The Pink Flamingo

She started south again to continue her run, glancing back north. The fog had already begun to thin. A figure a hundred yards away slowly jogged in her direction.

For a moment she was almost . . . no, not almost . . . definitely irritated. What was someone doing on her beach? Her feeling of isolation dissipated, along with the sense of complete security. Most women would not have ventured this far along a secluded section of beach. Yet she seldom considered that type of danger. She was bigger than most men and athletic enough that the idea of being a victim didn’t occur to her. She also had her pistol. Still . . .

She thought the figure was a man. He appeared to be wearing all black or a dark shade of blue. He was closer now, perhaps eighty yards away. Her heart palpitated faster, and she resumed her jog south. She unconsciously picked up her pace to put distance between herself and the man.

At about another quarter mile, she glanced back. The man was still there. For the first time, she was conscious of being nervous. She jogged south again, this time striding out in a deliberate attempt to outpace him. At three miles into the run, she looked back. He was farther away, walking, and barely visible. He must have just stopped running himself because the fog didn’t hide him, yet. Despite the run, her sweat felt chill. Another mile and she reached the end of the beach and faced the mouth of the river. There was no way to go farther south. If she wanted to avoid him, she had only one choice—east into the dunes and then north to get behind him without being seen. Then she could cut back to the beach and run to Pacific City. She looked north into the fog. No sign of him yet. He might have turned back. If she started back north and saw him, he would see her, and she would be committed.

She started walking back north. At half a mile, a shape appeared and gradually solidified. The man, walking toward her. Her heart raced, her senses at their peak. She ignored the chill and sounds of the surf. A seagull flew past. She vaguely perceived it calling. A good-sized man, now at forty yards. The hooded top was definitely dark blue, almost black. The sweat pants a dark color.

She put her hands into her sweatshirt pocket and gripped the .32. His arm moved! She grasped her pistol harder and partly withdrew the hand holding it. He raised his arm! She tensed to pull out her weapon when he . . . waved at her?

She stopped, her hand a vice on the pistol.

“Goddamn, Greta. When you said a jog, you meant a serious run. How far down are we?”

It was Simpson or whoever he was. He threw back his hood, so she could see him smiling at her, his hands empty. She felt foolish and pushed her hand back into the pocket, releasing the pistol. She pulled both hands out again.

Her heart raced, and non–exercise elicited sweat beaded her forehead. When she started to say something, her voice didn’t respond. She cleared her throat and swallowed.

“Hi, there . . . Robert. I’d say about three and a half miles,” she managed to get out, after a partial croak she covered with a fake cough.

They were ten yards apart, then five, then two. His sweatshirt showed his level of exertion. Patches of sweat dampened his armpits, under his neck, and down his chest to his abdomen.

“You mentioned you preferred running in the morning, so I thought I’d give it a try. It’s definitely an interesting experience with the fog so thick.”

“I didn’t know you jogged.” Her voice returned close to normal. “No . . . I take that back. You did say you thought you needed to pick it up again.”

“I haven’t been recently. Actually, more than recently. My last assignment wasn’t conducive to a jogging culture, and since I’ve been around here, I’ve let myself get even more sedentary. With the pants getting just a little too tight, I figure I need to get hold of the situation. I’ve jogged every day the last week, starting short. This was a little more than I intended. I saw you start running, and I thought I’d catch up with you. That didn’t work, obviously.”

“Running? This wasn’t running. Only a trot. Try going top speed up and down a basketball court for a couple of hours.”

Oh, shit, she thought. What did I just say? Pooh-poohed his running?

He still smiled. “No, thanks. I’ll get better as I lose some excess pounds. I might eventually keep up with you in a short sprint. However, anything longer than a mile I’d probably never seriously challenge you.”

Her previous chill was gone now, as she felt a glow from his comment. In her experience, not all men felt at ease admitting a woman could do anything physical better than they could. Yet it seemed like an honest, casual remark from Simpson. As the glow receded, the weather reminded her that a real chill was coming on.

“Let’s head on back before I get too cold.”

They walked at a quick pace north along the beach. The fog was lifting, and visibility stretched out past two hundred yards.

“So, how’s the homicide case coming?” he asked.

“Hard to say. We know more now, but still no clear suspect in sight.” She went on to summarize where they were when she had a thought. “You remember how I got your fingerprints?”

He laughed. “Yeah, by stealing glasses from La Fiesta! M-two was not amused when I told him how and why I got made by you.”

She laughed back. “He still walk around with a board up his ass?”

“You should be more forgiving. I think he was born that way.”

“Whatever. Anyway, the reverend I saw you talking with, the one you helped us get his record . . . ?”

“Yes. I assume you checked up on him. How did that pan out?”

She told him how Pererra claimed he had found Christ and legally changed his name to Balfour.