with his razor. Though it was June, he wore a jacket. The early morning was misty, which told her she must be in a valley near the Pacific. “Where are you headed?” Devon asked.
“Thunder Point,” he said. “It’s a very small town on the coast in Coos County. I work at a beach bar and I open the place in time for breakfast. Been there a few years now. It’s mostly fishing towns around there.”
Well, she’d gotten out of Douglas County, but she wasn’t sure where Coos County was. She didn’t know where anything was—she rarely left the compound and had never been to any of the small coastal towns. Still, she knew that Highway 101 stretched as far north and south as she needed to get. Highway 5 was bigger and closer to the compound and if anyone was looking for a couple of runaways hitching rides, they’d probably start there. “How close to 101 is your town?”
“Plenty close. Want me to drop you there?”
She walked toward the truck. “Thanks,” she said. “You’re sure?”
“No trouble,” he said.
She put her backpack in the truck bed. Holding Mercy on her lap, she buckled them in together. She kept her head down, her hands tucked between her knees.
“Name’s Rawley Goode,” he said. She said nothing. “You got a name?”
“Devon,” Devon said. She shouldn’t use her real name. What if someone came poking around, asking if anyone had seen a woman named Devon? But she was almost too tired to lie. Not to mention nervous. At least she hadn’t said Sister Devon.
“Well, you’re not an escaped convict, are you, Devon?” he asked.
She looked at him. “Is there a prison around here?”
He smiled. “Just kidding,” he said. “Where you headed?”
For lack of a better answer she said, “Seattle. Eventually.”
He whistled. “You’re a long ways from there. What brings you to this old back road?”
She shrugged. “It’s where I was dropped off, but I’m heading for 101.”
“You hitchin’ rides?”
She nodded. Her ride over the mountain had been planned, but was kept secret. “Yes, 101 will have more traffic,” she said.
“Unless the police see you. Then it could get complicated.”
“I’ll watch.”
Devon wasn’t really headed to Seattle, but she just said that because that was where she came from originally. She thought there might be a shelter or charity of some kind in one of the bigger towns on the coast. “I don’t know this area very well. Is there a town or city near Highway 101 that’s pretty big? Big enough that it might have a shelter or maybe a hostel?” she asked him.
“Couple,” Rawley replied. “Listen, I have an idea. You decide exactly where you need to go and I’ll fix you up with transportation. How’s that?”
“Why?” she asked suspiciously. “Why would you do that?”
“I been in your spot, hitchin’ rides, lookin’ for the easiest way to get from here to there, takin’ a little help sometimes. I normally went to the VA when I needed a little assistance.” He paused. “You got room for a little breakfast? ’Cause that’s my job in the morning—perking the coffee, warming up egg sandwiches, watching the sun come over the mountains. It’s not far from the highway, neither. I could show you a map while you and the little one eat something.”
“No, thank you. I have a couple of apples for later.”
“I know that look of no money,” he said. “Been wearin’ it and seein’ it for forty years now. No charge for the map. Or the breakfast. Then I’ll give you a ride to wherever you need to go to catch your next ride. It ain’t no gamble. I admit, I ain’t always been the best person in the world, but I ain’t yet done nobody harm. You can hang on to those apples.”
* * *
Rawley didn’t know for certain, but he was pretty sure the young woman was from The Fellowship—a small religious compound along the river in Douglas County. She was wearing their “uniform” or “habit” of overalls, sturdy shoes, long-sleeved T-shirt with one button at the neck and a long, thick, single braid down her back. He’d donated to the group a couple of times himself and had noticed that the women were all attired the same while the few men in evidence all wore their own combinations of jeans, plaid or chambray shirts, hats and down vests. A few months back, when Cooper had been renovating the old bait shop and turning it into a first-rate bar and café, Rawley had taken the used industrial-size washers and dryers, along with a lot of kitchen wares they couldn’t use, over to The Fellowship compound.
They were a private bunch, but he knew they had a roadside stand near their compound where they sold produce, quilts and woven goods. He’d only stopped once and had seen a group of them gathered around the stall, the women doing the business and the men helping with the heavy work, but mainly just presiding over everything. And he’d seen a few of them wandering around the Farmers’ Market in Myrtle Creek where they sometimes had a stand, again the women together in a tight knot and the men following along or standing behind them, watching.
He had never given the group a second thought until this morning when he found the young woman and her child walking down the deserted road at dawn. Now he wondered what that group was all about. Beautiful, young, smiling, soft-spoken women apparently watched over by big, silent men who were clearly in charge.
The girl seemed skittish, so Rawley played his cards close to his vest. As they drove the twenty minutes to the beach at Thunder Point he kept the conversation light, only saying things like Gonna be a right fine day and Fog’ll burn off the water early today and Should get up around seventy degrees, and that’s a heat wave on the ocean.
She kept very quiet, offering the occasional Mmm-hmm but nothing more. Her little girl rested her head on her mother’s shoulder and a couple of times they whispered quietly to each other. As they drove down the hill toward the bar she saw, for the first time, the beach sheltered by the rocky coastline, the bay studded with giant rocks and the fog at the mouth of the bay just lifting. All she said was, “Wow.”
“Pretty, ain’t she?” Rawley replied.
Moments later they arrived at the bar. Rawley parked out back behind the building and used his key to open the place up. It was 6:00 a.m.
“Come on inside, sit up at the bar and I’ll put on the coffee and heat up some eggs. Got some fruit, too. And Cooper, the owner, he likes his Tony Tigers—you or the little one like Frosted Flakes?”
“Anything is very generous,” she said. “And appreciated.”
“Like I said, I passed your way plenty of times. I got a lot to pay back.”
As he turned to get things started, Rawley noticed the coffee was already brewing. He looked out the window and saw a lone man out on the still bay on a paddleboard. That would be Cooper, getting in a little early morning exercise. And as he watched, a Razor ATV came across the beach with a big black-and-white Great Dane riding shotgun—Sarah, Cooper’s woman, must have a day off from the Coast Guard.
Good,
