There wasn’t much of interest in Hope’s report.  Except for one thing. Only three or four lines that I could tell she’d only included as an aside.   About a year and a half before her son’s death, a time when she had been out working in the garden with Skye, three men had come over, asking her if she needed any help, and asking her son’s name.  They had said that they were from a Christian group in the town.  They asked if she and her son were interested in maybe checking their group out.  Before she could stop him, Skye had blurted out, “We’re not Christian.”  The men had mumbled something to each other, then left.  And I never would have noticed it if it hadn’t been for the visit from my concerned neighbors.  I made a note to ask Hope about it.

At 10:00, I’d read her notes three times all the way through, eaten dinner and needed to sleep.  But it was funny. For the first time since my wife…ex-wife…Sara left, I felt lonely.  I picked up and put the phone down three times.  Then I called.  She answered, sniffling.

“Just wanted to make sure you’re ok,” I said lying, but not completely.

“I’m fine.  Please.  I don’t want to talk now, Jay.  Call me tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?  I could come over…”

“No. Call me tomorrow.” She said, and hung up.

I sat there.  She’d been crying.  I knew it.  I also knew that I shouldn’t go over.  You’re in too deep, said the old cop voice in me.  Never get personally involved.  You’re in over your head.  I ignored it.  I swallowed the last of my fourth beer, picked Gray up who was lazily napping in my lap, and who meowed in protest, then grabbed my jacket and headed out, Gray taking a swipe at me as I made for the door.  I made the fifteen-minute walk in ten, telling myself that I was fully under control -- and lying. As I turned the corner of her block, I felt a chill run down my entire body, like when you’ve been in the water too long, but you hang in there for just one more wave.  When I got to her house, the third one down on the right, I saw a blinking faint blue glow coming from the front windows, and went up to the door and knocked.  No answer.  When I knocked again, even louder, with no response, I slipped around a medium sized cactus to peek in the window to the right of the door.  Inside, through the partially closed curtains, I saw Hope writhing on the rug in the glow of pulsing blue Christmas lights, photographs all around her on the floor, and an old teddy bear nestled in her arms that shone neon blue in the modulating light.  I cursed my stupidity, took a sharp breath, then another, as I felt something hard and blunt hit the back of my head

When I woke, I was under the pier.  It was just after dawn, I was cold, shivering – there’d been a lot of that lately -- and I was covered in sand and seaweed and smelled like piss.  The tide was coming in and had just reached my shoes, so I moved them, then flinched at the throbbing in my skull.  When the pain subsided, I managed to drag myself three feet up the beach away from the rising water. I looked around me.  My gun was ten feet away to my right.  I tried to stand up to retrieve it, then failed and crawled over.  All the bullets were gone and it was caked in sand.  I took a good whiff of the barrel to see if it had been discharged and got nothing but a nose full of sand and seawater. Near my gun, just slightly up the beach was my wallet in similar condition.  All the money was gone and my private investigator’s license was cut into a pile of little laminated sand-sparkling bits. In a moment, the tide hit my leg again, washing away those little bits, and I managed to stand.

Back home, I disrobed on the front porch, ignoring the still chilly morning, not even caring if anybody saw, then proceeded inside for a long, hot, shower.  On the way to the shower, I cracked a beer, which I shuddered down in long swallows, then grabbed another.  By the time the shower was done and the second beer empty, I had a plan.

The first order of business was to clean my gun. I started to crack another beer, then thought better of it and put on a pot of coffee.  In fifteen minutes, my revolver was cleaned, oiled, back together, and fully loaded.  At nine, I sat down to call Sacramento for a new copy of my license, cursing as I did, realizing just then that my cell was also gone.  I put the receiver of the land line up to my throbbing head and dialed. They gave me a web address where I could order a new one, and I wrote it down to take care of later.  I had a photocopy of it in my files, which would do for now.  Then I called my old buddy on the force, a guy I grew up with and who I went through the academy with, and who I hadn’t talked to since our annual Christmas phone call. Sara didn’t like him, because he was always trying to get me to come back.  He called her a stupid bitch when she forced me to quit.  That stupid bitch.  He was right.  I laughed at this thought, then regretted it, as my head throbbed.  I focused on the task at hand. 

I got his voicemail.  He’d made detective a few years back, and wasn’t in, so I left a message. Then I made the call I was dreading -- I gave Hope a call at her parlor   It turned out that Hope was San Diego’s best tattoo artist, with a PhD in anthropology.  She apologized for being so short with me when I’d called, and I took a deep breath.  She was all right.  She invited me for dinner the next night.  I accepted.  Breakfast was the next matter at hand, and then a visit to the lovely and good Willow.  After a trip to the diner, I stumbled over.

“You look terrible,” she said, scrutinizing my face.

“I had a run in with some concerned Christians,” I responded.  At this, her face went from slightly mocking concern to grave concern.  I explained to her the events of the last two weeks.  On the matter of Hope, she said:

“She used to be one of us.  She really isn’t anymore.  Since her son died, there’s a real darkness about her.  I worry about her.  But when one of us tries to talk to her, she won’t respond.  She just says she’s fine and not to worry. “

“And what about these Christian guys?” I asked.

“Be very careful of them.  I know who they are.  They’re too scared of us to attack us directly, but they’re not good people.”

And then I asked the question that I didn’t want to, because once I did, there would be no turning back, like getting up in front of the wave that you know is too big, and once you’re on it, you’ve got to ride, but I asked anyway. “Do you think they had anything to do with her son’s death?”

She reached across the counter and touched my hand.  “I don’t know, Jay.  But my sense is that finding the answer to that question could be an extremely dangerous thing to do.  And believe me when I tell you, my sense about those kinds of things usually isn’t wrong.”  She said this last part in a way that she knew I would hear it.  I assured her I’d be careful, but I looked into her deep blue eyes a moment too long.  I wished I could stay there, lost in those eyes where swam the roots of all that is good and beautiful on this green Earth, but it was the dark eyes of Hope that were calling me, and the soft eyes of a beautiful little boy who had mysteriously fallen off the pier in a storm. I was in.  I’d committed to the wave.  If there was an answer to be found, I would find it.  Before I left, she gave me a protection candle to burn that night, and left me with a kiss on the cheek and the words, “Blessed Be.”  To my surprise, I responded in kind.

Back home, after a quick stop at the cell phone store for a replacement, I rolled my newly forming plan around in my head.  I still hadn’t heard from my old buddy.  There was research to do.  I could probably find most of what I needed from the local paper on the internet.  Time would tell.  But right then the situation called for a nap.  That night there was trolling to do, and I needed my rest.

Chapter 7 coming 3/1!!