The Last Annual Slugfest (20 page)

Looking across the bridge, I could make out a light in the gatehouse. I followed the road another quarter of a mile into Jenner and pulled into the first street that led to the houses on the hillside. I parked next to a clump of juniper, got out, and made my way back down to the main road. At the foot of the hill were a couple of bars. Should anyone pass me, they would assume I was headed there. After that, there was nothing before the fish ranch.

At the fish ranch bridge, I paused. The only things on this side of the river were tall grass and one utility pole. There weren’t even trees this close to the ocean. Across the narrow, forty-foot bridge was the drive to the gatehouse, the ditch, and the hurricane fence that ran around three sides of the compound. On the fourth side of the compound was the water. Even in the dark, I could make out the dock that led out into the inlet and the water hitting against the building.

I could still go back. In all likelihood, the electricity had come on in my house. I could take a shower, make myself presentable, and call Harry Bramwell and try to explain. If I hadn’t been so frightened, I would have laughed.

Crouching next to the railing, I ran across the bridge, then kept behind the hedge of pampas grass till I was nearly to the gate. The ocean wind blew strong here in the open. The tall strawlike stalks of grass bent back away from the water, slashing wildly in the wind. Bending low, I kept on the far side of them till I was nearly to the gatehouse.

The gatehouse was a six-foot-square building. The guard could keep an eye on the entry road through a window in the upper half of the Dutch door. Each of the other three walls had one window. The light was on, but from this angle I couldn’t see the guard inside. There was nothing to do but spring up and look. If the guard spotted me … I didn’t want to think what this violent man, penned up night after night, waiting for interlopers who never came, would do if he caught the one interloper Maxie Dawkins had told him to watch out for. “Just waiting to smash ass,” Maxie had said of him.

Still partially screened by the pampas grass, I sprung up, looked, and dropped back down to all fours. The guard fit Maxie Dawkins’s description of him. He was big, and thick. Everything about him was thick: his neck, his shoulders, his arms, his chest, even his nose. He looked like a man who would enjoy smashing the woman who had called Angelina a lesbian.

Protected by the noise of the wind and rain, I might be able to crawl right next to the building, under the windows. And hope the guard didn’t decide to look down. The gate was open. Why? Did such an ominous guard feel no need to keep the gate locked? Or was there a more practical reason for its being open—someone coming in, or being taken out?

If I could make it past, the wooden backing of the gate would hide me from the guard. Then there would only be those intestine-like cement ditches between me and the building itself.

Bunching up the front of my slicker, I crawled forward, listening with each move, hoping that the wind would cover any sounds I made but not muffle those of the guard. I edged up to the building, my right shoulder nearly touching its side. The sandy ground squished under my hands; my jeans were soaked from the rain. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t swallow. The light from the windows shone down on the road beside me. I wanted to push up off my knees, to race forward, but I forced myself to keep down, to move slowly, to listen. I passed under the door and came to the edge of the gatehouse. The gate was two yards ahead—two yards with no cover. If he looked, the guard couldn’t miss me no matter how low I kept. I pushed off my knees and raced, crablike, around the gate.

My heart pounded under the plastic of my slicker. The rain smacked my face; my sopping cap clung to my head, and under it my hair was becoming wet. The briny smell of the ocean filled the air. There was no sound from the gatehouse. Squatting, I leaned back against the gate. The fish ranch building was thirty feet away, with its door on the far side. The rain shrouded the lights, but I could make out the rosebushes next to the building and those looping cement ditches, waiting, empty, for the salmon fry.

Behind me, the wooden covering of the gate extended up four feet. It would cover me for maybe two yards, if I kept low. Beyond that, I was back to luck. But now I had no choice. Dropping my hands to the ground, I raced forward and flung myself into the ditch.

The ditch was three feet deep, its bottom rough cement. Lying flat out, I inched toward the building. The wind slapped wet against my face. Looking back at the light in the gatehouse, I took a breath, pushed myself up, and raced behind the partial cover of the naked rosebushes.

The door to the gatehouse opened.

I didn’t wait to see where the guard was headed. I ran behind the flower beds and around the corner of the building to the water. Behind me, through the whipping of the wind, came a thud—the guard leaping heavily across the ditch. I spun around. He was huge. He could break my arms, ribs, back, neck. He could leave me a mass of pulp in the ditch.

There was nothing to do but take my chances with the ocean. Even if it was twenty feet deep, my odds were better there than with the guard. Grabbing the side of the dock, I swung under it. My feet struck hard against the bottom. The storm-driven waves crashed in from the sides. Momentarily I saw the guard’s feet on the rocks. I let the waves push me under the center of the dock. The water smashed against me on both sides; it struck the aluminum building and slapped back into my face. It swept my cap off. I tried to get a foothold, failed, and sat heavily, my head dragged down under the swirling water. Salt water shot up my nose. I slammed my feet down into the sand and pushed up. My head hit the dock hard, but my feet held. I gasped for breath, then braced my hands against the dock above me and listened. But the crashing of the waves blocked out any other noises. I saw the flashlight beam pass over the water.

Was the guard certain someone had gotten into the complex? Or was he just checking? Had he seen me behind the rose bushes, or had the darkness shielded me? Or had I left footprints in the rose beds? If the guard spotted one, he surely wouldn’t stop till he found me, no matter how well hidden I was. The unlikeliness of my hiding place would only mean it would take him longer to discover me, and he’d be in a rage by the time he did. If I hadn’t drowned first.

I pressed my hands harder against the dock, and waited. The flashlight beam shone on the other side of the dock and disappeared. The waves tossed the water up against my neck. I shivered. The water pulled at my boots. Still, I waited.

I tried to count, to change the unmoving time into minutes, but the waves kept knocking me to the side and I never got beyond twenty. After what seemed like hours, but was probably no more than ten minutes, with no sight or sound of the guard, I pulled my feet loose, trudged to the far side of the dock, and, grabbing thankfully at the edge, raised myself up.

The guard was nowhere to be seen. I flung myself at the rocky bank next to the building, crawled up, and lay back against the aluminum wall. My sopping clothes clung icily to my body. I shivered violently. Vainly I tried to listen for alien movements through the whirling of the wind and the crashing of the waves.

Bracing against the building, I stood up and moved to the corner. Ahead of me was darkness. I forced myself to survey the area—the side of the building, the rose bed, the looping ditches, the shed with the auxiliary generator beyond, and a veritable mountain of large crates piled against the fence beside it. But nothing moved; no guard.

There were also no windows in the building.

“Damn!” I muttered aloud. I knew that. I had been in here often enough to read the meter. How many times had Maxie Dawkins led me to the meter, complaining all the while about the skylights that had to be scrubbed clean monthly, grumbling that Angelina Rudd insisted on having them for natural light. “She would have had a convertible dome if she could,” he’d insisted. Now, I remembered all too clearly: the building had a slew of skylights, but not one window!

The wind blew my slicker tight around my legs. The rain splattered on my shoulders and hit hard against my back. Water from my soaking sweater and jeans ran down my body. I tried the doorknob—locked. There was no way in but through the skylights. Climbing up on the roof in this weather, with that guard nearby, was the last thing I wanted to do. But it was the only thing to do. I couldn’t even use the excuse of not knowing where they kept the ladder. I had seen Maxie put it away the last time I read the meter.

With a sigh, I glanced around at the dark yard. There was nothing to keep me from walking beside the ditch, leaping the curve at the end and taking a few steps to the rear fence, and picking up the ladder that lay against it. Once I had it, I could only hope that the guard didn’t check the grounds again.

I hurried to the shed. This little building, the one I
didn’t
need to get into, did have windows, and a light on inside. Standing on its protected side, I glanced in. Despite the rain veiling the window, I could make out gardening supplies on the shelf. The nicotine wasn’t even hidden! It stood innocently in a half-pint bottle next to a bag of snail pellets. But Maxie Dawkins’s bottle of Estrin was gone. And the ladder, too long to fit inside, leaned against the fence.

Picking it up, I headed back across the open space. It was aluminum—light—but the wind seesawed its ten-foot length back and forth, and when I jumped down into the ditch, I had to hold on with all my strength to keep it from banging to the ground. Reaching the side of the building, I leaned it against the roof, with a bang. I froze, trying to make out the sound of footsteps above the noise of the rain and wind. But I could hear nothing.

I pushed the ends of the ladder hard into the muddy rose bed, hoping they would hold against the wind. My balance was good from my two years of standing tiptoe on the edge of walkways, looking up to read the five dials of the meter. But if the wind knocked the ladder over, balance wouldn’t help. I would land flat on my back, with the ladder on top of me and the guard glaring down. I pushed harder. Climbing to the first step, I bounced on it, jamming the feet into the ground. It still didn’t feel sturdy, but it would have to do.

I moved up to the second step. The ladder shimmied, but held. The wind caught my slicker, flapping it forward against the ladder. I climbed on, pausing with each step, listening. But there was only the searing of the wind and the taste of salt in my mouth.

The roof was peaked, but the slant gentle. I pulled myself up and over the edge. The prefab roof was smooth. My knees slipped and banged into the gutter; pain shot down my shins. I turned, braced my feet against the gutter, and reached for the nearest skylight. The roof was full of skylights. There were five rows of four each. They took up at least half of the roof space. Surely, it wasn’t too much to hope that one of the twenty would have a faulty latch. Every skylight I knew of had some problem. Why should Angelina’s be the exception? I reached for the latch on the one next to me.

Brakes squealed.

I peered over the peak of the roof. There were headlights at the gate.

There was no time to get down off the roof. With my feet braced against the gutter, I grabbed the top of the ladder and pulled. The uprights banged against the edge of the building. I moved my hands down the slippery metal. It banged again. I froze, listening for the slamming of doors, the slapping of running feet. I could hear nothing through the whirl of the wind, but that didn’t mean that nothing was happening. I could still picture the guard as he’d been, standing by the ditch. Taking a breath, I lowered my hands, pulled again, and on the fourth pull, I turned the ladder on its side and yanked it up over the edge of the roof and lay it against the gutter.

Crawling to the peak of the roof, I peered over. The vehicle at the gate looked like a pickup, from the height of the headlights. I waited, hoping it would make a turn and leave. The wind blew my hair into my eyes and mouth. The rain beat my back. My feet, wedged against the edges of two skylights, cramped. I pressed them hard against the skylights and willed myself to outlast the cramps. Then the truck started up and crossed the parking area.

I flattened myself against the roof. Below, I could hear the truck coming around to the side of the building. I pressed closer to the roof. The brakes squealed again. A door opened. I listened for voices, but I could hear only the wind slapping the aluminum building and flicking the edge of my slicker. Stiffening my legs, I let go with one hand, grabbed the hem of the slicker, and held it down.

The truck door slammed shut. I held my breath. From the ground came paired thumps. Footsteps? Was the driver coming to investigate the holes where I had pushed the ladder into the ground?

I pressed harder into the roof; strained to make out voices; failed. Footsteps thudded again. Closer? Farther? I couldn’t tell. The truck door opened and slammed. The engine started. The truck pulled away. I held my breath, waiting for it to stop, for the driver to change his mind.

But it didn’t. I pulled myself up to see over the peak and watched as the truck drove out the gate.

Had the driver not noticed the holes, or was he going to get help?

I didn’t have time to consider that. I checked the latch of the nearest skylight. It held firm. The one next to it was no more promising. I must have tried seven or eight before I found a broken latch. It was in one of the side rows, probably ten feet above floor level. If I lowered myself over the edge, and hung on, the drop shouldn’t be more than four feet. I pulled the window back, laying it against the roof. I looked down. The interior of the building was black. It might be warm and quiet down there—safe, relatively speaking. Or it might hold the guard. But I couldn’t stay up here.

Clinging with both hands, I lowered one foot over the edge, then dropped the other, just as the wind gusted. The skylight cover bounced. The hinges creaked. It slammed on my fingers.

I let go and fell.

M
Y FEET STRUCK CEMENT
. I sat down hard on the floor. My hands hit a split second too late to break my fall, but soon enough to push my wrists back the wrong way and send stabs of pain through my fingers. The room was black. It reeked of fish and chemicals. I stayed as I was, listening for the heavy, angry breath of the night guard.