The Winter Beach Page 9

  * * * *

  “This is silly,” Lyle said, as Carmen held out a spoonful of the clear strong broth he had brought from the other house. “I can feed myself.”

  “I know,” he said, smiling. “Open up. This is fun.”

  “Carmen, wait a second. I have to tell you something. That man who was here, he's an agent of some kind. He's after Saul. You have to warn him.”

  “We already know,” Carmen said. “Open up, you're almost done.”

  She swallowed, then shook her head when he offered another spoonful. “You know?”

  “Not who he's working for. But it's been pretty obvious that there are people watching us.”

  Lyle felt childishly disappointed, as if she had run a mile to warn of robbers only to find them already safely locked up.

  Carmen looked at his watch, then said, “Now a hot bath for you, and then bed. Hold up your foot.”

  He pulled her boots off, as he had done another night, she remembered. She had forgotten that night. Again it alarmed her that she was not more fearful of the lapse, not at all fearful about it, in fact. He met her gaze and his face was somber.

  “You'll gradually remember it all now. By morning when you wake up, it will all be there waiting for you to examine. You're not afraid?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good. I'll go fix the bath for you.”

  A few minutes later he said, at her bedroom door, “Yell when you get in bed. I'll tuck you in.” His grin was back; he looked like a precocious child enjoying enormously this reversal of roles.

  She didn't dare remain in the tub more than a few minutes; she had become so relaxed that she feared falling asleep and sinking forever under the water. Regretfully she got out, toweled herself, rubbed her hair briskly, and pulled on her gown. She was as eager now to be in bed as she had been to be in the tub. When she called Carmen her eyes were too heavy to keep them open. She was in a time-distorting presleep state that made it seem to take him a very long time to get to the bed, but when he was there, his voice close to her, she was startled that he had arrived so quickly.

  “You're going to sleep like a baby,” he murmured, and touched her shoulder lightly, drew the cover up closer to her neck. “You won't hear anything at all until morning. I'll be here tonight, no one will come in to bother you. Good night, Lyle.” He kissed her forehead. She slept.

  * * * *

  Driving the motor home at any time was difficult for Lasater, who had never driven anything like it before this trip. He had trouble getting used to the rearview mirrors, which more often than not seemed focused on the sides of the monster itself instead of the road. And he did not like the feel of it on the highway; it was too high, the weight was in the wrong place, it felt skittery if there was a glaze of ice or a slick of water on the road, and that night fog was freezing to form black ice. He feared black ice more than an ice storm, because it was invisible; it formed in one place but not another that was equally exposed. The road surface of the bridge was already covered, and he skidded alarmingly. He shifted gears and slowed down even more, wondering if he would be able to pull the grade up to the top of the hill between here and the lagoon.

  He had passed Werther's driveway and was starting up the hill, when he heard a car engine roaring somewhere in the fog. His first thought was that it was an idiot speeding on the coast road, driving blind. Then he heard a crash, and he knew someone had gone off the cliffs behind him. He yanked on the brake and got out, ran back on the white line at the edge of the road.

  “Turk?” he called. “What the hell's going on?”

  “Mr. Lasater? Where are you?”

  The fog scrambled directional signals; it was impossible to say where any sound originated. Only the surf remained constant, and it was everywhere.

  “Hey!” Turk yelled then. “Stop, where you think you're going?”

  “Get out of the way! I'm going down to find him.” Carmen's voice.

  Lasater crossed the road; he could hear scuffling sounds now, then a sharp exclamation followed by harsh cursing.

  “Turk, what's happening?” he called again.

  “The old guy came down like a bat outta hell, picking up speed all the way, didn't even try to stop, but straight through and over the cliff. The kid's just gone down the trail. Must have radar.”

  “Call Follett. Tell him to meet you at Werther's house and give it a good dusting. Give me your flashlight. I'm going down there.”

  Turk began to signal to Milton Follett, then said softly, “Jesus H. Christ! Look!”

  Up the hillside the fog was lighted from within as if by volcanic fumes. There was a glow in the form of a mammoth aureole.

  “That bastard! That goddamned fucking bastard,” Lasater muttered. “Get up there with Follett, see if anything's left.” He snatched the flashlight from Turk and looked for the trail down to the beach.

  * * * *

  By midnight the fire had burned itself out; the woods had not ignited; they were too wet and the moist fog had acted as a damper. The house had burned thoroughly, down to the foundation stones. Carmen sat huddled in a blanket near the stove in Lyle's house, his clothes drying on chairs. Lasater sat on the couch staring moodily at the exhausted boy, who had tried to find the car for over an hour until, retching and gagging, he had staggered from the pounding surf into Lasater's arms. The police had come and gone; they would be back at daybreak to look for the car and the body. Accidental death, they said.

  Except, Lasater thought coldly, no one was dead yet. He did not believe Werther had been in the car when it went over the cliff, no matter what Turk thought he saw. Werther had to be waiting somewhere nearby, freezing his balls off in the woods, waiting for the coast to clear enough to show up here at this house. Taney wasn't out of it yet. Werther must be planning to use her to get him out of here.

  Lasater slept on the couch that night; Carmen rolled up in the blanket and slept on the floor. At dawn he was up cleaning Taney's car with Lasater watching every movement, thinking she was more of a pig than he had realized. Carmen made coffee then, and presently said he was going shopping and would be happy to drop Lasater off at the park. When they went out, the trunk lid was still raised, airing out, and the back doors were open. Lasater felt a cold fury when the thought came to him that the boy was playing games with him, demonstrating that he was not hauling Werther out of the woods that morning.

  * * * *

  Lyle awakened slowly, first semi-aware that she was in her own bed again, that she was warm and dry and comfortable, and hungry; and slowly she began to remember the two evenings she had spent at Saul's house. She sat upright and pulled the blanket around her.

  All those questions! He had examined her as thoroughly as any medical doctor had ever done. And she had permitted it! She closed her eyes hard, remembering. He had said she was to feel no fear or embarrassment, and she had felt neither; it had seemed the most natural thing in the world. She was startled by the memory of telling him all about Lasater, her involvement with him. Saul had known since that first night, and still had treated her with kindness and even love. The second night swam up in her consciousness and she shook her head almost in disbelief. He had injected her with something, and the rest of the night he had monitored her closely, her temperature, her pulse, her heart ... She looked at her finger; he had taken a blood sample. Except for the physical examination, which had taken place in the bedroom, Carmen had watched it all, had participated.

  As she remembered both evenings, snatches of conversations came back to her; they had talked seriously of so many things. She had been lucid, not doped or hypnotized, or unnatural in any way that she could recall now. But she had allowed it all to happen, and then she had forgotten, and had accepted not remembering. He had told her about that part of it: a drug in the sweet wine, suggestion. He had even said that if she truly objected to anything, she would refuse the suggestion. And she had refused nothing. Except, she amended, she had left the next morning although he had told her
to wait for Carmen.

  Slowly she got up and went to the bathroom. As she showered, more and more of that last evening came back to her. Just before telling her to wake up he had asked if she wanted to sleep there, in his house, and she had said no. She remembered thinking at the time that there was something she had to do the next morning, something she would not be able to do from his house. She had already made up her mind to leave so that Lasater could not use her to get to Saul. And she had to be home in order to carry out her intention. If he had asked even one question about her reasons, she would have told him, she knew, but he had not asked. He had suggested that she should wait for Carmen to come for her.

  It was nine o'clock when she finished with her shower, dressed, and was ready to face Carmen. She was still weak, but she felt now that it was due to hunger, not illness. The house was empty. Coffee was on the hot plate. She poured herself a cup of it and sat down to read a note from Carmen on the table. He had gone shopping for breakfast. Back soon.

  She was still sipping the strong coffee when he returned. He looked her over swiftly. “I'd say the patient is recovering,” he announced. “What is prescribed for this morning is one of the biggest steaks you've ever tackled. Bet you finish it all.”

  “I've never had steak for breakfast in my life. Toast sounds like plenty.” She wanted to challenge him, demand an explanation, but she was too hungry. After breakfast she would have her confrontation with Saul, not with Carmen who was simply a tool.

  “Wait and see.” He was unloading grocery bags and putting things away. When he unwrapped the steak, she almost laughed. Big enough for a party. While the steak was broiling, he opened a package of frozen peaches and sliced a banana into a bowl with them. She eyed it hungrily. He laughed and moved it out of reach. “Dessert,” he said.

  Then he brought two plates out of the oven where they had been warming, and they ate.

  Lyle was on her second cup of coffee when Lasater arrived. He scowled at the table. “Surprised you can eat on a morning like this.

  “What does that mean?” Lyle asked. She had a dim memory that he was pretending to be someone from her publisher's office, and Carmen was pretending to believe that.

  “They're searching up and down the beach for Werther's body,” he said bluntly. “No luck so far.”

  She dropped her cup—it hit the saucer and toppled over, spilling coffee on the table. She turned to Carmen who nodded.

  “He had an accident last night. He drove his car over the cliff.”

  Lyle did not move. She was trying to remove herself so far that she could see the house, the cliffs, the road, beach, forests, everything as she had seen it all in a dream once. So far back that nothing could touch her ever again. Faintly she could hear Lasater talking about a blood-stained car, one shoe, the wool knit, navy-blue cap that Saul always wore. The distance seemed even greater when Lasater said something about leaving that afternoon. She was brought back when Carmen covered her hand with his.

  “He's gone, Lyle. Are you okay?” She nodded. He began to wipe up the spilled coffee.

  “Why didn't you tell me?”

  “You had to eat something. I knew you wouldn't afterward.”

  “What happened? Was it something I did?”

  “No. There was a fire at the house and he went out in the car and the car went over the cliff. That's all they know about it.”

  “Is he really leaving?”

  “I don't know. Maybe.”

  She nodded. They needed the body to make their identification. She started to speak again, but Carmen put his finger on her lips, silencing her.

  Late in the afternoon she felt so restless that she could no longer stand the house and the waiting for something, anything to happen.

  “Let's go for a short walk,” Carmen said. “Are you up to it?”

  She said yes. All day she had felt stronger and stronger until by now she felt almost normal. Her recovery was proceeding as rapidly as the illness had done. Carmen drove to the beach they had walked on before; he went closer to the black rocks to park this time.

  Today the sky was gray and low, pressing on the tops of the coast range mountains, making the world seem very small, confined to this winter beach. The water was a shade darker gray, undulating with long swells, breaking up into white water where the wind waves rushed to shore. They walked slowly, not speaking.

  That was where they had investigated the tide pools, exclaiming over the multicolored life forms there, the starfish, urchins, crabs ... And over there she had found the blue float after its journey of many decades. And there they had eaten their lunch, and Saul had put the Styrofoam cup in his pocket to throw away later. And Saul had talked about the way the ocean savaged the winter beach when so few people were around to witness its maniacal fury.

  “it seems lonesome,” she had said, looking both ways on the deserted beach.

  “It has a presentiment of endings now,” Saul had said. “Endings of life, of pleasure, of laughter in the sand. The winter beach is lonesome, but it fights back. Each grain of sand wrested from it is fought for, yielded finally, but never easily. And in the summer, very peacefully it all comes back, scoured clean by the mother ocean. But in the winter, that's always forgotten.”

  Gray, black, white; the winter beach was a charcoal drawing today, chiaroscuro colors that reflected her guilt, Lyle thought suddenly. And her guilt lay over every corner of her soul, every phase of her life. Her child, her ruined marriage, her failure as a teacher, her loss of faith both religious and secular ... Her helplessness even. Had she told Saul why she had lost faith in history as it was taught? She could not remember. She hoped she had.

  One day it had occurred to her that every great change brought about historically had been the result of a very few people, men usually, who were driven by the basest impulses: greed, the urge to ever more power, vengeance ... The great majority of people had always been content to work their land, to mold their pots, weave cloth, do the life-sustaining things that were also soul-fulfilling; and the great majority of the people had always been manipulable by those few, ten percent or less, whose needs were so far removed from simple survival and personal salvation.

  Saul had understood that, even if she had not explained her loss of faith. He had been interested in the other people, the ones with great ideas, the ones who created beauty, the ones who had tried to comprehend the mysteries.

  Saul had been her natural ally, she thought dully, and by silence and inaction she had failed him, she had betrayed him; she had allowed herself to be used by Lasater who was a member of that minority.

  And that was how they always succeeded, she went on, taking it to its conclusion, allowing herself no excuse, no possibility of deliverance from guilt; they found people who were too weak to resist, who were too afraid, too apathetic, too ignorant of their methods, and they wielded them like swords to strike down or capture the opposition. She had recognized Lasater immediately, had known his goals were not hers, were not even human, and she had done nothing. She had tried to ignore evil, deny its ability to influence her, and now Saul was dead and she would always know that she might have saved him if she had spoken early, before the trap was too tight, before Lasater and the blond man came. Just a few words in the beginning might have been enough. And she had done nothing.

  And if Saul had been crazy, if he had killed people? She could not resolve the confusion in her mind about him, about how she had responded to him, about the grief and sense of loss she now suffered.

  “You're crying,” Carmen said, his hand on her arm.

  She bowed her head and wept, and he held her for a long time until finally she tried to free herself. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It's so pointless, isn't it? I didn't even know him. And he must have been very sick, he must have suffered terribly. No one like that can go around killing people and not suffer. He almost killed me. I know he almost killed me and yet, I can't help it, I'm crying for a madman who would have been put away if he hadn't kill
ed himself, and I know he wanted it this way...” There was no way out of the contradictions and finally she stopped. When she looked at Carmen's face, she realized he was laughing silently.

  Stiffly she drew away and started to walk toward the car. “You can't deny that he tried to kill me and almost succeeded. That injection of his, you were there, you know about it.”

  “It was a gamble,” Carmen said, still smiling slightly. “But you were dying anyway.”

  “That's a lie. There wasn't a thing wrong with me before that shot. I had a life expectancy of at least thirty years.”

  “Exactly,” Carmen said. “This walk has probably been too much for you so soon after your illness. Let's go home and have dinner.”

  She opened her mouth to respond, then clamped it shut again and got inside the car where she sat staring out the window all the way home. He was as crazy as Saul, she reminded herself.

  * * * *

  Lyle saw a speck in the distance and knew the eagle was coming home finally. Every day there had been fresh evidence of the arrival of at least one of the pair, and now it was coming. She watched the speck gain definition, become separate parts. A wing dipped and the bird made a great sweeping curve, and she could see the tail feathers spread like a fan, rippling now and then as it made adjustments in its flight. She could see the white head, gleaming in the sun; it was looking at something below, turning its head slightly; it abandoned whatever had attracted it and looked ahead again. She was watching it through the view finder of her camera, snapping pictures as it came nearer. It cupped its wings, its feet reached out before it, and then it was on the spur, settling its wings down along its sides, stretching its neck. She snapped a few more shots of it as it preened, and then she sat back with her camera at her side and simply watched it. If the eagle was aware of her presence, it gave no indication of it. She was certain those sharp eyes had studied her blind, that they had seen her that day. There was a touch of majesty in its indifference to her.

  Throughout the afternoon the eagle toiled at refurbishing the nest. It brought long strands of seaweed, and mosses, and sticks up to four feet long to expand the sides, and it worked the materials into place with an intentness and fastidiousness that was awesome.