CHAPTER 13

I checked out early, had breakfast at the Station House Café in Point Reyes Station. Back in Fairfax, I stopped at the corner coffee shop and had a cup of coffee, then I stopped at the 7-11 on the way home and bought a Marin Independent Journal. When I got home I looked through the paper, hoping to see an article about a man’s body being found at Point Reyes, washed ashore, but there was no notice. Still too early. But the park rangers would get curious about that Mercedes, check the registration, and he would be reported as missing. Tomorrow morning’s San Francisco Chronicle would report: TEXAS OIL CEO MISSING AT POINT REYES NATIONAL SEASHORE.

I walked to San Anselmo, had another coffee in the Roastery there and then walked on to Ross, found my bike still locked to the bike rack and rode back to Fairfax. All of the loose ends were tied up. Now the only thing left was the news that there had been another fatality on a Point Reyes Beach.

The next morning I went out to the garage, got out my carpenter’s belt and laid it on the workbench. The hammer was still in its holster and there were two chisels in the pocket. They would have to be sharpened. Razor-sharp chisels were a mark of a good carpenter. My father had taught me that. He had been a cabinetmaker, a man of great precision. When I was a kid he drove me nuts, measuring things in sixty-fourths of an inch, giving me a cuff on the back of the head when I cut something on the wrong side of the pencil line. I got out a stone, oiled it and set to work sharpening one of the chisels. Today was the anniversary of my daughter’s death.

I didn’t hear Fuller at the door of the garage.

“Building another birdhouse?” came his voice.

I turned. “Just sharpening a chisel. I’m thinking of going back to work. Maybe work on a real house.”

“What brought that on?”

“Nothing in particular. I need to do something constructive, and the birdhouses don’t seem to be making it work.”

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with a man in the surf at Point Reyes, would it?”

My heart quickened. I continued to work the chisel against the stone. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“Somebody we both know ended up in the surf at Point Reyes yesterday,” he said.

“You don’t mean?” I said.

“I do mean. Winslow.”

“He drowned in the surf?”

“No. He didn’t. He swam parallel to the surf and a ranger at South Beach spotted him. He called the Coast Guard helicopter at Two Rock and a swimmer dropped into the water and they hauled him out. Took him to Kaiser Hospital in Santa Rosa to treat him for hypothermia. His car was still parked at North Beach.”

Fuller waited. He expected a response from me.

“Holy shit. He got pulled out of the ocean? And he survived? He’s the luckiest sonofabitch still living.”

“You expected him to die?”

“I expect anybody who goes into that surf off one of those beaches to die. Unless they’re wearing a wet suit. And even then it’s a toss-up. Was he wearing a wet suit?”

“No, he was wearing a white silk shirt with cuff links and a red tie. Not your usual garb for a walk on a beach. Especially a cold foggy morning.”

“And he swam as far as South Beach?”

“The current probably did that. He was on the swim team at Santa Clara. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Might have been something you ought to have known.”

“You’re suggesting something, Detective Fuller?”

“No, I’m not suggesting anything. But I warned you not to do anything foolish. His story is that he took a walk out there on a whim. Wanted to get some fresh air, clear his head. A sneaker wave caught him. You believe that? You believe that all on his own he drove all the way out to a Point Reyes beach so he could get some fresh air? An hour and a half. And he went for a walk on a cold foggy beach in his good clothes, all dressed up?”

I tested the blade of the chisel with my thumb, turned it and picked a sliver of wood off the edge of the workbench. It was sharp enough.

“Why wouldn’t I believe it?”

“Because it’s improbable. He has an eleven o’clock appointment in his offices every Tuesday and Thursday. Important meeting. Never misses it. Only Tuesday he drove all the way out to North Beach, parked his car, locked it, and fell into the ocean. Wearing the trousers to a suit that cost a thousand bucks and cuff links that cost more than your little Toyota. He insists that his story is true. Stupid idea, he said.”

“You talked to him?”

“No. The National Park Rangers did. Only his story showed up on the morning sheriff’s log, which I look at out of curiosity, and I talked to the deputy who made our call. He talked to the ranger that spotted him. The ranger said he was checking the South Beach parking lot because they had some hippies who had built a fire there Sunday night and he wanted to make sure they had moved on and then he saw something out beyond the surf line that didn’t look like a sea lion; there seemed to be an arm waving and then it disappeared, so he got out his glasses and there was Winslow, obviously in trouble, so he called the Coast Guard and they scrambled a helicopter and twenty minutes later they had Winslow in the air. The ranger is pretty stoked about the rescue. Which he ought to be. So what do you think?”

“I think it would have been good if the ranger had looked the other way. That’s what I think.”

“You got any ideas about how Winslow ended up in the surf?”

“No.”

“But if you had anything to do with it, Winslow would know what you look like, right?”

“Why would he know that? He’s never seen me.”

Fuller leaned against the side of the open garage door. “Let’s see,” he said. “This is, of course, hypothetical, but if, somehow, somebody managed to force Winslow out to that beach, force him into the water, then Winslow would know what that person looks like. And Winslow doesn’t say anything because that person connected him to another crime, committed several years ago. So what Winslow wants to do is find that guy and silence him. Which means that the guy, the fictional guy, you understand, is now in danger of a rich man who can hire all the thugs he wants, looking for him. And when he finds him, who knows what he’s gonna do? Of course, that’s all hypothetical.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you’re not stupid. But you did a stupid thing. Eventually Winslow is going to connect you to his morning swim. And he’s going to want to deal with you. I don’t know what else to say. You need to watch your back. You need to learn to use that Glock that you bought. I doubt if you’ll ever get close to him again. I feel your pain. I sympathize with you. No, that’s not the right word. I empathize with you. He’s the luckiest sonofabitch in the world. He ought to be washing up on a beach about now, but he isn’t. He’s in that fucking big house of his and he’s probably making some phone calls. He’s a prick and you have every right to hate his guts, but there’s no point in you getting hurt just because he’s a world class prick. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

“You want a scotch?”

“Too early in the day for me.”

“You want a bird house?” I pointed to a row of birdhouses on a shelf at the end of the garage.

“No. I’m not big on birds.”

He shifted his weight from the edge of the door. “You be careful,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you not to do anything stupid. You won’t pay attention to me. You didn’t the last time I said it.”

“Thanks for stopping by.”

“He’s alive. Which means that you’re not facing a murder investigation. You and I both know what you’ve done. I don’t know the details, but he didn’t take a walk on the beach by himself. Go back to pounding nails. Keep your nose clean. I’m not cutting you any more slack.”

He turned toward the open garage door, then turned to look back at me.

“I hope I’ve made myself clear.”

“You have,” I said

He nodded, turned and walked back up the driveway to his car.

I went back into the house. I poured myself a scotch and took it to the small deck in the back where I could look at the mountain. The house behind me was filled with things that brought to the surface the memory of my wife and daughter; somehow, I had been unable to clear them out. There were the little vases that my daughter had done in ceramics class in high school, delicate things that suggested she had a talent for ceramics. But when the class ended, so did the vases. There was a photograph I took of her against the posters in her room, a black and white photograph that showcased the rock concerts she had attended. It was pinned to the door of the room where she had slept There was no picture of my wife. She left without taking anything, no pictures, no silverware, nothing, She packed a bag and she was gone and it was as if she had never been there. I realized that there wasn’t much left that was hers. Everything had been ours, the dishes and the pictures on the walls and the furniture that we had bought, but there was nothing that was stamped with her name.

But my daughter was there. She hovered over everything. She was a presence in the house, always there, a shadow at my shoulder when I cooked dinner and now on the deck, I could feel her presence. A hummingbird came to the feeder that hung at the edge and I watched it, an iridescent thing, so tiny that it beggared imagination, and its heart had to weigh less than a postage stamp, but it hovered at the feeder, taking the sugared water, its wings a blur and I thought, perhaps that’s my daughter, reincarnated as something she admired, only I knew that it wasn’t her. She was dead. Drowned in the rising water.