Doom Magnet, page 1
part #3 of The Last Picks Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Doom Magnet
Copyright © 2024 Gregory Ashe
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests and all other inquiries, contact: contact@hodgkinandblount.com
Published by Hodgkin & Blount
https://www.hodgkinandblount.com/
contact@hodgkinandblount.com
Published 2024
Printed in the United States of America
Version 1.04
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63621-084-1
eBook ISBN: 978-1-63621-083-4
Chapter 1
“Bobby!” Millie screamed. “Over HERE!”
“Okay,” Fox said. “I don’t think now is the time—”
“Keme! Keme! Look! Hi!”
“Millie,” Indira said, “they need to concentrate.”
Torn between distracting her friends and, well, the thrill of simultaneously cheering/screaming at them, Millie settled for hopping up and down silently, waving her arms.
It was a bright October day, the weekend before Halloween. The sky was blue. The sun was warm. And although it was cooler than the summer months in Hastings Rock, on a day like today, you couldn’t really tell.
Ketling Beach was a long, wave-smoothed crescent. To the north, Klikamuks Head jutted out into the sea. South, the shoreline curved inward, and across the bay rose the dollhouse profile of Hastings Rock. Where the light caught the wet sand of the beach at exactly the right angle, it looked sheeted in silver.
Banners hung everywhere, announcing the GREMLINS AND GROMMETS SURF CHALLENGE. In smaller type, the banners explained, Brought to you by Gremlins and Grommets Surf Camp. The event had brought out what looked like most of the town, and people lined the beach in folding chairs, many of them wrapped in blankets and carrying thermoses of coffee. Not exactly your Malibu beach scene, but I had learned—to my surprise—that not only did the Oregon Coast have some great surfing spots, the best time of year was late October. Which seemed like a wonderful recipe for death by hypothermia.
But if the cold water had deterred anyone, you couldn’t tell by the number of surfers waiting to compete. Beyond the barrier that marked the end of the spectator zone, they ran the gamut from children with foamboards (presumably the gremlins and grommets, although I wasn’t entirely sure of the lingo) to middle-aged men and women who looked scarily fit for their age. (This from a guy who prefers an elevator to stairs even when he’s going down.)
Deputy Bobby and Keme were down there too. They were both wearing wetsuits as they did some light cardio, warming up for the day’s events. If I had to make a list of terrible, awful, horrible ways to spend the day, watching Deputy Bobby jog and do jumping jacks and laugh at something Keme said probably wouldn’t rank high on the list. It might not even make the list at all.
Although, to be fair, sitting next to Deputy Bobby’s boyfriend, West, probably would make the list. In part, because I was doubly self-conscious every time I looked at Deputy Bobby. (Not that I was doing anything wrong. Not that I couldn’t look at him. Because we were friends, right? And friends looked at each other all the time. Even when friends were in wetsuits, and you could see all their muscles, and friends were bending and stretching and—we’re just friends!) And in part, because the juxtaposition wasn’t ideal. I mean, West was gorgeous. He had flaxen hair in a messy part, perfectly pink cheeks, kissably pouty lips (at least, I assumed Deputy Bobby thought they were kissable), and eyes the exact same color as the sky this morning. He was wearing a ring on his left hand these days, so I guess I needed to start thinking of him as Deputy Bobby’s fiancé. In keeping with the Halloween theme, he’d chosen to go as a very, very, very (need I go on?) sexy construction worker: hardhat rakishly cocked, hi-vis vest, jean shorts, steel-toed boots. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was all. If it were me, I would have been freezing, but since West also apparently had the metabolism of a hummingbird, he looked perfectly comfortable.
Everyone was dressed up, not just West, although nobody else, as far as I could see, had gone for the pouty-sexy-where’s-my-metal-clipboard look, which should have been ridiculous, but honestly? He was totally pulling it off. Indira, of course, had kept her costume tasteful. I’d asked if she was going to be a witch, and she’d asked me why I thought that, and I’d immediately regretted every life choice I’d ever made. (Answer: it’s because of that lock of white hair she has, which gives some seriously witchy vibes.) Instead, she’d gone for a tweed jacket over a rust-colored sweater and jeans, which looked like a normal outfit for her. She’d added big glasses and a crumpled deerstalker cap that sat cockeyed on her head, and when I’d finally had to ask who she was, she’d said Professor Trelawney. (Which, point for me because I had totally guessed witch.)
With Fox, it was hard to tell if it was a costume or daily wear, since Fox’s outfits seemed to straddle the delicate intersection of Victorian train conductor, circus impresario, mortician, and steampunk enthusiast. Today, for example, they were wearing a knee-length frock coat over a Led Zeppelin tee, plus a top hat. (Hats were apparently a thing this Halloween.) Like I said, it was hard to tell if this outfit had been plucked from Fox’s daily rotation or was a Halloween treat.
Millie, on the other hand, was definitely in costume. Millie’s usual attire (which consisted of cute sweaters and jeans) had been replaced by a full ’80s exercise getup: a neon pink leotard, turquoise tights, and electric yellow legwarmers and sweatbands. She’d done a full blowout on her hair and looked a little like Farrah Fawcett if she’d been struck by lightning. God bless her, she’d even found ankle weights. And the thing was…Millie looked amazing. I wasn’t sure she even knew how good she looked because, well, she was Millie. But I knew one thing: I was dying to see Keme’s face when the poor boy finally got a look at her.
As for me, I’d gone with something that I thought was clever. As usual, my friends had managed to blow up my expectations in a way that was both loving and devastating.
“I still don’t get it,” Fox said. “Are you a sex kitten?”
They chose the exact moment when I was drinking some of Indira’s hot chocolate, which meant all I could do for several minutes was choke.
West glanced over at me, gave me an appraising look, and said, “Dominatrix-cat.”
“Oh my God,” Fox said. “That’s exactly it.”
“It’s hot,” West told me. “You’re totally going home with someone tonight.”
“No,” I managed to wheeze through death-by-hot-chocolate.
“What is a dominatrix-cat?” Indira asked.
“I’ll look it up,” Millie announced.
“No!” Fox and I managed at the same time.
“Aren’t you just a black cat?” Millie asked. “I thought the keys just got stuck to you like that time you got wrapped up in all that tape in your office and you couldn’t get it off and you kept shouting for somebody to come help and Keme laughed and took all those pictures.”
“This is not like that!” I took a deep breath, which was hard since I was still recovering from my near-death experience. “And I would have been fine except Keme kept making it worse—”
“Well, what are you?” Indira asked. “Why don’t you just tell us?”
“Because this costume is clever and original and—and insightful.”
“Insightful?” Fox murmured.
“And I’m not going to demean myself and demean you and demean the whole human race—”
“He gets on that high horse quick,” West said, “doesn’t he?”
“You have no idea,” Fox said.
“—by explaining it,” I finished. “And why are you all so focused on me? This is about Deputy Bobby and Keme.” I fought with myself, lost, and added, “And nobody even asked Fox about their costume.”
“I’m a polymorphed dragon,” Fox said—a tad haughtily, in my opinion.
No one seemed to know what to say to that.
Indira recovered first. “West, I’ve got thermoses here with more hot chocolate and coffee, depending on what the boys want. I brought blankets. And I’ve got dry clothes. Is there anything else they need for when they get out of the water?”
Shaking his head, West said, “That’s perfect. What they really need is to go home, get in a hot shower, and eat something, but you need a crowbar to get Bobby away from his board, even at the end of the day.”
“Babe,” Deputy Bobby called from the barrier to the spectator zone. He had his wetsuit rolled down to his waist, and God help me, I looked. The world froze. Angels sang. Trumpets, uh, blew—it sounded better in my head. He made an impatient gesture, and for a disoriented heartbeat, I started to rise.
“Let me guess,” West said as he got to his feet. “Zipper’s stuck.”
“Keme tried, but he can’t get it.”
West slipped under the barrier and moved behind Deputy Bobby to inspect the wetsuit’s zipper. Meanwhile, Fox asked in a breathy whisper, “Good God, how much time does Deputy Delectable spend in the gym?”
“At least an hour every day,” I said automatically—becau
“Is that so?” Fox asked, and they turned a curious look on me.
The note in their voice made me flush, and I probably would have stammered something that made everything worse, but fortunately, Keme came to my rescue. He was jogging toward us, his dark hair up in a bun, and his face was alight with excitement.
“Keme!” Millie shouted and waved.
That poor, poor boy.
The word poleaxed comes to mind. I saw the instant he caught sight of Millie. And then it seemed like he couldn’t see anything else. His eyes were locked on her (Millie was still waving, obviously), and Keme began to veer off course.
“Uh, Keme,” I tried.
“Keme!” Indira shouted.
Fox stood and bellowed, “Hey!”
None of it helped, though. He couldn’t hear us. And so he jogged straight into a rack of surfboards.
Keme went down.
The surfboards went down.
Lots of people started yelling.
“Oh my God,” Millie said. “Keme, I’m coming!”
“You know what?” Fox said. “He might be embarrassed. Let him get himself together first.”
Millie didn’t look happy about that, but she stayed. Keme got himself upright, seemed to shake off the daze—although I noticed that he was careful not to look in our direction again, which was probably a mixture of caution and embarrassment. He got the rack upright and started returning the surfboards to their places. Other surfers joined him, but the initial shouting had died down, and it looked like everyone was in good enough spirits that the accident turned into something to laugh about, rather than cause for a genuine argument.
“There you go,” West said. “All set.”
Sure enough, Deputy Bobby had his wetsuit zipped up now. In case you’re wondering, it was actually kind of worse, somehow. I mean, it fit him like a glove, and that’s all I’m saying. He gave West a kiss, and West squirmed away, laughing, before he said, “You’re getting me wet!”
“What’s there to get wet?” Fox asked sotto voce. “He’s got about six inches of fabric on him total.”
I shushed Fox.
“Are you ready, Bobby?” Indira asked.
Deputy Bobby wore that huge, goofy grin. “Water’s perfect—do you see those swells coming in? Perfect breaks today.”
“I assume that means it’s all good.”
“The lineup is going to take forever.” But his tone made it clear this was a small objection. Then, in a different voice, he said, “Oh, come on.”
Farther up the beach, a group of guys had paused halfway through putting up another beach tent. Even with the tent only partially erected, it was easy to read the words spray-painted in red on the fabric: THIEVES and TRESPASSERS.
“What’s that about?” I asked.
“A protester,” Millie said.
We all looked at her.
“Keme told me,” she said.
“Her name is Ali Rivas,” Deputy Bobby said, “and she claims every inch of this coast is sacred land for various Native American tribes. She’s been raising a ruckus for weeks. Vandalism, destruction of property, threats. Jen calls in something new almost every day, but nobody can prove this woman, Ali, is doing it.”
“She strikes again,” Fox said, eyeing the graffitied tent that the men were now in the process of taking down.
“Is this really sacred land?” I asked.
Millie shook her head. “Some of the tribes used to fish here, of course, but the only nearby ceremonial sites and burial grounds are on the headland.”
We all looked at her. Again.
“Keme told me,” she repeated, this time with a laugh. “And anyway, the Confederated Tribes are sponsoring the competition—they’ve got a tent down that way.”
“That doesn’t make any difference to her,” Deputy Bobby said. “She said the leaders of the Confederated Tribes were sellouts.”
“Yikes,” Fox said.
Another man, accompanied by deputies, walked over to the vandalized tent. He was average height, heavyset, dressed in a polo and pleated khakis, and his hair and goatee were black as coal. It was hard to tell at a distance, but I thought maybe he was older—something about the way he moved. He said something to the deputies, who in turn said something to the men, who let the tent fall. The deputies spread the tent flat on the sand, clearly preparing to take pictures of the damage.
“Who’s that?” Indira asked.
West dropped into his seat again. “Gerry Webb.”
“How do you know that?” Deputy Bobby asked.
“Because he tried to pick me up last night,” West answered. He adjusted the hardhat and gave a rakish grin. “While you were in the restroom.”
Deputy Bobby looked like he might be thinking a few words you wouldn’t find in most dictionaries.
“He’s a real estate developer,” West continued. “And he must be a good one, because the watch he was wearing cost over a hundred thousand dollars.”
“He’s the one that’s building the planned community on the other side of Klikamuks,” Millie said. “Do you know how much he’s going to charge? A million dollars for a house. And that’s not even one of the houses on the waterfront. And they’re going to have a marina and a bunch of new restaurants and—”
“Wait, a marina?” Fox squinted. “Isn’t the surf camp on the other side of Klikamuks? Gremlins and Gruntlings, or whatever it’s called?”
“Gremlins and Grommets,” Deputy Bobby said drily. “And yes, that’s where it is. I don’t know the details, but Jen said she worked something out with him.”
“Who’s Jen?” I asked.
Before Deputy Bobby could answer, Keme trotted up.
“Oh my God, Keme, are you all right?” Millie scrambled over to inspect him. She stood close to him. She touched him. She was wearing perfume. And God help that poor boy, he was wearing a wetsuit.
I gave Deputy Bobby a telepathic nudge and a meaningful look.
He almost laughed. “He’s fine, Millie. We’ve got to get in the lineup, or we’re going to miss the best sets.” With a slap to Keme’s shoulder, he added, “Come on,” and then he headed down toward the water.
Keme detached himself from Millie as gracefully as a seventeen-year-old boy can.
We settled into our seats, enjoying coffee and hot chocolate and cake (cranberry upside-down) and cookies (pumpkin cheesecake, which yes, can be turned into a cookie). The wind picked up again, stiff with the brine and carrying a hint of surf wax and what I thought might have been recreational, uh, substances. A fair portion of that seemed to be coming from Fox. Once Deputy Bobby and Keme had their boots and hoods on, they collected their boards. Keme’s gear looked piecemeal—probably assembled from castoffs or whatever he’d been able to score cheap. Deputy Bobby’s on the other hand, looked expensive. It made me think of the rotation of expensive sneakers he liked to wear—another layer in the enigma that was Deputy Bobby.
True to Deputy Bobby’s prediction, there were a lot of surfers waiting in the lineup. But it was a beautiful day, and the waves were plentiful, and we watched (and Millie cheered) as Deputy Bobby and Keme slowly worked their way forward.
“I’m kind of sad we’ll miss it,” West said.
I glanced over.
“The new development,” he said. “It sounds like exactly what Hastings Rock needs—a breath of fresh air, new money, new people.”
Because Deputy Bobby and West were moving; that’s what he didn’t have to say. West had told me they were moving. It had been one of the first things he’d said after he and Deputy Bobby had gotten engaged. They were moving to Portland. They were moving away.
“Are you sure you can help load the truck next week?” West’s question broke through my thoughts. “Bobby said you don’t mind, but I know it’s a pain—”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I’ll be happy to help. Do you need help packing?”
“We’re almost done, actually. Thank God I was able to talk Bobby into using his leave—can you believe he wanted to work right up until we left?”
I could, in fact. Because not only was Deputy Bobby very good at his job, but he also loved his job. It was part of who he was. Or maybe just who I thought he was. I had a hard time picturing him away from Hastings Rock. What would he do in Portland? Who would he be?
