Four
Rawley lived in a little inland town called Elmore. Mac gave Cooper directions to his place. Besides a gas station, post office, elementary school and Dairy Queen, Elmore wasn’t much of a town. The larger town of Bandon wasn’t far away and possibly served the small population’s needs.
The house was a small, old, brick structure with a porch. That classic pickup was parked on the side, identifying the place as belonging to Rawley. The yard was well kept and the grass still green, though the trees and shrubs were showing signs of fall with either color or brown. When Cooper knocked on the door and Rawley answered, the last thing he expected was the homey, clean, orderly house he saw inside.
“Hey. Got a minute?” Cooper asked.
Rawley gave his version of a nod, which was a smirk and a tilt of his head, stepping back so Cooper could enter. Inside was a living room and dining room that looked like a woman had left it behind—lace covers on the worn arms of chairs and sofa, pictures of farm scenes on the walls, a buffet with a couple of good glass bowls on top of a fabric runner, candlesticks on the table. All old, all maintained. In front of the fire sat an elderly man in a wheelchair. He was dressed in overalls and a long-sleeved shirt—clean—and on his feet were socks only. No point in shoes if you never walked.
“Very nice, Rawley,” Cooper said, taking it in. “That your dad?”
Rawley nodded.
Cooper had never been a patient man, but this was really stretching what patience he had very thin. “I wish you’d talk,” he said. “Unless you’re mute.”
“I’ll talk when I got something to say,” he said.
“Well, there,” Cooper said. “You doing okay since Ben’s death?”
“Not hardly,” Rawley said.
Well, there you go again, Cooper thought. Honest, if not informative. “Anything you need that I can get for you, now that he’s gone?”
“Can’t think what,” Rawley said.
At that statement, the old man turned his chair around to face Cooper. He didn’t exactly hold his head up, and Cooper could see that he was very likely a stroke victim. He turned the chair with his left arm, the right kinked in protectively at his side, and the right side of his face—mouth and eye—sagged.
“You looking for work?” Cooper asked.
“Hadn’t been. Why? You gonna open up Ben’s place?”
“No, but I’m cleaning it up and clearing it out. It’s got troubles—rot and mold and dead fish. Tomorrow a crew is coming out to clean out and remove the fish tanks, rotten food, trash...”
“Police locked it up and wouldn’t let me in,” Rawley said by way of explanation.
“I know. And the electric company turned off the power,” Cooper said. “The result is a stink and mess. But once they get the place so I can breathe in there, I have to go through his things. You know—pitch, give away, sell, whatever. There might be some things in there you want. If you help out, I can pay you what Ben paid you.”
Rawley grinned and showed off a stunning set of dentures. “He paid me a ton.”
“Gimme a break, Ben didn’t have shit. And he couldn’t tolerate a lie, either.”
“Eight dollars an hour,” Rawley said. “When?”
“In three days, I guess. Your dad okay alone if you work?”
The old man inhaled sharply and briefly lifted his head. It looked like he scowled, but with the uneven features, it was hard to tell. His good eye narrowed.
“He’s okay. If I work, the neighbor checks on him twice a day. I leave him fixed up for what he needs.”
“Okay, then. If you’re interested.”
Rawley gave a nod. No questions, no suggestions, no commentary.
“Rawley, I don’t know what I’m going to do with the place. Fair warning. This could be a week of work and that’s all. I might just tear the place down and sell the land.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Rawley said, apparently unconcerned.
“Yeah, I guess.” Cooper scratched his neck. “See you then.” He turned to leave.
“Hold on,” Rawley said. He went into the kitchen, which was just through the dining room arch, then came back with a package. Cookies, wrapped in Saran, no plate, no ziplock bag. “Can’t be much around that toy hauler for snacks. They’re sugar-free, on account of Dad.”
“Right,” Cooper said, accepting them. “Thanks. That’s real nice.”
Rawley just shrugged.
Cooper left with yet another mystery about Ben. Rawley lived in a house that was well cared for, yet Ben’s place was mostly a wreck. How did that add up? Did Rawley take care of himself, but do a sad job for Ben?
Once in his truck, Cooper tried a cookie. Not bad, for sugar-free. Soft and tasty. He just shook his head.
* * *
Three days later, the smell wasn’t too bad and Cooper could get inside Ben’s place without choking. He had the electricity turned on; it not only offered functional lighting in the shop, but he ran an extension to the trailer to save on his generator. Just having a crew there to take out garbage and install fans brought attention to the place, and when the weather was decent, people who were out on the beach felt a need to wander closer, to find Cooper on the deck or the dock. Usually they would stop to say hello or hang out for a while, to ask what was going on. A kayaker rowed up to the dock, got out and asked what was going to happen to the place now.
“I don’t exactly know,” he said honestly. “I guess I’m responsible for it, but I’m not interested in running a business.”
“Neither was Ben,” the guy said, laughing. “But people around Thunder Point liked the place, even if we didn’t want to go inside too much.”
“What did you like it for?” Cooper asked.
“Gossip and drinks, mainly. And Ben used to pick up his deli food every couple of days from Carrie—when he couldn’t talk her into delivering. She’d do that if her daughter was free to mind the deli. That’s good stuff, Carrie’s stuff, and Ben never even marked it up. He had egg sandwich kind of things for the morning, sandwiches and pizza for later, desserts and stuff. It was good. It was all wrapped—he didn’t cook it. Know what I mean?”
“All I saw in there was a microwave and a stove and oven that looked...” He didn’t want to say ancient, but although the kitchen was spotless, the appliances didn’t look very reliable. The bar, though small, was neat and well stocked. The glasses, though dusty, looked as if they’d been washed, not that he’d trust them.
A man and woman with a dog saw him on the dock and said, “You’re the new guy, right?”
“I guess I am.”
“I’m Charlie and this here’s Donna, the wife. So, when you gonna open up?”
“Don’t know that I will,” Cooper said. “For now I’m just cleaning the place up. I’m not much of a cook...”
“Ben didn’t really cook. He warmed.”
“Did Ben live on egg sandwiches and deli stuff?” Cooper asked.
“I don’t know,” Charlie said. “He was good with drinks. All drinks. Coffee, cappuccino, wine, beer and liquor. If the day was nice, I’d end up here with a bunch of guys from town for a drink or two. Sport fishermen came here for a few before taking their boats over to the marina.”
“What about Cliffhanger’s? Or Waylan’s?”
“Cliffhanger’s is expensive and Waylan’s is a shit hole. But they have HD TV. The owner is trying to make it a sports bar. If you open up, get a TV.”
“Gotcha,” Cooper said.
Cooper and Rawley went through Ben’s living quarters, which were, to his surprise, tidy. He suspected Rawley had taken care of that, too. Ben had been in possession of a minimal wardrobe. “You want the clothes?” he asked Rawley.
“Too big for me,” he said. “I could use some old shirts and sweats for Dad. The rest could go to the VA.”
“Sure,” Cooper said.
“I’ll take ’em home and wash ’em up first. Then drop ’em off at the VA.”
“That’s above and beyond...” Cooper said.
“They deserve that. At least.”
Cooper was impressed. He was beginning to suspect that Rawley was a good and generous man, under his grump and grumble.
Ben had an old TV and stereo, a boom box—apparently he hadn’t graduated to the iPod yet—and bookcase that held many books about Oregon wildlife, mostly birds. He found Ben’s laptop, their primary means of communication the past ten years, and therein he found out a few things about Ben that he might’ve known if he’d been paying attention. Ben was an involved ornithologist. He might not hold any kind of degree, but the history on his computer showed almost daily visits to websites and blogs about birds, further explaining the preserve on his land.
Cooper had walked through the preserve all the way to the high cliff edge towering over the Pacific a few days earlier. The growth was thick but he’d found what appeared to be a seldom-traveled path through the spruce, Douglas fir and shrubs. The bright colors of fall battled with the dark green of fir trees; among the ground cover he saw withered plants he was willing to bet sprang into bloom with the spring and summer warmth. He’d spotted the remnants of many old nests, perhaps abandoned for the winter. There were some shells and some dead eggs, not to mention a few low-flying seabirds threatened by his presence. One lone eagle circled overhead for a little while. There was one tree in which perched a few birds that looked like small cranes.
Ben had saved a lot of online documents about bird preserves, about rare and endangered birds. There were pictures on his computer, pictures he’d taken himself—he was an avid bird-watcher. And there were large, high-powered binoculars hanging from nails all over the place.
He also found that Ben had saved many emails from Cooper and from Luke Riordan but very few from other people. It spurred a memory of an email Cooper had gotten from Ben, in which he casually said, “Since my father passed a couple of years ago...” Cooper had thought, a couple of years ago? He hadn’t notified his friends of his father’s death?
And then Cooper asked himself, who would he write about something like that? While Cooper liked a lot of people, he could count his good friends on one hand.
But Cooper had sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces and nephews who were always in touch. At least he was connected.
It was going to take him a long time to get through all of Ben’s saved emails, but over time he’d manage. There could be information in there about his intention for the property. There could even be some stray clue about what led to his death, if he had some issue with an enemy no one really knew about. He doubted it, but it was worth checking.
The weather was good that afternoon. Rawley had gone home with a lot of laundry to do and Cooper relaxed on the deck with the laptop. He counted nine kids on the beach—two wearing wet suits with paddleboards and oars out on the still bay, four batting a volleyball around, though they didn’t have a net set up, three girls parked on the sand, talking. There were three ATVs lined up behind them, although he hadn’t seen them arrive.
Cooper was just enjoying his view and the kids seemed to be having good, clean fun. There was a little monkey business—a guy grabbed a girl, stole a kiss, got punched, which made him laugh hysterically and then chase her, catch her, get a more receptive welcome the second time. The two guys with the boards went almost to the mouth of the bay, where the Pacific waves were high and challenging. Inside the bay was smooth as silk, dark as ink. Wet suits, very intelligent—the air was cold and the ocean much colder. But they were obviously pros; they barely got their feet wet. In the summer, Cooper bet there was a lot of snorkeling, maybe diving, maybe running surfboards out beyond the bay.
He shot a note off to his sister Rochelle and told her this was a pretty cool place, in fact. He had no idea what to do with it, though. Dry camping in the fifth wheel was not exactly convenient—he had to find a trailer park, dump the lav and reload potable water every few days. But he could at least run off the bar’s power and not his battery. He hadn’t told anyone in his family the extent to which he was tied to all this—he didn’t want any advice. His family, especially his sisters, was very good at telling him what he should do.
He saw the dog again, but not with the girl this time. A young man or boy was with him, throwing a ball for the dog as he walked. Husband? he wondered.
Then he saw the guy trying to give the kids on the beach a wide berth, walking all the way down to the surf to get by them without contact. The guys, six of them, two in wet suits, made a line across his path. The dog walker went the other way, headed inland for the hill, calling the dog to follow. The teenage boys reversed their position, blocking him again. The dog, half as big as a human, cowered behind his master.
Cooper, who had been in way too much trouble for fighting when he was younger, could see the fight brewing. He knew what was coming, and it was six on one. Then the guy who must be the ringleader shoved the loner. The loner stood taller; his shoulders widened a little, ready. The ringleader was seriously talking him down, leaning into him, verbally assaulting him. Then he shoved him again and the loner put his fists up.
“Not gonna happen, assholes,” Cooper said aloud to no one. He put down the laptop. Then he stood, put two fingers in his mouth and rent the air with a deafening whistle.
They all turned to see him standing on the deck of the now-defunct bait shop. His legs were braced apart, hands on his hips, and he watched. He hated bullies. He was ready to leap over the deck rail and barrel down to the beach to stand up for this guy, even though the guy, the loner, might be the problem. It didn’t matter if the loner had done something terrible, you don’t do that—you don’t attack someone in a fight that isn’t fair and balanced.
The teens watched him; he watched the teens.
Then the barricade wisely separated and the loner passed, headed for Cooper’s dock.
He wasn’t headed for Cooper. He went to the bottom of the steps that led up to the bar and sat. From there he threw the ball for the dog. Cooper let this go for about five minutes, then he descended to meet the guy. A very cranky-looking teenager looked up at him and said, “Thanks for that. I guess.”
“You guess? Would you rather I just watch them beat you up?”
“They probably wouldn’t have.” He looked back down to accept the Great Dane’s ball and throw it again.
“Probably wouldn’t have?” Cooper asked.
The kid shrugged.
“Have a little disagreement with your friends?”
The kid looked up and laughed. “Dude, they are not my friends!”
“Who are they, then?”
“Teammates. And that’s all.”
Cooper took another two steps down and sat on a step even with the kid. “You throw the last game or something?”
The kid gave him a very impatient look. He held on to the ball, all slimy with dog spit. The dog sat and panted happily, full of expectation. “You wouldn’t understand,” the kid said, finally throwing the ball.
“Wanna try me?”
The kid shot him an angry look. All defensive, hurt, full of impotent rage, and Cooper thought, Holy shit—that’s me! About twenty years ago or so...
“I’m the new kid,” he said. “Just moved here. Just in time for football, which was my fatal mistake. I wasn’t supposed to get on the team, much less make touchdowns. The asshole on the beach, he’s a senior. Team captain. He was counting on three things this year—being all-conference, being homecoming king and getting laid by every cheerleader in Coos County.”
Cooper had a strange reaction to that. First of all, being the new kid felt all too familiar to him. Getting in fights, though long ago, was fiercely memorable. Homecoming king—not Cooper! And cheerleaders? When he was in high school, he hadn’t been lucky enough to even date one, let alone anything more. He thought about Mac’s daughter, whom he’d met when he’d had dinner with the McCains a few nights ago. Eve was a lovely, virginal, delightful sixteen-year-old cheerleader who no one should be allowed to touch. Just to be ornery, he asked, “How many of those things are you going to rack up?”
The kid looked at him incredulously. “Seriously? Like I could ever get all-conference or get a date. Come on.”
“The kid who shoved you—who is he?”
A bitter laugh. “Jag Morrison. Crown prince of Thunder Point. And yes, that’s short for Jaguar, if you can believe anyone would name their kid that.”
“Shew,” Cooper said, shaking his head.
“Yeah.”
Cooper let that settle a little bit. Obviously there was some very bad blood there. It could be about anything—about this kid being a better ball player, about a girl, about anything. Finally Cooper asked, “Your dog have a name, kid?”
He laughed without humor. “Are you ready for it? Hamlet. It’s Danish.”
“You could use a tougher dog.”
“Tell me about it,” he said.
“How about you? Name?”
“How about you?” he shot back.
“Sorry,” he said, putting out his hand. “Hank Cooper. People just call me Cooper.”
The kid relaxed a little. “Landon Dupre.” He shot a glance at the teenagers on the beach, who were not going anywhere. It occurred to Cooper that they were looking for a second chance at bullying and intimidating Landon.
“Nice to meet you, Landon. So, what do your parents have to say about this new-kid issue you’ve got going on?”
“I don’t have parents.”
“Ah. So who do you report to?”
“Report to?” he mimicked with a mean laugh. “Gimme a break.”
“Look, I’m trying to figure out, in the nicest possible way, if your parents back you up, if you’re a street urchin, in foster care or just plain contrary.”
“I live with my sister,” he said. His voice dropped, as did his chin. It was either a measure of respect or misery.
“Ah, the girl in the red slicker.”
Landon looked up at him. “You know her?”
“I know the dog—she’s had him out on the beach a couple of times. He’s hard to miss, big as a horse.”
“And dumb as a stump.”
“Now, you shouldn’t put him down like that,” Cooper said. “You might damage his self-esteem.” Then grinned at the kid. “Why’d you get him?”
“My sister got him for me. He was a rescue—his owner had to deploy. It was her idea of some kind of consolation prize because she moved me right before my best season ever.”
The dog was back, dropping the ball, sitting expectantly, saliva running out of his jowls. “Hamlet, here, he has a drooling issue.”
“It’s horrible. I don’t know what was wrong with a good old German shepherd.”
Cooper laughed in spite of himself, happy he was not this kid’s guardian. “Why’d you move here?”
“Divorce.”
“You’re divorced?” Cooper asked facetiously.
Landon’s head snapped around at Cooper and, seeing his smile, melted a little bit. “She got divorced, couldn’t afford so much house, wanted a smaller town so she could keep track of me better—which I so appreciate, if you can understand. And she didn’t enjoy running into the ex. Now I get that, but really, do we have to move to Podunk, Oregon, where the natives just want to kick the shit out of me every day? Seriously?”
“Have you told her?” Cooper asked. He almost looked over his shoulder to see who was talking. This was the weirdest interaction he’d ever had. He sounded like his father.
The kid’s chin dropped again. “I’m not hiding behind my sister, dude. Besides, she’s got her own troubles.”
Cooper, who had big sisters, absolutely got that. But all he said was, “Is this ‘dude’ thing almost over? Calling everyone dude? I never caught on to that....”
“Well, dude, you might wanna catch up.”
“Or you might,” he said. “So, anyone back you up? I mean, anyone? Teachers? Ministers? Corrections officers?”
“Funny. You’re a real comedian.”
“I am, huh. But I’m serious, everyone needs a wingman. I got in fights when I was your age. I don’t know what it was about me....”
“Want a second opinion?” he said.
Cooper laughed at his sarcasm. “Okay, never mind. I think I’m catching on.”
“Ben,” Landon said. “Ben was my friend.”
Stunned, Cooper was silent. Then he put a hand on Landon’s shoulder. “He was my friend, too. I’m sorry, man.”
“Yeah. Well. Whatever happened? It shouldn’t have.”
He gathered strays, Cooper thought. He gave Rawley work, protected Landon and made sure Gina’s Jeep was running. Who knew how many others he helped? He protected the birds and fish. He had a lot of friends and no real friends. He took care of the town in his way, keeping this little piece of beach safe.