The mom drifted away in pursuit of the yo-yo-wielding boy, but I barely noticed.It wasn’t that the tourists who came to Hastings Rock were exclusively senior citizens.But, on the other hand, they did make up a large share of our visitors.I mean, this was the Oregon Coast—it wasn’t exactly where the next episode ofThe Real Worldwas going to be filmed.(WasThe Real Worldstill even a thing?Did young people sayfilmed?) How was I going to find these women before they escaped with my wallet and whatever else they’d managed to steal?
Okay, I told myself: think.
Hastings Rock wasn’t a big town, and the tourist section was even smaller.Since these women were taking advantage of the crowds of out-of-towners (evidence: the beach bag, the ugly hat, the fact that the shopkeepers were easily distracted by other customers), it made sense that their friend Phyllis would be somewhere in the tourist section too.And that narrowed my search considerably, to a matter of a few blocks along the waterfront and Main Street.
I set out at a brisk walk.In my head, I divided the tourist section of town into a grid, and I began a methodical search.It was slow going, not only because of the tourists (one dad type was so enthused about being in Hastings Rock that he was having his son take a picture of him with a trash can), but because the layout of the tourist section was, frankly, a maze.The town hadn’t originally been laid out with a shopping district in mind, and so as the tourism industry had reshaped the waterfront and Main Street, buildings had been changed, adapted, and, on many occasions, thrown up on every available inch of ground, so that shopping plazas and courtyards branched off the street in every direction.
Ten minutes later, I spotted them: the ugly hat was unmistakable (the fact that it was threaded with tinsel helped catch the eye), and I recognized the lady named Joan (who had stolen my ice cream cone).They were with a third woman who had to be in her sixties and was built like a linebacker, and between the three of them, they were carrying at least a dozen bulging beach bags.It looked like they’d hit the stores pretty hard; I’d heard from locals that shoplifting was a real problem during the tourist season, but these women were taking it to a new level.What I wanted to know, though, was how they were going to get out of town.They couldn’t walk, not carrying their ill-gotten loot (was it only loot if you were a pirate?), so where was their vehicle?
As though in answer to my question, the women turned down a narrow cobblestone pathway between a candlemaker and a place that sold bronze busts of weird old man heads.(If it’s artsy, you can buy it in Hastings Rock.) I picked up the pace—the winding paths off the street could take them all sorts of different places, and I didn’t want to lose them.
I jogged down the cobblestone path, which was empty, and my steps rang out and echoed back from the buildings on either side of me—a shuttered bookstore, a psychic parlor with the windows papered over, a café that must have closed years ago, its faded sign reading PAQUI’S.The air smelled faintly like mildew and brine and, strangely, like glue.
The path opened onto a small asphalt lot with a handful of cars.I had a moment to think that this must have been their plan—to get away in a vehicle they’d hidden off the main street.And then a shoe scuffed the pavement, and something jabbed me in the back.
“Don’t move,” a gruff voice said.
I didn’t move.In the first place, because I was too busy cursing myself out for having stumbled into what had to be the most obvious trap in the history of the world.And in the second, because I was pretty sure this person—the Phyllis, I assumed—was holding a gun to my back.
There was something strange about the gun, though.The shape of it, I mean.It didn’t feel right.And while I didn’t exactly have a lot of experience with guns, I’d recently had someone else try to hold me at gunpoint, and let me tell you: the memory is vivid.
Before I could pinpoint what felt different, a hand grabbed my shoulder and turned me toward a line of Port-a-Potties.Phyllis shoved me into one and slammed the door.Something scraped across the ground outside, and then there was a heavy thunk against the Port-a-Potty’s door.
“Come on,” Phyllis said in that same gruff voice.“We need to go.”
4
It wasn’t that bad, honestly.I mean, I didn’t even think the Port-a-Potty had been used—it smelled like whatever chemicals they put in there, that’s all.Since this was summer on the Oregon Coast, it wasn’t even hot.But, on the other hand, it wasn’t where I wanted to spend the rest of my life.
So, I kicked, hammered, and shouted for help.
The shouting didn’t seem to do much, but the kicking and hammering worked.One moment, I was trying to batter down the door.The next, there was a sound as something slid along the Port-a-Potty’s door and then hit the ground with a clatter.I shoved the door open and emerged into the parking lot.
The women were gone, of course.
I hadn’t heard an engine start, and a quick glance at the cars in the lot told me the women had left on foot.I briefly considered going after them again, but let’s face it: my pride couldn’t take another blow.Like it or not, it was time to get Deputy Bobby.
I sprinted back to the intersection where I’d left him, but he wasn’t there.Deputy Dahlberg had taken his place, directing cars in and out of the lot that had been reserved for the craft fair.
She glanced at me as I approached, and then she gave me a second look.“Everything all right?”
“Do you know where Deputy Bobby went?”
Dahlberg’s expression was a little too knowing for my liking, but she only said, “He’s on break.”
I said a few words you cannotsay at a church craft fair.
With a laugh, Dahlberg pointed toward Two Girls and a Scoop.“He’s over there, getting ice cream.Hold on.”She brushed at my shoulder and held up her hand, which was now covered in glitter.“You really got into the spirit of things, didn’t you?”
I opened my mouth to tell her I didn’t know where that had come from, and then the pieces fell into place.
Phyllis’s hand on my shoulder, shoving me into the Port-a-Potty.
The gun that wasn’t a gun.
The smell of glue and vinyl.
That abominable hat.
