“Done. How fast?”

“Tomorrow. We’ll bring in a crew, a Dumpster and some fans to air the place out.”

“Let’s do it. I have to look around in there before I can figure out what to do next. Right now I’m leaning toward a bulldozer.”

“Can’t say I blame you, Mr. Cooper.”

Four

Rawley lived in a little inland town called Elmore. Mac gave Cooper directions to his place. Besides a gas station, post office, elementary school and Dairy Queen, Elmore wasn’t much of a town. The larger town of Bandon wasn’t far away and possibly served the small population’s needs.

The house was a small, old, brick structure with a porch. That classic pickup was parked on the side, identifying the place as belonging to Rawley. The yard was well kept and the grass still green, though the trees and shrubs were showing signs of fall with either color or brown. When Cooper knocked on the door and Rawley answered, the last thing he expected was the homey, clean, orderly house he saw inside.

“Hey. Got a minute?” Cooper asked.

Rawley gave his version of a nod, which was a smirk and a tilt of his head, stepping back so Cooper could enter. Inside was a living room and dining room that looked like a woman had left it behind—lace covers on the worn arms of chairs and sofa, pictures of farm scenes on the walls, a buffet with a couple of good glass bowls on top of a fabric runner, candlesticks on the table. All old, all maintained. In front of the fire sat an elderly man in a wheelchair. He was dressed in overalls and a long-sleeved shirt—clean—and on his feet were socks only. No point in shoes if you never walked.

“Very nice, Rawley,” Cooper said, taking it in. “That your dad?”

Rawley nodded.

Cooper had never been a patient man, but this was really stretching what patience he had very thin. “I wish you’d talk,” he said. “Unless you’re mute.”

“I’ll talk when I got something to say,” he said.

“Well, there,” Cooper said. “You doing okay since Ben’s death?”

“Not hardly,” Rawley said.

Well, there you go again, Cooper thought. Honest, if not informative. “Anything you need that I can get for you, now that he’s gone?”

“Can’t think what,” Rawley said.

At that statement, the old man turned his chair around to face Cooper. He didn’t exactly hold his head up, and Cooper could see that he was very likely a stroke victim. He turned the chair with his left arm, the right kinked in protectively at his side, and the right side of his face—mouth and eye—sagged.

“You looking for work?” Cooper asked.

“Hadn’t been. Why? You gonna open up Ben’s place?”

“No, but I’m cleaning it up and clearing it out. It’s got troubles—rot and mold and dead fish. Tomorrow a crew is coming out to clean out and remove the fish tanks, rotten food, trash...”

“Police locked it up and wouldn’t let me in,” Rawley said by way of explanation.

“I know. And the electric company turned off the power,” Cooper said. “The result is a stink and mess. But once they get the place so I can breathe in there, I have to go through his things. You know—pitch, give away, sell, whatever. There might be some things in there you want. If you help out, I can pay you what Ben paid you.”

Rawley grinned and showed off a stunning set of dentures. “He paid me a ton.”

“Gimme a break, Ben didn’t have shit. And he couldn’t tolerate a lie, either.”

“Eight dollars an hour,” Rawley said. “When?”

“In three days, I guess. Your dad okay alone if you work?”

The old man inhaled sharply and briefly lifted his head. It looked like he scowled, but with the uneven features, it was hard to tell. His good eye narrowed.

“He’s okay. If I work, the neighbor checks on him twice a day. I leave him fixed up for what he needs.”

“Okay, then. If you’re interested.”

Rawley gave a nod. No questions, no suggestions, no commentary.

“Rawley, I don’t know what I’m going to do with the place. Fair warning. This could be a week of work and that’s all. I might just tear the place down and sell the land.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Rawley said, apparently unconcerned.

“Yeah, I guess.” Cooper scratched his neck. “See you then.” He turned to leave.

“Hold on,” Rawley said. He went into the kitchen, which was just through the dining room arch, then came back with a package. Cookies, wrapped in Saran, no plate, no ziplock bag. “Can’t be much around that toy hauler for snacks. They’re sugar-free, on account of Dad.”

“Right,” Cooper said, accepting them. “Thanks. That’s real nice.”

Rawley just shrugged.

Cooper left with yet another mystery about Ben. Rawley lived in a house that was well cared for, yet Ben’s place was mostly a wreck. How did that add up? Did Rawley take care of himself, but do a sad job for Ben?

Once in his truck, Cooper tried a cookie. Not bad, for sugar-free. Soft and tasty. He just shook his head.

* * *

Three days later, the smell wasn’t too bad and Cooper could get inside Ben’s place without choking. He had the electricity turned on; it not only offered functional lighting in the shop, but he ran an extension to the trailer to save on his generator. Just having a crew there to take out garbage and install fans brought attention to the place, and when the weather was decent, people who were out on the beach felt a need to wander closer, to find Cooper on the deck or the dock. Usually they would stop to say hello or hang out for a while, to ask what was going on. A kayaker rowed up to the dock, got out and asked what was going to happen to the place now.

“I don’t exactly know,” he said honestly. “I guess I’m responsible for it, but I’m not interested in running a business.”

“Neither was Ben,” the guy said, laughing. “But people around Thunder Point liked the place, even if we didn’t want to go inside too much.”

“What did you like it for?” Cooper asked.

“Gossip and drinks, mainly. And Ben used to pick up his deli food every couple of days from Carrie—when he couldn’t talk her into delivering. She’d do that if her daughter was free to mind the deli. That’s good stuff, Carrie’s stuff, and Ben never even marked it up. He had egg sandwich kind of things for the morning, sandwiches and pizza for later, desserts and stuff. It was good. It was all wrapped—he didn’t cook it. Know what I mean?”

“All I saw in there was a microwave and a stove and oven that looked...” He didn’t want to say ancient, but although the kitchen was spotless, the appliances didn’t look very reliable. The bar, though small, was neat and well stocked. The glasses, though dusty, looked as if they’d been washed, not that he’d trust them.

A man and woman with a dog saw him on the dock and said, “You’re the new guy, right?”

“I guess I am.”

“I’m Charlie and this here’s Donna, the wife. So, when you gonna open up?”

“Don’t know that I will,” Cooper said. “For now I’m just cleaning the place up. I’m not much of a cook...”

“Ben didn’t really cook. He warmed.”

“Did Ben live on egg sandwiches and deli stuff?” Cooper asked.

“I don’t know,” Charlie said. “He was good with drinks. All drinks. Coffee, cappuccino, wine, beer and liquor. If the day was nice, I’d end up here with a bunch of guys from town for a drink or two. Sport fishermen came here for a few before taking their boats over to the marina.”

“What about Cliffhanger’s? Or Waylan’s?”

“Cliffhanger’s is expensive and Waylan’s is a shit hole. But they have HD TV. The owner is trying to make it a sports bar. If you open up, get a TV.”

“Gotcha,” Cooper said.

Cooper and Rawley went through Ben’s living quarters, which were, to his surprise, tidy. He suspected Rawley had taken care of that, too. Ben had been in possession of a minimal wardrobe. “You want the clothes?” he asked Rawley.

“Too big for me,” he said. “I could use some old shirts and sweats for Dad. The rest could go to the VA.”

“Sure,” Cooper said.

“I’ll take ’em home and wash ’em up first. Then drop ’em off at the VA.”

“That’s above and beyond...” Cooper said.

“They deserve that. At least.”

Cooper was impressed. He was beginning to suspect that Rawley was a good and generous man, under his grump and grumble.

Ben had an old TV and stereo, a boom box—apparently he hadn’t graduated to the iPod yet—and bookcase that held many books about Oregon wildlife, mostly birds. He found Ben’s laptop, their primary means of communication the past ten years, and therein he found out a few things about Ben that he might’ve known if he’d been paying attention. Ben was an involved ornithologist. He might not hold any kind of degree, but the history on his computer showed almost daily visits to websites and blogs about birds, further explaining the preserve on his land.

Cooper had walked through the preserve all the way to the high cliff edge towering over the Pacific a few days earlier. The growth was thick but he’d found what appeared to be a seldom-traveled path through the spruce, Douglas fir and shrubs. The bright colors of fall battled with the dark green of fir trees; among the ground cover he saw withered plants he was willing to bet sprang into bloom with the spring and summer warmth. He’d spotted the remnants of many old nests, perhaps abandoned for the winter. There were some shells and some dead eggs, not to mention a few low-flying seabirds threatened by his presence. One lone eagle circled overhead for a little while. There was one tree in which perched a few birds that looked like small cranes.

Ben had saved a lot of online documents about bird preserves, about rare and endangered birds. There were pictures on his computer, pictures he’d taken himself—he was an avid bird-watcher. And there were large, high-powered binoculars hanging from nails all over the place.

He also found that Ben had saved many emails from Cooper and from Luke Riordan but very few from other people. It spurred a memory of an email Cooper had gotten from Ben, in which he casually said, “Since my father passed a couple of years ago...” Cooper had thought, a couple of years ago? He hadn’t notified his friends of his father’s death?

And then Cooper asked himself, who would he write about something like that? While Cooper liked a lot of people, he could count his good friends on one hand.

But Cooper had sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces and nephews who were always in touch. At least he was connected.

It was going to take him a long time to get through all of Ben’s saved emails, but over time he’d manage. There could be information in there about his intention for the property. There could even be some stray clue about what led to his death, if he had some issue with an enemy no one really knew about. He doubted it, but it was worth checking.

The weather was good that afternoon. Rawley had gone home with a lot of laundry to do and Cooper relaxed on the deck with the laptop. He counted nine kids on the beach—two wearing wet suits with paddleboards and oars out on the still bay, four batting a volleyball around, though they didn’t have a net set up, three girls parked on the sand, talking. There were three ATVs lined up behind them, although he hadn’t seen them arrive.

Cooper was just enjoying his view and the kids seemed to be having good, clean fun. There was a little monkey business—a guy grabbed a girl, stole a kiss, got punched, which made him laugh hysterically and then chase her, catch her, get a more receptive welcome the second time. The two guys with the boards went almost to the mouth of the bay, where the Pacific waves were high and challenging. Inside the bay was smooth as silk, dark as ink. Wet suits, very intelligent—the air was cold and the ocean much colder. But they were obviously pros; they barely got their feet wet. In the summer, Cooper bet there was a lot of snorkeling, maybe diving, maybe running surfboards out beyond the bay.