The Wanderer

“Gotcha,” Cooper said.

Cooper and Rawley went through Ben’s living quarters, which were, to his surprise, tidy. He suspected Rawley had taken care of that, too. Ben had been in possession of a minimal wardrobe. “You want the clothes?” he asked Rawley.

“Too big for me,” he said. “I could use some old shirts and sweats for Dad. The rest could go to the VA.”

“Sure,” Cooper said.

“I’ll take ’em home and wash ’em up first. Then drop ’em off at the VA.”

“That’s above and beyond...” Cooper said.

“They deserve that. At least.”

Cooper was impressed. He was beginning to suspect that Rawley was a good and generous man, under his grump and grumble.

Ben had an old TV and stereo, a boom box—apparently he hadn’t graduated to the iPod yet—and bookcase that held many books about Oregon wildlife, mostly birds. He found Ben’s laptop, their primary means of communication the past ten years, and therein he found out a few things about Ben that he might’ve known if he’d been paying attention. Ben was an involved ornithologist. He might not hold any kind of degree, but the history on his computer showed almost daily visits to websites and blogs about birds, further explaining the preserve on his land.

Cooper had walked through the preserve all the way to the high cliff edge towering over the Pacific a few days earlier. The growth was thick but he’d found what appeared to be a seldom-traveled path through the spruce, Douglas fir and shrubs. The bright colors of fall battled with the dark green of fir trees; among the ground cover he saw withered plants he was willing to bet sprang into bloom with the spring and summer warmth. He’d spotted the remnants of many old nests, perhaps abandoned for the winter. There were some shells and some dead eggs, not to mention a few low-flying seabirds threatened by his presence. One lone eagle circled overhead for a little while. There was one tree in which perched a few birds that looked like small cranes.

Ben had saved a lot of online documents about bird preserves, about rare and endangered birds. There were pictures on his computer, pictures he’d taken himself—he was an avid bird-watcher. And there were large, high-powered binoculars hanging from nails all over the place.

He also found that Ben had saved many emails from Cooper and from Luke Riordan but very few from other people. It spurred a memory of an email Cooper had gotten from Ben, in which he casually said, “Since my father passed a couple of years ago...” Cooper had thought, a couple of years ago? He hadn’t notified his friends of his father’s death?

And then Cooper asked himself, who would he write about something like that? While Cooper liked a lot of people, he could count his good friends on one hand.

But Cooper had sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces and nephews who were always in touch. At least he was connected.

It was going to take him a long time to get through all of Ben’s saved emails, but over time he’d manage. There could be information in there about his intention for the property. There could even be some stray clue about what led to his death, if he had some issue with an enemy no one really knew about. He doubted it, but it was worth checking.

The weather was good that afternoon. Rawley had gone home with a lot of laundry to do and Cooper relaxed on the deck with the laptop. He counted nine kids on the beach—two wearing wet suits with paddleboards and oars out on the still bay, four batting a volleyball around, though they didn’t have a net set up, three girls parked on the sand, talking. There were three ATVs lined up behind them, although he hadn’t seen them arrive.

Cooper was just enjoying his view and the kids seemed to be having good, clean fun. There was a little monkey business—a guy grabbed a girl, stole a kiss, got punched, which made him laugh hysterically and then chase her, catch her, get a more receptive welcome the second time. The two guys with the boards went almost to the mouth of the bay, where the Pacific waves were high and challenging. Inside the bay was smooth as silk, dark as ink. Wet suits, very intelligent—the air was cold and the ocean much colder. But they were obviously pros; they barely got their feet wet. In the summer, Cooper bet there was a lot of snorkeling, maybe diving, maybe running surfboards out beyond the bay.

He shot a note off to his sister Rochelle and told her this was a pretty cool place, in fact. He had no idea what to do with it, though. Dry camping in the fifth wheel was not exactly convenient—he had to find a trailer park, dump the lav and reload potable water every few days. But he could at least run off the bar’s power and not his battery. He hadn’t told anyone in his family the extent to which he was tied to all this—he didn’t want any advice. His family, especially his sisters, was very good at telling him what he should do.

He saw the dog again, but not with the girl this time. A young man or boy was with him, throwing a ball for the dog as he walked. Husband? he wondered.

Then he saw the guy trying to give the kids on the beach a wide berth, walking all the way down to the surf to get by them without contact. The guys, six of them, two in wet suits, made a line across his path. The dog walker went the other way, headed inland for the hill, calling the dog to follow. The teenage boys reversed their position, blocking him again. The dog, half as big as a human, cowered behind his master.

Cooper, who had been in way too much trouble for fighting when he was younger, could see the fight brewing. He knew what was coming, and it was six on one. Then the guy who must be the ringleader shoved the loner. The loner stood taller; his shoulders widened a little, ready. The ringleader was seriously talking him down, leaning into him, verbally assaulting him. Then he shoved him again and the loner put his fists up.

“Not gonna happen, assholes,” Cooper said aloud to no one. He put down the laptop. Then he stood, put two fingers in his mouth and rent the air with a deafening whistle.

They all turned to see him standing on the deck of the now-defunct bait shop. His legs were braced apart, hands on his hips, and he watched. He hated bullies. He was ready to leap over the deck rail and barrel down to the beach to stand up for this guy, even though the guy, the loner, might be the problem. It didn’t matter if the loner had done something terrible, you don’t do that—you don’t attack someone in a fight that isn’t fair and balanced.

The teens watched him; he watched the teens.

Then the barricade wisely separated and the loner passed, headed for Cooper’s dock.

He wasn’t headed for Cooper. He went to the bottom of the steps that led up to the bar and sat. From there he threw the ball for the dog. Cooper let this go for about five minutes, then he descended to meet the guy. A very cranky-looking teenager looked up at him and said, “Thanks for that. I guess.”

“You guess? Would you rather I just watch them beat you up?”

“They probably wouldn’t have.” He looked back down to accept the Great Dane’s ball and throw it again.

“Probably wouldn’t have?” Cooper asked.

The kid shrugged.

“Have a little disagreement with your friends?”

The kid looked up and laughed. “Dude, they are not my friends!”

“Who are they, then?”

“Teammates. And that’s all.”

Cooper took another two steps down and sat on a step even with the kid. “You throw the last game or something?”

The kid gave him a very impatient look. He held on to the ball, all slimy with dog spit. The dog sat and panted happily, full of expectation. “You wouldn’t understand,” the kid said, finally throwing the ball.

“Wanna try me?”

The kid shot him an angry look. All defensive, hurt, full of impotent rage, and Cooper thought, Holy shit—that’s me! About twenty years ago or so...

“I’m the new kid,” he said. “Just moved here. Just in time for football, which was my fatal mistake. I wasn’t supposed to get on the team, much less make touchdowns. The asshole on the beach, he’s a senior. Team captain. He was counting on three things this year—being all-conference, being homecoming king and getting laid by every cheerleader in Coos County.”

Cooper had a strange reaction to that. First of all, being the new kid felt all too familiar to him. Getting in fights, though long ago, was fiercely memorable. Homecoming king—not Cooper! And cheerleaders? When he was in high school, he hadn’t been lucky enough to even date one, let alone anything more. He thought about Mac’s daughter, whom he’d met when he’d had dinner with the McCains a few nights ago. Eve was a lovely, virginal, delightful sixteen-year-old cheerleader who no one should be allowed to touch. Just to be ornery, he asked, “How many of those things are you going to rack up?”

The kid looked at him incredulously. “Seriously? Like I could ever get all-conference or get a date. Come on.”

“The kid who shoved you—who is he?”

A bitter laugh. “Jag Morrison. Crown prince of Thunder Point. And yes, that’s short for Jaguar, if you can believe anyone would name their kid that.”

“Shew,” Cooper said, shaking his head.

“Yeah.”

Cooper let that settle a little bit. Obviously there was some very bad blood there. It could be about anything—about this kid being a better ball player, about a girl, about anything. Finally Cooper asked, “Your dog have a name, kid?”

He laughed without humor. “Are you ready for it? Hamlet. It’s Danish.”

“You could use a tougher dog.”

“Tell me about it,” he said.

“How about you? Name?”