“He probably has a pretty good idea. As long as we don’t rub his nose in it, so to speak, then what’s it to him? Creed doesn’t own me and I don’t own him.”

“Anyone could walk in,” he said. “What if the mailman comes by or the UPS guy, delivering a package?”

“If you’re so worried about being seen, why don’t we go into the cabana where we can talk and get to know each other a little bit. If you feel uncomfortable, all you have to do is say so. I’m not going to knock you down and jump your bones.”

She held a hand up, wanting him to pull her to her feet.

Jon ignored her.

“You’d prefer to do it all out here?”

“No.”

“Then help me up.”

Jon grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. Primly she shook her skirt down. “All nice and neat,” she said.

She moved toward the cabana. Jon followed her with a mounting sense of disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. Passing through the door, she lifted her crossed arms and pulled the tank top over her head.

Inside, she’d made a pallet of blankets. Two joints at the ready with a roach clip, a pack of matches, and an ashtray. She unbuttoned her skirt and stepped out of it. Her figure was womanly—generous ass, small breasts with brown nipples as big and flat as fifty-cent pieces. The thatch of hair between her legs was dark and bushy. She knelt on the blanket, picked up a joint, and lit it. She took two or three quick draws and held the smoke in. She closed her eyes and toked once more before releasing the smoke in a thin stream. “You’re wasting time, Jon. Don’t just stand there with your clothes on. You can do better than that.”

He hesitated, looking down at her as though measuring the drop from a ten-meter board. He stripped off his T-shirt and then stepped out of his pants. When he took off his jockey shorts, he saw the change come over her face.

“Oh my god, you’re beautiful. Incredible. I’d forgotten what eighteen looks like.” She crawled to the edge of the blanket and ran a hand along his bare flank and then looked up at him. He bent and kissed her upturned mouth.

28

Wednesday afternoon, April 20, 1988

Wednesday afternoon I took Cabana Boulevard up the hill to Seashore Park, a city-owned stretch of palm trees and grass that skirts the bluff overlooking the Pacific. That morning I’d called Michael and asked him to meet me there. In my shoulder bag I had the file folder of clippings about Keith Kirkendall and copies of the photographs his sister had given me the day before. My body hummed with dread, but there was no avoiding the conversation. I couldn’t bear to lay the revelation at his feet, but there was no escape.

The day was sunny and the air mild with scarcely any breeze at all. While I waited I walked the length of the chain-link fence that had been erected to prevent citizens from tumbling off the cliff. The drop to the ocean below was a good sixty feet. At high tide, the surf concealed the rocks. At low tide, the rocks were laid bare. Either way, a fall would be fatal. Looking down I could see the telltale muddy plume where a sandbar had formed, and the waves were breaking differently from how they did a hundred yards on each side. Most people think of the effluence as a riptide, but the proper term is “rip current.” Tides are the function of the moon’s gravitational pull. A rip current is a treacherous outflow that runs in a narrow line perpendicular to the beach, sometimes extending as far as twenty-five hundred feet. The term “undertow,” used to describe the same phenomenon, is a misnomer as well. A rip current moves along the surface of the water, a function of the hidden shape of the shore itself. This one, like the rip current that swept Sutton’s mother to her death, was an artifact of the same attempt by the city engineers to create a safe harbor where there was none before. As with so much in life, good intentions often generate unexpected results.

I heard Sutton’s MG approaching long before I saw him pull into the small parking lot. He had the top down and his hair had been whipped into an untidy thatch that he smoothed as he stepped out of the car. He wore a sweatshirt and shorts, and the sight of his knobby knees nearly broke my heart. As before, I was struck by his youthfulness. When he was fifty instead of twenty-six, he’d look the same. I couldn’t picture him portly or bald. I couldn’t picture him with heavy jowls or a double chin. As he aged, his face would shrink away from his skull, but it would otherwise retain its boyish cast.

On the phone I hadn’t specified the reason for the meeting. I felt badly about it now because he suspected nothing, which made him all the more vulnerable. Though I didn’t understand the psychological dynamic, I sensed that after the destruction he’d brought down on his family, he’d moved from villainy to victimhood. By rights, the family should have been the ones to lay claim to all the suffering. Instead the burden was his.