You know, if you grew your hair a bit longer and got an earring, you’d be kind of sexy.”
Riley’s face reddened and Val couldn’t hold back her laughter. “An earring?” he said. “Now you’ve got to be kidding.”
“C’est la vie. I bet Jackie would like it.” His face reddened further, if that was possible, and Val decided it was time to give up her game. She was making him uncomfortable. It was cute, but cruel.
Just in time, the waiter showed up. Val offered to split the check, but Riley wouldn’t hear of it. He paid with a credit card. They finished off the bottle and, at eleven p.m., left the restaurant together.
The couple strolled casually back up the boardwalk, walking silently, enjoying the frosty autumn air and the smell of burning firewood. For the first time since her arrival, Valkyrie understood the charm of the Sequoia coast. It wasn’t the cool northern Pacific, with its long foggy nights and rugged cliff lines. It wasn’t the rolling vine-covered hills or the damp, dark redwood forests. It was all those things. It was the overwhelming simple, natural beauty of the place; something she had been too preoccupied to observe before.
They paused outside her door while Valkyrie fished the key card out of her pocket. Riley cleared his throat.
“I suppose I should have called a cab,” he said, somewhat uncomfortably. “All that wine went to my head. I’m not thinking very straight.”
“Good,” said Valkyrie, pushing the door open. She caught him by the collar and dragged him across the threshold. “I don’t want you thinking too much tonight.”
“I don’t know,” he stammered nervously. “I shouldn’t-”
“You shouldn’t be talking. Listen to me Riley: Do you want to die a virgin?”
“No.”
“Then shut up.” She pushed the door shut, and turned up the fireplace.
Chapter 11
Madeline Thatcher -Maddie to her friends- was a woman reborn. She was seventy years young and she was more vital, energetic, and positive than ever before in her life. She credited it all to yoga.
Every morning before breakfast, Maddie rose with the sun to stretch her limbs on the living room carpet. Sometimes, she could hear Frank snoring down the hall, but she was good at tuning out the noise. She had to be. She had been sleeping in the same bed with the man for forty-seven years.
Maddie always began her routine with the cobra stretch, lying prone on the floor, gently extending arms while bending her spine into a smooth reverse arc. At first, this exercise had been ungodly painful, but Maddie was persistent. After making up her mind to take up yoga, she had practiced every single day -even on weekends- until the muscles in her lower back finally relaxed and the tense pain graduated into a series of pops and cracking noises. Eventually, most of those went away, too.
After three months, Maddie had mastered all the basic yoga stretches. She had also lost seven pounds and improved her general health dramatically. Or so she claimed. According to Frank, it was all in her head. Not that he’d been there when she stood on the scale. Maddie didn’t mind. Yoga wasn’t for Frank. His therapy was fishing, which he had been doing at least three times a week since he retired.
Frank was three years younger than Maddie, and had just finished his first year of retirement from the small independent airline where he’d worked for most of his career. Maddie had been a marine biologist, and between the two of them, they were doing quite nicely in retirement. They now lived full-time in their beach home, a ranch house located at the back of a large isolated piece of property south of Jenner, overlooking the Pacific.
It was a quiet, secluded life. The kids came to visit on holidays, along with the grandchildren of course, but otherwise Maddie and Frank had grown accustomed to spending long periods of time without any company. Frank spent as much of that time as he could on the fishing boat. When he couldn’t be on the water, he was usually in the woodworking shop or watching TV.
Besides yoga, Maddie filled her time with gardening. This was no small feat on the cool Sequoia coast. The ground was barren and dry, the weather cold and foggy, and a gale came blowing in off the water almost every single day of the year. These challenges had inspired Maddie to put in a greenhouse, with Frank’s help, of course. It had worked out better than expected. It was October now, and she still had heirloom tomatoes on the vine and a pumpkin the size of a basketball. All things considered, she was doing very well.
It was four p.m. when the motor home came barreling up the drive, weaving erratically across the dirt lane, kicking up a tail of dust that rose on the wind and vanished seconds later. Maddie was in the greenhouse at the time. She had gone out to check on the tomatoes after her lunch with Frank, while he went to change the oil in the Mercedes. Maddie had ended up staying in the greenhouse for two more hours, curled up on the hardwood bench with a book. It was a nice sunny day on the coast, and with the greenhouse shielding her from the wind, it was downright tropical.
Maddie heard the distant scream of the diesel and leaned around the door to see what was going on. She was a sensible woman, and when she saw the RV plowing its way across the property, Maddie instantly knew something was wrong. She hurried into the house and found that Frank had finished the oil change and climbed into the shower to clean up.
“Hello, sexy,” he said as she pulled open the frosted glass door. Steam came billowing out, and Frank stepped closer, grinning, displaying his paunch.
“Frank, get out of there. Somebody’s here!”
He frowned, but didn’t argue. There wa
s something about the look on her face, perhaps the slight tremble in her voice that told him she was serious. Frank turned off the water and Maddie handed him his bathrobe.
“Out front,” she said, pointing through the bedroom window. Frank peered around the corner just in time to see the RV fly by the front of the house. A trail of dust followed it across the property to the barn, where it parked. A tall, dark-haired man in a leather jacket jumped out and began fussing with the garage doors.
“Open the safe,” Frank said.
He yanked open the closet and tossed a few blankets aside as he dug out his old Mossberg 12 gauge shotgun. It was his only firearm, used on those rare duck hunting trips to Mendocino County. Frank hadn’t cleaned it -hadn’t even had it out of the case- in years, but the blued steel was clean and oily as new. By the time Frank had his gun out of the plastic case, Maddie had pulled the box of shells out of the safe. Frank began pumping shells into the tube.
“Stay here, and keep quiet,” he ordered. “If you can get a signal, call 911.”
He charged down the hall and out the front door without a backward glance. Maddie hurried into the living room and located her cell phone on the table by the sofa. She glanced at the screen. Zero bars. That wasn’t unusual. The location of their house was such that, when the weather was clear, they might get one bar of reception at best.
The couple hadn’t bothered installing landlines when they built the house. The expense would have been considerable, and on the day they made the decision, it was bright and sunny and their cell phones were working just fine. It wasn’t until they had lived in the house for weeks that they understood the mistake they’d made. By then, the contractor was asking an entirely different price for the upgrade, and Frank had told him where he could stick it.
On those occasions when Maddie expected a call, she would often take a hike up to the top of the hill. The reception there was better, and the view wasn’t bad, either. She’d been trying to convince Frank to build a gazebo up there for two years. So far, he wasn’t biting.
