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Around five o'clock, Kyna turned off the highway at Monterey and followed the line of traffic to a public parking lot at the head of the city piers. They got out to stretch their legs and strolled down to take a look at the fishing fleet. |
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The skies were still dreary, but the effects were softened by the cries of sea gulls, the laughter of children and the hoarse bark of harbor seals. The air was pregnant with rain and the smells of fresh fish and cotton candy. Most of the tourists brave enough to take on the weather had fortified themselves with heavy sweaters or coats. A few of the "old salts" even sported calf-length yellow rain slickers, the kind that crossing guards and sea captains wear. |
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Cyrus dug Kyna's thick cardigan sweater out of the trunk for her, but he was comfortable in the light jacket he had on. The gun was lying in the bottom of the trunk next to the extra box of ammunition. He glanced around the lot. Mixed in with the tourists and artists were several scruffy-looking street people; a few were even pushing rusty shopping carts. None of them resembled the old man from Vancouver. |
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Cyrus muttered, "Aw, to hell with it," and left the gun where it was. Constant suspicion was just too damned exhausting. |
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By mutual consent, conversation on the trip down from San Francisco had been taboo. Kyna had been lost in her thoughts and Cyrus hadn't wanted to intrude. But now, as they strolled past the forest of aluminum masts in the marina, Kyna looped her arm through Cyrus's and snuggled up tight against his body. When they came to the end of the pier, they leaned on the rail and listened to the wind in the sailboats' riggingjust two people on a wooden peninsula surrounded by a sea of trouble. |
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"I'm not scared of you," Kyna said, breaking her self-imposed silence. |
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Cyrus searched her upturned face for any hint of duplicity. Her cheeks had been rouged by the wind but her eyes were as clear and free of guile as the restless waves in the bay. |
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"I hope not," he replied. "I would never hurt you." |
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