The Wanderer

With night beginning to fall, he headed back to the toy hauler. He’d have time to explore Thunder Point tomorrow. He figured he’d relax, get a good night’s sleep and get to know the men and women who’d been Ben’s friends in the morning.

But at around eleven, he heard the noise of people talking. He put on his jacket, gun tucked in his waistband, and went outside. He brought the binoculars from the truck, wandered around the deck. The waterfront had come alive. He saw kids on the beach, partying around a couple of campfires. From the shouts and squeals, they were teenagers. A set of headlights from clear on the other side of the beach near the town brought it all together. Ben’s place was probably most often accessed from the beach side, especially at night. Sure enough, the headlights he saw pulled right up on the sand, next to a row of all-terrain vehicles—Rhinos, quads, dune buggies.

Yep, this was a beach bar. Complete with Laundromat, bait and gas for boats. It all made sense now—in winter and bad weather, Ben likely had moderate sales, but in summers he probably did a brisk business. Folks from Thunder Point, on the other side of the beach, stopping for a soda or morning coffee when they were out walking their dogs; people from the town driving over in beach buggies to have a drink on the deck at sunset. Sport fishermen or sailors could start or end their days here.

Cooper was a little bit sorry he wasn’t going to be around to watch the summer storms roll in over the Pacific. Or the whales migrating in spring and fall. Whales wouldn’t be in the bay, but he was willing to bet the view was great from either the far edge of the cliff or the point on the opposite side of the bay.

This would have appealed to Ben for a million reasons. It was his father’s and he’d spent years here. The view was fantastic, and no one liked to put his feet up and relax more than Ben Bailey.

There was some loud popping and shrieking on the beach and he automatically reached for that Glock, but it was followed by laughter. Firecrackers. Then there was some chanting. Go, Cougars, Go. Go, Cougars, Go. Go, Go, Get ’Em, Get ’Em, Go, Get ’Em, Go!

Cheers. That’s what was going on. It was October. Football and teenagers. This was what coastal kids did after a game and probably all summer long. Coop had spent many of his early years on the Gulf, but by the time he was a teenager his parents had moved inland, away from the water to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Cooper and his friends often went out to the remote desert, away from the prying eyes of adults where they could build a fire, drink a few beers, make out with their girlfriends.

What a perfect setup. There was a whole coastline all the way to Canada, but this little piece of it didn’t have easy access. You either came at it by way of Ben’s or from the town, on foot or armed with a beach mobile. There wouldn’t be many strangers around.

He went back to his camper and settled in—door locked, gun handy. He let the TV drown out the noise from the kids until it faded away. In the morning he brewed coffee and took a cup with him to the dock, then the beach. Although he had no investment in this place, he found himself hoping they had cleaned up after themselves and hadn’t left trash all over the beach.

And what do you know? There were a couple of big green trash cans with lids up against the hill, full of bottles, cans, snack wrappers, spent firecrackers. The tide had taken out the remnants of a fire. Except for being raked, the beach was cleaned up. Who were these kids? The Stepford teenagers?

He took a deep breath of foggy sea air and decided he’d shower and hit the town. He’d like to know a little more about this place.

* * *

Cooper thought about taking the Rhino across the beach to the town, but instead he took the truck back up to 101, just to check out the distance. The freeway curved east, to the right, away from the town, and it was five miles before he saw a small sign for Thunder Point. Then it was a left turn and another five miles to access the town. He was about a mile, maybe mile and a half across the beach, or ten miles on the road.

Heading into Thunder Point from 101, he passed the high school—circa 1960s—on the edge of town. Not too big, he noted. Then he came to the main street, Indigo Sea Drive.

He had passed through a hundred towns like this, maybe a thousand. There wasn’t a lot of commerce—dry cleaner, bakery, diner. There was a very small library at the end of the street. Next to it, the elementary and middle schools sat side by side. He spotted a secondhand clothing store right next to a thrift shop and wondered what the difference was. There was a grocery, liquor store, pharmacy, gas station, hardware store and small motel. There was a dingy-looking bar, Waylan’s. And yes, Fresh Fish. There was also McDonald’s, Taco Bell, Subway and Carrie’s Deli and Catering. The Sheriff’s Department was a small storefront that sat between the deli and a boarded-up store, although a man was tearing the boards off one large window. New business moving in? Cooper wondered.

Driving around, he discovered four roads that ran downhill to the beach or marina, through the neighborhoods that surrounded the main street. The beach and the bay were like a basin dug out of the land. All roads seemed to lead either up or down—down to the marina, up to the main street, down to the beach, up to Bailey’s.

It appeared the main street and marina were the life of the town. Most of the slips were empty—fishing boats, out early in the morning, he assumed. He saw two boat-launch ramps and a fueling station. There were a number of small fishing and pleasure boats still tied up and one big cabin cruiser. There was a restaurant—Cliffhanger’s, which also advertised a bar—at the far end of the marina, far enough up the hill to avoid high tides and flooding.

He went back to the main street and drove west, out onto the point. There were houses out there, as well. On the end of the promontory was a very large home with a gated driveway. Whoever owned that house got the best view imaginable, as the point was a high, rocky cliff. From Ben’s deck he had noticed a small lighthouse, somewhere below this mansion.

It wasn’t exactly a cute little town, but there were some nice touches, like big pots of flowers in front of some businesses, old-fashioned lampposts, benches here and there along wide sidewalks.

He reasoned the best places to perch for local news would be one of the bars or the local diner. Cliffhanger’s wasn’t open yet. Waylan’s probably was, but he wasn’t in the mood for a seedy bar. He went to the diner and sat at the counter. It was either designed to be retro or it was fifty years old. By the cracks in the linoleum floor, he guessed it was all about age. The waitress was there in a flash, with a coffeepot in her hand. Her blond hair was in a ponytail and she wore a black-and-white-checkered blouse. Her name tag said Gina.

“Good morning, Gina,” he said.

She filled his cup. “And good morning, strange man. Hungry?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. What have you got for eggs?” Cooper asked.

She put down the coffeepot and leaned both hands on the counter. With a wide smile, she said, “It’s the darnedest thing, we have eggs for eggs.”

He couldn’t suppress a grin. “Mess up a couple for me. Toast, too, and...you have sausage for sausage?”

“Link or patty?”

“Patty,” he said.

“Whole wheat or whole wheat?”

“Why don’t I live recklessly? Whole wheat.”

“Good choice. It’s better for you. Now drink that coffee slow so I don’t have to keep coming back here.”

“Could I have some ice water?” He looked around. The small diner was empty of customers. “If it’s not too much trouble?”

“It’s extra,” she said. She turned and slapped the ticket on the cook’s counter.

“I can afford it,” he said. “But it might cut into your tip.”

She fixed up an ice water and placed it before him. “If it’s going to cut into my tip, I won’t charge you for it. You think I work here for the wages?” She gave the counter a wipe. “I know you’re not just passing through—there’s only two ways into this town, and both are inconvenient.”

“Two ways?” he asked, confident she was going to tell him about Gibbons to Bailey’s, down the hill, or Indigo Sea Drive, right through the heart of town.

“By land or by sea,” she said. “We are en route to nowhere.”

“I am, though. Passing through. Ben Bailey was a friend of mine and I just heard—”

She got a stricken look on her face. “Oh, I’m sorry! Man, we miss Ben around here.”

“That’s why I’m hanging around—to meet some of his friends. Ben and I met in the Army, a long time ago. We stayed in touch, but I’ve never been up here before.”

“Ben was such a nice guy—the last person I could imagine losing.”

“Who were his closest friends?” Cooper asked.

“Oh, hell, no one and everyone,” she said with a shrug. “Ben kind of watched over the whole town, but I don’t know of any one or two people he was best friends with.”

The door opened and Mac came in. He wasn’t in uniform this morning and looked just as comfortable in jeans, boots, plaid shirt and jacket.

“This is the guy you should probably ask,” Gina said. “Hey, Mac.”

He pulled off his cap and sat next to Cooper at the counter. “Ask me what?”

“This guy was a friend of Ben’s—”

“We’ve met,” Mac said, sticking out a hand. “How’s it going, Mr. Cooper?”

Cooper laughed. “Every time you call me Mr. Cooper, I wonder if my father just entered the room. My name’s actually Hank, short for Henry, but people call me Cooper.”

“Is that a military thing? Last name?”

“It started way before the Army. I’m a junior—Henry Davidson Cooper, Junior. My dad goes by Hank, but no one went for Henry or little Hank so I got saddled with Little Cooper until I wasn’t so little, then just Cooper. Sometimes Coop. Take your pick. It’s going all right. That beach can get busy at night.”