15

I waited for God to make the next move.

He chose not to.

I packed a suitcase and got out of Dodge. Destination: the Sea Brine Motel in Lincoln City, Oregon.

Just a night or two. Back in time for the tying of the knot for Doomie and Stella on Saturday.

If I came back at all.

Ruthie and I loved our occasional long weekends at the resort town with the D River, world’s shortest. The river began on the east side of Highway 101 and ended maybe one hundred fifty feet later in the sea on the west side of the highway. That, of course, depended largely upon the tides. An extreme low tide lengthened the river to more than four hundred fifty feet to make it the second-shortest river in the world.

It’s what keeps the Chamber of Commerce up at night.

Lincoln City has it all. Great seafood restaurants. Spacious beaches. Tide pools teeming with benign ocean creatures for the touching. A small live theatre. A multiplex cinema. Bookshops and fudge shops and kite shops and bakeries. A midsized casino with penny slots. And cottages for sale to drool over.

And drool we did. Wouldn’t it make the perfect place to retire? To write? To garden? To open our own whatchamacallit store? To worship with collectors of glass floats and makers of taffy. To think and reflect, a place where we could volunteer, one without big-city crime and congestion. Summer weekends were bad, with escapees from Portland heat fleeing to the sea, but there were only a dozen of those weekends a year.

And so we dreamed and schemed and by the end of the money made the long, monotonous drive over I-5 back to Seattle. We would never make good on our dreams, but we sure had fun playing the game.

The Sea Brine was like a hundred other low-budget motels along the coast’s “20 Miracle Miles”—two beds in a box. We always got two queen beds so each of us could stretch out and not bother the other. Ruthie could sleep through a category-five hurricane, whereas I felt every twitch of my mate. While on vacation, we carved out our own spaces. Should the air blossom with romance, I knew where to find her.

We read. We snacked. We slept late. We left responsibility to the rabbis, as they say.

It was a summer weekday, and to my surprise, the Sea Brine had a vacancy. I only required one bed, non-smoking. My needs were simple, a working TV and a fridge for my smoked jerky from Karla’s in Rockaway and pepper-jack cheese cubes from the Tillamook Cheese Factory. A box of multi-grain crackers and a carton of two-percent milk and I was in business.

Worn out from the weirdness in Seattle and from driving the rental all day, I fell asleep to reruns of The Lucy Show and didn’t wake up until the next day’s Cooking with Julia Child. No nightmares of blood or anything else for that matter.

I’d left the windows open, and the room was refreshingly brisk with salt-scented marine air. “Maybe today I’ll make good on our dreams, Ruthie,” I said aloud. “Why not? What’s keeping me in Seattle? Want to go bungalow shopping with me this afternoon?”

The thought filled me with inexplicable joy. I was smart to get out of Seattle. Best thing for me was a change of scene.

A belly full of Chinook salmon, tongue on alert thanks to a handful of pepper jack, sun streaming down San Diego–strong, I ventured forth. I’d ask the desk clerk for a good lunch recommendation, someplace new, drive down to Newport to the aquarium afterwards, then settle on the beach with my chair and the latest thriller.

As with many of the smaller motels, the Brine was a mom-and-pop operation. Bob Winslow was out changing the sheets. Patty Winslow met me at the desk, asked if things were to my liking and if I’d spent a restful night, extolled Ruth Anne’s virtues and expressed regret over her passing (had it been that long since we last checked in?), and said a newer eatery called Captain Jack’s was making waves at the south end of town near Siletz Bay.

“Try the seafood bouillabaisse,” said the matronly proprietor. Simone the inscrutable Siamese cat sat sleepy-eyed by the phone as if expecting a call. “That dish won second prize in this year’s county cook-off, and only its first year out. The chef was trained in some Italian seaport known for fine fish preparation. I haven’t yet gotten away to try it myself but the mister brought me back a spicy seafood cocktail from there that was the food of the gods. And ask for the smoked-cod appetizer. Folks tell me it’s buttery sweet and melts in your mouth.”

I was about to ask her what was showing at the Cineplex when a boy of maybe twenty-one and a girl of no more than sixteen crowded into the tiny office right behind me. He wore brown penny loafers, no socks, khaki shorts, and a faded blue T-shirt that showed off his biceps, she rather plain in yellow print blouse, white slacks, and white flip-flops. Her brown hair was held in a ponytail; his flyaway blond hair should have been. I’m not sure why, but they didn’t seem to go together, almost as if they’d met in the parking lot for the first time today. The corners of their eyes were tight with tension, like maybe they’d been fighting on the way in.

I would drive by the Cineplex and see what was showing. “Thanks for the lunch tip, Patty. I’ll bring you back some of that cod.” She flicked a hand in acknowledgement, but I caught the pleased look on her face. I imagined that in summer she was chained to the desk much of the time.

The young couple stepped up to the desk. I squeezed past and let myself out.

I thought it strange they had no luggage, no car keys in hand, no car waiting in the driveway outside of registration. Who walked up so early in the day to a resort motel for the night? Was the girl even legal?

The couple quickly faded from my thoughts as I made for the rental. Visions of tomato-rich bouillabaisse, loaded with shellfish and scallops, danced in my head.

I hit the unlock button on the key ring and suddenly felt myself propelled forward by a hard-muscled shoulder. “Walk to the driver’s side, say nothing, give nothing away.” It was the boy from registration. I smelled perspiration mixed with fear. His and mine.

Was that a gun in my ribs?

On the opposite side of the car, the teen girl popped into the back seat as if I were taking her to the mall.

“Get in,” the boy said, his voice cracking. “And remember that I’m right behind you and so is my gun.”

I sat in the driver’s seat. He sat in the back seat directly behind me and next to the girl. I cursed having rented a four-door sedan like we always did, Ruthie. Easy loading and unloading, sure, but now I saw that included for criminals too. I checked the rearview mirror but didn’t see the gun.

“Don’t look at me!” the boy growled. “Just drive. Drive!”

“Which way?” I tried to keep my voice low while backing the rental out of the parking stall. I didn’t want to excite any action on his part.

He said nothing, so I pulled onto 101 headed north.

“No, no!” the boy yelped. “Depoe Bay!”

The tires squealed into a fishtailing U-turn that earned me the wrath of a guy in an RV big as a semi. “I said don’t give anything away!” the boy shouted.

I thought all I’d given away is what a lousy driver I was, but was smart enough not to mention it to the gunman. Dear God, please let Patty be watching this craziness.

Now I was sending messages without my permission.

Depoe Bay is another small resort town twenty miles south on the way to Newport. “World’s Smallest Harbor.” Those commerce guys again.

I tried to still the panic inside. Two incongruous thoughts collided: I am no longer hungry and this is what it feels like to be kidnapped.

I prayed for peace and experienced a calm two degrees below panic. It was a start.

“You don’t have to do this. Put away the gun. We turn around now and I don’t press charges. We get you the help you need.”

“Your wallet, your wallet!” The kid’s arm snaked around my neck, his hand making “come on, fork it over” motions in front of my face.

I suddenly knew where the gun was. Its muzzle dented the flesh just below my right ear. I fished my wallet out of my hip pocket and slapped it into his hand.

“Keep that thing out of sight.” The girl whimpered. “I said no guns but now we’ve committed some kind of felony. I told you we should just go home. My father will understand. We don’t have to do this!”

“Your dad will kill me.” The boy’s voice trembled. “With his bare hands. I took his precious kitten across state lines.”

“You from Washington State?” I said as he rifled the cash and tossed the wallet back.

“Yeah, what of it? We’re not here for conversation, so shut it.”

“Don’t tell him where we’re from,” the girl said, the whine in her words building.

“That’s OK,” I said. “It’s such a pretty state, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, pretty, so pretty.” I hoped he didn’t drip sarcasm on the upholstery. “So pretty is Washington that we’re on the run in Oregon. Her dad thinks I’m a loser.”

“Well, you did just steal this guy and his car and his money,” the girl said.

“Shut up!” he shouted. I wanted to say the same thing but decided against it in case Bonnie then told Clyde to cut their losses and dump me in a blowhole at Devil’s Punchbowl just down the highway.

“Nice, Shirl, now you think I’m a loser too.”

“Don’t use my name! Now he knows my name!”

I chanced a glimpse in the mirror. Their body language was decidedly chilly. Their love had gone sour. They’d done a hugely stupid thing. They didn’t know any way out.

It might have been comical but for the fact that it was a very real gun barrel pressing against my neck.

“Yeah, pretty state, Washington. God made a real gem when He made Washington.” Even to my ears, I sounded like an idiot. I was in a car with two desperate kids and a gun and I’m babbling about Washington’s scenic wonders.

It was the strangest thing. The more I babbled, the more peaceful I became.

“I just love Mt. Rainier,” the girl said. “They say it’s volcanic and could erupt at any time, but whenever I see it, like on a really, really clear day, all I see is this old friend watching over Seattle, ya know?”

“I know. And whenever I think of all the fish and elk and mountain lions that make their home there, I thank God for letting me live nearby.” I was also thankful that the muzzle of the gun no longer pressed against my head but did not bring that up.

“What is this, a PBS nature special?” The kid sounded on the verge of tears. “I don’t believe you two.”

“It’s gonna be OK, Richie. I think it is.” In the mirror, she tried to touch him but he flinched back.

“You said no names, Shirl.”

“Well, you used mine.”

“I’m James Carter, kids,” I interjected, hoping they’d feel less cornered now that all introductions had been made. Somewhere I heard that knowing such information personalizes the abductee and makes him less an object to be thrown into a blowhole.

The girl glanced in the mirror, frowning. I flicked my eyes back to the road.

“Well, James Carter, now that we’re all friends, how about you stop driving at granny speed and get us to Depoe Bay in, say, the next fifteen minutes?” The gun lay on the seat between Richie and Shirl. “And I ain’t no kid. I turned twenty-two last month.”

“You know, Richie, when you think about it, isn’t it amazing that twenty-three years ago, you didn’t exist at all and now here we are taking a drive down the Oregon coast together? God is an amazing God.”

“He’s right, Richie, ya know. He is so right.” Though she didn’t know it, Shirl, God love her, had shifted from Richie’s antagonist to my accomplice.

“The Creator’s got an amazing life ahead for you, Richie.” He no longer seemed concerned at my looking into the rearview mirror, so I looked.

The fingers of Shirl’s hand were interlaced with his. She nodded sweetly at her friend. He shook his head, bewildered.

“Jesus loves you, Richie,” I said. “Jesus loves you.”

Now I was shaking my head. God, what in the Sam Hill…

“Of all the people in all the world to kidnap, I had to pick a Christian.” Richie’s words came low and husky.

And of all the people in all the world to be kidnapped by, I had to be picked by one who recognized a Christian when he saw one.

“I’m sorry I said shut up, Shirl.”

“It’s OK, Richie. I know you didn’t mean it.”

“Turn in here, right here!”

Devil’s Punchbowl.

I turned into the expansive parking lot and maneuvered around two Goldwing motorcycles and a Land Rover festooned with sea kayaks and bicycles and pulling a trailer load of ATVs. I eased the car into a parking slot just as with a mighty hiss and a splash, a cascade of foaming seawater burst skyward from a hole in the slick rock escarpment in front of us.

Families and lovers jumped back from the spray and oohed and ahhed and giggled their delight.

We were parked, along with a hundred other people, at one of the coast’s most popular natural attractions.

“This isn’t going to work, baby. Let’s put our trust in Mr. Carter, OK? I need a bathroom.” Good ol’ Shirl. For her, the novelty of their little escapade had rapidly worn off.

“Go, Shirl, just go. The can’s right over there.”

She left at a trot.

We sat in silence, me sneaking glances in the mirror at a brooding Richie, arms crossed, staring forlornly at the happiness all around.

At last he said, “It’s not loaded, you know. I get that it doesn’t change what I done, but I never meant to hurt you. Only reason I have it is for protection on the road. Shirl hates it. We slept in a picnic shelter last night and I woke up just in time or she woulda pitched it into the ocean. Now I wish she had.” He flung his head against the back seat and jammed the heels of both hands into bloodshot eyes. “Oh man, I am such a screw-up.”

If I had a buck for every time I’d reached that conclusion about myself, I could buy lunch for every man, woman, and child at the Punchbowl.

“How come you don’t just jump outta the car and scream for help?” Richie sounded resigned to the fact that I might be on the verge of doing just that.

I watched a black-and-white mutt leap for a Frisbee and miss. I practiced breathing. “Beats me. If yours is anything like my life lately, you might be slowly coming to the same conclusion I am: It doesn’t do a bit of good to run. God’ll find you.”

I turned around and faced him. “You gave me a pretty good jolt back there.” He dropped his hands and stared at the floor. “On the other hand, you cleared my mind of a lot of deadwood.”

He managed to raise his gaze and meet mine. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Maybe you’ve heard the expression, ‘God has a plan for your life’?”

He nodded.

“Well, I believe that. And sometimes that plan might come in specific, short-term assignments with very real long-term consequences. I came down here thinking I could escape God’s plan for me, when all along, He was sending me on assignment, see?” My chest swelled with excitement at this line of logic.

Richie looked out the window now, eyes searching for Shirl. I’d lost him.

“Richie!” In the confines of the car, the name sounded louder and sharper than I’d intended, but I needed his attention.

He faced me, expression etched in worry and pain.

“God sent me here to stop you from ruining your life. God sent you and Shirl here to keep me from missing out on the best part of being made in His image.”

He looked cornered, truly repentant for picking this car and this driver.

“Discerning His will and acting upon it!” I hit the top of the seat between us with a clenched fist.

The boy flinched. “Wh-at?” He pressed back against his seat and looked more sorry that he’d confessed the gun wasn’t loaded.

I tried on my most winsome smile but imagined it was about as reassuring as the grin on a Rottweiler. “Don’t you see, Richie? God says we’re made in His image. He wants us to be alert to His will and then go make it happen. He gives us the privilege of being His boots on the ground, understand?”

He looked a little bluish, as if he had come to understand a great many things this day, of which “never get into a stranger’s car” was near the top of the list.

I changed tack. “You bring a phone?”

The old defensive surliness returned. “Yeah, what of it?”

“Why don’t I call Shirl’s dad and let him know she’s OK? It’s cruel to keep a parent in the dark where their kid is concerned. What’s his name?”

“Roger McClain.”

“Good. That way, Mr. McClain will have time to cool down while I drive you to her house. I’ll stay with you just as long as you need me to.”

He shook off his sullenness and stared out the side window. “You’re not pressing charges?”

“Nope,” I said, “but only if you tell the police what you did. It was pretty stupid, Richie. You need to own up to it so it never happens again. Guns, loaded or empty, are no laughing matter.” I’d had entirely too much experience with handguns. Bea McCutcheon’s, fully loaded, was seconds from sending her to kingdom come.

“The cops’ll throw my butt in jail!”

As much as I liked the idea of Richie spending a night or two behind bars for the scare he’d given me, I kept seeing a reckless teenage me in his haggard body language. “No, they won’t. They’ve got too much to do. And if it comes to that, I’ve got a lawyer friend who can help us.”

Richie shook his head. “How come you’d do this for me?

“‘Let the one without sin cast the first stone.’”

“What’s that?”

I liked the genuine curiosity in the question. “That’s from the Bible. Jesus challenged the religious leaders who wanted to stone to death a woman who had committed adultery.”

“Let me guess,” Richie said, eyes wet. “No one lifted a finger.”

“You win the stuffed elephant. The leaders left one by one, their stones uncast, until it was only Jesus and the woman. He told her He wasn’t pressing charges against her either, that she should go home and stop sinning.”

Richie wiped his nose on a sleeve. “I’ve messed up big-time.”

I smiled, reached over the seat, and slapped his knee. “Me too. You wouldn’t believe the month I’ve had.”

“I’m sorry. Sorry I put you through all this, sorry I threatened you. I just panicked, I guess.” The tears and the snot were running freely now and I handed him my handkerchief. “Here. It’s clean. It’s yours.”

“Thanks.” He took it and blew loud and long. “Her dad wants me in jail. I’ll never see Shirl again.”

With a hissing whoosh, another spout of water exploded from the rock in front of us and shot for the sky. The onlookers standing at the safety fence fell back, shrieking in awe and delight.

“I’ll give the gun to the police so it can be taken out of circulation. But, Richie, you can’t act on your emotions this way. This is how people die. If the police see a gun waving around, they shoot now and ask later if it was loaded. Shirl deserves better than that. And unless I miss my guess, she needs a couple more years to finish school and leave home on good terms. You need a good counselor, someone to be your advocate. What about your parents?”

It stabbed me in the heart to see the anguish on his stubbly face. “Mom’s dead and Dad might as well be for all he gets involved. Last I heard, he’s in Jersey, living paycheck to bar. No room for me, I can tell you that.”

“Other relatives?”

“Just a distant uncle who works the oil rigs in the Gulf and lives out of a duffle bag.”

It was as if Ruth herself dug me in the ribs.

Richie looked over at the restrooms, clearly wondering what was keeping Shirl. I hoped she hadn’t jumped ship and decided to stow away with the ATVs.

His next words surprised me. “There’s a man at this church in Longview who said I could rent a spare room in his house until I figure something out. Said his family wouldn’t mind.” He wiped his eyes, but didn’t look at me. “I haven’t done it ’cause I didn’t want to be preached at, ya know?”

I knew.

“Thing is, you’ve had lots of time to preach at me and you haven’t. That story about Jesus, that true?”

“Yes,” I said. “Many of the writers of the Bible were eyewitnesses to what Jesus said and did. And Paul, a great writer and preacher who came along not long after, even persecuted Christians at first before he fully understood what Christ was all about. And several historians who didn’t write the Bible agree that Jesus was an extraordinary person. He spoke to people and listened to them in ways no one else ever had. More amazing than that, He still does it today.”

I stopped a minute, waiting for the word hypocrite to appear in the clouds. For someone to stick his head in my open car window and tell me to take some sea bass to a widow in Astoria. For the airbag warning on the dash to morph into “For God so loved the world…”

“Mr. Carter, you OK?” Richie eased forward on the seat, eyes old with concern, offering me the gun butt first. And my wad of cash.

I laid the gun on the floor and stuck the money in my pocket. “I’m OK, Richie. I was just thinking how God will use anything to get our attention. Here comes Shirl. Are you ready to make that call?”

He nodded, fished a slim cellphone out of his shorts pocket, dialed, and handed it to me.

Shirl got into the car, slid across to Richie, and pulled him close. He told her what we had agreed upon and she kissed him. They watched as two state-patrol cars whipped into the parking lot and screeched to a halt behind the rental.

I took a deep breath. “Hello, Mr. McClain? My name is James Carter, calling to tell you that your daughter Shirl is safe and sound. Yes, sir, she’s right here. I can have her to you by this evening. Yes, yes, I’ll put her on.” I handed over the phone, sent up a ten-second prayer for guidance, and opened my door to the law.