FORBIDDEN BAY

 I've been working on this book for quite some time now. It is a sequel to my first novel, VOYAGE TO CRUSOE. Below is chapter 1:

CHAPTER 1 

Cliff Demont glanced at his watch as he entered the Seafarer, a restaurant on Santa Barbara’s Cabrillo Boulevard. It was just before five, and the place was filling up, but he managed to get a table for two on the patio. From where he sat, he had a good view of the rush-hour traffic crawling along the boulevard. He watched a silver Camry pull to a stop in front of the restaurant. His wife, Lena, emerged from the passenger side of the car. She paused to speak with the driver, a blonde who had gotten out and come around to the curb. They laughed together, hugged, and waved goodbye, then Lena’s eyes searched among the patrons of the restaurant for her husband. Cliff rose from his seat and waved. She smiled broadly when their eyes met, then hurried into the restaurant.

Petite and athletic, with her dark hair cut in a chic collar-length bob, Lena was forty, but people often said she looked thirty. She smiled again as she made her way to Cliff’s table, carrying a small shopping bag. She gave him a quick kiss and sat, glancing around the crowded patio.

“So, how did it go with Kelly?” Cliff asked. Kelly was the driver of the Camry.

“Perfectly. We went over everything on the list, but we didn’t really need to. She knows the house and is a super gardener. We’re so fortunate to have a friend like her to keep an eye on our home while we’re traveling.” Lena’s big brown eyes glistened with excitement as she spoke. “And look, the flags came.” She drew a small parcel from the shopping bag. “Mexico, Costa Rica, Panama, Ecuador, Peru, and Chile. Plus a French flag for the Marquesas and Tahiti.” She put the parcel back in the bag. “I also got this for you,” she said, handing him a thick paperback.

“An Explorer’s Guide to Chile.” Cliff took the book and read the title aloud. “Thanks, but I thought you would be our guide.”

“Well, I left Chile when I was twelve years old, and have only been back once. So that book will be helpful for both of us.” She put it back in the shopping bag. “I’m famished. Have you ordered?”

After dinner, they walked along Cabrillo Boulevard toward the marina, crossing over to the seaward side of the busy thoroughfare at State Street. Lena put her arm through his as they walked and said, “It’s so exciting to think that we’re finally leaving on our world cruise. Our dream is coming true.”

“We could leave tonight if you want to.”

“Oh no, I want to say goodbye to our friends.” She laughed. “At least the ones who show up on the dock at dawn tomorrow.”

“Yeah, some of them didn’t think we’d ever do it.” Cliff chuckled. “Can’t say I blame them. We’ve been working on this for the last ten years.”

The traffic noise faded as they headed toward the harbor. Ahead, the marina and the pungent smell of the sea loomed in the darkness. Cliff tried to pick out the mast of their boat among the dozens of sailboats under the marina lights across the narrow channel, but it was impossible.

“I never doubted for a moment that this day would come.” Lena said, giving his arm a squeeze. “Our adventure begins tomorrow, and in a few days, we’ll be in beautiful Mexico. I can’t wait!”

They had gone only a few more steps when she stopped and put her hand to her abdomen. “Ooh, I have a pain in my stomach. Maybe that grilled chicken didn’t agree…Oh god!” She doubled over and Cliff had to grab her to keep her from falling.

“What is it? What hurts?” he asked as she collapsed. “Lena, LENA!” He eased her to the ground. “Lena, what’s wrong?” he demanded.

Her breathing shallow and her eyes glazed, Lena didn’t respond. Cliff gave her shoulders a shake. Her head lolled to one side, but she only moaned as she lost consciousness.

“Lena, LENA!” Cliff shouted. He put two fingers on her wrist, feeling for a pulse, but got nothing. He tried her carotid artery and got the same response.

“Must be a heart attack!” he said aloud. He laid her on her back, cleared her throat and began administering CPR. “Help!” he yelled, his eyes searching for someone, anyone.

A passerby approached. “I saw her fall,” he said. “I called 9-1-1, the paramedics will be here soon. Is she dead?”

“NO!” Cliff concentrated on the chest compressions. “Come on, Lena. Stay with me. Lena. LENA!” He pumped and pumped, and then an ambulance drove up.

A paramedic appeared with his medical kit. “What happened? Is she breathing?” He pushed Cliff aside and checked her vital signs.

“I don’t know, she just collapsed!” Cliff said, his own heart pounding in his ears.

The paramedic looked up at his partner. “She’s unconscious, no pulse, probable heart attack. We gotta get her to the hospital right now!”

The ride in the ambulance to Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital took less than ten minutes. The medical staff whisked Lena into the intensive care unit and shunted Cliff off to the waiting room. A dozen people in various states of illness and injury slouched in chairs in the middle of the room while an angry young man argued with a receptionist at the front desk. Cliff paced near the back of the room until a doctor dressed in light green scrubs came through the double doors and beckoned him.

“Mr. Demont,” he said. “I’m Doctor Callahan. Please come with me.”

Cliff followed him into a small office just off the waiting room. It was furnished with a metal desk, a couple of chairs, and a nondescript framed landscape on the wall.

“Please sit down.” The doctor sat behind the desk.

“How is she?” Cliff demanded, still standing. “Is she okay?”

“Please.” Dr. Callahan said, motioning toward the chair.

“Doctor, how is my wife?” Cliff sat on the edge of the chair.

“I’m afraid I have bad news. Mrs. Demont was unconscious when she was admitted, her blood pressure was extremely low and we could not find a pulse. We did everything we could but were unable to revive her. She passed away at seven thirty.” Callahan checked his watch. “About ten minutes ago.”

Cliff’s eyes clouded and he struggled to breathe. “How? Why?”

“Mrs. Demont experienced a ruptured aorta. Instead of her blood going through her circulatory system as it normally would, it leaked into her chest cavity. She essentially bled to death. It is a rare condition that occurs suddenly and is almost always fatal. She may have had an undiagnosed aortic aneurysm that burst, but it’s also possible that the aorta failed for some other reason.”

“How can that be? An hour ago, she was perfectly healthy. We were just walking along the sidewalk at the marina. She was happy, laughing, excited,” Cliff said, recalling the moment she collapsed. “She couldn’t just suddenly die!” His voice rose as he spoke.

Callahan folded his hands on the desk. “Can you tell me what happened? You were at the marina, walking. Did she say anything? Did she give any indication that she was in pain?”

“Yeah, she stopped and grabbed her chest. Then she doubled over and started to fall, like she was losing consciousness. I thought she was having a heart attack, so I started giving her CPR and yelled for someone to call the paramedics.”

“Was she conscious? Did she say anything?”

“No. She passed out. I was trying as hard as I could to revive her.”

“Performing CPR?”

“Yes.”

“And the paramedics took over when they got there?”

“Yeah, they kind of pushed me aside. I don’t know everything they did, but I do know they started an IV and said they had to get her to the hospital right away.” Cliff was having trouble keeping his composure. His mouth was dry and his voice cracked. “They put her in the ambulance and they were saying she had no pulse.”

“You rode in the ambulance with them?” Callahan asked.

“Yeah, they shot her up with something, but it didn’t seem to help.” Cliff gulped and struggled with his emotions. “I was holding her hand, but it was limp. I was afraid I was losing her.”

The doctor sighed. “Well, in the heat of the moment, it’s hard to diagnose a ruptured or dissected aorta. It can appear to be a heart attack or stroke, and people sometimes perform CPR, which exacerbates the condition.”

“Are you saying what I did made it worse for her?”

“I’m saying that nothing you did or didn’t do would have made a difference. It is rare that a patient survives a ruptured aorta.”

Cliff pictured Lena’s aorta bursting, sending blood gushing into her chest cavity. It was obvious that pressing on it would make it bleed more. “The chest compressions only made the bleeding worse, right?”

“They didn’t help. As I said, once the artery tears, or dissects, blood rushes through the opening. The heart doesn’t know the artery is compromised, so it keeps pumping.” He rose and came around the desk, giving Cliff a sympathetic touch on the arm. “I am very sorry, Mr. Demont.”  

Cliff stared at the floor. “I just…I just…I didn’t get to say goodbye, to tell her I love her.” He buried his face in his hands and sobbed. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”

The doctor touched his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “A nurse will be here soon. She’ll take you to Lena’s room and you can say goodbye to her. Is there someone who can come and pick you up? Someone at home who can stay with you?”

“I’ll be alright,” Cliff said, struggling not to sob again.

“Okay, the nurse is here now.” The doctor stepped out of the room as the nurse entered.

“Mr. Demont, my name is Britta, I can take you to Lena’s room now. Do you feel well enough to walk, or would you like a wheelchair?” The nurse was about fifty, plump and kind-faced.

“I’ll walk.”

She escorted him down a long hallway to a room near the far end, her nursing shoes squeaking as she walked. Pausing outside the door, she said, “There is a tray with water and juice for you in the room. If you need anything, just push the button on the wall. Stay as long as you wish. When you’re ready to leave, you can go that way if you want.” She pointed to a door at the end of the hall with an illuminated EXIT sign above it.

“Okay.” He pushed the door open and took a hesitant step inside. Lena lay on a bed in the center of the room, with her head on a pillow and a blanket pulled up to her neck.

Cliff stopped just inside the door. This can’t be real, he thought. She looks asleep, not dead. Someone had combed her hair and placed her hands on her chest under the blanket. She looked peaceful and calm, with perhaps a trace of a smile on her full lips. He felt an urge to grab her by the shoulders and wake her, hoping this was all some sort of horrible dream. He waited, but she remained perfectly still. Slowly, the fact that she was really dead began to sink in. The implications of her death began to weigh on him: The profound loneliness that would soon engulf him. The love they shared that would live only in him, one-sided, unrequited, and futile. The guilt, remorse, and sadness that he was already beginning to feel. No matter how much he loved her, or yearned for her, she was gone…Forever.

Tears welled up in his eyes, rolled down his cheeks and plopped on the blanket that covered her. He reached his hand out and touched a damp spot where a tear had fallen. He noticed the hair on his thick fingers and the veins on the back of his hand. Lifting both hands in front of his face, his mind flashed back to those moments when Lena was lying on the ground at the marina with his big hands frantically pumping on her chest, pumping the blood through the hole in her aorta, stupidly hastening her death. He stared at his hands, overwhelmed by guilt and revulsion, then lurched toward a trash can in the corner of the room and vomited. When he could vomit no more, the heaves turned to sobs, and he collapsed on the floor, crying.

He didn’t know how long he’d been slumped in the corner of the room, but at some point, he had no more tears left to shed. Sometime later, he was still sitting on the floor, staring at nothing when the door opened and nurse Britta came in, a look of concern on her face.

“Are you okay, Mr. Demont? Can you get up?” She bent down and helped him to a chair.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he said, shaking her hand off his arm. “I’m fine.” He looked up at her, thankful that the tears had dried from his cheeks.

The nurse opened a bottle of water and handed it to him.

“Can I be alone here a little longer?” he asked after taking a drink.

“Of course. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Cliff rose from the chair, rubbed his hand over his face, and took another drink of water. “Yeah. I’m better now. I’ll push the button if I need anything, okay?”

She left, closing the door softly behind her.

Realizing the futility of trying to wish Lena back to life, Cliff leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry, so, so, sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to kill you.” He turned and opened the door, stumbled down the hall, and into the night.

*

            The next month passed in a blur. How he got through it, he didn’t know. But the funeral was over, Lena’s ashes had been spread on the sea off Santa Barbara harbor, and the last eulogy had been delivered. He suffered through it all with that horrible image of his hands on her chest, pumping the life out of her, tormenting him until he could barely speak. Now, a week after the funeral, he was alone in the house they had shared for the last twelve years.

            It was late morning and Cliff had not mustered the energy to get out of bed. When he finally sat up, he realized he had slept in his clothes. His tongue tasted like a doormat and his teeth felt scummy in his mouth. He gazed vacantly at a glass and a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand for a moment, then stumbled into the bathroom, avoiding his reflection in the mirror, loathing the sight of himself. Fumbling in the medicine cabinet, he found a bottle of aspirin.

            In the kitchen, sunlight coming through the window hurt his eyes and he slammed the plantation blinds shut, preferring darkness.  Drinking a glass of water revived him while he waited for the aspirin to ease his headache. Today is the day, he thought. Barefoot, he padded into his bedroom closet and unlocked a small gun safe. There, wrapped in a soft cloth, was his pistol. He lifted the Glock 17 and checked the chamber. It was clear. Cliff grabbed an empty magazine and a full box of 9mm hollow points from the safe.

            Back in the kitchen, he sat at the table and opened the box of bullets, then froze at the sound of a car coming up the gravel driveway. Go away, he thought, holding his breath. Go Away. A few seconds later, someone started knocking on the front door and ringing the doorbell.

            “Mr. Demont…Cliff Demont! Are you there, Mr. Demont?” The owner of the voice was unfamiliar to Cliff. He flinched and held his breath when the knocking turned to pounding. He started breathing again when the pounding stopped, hoping to hear a car door slam and the engine start. Instead, he heard footsteps approaching outside and peeked through the kitchen window blinds in time to see a deputy sheriff walk past.

            A cop! What’s a cop doing here? Cliff wondered as the knocking started again on the back door. He shoved the gun and ammo into a drawer and went to the door. “Coming!” He opened it and was face to face with the husky young deputy.

            “Mr. Demont. How are you doing this morning?” The officer’s suspicious eyes quickly took in Cliff’s rumpled clothes, bare feet, and haggard face.

            “I’m fine, officer. Is something wrong?” Cliff straightened his shirt and blinked in the bright sunshine.

            “We got a call from a Mr. Ray Phelps. Do you know him?”

            “Yes. He’s a friend. Is he okay?”

            “He asked us to come by and do a welfare check on you. Said he’s been trying to reach you for a week. Something about a death in the family.”

            “Oh…Uh, yes, I’m fine. He didn’t have to do that.” Cliff ran his fingers through his unkempt hair.

            “You don’t look so good, Mr. Demont. Are you sure you’re okay?”

            “Yeah, I’m fine. Would you like to come inside and see for yourself?” Cliff pulled the door open wide. “Come on in and look around. Everything is fine here.” He stole a glance at the drawer with the gun, hoping it was closed all the way.

            “Sure, lead the way.”

            Cliff led the officer into the kitchen, glad there were no dirty dishes in the sink. He led him through to the living room. “Bathroom is down the hall, den is through there,” he pointed toward to his left.

            “Nice place.” The officer’s eyes scanned the room. “Anybody else here?”

            “No, just me. My bedroom is there,” Cliff said, pointing.

            The deputy looked through the doorway at the unmade bed and the bottle on the nightstand.

            “I was sleeping when you knocked.”

            “Okay, Mr. Demont. Thanks for showing me around.” The deputy took out a notepad. “I have to fill out a form. You know, routine stuff. Spell your name for me, please.”

            “D-E-M-O-N-T.”

            “Age?”

            “Fifty”

            “Married?”

            Cliff’s mind stumbled and his throat tightened. “Uh…my wife passed away,” he stammered.

            “Oh. Right. Sorry for your loss.” The officer looked up from his pad. “Occupation?”

            “Architect.” Cliff paused, gathering himself. “Technically, I’m retired. Sold my business to my partner three months ago.”

            “I see.” The officer finished writing and closed his pad. “Okay, Mr. Demont. Sorry to bother you. We never know what we’re going to find when we get sent out for a welfare check, but it looks like you’re doing okay.”

            Cliff showed him to the front door. “Yeah, I’m doing fine. Thanks for stopping by.”

            Outside the door, the officer turned around. “Call your friends and family. Let them know you’re alright.”

            “Sure thing, officer. I’ll do that right away.” Cliff gave him a brief wave and closed the door. His hands were shaking as he turned the lock, and sweat had broken out on his temples. He peered through the window until the patrol car disappeared down the driveway, then made his way back to the kitchen and took the gun from the drawer. His palms were sweaty and it felt slippery in his hand. He carefully laid it on the table, then retrieved the open box of bullets and the magazine. The box slipped from his trembling fingers and sent bullets clattering in all directions when it hit the floor.

            Cliff dropped to his knees, feverishly trying to gather them up, shoving them back into the box as he went. It seemed to take forever, but he collected them all, except one that rolled under the stove. He strained his fingers trying to get to it, but it remained just out of reach. Wait a minute, he thought. So what if there’s a bullet under the stove? All I need is one. He rose and sat at the table, taking a deep breath to calm himself. After a minute, the trembling eased a bit. He took a bullet from the box and pressed it into the magazine. What if it misfires? He pressed a second round into the magazine. One more for good measure. He picked up a third bullet and paused. Last in the clip, first in the chamber. This is the one that will do the job. He carefully inserted it, then slid the magazine into the pistol. He hefted the loaded gun in his hand, sighted down the barrel, then headed into his office, a few steps down the hall from the kitchen.

            One wall of the office was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the rest of the wall space was decorated with photos and renderings of homes he had designed, plus a few photos of Pelagic, his forty-five-foot sailboat, and several photos of Lena. His desk sat near a large picture window that faced a babbling creek on the north side of the property. The desk was clear, except for a manila envelope containing his will, and a three-ring binder that held his living trust. Though he was checking out, he wanted his departure to be orderly. He had considered leaving a note but decided against it. What’s the point? he asked himself. I could write an apology for killing her, but what good would that do? I guess I could write something like “Sorry for the mess.” But would that be of any value to anyone? Of course not. He looked around the room, his eyes coming to rest on a framed photo of himself and Lena sitting together in the cockpit of their sailboat. She was leaning into him, a hand on his thigh while his arm was casually draped around her shoulders. Both were smiling at the camera. It had been taken the day the boat was launched. It was one of the happiest days of his life. That’s the memory I want to take with me. He took the photo out of the frame, picked up the gun, and went out the back door of the house.

            Midday sunlight filtered through the tall oaks and cottonwoods on the two-acre property, and wildflowers were starting to bloom on the banks of the creek. The place had been part of the vast Hilliard Ranch until Cliff bought it from Alice Hilliard. Soon after the purchase, he and Lena rebuilt the 1940’s vintage house in a style reminiscent of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Cedar Rock house. Behind the house stood a horse barn that Cliff and Lena used as a garage and workshop, but it retained the musty atmosphere of the farm animals it once housed.

            Cliff had already decided that was where he would do it. Much easier to clean up after I’m gone, he told himself. He was, if anything, a practical man. He paused outside the barn and turned slowly around, breathing deeply, taking in the sights and sounds of nature for the last time. His senses seemed to be supercharged, making the fresh new leaves on the trees shine in luminous shades of green. The budding flowers were brighter than he’d ever seen them, and the warm air was deliciously freighted with the aromas of spring. His trembling hands steadied and the sweat on his brow disappeared. He was at peace.

           

 

End of Chapter 1.