Beth stayed silent for a while, then without replying, she moved to the edge of the bluff, then turned and walked to the only substantial tree on the crest, a ten-foot-tall, gnarled oak. She bent down, then straightened up, holding a coil of rope in her hand. "Look at this."
I joined her and looked at her find. The rope, made of green nylon about a half an inch thick, was knotted every three feet or so for handholds. One end was tied to the base of the tree. Beth said, "There's probably enough rope here to reach the beach."
I nodded. "That would certainly make the climb up and down easier."
"Yes." She knelt and looked down the slope. I did the same. We could see where the grass was worn from the climbs up and down the face of the bluff. It was, as I said, a steep slope, but not too difficult for anyone in decent shape, even without a rope.
I leaned farther over the edge and noticed that where the grass had eroded there were those reddish streaks of clay and iron in the soil. I noticed something else: about ten feet below, a sort of shelf or ledge appeared. Beth noticed it, too, and said, "I'm going to have a look."
She pulled at the rope, and satisfied that it was securely attached to the tree trunk, and the tree trunk was securely attached to the ground, she took the rope in both hands and walked backwards down the ten feet to the ledge, playing out the rope as she descended. She called up, "Come on down. This is interesting."
"Okay." I walked down the slope, holding the rope in one hand. I stood on the ledge beside Beth.
She said, "Look at that."
The ledge was about ten feet long and three feet deep at the widest. In the center of the ledge was a cave, but you could tell it was not natural. In fact, I could see shovel marks. Beth and I crouched down and peered into the opening. It was small, about three feet in diameter and only about four feet deep. There was nothing inside the excavation. I couldn't imagine what this was for, but I speculated, "You could stash a picnic lunch and a cooler of wine in there."
Beth added, "You could even put your legs in there and your body out on this ledge, and go to sleep."
"Or have sex."
"Why did I know you were going to say that?"
"Well, it's true." I stood. "They may have intended to make this bigger."
"For what?"
"I don't know." I turned toward the Sound and lowered myself into a sitting position, my feet dangling over the ledge. "This is nice. Have a seat."
"I'm getting cold.
"Here, you can have my T-shirt."
"No, it smells."
"You're no petunia yourself."
"I'm tired, I'm dirty, my pantyhose are ripped, and I have to go to the bathroom."
"This is romantic."
"It could be. But it's not now." She stood, grabbed the rope, and walked up to the crest. I waited until she got to the top, then followed.
Beth coiled the rope and put it back at the base of the tree as she'd found it. She turned, and we found ourselves face-to-face, about a foot apart. It was one of those awkward moments, and we stood for exactly three seconds, then I put my hand out and brushed her hair, then her cheek. I moved in for the big smooch, confident we were about to lock lips, but she stepped back and uttered the magic word that all modern American men have been Pavloved to respond to. "No."
I immediately jumped back six feet, and I clasped my hands behind my back. My little woody dropped like a dead tree, and I exclaimed, "I mistook your friendly banter for a sexual come-on. Forgive me."
Actually, that's not exactly what happened. She did say "no," but I hesitated, a look of abject disappointment on my face, and she said, "Not now," which is good, then "maybe later," which was better, then "I like you," which was best.
I said, "Take your time," which I sincerely meant, as long as she didn't take more than seventy-two hours, which is sort of my limit. Actually, I've waited longer.
We didn't say anything else about that, but walked down the landward side of the bluff and got into the black PD.
She started the car, threw it into gear, then put it back into park, and leaned over and kissed me perfunctorily on the cheek, then into gear again and off we went, raising dust.
A mile later, we were on Middle Road. She had a good sense of direction and headed back to Nassau Point without my help.
She saw an open service station, and we both used the respective lavs to freshen up, as they say. I couldn't remember the last time I looked this dirty. I'm a pretty dapper guy on the job, a Manhattan dandy in tailor-made suits. I felt like a kid again, dirty Johnny rooting around the Indian burial sites.
In the service station office, I bought some really gross snacks — beef jerky, peanut butter crackers, and gummy bears. Out in the car, I offered some to Beth, who refused. I said, "If you chew this all together, it tastes like a Thai dish called Sandang Phon. I discovered that by accident."
"I hope so."
We drove a few minutes. The combo of beef jerky, peanut butter crackers, and gummy bears actually tasted awful, but I was starving, and I wanted that dust out of my throat. I asked Beth, "What do you think? I mean, about the bluff?"
She thought a moment, then replied, "I think I would have liked the Gordons."
"You would have."
"Are you sad?"
"Yeah… I mean, we weren't best buddies… I only knew them a few months, but they were good people, full of fun and life. They were too young to have ended their lives like that."
She nodded.
We drove across the causeway onto Nassau Point. It was getting dark.
She said, "My brain is telling me this piece of land is what it appears to be. A romantic retreat, a place to call their own. They were Midwesterners, they probably came from land, and they found themselves here as tenants in a place where land means a lot, like where they came from… Right?"
"Right."
"And yet…"
"Yes. And yet… And yet, they could have saved themselves about twenty Gs if they'd leased for five years." I added, "They had to own the land. Think about that."
"I'm thinking about it."
We wound up at the house where the Gordons had lived, and Beth pulled up behind my Jeep. She said, "It was a long day."
"Come back to my place. Follow me."
"No, I'm going home tonight."
"Why?"
"There's no reason to be here twenty-four hours a day any longer, and the county won't pay for the motel."
"Stop at my place first. I have to give you the computer printouts."
"They'll wait until tomorrow." She said, "I need to go to the office tomorrow morning. Why don't I meet you tomorrow about five o'clock?"
"My place."
"All right. Your place, five p.m. I'll have some information by then."
"Me, too."
"I'd rather you didn't proceed until you see me," she said.
"Okay."
"Get your status straight with Chief Maxwell."
"Will do."
"Get some rest," she said.
"You, too."
"Get out of my car." She smiled. "Go home. Really."
"I will. Really." I got out of her car. She made a U-turn, waved, and drove off.
I got into my Jeep, determined not to do anything that would make it speak French. Seat belt on, doors locked, emergency brake off. I started the engine and the car didn't utter a peep.
As I drove back to my bay farm estate, or farm bay estate, or whatever, I realized I hadn't remembered to use the remote to start the vehicle. Well, what difference did it make? The new car bombs all exploded after about five minutes anyway. Besides, no one was trying to kill me. Well, someone had tried to kill me, but that had to do with something else. Quite possibly, that was random, or if it were planned, the shooters considered that I was out of action, and whatever I'd done to piss them off was avenged without me having to be actually dead. That's the way the Mafia operated — if you survived, you were usually left alone. But these gentlemen who were blasting away at me looked decidedly Hispanic. And those hombres didn't always consider the job done until you were planted.