“Let’s see what we can do something about that. Tell me more about you and Alex.”
“I’d given her an engagement ring before I went TDY to Aviano.”
“TDY?”
“Temporary Duty. But after Aviano, I was PCS’d directly to Spangdahlem Air Base in Germany.”
“What did you tell Alex?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I never saw her again. Never contacted her after Aviano. We traded a couple of letters when I first got over there, but after that, well . . .”
“You didn’t go back to the states after Aviano?”
“No. Like I said, I went directly to Germany. It’s not like I had a household or family to pack up and move.”
“Did she try to contact you?”
“She sent a few letters to me when I was in Aviano. I just ignored them. Never even bothered to open them. After I got to Germany, I never heard from her again.”
“So she didn’t even know where you went?”
“Probably not.”
Doughboy’s eyes narrowed; he remained silent.
“I know. I was a jerk. I honestly feel bad about that now. She was a good woman. Of all those I . . . met,”—he’d thought about saying “bedded,” but passed—“she was far and away the best. Intelligent, funny, honest, and a looker.” He paused. “Hey, doc, is there something else going on here? Is it just that maybe you never get over the first one? Or perhaps there’s some sort of nostalgia for the ‘Camelot of youth’?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I’d somehow like to atone for what I did to her. Maybe just say ‘I’m sorry’ if nothing else.” He looked down at his hands, which he had clasped tightly together in his lap. “I guess I’d like to know, too, that she’s okay. That she got on with her life and that I didn’t leave her with permanent emotional scars.” He looked up at the counselor. “Here’s the thing, doc. I was a shithead for what I did to Alex, forcing her to walk the plank without even a life preserver, but I feel like I’m the one who’s drowning now.”
Doughboy leaned forward and stared through his owlish spectacles directly at Shack. He spoke softly and deliberately. “Sometimes we can’t patch up the present until we patch up the past.”
Shack blinked. The guy had actually said something that made sense, given him a direction that might lead to a way out of the guilt-infested jungle in which he’d been wandering.
THUS HAD BEEN born the notion of contacting Alex, not to “reignite the fire,” too much time had flowed through their lives for that, but to apologize for his egotistical, self-serving behavior. He genuinely wished to atone for his actions, for sneaking out of her life, their life, like a thief in the night. He owed her that much. But he owed it to himself, too. He needed salve for his own soul.
He understood his Google search could be in vain. He knew Alex only by her maiden name, Williamson, and she undoubtedly had married since then. A woman like her wouldn’t have remained single, she had too much going for her. When they’d met, she’d been a newly minted attorney just out of William and Mary. She worked at a small law firm in Hampton, Virginia, home to the headquarters of Air Combat Command at Langley Air Force Base where he’d been stationed.
Besides being smart, Alex had been physically attractive, statuesque in a word. She didn’t flaunt her beauty, though; she didn’t have to. She had the same allure for men that Shack did for women. So perhaps their union had been preordained. They’d met at a Friday night “happy hour” at the officers’ club. Two weeks later they became lovers. To call their affair steamy would have been like calling an F-15 fast. The first night, they “did it” four times.
“Jesus, Shack,” Alex had said after the third time, “what were they serving at the bar tonight, testosterone on the rocks?”
“No. All I needed was you.”
Shack looked away from his computer and stared out the window of his den into a late afternoon cloudburst drenching the Atlanta landscape. He could still smell Alex’s perfume, Fendi, after all these years—notes of rose and orange sprinkled with pepper.
How difficult, he wondered, after a quarter of a century, would it be to track her down? He fully understood he might have to hire a private investigator. Most of the “people finder” websites, so widely advertised on the Internet, searched only through databases of public records that might or might not be up to date. Assuming she now went by a married name, a search of such databases might be useless. He harbored his doubts.
Anyway, why not start with Google and go from there? He hovered his index finger over the enter key.
“Okay, Alex. Here I come.” He hit the key.
“Wow,” he whispered as Google’s search engine filled the screen with candidates.
Over a dozen entries for Alexis T. Williamson popped up. Maybe not the right lady.
He clicked on the first entry. A website appeared. Alexis T. Williamson, Attorney-at-Law. The site featured a photograph of Ms. Williamson. Shack stared at it, but not for long. There was no mistaking who it was: Alex. A little older. A bit fuller in the face. Raven hair streaked with silver. And a smile that still turbocharged his heart rate. After twenty-five years she remained stunning.
“Wow,” he whispered again.
He couldn’t believe his good fortune. He’d found her with almost no effort. No people-finder sites, no private detectives. He figured she would be located somewhere nearby, that is, in the Southeast or Mid-Atlantic states. After all, she’d grown up in Richmond and attended the University of Virginia as an undergrad before entering William and Mary. Surely she wouldn’t have strayed far from her roots. Perhaps she’d remained in the Hampton Roads area.
He scrolled through the site, searching for an address, at least her business address. He found it quickly.
“Oregon?” he exclaimed. She couldn’t have wandered farther from her roots. But there it was, someplace called Manzanita where she specialized in family law, estate planning, real estate transactions, and environmental issues. Environmental? Well, yes. In Oregon, what else?
He Googled Manzanita, found it to be a tiny town, population about seven hundred, on the north Oregon coast, roughly sixty miles west of Portland as the crow flies. Or maybe as the Seahawk flies, he wasn’t sure of the standard out there.
And her name? That surprised him more than anything. Why still her maiden name? Had she never married? Impossible. Perhaps she’d divorced and reverted to her maiden name. Or, more likely, she’d merely retained her birth name as her business appellation. People in the entertainment and television industries did that all the time, he knew, for “branding” purposes. If she’d established a solid reputation as a lawyer under Alexis Williamson, she’d have wanted to keep that.
She had phone numbers listed, but Shack had already made a decision not to make his apology by telephone. It would be too easy for her to dismiss him by just hanging up. He wanted a chance to express his regrets , explain his actions, if that were possible, in person. A least a face-to-face encounter would afford him the opportunity to get his foot in the door, literally, if he had to. He understood Alex might be less than thrilled to see him again, but all he wanted were a few moments to get the words “I’m sorry” out of his mouth. If that came at the expense of a crushed foot, so be it.
Invigorated by his easy discovery of Alex, Shack jumped into trip-planning mode. First, he called up the Delta Air Lines website on his computer and discovered there were more than three dozen flights a day from Atlanta to Portland, Oregon, the nearest major city to Manzanita. Only four were nonstoppers, however, which is what he wanted. He missed flying as a pilot, but hated flying as a passenger. He trusted no one in a cockpit other than himself. The less time spent airborne in sardine class, the better.
Next, he’d need a place to stay. He typed in “motels,
Manzanita” on Google and discovered the town had four. “Four?” he muttered. “The place must be a vacation mecca.” Finally, he thought about when to go. Over the Fourth of July holiday? Yeah, that might work. Maybe they’ll have a spectacular sparkler display on the beach. He decided he’d best arrive a few days prior to the Fourth to make certain Alex’s office would be open. But that could be a problem, couldn’t it? What if she’s on vacation or something?
Easy enough to find out. He went to her website, scrolled down to her contact information, and punched in her office number on his cell. Almost immediately, he realized the mistake he’d made, almost made, and disconnected the call. “Shit,” he said. He’d forgotten about caller ID.
So back to the Internet, fount of all knowledge. He discovered that by hitting *67 followed by the number to be called, your name and phone number would not appear on the callee’s phone.
He punched in Alex’s number again, this time with his ID blocked. She answered on the third ring.
“This is Alexis Williamson,” she said. Apparently in a burg as small as Manzanita, attorneys answered their own phones, no assistants or paralegals required.
Shack shook his head. West Bumfuck, the end of the continent. “Attorney Alexis Williamson?” Shack asked, a potential client wanting to make certain he had the right individual. He forced himself to speak more softly than usual and enunciated his words with great clarity, not wanting to give Alex a chance, as small as it might be, to recognize his voice as belonging to someone out of her misty, and perhaps not fondly remembered, past.
“Yes,” she said, “I’m an attorney at law. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
If you knew, it might not be a pleasure. “My name is Roger Davenport. I’m calling from Atlanta, Georgia.” Better to be truthful here, he’d decided. An area code could always be linked to a geographical region.
“How may I be of service, Mr. Davenport?”
His heart thumping, he listened closely to her voice. She’d lost virtually any hint of the Southern lilt she’d carried when he knew her. Then again, it never had been deeply ingrained in her speech.
“A friend of mine recommended you,” he said, “well, sort of. He remembered doing some work with an Alexis Williamson many years ago at a small law office in Norfolk, Virginia, I think it was.”
“Oh?” She paused as though taken aback.
He swallowed hard. Had he overplayed his hand?
“That was a long time ago and it was in Hampton, Virginia. What’s your friend’s name?”
He answered her question, one he’d prepared for, with a made-up name. “Dan Ortino.”
“Umm, I don’t remember anyone by that name.”
“Well, like you said, it was a long time ago. But he must have been impressed by your work. When I mentioned to him I was thinking of contacting an Alexis Williamson in Oregon who did real estate work, that’s when he told me he’d done business with someone by that name way back when, and if you were the same Ms. Williamson, I couldn’t go wrong.”
“I didn’t handle real estate cases in Virginia.”
I know. “He never said what type of work it was, just that you were good.”
“How nice he remembered after all these years. At any rate, what can I do for you, Mr. Davenport?”
“I’m considering buying some property in Manzanita, and wanted to get some legal advice relative to that.”
“I see. Are you interested in making an appointment, or were you thinking of a phone consultation?”
“I’ll be in Manzanita in early July. I was hoping you might be available to meet with me then.”
She was. Shack scheduled an appointment with her for July first at two p.m.
“Thank you, Ms. Williamson,” he said as they concluded their conversation. “I look forward to seeing you.”
“Yes.” She paused. “You said you were from Georgia?”
“Yes, Atlanta. Although I grew up in Florida and then moved around a lot after that.”
“Ever been to Tidewater, Virginia?”
Shit. With a ballpoint pen he tapped out a furious, nervous staccato on his desk. Was she onto him? “No,” he lied. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing.” She laughed lightly, dismissing her question. “Your voice vaguely reminded me of someone.”
“Really?” He almost choked on the word, his heart rate suddenly in afterburner.
“Well, not so much your voice as the cadence of your words. At any rate, it’s not important, Mr. Davenport. You’re on my calendar for July first.”
They hung up. He’d been barely able to say goodbye as he fought to control his breathing. She’d always been sharp, and she’d obviously picked up on the fact that his speech had a distinct beat: an occasional brief pause in the middle of a sentence as though he’d reached a period, something hard to disguise. Now he wondered who would spring a surprise on whom.
No matter. He’d committed himself to reaching out to Alex and would follow through. So he proceeded with his preparations. The next step, he figured, would be a snap. Securing a place to stay in what he deemed “Hooterville.” Only it turned out not to be a snap. The first three motels he called were fully booked through the first week of July. So was the next one.
“What in the heck is going on out there. Is there some kind of convention in town?” he asked at the end of his fourth call, though he couldn’t really imagine such a thing in a hamlet that had fewer residents than the subdivision he lived in.
“It’s the Fourth of July, sir, it’s always packed then,” the reservationist answered. She seemed a pleasant enough woman, but she’d answered the phone with “It’s a beautiful day on the Oregon coast” even though he’d heard on The Weather Channel that gale warnings had been posted. It made him question her veracity. But maybe Oregonians loved storms.
“How about vacancies in nearby towns?” he asked.
“It’s the same all up and down the coast. The Fourth is a big deal.”
He thought about changing his meeting with Alex, but now that he had the appointment, he decided to press on.
“Do you have a wait list, you know, in case somebody cancels?”
“We do, but it’s pretty long already. Your best bet might be to try to find a rental home. There may be a few of those available.”
He agreed and she gave him the phone numbers of several agencies that handled vacation rentals. Within twenty minutes he’d secured “a cute condo that sleeps two and is just a short walk to the beach.” He didn’t care about that, but he did care that he’d have to shell out for a minimum stay of a week even though he’d planned on being there only three days. Total tally: over a thousand bucks. The price of penance, he figured. If he had to spend a week in Hooterville, he’d spend a week in Hooterville.
Next, he booked a flight to Portland, leaving June twenty-eighth, returning July fifth; economy comfort so he’d have a bit of extra legroom and not have to travel straitjacketed into an upright bed of nails.
Finally, he reserved a rental car. He was told it would be about an hour-and-a-half drive from Portland International Airport to Manzanita.
Finished, he brought up Alex’s website again and stared at her photograph. He stood and walked to the window. The rain had ceased, but the trees and bushes still ran with water, dripping from leaves like spring tears. He returned to his computer and looked once more at Alex’s photo.
“Why Oregon?” he asked aloud, as though her image might respond.
Chapter Five
Neahkahnie Mountain
Neahkahnie Mountain
Near Manzanita, Oregon
Monday, June 8
JONATHAN RAYMOND strode along a hiking trail on the south side of Neahkahnie Mountain, just north of Manzanita. He moved somewhat slower than usual, stepping around or kick
ing out of the way twigs and branches, debris from Friday’s late-season storm. Ahead of him, Zurich, a great bear of a dog, led the way.
Zurry, as Jonathan called him, looked back frequently, making sure his master remained close. Zurry’s tri-colored coat—black, white, and rust—glistened in the bright spring sun. They had reached the steepest part of the trail and climbed steadily now, Jonathan beginning to sweat. The smell of damp earth and coastal wildflowers filled the air.
At just under seventeen hundred feet, Neahkahnie didn’t qualify as a big mountain, but it appeared imposing, rising as it did from sea level less than a half mile away. It didn’t offer a challenging hike, but in spots the trail inclined sharply. Near the summit, to reach the absolute top of Neahkahnie, one had to scramble hand over foot up a pile of boulders. But in clear weather, such as today, Jonathan knew those who reached the pinnacle would be rewarded by a breathtaking view south from Manzanita all the way to Tillamook Bay.
He had traversed the trail numerous times, searching, as had thousands before him, for alleged buried treasure, the Lost Treasure of Neahkahnie Mountain—that probably didn’t exist except as legend. He knew that, but at age seventy-five the hunt filled his days and offered Zurry vigorous and necessary workouts.
The trail proved firm and hard-packed where the sun had warmed it, but muddy and slippery where it had remained in the shadow of the spruce and fir that crowded Neahkahnie’s slopes. Beneath the evergreens, wild lilies of the valley and giant trilliums offered a peaceful counterpoint to the often windswept forest. No wonder, Jonathan mused, coastal Indians had considered the mountain “the place of supreme deity.”
He’d been probing for the “lost” treasure for over a decade, but had never come across anything of interest. Nor, apparently, had anyone else, despite a few rumors to the contrary. Unregulated excavation had been prohibited after searchers, along with loggers, had come close to denuding the mountain in the mid-20th Century. Still, in the wake of big storms, such as the one of a few days ago, new avenues of exploration sometimes opened near uprooted trees.
Cascadia Page 5
