Winter Tides E-Book

James P. Blaylock

• Herausgeber: JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: The Ghosts Trilogy
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 621

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Fifteen years ago, on a deserted California beach, Dave Quinn swam out into the winter ocean to save two drowning girls - identical twin sisters. He was only able to save one. Now, years last, he meets Anne, a strugglng artist from Canada. He has no idea she is the child he saved so long ago. And he has no idea that Elinor, the long-dead sister he couldn't save, has come with her... REVIEWS: "... a singular American fabulist." -- William Gibson "This story of good and evil siblings examines how we all learn to live with who we are, and does so through supple writing and a tense and carefully executed plot... Blaylock combines the supernatural with a deep understanding of contemporary California and human nature, producing a book with appeal for both fantasy fans and readers of realistic fiction." -- Publishers Weekly "Vivid descriptions and deft characterisations... Winter Tides exposes the underbelly of human nature" -- Library Journal "One creepy, creepy book... Blaylock will scare you to death with a minimum of splatter and maximum of tension, Hitchcock-style. I read Winter Tides in one long sitting and found my heart wouldn't stop racing." -- Woodland Hills Daily News (California)

Leseprobe

ALSO BY JAMES P. BLAYLOCK

NOVELS

The Elfin Ship

The Disappearing Dwarf

The Digging Leviathan

Homunculus

Land Of Dreams

The Last Coin

The Stone Giant

The Paper Grail

Lord Kelvin’s Machine

The Magic Spectacles

Night Relics

All The Bells On Earth

Winter Tides

The Rainy Season

Knights Of The Cornerstone

Zeuglodon

The Aylesford Skull (forthcoming)

COLLECTIONS

Thirteen Phantasms

In For A Penny

Metamorphosis

The Shadow on the Doorstep

NOVELLAS

The Ebb Tide

The Affair of the Chalk Cliffs

WITH TIM POWERS

On Pirates

The Devil in the Details

Copyright © James P. Blaylock 1997All rights reserved.

Cover art by Dirk Berger.Cover design by John Berlyne.

Published as an ebook in the U.S. by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc., in conjunction with the Zeno Agency LTD.

ISBN: 978-1-936535-70-5

CONTENTS

Also by James P. Blaylock

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

About the Author

For Viki, John, and Danny

And this time, especially for Dean and Gerda Koontz for fifteen years of friendship

With special thanks to John Accursi, Chris Arena, Loren Blaylock, Dan Halkyard, Judy and Denny Meyer, Tim Powers, Jack Miller and the Huntington Beach Department of Public Works, and Sarah Q Koehler.

1

THE PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY WINDS ALONG THE VERY edge of California, a narrow asphalt ribbon that marks the western rim of the continent, separating the isolated beach towns and the chaparral-covered hillsides of the Coast Range from eleven thousand miles of Pacific Ocean. Heading south from Crescent City, the Highway swings inland below Eureka, wandering thirty miles from the ocean through redwood groves and mill towns before angling west again above Mendocino and then more or less following the shoreline all the way down into southern California. There are still wild and rocky stretches of coast around San Luis Obispo, and empty coves and bluffs above Santa Barbara, but south of Ventura the Highway plunges into the overpopulated beach cities of Los Angeles and Orange and San Diego counties, past hundreds of thousands of wooden bungalows and stucco apartment houses, past fishing piers and rock jetties and boat harbors and ramshackle main streets lined with fish restaurants and bars and surfboard shops and used bookstores and parking meters. And on any sunny summer afternoon, countless people drive out of the suburbs and cross the Highway, drawn to the uttermost edge of the continent for reasons they can’t always define.

In winter, cold north swells move down out of the Arctic in long lines, and the blues and greens of the late summer water turn gray beneath cloudy skies. The unsettled ocean shifts with the rolling swell and darkens with the shadows of moving clouds. Storms hammer the coast, washing precarious sections of the Highway into the ocean and veiling beach cities with curtains of misty rain the same steel-gray cast as the rising swell. The surging tides swamp oceanfront houses in Malibu and Surfside and Newport Beach, and rogue waves slam through wood and concrete piers, ripping pilings out of the ocean floor, shifting heavy rocks in harbor jetties, sweeping countless tons of beach sand away in the longshore currents, ceaselessly changing the contour of the sea bottom.

The beaches themselves are nearly empty of people in winter, especially on stormy days—perhaps only a couple of surfers watching waves break across outside sand bars, or a beachcomber with a metal detector, or someone gathering seashells along the high tide line where the ocean dumps its flotsam of kelp and driftwood and sand dollars and polished stones.

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CENTURY THERE WERE STILL TRAIN tracks along the ocean side of the Highway through Huntington Beach. A chain-link fence separated the tracks from the fifty yards of sandy shoreline, and onshore winds piled beach sand into ice plant-covered dunes that pressed against the rusty chain link and swept across the edge of the tracks and out onto the Highway, which was narrower back then, with a ragged dirt shoulder along the northern verge. Beyond the shoulder there was a grassy marsh, and beyond that stood, and still stand, the pink and gray cinderblock walls that shelter narrow suburban backyards. By the early 1970s passenger trains had long ago quit running along that part of the coast, and the tracks that followed the Highway had fallen into disrepair. Walking along the tracks at the edge of Huntington Beach State Park, a person could find old rail spikes and other iron debris in the sandy ice plant, or, on a lucky day, a heavy, broad-headed nail with a raised number on it, a thirty or a thirty-six or a forty, recalling the year a particular tie had been sunk in the road-bed.

In the winter there was something lonesome and desolate in the rusty chain link and the blowing sand, in the scattered bits of railroad iron and the deep green ice plant with its feathery pink flowers. There was a natural stillness in the air despite the sound of the cold north swell breaking along the beach and the cries of gulls circling in the sky. And beneath windswept skies it could seem that the ocean was a hundred miles removed from the suburban neighborhoods only a couple of blocks inland, as if the Highway, with its sand-softened verge and its distant vanishing points, was a borderland between the suburbs and the shifting sea. When there was a sizable swell running and the winter sun was low in the sky, a traveler gunning north or south along the Highway could glimpse over the crest of the beach the pale green transparency of a backlit wave as it surged upward over a sandbar and pitched forward with the sound of distant, hollow crashing….

THE WOMAN SITTING BENEATH THE BEACH UMBRELLA WAS a tourist—one of the purest examples of tourist that Dave Quinn had ever seen. She was heavyset, dressed in dark clam-digger pants more reminiscent of 1960 than 1980, and she wore socks and shoes and a broad-brimmed hat with a flower in the hatband. Despite the hat and the umbrella and the cloudy winter sky, she was sunburned pink. Her dark glasses flared up toward her ears in plastic crescents worked with rhinestones. She turned a deck of playing cards over one by one onto her beach blanket, starting a new game of solitaire, and the wind picked up a couple of the cards and flipped them face-side up. She lunged forward, holding her blouse shut at the neck with one hand and pinning the cards to the blanket with the other, and then patiently settled back into the depression in the sand and pulled the rim of the umbrella farther around in front of her to block the wind.

Two slender black-haired girls, clearly twins, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, played in the cold surf, running after the edge of a retreating wave, then screaming with laughter as the next wave chased them back up the beach. They had wandered thirty yards north from where their mother sat on the blanket, and it made Dave edgy to watch them. If they were his kids, messing in the surf on a day like this, he would have called them back, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be shuffling cards while they played tag with the winter ocean. He watched the rip current running down off the steep beach, roiling up the inside break, cutting its own dangerous channel through the bars.

As long as the girls stayed in shallow water …

And anyway, they weren’t his kids. He ditched the idea of saying something to their mother. He hated shoving in his opinion when nobody was asking for it.

A couple of tin buckets and shovels lay at the edge of the blanket that the woman had unfurled with tremendous care, and there was a basket with a lid, an actual picnic basket, holding down the windward corner of the blanket. Probably she had cold chicken in the basket, the tourist food of preference. Dave realized that he was starved. He had been out in the water surfing since around six, and it was nearly ten in the morning now. His arms ached from paddling, and the cold water had drained him of energy. What he wanted was breakfast and coffee and a couple hours of sleep before afternoon classes. He looked up toward the top of the beach. The concession stands were closed, their windows covered with plywood. Some distance to the south, a half-dozen lifeguard towers sat shuttered and empty, waiting to be repainted. Farther on down, maybe a hundred yards, a couple of surfers had a fire going in a fire pit and sat hunched in front of it, their backs to the wind. A white surfboard with a broken-off nose was shoved up out of the fire pit like the ghost of a rocket, and bright orange flames licked up along the rails of the board, sending a churning cloud of black smoke into the air. The smoke tumbled away in the wind, and Dave could smell the chemical reek of burning fiberglass.

The sky was full of broken-up storm clouds, and the water was brown with sand boiled up from the relentless, wind-chopped swell. The swell was rising, and the surf was deceptively powerful. The bigger set waves broke in long, collapsing walls, one after another across sandbars a hundred yards or more offshore, throwing themselves forward against the force of the outgoing tide, churning up the sandy bottom and scouring out a channel between the bars. The waves re-formed in the channels and then broke a second time near shore with a deep, booming roar that sounded like thunder. The entire surface of the ocean seemed to be moving south because of the longshore current, and with the cloud shadow darkening the water, the ocean was ominous and gray.

Dave watched the twin girls nervously. There was a single surfer out in the water a couple of hundred yards down the beach, lying prone on his surfboard as a broken wave pushed him into shore. About a mile north, the Huntington Beach Pier stretched out into the ocean, and even from that distance Dave could see the surging breakers slamming through the pilings. It was no time to be in the water, especially if you were twelve-year-old tourist girls from Kansas or some damned place. Their mother was half hidden behind her umbrella now, dealing cards again. Relieved, Dave saw that the girls had wandered higher up the beach and seemed to be picking through tossed-up seaweed.

It was time to go. He reached behind his back and grabbed the cord attached to his wetsuit zipper, yanking the suit open and moving his shoulders to loosen it up. The neck of his suit was full of dredged-up sand from when he had gotten worked on his last wave, and there was sand in his hair, too. The wave had pounded him all the way into shore before letting up on him. He peeled the wetsuit off, shivering in the wind, and brushed the sand off his neck and shoulders with the thin old towel that he’d been taking to the beach for the last three or four years. His jeans and a flannel shirt sat in the car, and he wished he had brought them down to the beach. His feet were thawing out, and burned now with an itching, prickly heat. The water was cold, fifty-six or fifty-eight degrees—not headache water, but cold enough to wear you out, to drain you of energy despite a wetsuit.

Winter storms had eroded the beach away steeply, and the swell was rising fast. Broken waves rushed up the beach, leaving parallel trails of sea foam near the dry edge of the sand, then rushed seaward again, driving down the incline and back out into the oncoming swells in a moving surge, the rip current chopping up the surface of the ocean all the way out into the outer break now.

Dave took another look at the twins, who apparently had lost interest in the seaweed and had waded out into shallow water again. They stood in the heavy, receding wave wash, their feet sinking ankle-deep into the soft sand, the water leaping around their legs and splashing them to the knees. One of the twins pushed the other one, trying to shove her over, and Dave could hear her laughter on the wind, followed by the other one’s angry shout as her sister tried to pull her out into deeper water. Their mother looked up from her card game, but the umbrella nearly hid the girls from her view. She leaned forward and waved at them, and the twin who was doing all the pushing and pulling saw her and waved back, and then the woman adjusted her hat lower over her face and returned to the game, letting the kids have fun. The second twin managed to yank herself loose and run up into shallower water while her sister threw a clot of wet sand into her hair, then bent down to scrape up more.

Tossing down his towel, Dave walked back down toward the waterline, watching six big pelicans swoop over the top of a swell, soaring above the waves in a dead-even line, rising and falling as the wave passed beneath them. The twin in the water threw more sand, into her sister’s face this time, oblivious to an incoming wave that threw itself forward in a collapsing wall, the white water leaping upward as the wave smashed into the girl’s back, knocking her down and washing up the steep beach. She stood up in knee-deep water, but the receding wave rushed back downward, piling up against her legs as she tried to high-step through it, the moving water dragging her backward and off balance. She stumbled sideways, fell, and was buried by another wave.

Dave sprinted along the edge of the surf as she floundered heavily to her feet, coughing water out of her throat. Another wave pushed up out of the deeper water of the inside channel and drove in over the sandbar, throwing itself over in an explosion of white water that seemed to swallow her. Her sister screamed from where she stood on the shore, and Dave ran out into the surf as the drowning girl was swept out into deeper water at high speed now, like a boat carried on a river. She was neck-deep and trying to swim, thrashing her arms desperately and raising her head above the chop as if she wanted to climb into the sky. Her sister waded out into the surf, and Dave yelled at her to stop, but already she was caught up in the rip herself and panicking, trying to make her way in again.

Not two of them, he thought, and instantly he changed course. He would grab the close-in girl first, and then he’d swim after the other one. He couldn’t deal with two of them in deep water. He could hear the second girl screaming as he dove through the face of a wave, stood up, and launched himself forward again, diving under another wave that broke in front of him. He swam hard through the turbulence, trying not to lose ground, and when he surfaced a few yards from her he threw himself forward again and grabbed her arm, holding onto her as he tried to stand up. The force of the rip was incredible, and for a moment, before he got his feet set, he was helpless in it, and the weight of the girl nearly pulled him down. Fighting again just to stay where he was, he dragged her close to him and spun her around so that he could get an arm across her chest.

Like a gift from heaven, a wave formed across the inside bar thirty feet out, pitching skyward into a vertical, foam-laced wall of gray-green water. He turned to face the shore, holding onto the girl, and pitched himself forward right before the wave slammed into him. He kicked his feet hard, and the wave picked them up and somersaulted them, dragging Dave across the bottom on his back. He fought to get his feet under him and stand up as the wave receded, tearing at his knees again, trying to pull him back down. He stumbled forward a few steps, climbed the slope, and dumped the girl on the sand. She collapsed forward and gasped for breath, then broke into a fit of coughing and retching as she clambered farther up the beach on her hands and knees.

As Dave turned toward the ocean again, he saw that the woman on the beach was running toward her daughter. The wind snatched her hat off her head and threw it into the air, and she pointed out to sea with a hand full of playing cards. For a moment it looked as if she was going to wade out into the ocean herself. Dave ran straight out into the surf again, waving the woman toward shore and looking for the other twin, who was simply gone now. When he was waist-deep he kicked himself high over a breaking wave and spotted her—impossibly far out. Waves broke on either side of her, but the rip itself was a churning current through the surf, holding the waves off and throwing up its own backward-breaking chop.

Dave dove through the face of another wave and came up swimming, angling into the center of the rip. He rose over an unbroken swell and found her again. She was still thrashing around, holding her head above water and looking straight up into the sky, sucking in air. The sun had disappeared behind the clouds, and the wind chop slapped into his face. When he looked for her again, kicking hard to hold himself above the chop, he couldn’t find her, and for a moment he was certain she’d gone down. He swam forward hard, knowing that she was at least twenty yards farther out. If she had gone under, he might never locate her….

A swell rolled beneath him, and he kicked himself out of the water again, thrusting himself into the air. He saw her then and started swimming hard again, glancing back over his shoulder toward the beach. The mother and sister stood on the sand watching, already a good distance north. Dave was nearly dead even with the smoke from the burning surfboard, so the rip was broad as hell, and the current seemed to be moving them hard to the south even as the rip was dragging them out.

He felt the hostility of the ocean then, the cold water, the chop that splashed him so constantly in the face that he could hardly get a breath. A wave hammered down over a sandbar ahead and to the right, a dark wall of cloud-shadowed ocean that broke in a roaring avalanche of windblown Whitewater. For the first time the thought came to him that he might be in trouble, and he felt a sudden hollow fear in his chest that he mentally backed away from. Panic could drown him, and it would certainly drown the girl, if she hadn’t already gone down. Ahead of him loomed another mountain of moving water, and he swam toward it, the wave passing beneath him, and as he rose over the swell he saw her again, surprisingly close, lying on her back, sculling with her arms and kicking her feet frantically.

He swam toward her, dog-paddling as much as swimming, angling around behind her and trying to stay out of sight. The last thing he needed was for her to go nuts when she saw him and try to climb up onto his head. Coming up behind her, he slipped his left hand across her shoulder and under her right arm, tightening his grip and levering his hip under her before she had a chance to move.

Instantly wild with surprise, she tried to heave herself upright, throwing both arms out and beating the water with her fists.

“It’s all right,” Dave shouted, hanging onto her and holding her steady. “You’re okay now.” She fought for another moment, out of a panicked excitement, and he treaded water hard, keeping them both well up out of the chop. The sound of the breaking waves seemed weirdly distant to him now, as if the backs of the swells blocked the noise of the breaking surf. The rip, which had slowed down in the deeper water, was dissipating, and Dave started sidestroking south. If he could get entirely free of the rip, he could haul her back inside the surf line, where the waves would push them into shore. The surf would kick the hell out of them, but what other choice did he have? They rose over a swell, and he scanned the beach for a lifeguard Jeep. There was nothing—just the smoke from the fire well to the north, dwindled down almost to nothing now. A couple of tiny dark figures, the mother and sister, kept pace with them on the beach.

Get help, he thought. There was a phone by the concession stands. The mother wasn’t thinking. It wasn’t her day to think. And she trusted him, too. She had faith in him.

“What’s your name?” he asked the girl. That was the longest sentence he could phrase right now. He didn’t have the breath for anything more.

She didn’t answer, but held up her wrist. He saw that she wore a bracelet of white beads with red letters on them, spelling out the name Elinor. There were two extra beads, a red diamond on one side, a red heart on the other.

“Where you from?” He continued with the sidestroke. They didn’t seem to be moving out to sea any longer, but it was hard to tell if the rip had dropped them or was still holding on. He didn’t seem to be making any progress, though, just swimming in place.

“Haddington,” she said after a moment, as if she had finally made the decision to speak to him.

“Haddington to Huntington,” he said. “That’s kind of funny.” He swallowed a mouthful of water and coughed it back out. “Where’s that?” he asked after he got his voice back. He changed course, stroking straight in toward shore now. He had to try to get in again, rip or no rip, before he wore out.

“Scotland.”

“Scotland?” His right arm felt like rubber, and he was suddenly aware that he was cold, really cold. He scissored his legs, pushing the two of them forward another couple of feet, and felt the muscle in his left calf tightening up. He couldn’t afford a cramp, not if he couldn’t use his arms to swim with. She didn’t have any kind of Scottish accent, and he had the notion that she was lying to him, although how she could find the energy to make up lies at a time like this …

He dropped her then. She slipped out of his grasp and went under, and he caught her under the arms as she fought to get her head out of the water. He threw his arm across her chest again, leaned back, and started swimming. “Sorry,” he gasped.

Now she was breathing hard, again, quick and shallow with fear. “We’re all right,” he told her, but he knew they weren’t. “Haddington’s near the ocean?”

He felt her nod.

“Good beaches?”

She didn’t respond now.

“I’ve got to switch arms,” Dave said to her, treading water again. “You can just relax. I won’t let you go.” Without waiting for an answer, he rolled beneath her, sliding his right arm across her chest and loosening his left, getting his right hip under her and starting to swim again. His sidestroke was nearly worthless on his left side, but his right arm was done for, at least for a little while. In a minute he would switch back. He looked back over his shoulder toward the shore, watching the backs of the waves form in the distance and listening to the sound of their breaking, which was a continuous roar now. He thought about his wetsuit lying on the beach next to his surfboard, and about not wanting to give the twins’ mother any advice, even though he had known damned well he should have.

It was almost funny. He had been too gutless to say anything to their mother, and now he was out in the middle of the ocean trying to save her child, and both of them, he and the child, were going to drown.

If they were my kids …

“So that was your twin sister?”

“No.”

“No?”

“She’s not my sister.”

“She looks like your sister.”

It was work to talk. Too much work to play games, and the girl was obviously lying, which must have taken some effort, some thought. Her matter-of-fact voice was irritating. The tone struck him as weird, almost hateful, as if she was purposefully insulting him.

His stroke was sloppy, and he was kicking rubber-legged. He concentrated on evening it out, and at the same time he wondered if he should give it up and just tread water. He could tread water for another hour—although not with the girl hanging onto his back….

They would get a lifeguard boat out to them long before that.

“She’s my cousin,” the girl said after a moment. She had relaxed a little now, letting him carry her weight, and she stared at the sky, as if watching the moving clouds.

“She’s always wanted to look like me,” she said. “But she was burned. There was a fire. Her face is ugly, and her hair was burned off.”

“Her hair?”

“That’s a wig. She cries at night because she’s ugly. I lie there and listen to her cry. I was trying to drown her to make her stop.”

She said this almost cheerfully, talking to the sky, chatting away now, and Dave nearly dropped her in surprise. Her words sounded alien, as gray and cold as the ocean, as if she were talking about killing a bug. And now he was certain that she was telling the truth now, about wanting to drown her sister, and Dave remembered her trying to haul the other girl out into the ocean, into the rip. He felt the irrational urge to drop her just to wake her up—let her kick and thrash for a moment, until her attitude adjusted.

And if he dropped her now he could save himself….

He drew back from the picture in his mind.

He could feel the dull ache of the half-relaxed cramp in his calf, and he was careful not to straighten his ankle too far and bring it on, and yet the bent ankle took the power out of his kick. He watched the ocean now for signs of an approaching wave. They’d made some progress, and a big enough swell might pick them up.

The girl was silent now. He swam on silently, too. He smelled salt spray then, and saw that a wave was breaking to the north of them, well in shore.

“Some day I’ll kill her. That’s why you have to save me.”

“Why don’t you just keep quiet?” he said, and he felt her giggle.

Suddenly he was swept with fatigue, and he quit swimming and started to tread water, holding onto her with one arm and sculling with the other. He was shivering with cold, and his arms and legs were so weak that he had to keep up a constant kicking to stay above the surface. A half hour of this was impossible. Ten minutes was impossible.

We aren’t going to make it….

He forced the thought away and said, “Here we go,” then started swimming again, letting his head rest on the surface of the ocean, as if he were swimming in a pool. Almost immediately he gasped in a throatful of salt water and jackknifed reflexively forward at the waist, coughing the water back out, holding on tight to the twin. He treaded water hard again, gasping in air. He kicked his feet harder, propelling them forward, trying to smooth things out, to get some glide, some forward momentum, but the power in his legs was gone, and he couldn’t keep it up. His muscles were on fire, and yet he was shivering with cold. He worked to keep his head up out of the chop, but it seemed as if he was settling deeper with each tired stroke, barely making any progress at all, simply kicking himself higher in the water, bobbing like some kind of dying thing, struggling just to stay above it now.

Alone, I could make it.

The thought came to him out of nowhere, as if his mind as well as his body had decided to betray him. If he held onto the girl, they would both drown. It was as easy as that. They rose to the top of a swell. The nearly deserted beach was incredibly distant. The mother stood there, still watching. Probably she thought they were all right, that everything was under control. He kept up the tired stroke, getting nowhere now. Surely the girl knew it.

He envisioned simply letting go—the twin sinking away into the green depths, as easy as falling asleep, and he forced his mind to focus. He was treading water again with a weak scissors kick. His sidestroke was gone. They bobbed up and down, his kick quickening as it got weaker. The ocean was empty out in the vast distances, just the small shape of a ship standing still way off on the horizon. How far from shore were they? A hundred yards?

He was going to drop her. He knew now with utter certainty that soon, very soon, he wouldn’t be given a choice. When the time came, it wouldn’t be his to decide.

She stared into his eyes, as if reading his mind, her own face a mask of terror now, her brassy attitude swept away. She kicked her feet with a wild ineffectiveness, thrashing against his legs, gripping his arms, and making small noises in her throat.

Don’t do it, he told himself, kicking his legs machinelike, marking time. He was shivering, his shoulders numb from cold and fatigue. As if she knew he was fading, she was suddenly energized by fear, and she let go with her right hand long enough to clutch at his neck, to try to pull herself higher out of the water. He fought to control her, pushing her away at arm’s length, the wild thought entering his head that she was stronger than he was by now, and that she would drag him under and drown him. I might have to drown her to save myself.

Another immense swell rolled through, and he nearly sank beneath it. It was powerful, pulling off the ocean bottom, dragging them several useless feet toward shore. Feeling the energy in the wave, he kicked harder, edging them up out of the chop and over the top of the swell. He looked back down into the wave’s trough, surprised at the sheer size of the wave. Seconds later it broke, an avalanche of white water smashing skyward, twice the height of the wave itself, vertical ribbons of water shooting up and falling in long arcs. Farther out into the ocean another shadowy swell moved toward them, rising up out of deep water and obscuring the sky.

“Breathe,” he said. “Deep. Really deep.”

How many waves in the set? The approaching wave was big—bigger than the one that had just rolled through. If there were waves beyond it, they’d be immense. He steadied himself in the water, his fatigue momentarily gone, his heart racing with fear-fueled adrenaline. He could hear the girl gasping in lungfuls of air. With her hanging on, he’d never dive deep enough to get under it.

The first of the swells steepened, pushing skyward, blotting out any view of the ocean behind it. Fifty feet away from them it started to feather at the crest, the wind tearing at the wave as it rushed forward, the wave’s face nearly vertical now, defying gravity and inertia, a heavy tangle of kelp visible just beneath its green surface.

“Hold your breath!” he said, yanking the twin next to him and taking one last deep breath himself. He tried to surface dive, pushing her down beneath him. He kept his eyes open, kicking his feet hard, fighting for some depth. The water was full of a deafening roar as the wave pounded down, releasing whirling tornadoes of fine bubbles like columns in a watery cathedral. The girl’s hair swirled in front of his eyes, and he got a brief glimpse of her pale face, her eyes wide and staring as the churning water swept across them. With a suddenness that astonished him, he was pulled up and back like a piece of driftwood. Her wrist slipped through his hand, and his fingers closed over the bracelet, which he dragged from her wrist as the wave cartwheeled him around and then slammed him downward, pounding him off the ocean floor and tumbling him toward shore. The girl was simply gone from his grasp, vanished.

Something brushed his leg—the girl? Kelp? He flailed outward with his hand, touched something solid, but instantly it was gone, and the wave slammed him against the bottom a second time, dragging him across a sandbar on his back, then flipping him head over heels and rushing him forward again. He tried to force himself to relax, but his lungs felt as if they’d imploded, and in a sudden panic he clawed his way upward, deluged by swirling foam. His head broke the surface, and he threw it back and sucked in air, fighting his way clear of the churning white water until he could kick himself around again and look out to sea. The water was empty, the girl gone.

Let her go? The unwelcome question settled in his mind.

She had slipped away so easily … He forced the thought away, slipped her bracelet over his own wrist, and dove beneath the surface, opening his eyes to see through the churning bubbles into the green darkness. But almost at once he was out of breath, and he kicked his way toward the sunlight again as the third wave in the set bore down on him, breaking hard forty feet farther out, an avalanche of moving white water. He hyperventilated, dove again, stroking for the bottom, and the wave blasted into him, pushing him toward shore. He let himself go limp, not struggling this time, and the wave dragged him like a rag doll, tumbling him over and over, letting up on him when it moved into the deeper water of a channel. He surfaced, treading water tiredly, looking futilely around for some sign of the girl again, watching another wave break far outside. Two lifeguard boats floated outside the breaking waves now, too late to do any good. He waited out the incoming wave, hyperventilating again, and then dove beneath it, finding the bottom and letting the wave pass above him.

When he surfaced he realized it was raining. The sky was solid with clouds, and the wind whipped the rain into his face and swept it across the surface of the ocean in flurries. Perhaps the girl had been swept in to shore. With any luck she had been. He had to believe she had been. Another wave rolled through, smaller than the others but still breaking outside of where he swam tiredly toward shore. He let the white water pick him up and carry him. When the wave dropped him he kept swimming, a tired, mechanical crawl stroke with no kick. He heard a voice and looked up to see a lifeguard reaching out with a red float. Dave grabbed it and hung onto it.

“Where’s the girl?” The lifeguard’s hurried question came to him from a vague distance, as if he were just waking up out of an anesthetic. A broken wave struck them, and he let go of the float, letting the wave churn past. He gestured tiredly toward the open ocean. “I’m okay,” he said, and started to swim again, letting the waves push him, surprised moments later when his toes dragged against the sandy bottom and he stumbled to his feet in shallow water. Up on the beach a yellow lifeguard Jeep was just pulling even with the crest of the sand. When he was up onto the beach, he sat down and looked out over the ocean, letting the rain hit him, shivering with the cold. There were hands under his arms, helping him up, and he was suddenly sick and faint, and he knew, without anyone having to tell him, that the girl was lost.

2

THE NIGHT WAS QUIET—HAUNTINGLY QUIET, AS IF THE fog dampened the sound of her footsteps along with other nighttime noises. The bars and cafes along Main Street were closed, and there was little traffic. Anne could smell the fog on the air along with something else—dirty oil, she decided, although there weren’t too many wells still operating in the downtown neighborhoods, and the oil-soaked vacant lots that had once made up most of the acreage in the city were covered with apartments and condominiums now. The redeveloped downtown was a different place from the run-down beach city she remembered from her childhood visits, and although it was probably safer now—fewer bikers and bad alleys and bars—she wasn’t sure she liked the change. Probably it was just nostalgia. Up in Canada, when she had talked about moving south, people had warned her against walking at night in southern California, and now she couldn’t help but listen to the silences between her own footsteps, half expecting the slow tread of someone following, someone hidden by the night and the fog.

She had been in town only a few days, and she was entirely friendless. It was a perfectly loony place for her to have moved to, especially because she didn’t meet people easily. She stopped now at the edge of the Pacific Coast Highway and waited for the signal to change, trying to see through the fog to the foot of the pier and the stairs to the beach. The headlights of a northbound car appeared, and the car braked at the yellow light. She heard music from inside the closed-up car, and it took her a moment to recognize the tune—a pepped-up version of “Pearl on the Half Shell” that sounded strangely at odds with the foggy, motionless night. The “Walk” sign blinked on, and she stepped off the curb, reaching the other side just as the light changed again. The ghostly car accelerated slowly away, the sound of the jittery music disappearing along with the car’s taillights.

It was nearly midnight, and the pier was closed, barricaded by a high metal gate. That was disappointing. Anne hadn’t thought that the pier would be closed. She looked around her at the foggy darkness, and a rash idea entered her head. Suddenly she felt a little like a criminal, which, it occurred to her now, she was very nearly about to become—and not for the first time, either. Once, when she was about eight, she and her sister had climbed over the fence at the agricultural college and fed apples to the cows, despite written warnings to stay out. No one had caught them, and a week later they had risked another cow feeding, the success of which had clearly set her on a criminal path that had, these many years later, led her to the foot of this closed-up pier. What next? Tearing the tags off mattresses? Jaywalking? Murder?

She swung her leg over the top bar of the waist-high railing and climbed out onto the edge of the pier, where she sidestepped down past the gate. She looked below, down at the nearly invisible beach and the descending concrete stairs, then climbed back over the railing again, walking farther out onto the deserted pier in order to distance herself from the gate. She stopped at the railing when she knew she was invisible from the street, and peered down into the gloom. She had a picture in her mind of the ocean late at night: the moonlight on pier pilings, the ghostly waves rushing up out of the darkness, the empty beach, the shimmer of lights on the water up the curving coast.

She could hear the ocean sighing on the wet sand below the pier. And there was the sound of waves breaking somewhere out in the fog, which swirled around her now, the mists opening and closing like windows and doors. For a moment she got a glimpse of the beach below—the closed-up concession stands, a lonely towel left on the damp sand, a couple of oil drum trash cans. Then the fog closed in again, and she heard the heavy boom of a breaking wave as the pier shuddered from the impact.

She walked slowly through the mists, past the darkened lifeguard tower. The pier lamps glowed like moons overhead, but their light was mostly consumed by the fog, and very little of it reached the ground. At the end of the pier, the fog was dense enough so that she didn’t see the railing ahead of her until she was almost upon it. She put her hands on the cold metal, which was beaded with moisture, and looked down into the gray darkness. She imagined the ocean below, the shifting of the dark currents, the waves rolling in, the terror of falling over the railing, of finding herself in the cold ocean on a lightless night, the entire coast shrouded in fog….

There was a sound like something moving behind her—like the scrape of feet on concrete—but almost as soon as she heard it, it stopped. She looked hard into the mists around her, at the dark stationary shapes of a trash can, a low bench, a lamppost. Nothing moved. She listened, holding her breath, but couldn’t hear anything now, just the muted crashing of waves from farther in toward shore. The relative silence seemed to suggest something purposeful—someone hiding, perhaps, just out of sight in the fog.

And as if suddenly clairvoyant, she was aware of a presence in the night air around her, an unsettling change in the atmosphere, as if the very fog was stained with distilled emotion, with the long-ago fearful ghost of resentful loneliness and hateful despair conjured by the fog and the ocean and the sound of breaking waves.

It was time to go. She moved away from the railing, keeping to the middle of the pier, looking around her as she walked. She could see no one, but as soon as her own shoe soles scraped on the concrete pier, she was abruptly certain that someone was keeping pace with her, matching their own footfalls to her own. She stopped, and the sound stopped. Then she stepped forward again and was struck by this same illusion—probably a trick of the fog, an echo. She walked faster, the mist closing in around her so that she was completely enshrouded now. Dim objects loomed up along the edges of the pier—two ghostly telescopes on metal swivels, a tiny wooden building, a long sink for cleaning fish.

She stopped again and listened.

For a moment she could hear the footfalls, even though she herself was dead still. They didn’t sound like an echo. They were clear and unhurried, like someone strolling, scuffing their shoes on concrete. The sound was strangely loud, but then almost at once seemed to evaporate, fading away in the fog, and again there was a lingering silence. Still she could see no one, only the pale fog swirling up around the pier railings like languid spirits.

She hurried forward now. There were fifty yards or more between her and the gate, but the Coast Highway with its traffic lights and street lamps was still invisible ahead of her. She could see only the dim railing on either side of the pier, and, on her right, the lifeguard tower looming up again out of the fog, the lamplight glowing on the wide, angled-out windows.

Then she saw something—movement, at the edge of the tower.

She was certain that someone had just that moment stepped out of sight behind it, between the tower and the railing on a little outthrust section of pier. She had got just a glimpse of red—a flannel shirt? A cloth coat? She looked back again, her heart pounding, as she angled toward the opposite railing, ready to run, suppressing the urge to scream.

There—she saw it again: someone standing still, facing her but half hidden by the corner of the wall, just a shadow in the fog that swirled across the pier, the shadow growing more and then less distinct. She felt suddenly dizzy, and she gripped the cold handrail to steady herself, unsure whether it was the fog that obscured the waiting figure, or the fog that made it visible, like a film slide projected on mist. And now it vanished altogether as the ocean breeze momentarily swept the fog clear, and then almost instantly the mists billowed in off the ocean again, and the figure materialized within it, closer now, as if she had stepped forward five or six paces and stopped, waiting for another gust of sea wind to hide it again.

The sound of footsteps resumed, preternaturally loud, as if echoing down a corridor. Anne found herself running through the dreamlike fog, hearing the footsteps behind her louder even than the pounding of her own feet. She swung herself over the railing again, edged her way past the gate, and vaulted the railing back onto the pier where, after a quick backward glance, she headed straight across the Highway, ignoring the red light, not looking back down the empty sidewalk again until she was halfway up the block. A shadow in a doorway impelled her toward the curb, and when she realized that it was a man drinking out of a bottle in a paper bag, she almost sighed with relief. She slowed down now to catch her breath. There were no longer any footsteps. The night was quiet and still, but she hurried on up Main to Orange Street anyway, fumbling for her keys in her jeans pocket. Her hands shook as she unlocked the street door of her apartment, stepped through and locked it behind her, and then ascended the stairs through the empty building toward her flat on the second floor.

3

THE HIGH, RECTANGULAR BUILDING THAT WAS THE EARL of Gloucester, a theatre props and sets company, was built back in 1927 as a feed and fertilizer warehouse. It took up most of the length of the block near the corner of 6th and Walnut Streets in Huntington Beach, about a hundred yards from the Coast Highway and another hundred yards west from Main Street. Its faded clapboard siding had been painted blue sometime in the 1970s, and the wooden windows were trimmed with white moldings that the ocean air had slowly repainted a shade of lichen gray over the years. At one time a lean-to boardwalk porch had stood along the 6th Street side of the warehouse, but most of it had been torn down and replaced with a more practical concrete loading dock. In front of the business entrance there was still a section of the old porch that ran on back to the end of the building. Two acres of weedy vacant lot separated the warehouse from the highway, and at the top of the lot stood one of the few working oil wells left in the downtown. It was fenced with rusted chain link and sagging barbed wire.

The warehouse itself was a relic of Huntington’s sleepier past, weathered by salt air and wind and shaded by a pair of enormous eucalyptus trees that dropped bark and leaves and seeds onto the roof. Jolene, the Earl’s secretary, had recently computerized the inventory and the books. That and the new loading dock were the company’s concessions to the modern world. The Earl himself, Earl Dalton, still typed his letters on an ancient Royal typewriter that had been used as a prop in Hollywood films before he had bought it at auction. Inside the warehouse the smell of the wet sawdust from unseasoned fir was heavy in the air, along with the smell of dust and resin and the musty hay bales stacked against the warehouse wall near the loading dock.

Working alone in the early morning, Dave Quinn shot one-by-four frames together to build palace walls for a production of King Lear that would be staged at the Earl’s own Ocean Theatre next door to the warehouse. Next he would glue polystyrene sheets to these frames, and then a sets artist—who hadn’t started to work yet—would etch the polystyrene and airbrush mossy-looking stones onto it. Then they could move the sections of crenelated castle wall into the theatre itself and fasten them together to build the facade of the Duke of Albany’s palace.

But if the sets artist didn’t appear soon, like today, Dave would have to move most of his set pieces into the shop in back to make room for more immediate work, which was already cluttering up the area in front of the loading dock door. A theatre company out in Westminster was staging Oklahoma!, and the Earl’s was delivering set and prop pieces: hay bales and a Doe-C-Doe Wagon, two horses, thirty feet of split rail corral fence, and six barrels big enough for actors to dance on. Dave had built the fence himself. The Earl himself had gotten the barrels from a Kentucky distillery, and they still smelled like whisky and charcoal. The wagon, a sort of open buckboard, was already gray with weather and age when they’d gotten it out of a Minnesota barn. Dave had replaced half a dozen of its spokes along with the wagon’s seat, sandblasted the new wood, and grayed it with rottenstone and beeswax. The effect was pretty good. You could pick out the new wood if you were looking close and paying attention, but from theater seats the wagon was an authentic period piece.

He set down the power staple gun now, and the air compressor chugged for a moment and then fell silent. He could hear in the distance the low rumble of waves breaking through the concrete pilings of the Huntington Beach Pier. The swell had risen during the night, a late-season north swell with tides high enough to worry beachfront homeowners. In 1988 the old pier had been destroyed by a spectacular wave that had broken across the end of it, over a quarter mile out to sea, dwarfing the pier’s twenty-foot light stanchions and sweeping away the flimsy bait shops and cafes and rest rooms, snapping concrete pilings and wrenching apart iron railings that had withstood countless ocean storms since the pier had been restored and reinforced in 1931. Now, as the end of the century drew near, the newly rebuilt pier, with its angled pilings heavily moored in the sea bottom, was engineered to withstand an even heavier swell….

He walked to the stairs and climbed the wooden steps toward the vast loft that made up the second floor of the Earl of Gloucester. Built on a frame of heavy timbers, the loft occupied maybe a quarter of the open ceiling space in the warehouse, and it was built high enough off the concrete floor to store stage sets and props underneath, including the front section of a Spanish galleon. The ship’s bowsprit and carved mermaid were angled back as if the galleon were tossing on a stormy sea, and the sea itself was attached to the underside of the ship—painted plywood waves mounted on tracks so that the waves moved back and forth, one in front of the other. There was nautical debris stacked around the galleon—open treasure chests, masts, oars, crab and lobster traps, and sections of an old barnacle-encrusted wharf. Fishing nets hung with seashells and glass floats were strung from the floor joists of the loft above.

The loft itself was mostly offices along a balcony with a wooden railing. The old offices looked like sets themselves, like something off a sound stage—office cubicles from It’s a Wonderful Life or Farewell My Lovely. The walls were paneled with vertical wooden boards and battens, painted gloss white, and the doors had brass knobs and ripple glass windows. At either end of the balcony there were palm tree tikis standing on top of the railings. They were comical tikis, with long noses and blubbery lips and undersized arms folded across their bellies. One of the tikis wore a garish aloha shirt and a straw hat, and it bent down over the floor below, watching like a sentinel, secured precariously to the post at the end of the balcony by a wide leather belt. Tikis had been the rage in the early sixties, but they’d gone so far out of style by now that they’d nearly disappeared off the fashion map. Earl Dalton, who had established the company in 1951, predicted a tiki comeback and was “displaying the tikis to advantage,” as he put it. The Earl’s had an economy Hawaiian package, with a bamboo bridge, giant clamshells, an outrigger canoe, torches, and a backdrop painted with palm trees and a moonlit ocean—everything you’d need for a luau except the hula dancers and beach sand, both of which could be obtained for a fee. The tikis were a bonus if you rented the whole package.

The sound of his feet echoed on the wooden floorboards, and he stopped for a moment and stood on the balcony next to the tiki in the shirt. The sound of the ocean was louder now, and he could see through the bank of west-facing windows that the fog was thinner than he had thought. From where he stood he could look out over the rooftops toward the pier, where a long gray wall of water rushed through the pilings, seeming almost to scrape the bottom of the pier before throwing itself forward, the lip of the wave striking the ocean and exploding skyward in a fury of violent white water that surged in a ten-foot wall toward the beach. Dave heard the staccato boom of its breaking then, a crack nearly like thunder….

* * *

LESLIE COLLIER AND HIS FIVE-YEAR-OLD GRANDDAUGHTER Jenny appeared now on the path through the vacant lot. The path led to the Supreme Doughnut Shop, which sat a hundred yards away from the Earl of Gloucester on the edge of the Highway. Collier, an old friend of the Earl’s, rented the two-bedroom bungalow behind the Ocean Theatre. The Earl owned the bungalow and the theater both, and he paid Collier a small salary to keep the theater in operation, even though it hadn’t earned a penny in years. The comedy improv on Friday nights drew a big beach crowd, but that was about it. King Lear would play to half an audience, which didn’t matter to the Earl, who could afford Collier’s salary and wrote off the bungalow rental as a business expense. Nothing having to do with money mattered to the Earl. What did matter was that the show went up on schedule, and that the little out-of-time world he had invented on the corner of 6th and Walnut Streets spun along in its course without interruption or complication.

The two of them stopped at the edge of the lot, and Collier, balancing his coffee cup in front of him, did a little sideways shuffle, back and forth like Soupy Sales, the sunlit fog swirling around him. Jenny tried it herself, getting it about half right, and then Collier showed her again. Dave could hear the sound of Jenny’s laughter, and he watched as the two set out again, disappearing beyond the corner of the warehouse.

DAVE WATCHED AS ANOTHER WAVE SLAMMED THROUGH the pier, and it occurred to him that no matter how much concrete they poured into holes in the sea bottom, no matter how many engineers calculated figures and assessed the potential energy in a breaking wave, one day a swell would come in out of the Pacific that would sweep it all away like it was nothing at all.

4

EDMUND DALTON’S VIDEO CAMERA EQUIPMENT WASN’T professional quality, but it did the job, and most of his film work was better than the average in the “industry,” as he liked to call it. His artistic sensibilities made up for a lot, and his last film had a couple of subtle touches that he was really very proud of. It was a shame that he couldn’t talk about them to anyone, but he had never found anyone worthy of sharing his secrets. The camera had a wide-angle lens, and it picked up images in a moderately dark room. It stood on its tripod in the corner of what, for a Huntington Beach condo, was a large bedroom. The far wall of the bedroom was blank and white, clear of furniture, pictures, or anything else. The carpeted floor at the empty end of the room was covered with heavy plastic, and the plastic was covered with more carpet. He adjusted the angle of the camera one last time, set the remote control on the night-stand by his bed, and walked up the hall past the bathroom, which doubled as a photo lab for developing black-and-white prints. There was only a single window in the bathroom, which could be blacked out in a moment with a pull-down shade. On the long counter, past the double sinks, sat an enlarger and chemical trays.

The second bedroom, what he liked to call the library, stood at the far end of the hall. There were custom-built wooden shelves along one wall of the room, decorated with crown moldings and turned posts and brass fixtures, the shelves holding books and videocassettes and statuary. The bottom shelf of the unit was six inches off the floor, its bottom edge hidden by molding. He removed a bronze buffalo from one of the bottom shelves now, got his fingers in behind the shelf, and pushed a hidden spring latch. The back edge of the shelf bumped up so that he could get his hands on it and lift it out of its depression. There was an open area beneath, with a couple of dozen videocassettes lying on edge, all of them encased in plastic boxes, which were slid into bags containing stuffed manila envelopes. He considered the titles, smiling with amusement—Mary Pop-pins, Pollyana, Pippi Longstocking, Snow White, Cinderella…. Finally he picked out Pippi Longstocking