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She decided that she was still not formally back on patrol duty until she and Plummer had met with Wallace. She dressed for running with the usual accouterments: panties, sports bra, socks, yellow sweatpants and hooded sweatshirt, watch, ID, .32 pistol, and phone. She exited the back door, locked it, and placed the key under a pot, then walked around to the front of the house. An eerie feeling made her ill at ease, and she felt a shiver up her backbone. She wondered why it was so much darker than she’d expected from the dense fog and the early hour.
Maybe cloud layers on top of the fog are cutting off the light, she thought, not remembering the weather forecast. Is it supposed to rain later today?
She contemplated going back inside to check radar images on the Internet weather channel. It wasn’t that she couldn’t run in the rain; she simply preferred not to.
The hell with it, she thought. I’ll chance it.
She started toward the beach, jogging immediately, instead of walking. The sound of her feet on pavement changed as she reached the wooden walkway over the sand. When the walkway ended, she slogged through the sand. At the top of the dunes, she couldn’t see the waves but could hear the surf. She followed the sound until the breaking waves came into view.
No one else was out this morning. At least, no one she could see. Who knew how many people were only yards away, hidden in the fog? The effect was that she felt as if she was alone on the beach, just the way she liked it.
By the end of the first mile, the rhythm allowed her mind to wander. Her chill faded as she sweated. The only thing that kept her from zoning out was occasional mild surprise when water from spent waves intruded in her field of vision. Each time, she darted upslope to outrun the water and usually succeeded. Other times, the water slapped at her shoes. She laughed at the game of staying just out of reach of the waves before they died.
At two miles, the beach narrowed to barely ten yards wide at high tide. By three miles, the beach widened again to more than a flat hundred yards. At that point, she ran without seeing either dunes to the east or breaking waves to the west.
She reached the mouth of the Nestucca River and stopped to take a breath. On days like this, the fog felt protective. She watched the river waters meet the waves for several minutes, then turned to walk back. If anything, the fog had thickened. A blanket hiding the world. Her mind wandered into what lay just beyond her vision: other peoples, other worlds, other realities?
She glanced at her watch and decided to start running again. She needed to get ready for work, first to meet with Wallace, and then figure out where to go with Balfour. She picked up her pace into a casual jog, just enough to stay warm.
Halfway back, she considered walking the rest of the way. The fog still hung in a dense layer over the beach, but the light overhead was brightening by the minute.
Until then, there had been no sign of another person. Now, she thought she saw a figure. There, then gone, like a ghost fading in and out of the fog. There again. Jogging toward her. A man in sweats and a dark hoodie.
Simpson, she thought and smiled. He either hadn’t been home when she’d called or was away for one of his trials. He wasn’t a bad sort—though not cute, by any means.
Not that I am, either. I wonder if he dances? she thought, amused.
They were thirty yards apart, both jogging slowly. She waved with her right arm. He waved back.
I wonder if he might like to see a high school girls basketball game? she thought. Dinner? Maybe I’ll ask him for a date. What’s the harm? It’s not like I’m getting other offers.
Twenty yards. Simpson altered his course to come directly to her. He plodded more than she expected.
I thought he said he was going to get into shape? If he’s only a mile or two into a run, he’s in worse shape than I thought. Of course, there’s that leg injury I’m curious about. Maybe it hasn’t healed all the way. If not, should he be jogging on it?
Ten yards. His hood string was pulled tight to keep out the dampness and wind. He had his hands in the sweatshirt’s front pouch.
There isn’t that much wind and cold, she thought, wondering about the drawn string and his hands tucked away. It made his gait awkward because his arms couldn’t swing free.
At five yards, a red flag went up, and Greta’s eyes narrowed. Almost running, he came straight at her. She had slowed nearly to a standstill by the time he reached her. His hands withdrew from the pouch.
She had a split second to see the knife blade before he swung, an underhand sweep to her midsection. In one reflex motion, her left arm shot out to deflect the thrust. She pulled aside the hood, exposing his face.
Balfour!
She felt a burning sensation in her forearm. Her brain observed as if everything was in slow motion. The knife had caught the sleeve of her sweatshirt and left a long gash.
Another hand grabbed her throat, as their bodies came together. She clasped both arms around him and twisted, causing them to fall to the sand. He tried to draw back the hand with the knife. She grabbed his wrist, so he couldn’t thrust. They were nearly matched in height and weight, but he was heavier in the arms and shoulders and she in the legs and hips.
They stayed clamped together, rolling on the sand. A spent wave washed over them. Greta tasted seawater, as she gasped for air. He cursed and tried to hit her face with his forehead. The cloth of their hooded sweatshirts cushioned the impact.
She could smell his breath, coffee and alcohol. For seconds, they couldn’t move, as if frozen together. They each strained every muscle to gain control. He alternately grunted and cursed, while she gasped, over the sound of waves breaking thirty yards away.
Suddenly, he quit pulling at her and instead twisted and pushed. They both jumped to their feet. He thrust again, and she leaped backward, catching her foot on a small piece of driftwood. She fell on her back. He rushed at her, but she reared, kicking out and slamming him on the chest. When he staggered, she rolled to her feet.
She lost the urge and the chance to run when he rushed her again. He raised the knife, and she charged. She blocked the knife with her forearm and struck his throat with her other hand. The blow glanced off his chin. He reeled and stepped back, swinging wildly with his open arm and belting her across the cheek.
He attacked again, sweeping with the knife. This time, she dodged as the blade passed in front of her. Then she moved forward, and they grappled once more. Greta tried to hold onto his knife arm, as they both went to their knees.
