Mae is on the man — a potential treat giver — looking up at him hopefully.
“Mr. Orchard.”
“I heard about your tragedy. It smells like, well... they all smell different.”
“What could you possibly want?”
She steps off the stool and looks into Tim Orchard’s calm blue eyes. He’s mid-fifties now, she knows. Short and lithe, thinning brown hair. Chinos and running shoes and a button-down white shirt tucked in tight. A harmless-looking man. She had written about him for West Coast Monthly when he was released from Atascadero State Hospital ten years go. One of those reentry stories people hate. What the editor wanted. Jen wasn’t sympathetic but was at least somewhat positive about his chances, based mostly on stats and studies from the state’s attorney general. Got some heated mail. Talked to him for hours at his halfway house. Neighbors with signs, going bonkers. I’m absolutely, one hundred percent rehabilitated, he said. Took my therapy, take my meds. A very sorry and very changed man, he said. Demons banished. Showed her his positive discharge letters from the doctors and counselors and hospital staff. Even one from a fellow patient whose life he had saved with CPR. Nursed a crow back from a cat attack and made a pet of him. Orchard had asked his original arresting officer, Sergeant Don Byrne, for a letter of recommendation because the policeman had always treated him courteously, and told him once that people can change for the better. Her father had declined. Orchard says he’s hoping to be a paramedic someday but knows he’s a long shot. Wanting to volunteer now. Maybe with the disabled. Maybe become a caregiver. Hoping to undo some of the bad he’s done.
He’s got the same harmless, apologetic face today as he had back then. Same thin, almost ready to smile lips.
“I’m up in LA county now.”
“What do you want?”
“To help you put things back together.”
“I’ve got help.”
“How’s your father?”
“He’s fine.”
“Treasure him. My father is still alive but we haven’t talked for thirty-four years. Roger Orchard. The third.”
“And what are you doing these days, Tim?”
“Volunteer landscaping and maintenance at my church.”
“Quite a switch from burning sixteen thousand acres and four hundred houses.”
Orchard nods and looks at the floor. Toes the ashes that settle back down no matter how many times Jen uses the shop vac on them.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he says, looking up at her. “I didn’t know, until you interviewed me and published the story, how much you loved the place I destroyed. Its people and its uniqueness. Its waves and quaintness. I realize I burned much of what you loved. So, when I heard about your restaurant being ruined by arsonists, I thought I’d offer to help you. You must be very busy getting ready for the Monsters of Mavericks.”
Jen gets that weird, dark unease that she always gets from weird, dark people who know who she is, and what she does, mostly by following her online. Garden-variety pervs and stalkers.
“I am a fan of big-wave surfing,” he says.
“Who’s favored at the Monsters?”
Orchard shrugs. “Your sons? I’m not that big a fan, actually.”
“Why are you here?”
Orchard toes the ashes again. “It really smells strong. I used to go back to my fires when it was safe. Smell them. Relive the excitement.”
“Get out.”
“I’ll try to explain. I was never a sane or normal or good person. I was what I was and now I am what I am. So, when something like this happens to someone who is all those things I’m not, I have to imagine what they’re feeling. And thinking. And wanting. Beyond getting your restaurant open again.”
“Well, fuck, Orchard. Exactly what do you imagine I’m feeling and thinking and wanting beyond that?”
“Revenge.”
“Okay. Sure. I wish a lightning bolt would hit each person responsible for this. They wouldn’t die but it would hurt like hell and burn the letter A onto their chests.”
“That’s a good one.”
“Thanks for dropping by, Orchard. Now beat it.”
“I think something more balanced would be better. Something equivalent and appropriate. Such as the destruction of the King Jim Seafood headquarters in Long Beach.”
“What do you know about King Jim Seafood?”
“I saw Casey’s videos and photos before he took them down. It wasn’t hard to ID Bette Wu, who has a DUI police record and brags about her activities on the platforms. She’s the daughter of Jimmy Wu, owner of King Jim. I’ve studied their building. Brick and steel security screening are difficult. You have to get inside. You need a probable reason to be inside. Massive accelerants and explosive. But I see how to do it.”
Jen can’t believe what she’s hearing. Stares at Tim Orchard with what feels like a dropped jaw. But he’s real, and this is happening, and his words hang in the air, invisible but real as the ash that greeted her here this morning.
Jen allows herself an image of King Jim Seafood exploding into flames. Bricks flying, flames shooting through the roof. Enjoys it quite a lot.
“How much?” she asks.
“Time and material. This is something I want to do. You were kind to me in that magazine article. Much kinder than the neighbors. I’d feel good about doing this. For you.”
“How much would time and material be?”
“Truthfully, my time is worth nothing, so two thousand dollars should cover it.”
“Two thousand.”
He nods and touches the floor again with a clean white athletic shoe. Looks up at her, eyes placid, forehead wrinkled with inquiry.
“No, thank you. Please get out now. Please.”
“Sure, I will. I was expecting you to say no. It says much more about you than a yes would.”
“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Orchard.”
Orchard stands backlit through the rippling plastic, the cars on Coast Highway moving behind him.
“Wait,” she says. “Give me your phone number and your address.”
In case I change my mind?
Orchard pulls a phone from a front pocket, works the pad with a forefinger.
“Is the Barrel number still good?” he asks.
Another creepy rush as she realizes he’s got that number.
“For now.”
The arsonist patiently taps away. “Okay,” he says. “If you change your mind. Or maybe if you want to write about me again.”
He raises a hand, then picks his way across the Barrel lobby and fades through a flap in the plastic.
Jen sits on the back deck, sun on her face, smoke stench in her nostrils, chomping down on takeout from Adolfo’s.
It’s Brock on her phone.
“Mom, five-plus earthquake off Baja less than an hour ago. Marlon at Surfline says Todos Santos will be going off by tomorrow morning. So, kennel Mae. Casey, Mahina, and I will pick you up at home in an hour. We’ll trailer your ski, load the gear, and hit the road. Take us three hours, max.”
“Oh, boy.”
“This is us, Mom. Marlon says it might be crazy big. Or just crazy. Todos Santos hit sixty feet last year. You need a break, Mom. From the fire and the Barrel. And we all need a good warm-up for the Monsters. Need it badly.”
“I’ll be ready in an hour.”
24
Todos Santos is thirty feet of chaos, and one hundred percent on.
The quake-driven waves march in fast and crowded together, like they’re in a race, partially blotting out the sky as Jen looks up from the cabin of the charter boat Magdalena. The impact zone is a mist-shrouded valley and looks as if it’s boiling.