Pacific Beat by T. Jefferson Parker

Author:T. Jefferson Parker [Parker, T. Jefferson]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2013-12-11T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 20

ON THE DAY OF ANN’S FUNERAL, THE OCEAN DIED, THE FIRST victims were the small fish that washed up before sunrise— anchovies, smelt, grunion, young bass. By nine, there were halibut, mullet, mackerel, bonita, stingrays, skates, mud sharks, sand sharks, blue sharks, and thresher, carried by the tide to shore, where, bloated, eyes protruding, bladders ejected from their mouths, they lay either dead or in final twitching demise. Half a dozen sea lions were beached, too, but still alive at first. They lolled in the shallows near Poon’s Locker, entangling themselves in mooring lines and issuing their last agonized groans before turning belly-up and silent in the dismal, fog-clenched afternoon. Last to go were the seabirds—the ducks, the gulls and pelicans, a few heron deep in the Back Bay—which floated, limp-necked and feet folded, onto the beaches around noon. By 2:00 P.M., the smell was getting strong.

The old-timers of the peninsula mumbled about a red tide—a deadly buildup of plankton that robs the fish of oxygen—but none of them had ever seen a sea gull die of too much air. Besides, the water wasn’t the telltale orange-brown of a plankton surge, but its usual gray and unassuming self. Charter trips were canceled and the harbor tours were postponed, but the Newport-to-Catalina ship weighed anchor at the usual 8 A.M., dividing with its prow the thousands of bobbing bodies that littered the bay. The ferryboat continued its runs, pushing through the carnage with the glum efficiency of a slow plow in winter. By noon, the EPA, the California Department of Fish and Game, the Coastal Commission, the Coast Guard, the County Sheriff’s, the city Marine Department, the mayor, an aid to the governor, and the press had all arrived to evaluate the problem.

Jim saw it from the window of his old upstairs room in the big house. He had spent an aching night tossing on his bed, sweating, plagued by visions of lopping shears and, later in a state of light sleep, again by the dream of someone holding a single purple rose up to Ann’s trusting, lovely face. Before first light, he got up and read the files on Kearns and Blodgett, searching for something that had gotten through, something he hadn’t seen, something he hadn’t understood. The words danced on the paper in front of him, cloying and ineffable. When he finally looked up from the files, he saw the hundreds of pale, shining shapes lining the curve of shore to the south. In the first light of day, they looked like coins spilled from a treasure chest. To the north, he could see a crowd that had gathered on the sidewalk, just past Ann’s Kids. Becky Flynn stood off to the side, talking on a portable telephone. Some of the people were still in their robes. Downstairs, the phone started ringing.

And through it all, the hunt for Horton Goins continued. When he went down to the Locker for coffee, Jim saw a team of uniforms working the motels around the El Mar.

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