Skeleton Sea

CHAPTER 28

I said, “I owe you one.”

Lanny blinked. “One of what?”

“A thank you. I started to get seasick this morning, and then I used the fennel seeds you gave me.”

He said, cautiously, “That’s good.”

He looked up and down the hallway of the Keasling hacienda and bobbed his head, inviting me into his room. When we were both inside he switched on the light and quietly closed the door. And then he reddened. “Is this good? I can close the door?”

“Sure.”

He extended his hand. “Thank you for coming.”

I thought, he'll regret that, and I regretted taking advantage of this gesture of good will, but I shook his hand with the best of intentions.

He said, “Do you like my room?”

“It’s really nice.”

Lanny’s room was a surprise. I had expected some kind of kitschy nautical theme. A faux porthole. A throw rug with a seashell design. A clock in the shape of a seagull. I had expected, I was ashamed to admit, a childish room. Lanny was not a child. Living at home, sure, in the family hacienda — but then so was big sister Sandy. I wondered what her room looked like. A skull and crossbones Keep Out sign hanging on the wall. An aquarium full of piranha.

Lanny's room was tidy and pleasant. There was the same planked flooring as in the rest of the house, scuffed and scarred but clean. A big window with a wide oak sash overlooked the sea, silvery in the starlight. The walls were pale blue and hung with posters. One poster was of the Sea Spray, the kind you can get enlarged from a photo. The other poster was of a bluesy-looking rock band with the banner headline Blue Fall in a Special Appearance at the Otter Rock Cafe! There was a simple oak dresser and matching bedside table. There was a framed photo on the dresser of three kids, two boys and a girl with their arms looped around each other’s shoulders — the Keasling siblings. The little Sea Urchins.

On the bedside table was a digital alarm clock. Beside the clock was another picture frame, the kind of mirror-finish frame you can buy at the drugstore that includes a stock photo. The young woman in this photo had blonde curls and blue eyes and a warm generic smile.

My heart squeezed.

Lanny said, “You should sit here.” He directed me to a simple oak chair by the window. He sat on a dark wood chest at the end of his bed. It was the only piece of furniture in the room that appeared to have a history. It was banded in iron, dinged and scratched. I figured it dated back to earlier Keaslings.

Lanny clasped his hands in his lap. “Now it’s okay to talk.”

An hour ago, when I had phoned Lanny and asked if we could meet, he’d given me a time and said he would wait for me outside the hacienda.

I'd phoned him from the Shoreline Motel where Walter and I had spent the afternoon and early evening doing the analysis on the samples we'd gathered on the morning's dive. We'd made a late dinner of take-out curry, and chewed over what we'd found at the site, what it all meant.

And then we'd talked floats.

And then I had proposed my plan. Walter said, you know this is a long shot? I knew. Then he asked me to be kind.

And then I phoned Lanny.

At the appointed time I drove to the hacienda on the bluff and parked away from the house, as instructed.

Lanny, true to his word, had met me outside. He led me inside through a side door, asking me to walk on ‘cat feet’ and whisper because Sandy was in her office and he didn’t want her to hear us. He’d explained, apologetically, that Sandy didn’t like me. I’d assured him that I already knew that.

We’d had no trouble navigating the cavernous hacienda without being seen.

And now, facing Lanny in the privacy of his room, I found myself tongue-tied. He looked so eager to please. He wore a white collared long-sleeve shirt, black chino pants, and blue boat shoes. He’d dressed up. Be kind, Walter had told me. I wasn’t certain how to do that, how to raise the question I came to ask, kindly. Hey Lanny, did you steal Joao Silva’s red float and hide it in the dunes and if you did, what are you hiding?

Before I could frame the question Lanny asked one of his own. “Where did you get seasick?”

Okay, I thought. That works. I had meant only to thank him for the fennel, to be friendly, but seasick was a workable lead-in. I said, “Walter and I were with Doug Tolliver on his boat. We had some evidence that led us to a site on Cochrane Bank.”

I had debated giving Lanny that bit of case-related information. I decided that I needed to give something in order to get something.

He sealed his lips. Not giving anything.

I gave a little more. “We believe Robbie Donie anchored there, at some point.”

Lanny’s clasped hands tightened. “Did you find Robbie?”

Same question your brother asked, I thought. I said, “No.”

Lanny broke into a smile. “Oh, that’s good.”

“Is it?”

“That means Robbie’s not dead down there.”

“All it means,” I said, striving for a kindly tone, “is that we didn’t find his body.”

Lanny’s smile died.

I waited for him to ask the next obvious question. He didn't. I answered anyway. “What we did find was a monitoring instrument cage. You know anything about that?”

Lanny shook his head, hard.

“It seems the sort of thing Jacques Cousteau would set up. Keep watch on the ocean.”

Lanny said, “Jock is dead.”

I nodded, in sympathy. “The thing is, that cage is a likely site where the yellow float originated. You know the float I’m talking about? You remember — the other day on your beach I showed you the photo on my cell phone. And Walter explained that we found the float in a hiding place that Donie used.”

Lanny said, “Oh.”

“And then, if you’ll recall, we explained that the diver you and Sandy rescued — Joao Silva — had a dive bag with a similar float, only colored red.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know about it.”

“Well,” I said, “here’s the thing. I think maybe you do know. Because I believe I saw you take the red float from the dive bag and put it in your duffel bag.”

“Don’t call me a thief.”

“I’m not. A thief steals something for gain and I don’t think you were doing that.” That was a hair-splitting definition but I wanted to make the distinction. I added, “I think you’re a good man who was trying to help somebody.” That was true; I did think that. “Maybe protect somebody, like the diver?”

Lanny’s brown eyes moistened.

I thought then of the poisoned sea lion on our beach, eyes so large and brown and full of pain and fear. And Silva the poisoned diver on the Keasling beach, eyes wild and full of pain and fear. And Lanny looked at me now with something in his eyes akin to that. Fear, pain, distress. Guilt? If I were kinder, I would tell him it’s okay, never mind, let’s drop it and you can tell me about that bluesy rock concert.

Instead I said, “That's why Walter and I came to your beach the other day. To ask you about the red float. And then, after the diver got poisoned, you disappeared and we didn’t get the chance.”

Lanny blinked back the tears.

I pressed, “And then that night, at the dunes, I got the chance to find out where you hid the float.”

“No.”

“I think yes.”

“You followed me.”

I said, brusquely, “Look Lanny, when I found you up on that dune you were wearing a pack big enough to hold a two-foot long float. There was a trowel in the pack’s side pocket. Are you going to tell me you didn’t dig a hole somewhere on the dune and bury that float?”

“I’m not telling you anything.”

I nearly laughed. “Well thanks for being honest about it.”

He whispered, “It’s hard.”

“What’s hard, Lanny?”

He shook his head.

“Is it hard keeping a secret because you’re trying to protect somebody? And you don’t like keeping secrets? I don’t blame you. That is hard.”

“I didn’t say any of that.”

“Is it Fred Stavis you’re trying to protect?”

Lanny flinched.

“I mean, Fred showing up at the dunes, saying he followed you because he was worried about you… That sounds like two guys who have each other’s backs.”

“He's my boss.”

“I know.”

“And he’s my friend.”

“Is he?”

“Yes.”

“So what was the trowel for, Lanny?”

“It was just in my pack.”

“Oh, right, from the sand-castle building. Okay, let's brainstorm. You went out to the dunes because it’s pretty at night. And you brought the trowel in case you needed a pit stop.”

Lanny went red.

“Look, I know about bathroom necessities in the outdoors. I hike, I backpack. I use a trowel. Is that why you brought the trowel to the dunes?”

He went redder. “I don't do that.”

“No?”

“You're not supposed to bury…that…in the dunes.”

I waited. I'd shocked him into protesting what he would not bury. I pressed, “Then what did you bury in the dunes?”

“Nothing, I didn’t, you shouldn’t, didn’t you see the fences, don’t you know about not walking on little plants?”

I hadn't seen any fences. But I sure planned to look.

I said, “Did you bury the float in a fenced area, thinking nobody's going to trespass there and find it?”

He shook his head.

“Okay, let's go back to that day on your beach. To the poisoned diver. You got very very upset and you said something. You didn't mean to say it out loud but you let it slip — the way we say things when we’re shocked and not being careful. Do you remember what you said?”

He shook his head.

“You said I broke it.”

He was mute.

“What did you break, Lanny? Something on that instrument cage at Cochrane Bank? Maybe something that released a float? The yellow float that Robbie Donie found? Or maybe there were red floats there, too… Like the red float Joao Silva found?”

“I didn't break any floats.”

“Well then what did you break?”

He sealed his lips.

“Damn it Lanny, you're such a big protector of the dunes, of the sea, you idolize Jacques Cousteau, you’re so proud of your nickname Sea Urchin, you live right here on the ocean’s edge. You worry about that sea, don’t you? Well you should. Because I saw something this morning that sure worried me. Let me tell you what I saw, when Walter and I and Detective Tolliver went diving at that site on Cochrane Bank. I saw a dying kelp forest, I saw a graveyard where sea animals were gray and shriveled, I saw water full of dying plankton that came down from a huge algal bloom on the surface. You know anything about all that?”

He shook his head, hard.

“And I saw a lot of jellyfish.” Saw, hell, I got wrapped in jellyfish.

He was silent.

“They're called comb jellies. I googled them. They thrive in polluted waters.”

“I don't know about jellyfish.”

“Well sure you do. You pulled Joao Silva aboard after he got stung by a purple-stripe.”

“That's all I know about jellyfish.”

I thought, you protest too much. I wondered why. I said, “I've heard that jellyfish are becoming a problem. What do you think?”

“I don't know.”

“That night we went to the dunes, did you see all the jellyfish in the channel?”

He shook his head.

“Really? There were jellies that looked like fried eggs and blue flowers and see-through saucers…”

“Moons,” he said.

“Moons, yeah, that’s what they looked like. Guess that's why they're called moon jellyfish.” Aurelia aurita, on Dr. Russell's slideshow. “It's weird that you didn't see them, there were so many. Pretty, but a little creepy too. You know? Like…”

He whispered something. It sounded like devils.

I paid very close attention. “Devils?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Maybe I misheard. Devils sounds scary.”

He repeated, “I didn't say that.”

“Lanny, what are you afraid of?”

“Nothing.”

“Really? Most of us are afraid of something. Getting lost, unable to find the way home. Death. Illness. Loss of loved ones — there's a common fear.” There was mine — greatest fear, in spades. “I read an article once about phobias and you wouldn’t believe the things people are afraid of. Did you know there's a fear called anthophobia? That means fear of flowers. I mean, who’s afraid of flowers, right?” I thought he might smile. He didn’t. He seemed to have turned inward, drawn by some inward fear. I continued, “But who am I to judge? Why is it more reasonable to fear, say, open spaces — that’s called agoraphobia — than to fear flowers? Outdoor spaces won’t hurt you. And here's one you might have heard of — I don’t recall the name, something-phobia — but it means fear of being in the ocean. That’s certainly not you.”

He shook his head.

I pressed on. “But something scary can happen — say, in the ocean — and we fear the memory.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm thinking about a story Doug Tolliver told, about you. In the channel, which is pretty much part of the ocean. About the time when you were cleaning the propeller on the Sea Spray and you hit your head and blacked out. You almost drowned.”

“I didn't drown.”

I smiled. “Good thing. Still, it must have been terrifying. Even if you don't remember the feeling now, the memory is there somewhere in you.”

After a long moment he said, “Sandy told me.”

“Oh?” I nodded. “That makes sense. She’s your sister, she’d be the one to tell you. She was evidently in the bathroom when it happened. It must have been terrifying for her, as well, coming back to an accident scene. Nearly losing her brother.”

He nodded.

“Anyway, somebody was there, close enough to help you. He jumped right in and saved you. Oscar Flynn.”

Lanny nodded.

“You remember that part?”

Lanny shook his head.

“Well then, I guess Sandy told you who was there and…”

Before I could finish speaking, the door to Lanny's room burst open and banged into the wall and both Lanny and I jumped.

Sandy Keasling stood in the doorway like an angry sea goddess.

She glared at me. “Who in the hell let her in?”

And then she glared at Lanny.