One
It took Hank Cooper almost eight hours to get from Virgin River to Thunder Point, Oregon, because he was towing his fifth wheel, a toy hauler. He pulled to the side of the road frequently to let long strings of motorists pass. Just prior to crossing the California/Oregon border, he stopped at a redwood tourist trap featuring gardens, souvenirs, wood carvings, a lunch counter and restrooms. Skipping the garden tour, he bought a sandwich and drink and headed out of the monument-size trees to the open road, which very soon revealed the rocky Oregon Coast.
Cooper stopped at the first outlook over the ocean and parked. His phone showed five bars and he dialed up the Coos County Sheriff’s Department. “Hello,” he said to the receptionist. “My name is Hank Cooper and I’m on my way to Thunder Point following a call from someone saying my friend, Ben Bailey, is dead. Apparently he left something for me, but that’s not why I’m headed your way. The message I got was that Ben was killed, but there were no details. I want to talk to the sheriff. I need some answers.”
“Hold, please,” she said.
Well, that wasn’t what he expected. He’d figured he’d leave a number and eat his lunch while he waited.
“Deputy McCain,” said the new voice on the line.
“Hank Cooper here, Deputy,” he said, and in spite of himself, he straightened and squared his shoulders. He’d always been resistant to authority, yet he also responded to it. “I was hoping to speak with the sheriff.”
“I’m the deputy sheriff. The county sheriff’s office is in Coquille. This is a satellite office with a few deputies assigned. Thunder Point is small—there’s a constable but no other local law enforcement. The constable handles small disputes, evictions, that sort of thing. The county jail is in Coquille. How can I help you, Mr. Cooper?”
“I’m a friend of Ben Bailey and I’m on my way into town to find out what happened to him.”
“Mr. Cooper, Ben Bailey’s been deceased for more than a couple of weeks.”
“I gather that. I just found out. Some old guy—Rawley someone—found a phone number and called me. He was killed, Rawley said. Dead and buried. I want to know what happened to him. He was my friend.”
“I can give you the details in about ninety seconds.”
But Cooper wanted to look him in the eye when he heard the tale. “If you’ll give me directions, I’ll come to the Sheriff’s Department.”
“Well, that’s not necessary. I can meet you at the bar,” the deputy said.
“What bar?”
“Ben’s. I guess you weren’t a close friend.”
“We go back fifteen years but this is my first trip up here. We were supposed to meet with a third buddy from the Army in Virgin River for some hunting. Ben always said he had a bait shop.”
“I’d say he sold a lot more Wild Turkey than bait. You know where Ben’s place is?”
“Only sort of,” Cooper said.
“Take 101 to Gibbons Road, head west. After about four miles, look for a homemade sign that says Cheap Drinks. Turn left onto Bailey Pass. It curves down the hill. You’ll run right into Bailey’s. When do you think you’ll get there?”
“I just crossed into Oregon from California,” he said. “I’m pulling a fifth wheel. Couple of hours?”
“More like three. I’ll meet you there if nothing interferes. Is this your cell number?”
“It is,” he said.
“You’ll have good reception on the coast. I’ll give you a call if I’m held up.”
“Thanks, Deputy...what was it?”
“McCain. See you later, Mr. Cooper.”
Cooper signed off, slipped the phone into his jacket pocket and got out of the truck. He put his lunch on the hood and leaned against the truck, looking out at the northern Pacific Ocean. He’d been all over the world, but this was his first trip to the Oregon Coast. The beach was rocky and there were boulders two stories high sticking out of the water. An orange-and-white helicopter flew low over the water—a Coast Guard HH-65 Dolphin, search and rescue.
For a moment he had a longing to be back in a chopper. Once he got this business about Ben straightened out, he might get to the chore of looking for a flying job. He’d done a number of things air-related after the Army. The most recent was flying out of the Corpus Christi port to offshore oil rigs. But after a spill in the Gulf, he was ready for a change.
His head turned as he followed the Coast Guard chopper across the water. He’d never considered the USCG. He was used to avoiding offshore storms, not flying right into them to pluck someone out of a wild sea.
He took a couple of swallows of his drink and a big bite of his sandwich, vaguely aware of a number of vehicles pulling into the outlook parking area. People were getting out of their cars and trucks and moving to the edge of the viewing area with binoculars and cameras. Personally, Coop didn’t really think these mountainous boulders, covered with bird shit, were worthy of a picture, even with the orange chopper flying over them. Hovering over them...
The waves crashed against the big rocks with deadly power and the wind was really kicking up. He knew only too well how dicey hovering in wind conditions like that could be. And so close to the rocks. If anything went wrong, that helicopter might not be able to recover in time to avoid the boulders or crashing surf. Could get ugly.
Then a man in a harness emerged from the helicopter, dangling on a cable. That’s when Cooper saw what the other motorists had seen before him. He put down his sandwich and dove into the truck, grabbing for the binoculars in the central compartment. He honed in on a boulder, a good forty or fifty feet tall, and what had been specks he now recognized as two human beings. One was on top of the rock, squatting to keep from being blown over in the wind. The other was clinging to the face of the rock.
Rock climbers? They both wore what appeared to be wet suits under their climbing gear. Thanks to the binoculars, he could see a small boat bouncing in the surf, moving away from the rock. There was a stray rope anchored to the rock and flapping in the breeze. The man who squatted on top of the boulder had issues with not only the crosswind but the helicopter’s rotor wash. And if the pilot couldn’t keep his aircraft stable, the EMT or rescue swimmer who dangled from the cable would slam into the rock.
“Easy, easy, easy,” he muttered to himself, wishing the crew could hear him.
The emergency medical tech grabbed on to the wall of the rock beside the stranded climber, stabilized himself with an anchor in the stone, and held there for a minute. Then the climber hoisted himself off the wall of the rock and onto the EMT, piggyback to the front of the harnessed rescuer. Both of them were pulled immediately up to the copter via the cable and quickly yanked within.
“Yeah,” he whispered. Good job! He’d like to know the weight of that pilot’s balls—that was some fancy flying. Reaching the climber was the hard part. Rescuing the guy up top was going to be less risky for all involved. The chopper backed away from the rock slightly while victim number one was presumably stabilized. Then, slowly edging near the rock once more, hovering there, a rescue basket was deployed. The climber on top waited until the basket was right there before he stood, grabbed it and fell inside. As he was being pulled up, motorists around Cooper cheered.
Before the climber was pulled all the way into the chopper, the boat below crashed against the mountainous boulder and broke into pieces. It left nothing but debris on the water. These guys must have tried to anchor the boat to a rock on a side that wasn’t battered by big waves, so they could climb up, then back down. But once the boat was lost, so were they.
Who had called the Coast Guard? Probably one of them, from a cell phone. Likely the one on top of the rock, who wasn’t hanging on for dear life.
Everyone safely inside, the helicopter rose, banked and shot away out to sea.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes our matinee for today. Join us again tomorrow for another show, Coop thought. As the other motorists slowly departed, he finished his sandwich, then got back into his truck and headed north.
* * *
It was a good thing Cooper’s GPS was up-to-date, because Gibbons Road was unmarked. It was three hours later that Coop found himself on a very narrow two-lane road that went switchback-style down a steep hill. At a turnoff, there was only a sign that read Cheap Drinks, and an arrow pointing left. Very classy, he found himself thinking. Ben had never been known as what Cooper’s Southern grandmother had called “High Cotton.”
From that turnoff, however, he could see the lay of Thunder Point, and it was beautiful. A very wide inlet or bay, shaped like a U, was settled deeply into a high, rocky coastline. He could see Ben’s place, a single building with a wide deck and stairs leading down to a dock and the beach. Beyond Ben’s place, stretching out toward the ocean, was a completely uninhabited promontory. He sat there a moment, thinking about Ben’s patrons taking advantage of those cheap drinks and then trying to get back up to 101. This road should be named Suicide Trail.
On the opposite side of the beach was another promontory that reached out toward the ocean, this one featuring houses all the way to the point. Cooper could only imagine the drop-dead-gorgeous view. There was a marina on that promontory, and the town itself. Thunder Point was built straight up the hill from the marina in a series of steps. He could see the streets from where he was parked. Between Ben’s place and the town was only the wide, expansive beach. Looking down, he could see a woman in a red, hooded jacket and a big dog walking along the beach. She repeatedly threw a stick; the dog kept returning it. The dog was black and white, with legs like an Arabian colt.
The sun was shining and Cooper was reminded of one of Ben’s emails describing his home. Oregon is mostly wet and cold all winter, except for one part around Bandon and Coos Bay that’s moderate almost year-round, sunny more often than stormy. But when the storms do come into Thunder Point over the ocean, it’s like one of the Seventh Wonders. The bay is protected by the hills and stays calm, keeping the fishing boats safe, but those thunderclouds can be spectacular....
Then he saw not one but two eagles circling over the point on Ben’s side of the beach. It was a rare and beautiful sight.
He proceeded to the parking lot, not entirely surprised to find the Sheriff’s Department SUV already there and the deputy sitting inside, apparently writing something. He was out of the car and striding toward Cooper just a few seconds later. Cooper sized him up. Deputy McCain was a young man, probably mid-thirties. He was tall, sandy-haired, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered—about what you’d expect.
Cooper extended a hand. “Deputy.”
“Mr. Cooper, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“What happened to Ben?”
“He was found at the foot of the stairs to the cellar, where he kept the bait tanks. Ben lived here—he had a couple of rooms over the bar. The doors weren’t locked, but I don’t think Ben ever locked up. There were no obvious signs of foul play, but the case was turned over to the coroner. Nothing was missing, not even the cash. The coroner ruled it an accident.”
“But the guy who called me said he’d been killed,” Cooper said.
“I think Rawley was upset. He was kind of insistent that Ben couldn’t have fallen. But Ben had had a couple of drinks. Not nearly the legal limit, but he could’ve tripped. Hell, I’ve been known to trip on no alcohol at all. Rawley found him. Ben kept the money in a cash drawer in the cooler, and the money was still in its hiding place. The one strange thing is,” the deputy said, scratching the back of his neck, “time of death was put at two in the morning. Ben was in his boxers, and Rawley insisted there’s no reason he’d get out of bed on the second floor and head for the cellar in the middle of the night. Rawley might be right—except this could have been the night Ben heard a noise and was headed for the beach. Just in case you’re wondering, there is no surveillance video. In fact, the only place in town that actually has a surveillance camera is the bank. Ben has had one or two characters in his place over the years, but never any real trouble.”
“You don’t think it’s possible someone who knew the place decided to rob it after midnight? When Ben was vulnerable?”
“Most of Ben’s customers were regulars, or heard about the place from regulars—weekend bikers, sports fishermen, that sort. Ben didn’t do a huge business, but he did all right.”
“On bait and Wild Turkey?”
The deputy actually chuckled. “Bait, deli, small bar, Laundromat, cheap souvenirs and fuel. I’d say of all those things, the bar and deli probably did the lion’s share of the business.”
Coop looked around the deputy’s frame. “Fuel?”
“Down on the dock. For boats. Ben used to let some of his customers or neighbors moor alongside the dock. Sometimes the wait at the marina got a little long and Ben didn’t mind if people helped themselves. Since he died and the place has been locked up, the boats have found other docks—probably the marina. Oh, he also had a tow truck that’s parked in town, but he didn’t advertise about it. That’s it. There was no next of kin, Mr. Cooper.”
“Who is this Rawley? The guy who called me?”
The deputy scrubbed off his hat and scratched his head. “You say you were good friends?”
“For fifteen years. I knew he was raised by his dad, that they had a bar and bait shop here on the coast. We met in the Army. He was a helicopter mechanic and everyone called him Gentle Ben. He was the sweetest man who ever lived, all six foot six of him. I can’t imagine him standing up to a robber—not only would he hand over the money, he’d invite the guy to dinner.”
“Well, there you go, you might not have the more recent facts, but you knew him all right. That’s the thing that makes everyone lean toward accident. That, and the lack of evidence to the contrary. No one would have to hurt Ben for a handout. You don’t know about Rawley?”
Cooper just shook his head.
“Rawley Goode is around sixty, a vet with some challenging PTSD issues. He lives down the coast, where he takes care of his elderly father, sort of. He’s not real good around people. Ben gave him work. He helped out here, cleaned, stocked, ran errands, that sort of thing. He could serve customers, if no one expected conversation. People around here were used to him. I think he might’ve been homeless when Ben met him, but his father has lived around here a long time. Interesting guy, not that I can say I know him. Rawley found Ben.”
“Are you sure Rawley didn’t push him down the stairs?”
“Rawley’s a skinny little guy. The coroner didn’t find any evidence to suggest Ben had been pushed. And Rawley...he was dependent on Ben. When Ben died, there wasn’t anyone for us to contact. But don’t worry—the town gave Ben a decent send-off. He was well liked. There are better bars around here to hang out in, but people liked Ben.”
“Yeah, I liked him, too,” Cooper said, looking down. “There must’ve been a will or something. Rawley wasn’t the most articulate guy on the phone, but he said Ben left something for me. Could be old pictures from our Army days or something. Who do you suppose I should see about that?”
“I’ll make a few calls, check into that for you.”
“Appreciate it. And maybe you could suggest a place to hook up the fifth wheel?”
“There are several decent spots along the coast for tourists—Coos Bay is a nice area. You planning to hang around?”
Cooper gave a shrug. “Maybe a few days, just long enough to talk to some of the folks who knew Ben, pick up whatever he left for me, pay my respects. I just want people to know—he had good friends. We didn’t get together a lot, and it sounds like I didn’t get a lot of inside information from Ben, but we were always in touch. And since I came all this way, I want to hear about him—about how people got on with him. You know?”
“I think I understand. This place is locked up. No one would care if you sat here for a while, while you look around at other possibilities. No hookup for your trailer, but you’d be fine for a couple of days.”
“Thanks, maybe I’ll do that. Not a bad view.”
The deputy put out his hand. “I gotta run. You have my number.”
“Thank you, Deputy McCain.”
“Roger McCain, but hardly anyone remembers that. Folks tend to call me Mac.”
“Nice meeting you, Mac. Thanks for helping out with this.”
* * *
Sarah Dupre walked with Hamlet, her Great Dane, down the main street in Thunder Point to the diner. She looped his leash around the lamppost and went inside, pulling off her gloves. This was one of the things she loved about this little town—there was always somewhere to stop and chat for a few minutes. She wasn’t well-known around here, had only lived here a few months, but considering the way she was treated by her new friends, it was as if she’d been here quite a while. If she wasn’t working, she liked to take Ham down to the beach and stop off at the diner on her way home. Apparently she wasn’t the only one—there was always a large bowl of water for dogs by the lamppost. Twin benches on either side of the diner’s front door frequently seated one or two old guys, passing time.
Gina James was behind the counter of the diner. Gina took care of almost everything at the diner except the cooking. There was another waitress at night and a couple of part-time girls, but it was a pretty small shop. Gina’s mother, Carrie, was sitting on a stool at the counter, her friend Lou McCain seated beside her. Carrie owned the deli across the street. Lou was a schoolteacher who helped out with her nephew Mac’s kids when she wasn’t teaching. Two of said kids were in a booth, eating fries and drinking colas, an after-school treat.
Sarah said, “Hey,” and all three women said, “Hey,” right back.
“Something to drink? Eat?” Gina asked her.
“Could I have a water, please? How is everyone?”
“What can I say, it’s Friday,” Lou said. “I won’t be seeing the little bast—er, darlings till Monday morning.”
Sarah laughed at her. “You’re going to heaven for it.”
“If I died and went to hell, they’d have me teaching junior high,” Carrie said.
“And if I go to hell, I’ll be making pies and cakes,” Lou said.
“You have a day off?” Gina asked Sarah.
“For Landon’s football game. I’m sitting alert Saturday and Sunday, that’s the price I pay for it.”
“But no one gives you any trouble about it, do they?”
“Nah. They like weekends off as much as anyone. And I’ll gladly fly weekends if I don’t have to miss Landon’s games. It’s not as though I have any other social life.”
Carrie leaned her elbow on the diner. “Wish I had an exciting career like you, Sarah. Being a pilot beats my job, any day.”
“Tell me about it,” Lou said.
Before Gina could weigh in, the door to the diner opened, the bell tinkling. Ray Anne appeared in her version of a Realtor’s business suit—too short, too tight, too much boobage. She scowled. “Sarah, that dog should be on a leash!”
“He is, Ray Anne.” She leaned back on her stool to look out the glass pane in the door. “He’s all hooked up.”
She wiped at her purple skirt. “He still managed to get me with that awful mouth of his.”
“Well, Ray Anne, you’re just so edible-looking,” Lou said.
“Ha-ha. Well, you’ll never guess what I just saw! The most gorgeous man, out at Ben’s place. He was built like a brick you-know-what—worn jeans, torn in all the right places, plain old T-shirt under a leather jacket. One of those flying jackets, you know, Sarah. Driving one of those testosterone trucks, pulling a trailer... Handsome face, maybe a dimple, scratchy little growth on his cheeks and chin. He was talking to Mac. It was like an ad for Calvin Klein.”
“What were you doing out at Ben’s?” Lou asked.
“I was checking on a rental up the hill two blocks. You know, that old Maxwell place.”
“Then how’d you see the tears in his jeans and his stubble?”
Ray Anne dipped a manicured hand into her oversize purse and pulled out her binoculars. She smiled conspiratorially and gave her head a toss. Her short blond hair didn’t move.
“Clever,” Lou said. “Man-watching taken to the next level. How old is this hunk of burning love?”
“Irrelevant,” Ray Anne said. “I wonder what he’s doing here. I heard Ben had no next of kin. You don’t suppose cuddly old Ben was hiding a handsome brother? No, no, that would be cruel.”
“Why?” Sarah asked.
“Because Ray Anne would love a shot at selling that property of Ben’s,” Carrie said.
“That’s not true,” Ray Anne protested. “You know me, I only want to help if I can.”
“And bag a single man or two while you’re at it,” Lou said.
Ray Anne stiffened slightly. “Some of us are still sexual beings, Louise,” she said. “A notion you might not be familiar with.” As the Sheriff’s Department patrol car passed slowly down the street, Ray Anne said, “Oh, there’s Deputy Yummy Pants—I’m going to go ask him what’s going on. If I can get past the dog!”
Out the door she wiggled.
“Deputy Yummy Pants?” Sarah asked with a laugh in her voice.
“The teenage girls around town call him that,” Lou explained drily. “I don’t recommend it. He hates it. Gets him all pissy. I should tell you what kind of pants Ms. Realtor of the Year has. Maybe Busy Pants.”
Carrie’s lips quirked. “She suggested you don’t quite get the whole sexual pull. Louise.”
Lou had a sarcastic twist to her lips when she said, “If she turns up dead, can I count on you girls for an alibi?” Then she turned and called to her niece and nephew. “Hey, kids. Let’s make tracks.” To her friends she said, “I’m going to beat Yummy Pants home. Betcha I get more out of him than Busy Pants does.”
* * *
Sarah hung her red slicker on the peg in the mudroom just in time to see her younger brother, Landon, coming toward the back door of their house with his duffel full of football gear. “Hey,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I came home to get a couple of things and grab a sandwich,” he said. He bent to pet the dog. He didn’t have to bend far—Ham was tall. “Gotta get going.”
“Wait a sec,” she said.
“What?” he asked, still petting the dog.
“For Pete’s sake, can you look at me?” she asked. When he straightened, heavy duffel over one shoulder, she gasped. There was a bruise on his cheekbone.
“Practice,” he said. “It’s nothing.”
“You don’t practice on game day.”
“Yeah, well, I hope I don’t get in trouble for that. A couple of us went out to run some plays, some passes, and I got nailed. It was an accident.”
“You were practicing without a helmet?” she asked.
“Sarah, it’s nothing. It’s a small bruise. I could’ve gotten it running into an open locker. Lighten up so you don’t make me look like a girl. Are you coming to the game?”
“Of course I’m coming. Why couldn’t you be into chess or something? Choir? Band? Something that didn’t involve bodies crashing into each other?”
He grinned at her, the handsome smile that had once belonged to their deceased father. “You get enough sleep without me boring you to death,” he said. “Why couldn’t you just be a flight attendant or something?”
He had her there. Sarah flew search and rescue with the Coast Guard. There were those occasions that were risky. Edgy. And admittedly, that was part of what she loved best about it. “I trust you’ll be wearing your helmet tonight?”
“Funny. It should be a good game. Raiders are a good match. They’re a good team.”
“Does it hurt?” she asked, touching her own cheek.
“Nah, it’s really nothing, Sarah. See you later.”
She suppressed the urge to beg him to be careful. It was just the two of them; she was his guardian and family. She sometimes wanted to simply enfold him in her arms and keep him safe. Yet watching him play was thrilling. He was a great athlete, already six feet tall and muscled at sixteen. She’d heard he was the best quarterback they’d seen in a long time here in Thunder Point.
For the millionth time she hoped bringing him here had been a good decision. He’d been happy in the North Bend high school last year. He’d barely found his footing, his friends, when she’d moved them here. But she couldn’t bear to stay in the same town as her ex, in the home they had shared. It was bad enough that they still worked together.
She’d moved them so often....
She reached out as if to hug him, then retracted her arms. He didn’t want mush, not now that he was a man. So she held back.
“All right,” he said patiently. “Get it over with.”
She wrapped her arms around him and he gave her a one-armed hug back. Then he grinned at her again. He had absolutely no idea how handsome he was, which made him even more attractive.
“Play your little heart out, bud,” she said. “And do not get hurt.”
“Don’t worry. I’m fast.”
“You going out after the game?” she asked.
“I dunno. Depends on how tired I am.”
Sarah looked at him. “When I was your age, I was never too tired to go out. If you go out, getting home by midnight would be nice. No later than one, for sure. Are we on the same page here?”
He laughed at her. “Same page, boss.”
But as she knew, he seldom went out after a game.