A Tale Of Homer

“Mercer,” Cal said. “You planning to read that napkin a bedtime story?”

Owen folded it once. “Just trash.”

He carried it toward the kitchen, but the words followed him. Eagle. Land’s End. Three below. Dawg.

The Salty Dawg was nearly empty now. Two fishermen hunched over a booth, arguing softly about crab prices. Near the door, Rafe Danner stacked chairs with more force than necessary. Rafe was Owen’s age, nineteen, broad-shouldered, quick with a grin, and the only person in the place who seemed to enjoy closing shifts.

Owen slipped the napkin into the pocket of his work shirt.

“Hey,” Rafe said. “You hear the chief is flying over from Anchor Point in the morning?”

“Chief Vance?” Owen asked.

“Who else? He’s bringing that little bush plane of his down to the strip. Says he wants eyes on the Spit before the parade of trucks starts.”

Cal snorted. “Chief Vance wants an excuse to show off.”

“He’ll show off while saving everybody’s lives,” Rafe said. “That’s his brand.”

Owen looked toward the windows. The bald eagle colony on the Spit had settled for the night, dozens of birds roosting in the dark spruce near the road. Tomorrow, engines and people would pass beneath them. The town treated the colony like a landmark, pointing it out to visitors and warning them not to stop beneath the nests.

He pulled the napkin out again.

Rafe noticed. His grin faded.

“What is it?”

“Found it under a glass.”

“Then throw it out.”

“Why?”

Rafe’s eyes moved to the writing. “Because it’s garbage.”

Owen angled the paper away. “You read it pretty fast for garbage.”

The fishermen burst into laughter across the room. Cal called for someone to bring him the cash drawer. Rafe lowered his voice.

“Eagle. Land’s End. Three below. It’s nothing.”

“You know what it means?”

“No.”

“You said that too quickly.”

Rafe turned back to the chairs. “You always make a mystery out of everything.”

Owen followed him between the tables. The floorboards creaked beneath their boots, sticky in places despite the mop. A jukebox played low near the bar, an old song broken by static.

“Three below what?” Owen asked.

“Three below the road, maybe.”

The chair in Rafe’s hands stopped halfway to the wall.

Owen felt the tiredness leave his body.

Rafe set the chair down. “Forget I said that.”

“Why would the road be below anything?”

“Because the Spit road runs over fill. Everybody knows that.”

“Not like that.”

Rafe rubbed at a dark mark on his thumb. Grease, maybe. Or soot. “You should go home, Owen.”

A gust struck the building. The windows rattled in their frames, and the neon anchor blinked out. For three seconds the saloon went dim except for the amber lamps over the bar.

Owen unfolded the napkin on the nearest table.

“Eagle,” he said. “The colony.”

Rafe’s expression tightened.

“Land’s End,” Owen continued. “The resort.”

“Stop.”

“Three below. Below the road?”

Rafe grabbed the napkin.

Owen caught his wrist. “What does it mean?”

Rafe yanked free. “It means somebody’s playing at being clever.”

“About the Spit?”

“About anything.”

The front door opened, bringing in a blade of cold and a man in a yellow rain shell. He shook water from his cap and called for coffee. Cal went to meet him, giving Owen and Rafe a clear view of each other.

Owen’s pulse beat hard in his throat. “Who left this?”

Rafe looked at the napkin, then at the dark window behind Owen. “Maybe somebody who wants you to think it matters.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

Rafe walked away.

Owen stood still until the new customer’s boots thudded across the floor. The paper trembled in his hand. He read the lines again, searching for a pattern. Eagle could mean the birds. It could mean the sign near the colony. Land’s End was obvious. Three below might mean three feet beneath the road, three culverts, three o’clock.

Dawg was not a place. It was the saloon.

Or it was a person.

“Cal,” Owen said.

“Cash drawer.”

“Did you see who sat here?”

Cal counted bills without looking up. “Which here?”

“This table. The napkin.”

“Every drunk in Homer has sat at that table.”

“Tonight.”

Cal slid a stack of ones into the drawer. “Rafe was there earlier.”

Owen looked over.

Rafe was at the back door, pulling on his coat.

“Rafe left it?”

Cal shrugged. “Rafe leaves half the things he touches.”

“Did he write it?”

“Ask him.”

Rafe pushed the door open. Cold air swept through the kitchen, carrying the hard smell of snow and fuel from the alley.

Owen folded the napkin and shoved it inside his boot.

He couldn’t leave it lying around. If it was a prank, Rafe’s answer had been too sharp. If it wasn’t a prank, someone had chosen the Salty Dawg because the note would pass through local hands before morning.

Owen grabbed his jacket.

Cal glanced up. “You’re not clocked out.”

“I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?”

“To ask Rafe a question.”

“That boy has been answering questions since he was six. Never once with the truth.”

Owen ignored him and stepped into the alley.

Snow had begun to fall, thin and dry, ticking against the metal dumpsters. Rafe was halfway across the lot, heading toward the row of employee vehicles. The yellow light above the back door caught his face, then lost it as he moved beyond the glow.

“Rafe!”

He stopped.

Owen crossed the packed snow. His boots slipped near the drain, and he caught himself against the side of his truck. Rafe waited beside an old blue pickup, hands buried in his coat.

“You following me now?” Rafe asked.

“You left a note.”

“I left a bar.”

“The note says Eagle, Land’s End, Three Below, Dawg.”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “You memorized it.”

“I’m looking at it.”

Owen pulled the napkin from his boot and held it between them. Snow landed on the blue ink.

“Tell me what three below means.”

Rafe stared at the paper for a long moment.

“Nothing.”

“You knew it meant below the road.”

“I guessed.”

“You guessed the one thing that makes sense?”

“Nothing about that makes sense.”

“Then why are you scared?”

Rafe’s jaw shifted. “I’m not scared.”

“You told me to forget it.”

“Because you’re going to get yourself hurt.”

The words came too quickly to be a bluff.

Owen stepped closer. “By who?”

Rafe looked past him toward the dark bulk of the hillside. From the parking lot, the Spit was only a long black shape reaching into the bay. Somewhere beyond it, the eagle colony slept among the trees. Somewhere near Land’s End, the road carried the weight of every truck, car, and bus that crossed it.

“Go home,” Rafe said.

“Not until you tell me.”

Rafe’s face hardened. “You think because we work the same lousy closing shift, you know everything about me?”

“No. I think you know something about the road.”

For a moment, neither moved.

Then Rafe reached out and tapped the note with one gloved finger.

“Three below the road,” he said. “That’s where the old drainage pipes run. If somebody wanted to put something under the Spit, that’s where they’d start.”

Owen’s fingers tightened around the paper. “Put what?”

Rafe stepped back. “You heard me.”

“Are you saying someone’s going to damage the road?”

“I’m saying stop asking questions in a parking lot.”

“Who gave you this?”

Rafe turned toward his pickup.

“Rafe.”

He opened the driver’s door.

“Who gave you the note?”

Rafe climbed in and started the engine. The truck coughed, then caught, filling the air with blue exhaust. He leaned across the seat and looked at Owen through the open window.

“Burn it,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because if the wrong person sees it, they’ll know you have it.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s advice.”

Rafe slammed the door and pulled away, tires crunching over the snow. Owen watched the taillights vanish between the buildings.

The note felt heavier than paper.

He went back inside through the kitchen. Cal was locking the cash drawer while the new customer warmed his hands around a coffee mug. The jukebox had gone silent. Only the refrigerator motors and the wind remained.

Cal looked at Owen’s face. “What did he say?”

Owen tucked the note into the torn lining beneath the inside pocket of his jacket. “Nothing useful.”

“Rafe ever say anything useful?”

“Sometimes.”

Cal studied him. “You want me to call Chief Vance?”

Owen pictured the town fire chief landing his bush plane in the morning, walking the Spit with his radio clipped to his coat while tourists gathered near the eagle colony. He pictured the road beneath them, hollow places hidden under the snow.

“Not yet,” Owen said.

Cal’s eyebrows rose. “That means yes.”

“It means I need to know what this is before morning.”

“And if it’s what you think?”

Owen looked toward the black windows. The lights of Land’s End Resort shone faintly at the end of the road, small and steady across the snow.

“Then morning may be too late.”

Cal stopped with one hand on the drawer.

Owen pushed the note deeper into the lining and turned toward the back room. Behind him, the saloon creaked as the wind pressed against its walls. Outside, the Spit disappeared into the storm, carrying its road, its eagles, and whatever waited three feet below.

End of chapter one. 32 more chapters in the full book.