Cameron is no expert on campers, but he’s fairly certain this one is a piece of shit.
The engine rattles and a loose belt whines as he chugs up I-5. Elliot’s buddy had warned him it drove a little rough, and had even pointed out the replacement belt, still in its package, in the glove compartment. At least Cameron talked him into knocking the price down to twelve hundred bucks.
It might be a piece of shit, but owning a vehicle outright feels good. Even if Aunt Jeanne’s not-a-loan paid for it.
Now, having spent six of his remaining eight hundred–ish dollars on an overpriced latte, Cameron is tooling up the highway two hours north of Seattle, closing in on his target. The driver’s seat is upholstered in musty, scratchy brown fabric, and it’s making his back itch, somehow, through his shirt. The mattress in the back isn’t much better, in terms of comfort and smell. Last night had passed with very little sleep in the farthest corner of some vaguely industrial parking lot south of Seattle. He’d still been tossing and turning when he heard tires on gravel and bolted up to watch through the camper’s tiny window as cop car pulled in, its silhouette unmistakable in the predawn light. He scrambled into the driver’s seat and hightailed it out of there.
Not a great first night in Washington. But today is a new day.
Twenty miles to Sowell Bay, according to the last road sign. Twenty miles to Simon Brinks. How long will eight hundred dollars last? A while, especially now that he doesn’t have to pay for lodging. Until either he finds old Brinks or his duffel bag catches up with him. Eight hundred bucks is workable.
The camper’s wipers are worthless at keeping the drizzle off the windshield, so he leans forward, squinting at the slick ribbon of highway. Then, brake lights bathe the dashboard red, and he brakes hard as a wall of gridlock materializes ahead. At least the brakes work. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he inches along, eyeing the mossy guardrail and the weedy shoulder. Everything is so green here. And the forest, the enormous evergreen trees crammed so tightly together, looking at them makes Cameron almost uncomfortable, as if he’s claustrophobic on their behalf.
Ten miles to go, then five, then two. Off the highway, the WELCOME TO SOWELL BAY sign is faded and rusty. He drives straight to the address he found for the office of Simon Brinks, which turns out to be a nondescript space in a small commercial building off the highway. Brinks Development, Incorporated, the sign says. Cameron gets a bad feeling when there’s not another single vehicle in the parking lot. Sure enough, the door is locked.
Well, it’s still early in the day. Maybe Brinks and his staff aren’t morning people. Cameron isn’t a morning person, either. Clearly, it’s an inherited trait.
Now what? Maybe check out the aquarium? Maybe someone there knows something about when the Brinks Development offices open.
Streaks of mildew run down its domed metal roof, speckled with scab-like clumps of moss and bird shit. Seagulls circle overhead as he walks across the parking lot, which is also weirdly empty. When he pulls on the door and finds it locked, Cameron understands why.
“Open at noon,” he mutters, reading the sign. Of course. What is it with this place? Feels like it’s half-asleep, or maybe half-dead. He looks out at the deserted boardwalk. If Cameron didn’t know better, he’d think there was a sewage pit nearby because, ugh, the smell. But it’s just seaweed baking on the rocks. Sulfur, like rotten eggs. One after another, tiny waves lap at the break wall.
Noon is an hour away. An annoying length of time. Too late for breakfast, too early for lunch, but he could grab coffee. There was that deli up on the main road.
Twice, he almost stalls the camper on the drive up the hill. He lets out a relieved breath, easing off the clutch when he finally gets to the top.
THE DELI IS attached to a small grocery store, which appears to be deserted. Stepping inside is like a time warp. After a few moments, there’s a rustle from somewhere in the narrow aisles. Cameron half expects some black-and-white TV character to pop out.
Instead, it’s an oldish guy with a reddish beard. A green Shop-Way apron strains around his middle, and his thick arms are loaded with packets of ramen he’d apparently been shelving.
“Mornin’,” he says. “Help you find something?” “Coffee? I thought this was a restaurant?”
“Deli’s up front. Follow me.” He drops the ramen packets in a heap on the floor.
“I can wait,” Cameron says, nodding at the pile. “I’m not really in a hurry.”
Red Beard turns back to him and says, “Nonsense. I’ll get Tanner in here.” Then, without missing a beat, he bellows, “Tanner!”
From somewhere in the maze of cramped, narrow aisles, a sullen teen, also wearing a green Shop-Way apron, materializes. He scuffles along behind them toward the front.
“Here y’are,” says Red Beard, flicking on the lights in the deli. Along with the tinge of bleach, there’s a used-food smell. Like pepper and onion. Hamburger Helper. It reminds him of his shitty old apartment, the one where he lived before moving in with Katie, where you could always tell what your neighbors were having for dinner from the hallway.
Tanner hands him a laminated sheaf.
“That’s the menu, there,” says Red Beard needlessly. “The lad will take your order once you’ve had a chance to look it over.”
Cameron scans the menu. It looks like someone’s dog, or maybe someone’s toddler, chewed off one of the corners. “I’m good with black coffee,” he says, even though his stomach is rumbling.
“Tanner, make him the special,” Red Beard commands, and before Cameron can object, the kid gives a dopey nod and lopes off. Somewhere, in the unseen kitchen, a pan clanks, equipment whirs to life. Red Beard leans over and confides, “Pastrami melt.”
What is it with pastrami? He hopes this one won’t be made of yams. “Okay,” Cameron agrees, hesitant.
“It’ll be on the house. Tanner’s a bit of a greenhorn. Been tryin’ to get him hours in the kitchen, but we don’t get many victims these days.” Red Beard grins, sliding onto the vinyl bench across from him, running a hand over his freckled bulb of a head. “Care for some company?”
Cameron shrugs.
“I always go the extra mile for out-of-towners. A proper welcome.” Red Beard winks.
“How’d you know?”
“I know everyone around here.” Red Beard chuckles. “Where ya from?”
“California.”
Red Beard lets out a low whistle. “California. Don’t tell me you’re one of those deep-pocket real estate wankers.
You know, the flipper types.”
Cameron lets out a hollow laugh at the thought owning real estate. “Yeah, no. Just up here looking for . . . family.”
The guy tilts his bald head. “Aye? Thought maybe you looked familiar.”
Cameron perks up; why didn’t he think of this angle right away? Red Beard is probably in his sixties, so older than his dad would be, but not by more than a decade or so. And he’s the sort of annoying guy who knows anyone and everyone; he said so himself.
“Yeah,” Cameron says. “Looking for my dad, actually.” “What’s his name?”
“Simon Brinks. You know him?”
Red Beard’s eyes widen at the name. “Not personally, no.
Sorry.”
Thumping bass pulses from the kitchen, some song Cameron has heard a million times but couldn’t name. Is this part of being in your thirties? Out of touch with the music kids like? He’d noticed the crowd seemed weirdly old at the last Moth Sausage show. Had they become classic rock?
Well, they weren’t anything anymore.
Red Beard frowns at the sound. “I’ll tell him to turn that nonsense down.” He starts to rise.
Cameron holds up a hand, a wave of empathy for poor Tanner washing over him. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
“You kids and this racket you call music!” Red Beard shakes his head.
“Well, I don’t think it’s so bad, and as the lead guitarist of Moth Sausage, I know music.” He regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth. What an idiotic thing to bring up.
“Moth Sausage? The actual Moth Sausage?”
“You’ve . . . heard of us?” Cameron gapes. Their last single barely had a hundred downloads, and they’d assumed these were all Dell’s regulars, but maybe Red
Beard was one of them. Brad will shit himself when he hears that someone listens to Moth Sausage a thousand miles away. He’ll probably even beg Cameron to get the band back together.
Red Beard nods gravely. “I’m a huge fan.”
“Wow,” says Cameron, truly out of words for once.
“Aww, don’t make that face. Now I feel terrible.” Red Beard’s cheeks flush to match his beard. “I was just yankin’ your chain.”
“Ah,” Cameron says, cheeks flaming.
“So you weren’t joking. What kind of bloody name is Moth Sausage?”
An asinine one.
Tanner appears booth-side. “House special.” With a disinterested sigh, he sets down an oval platter piled high with fries. Somewhere under there, presumably, is a sandwich. It smells unbelievably delicious.
“And?” Red Beard glares up at Tanner. “And . . . enjoy?”
“What about the coffee!”
Cameron holds his hands up. “Hey, it’s okay.”
“It is not okay.” Red Beard’s nostrils flare. “Our customer ordered a black coffee, did he not? Get on it!” Then he turns to Cameron. “Sorry.”
Tanner sulks off toward the kitchen, presumably to prepare a cup of coffee. Cameron hopes the kid doesn’t spit in it.
“Well, coffee will be on the house, too. I’ll leave you to enjoy your lunch.” Red Beard slides out of the booth. “Best of luck tracking down your old man.”
CAMERON SQUINTS IN the grayish light as he leaves the store. How can it be both overcast and blinding white? He fumbles in his pocket for his Ray-Bans, which might be why he doesn’t notice something wrong with the camper until he’s halfway across the Shop-Way parking lot.
It’s leaning to one side.
“No. No, no, no,” Cameron groans, hurrying around the back of the camper to find exactly what he feared: the rear passenger tire completely flat. “Shit!” he shouts, and gives the hubcap a hard kick, which jams his big toe.
Wincing, he sits on the curb. His remaining money won’t last long after paying for a tow truck and a new tire. He checks his phone again to see if JoyJet has called with an update about his luggage. There’s nothing but a text from Elizabeth: How’s it going up there, Camel-tron?
“Horrible. Beyond horrible,” he mumbles the answer to himself. Then, humiliated, he sees Red Beard standing in front of the store, staring across the parking lot with his hand aloft on his forehead like a visor, his reddish beard fluffing in the breeze.
“Looks like you could use a hand, eh?” Red Beard comes strolling across the lot. He stops in front of Cameron and offers a literal hand. “By the way, name’s Ethan.”
“Thanks, man.” Cameron shakes and follows him back toward the store.
