“Comes with my job. Nice ocean-view room.”
“Lawyer?”
“Have nothing against them, but I don’t need one.”
“Got a bad feelin’ for you.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Some need you’ve got. I feel it.”
Considering Hoss Shackett and Utgard Rolf and the kind of men who would be aligned with them, I had a long list of things I needed, starting with a platoon of Marines.
“Money?” she asked.
“No, ma’am.”
Solemnly, quietly, she said, “Gun?”
I hesitated before I replied. “I don’t like guns.”
“Might not like them, but you need one.”
Sensing that I had said too much, I said no more.
“It’s in the purse,” she told me.
I looked at her, but she kept her attention on the street, where the headlights seemed to bake the batter of fog into a solid cake.
“Why would you have a gun?” I asked.
“Old lady in an ugly time—she has to take precautions.”
“You bought it legally?”
“I look like Clyde’s Bonnie to you?”
“No, ma’am. I just mean, anything I did with it would be traced back to you.”
“A few days, I report it stolen.”
“What if I rob a bank with it?”
“You won’t.”
“You can’t be sure. You hardly know me.”
“Child, have you been listenin’ to me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What was it with Nancy Coleman?”
“Well…she had cancer.”
“What was it with Bodi Booker?”
“Planning suicide.”
“Swithin Murdoch?”
“Flat busted from bad romance.”
“I could name more. None needed help robbin’ a bank. Just good people in trouble. You think I’ve gone to the dark side?”
“Not for a minute.”
“You’re good people in trouble. I trust you.”
“This is more than trust,” I said.
“It might be. Look in the purse.”
The weapon was a pistol. I examined it.
“No safeties,” she said. “Double action. Ten rounds in the magazine. You know how to use such a thing?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m no Bonnie’s Clyde, but I won’t shoot my foot, either.”
I thought of Annamaria saying that she didn’t work, that people gave her a free place to live and even money when she needed it.
Now a gun came to me when I most needed one.
Something more was happening in Magic Beach than just a plot to smuggle nuclear weapons into the country and my attempt to thwart it.
This place was the still point of the turning world, and this night was the still point between the past and the future. I felt monumental forces gathering that I either could not comprehend or was afraid to contemplate.
My cursed life, my blessed life, my struggles with grievous loss and my striving toward wonder had often seemed to me to be the random path of a flippered pinball, from post to post and bell to bell and gate to gate, rolling wherever I might be knocked.
Instead, all the while, from childhood, I had been moving toward Magic Beach and toward a moment when, with full free will, I would either take upon myself a tremendous burden—or turn away from it. I did not know what the burden might prove to be, but I could feel the weight of it descending, and my moment of decision drawing near.
All things in their time.
Birdie Hopkins pulled the Cadillac to the curb and stopped once more.
Pointing, she said, “Harbor’s one block that way. Maybe you’d rather walk the last part to…whatever it is.”
“I’ll use the gun only to defend myself.”
“Thought different, I wouldn’t give it.”
“Or an innocent life.”
“Hush now. It’s like you said.”
“What did I say?”
“This is more than trust.”
The fog, the night, the future pressed at the windows.
“One more thing I might need.”
“Just say.”
“Do you have a cell phone?”
She took it from the purse, and I accepted it.
“When you’re safe,” she said, “will you let me know?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for everything.”
I started to open the door, then hesitated.
Unshed tears stood in Birdie’s eyes.
“Ma’am, I shined you on about something earlier. What you feel coming isn’t from watching the news too much.”
She bit her lower lip.
I said, “Something big is coming. I sense it, too. I think I’ve sensed it all my life.”
“What? Child, what is it?”
“I don’t know. So big the world changes—but like you said, some kind of change nobody would ever expect.”
“Sometimes I’m so afraid, mostly in the night, and Fred not here to talk me through to a quiet heart.”
“You don’t ever need to be afraid, Birdie Hopkins. Not a woman like you.
”
She reached out to me. I held her hand.
“Keep safe,” she said.
When she was ready to let go of my hand, I got out of the sedan and closed the door. I slid her cell phone into a pocket of my jeans, and I tucked the pistol in the waistband so that the sweatshirt would cover it.
As I walked to the corner, crossed the intersection, and headed toward the harbor, the big engine of the Cadillac idled in the night until I went too far to hear it anymore.
THIRTY-THREE
ALONG THE SOUTHERN HORN OF THE NARROW-MOUTHED bay, toward the seaward end, the vessels in the small commercial-fishing fleet tied up where they could come and go with the least disturbance to the bayside residents and to the noncommercial boat traffic.
Where I stood on the quay, along the crescent shore of the northern horn, I could not see those distant trawlers, seiners, and clippers through the thousand white veils of the night. From their direction, however, once every thirty seconds, came the low mournful bleat of the foghorn out on the southern arm of the harbor-entrance breakwater.
Here in the north, the marina offered protection from the storm surges that, in bad weather, muscled in through the entrance channel. Four hundred slips were occupied by a variety of pleasure craft: small electric-motor bay cruisers, sportfishers with metal lookout towers rising above their bridges, sailing yachts with canvas furled, motor yachts, and racing boats. The largest of these craft were sixty feet, and most were smaller.
As I descended a short flight of stairs from the sea wall to the wharf, I could see only a few of the closest craft through the soup. Even those appeared to be ghost vessels, moored in a dream.
Regularly spaced dock lamps receded into the mist, a necklace of radiant pearls, and under them the wet planks glistened darkly.
I remained alert for the sound of voices, for footsteps, but no one seemed to be out and about in the chilly mist.
Some of the sailing yachts were full-time residences. Their lighted portholes were as golden as scattered coins, faux doubloons that shimmered and, as I walked, paled away into the murk.
Avoiding the dock lamps was easy enough, for the feathered air constrained their reach. I made my way through shadows, my sneakers squishing so faintly on the wet planks that even I could barely hear the noise I made.