hoping he would wander off,” Gina said.
“You have a problem with Rawley?” Cooper asked.
“I have a problem with the way he looks you in the eye like he can see straight through you and says ab-so-lutely nothing. It’s creepy.”
Mac chuckled. “That’s pretty much why Ben gave him a dishrag and a broom and some kitchen chores. They seemed to understand each other.”
“This place—everyone works together, understands each other, cleans up after each other, a regular Stepford...”
“We have as many idiots, assholes and troublemakers as any town, but you know what the difference is between this town and any other town?”
Cooper leaned his head on his hand. “I can’t wait. What’s the difference?”
Mac pushed his coffee cup toward Gina for a refill. “I know who they are.”
Three
Cooper learned a few things about the town and Ben. Ben had helped Gina keep her old Jeep running, for one thing, and never charged her except for parts. He’d bought ads for the backs of kids’ soccer and Little League team jerseys—Bailey’s Bait Shop. He had a bird sanctuary on his land that stretched all the way out to the high, rocky cliffs above the ocean. In addition to the eagles, there were seabirds who lived off the water but returned inland to nest, mate and lay eggs. Cooper remembered Ben emailing him something about that, more than once.
Ben apparently hadn’t done particularly social things, like volunteer as assistant coach for kids’ teams, but he attended town gatherings and meetings and ate out at the diner and Cliffhanger’s. He contributed a lot, not the least of which was the beach. This was the Ben that Cooper had known—not shy or antisocial, but satisfied with his own company. He hadn’t had a long career in the Army, just a few years. As Coop’s helicopter mechanic at Fort Rucker, he was meticulous and verged on extraordinary, but he had issues with rules, probably one of the reasons Cooper took to him. “Bailey, where’s your hat?” “In my pocket, sir!” “Why isn’t it on your head?” “Because I can’t get my head in my pocket, sir!”
He learned the marina was small in comparison to others in the region. The crabbers and fishermen who docked there lived in the town, but took most of their catch to larger harbors, although they kept some of it to sell to locals or to Cliffhanger’s. Some of the commercial fishermen had been in business for generations. The marina also held sport and pleasure boats, mostly used by Thunder Point’s residents. The bay was a safe, quiet place, protected by the promontories from hostile weather.
When Cooper parted ways with Mac after his breakfast, he said, “I don’t think there’s much reason for me to hang around, except maybe the view from Ben’s deck. What will happen to his place?”
Mac shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe there will be a search for a next of kin, or maybe it’ll sit until it’s in default of liens or taxes, then auctioned. That’s not Sheriff’s Department business. Damn shame, though. People enjoyed the beach, the bar.”
“It’s pretty run-down,” Cooper pointed out.
“If you think the outside is a little tired-looking, you should see inside. Well, people didn’t have real high expectations of the place, but it served a purpose. You may have noticed, it’s not a fancy town.”
Mac already had Cooper’s cell number, but in a gesture of friendliness, he gave Cooper his before they said goodbye at the diner.
Since Cooper had no plans or pressing business, he spent a couple of days just driving around the area—up to Coos Bay, into the hills, to the casino in North Bend—keeping his trailer as a home base. One sunny afternoon, he got out his laptop and found a chair on Ben’s deck, facing the bay. In just a few days, he’d come to the conclusion the damp, foggy morning was typical of the Oregon Coast. Sunshine usually arrived midmorning, at the latest, but it was cold enough this October afternoon to require a jacket. Before he opened his laptop and logged on, he saw her again—the woman and her dog. She threw the stick and waited for the large black-and-white dog to bring it back. The dog had the longest legs; he was half as tall as the woman. It was the same woman—red slicker with the hood up, black knee-high rubber boots, hands plunged into her pockets while she waited for the dog. She was walking toward his end of the beach, but before she was close enough for him to get a glimpse of her face, she turned and headed back toward the town.
He logged on, checking his email, looking up from time to time to watch the progress of the woman and dog. She was too far away for him to be taken by her looks, but he was intrigued nonetheless. There was something about her that was so...lonely. They probably had that in common. Cooper had no trouble getting to know people or making friends, yet he rarely did. He was a loner; he knew that about himself. It didn’t take much to turn a man solitary—being the new guy too often, being controversial now and then, a couple of unsuccessful attempts at a lasting relationship with a woman....
He sent a note to Luke Riordan—they’d been a scrappy pair of combat-ready helicopter pilots fifteen years ago and Ben had been their mechanic. Not too surprisingly, Ben had been the most stable of the threesome. So Cooper filled Luke in on the details of Ben’s death. Cooper described the property, the beach, the town and the fact that Ben’s place might end up just being auctioned.
Then he emailed his father and his oldest sister, Rochelle, to tell them where he was, although his cell was working just fine and they could reach him if there was any family business. His parents and three married sisters lived in or near Albuquerque. When he could, he made short visits to New Mexico, but he didn’t spend a lot of time there. Cooper was close to his family, but their relationship was complicated. There was a part of him that felt he’d failed them by never settling down, marrying, having a family and a stable career...and there was a part of him that thought they’d had unreasonable expectations and tried to push him in directions he wasn’t capable of going.
He heard an engine from the highway far above. He shut down and closed his laptop. Leaving it on the chair, he walked around the deck and witnessed an old pickup come down the road from 101. Even before he saw the driver, he knew this must be Rawley. The truck was ancient enough to be a classic, but the engine ran smooth. That had to be Ben’s work. The tires were new and shiny, cleaned and buffed to new-car life.
Then the guy parked and got out—yes, had to be Rawley. He was a skinny, balding, grizzled man in his sixties, looking pretty worn-out, and he wore an American flag shirt with his old jeans. He had a scarf or rag bandanna tied around his head and a gray ponytail, circa the sixties. He walked right up to Cooper.
Cooper stuck out his hand. “Rawley?” he asked.
The man’s expression didn’t even change. Rather than shaking Cooper’s hand, he put a thick envelope in his grasp. Then he turned to go back to his truck.
“Hey,” Cooper said. “What’s this?”
But Rawley kept walking and Cooper kept watching him. When Rawley got back to his truck, he didn’t get in. He leaned against the passenger side, crossed his legs leisurely, arms folded over his chest. He gave a nod and waited.
Cooper opened the envelope and pulled out a thick document, folded in thirds. When he unfolded it, he found a will that had been drawn up by Lawrence Carnegie, Attorney-at-Law. It was pages long. But on top was a lime-green sticky note that said, “Take care of things, Coop.”
He looked up at Rawley. “He wants me to take
