The Wanderer (3 page)

There was some loud popping and shrieking on the beach and he automatically reached for that Glock, but it was followed by laughter. Firecrackers. Then there was some chanting.
Go, Cougars, Go. Go, Cougars, Go. Go, Go, Get ’Em, Get ’Em, Go, Get ’Em, Go!

Cheers. That’s what was going on. It was October. Football and teenagers. This was what coastal kids did after a game and probably all summer long. Coop had spent many of his early years on the Gulf, but by the time he was a teenager his parents had moved inland, away from the water to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Cooper and his friends often went out to the remote desert, away from the prying eyes of adults where they could build a fire, drink a few beers, make out with their girlfriends.

What a perfect setup. There was a whole coastline all the way to Canada, but this little piece of it didn’t have easy access. You either came at it by way of Ben’s or from the town, on foot or armed with a beach mobile. There wouldn’t be many strangers around.

He went back to his camper and settled in—door locked, gun handy. He let the TV drown out the noise from the kids until it faded away. In the morning he brewed coffee and took a cup with him to the dock, then the beach. Although he had no investment in this place, he found himself hoping they had cleaned up after themselves and hadn’t left trash all over the beach.

And what do you know? There were a couple of big green trash cans with lids up against the hill, full of bottles, cans, snack wrappers, spent firecrackers. The tide had taken out the remnants of a fire. Except for being raked, the beach was cleaned up. Who were these kids? The Stepford teenagers?

He took a deep breath of foggy sea air and decided he’d shower and hit the town. He’d like to know a little more about this place.

* * *

Cooper thought about taking the Rhino across the beach to the town, but instead he took the truck back up to 101, just to check out the distance. The freeway curved east, to the right, away from the town, and it was five miles before he saw a small sign for Thunder Point. Then it was a left turn and another five miles to access the town. He was about a mile, maybe mile and a half across the beach, or ten miles on the road.

Heading into Thunder Point from 101, he passed the high school—circa 1960s—on the edge of town. Not too big, he noted. Then he came to the main street, Indigo Sea Drive.

He had passed through a hundred towns like this, maybe a thousand. There wasn’t a lot of commerce—dry cleaner, bakery, diner. There was a very small library at the end of the street. Next to it, the elementary and middle schools sat side by side. He spotted a secondhand clothing store right next to a thrift shop and wondered what the difference was. There was a grocery, liquor store, pharmacy, gas station, hardware store and small motel. There was a dingy-looking bar, Waylan’s. And yes, Fresh Fish. There was also McDonald’s, Taco Bell, Subway and Carrie’s Deli and Catering. The Sheriff’s Department was a small storefront that sat between the deli and a boarded-up store, although a man was tearing the boards off one large window. New business moving in? Cooper wondered.

Driving around, he discovered four roads that ran downhill to the beach or marina, through the neighborhoods that surrounded the main street. The beach and the bay were like a basin dug out of the land. All roads seemed to lead either up or down—down to the marina, up to the main street, down to the beach, up to Bailey’s.

It appeared the main street and marina were the life of the town. Most of the slips were empty—fishing boats, out early in the morning, he assumed. He saw two boat-launch ramps and a fueling station. There were a number of small fishing and pleasure boats still tied up and one big cabin cruiser. There was a restaurant—Cliffhanger’s, which also advertised a bar—at the far end of the marina, far enough up the hill to avoid high tides and flooding.

He went back to the main street and drove west, out onto the point. There were houses out there, as well. On the end of the promontory was a very large home with a gated driveway. Whoever owned that house got the best view imaginable, as the point was a high, rocky cliff. From Ben’s deck he had noticed a small lighthouse, somewhere below this mansion.

It wasn’t exactly a cute little town, but there were some nice touches, like big pots of flowers in front of some businesses, old-fashioned lampposts, benches here and there along wide sidewalks.

He reasoned the best places to perch for local news would be one of the bars or the local diner. Cliffhanger’s wasn’t open yet. Waylan’s probably was, but he wasn’t in the mood for a seedy bar. He went to the diner and sat at the counter. It was either designed to be retro or it was fifty years old. By the cracks in the linoleum floor, he guessed it was all about age. The waitress was there in a flash, with a coffeepot in her hand. Her blond hair was in a ponytail and she wore a black-and-white-checkered blouse. Her name tag said Gina.

“Good morning, Gina,” he said.

She filled his cup. “And good morning, strange man. Hungry?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. What have you got for eggs?” Cooper asked.

She put down the coffeepot and leaned both hands on the counter. With a wide smile, she said, “It’s the darnedest thing, we have eggs for eggs.”

He couldn’t suppress a grin. “Mess up a couple for me. Toast, too, and...you have sausage for sausage?”

“Link or patty?”

“Patty,” he said.

“Whole wheat or whole wheat?”

“Why don’t I live recklessly? Whole wheat.”

“Good choice. It’s better for you. Now drink that coffee slow so I don’t have to keep coming back here.”

“Could I have some ice water?” He looked around. The small diner was empty of customers. “If it’s not too much trouble?”

“It’s extra,” she said. She turned and slapped the ticket on the cook’s counter.

“I can afford it,” he said. “But it might cut into your tip.”

She fixed up an ice water and placed it before him. “If it’s going to cut into my tip, I won’t charge you for it. You think I work here for the wages?” She gave the counter a wipe. “I know you’re not just passing through—there’s only two ways into this town, and both are inconvenient.”

“Two ways?” he asked, confident she was going to tell him about Gibbons to Bailey’s, down the hill, or Indigo Sea Drive, right through the heart of town.

“By land or by sea,” she said. “We are en route to nowhere.”

“I am, though. Passing through. Ben Bailey was a friend of mine and I just heard—”

She got a stricken look on her face. “Oh, I’m sorry! Man, we miss Ben around here.”

“That’s why I’m hanging around—to meet some of his friends. Ben and I met in the Army, a long time ago. We stayed in touch, but I’ve never been up here before.”

“Ben was such a nice guy—the last person I could imagine losing.”

“Who were his closest friends?” Cooper asked.

“Oh, hell, no one and everyone,” she said with a shrug. “Ben kind of watched over the whole town, but I don’t know of any one or two people he was best friends with.”

The door opened and Mac came in. He wasn’t in uniform this morning and looked just as comfortable in jeans, boots, plaid shirt and jacket.

“This is the guy you should probably ask,” Gina said. “Hey, Mac.”

He pulled off his cap and sat next to Cooper at the counter. “Ask me what?”

“This guy was a friend of Ben’s—”

“We’ve met,” Mac said, sticking out a hand. “How’s it going, Mr. Cooper?”

Cooper laughed. “Every time you call me Mr. Cooper, I wonder if my father just entered the room. My name’s actually Hank, short for Henry, but people call me Cooper.”

“Is that a military thing? Last name?”

“It started way before the Army. I’m a junior—Henry Davidson Cooper, Junior. My dad goes by Hank, but no one went for Henry or little Hank so I got saddled with Little Cooper until I wasn’t so little, then just Cooper. Sometimes Coop. Take your pick. It’s going all right. That beach can get busy at night.”

“Kids,” Mac confirmed. “They behave?”

“Not only did they behave, they cleaned up.”

“Yeah, you can give Ben credit for that. That whole stretch of beach right up to the town and marina is...
was
his. He let it go public. He’d walk down there from time to time when it was real active, a bunch of kids, and inform them in his way that the minute he had to clean up the beach after campers or partiers, he’d have a fence erected and close it. He put out trash cans and once a week or so he’d check to see if they needed emptying. He had rules for his beach.”

“He policed the beach?” Cooper asked.

“Yeah, but it was more about the wildlife than saving him work. He didn’t want things like plastic bags or rings from six-packs left in the sand or washing out with the tide, killing fish or getting picked up by a bird and causing harm, like strangling it. Or choking it. About once a year he’d post a couple of Private Property signs, kind of a warning or a reminder. Word spread about his place, his beach. He had regular motorcycle or cycling groups come through in summer, he called them his weekend warriors. He had a real scary-looking gang camping on the beach once but he confronted them, told them it was his property and they were welcome to use it if there were no firearms, no underage drinking, no drugs, didn’t give the town any trouble and if they threw away their trash so it wouldn’t harm wildlife.” Mac shook his head as he laughed. “He never bothered to call in reinforcements—I heard about the riders the next day, but Ben never called me. The riders kept it cool, threw away their trash and thanked him for the use of his beach. He had a way about him, you know? That incident was a long time ago and according to Ben and folks in town, in the end they were a docile bunch. Ben’s place usually attracted more graybeards, out for the weekend.”

“Graybeards?”

“Older riders—minimum age fifty or so. Ben was a pretty easygoing guy and nothing scared him. He always got along with anyone.”

“I know,” Cooper said.

Gina put Cooper’s breakfast in front of him and refilled his coffee cup.

“Good call on the eggs,” Mac said. “You tell him?” he asked Gina.

“Nope. It was his first choice.”

“Burgers here are great,” Mac said. “Sandwiches are pretty good, soup has good days, meat loaf is terrible—don’t know why Stu keeps making it, no one in this town is fool enough to eat it. It’s god-awful. He just fries the hell out of eggs, so either get ’em scrambled, over hard, omelet or hard-boiled. In fact, anything he can just fry to death or broil is pretty good.”

“Why doesn’t the owner get a better cook?”

“The owner
is
the cook, that’s the primary reason,” Gina said. Then, looking at Mac, she asked, “Everyone get to where they’re going?”

“Eve and Ashley are at cheerleading practice, Ryan’s at football and Lou took Dee Dee to dance. Just so you know, Eve and Ashley went in your mother’s car.”

Gina nodded but had a grave look on her face.

“You two...?” Cooper started to ask.

“Single parents,” Gina said. “Our daughters are best friends. Most of the time.”

“So you back each other up?” Cooper asked, shoveling some eggs in his mouth.

“Lotta back up,” Mac explained. “My aunt lives with me, Gina’s mother lives with her. It takes a village...where have I heard that before. You married, Cooper?”

“Nah. No one would have me.”

“Maybe it’s because you live out of a toy hauler, ever think of that?” Mac asked.

Cooper grinned. “Could be. Well, now that I have the lay of the land, I can get eggs and coffee a lot easier. Straight across the beach in the Rhino. Except, I think I got what I came for—I wanted to know what the hell happened to Ben. Have I heard everything I’m going to hear?”

“The coroner ruled on it, but I’m keeping my eyes open. It’s not an open case, but this is my town and Ben was a good guy. If I hear anything suspicious, I’ll be investigating myself,” Mac said.

“What about this Rawley Goode?” Cooper asked.

“Weird Rawley?” Gina asked with a curl of her lip.

“Aw, Rawley’s got his troubles,” Mac said. “I just hope he doesn’t wander off, now that Ben’s gone and the place is closed.”

“I was kind of hoping he would wander off,” Gina said.

“You have a problem with Rawley?” Cooper asked.

“I have a problem with the way he looks you in the eye like he can see straight through you and says ab-so-lutely nothing. It’s creepy.”

Mac chuckled. “That’s pretty much why Ben gave him a dishrag and a broom and some kitchen chores. They seemed to understand each other.”

“This place—everyone works together, understands each other, cleans up after each other, a regular Stepford...”

“We have as many idiots, assholes and troublemakers as any town, but you know what the difference is between this town and any other town?”

Cooper leaned his head on his hand. “I can’t wait. What’s the difference?”

Mac pushed his coffee cup toward Gina for a refill. “I know who they are.”

Three

C
ooper learned a few things about the town and Ben. Ben had helped Gina keep her old Jeep running, for one thing, and never charged her except for parts. He’d bought ads for the backs of kids’ soccer and Little League team jerseys—Bailey’s Bait Shop. He had a bird sanctuary on his land that stretched all the way out to the high, rocky cliffs above the ocean. In addition to the eagles, there were seabirds who lived off the water but returned inland to nest, mate and lay eggs. Cooper remembered Ben emailing him something about that, more than once.

Ben apparently hadn’t done particularly social things, like volunteer as assistant coach for kids’ teams, but he attended town gatherings and meetings and ate out at the diner and Cliffhanger’s. He contributed a lot, not the least of which was the beach. This was the Ben that Cooper had known—not shy or antisocial, but satisfied with his own company. He hadn’t had a long career in the Army, just a few years. As Coop’s helicopter mechanic at Fort Rucker, he was meticulous and verged on extraordinary, but he had issues with rules, probably one of the reasons Cooper took to him.
“Bailey, where’s your hat?” “In my pocket, sir!” “Why isn’t it on your head?” “Because I can’t get my head in my pocket, sir!”

He learned the marina was small in comparison to others in the region. The crabbers and fishermen who docked there lived in the town, but took most of their catch to larger harbors, although they kept some of it to sell to locals or to Cliffhanger’s. Some of the commercial fishermen had been in business for generations. The marina also held sport and pleasure boats, mostly used by Thunder Point’s residents. The bay was a safe, quiet place, protected by the promontories from hostile weather.

When Cooper parted ways with Mac after his breakfast, he said, “I don’t think there’s much reason for me to hang around, except maybe the view from Ben’s deck. What will happen to his place?”

Mac shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe there will be a search for a next of kin, or maybe it’ll sit until it’s in default of liens or taxes, then auctioned. That’s not Sheriff’s Department business. Damn shame, though. People enjoyed the beach, the bar.”

“It’s pretty run-down,” Cooper pointed out.

“If you think the outside is a little tired-looking, you should see inside. Well, people didn’t have real high expectations of the place, but it served a purpose. You may have noticed, it’s not a fancy town.”

Mac already had Cooper’s cell number, but in a gesture of friendliness, he gave Cooper his before they said goodbye at the diner.

Since Cooper had no plans or pressing business, he spent a couple of days just driving around the area—up to Coos Bay, into the hills, to the casino in North Bend—keeping his trailer as a home base. One sunny afternoon, he got out his laptop and found a chair on Ben’s deck, facing the bay. In just a few days, he’d come to the conclusion the damp, foggy morning was typical of the Oregon Coast. Sunshine usually arrived midmorning, at the latest, but it was cold enough this October afternoon to require a jacket. Before he opened his laptop and logged on, he saw her again—the woman and her dog. She threw the stick and waited for the large black-and-white dog to bring it back. The dog had the longest legs; he was half as tall as the woman. It was the same woman—red slicker with the hood up, black knee-high rubber boots, hands plunged into her pockets while she waited for the dog. She was walking toward his end of the beach, but before she was close enough for him to get a glimpse of her face, she turned and headed back toward the town.

He logged on, checking his email, looking up from time to time to watch the progress of the woman and dog. She was too far away for him to be taken by her looks, but he was intrigued nonetheless. There was something about her that was so...lonely. They probably had that in common. Cooper had no trouble getting to know people or making friends, yet he rarely did. He was a loner; he knew that about himself. It didn’t take much to turn a man solitary—being the new guy too often, being controversial now and then, a couple of unsuccessful attempts at a lasting relationship with a woman....

He sent a note to Luke Riordan—they’d been a scrappy pair of combat-ready helicopter pilots fifteen years ago and Ben had been their mechanic. Not too surprisingly, Ben had been the most stable of the threesome. So Cooper filled Luke in on the details of Ben’s death. Cooper described the property, the beach, the town and the fact that Ben’s place might end up just being auctioned.

Then he emailed his father and his oldest sister, Rochelle, to tell them where he was, although his cell was working just fine and they could reach him if there was any family business. His parents and three married sisters lived in or near Albuquerque. When he could, he made short visits to New Mexico, but he didn’t spend a lot of time there. Cooper was close to his family, but their relationship was complicated. There was a part of him that felt he’d failed them by never settling down, marrying, having a family and a stable career...and there was a part of him that thought they’d had unreasonable expectations and tried to push him in directions he wasn’t capable of going.

He heard an engine from the highway far above. He shut down and closed his laptop. Leaving it on the chair, he walked around the deck and witnessed an old pickup come down the road from 101. Even before he saw the driver, he knew this must be Rawley. The truck was ancient enough to be a classic, but the engine ran smooth. That had to be Ben’s work. The tires were new and shiny, cleaned and buffed to new-car life.

Then the guy parked and got out—yes, had to be Rawley. He was a skinny, balding, grizzled man in his sixties, looking pretty worn-out, and he wore an American flag shirt with his old jeans. He had a scarf or rag bandanna tied around his head and a gray ponytail, circa the sixties. He walked right up to Cooper.

Cooper stuck out his hand. “Rawley?” he asked.

The man’s expression didn’t even change. Rather than shaking Cooper’s hand, he put a thick envelope in his grasp. Then he turned to go back to his truck.

“Hey,” Cooper said. “What’s this?”

But Rawley kept walking and Cooper kept watching him. When Rawley got back to his truck, he didn’t get in. He leaned against the passenger side, crossed his legs leisurely, arms folded over his chest. He gave a nod and waited.

Cooper opened the envelope and pulled out a thick document, folded in thirds. When he unfolded it, he found a will that had been drawn up by Lawrence Carnegie, Attorney-at-Law. It was pages long. But on top was a lime-green sticky note that said, “Take care of things, Coop.”

He looked up at Rawley. “He wants me to take care of this?”

Rawley rolled his eyes as if to say,
Right, stupid. What did the note say?

Cooper glanced through the document quickly. He’d assumed that Ben wanted him as executor, but it took about two seconds to see that Ben was leaving this place to
him.
Looking a little further, it appeared that included the structure and the land. And the beach? The document was four pages of legalese. There was probably something in here that explained special conditions of some kind, but that was going to take a closer, slower look. Meanwhile, he became aware of a key inside the envelope.

“To the bar?” he asked Rawley.

Again Rawley rolled his eyes, saying nothing.

Cooper almost eye-rolled him right back. But he took the key in one hand and the document in the other and walked around the deck to the ocean side, where he slipped it into the lock on a set of double doors that could open wide onto the deck. The seal on the doors was good, probably to protect against heavy storms or tsunamis. He pulled open the door and was immediately assaulted by the foulest smell he’d ever encountered. Hadn’t they said Ben had been buried? Because this smell was worse than a rotting body. It took about three steps into the bar/bait shop to realize they had septic issues, combined with what smelled like rotting fish and maybe garbage. The electricity had been turned off. He yelled, “Rawley!”

The response he got was the sound of a truck. Departing.

* * *

An hour later, Cooper placed a call to Mac’s cell phone. It was late afternoon now and the sun was shining, which did not cheer Cooper. It not only helped cook the smells in the bar/bait shop but also brought people out to the beach, walking dogs, nosing around or jogging. It was too chilly for swimming or picnicking. At the sight of someone opening doors and windows at Ben’s place, a few brave souls came close, curious. By the time they made it to the deck, they covered their noses and retreated. Quickly.

“Mac,” Cooper said into the phone. “Boy, do I have a situation.”

“What’s up?”

“Start with, Rawley brought me what seems to be a will. It’ll have to be verified, but it looks in order. Ben left this place to me.”

“Whoa. Did you see that coming?”

“He never even hinted at such a thing. Second, there was a key and I went inside. Holy mother of God, there are too many rotten things in there to count. The electricity was turned off and his bait tank is full of dead fish, stagnant, moldy water and God knows what all. And I’m pretty sure I smell septic backup. I have the doors and windows open, but the place is impenetrable. Do you know anyone? Like maybe a crime-scene cleanup crew? Or something?”

“There’s a flood and environmental cleanup company up in North Bend. Also a hazardous chemical cleanup crew up there.”

Cooper couldn’t stop a cough. “Oh, yeah, definitely some hazardous chemicals in there. Got a number?”

“Let me call ’em,” Mac said. “I’ll book the first available slot for an estimate. You planning on cleaning it up?”

“It’s not how I planned my week, but someone has to do it. I wouldn’t count on Rawley. He handed me the will and a key and took off like a bat out of hell.”

Mac laughed.

“Come out here and take a deep breath and then laugh, sucker,” Cooper said. “We might need a wrecking crew if the smell can’t be conquered.”

“I think I will come out. I mean, I’m curious. Let me make a couple of calls on the way.”

To keep from inhaling poisonous gases, Cooper took up residence on the dock. Even there, he could smell it. He was not entirely surprised when he caught sight of the Sheriff’s Department SUV coming at him, not from the road but right across the beach.

Mac pulled up to the dock and got out. He was wearing his uniform.

“You working?” Cooper asked.

“I’m pretty much always working, but I don’t drive the company car unless I’m in uniform. It’s for official business only. We have rules.” He looked up the steps to the bar and wrinkled his nose. “Hoo, boy.”

“Tell me about it. I never took Ben for a prankster. ‘Here, I’m leaving you all my worldly goods, but you might have to torch it all.’”

“You think the will is legit?” Mac asked.

Cooper pulled a thick document folded into thirds out of his back pocket and handed it to Mac. “You know Lawrence Carnegie?”

“Yup. He’s a lawyer in town. He takes care of some local stuff. I guess Ben hired him.”

“Appears so. I gotta say, I never expected anything like this. Don’t you tell someone if you’re planning to do something like this?”

Mac shrugged. “I have a will and I haven’t told anyone the details, mainly because I don’t want my kids thinking if they kill me in my sleep they’ll get a car or something. My aunt Lou, who’s in charge anyway, is the executor. And hell, I don’t even have anything worth leaving. Do you have a will?”

“Nothing fancy,” he said. “I have savings. It’ll be divided between my nieces and nephews if there’s anything left when I go—I was thinking it could help with college. And no, I never told anyone.”

Mac was flipping through the few pages. “I think I can explain Ben’s reasoning, or at least the history behind this place. Ben’s father was kind of old when Ben came back to Thunder Point. He was sick, had a stroke. That was right before I was transferred here. He was failing.”

“I remember, Ben got out of the Army ten years ago or so to help his dad,” Cooper said. “I heard something about a store here. Obviously he wasn’t real specific....”

“Well, everything was transferred into Ben’s name so that several years later, when his dad passed, there was no will, no probate, and most important, no tax issues.”

Cooper put his hands in his pockets. “How would you know something like that?”

“Purely gossip, I’m afraid,” Mac said. “The talk is that when the old man passed, there were a lot of interested buyers who assumed these hicks who ran a run-down bait shop and bar hadn’t prepared for the worst. The land is worth some money, Cooper. If there hadn’t been a trust or a transfer, the inheritance tax alone could’ve foreclosed Ben, forced him to sell. You know, there are a bunch of little moth-eaten towns around here, but we also have big resorts, the kind that host PGA tournaments or world-class hunting and draw some big money. And this area, oceanfront and five miles of natural beauty to the freeway, is prime for something like that. Something that could improve local economy. There are lots of people in town who wanted Ben to let it go. And, hey, you coming into the property...that might make people happy, assuming you’ll just sell it.”

Cooper reached into his pocket and pulled out the sticky note that had been attached to the will.
Take care of things, Coop.
He passed it to Mac. “That sound like he wants me to sell it?”