Claire held her startled-cat pose for three or four seconds, then she seemed to sag a little, as if with resignation. She slid her body around so that she was facing Shelby.
No choice then but to go ahead and approach her. Claire wore a sheepskin jacket with the collar pulled up and a tie-dyed scarf tied around her blonde hair, so that her face was a pale oval in between. Only not completely pale: there were discolored marks on it today—marks that took on definition as Shelby neared and that explained the woman’s apparent impulse to run away. Split upper lip. Inch-long abrasion on her right cheek, and above that a yellowing bruise that would soon darken and spread and blacken the eye.
S E V E N
WHOEVER OWNED THE SEACREST grocery store had made maximum use of a small space: It was packed to the brim with shelves, bins, racks arranged in a mazelike fashion, the aisles so narrow that one of any two people passing with handbaskets would have to turn sideways. A heavyset, gray-haired woman stood behind the checkout counter; the only other occupant, a skinny man in a soiled apron, presided over a meat and deli section.
Macklin smiled and nodded at the woman; she gave him a blank-faced stare in return. Her eyes followed him as he picked up a basket and moved around the store. So did the man’s when he passed by the meat counter.
Wariness again. Mistrust of strangers. Or was he just imagining it? No, dammit, he could see it and he could feel it, just like last night with that deputy. What was the matter with people around here? Sparsely populated rural area, yes, but it was also a tourist destination in better-weather months. And this was the Christmas season. Hard to believe holiday cheer and goodwill had become a lost concept on this part of the coast.
He located matches, picked out vegetables, ordered a fresh crab cracked and cleaned from the reticent counterman. The woman watched him set the basket down on the checkout counter, then quit making eye contact as she rang up the items. Frustration more than anything else prodded him into breaking the silence.
“Some storm last night.”
It was a few seconds before she said, “Worse one on the way.”
“Really? When?”
“Sometime tomorrow afternoon.”
“Long-range weather forecast was for light rain.”
“Wrong as usual. Big storm—high winds, heavy rain.”
“Do you think it’ll last long?”
“Depends. No way to tell until it gets here.” Eyes the color of milk chocolate briefly met his. “You staying in the area?”
“My wife and I, yes.”
“Seacrest?”
“No. A friend’s cottage a few miles north.”
“Place well stocked? Plenty of firewood, extra candles?”
“Why? Is there likely to be another power failure?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. Happens often enough when it storms heavy.”
“A long outage like last night?”
“Had one lasted four days, a couple of winters ago. You sure you have everything you need?”
“I think so. Yes.”
She shrugged, took his money, gave him change—all without looking at him again. He said, “Happy New Year,” as he picked up the grocery sack, but she didn’t respond. He could feel her eyes on him again as he walked out.
More of the same at the service station. The mechanic on duty in the garage, a sinewy man in his forties wearing grease-stained overalls with the name Earl stitched across one pocket, was civil enough but in a cool, watchful way.
“Wiper blades for a Prius?” he said. “Can’t help you there, mister. Don’t carry any that’ll fit. You can get ’em in Fort Bragg, if you’re going that far.”
“I’m not. Staying nearby for a few days.”
“That right? Well, I suppose I could order a set for you. Have ’em here tomorrow or Saturday, latest.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Macklin went with him into a cluttered office, where Earl wrote up an order and he paid a deposit. When they came out again, a mud-spattered white pickup, its bed covered by a blue tarpaulin, was just pulling in behind where the Prius was parked at the forward of the two gas pumps. A gray-bearded oldster in a heavy pea jacket climbed out of the cab. Earl said, “Hey, Walter,” in friendlier tones and went over to join him.
Macklin slid his credit card into the pump’s fast-pay slot, then opened the Prius’s gas cap and inserted the hose nozzle. Earl and the bearded man, Walter, were talking now and making no effort to keep their voices down. Words carried clearly to Macklin on the cold, salt-laden wind.
“No, I didn’t hear,” Walter was saying. “I been over to my daughter’s in Vacaville, just got back last night. Where’d they find this one?”
“Down by Manchester.”
“Oh, Jesus. That’s another one too close for comfort.”
“Tell me about it.”
“They sure it’s the same bastard?”
“Sure enough. Makes four, but could be others ain’t been found yet. Now they’re calling him the Coastline Killer.”
“Goddamn media.” Walter smacked a fisted hand against his leg. “Who was it this time?”
“Delivery driver for one of the beer outfits—Ned Trotter. I didn’t know him, but June over at the store did.”
“Isn’t he the guy got arrested for abalone poaching last year?”
“Yeah, and he was at it again. Sackful in his truck.”
“Shot like the others?”
“Once through the head and then laid out neat. They didn’t find the bullet this time, but from the wound they figure it’s the same gun.”
“How you know that?”
“Deputy Ferguson. He come by about an hour ago.”
“Three five seven Magnum, what do you bet?”
“If they know for sure what kind, Ferguson wouldn’t say.”
“When’d it happen? Yesterday?”
“No, that’s when they found the body. Day before, day after Christmas—early morning, probably right after he finished poaching.”
Macklin set the catch on the nozzle, moved over to where the two men were standing. “Sorry to butt in,” he said, “but I couldn’t help overhearing. Four people shot to death?”
Now Walter was looking at him the way the woman in the store and Earl had, the way the deputy had last night. There was a little silence before Earl said, “Four that they know about.”
“But not all in the same vicinity?”
“Up and down the coast. First you heard about it, huh?”
“I’m not from around here. My wife and I live in Cupertino.”
“Don’t you pay attention to the news down in Cupertino?” Walter asked.
“Not crime news, no.”
“Well, maybe it’s time you started.”
“Papers made a big deal out of the first two in July,” Earl said. “Two kids on the beach down near Fort Ross. Both shot in the head. Sick bastard laid ’em out naked in a sleeping bag afterward.”
“Oh. That case.”
“Rings a bell now, huh?”
It did. He’d skimmed an article about that bizarre double homicide, just hadn’t made the connection. July was months past and Fort Ross was a long way down the coast from Seacrest.
“The police couldn’t find a motive,” he said.
“That’s right. Still can’t.”
“Psychos don’t need motives,” Walter said.
Macklin asked, “And there’ve been two others since?”
Earl said, “Number three late November, up on the Navarro River. And now number four down by Manchester.”
“Random victims and locations, then.”
“How it looks.”
“All outdoors? I mean, whoever’s doing it doesn’t break into people’s houses …”
“Not so far. But that don’t mean he won’t get it into his head to start.”