23

IWOKE UP before sunup, about 4 A.M., and couldn’t get back to sleep. I dressed as quietly as I could, so as not to wake Lydia. I was a lot less sore than the day before. I felt restless, and I still had a few hours before the flight to Phoenix, so I decided to take a drive down to the beach. I grabbed a sweatshirt and eased the front door open, holding the knob to keep the latch quiet. Outside, the streetlights reflected softly in the cloudy June sky, and the air was damp and cool. Crickets sang. The car was covered with dew.

I started the car, and in the quiet of the neighborhood the sound seemed incredibly loud. As quickly as I could, I put it into gear and headed down to the water.

I reached the shore just as the pre-dawn light was filtering above the horizon. I parked and walked out to the end of the pier, passing only a few avid fishermen silently standing along its sides. Without the traffic and beach crowd to distract from it, the Pacific roared in an endless, uneven rhythm of waves.

“Peaceful,” her name meant, and though I had seen her storms and wrath, I always felt restored when I saw her. She stretched to the horizon, a reminder of the power of nature at the doorstep of southern California’s posturing artifice. All my worries seemed so small before her.

I watched a terrific sunrise, one full of gentle color and changing hues in water and sky. The gulls were beginning their day noisily, their cree, cree echoing off the cliffs. I went down the stairs to the beach, took my shoes off and chilled the bottoms of my feet in the soft, cold sand. They soon felt numb. I plodded along, letting the wind pull my hair across my face, taking deep breaths of salt-sea air.

I walked until I reached the Las Piernas cliffs. Above them the sun was glinting off the windows of the upper sundeck of the enormous Sheffield Estate. Here, for as many generations as Las Piernas had been a city, the Sheffield family had reigned. The earliest Sheffields had started a general store, then a bank, then a pharmacy, and so on and on; they bought and sold real estate in and around Las Piernas to amass the original fortune, and added to it when one of the Sheffield grandchildren developed a knack for making ice cream. Sheffield Ice Cream stores were everywhere, and always seemed to be one step ahead of the latest ice cream craze. The last of the Sheffields was Elinor Sheffield Hollingsworth, who had married a handsome young Harvard law graduate who was now the district attorney of Las Piernas.

The Hollingsworths spent most of their time in one of the other family mansions, one up in the hills above the city, where they could socialize more easily with the other members of the upper crust. And so it was that today, like most other days, the cliffside estate looked vacant and lonely. Completely isolated, no other houses for two miles on either side, it stood sheltered on three sides by deep stands of trees that stretched from shore to road.

I turned and walked away from the twin cliffs and headed back to the pier. I watched a fisherman reel in and toss back a small perch. I thought about how strange an experience that must be for the fish, imagined the act of eating breakfast leading to a yank up into outer space and then a sudden fall back to earth.

I padded barefoot back to the car, the asphalt of the parking lot much warmer than the sand. I brushed the sand off my feet and pant cuffs. I put my shoes back on, then sat looking out at the water a little while longer. On this side of the pier, surfers had been riding waves since just before daybreak. I checked my rearview mirror and looked around. No one watching, as far as I could tell. I started up the car. No bomb under the hood. Whoever was trying to kill me had missed a golden opportunity. Not even that kind of thinking could disturb me much as I drove back to Lydia’s.

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