Flesh And Blood

“Hey,” said Norris, as I emerged. He was kneeling next to the boat and wiping down the interior with a filthy-looking rag. “Mr. Lloyd Bridges, man. There’s a zip compartment on the left leg for your wallet and keys. You can leave the rest of your stuff in your car – cool car, by the way. Long as you get back in time, I won’t steal it.” Jamming the rag in the rear pocket of his shorts, he slapped the boat’s fiberglass flank. “Picked you a good one. You ever done this before?”

“Yup.”

“So you know that even when they feel like they’re tipping over, they’re probably not. If you wa

We toted the kayak to the water’s edge, then he eased it into the ocean and held it steady as I climbed in.

“Go for it, man,” he said, shoving me off. “You see any serious pussy, I want to hear about it.”

CHAPTER 27

THE PLACID OCEAN meant broad shallows, and I had to maintain a twenty-foot distance from the shore to keep the kayak out of sand. As I cut through the water, a weak, misty breeze washed my face. After this morning’s clumsy jog, working my arms felt good, and so did being alone in the vastness of the sea.

I picked up speed as I passed Dave Dell’s glass bowl. The house was huge but shabby from up close – gray paint scarred by wind and salt, lowered curtains, no signs of inhabitance. The next property meandered along the bluff, fronted by clumps of rough-cut shrubbery and backed by pines twisting spastically. Rickety steps to the beach dangled – the bottom dozen steps had been sheared off.

As I continued south the breeze picked up, and now I was working a bit just to keep from veering back toward land. A few minutes later the first sign of riptides appeared – narrow pipes of coiling water braiding the skin of the Pacific. As I passed over them the kayak bucked, then settled down gently.

Three more estates, two with intact steps so steep they were little more than ladders. Norris’s tale of a fast-vanishing beach might have been hyperbole, but signs of erosion were obvious in the furrows that corrugated the bluffs. An outcropping of rock fingers stretched into the water, and I pushed the kayak farther out to sea, skimming the eastern border of a floating mass of kelp. Suddenly, the sun hid itself again and the water got dark. I was a good fifteen yards from the tide line when Tony Duke’s funicular came into view.

Duke’s property was wider and higher than those of his neighbors, and his property line was more sinuous – a series of S-curves created as the cliff twisted and relented. The hillside had been planted with succulents, but all that remained were scraggly gray-green patches, and the erosion scars were long and deep, impossible to mistake for anything but inevitable. Down below was Duke’s patch of beach, a spoon-shaped hollow visible only from the water. The funicular was a low-key affair, redwood car and dark metal tracks blending in with the mountainside. The passenger compartment rested atop the cliff, shadowed by a brown metal arch that I assumed was some kind of power source. The tracks dropped from the hilltop to the sand in a near-vertical drop, adhering to the dirt as if by magic. If plants couldn’t take root, could metal bolts be trusted?

Someone thought they could. Nestled in the spoon were a woman in a beach chair and two small white-blond children. I was too far away to make out the woman’s age. Her big straw hat and blowsy white dress provided no help. The kids looked to be around three or four. The smaller one – a girl in a pink one-piece bathing suit – sat in the sand, legs splayed, digging with a bright orange shovel and adding sand to a green bucket. Several feet in front of her a naked boy ran along the shore, kicking water, picking up clumps of seaweed and tossing them ineffectually at the ocean.

The woman’s body was loose in a way that could mean only sleep or hypnosis. In the sand near her right arm, something glassy kicked back reflection.

I stopped rowing, backpaddled to remain in place, and watched them. The naked boy saw me, stared back, raised his arm. Not a greeting – a tight-fisted wave, combative. The woman didn’t move. I resumed rowing – slowly. The breeze bumped me over a riptide, and water splashed into the boat. The air was colder, and the pool around my bare feet had become an ice bath. When I was well past the Duke estate, I looked back. The little boy had lost interest in me, was in thigh-high water, splashing.

I drifted past several more properties, caught sight of a couple of cathedral-sized houses but no people. The wind had grown adamant, and my feet, immersed in salt water, were numb. I crossed a few more rips, found easy water, sat there for a while, bobbing and staring out across the ocean, wondering why I’d come. A shadow passed over the kayak as a pelican – a big, fat, gray creature, maybe the bird I’d seen atop the pier – glided toward the horizon. I watched the bird cross the kelp bed and settle. Waiting. Dipping, retrieving, gulping. Oblivious to anything but the task at hand, a jowly monarch.

I rowed a bit more, hit increasingly angry waves. Fifty minutes had passed since I’d slipped into the wet suit. Time to get back.

I’d be bringing back no tales of naked babes for Norris and nothing of an evidentiary nature for Milo. The little towheads were most likely Tony Duke’s second installment of offspring, and the woman could be anyone.

As I began the row back I decided not to tell Milo of my little ride. Maybe he’d call today, maybe not. One-handing the kayak into reverse, I began my return trip. Rowing faster and staying as close to the shore as the shallows would allow, because the wind had kicked up the waves. Working up a chilly sweat by the time the funicular appeared.

The cable car remained at the top, inert. But the woman in the white dress was on her feet now, hatless, ru

I was too far to make out the words, but I could hear her scream and the tone was unmistakable: panic.

The little girl in the pink bathing suit hadn’t budged, and the orange shovel was still in her hand. But no sign of the naked boy.

Then I saw him. A little white dot bobbing in the water, maybe twenty yards due north of the kayak.

Just a towhead, no arms. Bouncing like a Ping-Pong ball, so insignificant that I might have mistaken him for flotsam – a stray bit of Styrofoam.

The golden-haired woman ran into the ocean just as the ocean swelled and the boy disappeared. I rowed toward the spot where I’d spotted him. Saw the riptide – tight, luminous, fu

No sight of him.

The woman was in the water. The little girl had gotten to her feet and was toddling after her.

I began rowing frantically, found my progress too slow, wormed my way out of the kayak and dove into the icy water.

Even a quiet ocean can make a man feel weak. This ocean cared nothing for my self-esteem.

I dove, stroked, dove, stroked, fixing my eye on the spot where the boy had gone down. Thrown off by the rips and by waves, now freshly stoked by a full-force wind. The fu

I swam as hard as I could, got close to the spot – still no sign of the boy – there he was, ten yards farther out, face whitened by sunlight, bouncing – no sign of his arms, but he seemed to be staying afloat – treading water, good swimming skills for his age, but how long could he last? The water was icy, and I felt my own muscles clog. I threw myself into the currents, concentrated on keeping his blond head in my sights. Watched helplessly as he went under again, and when he resurfaced he was five yards farther from shore – being rolled out to sea, slowly but inexorably. The woman’s screams sounded behind me, audible above the roar of the tide.