He’d been one of seven kids growing up in a tin-roof shotgun shack in the piney woods of Georgia where his father had carved out a tiny subsistence peanut farm. Jonathan, his siblings, and his pop had labored from before sunup to after sunset day after miserable day in an attempt to make ends meet. But they never did.
Schooling—segregated, of course—in a run-down, three-room, termite-riddled building had been hit and miss. Mostly “miss” because of the vast amount of time spent working the fields.
As soon as Jonathan had turned seventeen, he’d hightailed it to Macon and joined the military. “Best decision I ever made,” he said to Zurry, who cocked his head at him. “That’s how I got here. Ended up at Fort Lewis and fell in love with the Northwest. Of course, being a black man here I was really a fish out of water, but folks pretty much let me be.”
He knelt in front of Zurry. “I know we live in kind of a dump, but maybe I can remedy that someday.” He stood and moved his gaze blankly over the landscape. He knew it would come back to him, but for the moment, the reason for his being here, on this beach, had abandoned him. Buying time in an attempt to get refocused, he found a piece of driftwood among the scattered tangles of seaweed and orphaned sand dollars that dotted the water’s edge. He picked up the stick and hurled it. “Get it,” he yelled, and Zurry was off like a great, furry whippet.
He trotted back with the quarry in his mouth. He dropped it at Jonathan’s feet. Jonathan stared at it, a smooth, bone-white piece of wood. He looked at the residences lining the edge of the beach. The legend came back to him. A treasure chest. A black man buried with it. Only a skeleton now.
“We’ll get started tomorrow, Zurry. Off to the land of Oz.” He picked up the stick and tossed it again. “Get it, boy!”
HE AND ZURRY spent the next week in a futile search for the buried chest. Jonathan’s initial approach took him up and down South Hemlock Street, the main drag running south from the center of boutiquey Cannon Beach. He fully understood he’d likely embarked on a fool’s errand. That if there were treasure buried in the vicinity, it was a good bet it might now rest beneath a road, the foundation of a home, or a parking lot.
After he’d explored South Hemlock to no avail, he ventured into side streets, trying to appear casual as he swung his two-box, pro-style metal detector back and forth along the shoulders of the roads. He’d set the discriminator and sensitivity of the detector at optimum levels in hopes of locating caches well below the surface, while at the same time eliminating pings on such things as tin cans, construction nails, and scrap metal.
Over an old Marine fatigue cap, he wore expensive, padded headphones to be better able to concentrate on the few returns his detector broadcast. The headphones blocked ambient noise and allowed him to hear the often whispery signals returned from objects far below the surface.
On his back he’d strapped a long-handled digger—a T-handled, serrated shovel over a yard in length—and a small pack. The pack held a short-handled digger by Lesche that was basically a specialized trowel, a few energy bars, and water for both him and Zurry. Zurry strolled beside him, occasionally nudging Jonathan’s hip to warn of approaching automobiles.
Jonathan, wishing to avoid the appearance of trespassing, found it virtually impossible to explore the yards of the homes and cabins that fronted the streets. Once in a great while, however, if he was certain nobody was around, he’d step off the road and make a couple of quick passes with the metal detector over someone’s front yard. He never got any hits.
On Saturday, a Cannon Beach police vehicle, a sporty-looking white SUV with a black brush guard over its front grill, pulled up beside Jonathan.
The officer driving the SUV didn’t get out. He merely rolled down his window. “How’s hunting?”
Jonathan pulled off his headphones. “Pardon?”
“Are you finding anything?”
“Junk.”
“Looking for anything specific?”
“Just targets of opportunity.” Jonathan knew a local resident, or residents, had probably called 911. Not surprising. Here he was, a black man wandering the streets of a white neighborhood with homes running upward to a million bucks. Cause for wariness.
The officer nodded at the metal detector. “Pretty fancy rig for street work. Mainly see those on the beach.”
“I’ve done a lot of exploring on Neahkahnie Mountain.”
Zurry padded over to the SUV and stuck his head through the open window. The cop petted him. “Magnificent animal.”
“His name’s Zurry.”
“He accompanies you when you’re on Neahkahnie?”
“He does.”
The cop, a youngish man with a square jaw and a buzz cut studied Jonathan and Zurry for a moment. A glint of recognition flickered in his eyes. “You’re the guy they call Neahkahnie Johnny?”
Jonathan nodded.
The officer gestured at the surrounding homes. “Just some nervous neighbors, you understand.”
“I’m familiar with the drill.”
“Sorry. Anyhow, are you really hunting for targets of opportunity or something else?” The cop furrowed his brow. Circumspection.
Jonathan shrugged. “Let’s just say there might be a little more to the old legend than first thought.”
The officer smiled. “Well, you’d better keep that to yourself or this place will be overrun with treasure hunters before you know it. Our little secret, okay?”
“Obliged.” Jonathan tipped his cap and the cop drove off.
Jonathan spent the remainder of the weekend working the side streets near the base of Haystack Hill, but turned up nothing.
HALFWAY THROUGH the second week of his search, on a bleak, drizzly morning, Jonathan worked his way into a shallow swale adjacent to the beach. He thrashed through blackberry bushes, bracken fern, and wild grass, his hands protected by heavy-duty contractor gloves. He swung the detector from side to side, at least as much as the underbrush and a scattering of gnarly pines would allow. As he approached the ocean side of the hollow, he received a strong signal.
“Whoa.” He marked the spot with a sturdy twig and ripped off his headphones. The soft thunder of the Pacific surf filled his ears. But was it only the surf? His heart rate accelerated. He drew a deep breath to steady himself, then unslung the long-handled digger and removed his backpack.
“It’s not too deep, whatever it is,” he said to Zurry. The dog peered at the twig stuck in the ground, perhaps wondering if his master would throw it for him to retrieve.
Instead, Jonathan plucked it from the damp soil and, using the digging tool, went to work in the spot he’d removed it from. It didn’t take long before the shovel registered a solid thunk. Jonathan slowed his efforts and carefully scooped chunks of earth away from the top of whatever he’d hit. His heart continued to hammer in quickstep time.
Finally, he knelt and, using his hands, brushed the remaining loose dirt away from his discovery. Gradually, it came into a view. Not large. Maybe the size of a small toolbox with a carrying handle on top. Metal, probably aluminum. Not a material that would have been used in the 17th Century. His heart rate decelerated. He pulled the object from the ground.
“Shit.” He held it up for Zurry to see. “It’s a tackle box.” He opened it, but there were no surprises inside. Only lead weights, shiny lures, and thin fishing leader. He replaced the box in the hole.
He stood and brushed dirt and mud from his clothes, cleaned the digging tool, then shouldered it and the backpack. Disgusted with the futility of his search, he inhaled deeply, and followed it with a long, slow exhalation. “Come on, Zurry,” he said, “let’s call it a day.”
They walked back to Jonathan’s car, an old Pontiac beater, scarred, dented, and rusted, with over three hundred thousand miles on it. Jonathan threw his pack into the trunk, opened the back door for Zurry,
and plopped into the driver’s seat that threatened to swallow him like quicksand.
He turned to Zurry. “What say we take a break for a bit. I need to rethink my whole approach to this. You know, come up with a real plan and quit wandering around just hoping to get lucky.” Zurry, already sound asleep on the seat, didn’t respond.
“All right, I’m glad you agree.” He cranked the engine. It sputtered and coughed then settled into a raspy purr. “I’ll figure out a better scheme. We’ll return on the Fourth of July weekend. Most people will be off attending parades or festivals then, so we should be able to poke around in yards without ruffling feathers.”
He slipped the Pontiac into gear and headed back to Manzanita.
Chapter Seven
Laneda Avenue
Manzanita, Oregon
Sunday, June 28
IN THE PREDAWN darkness, Rob sat in an Adirondack chair on the deck of the family’s beach house and stared out at an ocean he couldn’t yet see, only hear. The gentle wash of the surf seemed at once both soothing and ominous, like the Grim Reaper speaking in a calming tone while reaching behind his back for a razor-edged scythe.
Rob, in sweatshirt and jeans, had been up for almost two hours, unable to sleep, terrified by the vivid nightmare that had awakened him. It had returned after an absence of almost a month. He reached for a mug of coffee that sat on a table beside him, but his hand trembled uncontrollably and he found himself unable to grasp the cup. No matter. The coffee had likely cooled to an undrinkable level anyhow. He rested his hand in his lap and leaned back in the chair. His eyes closed involuntarily, but he snapped them open, forcing himself to remain alert, fearful of being dragged back into the violence and chaos of the dream world from which he had escaped.
Dream world? It had been more than that, more than a dream. It had been an alternate reality, too palpable, too emotional, too real to have been something manufactured by his subconscious mind. But if not that, what? What was its genesis? What did it mean? Am I going crazy, or have I been led to the banks of a Rubicon on whose opposite shore awaits enormous danger?
He drew a long, deep breath, inhaling the salty coolness of the Pacific air, its freshness acting to calm his thoughts. The sigh of decaying combers sliding up the beach, stalling, then coasting back into the surf offered a tranquil counterpoint to the fears that had surrounded him and now launched jabbing attacks.
The click and thunk of the slider to the deck opening and shutting interrupted the fleeting peace he’d found. He turned. Deborah, still in her pajamas, walked toward him.
“You had that nightmare again, didn’t you?” she said.
He didn’t answer.
“Have you called Lewis yet?” she asked. “You said you would. You said you needed to talk to somebody.” Concern threaded her voice.
“We just got here.” They’d come from Portland yesterday, he and Tim flying the Cessna into Nehalem Bay State Airport, a short airstrip just south of Manzanita, and Deborah and his daughter Maria driving down in the Range Rover.
“So call him this morning.”
“It’s Sunday. He sleeps in.”
“He’s retired. He’ll be up with sun.”
“What time is it?”
“Five thirty, give or take.” Deborah stepped back into the house and flipped on the deck spotlights. A raccoon broke cover from beneath the deck and scuttled into a thick knot of wild huckleberry bushes between the house and a small bluff overlooking the beach.
“I’ll call him after breakfast,” Jonathan said. “The sun isn’t even up yet.”
“I’ll fix you some eggs.”
“Wait,” he said, standing.
Deborah fixed her gaze on him.
“I think you and Maria should go home before the Fourth.”
Deborah waited, not saying anything.
Rob stared past her. “I think something bad is going to happen.”
She smiled. “I’ll get the eggs started. You’ll feel better after you get something in your stomach.”
“You aren’t taking me seriously?”
“You’re having nightmares. You’re overworked. Stressed out.” She paused. “Obsessed with this earthquake-tsunami bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit.” But his own words failed to convince him. He retreated into the corner of his mind that held out hope he was merely harboring some sort of deep anxiety reaction to his life’s work.
Deborah stepped toward him, her palm extended in a conciliatory gesture. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not bullshit. Let’s go over the dream again.”
He shook his head. “I need to talk with Lewis first.”
SHACK MCCREADY strolled along Manzanita’s main street, Laneda Avenue. He had to admit, the tiny town possessed a certain Spartan, weather-beaten appeal. It seemed to exude a laid-back stolidness as though trumpeting the fact it had avoided the commercial excesses of some of the more popular seaside towns in the Southeast, such as Myrtle Beach in South Carolina or Florida’s Panama City Beach. At the same time, it clearly lacked the more sophisticated, high-end appeal offered by locales like St. Simons Island, Georgia, or Highlands, North Carolina.
Shack guessed Manzanita might be the kind of place people go to “get away from it all,” but maybe not get lost. Had Alex done that?
He continued his stroll along Laneda. The sidewalks, while busy, weren’t crowded enough to require him to elbow his way through throngs of people. Since he knew the town had a permanent population of only a few hundred, he decided most of the foot traffic had to be visitors. Ice cream cones and hot dogs appeared popular with them, as were bicycles, and on the beach, kites. In the distance, a half-dozen kites dipped and darted in a busy breeze near the breaking surf.
Several blocks up from the beach, Shack reached a graying, shake-sided building with a large picture window. On the window, in large, gold letters: ALEXIS WILLIAMSON, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. He stopped. Knowing it was Sunday, he assumed her office would be empty. He cupped his hands on either side of his face and peered through the glass. It looked, he had to admit, like any other lawyer’s office with shelves of law books, framed certificates, a large desk, and leather chairs. It appeared cozy rather than intimidating. Stepping back from the window, he allowed his thoughts to drift away on a raft of nostalgia, to an afternoon on another beach in another time.
He and Alex had been lazing in the sun on the warm sands of a military beach in Dam Neck, Virginia. Their conversation had turned to what their life would be like after marriage. One thing she wanted, she stated quite firmly, was a beach house. Her comment struck terror deep into Shack’s psyche. Suddenly, all he could envision was a tiny, white-washed seaside cottage with a picket fence and screaming, snotty-nosed kids swarming around a minivan parked in the driveway. It wasn’t where he wanted his life to go, wasn’t an image with which he could identify.
Had that been the moment, the catalyst that triggered his decision for a no-notice bailout on Alex? With the great clarity of hindsight, he understood what an immature, chicken-shit action it had been. At the time, however, it had seemed only like “the great escape” to him.
He continued his walk down Laneda and tilted his face up to catch the sunshine.
“Give me a chance to atone,” he whispered, though he didn’t really know to whom he directed the appeal.
ROB, AFTER SCHEDULING a visit with his friend Lewis, stepped into his house a little after four p.m. The home sat several blocks back from the ocean in a copse of beach pines and Sitka spruce. Its interior, cluttered but neat, seemed dimly lit with the late afternoon sun forced not only to beat through the stand of evergreens, but windows thick with the residue of a hundred winter storms.
In the living room, a threadbare sofa and several semi-tattered easy chairs sat in a haphazard formation around a coffee table hewn from Western red cedar. Lewis, tall an
d lanky, wore a thin cardigan deserving of several Purple Hearts. He moved in a slightly bent-over fashion that made him look somewhat like a scarecrow walking against a stiff wind. He set a bottle of Jim Beam and two glasses on the table, then sank into a chair and gestured for Rob to sit, too.
Lewis, with the usual impish twinkle in his green eyes, pointed at the bottle. “Two fingers or three?”
Rob sat in a chair opposite Lewis. “Better make it three.”
Lewis nodded and poured.
They picked up their glasses. “Bless the pagans,” Lewis said, and they both drank.
Lewis, with his glass still in hand, pointed at Rob’s. “You’ve still got two fingers left.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay,” Lewis said, “tell me about these dreams you’ve been having.”
“Nightmares,” Rob corrected. “They started back in March, after Tim and I visited the Ghost Forest . . . I’ve told you about that, right?”
Lewis nodded.
“In late May, the dreams stopped. Then last night they . . . it . . . returned, but worse.”
“How do you mean, worse?”
Rob took a sip of Beam, then spoke. “It was more vivid than those past. More real. Like I was part of it. I had no sense I was dreaming, no sense of disconnectedness, no feeling of being outside looking in.” He looked directly into his friend’s eyes. “I was there, Lewis. I swear to God, I was there.”
“I believe you. But let’s start with the earlier dreams, the earlier nightmares. Tell me about those.”
Rob spent the next twenty minutes describing them in as much detail as he could recall. Lewis took notes, occasionally wetting his lips with the bourbon.
After Rob had finished, Lewis sat in silence, studying his notes. Rob waited. Lewis jotted some additional items with a pencil, then said, “Now tell me about last night’s nightmare. Take your time.” He sat back in his chair.
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