Martin Cahill’s a lot older than when Luke last saw him, but he doesn’t look it. His hair’s white now, but it’s tied back in a lustrous ponytail. His complexion’s good, especially the parts of it that aren’t covered in tattoos. So he’s still not drinking, Luke thinks. That’s a good sign. Some of the guys with him are former alkies, Luke’s sure. Maybe lost souls he’s hired from the meetinghouse on the east side of town.
The shitty pickup truck is the same, though. He’s willing to bet the thing’s guts are as jerry-rigged as Frankenstein’s monster by now. Marty could use about two more layers of storage drawers than he’s got in the cargo bay; the one he has installed is covered by a maelstrom of tools, some of them sticking out of the cargo cover’s missing back window.
Just a regular bunch of working guys breaking for lunch. Their lunch spot just happens to be one of the most beautiful places on the edge of the world. When they’re done eating, they’ll head over to Sally Witcomb’s place and put in some more work on her new guest bathroom, or maybe they’ll drive back to the center of town and help those Buddhists from San Francisco refinish the floor of their new teahouse on Center Street, which apparently Marty’s doing for a big discount because he’s into Buddhism now.
Or if Luke’s initial suspicion is correct, they were headed over to the ruins of the old resort, and it was only when they saw Luke tailing them that they decided to pretend like they just drove all the way out to the Pacific Coast Highway for lunch.
“Well, well, well, the prodigal son returns,” Marty says, then goes quiet when he realizes maybe that isn’t the best opening line to use with a guy whose mother died of brain cancer and whose father’s whereabouts have been unknown for most of his life.
“Marty,” Luke says. “Gentlemen,” he adds, tipping his hat to the rest of them. Only one or two offer even a nod in return.
“Great view, ain’t it?” Marty asks.
“Always has been.”
“You forget? It’s been a while.”
“Seven years.”
“That’s a while. Guess you planned on it being longer, though, if what I hear’s correct.”
Don’t take the bait, he thinks. You’ve got a job to do.
“I’d invite you to join us,” Marty says, “but it doesn’t look like you got a lunch. So I guess that means you’re not here for lunch.”
“Not unless one of you’s got extra,” Luke says with a smile.
“We don’t,” one of the men answers, then falls silent when Marty gives him a look.
Just a warning, Luke reminds himself. I’m just supposed to give them a warning. Anything else is not how I planned to start my first week on the job.
“Did Laura Penny reopen her costume store?” Marty asks. “Or maybe Target’s selling sheriff’s uniforms now.”
“It’d be a deputy’s uniform. Until I’m sheriff. And, no, it didn’t come from Target.”
“Expecting a promotion already, huh? Admire your confidence, kid. ’Course, what I hear, even sheriff of this town would be a demotion from what you had planned.”
“Yeah, well, don’t believe everything you hear.”
“Figure I might end up saying the same once I find out what this little visit’s about.”
“Marty, I’m here to remind you that the grounds of the old lodge are still private property, and anything you find there still technically belongs to Silver Shore Investments.”
“Old lodge? You say that like the thing ever opened. Like they ever gave out a single one of the jobs they promised.”
“I’m aware of the issues that stopped the project, Marty, and along those lines, it’s also my responsibility to inform you that it’s dangerous for anyone to access the premises.”
Marty looks over one shoulder.
The unfinished remains of the Altamira Lodge are perched atop a rocky, wooded headland a short distance north. It looks like a crazy cross between a Cold War–era military fort and a billionaire game hunter’s private paradise. Wind-gnarled cypresses conceal most of the buildings from view, but a few pointed rooftops are visible above the tree line. The way the sun hits it now, Luke can make out some of the giant glassless windows of the main lodge, like open mouths waiting for prey to stumble in.
Luke vividly remembers the renderings that held the town in thrall: the oversize log cabin detailing, the soaring walls of uninterrupted plate glass meant to maximize sunset views from its dining room. The wooded nature trail snaking through the row of private guest cabins behind the main lodge. All of it’s an overgrown, wind-battered little ghost town now, and Luke has no trouble imagining the entire place tumbling into the sea in a shower of rock one day.
“You want to know what scares me, kid?”
“My name’s not kid, Marty. It’s Luke. Deputy Prescott if you want to be particular about it.”
Marty looks back at him, his half smile tugging down at the corners. “Excuse me, Deputy Prescott.”
“It’s a warning, Marty. That’s all. Let’s not make this more than it needs to be.”
“All right, then.” Marty wipes his hands with a napkin, wads it up, and gets to his feet.
Luke stiffens, feels an urge to reach for his gun. He’s probably one of the best shots in the area. But carrying a gun on your hip all day comes with its own set of challenges, most of them temptations, and he’s only been contending with those for less than a week.
There’s also the fact that Marty’s got a past. Something must have brought him to AA all those years ago. But whatever it is, it’s two decades ago, and he’s been an upstanding citizen since then, so there’s no reason Luke can’t keep control of this.
“Here’s my warning.” Marty’s paint-splotched boots crunch the gravel underfoot. “And it’s not necessarily for you, Deputy Prescott, so please don’t take it as a threat. And it’s not for the sheriff or the town council or the governor of our great state of California. Maybe it’s just for all those investors who spent their money to get a . . . well, let’s call it a cozy relationship with our governor and our town council.”
“I don’t exactly have their ear, Marty.”
“Still, ambitious young man like you, you might one day. You see, it’s real simple. There’s a couple miles of copper wire out there, along with about six AC condensers, too many sheets of drywall to count, and enough uninstalled insulation to line most of the road back to town. And if they leave it out there, it’s gonna rot before I can install it in the women’s shelter over in King City, or the recovery center down in McKittrick, or a bunch of other places that actually help people who don’t have rich and powerful friends.”
“I see. So you’re a social justice looter.”
“Your words, kid,” Marty says with a smile. “Not mine.”
Luke should walk now. The warning’s been given. He can tell the sheriff he handled his first uncomfortable duty of his first week on the job. But he doesn’t. Instead he looks Marty dead in the eye and says, “You steal any more stuff from up there, you’re gonna get arrested. I don’t care if you install it at the Vatican. And I’ll run all your men, too. See how colorful their pasts were before you taught them the Serenity Prayer.”
When the brittle sarcasm starts to leave Marty’s expression, Luke turns his back on the man.
“This isn’t the way to do this, Luke.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Mr. Cahill.”
“I’m not talking about your job,” he says. “I’m talking about your homecoming. We remember who Luke was, even if Deputy Prescott would like us to forget.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Against his will, Luke turns. His fingers get cold, and he realizes he’s resting his hand limply on the door handle.
“It means you were a bully is what it means. And you were a bully before your mother died, so don’t go blaming it on that, either.” There must be something in Luke’s expression that suggests outrage, because Marty nods and continues with more force. “I remember what you put Luanne’s granddaughter through. Never letting anyone in school forget where she came from, what happened to her. Everyone remembers. So pardon us for being a little on guard now that someone like you’s got a gun and a badge.”