Spanish Bay, a tourist ‘twofer’, with beach and rugged shoreline, is a beautiful coastal preserve featuring everything one would want in scenic California. A mile of sand, surfers immune to the icy water, dolphins, pelicans, dunes, deer, rocks on which seals perch, busy tidal pools.
And sea otters, of course. Cute little fuzzy-faced critters that float easily on the turbulent surface, smashing shellfish open on rocks perched on their chests.
The area was idyllic.
And deadly.
In researching his plans for the Monterey Bay area, March had learned that every few months tourists wandered too far out onto these craggy rocks and, crash, a muscular arm of the Pacific Ocean lapped them indifferently out to sea. Those who didn’t break their heads open on the rocks and drown died of hypothermia before the Coast Guard found them or breathed their last while tangled in the pernicious kelp. It was near here that the singer John Denver had died, his experimental plane falling from the sky.
The Asian family was now prowling the rocks, getting closer and closer to the end of the bulwark that stretched forty feet into the ocean, two yards above the agitated water. The rosy light from the low sun hit them full on.
Beautiful.
He slipped the Galaxy S5 mobile phone from his pocket and began shooting video of the scene around him. Just another tourist. Nothing odd about him, catching the beautiful, rugged scenery in high-def pixels.
A huge crash of water, and the spray must have tickled the children. They seemed to giggle. The father gestured them to go some feet closer to the end. He aimed his Nikon and shot.
Grandmother remained on the trail, some distance. Mother was about twenty feet behind her husband and children. March noticed she was calling. But the roar of the ocean on this windy evening was loud. The man probably couldn’t hear.
Another huge wave, exploding on the gray-and-brown rocks. For a moment the children weren’t visible. He glanced at the screen and saw a rainbow in the angled sunlight.
Then there were the children once more, oblivious, looking down at the water, as their father directed them closer yet to the terminus point of the rocks.
March now noted that out to sea a large wave was gaining strength.
The lens of his camera app was pointed their way but his concentration wasn’t on the video he was taking. He was looking at the swelling wave.
Fifty yards, forty.
Water travels fast even though it is, of course, the largest moving thing on earth. And this behemoth began to race.
Closer, closer, come on …
March’s palms sweated. His gut thudded, as he thought: Please, I want this …
Thirty yards.
The wave beginning to sharpen into a peak at the crest, God’s palm to slap the family to their deaths.
Twenty-five yards.
Twenty …
It was then that the mother had had enough. She charged forward, unsteady on the slippery rocks, and stepped in front of her husband, who gestured angrily with his hands.
Would he ignore her? Stand up to the bitch, March thought. Please.
Fifteen yards away, that huge swell of water.
His breathing was coming fast. Just thirty more seconds. That’s all I need.
But the woman stepped stridently past her husband, her face dark, and strode up to her children.
Ten …
She took them by the hands and, raging at them too, dragged the bewildered youngsters back toward the trail. The husband followed, his face blank.
The wave struck the rocks and inundated the spot where the children had been standing seconds before. It had had plenty of energy to sweep father and children into the water. Even more frustrating, March judged from the angle, they would have been slammed into the rocks just in front of him, then sucked into a churning mass of ocean nearby.
He lowered the phone.
The parents and children, their backs turned to the rocks, hadn’t seen the dramatic detonation of fiery water. Only the grandmother had. She said nothing but swiveled arthritically and followed her brood along the path.
March sighed. He was angry. One last glance at the foolish, oblivious family. He found his teeth jammed together.
The hollowness within him spread, like water melting salt.
Somebody’s not happy …
He climbed into the car and started the engine. He’d return to the Cedar Hills Inn and continue his plans for the next event in the Monterey area. It would be even better than Solitude Creek. He had another task, too, of course. In this business you had to be beyond cautious. Part of that was learning who was hunting for you.
And figuring out how best to avoid them.
Or, even better, stop them before they grew into a full-blown threat. Whatever it took.
CHAPTER 17
None of those on Kathryn Dance’s Deck had heard of the disaster in Sheffield, England.
Stuart Dance was now explaining: ‘I was in London as a research fellow.’
Dance said, ‘I remember. Mom and I came over to see you. I was seven or eight.’
‘That’s right. But this was before you got there. I was in Nottingham, lecturing, and the post-doc I was working with suggested we go to Sheffield to see a game at Hillsborough Stadium. You know football – soccer – fans can be pretty intense in Europe so they would host the association semi-finals in neutral venues to avoid fights. It was Nottingham – my associate’s team, of course – versus Liverpool. We took the train up. My friend had some money – I think his father was a Sir Somebody or Another – and got good seats. What happened wasn’t near us. But we could see it. Oh, my, we could see.’
Dance became alarmed as her father’s face grew pale and his eyes darted toward the children, to confirm they weren’t close. He seemed edgy, reflecting the horror he was experiencing at the memories.
‘It seems that just as the game was about to start, Liverpool fans were clustering at the turnstiles and were agitated, afraid they wouldn’t get in. Pushing forward. Someone opened an exit gate to relieve the pressure and fans surged inside and made their way to a standing-room pen. The crush was terrible. Ninety-five, ninety-six people died there.’