Rob and Lewis resumed their stroll. The aroma of scrambled eggs, bacon, and griddle cakes from the nearby Dungeness Diner mingled with the salt air and traces of wood smoke.
Rob studied the foot traffic along their route, unconvinced the gaggle of teenagers and families pressing into town constituted a substantially smaller crowd than on any other Fourth of July weekend. It seemed as if the derision heaped onto his revelation had been effective, rendering it essentially null and void.
“Uh, oh,” Lewis whispered, and pointed up the street in the direction of 101.
A young blonde trailed by a television cameraman had locked onto Rob like a heat-seeking missile and appeared about to launch an attack.
Rob executed a quick search for an escape route, but Lewis rested a restraining hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t bother. They operate in a pack, like hyenas. If one doesn’t get you, the next one will. Let’s stand our ground.”
Thirty seconds later, the warhead of the missile, a handheld microphone sheathed in a wind shield, slammed to a stop inches in front of Rob’s nose.
“Amanda Jeffries, KGW-TV,” the blonde holding the warhead announced. “May I have a word with you, Dr. Elwood?”
“Don’t you have to graduate from high school before—?”
A sharp sideways kick into Rob’s ankle from Lewis halted his snide retort before he could complete it.
“Sorry,” Rob said. “Yes, Ms. Jeffries, I’d be glad to speak with you.”
She lowered the mic from his face. “I understand I look young, Dr. Elwood. I’m sorry, but I can’t help it. I graduated with a master’s degree in journalism from Northwestern three years ago.”
Rob nodded. “I stand appropriately rebuked. Let’s begin again.”
Amanda flashed him a smile that he guessed had probably disarmed a significant number of her interviewees, at least those of the male gender. She raised the mic to its previous position and glanced at some notes in her free hand. “You’ve issued a warning for a devastating earthquake and massive tsunami—”
Rob shook his head. “I didn’t issue a warning. I issued a statement.”
“Yes,” Amanda said without missing a beat, “a statement warning of a—”
“I warned of nothing,” Rob snapped. “Let’s get away from that term.”
“Okay,” she sighed, “you issued a statement saying that a huge earthquake and tsunami would hit—”
“I didn’t say ‘would,’ Ms. Jeffries. In my statement, I explained that what I was presenting was not based on hard science. It was based on something that could be interpreted as metaphysical or, if you’re religious, perhaps divine, but it was nothing springing from traditional science.”
The breeze plastered several strands of Amanda’s straw-colored hair over her eyes. In a deft motion likely born of much practice, she brushed them away, then continued her interrogation.
“Divine? Do you consider yourself religious, Dr. Elwood?”
Lewis intervened. “If I may,” he said.
Amanda pointed the mic at him. “And you are?”
“Bishop Lewis Warren. I’m a long-time friend of Dr. Elwood’s, and I want to make it crystal clear to you and your viewers that it is not Dr. Elwood’s religious beliefs or even his scientific credentials that are under scrutiny here. He explained in detail where his concern sprang from and went to great lengths to point out it was born of neither religious zeal nor some secret scientific knowledge. It’s for each individual to evaluate that concern and decide for himself how much credence to put into it.”
Fire in her eyes, Amanda took the offensive. “Dr. Elwood is a respected geologist. He’s studied big quakes and large tsunamis for many years. He’s established himself as a recognized authority. How could people not view his . . .”—she paused, apparently searching for the right term—“concern as carrying a certain amount of scientific gravitas? I believe it’s disingenuous to try to pass off Dr. Elwood’s pronouncement as being based on some sort of metaphysical experience and not true science. To the general public, that’s a distinction without a difference.”
“Is there a question in there, Ms. Jeffries?” Rob asked.
A small crowd, watching the proceedings, unexpected entertainment, had gathered around Rob, Lewis, and the TV crew. Cell phones and digital cameras snapped photo after photo.
Amanda seemed to revel in the attention. “Yes,” she said. “You’ve, if not warned, have at least put people in the Pacific Northwest on high alert for a catastrophic event, even though that alert, you tell us, has no scientific basis. So here’s my question: Why should the public view you as anything other than an irresponsible fear-monger? Or a Chicken Little standing on a street corner with a sign proclaiming THE END IS NEAR?”
Rob drew a deep breath, looked away from Amanda and tried to zero in on something distant . . . something amorphous, bucolic, calming. After a moment, he found his emotional footing, focused his thoughts, and turned back to Amanda.
“I’ve laid out the reasons for my pronouncement as clearly as I could. I’ve explained what it is and what it is not. I’m sorry I can’t cast my concern in absolute or even probabilistic terms. I’ve no basis for doing that. I can only relay my experience to the public and let each individual draw his or her own conclusion as to the viability of it.”
“Then we’re back to the voodoo nature of your, shall we call it, prophecy?” She framed her sentence as a question, but clearly meant it as a declaration, and didn’t give Rob a chance to respond. By using the term voodoo, she had essentially impugned his sanity.
She turned and faced the camera, self-satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. “For KGW News Channel 8, this is Amanda Jeffries in Manzanita, Oregon.”
“Shoot some B-roll of the town,” she said to the cameraman after she’d signed off. “Then we’ll find some shop owners to interview.” She turned back to Rob. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Elwood.”
“Thank you for your fair and balanced coverage, young lady. Have you ever considered working for Bill O’Reilly?”
She tossed her head, flinging another tumble of hair from her eyes, and flounced off, but not far. Less than half a block away, she encountered the town’s city manager, Hector Springer. Hector, elderly and obese, his pants supported by suspenders not quite up to the job, seemed more than happy to embrace his “fifteen minutes of fame,” which for most people usually turned out to be a few seconds of air time. Rob had always thought of Hector as overweight, overbearing, and overdramatic, so his performance came as no surprise.
In response to a question from Amanda, Hector gestured at the sky, almost knocking an ill-fitting toupee from his head in the process. “It’s a beautiful day on the Oregon coast. It’s going to be a gorgeous weekend. Don’t let the scare tactics of some moron, who should be tarred and feathered and lugged out of town on a rail, keep you from visiting.”
“So,” Amanda said, “you’re not concerned about the threat of a massive earthquake and tsunami this weekend?”
“The threat, young lady, is no greater now that it has been on any other day during the past several hundred years.” He spotted Rob in the surrounding onlookers. “Let me say this, if we do find the crowds this year are significantly reduced from those of previous years, the good doctor,”—he pointed at Rob—“is going to find himself snowed under by a boatload of civil suits.” He paused, then addressed Rob directly, “Think of that, my friend.”
Rob stared back at Hector, but didn’t verbalize his retort. Mixed metaphors aside, maybe you should think of the lives that might be saved.
Lewis, instead, responded. “Why don’t you save your threats until after the Fourth, Mr. Springer? You know, just in case Rob is right.”
“Maybe you should spend more time with the Bible and less with Dr. Elwood,” Hector snapped. “As it states in Proverbs, �
��Do not congratulate yourself about tomorrow, since you do not know what today will bring.’ Dr. Elwood is a fool.”
“I think not,” Lewis shot back. “But ponder this: ‘The greatest lesson in life is to know that even fools are right sometimes.’”
“Proverbs?” Hector asked.
“No, Winston Churchill. He held a somewhat higher office than you.”
Hector snorted, wheeled, and waddled away from the interview, clamping a hand on his toupee as a gust of wind churned up Laneda sending dust and stray pieces of paper slithering along the pavement.
Now, in the open and taking unrelenting fire from the media, the public, and even people he once considered as friends, a mushroom cloud of regret about “going public” exploded within Rob. He clenched his jaw and stared at Lewis without seeing him.
Lewis caught his expression. “We discussed it at length, my friend. It was a fully informed decision. Stand by it and I’ll stand with you. We don’t know that you’re wrong.”
“We don’t know that I’m right.”
“And we won’t until tomorrow. I think you’re right for all the reasons we talked about. As I told you, the gift of prophecy comes with a heavy burden.”
“Bullshit! It’s a not a gift. And I fully understand, more than ever now, it’s not just a burden, it’s a damned millstone.”
ROB ARRIVED BACK at his beach home to find Deborah packing.
“What’s this?” he asked, although he had a pretty good idea.
“Maria and I are going home.”
“Because of the tsunami threat?”
“No. Because I can’t stand to watch any more public humiliation of you. It’s too painful.”
He looked away, staring out a window into the midday brightness. “Even my wife has lost faith?”
“Faith in what?” she fired back. “I understand the genesis of your nightmares, Rob, and I’m glad you went to see Lewis. But all I wanted you to do was get a little counseling, a few insights. I didn’t expect you to go on stage in front of the world and do a frigging Noah routine. The only thing I’ve got faith in now are my fears. I’m terrified, Rob.”
“Of what?”
“Of you losing everything. Your reputation. Your profession. Your business. And when I say you, I really mean all of us. Me, Tim, and Maria included.”
“Why not give me a chance?”
She stepped toward him, hands on hips. “You don’t get it, do you? You’ve just bet our entire future on a dream. This isn’t some metaphysical-intellectual exercise. It’s real life.”
“It wasn’t a dream, it was—”
“A vision, I know. Well, you said everyone should make their own decision about how to react to your concerns springing from that vision. So I made mine.”
“Yes?”
“It’s that I think my husband took off on a magic carpet ride with his buddy, Lewis, and left me scared to death. And more than a little pissed off.” She zipped shut the suitcase she’d been filling. “See you in Portland.”
She left Rob standing alone in the bedroom. A prophet in my own land.
Chapter Twelve
The Fourth
Cannon Beach
Saturday, July 4
THE FOURTH DAWNED clear and sparkling, the sky a steely blue, so deep and intense it looked as if it might have been rendered by a master painter. The air, exhibiting barely a breath of wind, presaged an unusually warm day.
Jonathan, accompanied by Zurry, returned to Cannon Beach as previously planned, hoping the holiday would lure people away from their homes to parades and municipal festivities, thus giving him more freedom to explore for the “lost treasure.”
“Probably lost and gone forever, or maybe never was,” he said to Zurry. He knelt in front of the dog and placed his hands on either side of the animal’s huge head, looking him in the face. “I got an idea, old boy. I think whoever buried the box, assuming it was buried around here, would have taken a path of least resistance up the hill. So they probably followed a creek. Easy travel, an easy location to remember. I have an idea where to search.” He stood. “Come on.”
He’d studied topo maps of the area over the past few days and had identified a narrow gully, perhaps an old creek bed, running up the side of Haystack Hill. He led Zurry toward the beach, thinking to begin his exploration near the sand, then work his way inland.
He quickly discovered one of his hunches already wrong. It appeared that while a few people may have headed off for the holiday, even more, judging by the plethora of vehicles parked in driveways, seemed to have invited guests for the Fourth.
“Oh, well,” he said to Zurry, “we’ll press on anyhow.”
The gully he planned on following began at the upper edge of the beach and appeared to mark the property dividing line between housing lots, essentially running through the backyards of about a dozen homes. He motioned for Zurry to follow and moved into the depression behind the homes, hoping, due to the early hour, most people wouldn’t be up yet and therefore wouldn’t spot a man and dog slogging along an old creek bed. If they did get noticed, maybe they’d be dismissed as harmless.
He understood the risk. If someone complained about a trespasser, he could be ticketed and his equipment, confiscated. Despite knowing that, he decided to take the chance.
It proved a good gamble. No one challenged their presence. They spent almost an hour in the gully, slashing their way through eel grass, brambles, and scruffy pines, but discovered nothing of interest. The metal detector remained sullenly silent. They reached South Hemlock Street, the main route paralleling the beach.
On the other side of the road, the gully continued up Haystack Hill. It would be a difficult hike, however. No more backyards, just forest and underbrush. If nothing else, Jonathan considered, the depression would offer a good escape route if the earthquake and tsunami that had everyone abuzz materialized.
Jonathan, like most people it seemed, put little stock in the prediction, if that’s what it was, and went about his business as usual. The prophecy—he’d heard that term used, too—had reportedly scared off a few tourists, but the majority apparently looked upon the eventuality of a cataclysm as more of a fantasy than a real threat. After all, such events were the stuff of history and of other parts of the world.
“We’ll be fine,” Jonathan said, and crossed the road with Zurry in trail. “Besides, animals always know before humans if a monster quake is coming, right?” Zurry didn’t seem to acknowledge the question, or maybe just wished to ignore the burden. Jonathan moved back into the dense undergrowth and began beating his way uphill.
He found it difficult to swing the metal detector in a wide arc, so spent what he considered far too much time hacking away at brambles and branches with a small bush machete to clear areas wide enough to work the two-box detector. By noon, he’d labored only about a hundred feet up the gully. He’d gotten a couple of “growls” on the detector, but both turned out to be from scrap metal.
He found a mossy deadfall adjacent to the old creek bed and, exhausted, seated himself on it. Sweat poured off him in salty rivulets. He fanned himself with his ball cap. Zurry plopped to the ground beside him.
“Getting too friggin’ old for this,” Jonathan said. Zurry remained motionless. “I promise, this will be our last hurrah. If we don’t find nuthin’ here, it’s back to the mountain, okay?” Zurry gave him a puzzled stare.
Semi-recovered, he poured a bowl of water for Zurry, placed two large dog biscuits beside it, then dug through his backpack and fished out a banana, an apple, and bag of trail mix for himself. He washed everything down with what remained in the bottle he’d poured Zurry’s drink from.
A ground-shaking rumble startled him. He stood. Zurry jumped up, alert. But tranquility quickly returned. Songbirds sang, jays scolded, dogs barked.
�
�Just a big truck on the main road, boy,” Jonathan said. He remained standing, soaking in the natural melodies of life and, for a moment, forgetting where he was and why. He looked around and spotted the metal detector resting against the fallen log.
“Ah, yes, that’s it,” he said, barely above a whisper. He re-shouldered his pack, retrieved the detector, and moved back into the gully. “Let’s finish up and get out of here.” Zurry plodded behind him.
Manzanita
ROB, LEWIS, AND Timothy threaded their way along Laneda, weaving in and out of the crowds lining the sidewalks, waiting for the parade to begin.
“There should be more people here,” a voice behind them growled.
Rob pivoted to see Hector, the town manager, waddling in their wake.
“Why should there be more people here?” Lewis retorted. “So you can see more people get killed?”
Hector snorted in derision. He attempted to tug his pants up, but they continued to hang like a misshapen sack beneath his ample belly. “Nobody’s gonna get killed today, you morons. I called the director of the Pacific Northwest Seismic Network this morning to see if anything was brewing. He told me everything is quiet.”
“Of course it is,” Rob snapped, repelling the urge to grab Hector by one of his chins and attempt to shake some sense into him. “I’ve told people repeatedly, I’ve told you repeatedly, there probably won’t be a precursor before Cascadia lets go. It’s not like a winter storm we can model and track and issue warnings on. It’s more like a terrorist with an explosive belt who sneaks into a crowded mall or theater and blows himself and everybody around him to kingdom come. Probably the only warning you’d get then is when he yells Allahu Akbar.”
Hector made another unsuccessful try at wiggling his pants into place. “We aren’t talking about terrorists—”
Cascadia Page 11
