Chapter 4

By day, the surf camp looked different. The gate was open, for one thing. The graffiti was more prominent. In the thin, tintype light, weeds poked through mounds of displaced earth. The clapboard buildings had a rough, unfinished look that the darkness had concealed. Flattened cans and plastic bottles lay tangled in scrubby clumps of grass. When I got out of the Jeep, the smell of marijuana met me.

I made my way to the central building, but it was locked and dark. Then I walked around it toward the square where, the night before, they’d had their party. The wind made a high-pitched noise as it whipped down the corridor of cabins, and the blued steel of the clouds rolled steadily overhead. The light was so diffuse that there were no real shadows, and it made the world feel disconnected from reality, outside of space and time.

The surf camp’s central square was in shambles. The bonfire had burned itself down to ash and the charred ends of logs. More trash—bottles, cups, vape pods, paper napkins, a forgotten shoe—stretched from the bonfire all the way to the palapa. A camp chair lay on its side. A drying puddle of vomit marked where someone had failed to make it to the restroom. Someone had tied an empty garbage bag to one of the palapa’s supports, and now it flapped like a black wing every time the wind picked up. There was no laughter, no friendly voices, no surf rock. A hint of old smoke made the air greasy.

I was still standing there, trying to decide what I wanted to do, when a guy emerged from the restrooms. He had dark hair under a beanie, and he wore a Baja hoodie and what appeared to be hemp pants with, yes, flip-flops. He picked a path over to the palapa and, apparently unconcerned that it was still morning, began mixing himself a drink at the bar. He put most of it back on his first try, and he finished on his second. He was setting down the glass when he noticed me and said, “Oh shoot.”

(He didn’t say shoot.)

Damian looked, well, rough this morning. His voice was rough too, like he hadn’t spoken yet today, and even from across the square, I could see he had dark hollows under his eyes. His color wasn’t great, and he didn’t seem too steady on his feet.

“Hey,” he said and began making his way toward me. He tried for a smile and got three-quarters of the way there. “Dan, right? I tried to catch up with you last night.”

“Dash.”

His expression veered toward sheepish. “Almost.”

I laughed in spite of myself. I have a weak spot for men who are human disasters, mostly because I’m one myself. “I’m surprised you remember any of it. Looks like you had quite the night.”

“Oh my God,” he groaned, and rubbed his eyes. I caught a whiff of rum, sweet on his breath. “Kids these days. I’m telling you, they have no respect for their elders. A bunch of eighteen-year-olds lining up shots and telling me I’m an old man if I can’t keep up.”

I took a closer look at him. He’d been clean shaven the night before, but now he had a hint of stubble, and I was surprised to see gray in it. “Old man, huh? Let me guess: you’ve reached the venerable age of twenty-five.”

“Thirty.” That sheepish grin again. “I tell them twenty-eight.”

“Bull plop.”

(I did not say bull plop.)

That made him laugh.

“I’m almost thirty,” I said. “Nobody who’s thirty has abs like you do.”

“Hard work, my guy.” The smile definitely wasn’t sheepish now, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to meet the look in his eyes. “And good genes.”

The wind shrieked down the path at us. Damian shivered. The empty garbage bag flapped madly.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m really glad you came back. I’ve got a couple of those little gremlins in my cabin, but what do you say we grab some bottles, and we’ll find somewhere quiet to…chill?”

It was simultaneously sweet, confusing, laughable, and flattering (if I’m being totally honest) that Damian thought I’d come back to, uh, chill. Before I had to let him down, though, a familiar voice rang out across the clearing.

“Damian.” In the bleached half-light, Jen looked older too: her movements stiff, her face lined, that long (almost distended) jaw set hard. Some of that, I thought, was anger, not age. “Where have you been?”

Damian folded his arms, and he didn’t quite look at Jen. “Could you keep your voice down—”

“I’ve been looking for you all morning.”

Instead of answering, Damian shot me a look—an appeal for sympathy, like he and I were in this together, and wasn’t she being so unreasonable. The kind of look that stops being cute around age twelve.

“Grab some gloves and get to work,” Jen said.

“Yeah,” Damian said. “We’re talking. I’ll do it in a minute—”

“Not in a minute. Right now. That’s the deal—you crash here, you work.” A beat later, she shouted, “Go!”

Damian sent me one last, long-suffering look—this one tinged with a sulk—and said, “Hit me up before you leave.” He brushed past Jen and headed toward the row of cabins. It wasn’t quite a challenge, and it wasn’t quite aggression, but it came close, and for a moment, rage lit up Jen’s face.

Then she shut it down, and when she turned to me, her expression was neutral again. “You’re Bobby’s friend.”

I nodded.

“Not to be rude, but I’ve got a lot going on this morning. Do you need something?”

“What happened?”

Jen pushed a hand through her boyishly short hair. She let out a breath slowly. “That nut job got in here last night. Ali Rivas—heard of her? Broke every window she could reach. And the cameras weren’t working, of course, the one night I need them to work.”

“The cameras weren’t working?”

She started to shake her head, and then she looked at me more closely. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Maybe. This is kind of weird, but—well, I’m the one who found, uh, Gerry last night.” And then inspiration struck. “I’m kind of having a hard time, you know, processing.”

“Oh. God. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, he made a pass at me, and then, well, you know what happened with Bobby, and—I’m just feeling really messed up, I guess.”

“I’m sorry,” Jen said again. “He could get like that sometimes. I told the guys who were staying here not to let him get them alone.”

“I thought the camp wasn’t open. Actually, I don’t really understand what’s going on—why have the surf competition if the camp won’t be ready until the spring?”

Jen flashed a smile. “Well, surfers don’t really need much of an excuse to catch a wave and throw a party. The real answer, though, is that we’ve been hosting the camp—and the challenge—for years. But we’ve always run the camp out of a resort down the coast. Next year, we’ll have our own place.” She put her hands on her hips. “We would have, anyway. I don’t know what’s going on now that Gerry’s…”

“From what you said, he seems kind of, I don’t know, problematic as a business partner.”

“You mean letting him walk around and prey on eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds? Yeah, I didn’t exactly know what I was getting myself into. It’s not like that’s the kind of person I’d have picked.”

“How’d you guys end up working together?”

“I’d been trying to get the camp going for a long time. I was eyeing this property, trying to work out the loan, and the next thing I knew, he swooped in and bought it out from under me. Part of that stupid planned community. I was so mad I showed up at his office and gave him a piece of my mind.”

That wasn’t what I remembered Gerry saying, but admittedly, I’d had other things on my mind. “And that worked?”

Something about Jen’s shrug seemed amused. “I had a good deal lined up, and he cheated me out of it. I called him on it. Then he wanted to know about the camp, and I told him, and he seemed really supportive. I mean, I should have picked up on it then—you saw him, the way he dyed his hair and that stupid goatee, the clothes, trying to look like he was thirty years younger. He had a reputation in Portland, you know. I asked some of the guys. They said he was on all the apps. Kind of a standing joke; everybody knew what he liked.”

“He wasn’t local?”

“Gerry? No. Like I said, Portland.”

“What about you?”

She shook her head. “Grew up in California. I’ve been coming up here for the cold-water surfing for a long time. Then I started doing the camp in the fall. I would have made the move permanent once this place opened.” Her fingers flexed and settled on her hips again. “I shouldn’t be talking about it like it’s over, but God, who knows?”

“Why would it be over?”

“Because he owns the land. Because he was putting up most of the money for the camp itself.” Jen let out an unhappy little laugh. “Because he’s the only reason this thing ever got off the ground in the first place.”

“You were partners, then?”

Jen nodded, but she didn’t seem to have heard me.

“But it was your idea, right? I mean, you must have been the majority shareholder, or however you say it.”

She started to nod again. Then she brought her head up and considered me. Her expression wasn’t wary. It wasn’t even defensive, not exactly. But it was...closed, I guess, in a way it hadn’t been before.

I decided to risk a lie. “The reason I ask is I heard the cops talking about an argument you guys had. About money, right?”

The caution in her expression evaporated in a flash of heat. “No, not about money. About his stupid idea to turn this into a daycare. Listen, I like working with kids. But this is my surf camp. It’s not an amenity for his planned community. It doesn’t matter whose name is on the paperwork.” She drew a breath. “Who said we were having an argument?”

I didn’t want to get into a game of he said-she said, mostly because I had no idea who had said anything, so I said, “How’d he get up there, anyway?”

“What?”

“On the cliff. Did anyone see him after, you know, that stuff with Bobby?”

Jen shifted her weight. “I don’t get why you’re so interested.”

Genius struck again. “Oh, I was just thinking out loud, I guess. Wondering about liability, you know—if the family might sue because the surf camp was negligent.”

“That’s ridiculous! He was so drunk he could barely stand up—you saw him staggering out of here. And I wasn’t his babysitter. You walk that way—” She pointed toward the ocean. “—and you end up right at the cliffs. Flat ground, an easy walk. It’s only a few hundred yards.”

I tried to construct a mental map. That made sense—the route I’d taken the night before, when I’d been following Deputy Bobby, had definitely taken me downhill until I reached the beach. The route had also curved a fair bit, following the natural slope of the ground. It made sense that it would have taken me longer to go down to the beach and then along the bluffs to reach the spot where Gerry had fallen; Gerry, on the other hand, could have gotten there in a few minutes (depending on how many times he stumbled along the way, I guess).

“Do you mind if I take a look?”

Her eyes widened; apparently, she hadn’t been expecting that. “Yeah, I do, actually.”

“Why?”

“Because a man died out there.”

“Technically, he died on the beach, not on the cliff.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I just need a quick look. I promise I won’t disturb anything.”

“No!” She seemed to be trying to think of a reason because then she said, “The deputies were out there all night. You might mess something up.”

“But they already left,” I said. “Which means they’re done.”

I took a step in the direction she pointed, and she moved into my path. “You can’t go out there. It’s like you said: the cliffs are dangerous, and what if the camp is liable? I don’t want to be on the hook for anybody else.”

“I’ll sign a waiver.”

When I tried to step around her again, she caught my arm. She was strong—I’d known she was strong, but she was even stronger than she looked. “I think you should leave.” She released me and stepped back, but she was still in my way. She wouldn’t quite meet my eyes as she said, “I’m sorry about what happened to you, but I don’t feel comfortable letting you wander around out there.”

I got back in the Jeep and left, but instead of going back to the state highway, I took the first turn I came to. It led me south, in the general direction of Klikamuks Head. The dirt roads weren’t labeled, but fortunately, everybody who drove back this far was headed for the same place: the beach.

It took me fifteen minutes to find another route down to the water, and I parked on a square of flattened grass where a piece of driftwood had been laid like a parking stop. Beaches in Oregon—every inch of coastline, in fact—were public property, which meant that while Jen might have the authority to kick me out of the surf camp (although I wasn’t sure about that, since Gerry had been the owner), she couldn’t keep me off the beach.

When I got out of the Jeep, the sound of the surf met me, and a stiff breeze raked my hair. Big, white-capped waves tumbled and broke out on the water. I shivered; the canvas jacket, I decided, definitely wasn’t going to cut it.

I worked my way up the beach as quickly as I could, sticking to the firmer sand near the waterline and setting a pace that balanced speed and, well, my current level of conditioning. The wind made a high-pitched noise, and when it faded, even for a moment, the detritus of shells crunched underfoot. I’d read about the bottom of the ocean. Marine snow, that’s what they called it: the powdery blizzard of bone dust left by millions—billions—of deaths. The day had a crushed, grayish-white glow. Still no shadows.

It was faster going this time. I passed the lifeguard tower and the racks of drying wetsuits, the surfboards lined up at attention. Nobody was out on the water today. It’d be nice to think they were grieving Gerry—it’d be nice to think somebody was grieving him, anyway. But I had a feeling this had more to do with the surf conditions, and possibly with Jen, than it did with anything else.

When I reached the bluffs, I cut across the sand and found a path—barely more than a cut in the rocky face—I could scramble up. Stone gave back the sound of my breathing, which, admittedly, was starting to sound a little labored. I pushed my way through scrub, the brush stiff and rustling. A few thorns caught the backs of my hands. Then the bushes and tall grass gave way to hemlock and pine, and I crested the rise.

As I made my way to the cliff where Gerry had fallen, the wind rose, and over the slap of the waves came the creak and protest of the branches above me. He’d come out here at night, I thought. Drunk. Maybe he’d wanted to see the water. I glanced behind me; the nearest outbuilding of the camp couldn’t have been more than a couple hundred yards, which meant Jen had been telling the truth. Maybe he’d just wanted some privacy, time to collect the shreds of his dignity, not unlike Deputy Bobby. Or maybe, like a boy, he’d wanted to pee off a cliff.

Not fell, a part of my brain revised. Was pushed.

But—had he been pushed? My memory of finding Gerry was a welter of impressions: the swash running over my feet, the spray on the side of my face, the heat of a held breath in my chest. In the dark, Gerry had been nothing more than a jumble of body parts. And while I had been sure, earlier, that I’d seen a shadow above me, now that I stood here, it seemed…well, unlikely was the politest way to put it. The cliff was higher than I realized. And there’d only been weak, ambient light. It could have been a trick of my eyes. It could have been a drop of water on my glasses.

Adjusting my glasses now, I pushed through the last line of hemlocks to reach the edge of the cliff. A stiff gale met me, braced me, howled in my face. I stared down at the lip of ground that ran until the drop: a few weeds, and then nothing but small stones and pebbles, basically gravel. No sign of a footprint. No disturbance to suggest a man had ever stood here—much less that he had struggled here and been forced to his death. Closer to the trees there was a thin layer of soil, but even that looked clear of any possible impression. I turned on the flashlight on my phone and raked the light, trying to catch a hint of some depression or other irregularity to suggest Gerry had walked here, stood here, hell, that he’d ever even been here.

Nothing but the marks I’d made.

I gave up and started back the way I’d come. I tried to replay the events of the night: finding Gerry’s body, the stunned realization of what I’d stumbled across, and then—had it been movement? Had something at the edge of my vision drawn my attention, and that’s why I’d looked up? Or had it been automatic, instinctual: mapping his fall in reverse, my brain still trying to understand what had happened. I eased my way down the steep path, and with every step, I was less certain I’d seen what I thought I’d seen. If there had been something to see, the professionals would have found it. And I’d just seen with my own eyes, there was nothing—

There was nothing to see.

My heart started to beat a little faster. My brain whirred. I was so caught up in my thoughts that I skidded-slipped-slid the last few yards to the bottom of the bluff. There’d been nothing to see up there. Even though gravel and damp soil should have taken some kind of print. Which meant—

I hadn’t been paying attention. As I dropped down from the rocky chute I’d been following, I caught a glimpse of movement too late. A hand grabbed me and spun me in a circle.

I reared back, fighting to pull free. And then I stopped and stared at Deputy Bobby.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked. (It was more of a shout.) “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

Deputy Bobby was dressed in a dark green rain jacket, dark jeans, and his old hiking boots. With the hood up, and the day’s skeletal light, the effect was like camouflage. No, my brain told me as it caught up. It was camouflage. Because Deputy Bobby was out here sneaking.

He still hadn’t said anything, but I recognized the tension in his jaw, the way he set himself, arms folded across his chest. I’d only made Deputy Bobby mad a few times, and it was never a fun experience.

“You scared me,” I said in a milder voice. “I thought—” I thought the killer had gotten me, I almost said, but I was saving that line for when I was asked to star in a local production of Nancy Drew and the Scary Deputy . “I thought I was in trouble.”

“Funny you should say that,” Deputy Bobby said.