Knows they’ll be back and wonders when.
And how many Go Dogs he’d need to repel them.
“He is a danger and a monster,” says Mahina. “You must understand this now. No matter you drink beers with him in high school. No matter he was in your grandpa Pastor Mike’s church once. And Mike told you that he is worthy of forgiveness. Kasper Aamon loves hate. You love Breath of Life. Opposite people. Protect us here, Brock. Don’t let the snakes back in.”
“If we don’t believe a man can change, then our Mission is just a façade without meaning.”
“Don’t let evil win.”
“We let the Breath win.”
Later that day, exhausted by his three-hour sermon and his sudden violence over Kasper Aamon, Brock excuses himself from family and congregants, and makes the walk into the stout hills that shelter the eastern flank of his property.
Here, in a deep swale surrounded by manzanita and toyon, he sits cross-legged near a spring that feeds a tiny creek that trickles down toward the compound. At night this time of year, the swale is filled with the croaking of tree frogs, but now it’s quiet except for the occasional cricket and the pleasant chirping of the quail coveys hidden throughout this rough country.
Except for when he’s surfing a very large wave, this little spring is where Brock feels the Breath of Life at its strongest and most consistent.
A hot spot for the Breath of Life, valuable because...
The Breath of Life can be evasive.
The Breath of Life can be temperamental.
The Breath of Life is not always available.
He closes his eyes and lets the fall sun warm his eyelids. Lets in that burnished orange light.
The Breath of Life, he thinks: come into me again.
Time glides and thoughts dissolve, leaving him in the blackness of that three-wave hold-down at Nazaré, caught inside after a punishing wipeout. Leaving him with those three sixty-foot beasts thundering over him, and finally stomping out his consciousness.
Until Mahina breathed it back into him.
Now, when he regains his consciousness in the dream — and in the swale — it’s not Mahina’s voice but the ringtone on his phone that Brock hears.
It’s Marlon from Surfline again, texting that the rare early season swell heaving toward Mavericks is right on time for arrival six days from now. Right now it’s the purple blob on the map, denoting a potential storm-driven swell. They’re calling it FreakZilla, Marlon says, and it’s the biggest northwest swell he’s seen since the four-trawler destructo just outside the Pillar Point Harbor breakwater twelve years ago. Which turned Mavericks into an unrideable wind-blasted blowout with waves at seventy feet. The four-trawler swell had arrived at Half Moon Bay as a twenty-four-foot, eighteen-second-interval behemoth, and right now, FreakZilla is bigger, and faster.
So it looks like the Monsters is going to happen, soon.
Over and out, brah.
Brock messages his mom and brother:
Four-trawler time. Game on.
31
Of course, Bette Wu does show up whenever she wants, in this case just after sunrise at Oceanside Harbor where Casey is backing Moondance down the ramp into the bay.
A dockhand aboard Moondance reverses her into deeper water and swings the boat toward the loading docks, where Casey and Mae can board.
Casey punches his truck up the ramp and heads for his parking spot, fully surprised by Bette, the pirate/dognapper/failed extortionist/possible arsonist/amateur actor/wannabe filmmaker and business partner, standing in his usual parking place up by the cleaning sinks and tables.
She’s got a laptop cradled on one hip and a fist balled on the other. Back in her pirate uniform, he sees, the black nylon cargo pants and the windbreaker she was wearing when she boarded Moondance, the yellow gaiter around her neck. No gun. Barefoot again.
Casey honks her out of his way, pulls into his spot, and gets out.
“I doubt you’ve seen this,” she says.
She sets her laptop on the cleaning table and swings open the touch screen. Scrolls down.
“Today’s Los Angeles Times,” she says. “Back in the California section.”
Casey peers at the page as Bette taps a story and it fills the screen.
Two alleged members of the Monterey 9 criminal organization were charged with arson yesterday in the fire that badly damaged the Barrel Restaurant in Laguna Beach ten days ago.
Glen Lee, 24, and Roy Song, 30, were arrested in their homes without incident, and booked into Los Angeles County Jail. They pled not guilty and were released on $100,000 cash bonds.
“My clients are one hundred percent innocent of this baseless charge,” said Bob Gold, defense attorney for the men. “They were nowhere near Laguna Beach the night of the fire. It’s ludicrous. Just another instance of anti-Asian sentiment sweeping this country.”
Explosive devices with accelerants were used on a night of high Santa Ana winds, igniting fires that destroyed much of the popular restaurant.
LBFD response was quick, and damage to surrounding buildings was slight.
“We are almost done demolishing our beloved Barrel,” said owner Jen Stonebreaker. “We’ll be open again by summer of next year. They tried to break our hearts but they did not.”
Laguna Beach Police Department detectives and Los Angeles Police Department arson investigators have been cooperating in the investigation.
“We’ve been working full time on this since the second the flames were put out,” said Laguna PD Detective Brian Pittman.
Casey’s a slow but thorough reader. He glances at Bette, who has come in close to read along, then back down to the article. She taps a long, slender finger on the names Glen Lee and Roy Song.
“Imperial Fresh Seafood — backed by Monterey 9. Just as I said.”
Finishing the article, Casey feels big emotions surging up against each other inside him. Surprise. Doubt. Relief. Suspicion. Joy?
He says, “Woah, this is heavy.”
“I told you we were innocent. My dad. King Jim Seafood. All of us. Me!”
“I still don’t see why these guys would burn up the Barrel.”
“To punish enemies,” says Bette. “The old way of the underworld. Of gangs and tongs and blood feuds.”
She kneels and hugs Mae. “And I would never hurt your dog. And our offer to buy the Barrel was honest and sincere. Low? Yes, low. But we doubled to four million. We negotiate in good faith. Generous terms for your family and all employees. You have us wrong, Casey. One huge mistake.”
She draws a salmon-and-pumpkin treat from her windbreaker pocket and Mae snatches it with a snort.
Bette rises and gives him a frank look. Even barefoot, she’s not a lot shorter than six-two Casey. He wonders if she played basketball for UCLA. In this damp, early morning light, her skin is smooth and moist and her black bangs hang thick above her ebony eyes. Not a scar, Casey thinks. Not a mole or a blemish.
Not that that means what you are inside.
And not a line on her face, until she smiles.
“I thought you’d be happy to know who burned your restaurant.” She brushes a lock of Casey’s thick blond hair off his forehead. “And maybe if I present myself better, you might let me help you with your businesses and finance. Maybe become your partner someday. Maybe become a friend.”
Suddenly, Casey feels... empty.
Because everything he thought about Bette and her pirates, and her father, was wrong. Probably wrong. The pirates were shark finners, for sure. Ugly stuff. But not Bette, right? The pirates shot up his burner phone and scared the shit out of him but Bette never drew her gun, and it was right there on her hip. Yes, Bette tried to leverage Mae into their offer for the Barrel, but she never laid a finger on her. Jimmy tried to buy the Barrel cheap, but he didn’t burn it up.