Chapter 1
Postcard
The sun was up, and the beach was packed for the Fourth of July weekend. Umbrellas dotted every open section of sand; speakers blared atop every cooler, groups of boys were throwing frisbees and footballs; girls were unfurling their beach towels to tan; there were volleyball games, sandcastle contests, and, navigating through the chaos, latecomers to the beach were desperately looking for an open patch of sand to set up camp.
Every holiday weekend turned Del Mar Beach into a zoo, and Booker Dunn had the best seat in the house. Sitting atop lifeguard Tower 12, Booker lounged in a plastic chair, his bare feet resting on the metal railing and his Mark IV Canon camera in his lap. A strapping 21-year-old with windswept brown hair, tanned skin, and the thin physic of a power swimmer, Booker fit right in with the rest of the lifeguard crew. Like the others, he wore a white tank top, red swim trunks, and carried a whistle around his neck.
He surveyed the beach through the 35mm telephoto lens of his camera, snapping pictures at his leisure. Photography was a favorite pastime, and days like today always produced a few gems to add to his portfolio. And days like today with a beach packed to an absurd level meant all hands-on deck for the lifeguard crew, so Booker was not alone in the tower.
Russell, an old friend, stood beside him, a pair of high-powered binoculars pressed to his face. Booker snapped a photo of a huge catamaran with an orange sail cutting through the ocean a few hundred yards offshore when, beside him, Russell said, “Hold on, red alert! Take a look!”
“What? Where?” said Booker, jumping to his feet and taking the binoculars.
Russell was pointing down the beach, and Booker scanned the water. Russell said, “Just past that group of pink umbrellas, close to the water line, red top, dark hair …”
Confused, Booker looked at the shoreline where Russell indicated and saw a woman stripping out of her coverup. She was tan, fit, and wearing a red bikini that left little to the imagination. Booker scoffed as the woman shook her hair loose and reached for a bottle of lotion in her bag. He handed the binoculars back to Russell. “Really? Keep your eyes on the water you creep,” he said, dropping back into his plastic chair.
Russell jammed the binoculars to his eyes once more and made a dismissive gesture at him. “Oh, come on. Nothing is going on. Might as well enjoy the view!” Booker shook his head but couldn’t help chuckling as Russell ogled the woman down the beach. Russell panned the binoculars around, looking for another target, saying, “Let’s see. Oh - we’ve got more blue-lighters! Man, they are everywhere these days!”
Booker had already seen his fair share of ‘blue-lighters’ on the beach since that morning. That’s what the lifeguard crew called them. They were mostly ordinary looking people, but they all carried handmade signs with messages like, ‘I’ve seen the light!’ or ‘I want to believe!’ Some even made t-shirts, trying to cash in on the trend while it was still hot. Booker and the lifeguard team had to put a stop to them whenever they saw them trying to hawk their wares along the beach.
It all started a few weeks back when reports of strange blue lights off the coast made it into the news cycle. UFO chasers, rubberneckers, and some regular folk just getting caught up in the rush packed the beach at sunset and well into the night to get a look at the mysterious blue lights for themselves. Booker was unimpressed by the videos making their rounds through social media and was already bored with the trend and hoping it would all die down soon.
From the ladder below came a shouted greeting and Booker turned to see more friendly faces from the lifeguard crew ascending the tower steps. In the front was another old friend, Abby, who balanced a small box of cupcakes with one hand. The centermost cupcake had a lit candle flickering in the gentle sea breeze.
Grinning triumphantly as Booker let out another groan, Abby said, “You knew this was coming!” She stepped aside to let the others pile into the small watchtower and then did a quick ‘one, two, three’ countdown for the group to kick off a quick rendition of ‘Happy Birthday.’ Booker grinned awkwardly as they stood around him, Russell gripping his shoulders and shaking him slightly, and they all cheered when he blew out his candle.
When he stood, Abby pulled him into a tight, one-armed hug, slightly crushing the box of cupcakes between them. “We love you! And we’re going to miss you so much!” she said.
“I’m sure I’ll be around,” he said, grinning as the others clapped him on the back and reached into the box to grab cupcakes.
Russell, mouth bursting with frosting, said, “End of an era! Our boy is off to the big time! Just remember us little people when you become a hot shot lawyer!”
“God knows Russell will wind up in court one day!” said Abby, lightly punching his arm.
With a shrug, Russell said, “Pays to know people in high places!”
Booker laughed along with his friends as they bickered back and forth in the tight space. He felt a sting of bittersweetness deep down as he took a small bite of his cupcake. He would miss them more than they knew; probably more than even he knew himself. Today was Booker’s last day as a Del Mar lifeguard. After the weekend, he would start a new job in the law department for Hummel Labs in San Diego; a job his father had set up for him. Booker was dreading working for Hummel, but he couldn’t see a way out of it without incurring his father’s wrath. Lost in his own thoughts, leaning against the tower railing, Abby approached him again and said, “Here, this was in the office for you!”
She handed him a postcard, pulled him into another quick hug and kissed his cheek. “I have to run. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”
He smiled as she shouldered her way back to the steps and climbed her way back down to the sand. The postcard in his hand showed a little green alien with big eyes and thin, long fingers peeking around a metal vault door. Superimposed over the top of the image in big green letters was the message, “Uncover the truth: Secrets Beyond the Stars!” The card was from Las Vegas.
Flipping it over, he saw it was addressed to him - ‘Booker Dunn’ - but there was no return address. The message read:
To: Booker Dunn
From:
Happy Birthday!
11:32 am
Look northwest toward the swimming/surfing flags.
No one else will see him
Riley Green needs your help
Around him, the other lifeguards were still chatting and enjoying their cupcakes. Booker looked overhead at their clock and saw that it was 11:30 am on the dot. Glancing at the strange postcard message again, he scratched his chin and then looked North, up the beach. A hundred yards away, the blue and yellow flags designating safe swimming and non-surfing areas were flapping in the wind. Here in the watchtower, nothing looked out of the ordinary. People were swimming in the swimming area, and further down the beach, he saw surfers bobbing up and down in their designated stretch of ocean.
Blindly holding a hand out to Russell, Booker said, “Can I borrow those binoculars?”
“Sure! Want another look at our girl?” he said, chuckling as he dropped the binoculars in his hand.
Booker pressed the binoculars to his face and scanned the water. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary in the water near the flags. Glancing up at the clock again, he saw that it was now 11:32 am. Frowning, he looked through the binoculars again, already thinking that the postcard must be some kind of prank for his last day. Perhaps someone would hold up a sign for him out there or do something else stupid.
But then he saw a young boy in the water - he looked to be eight or nine years old, and he was struggling to stay afloat. The ocean was pulling him out to sea, away from the swimmers nearest to him.
Booker felt his blood turn to ice as he saw the receding current snatching the boy away. Seizing their radio from the tower’s railing, Booker called the next tower, which was closer to the boy in the water.
A crackly voice responded immediately. “Is that the birthday boy, Booker Dunn?”
Booker swore under his breath and pressed the call button hard, saying, “Look at your 12 o’ clock - there’s a boy struggling against the current. Do you see him?”
But when he let go of the call button, crackling voices were still going - they must not have heard him. “… a special song for you! Ready, one, two, three! Happy birthday to …”
“Jesus,” said Booker, throwing the radio aside and grabbing one of the red lifeguard floats. He was down the steps in a flash, ignoring the confused calls from Russell and the others in the tower who had no idea what Booker had seen. There was no time to explain.
The sand seemed to grab at his feet as he sprinted down the beach to the waterline. Ignoring the shouts and curses thrown his way as beachgoers were shoved aside or sprayed with flying sand. Close to the water, the sand was hard packed, and Booker could run full sprint when he reached it. He was nearing the flags stuck into the sand now, lungs burning and heart thumping. Scanning the water, he couldn’t see the boy for a moment, but as he waded ankle deep into the surf, he saw a small face and arms flapping against the current an alarming distance from the shore.
He bolted into the waves, only needing to fight the current for a moment. The quickly forming rip current began to pull him out to sea as he swam as hard as he could. The red lifeguard float, its cord now strapped to his wrist, kept him above the surface, but the boy was fighting all on his own. Booker could no longer see him. Eyes stinging from the salty water, he scanned the surface for any sign of him as he swam further out to sea.
The boy had already been out here without help for too long. Was he too late? Booker glanced back to shore, shocked at how far out he was already, but quickly returned to scanning the ocean’s surface as he tread water. The current rocked up and down, and when Booker bobbed up on the crest of a huge wake, he finally saw the boy!
He was ten or fifteen yards away, facedown and just below the surface. Booker kicked and kicked with all his might, using every ounce of his strength to reach the boy. The current was fighting him with every stroke, but Booker just redoubled his effort causing his arms and legs to scream in painful protest.
Chest heaving, eyes struggling to see through the silt and sand of the water, Booker reached out and his fingers touched the boy's sun shirt. He gripped it and pulled hard. The boy’s head broke the surface again, but his eyes were shut, and it didn’t look like he was breathing. Booker had minutes - maybe just moments - left. He slapped the boy’s face repeatedly and shook him. “Wake up, come on kid! You got this!” The boy was just dead weight. Hooking his arm around the boy’s chest, Booker swam perpendicular to the shore escaping the rip current.
Someone must have seen them by now! The lifeguard team had a jet ski ready to deploy at a moment’s notice for instances like this, but where was it? Outside the rip current, the waves were more aggressive now. Booker felt the current sucking him back to shore as a huge wave crested in front of them. If he could just get a little closer to shore, they could ride the current of a wave all the way to the sand.
When Booker realized they were swimming right into the surfer’s area, it was too late. Kicking hard as a huge wave swelled behind them, Booker looked up to see one of the surfers twenty feet away catching the crest of the wave. He was coming right for them.
Waving his free arm over his head, Booker shouted at the man, trying to get his attention. The surfer’s eyes got wide when he caught sight of them in the water. Trying to get out of the way, the surfer jumped to the side, but the board shot straight at Booker’s head as the wave broke.
Booker turned his back, shielding the boy in his arms, and tried to duck below that surface as they were engulfed in roaring white water. In the space of just a split second, Booker felt a sharp, stabbing pain in the back of his head as the surfboard struck him. Then the world turned upside down as the powerful wave flung them into a spiral. Water filled Booker’s nose and mouth as the current washed over them, and the boy was ripped from his arms.
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Booker didn’t know which way was up and which way was down as his arms flapped wildly in every direction, trying to find the boy again. He was powerless against the surging water around him. But then his face was pushed into ragged sand as he tumbled along the seafloor. Lungs screaming for oxygen, he quickly righted himself as the wave’s power finally let him go. He shot upward, and his face broke the surface. He took a huge gulp of air and coughed up water from his lungs as he wheeled around, looking for the boy. He was still chest deep. The surfer who had collided with them was close by, collecting his board. Then he saw the boy floating a few feet away, eyes still closed, looking lifeless.
He dove after him, snatching an arm around his chest just as another wave hit them and pulled them closer to shore. As his face broke the surface again, he finally felt other pairs of arms helping him. Some other lifeguards, along with a few onlookers from the beach had rushed to his aid, and they all pulled him and the boy onto the sand.
Voices were shouting in all directions now, forcing onlookers back and demanding space. Booker was dimly aware of a few lifeguards holding up towels to block the view of onlookers, and another person and dropped to their knees beside Booker and the boy. But Booker was already performing CPR.
As he counted quick compressions on the kid’s chest, he was dimly aware of the terrible silence that had fallen on the beach around them. A few voices chimed in, saying things like “Come on, come on!” or “Pull through kid! You got this!”
Booker’s heart was pounding in his ears, water streaming from his face and hair onto the boy’s face. He blew air into the boy’s lungs, and began his third round of compressions, a sudden rush of fear flooding his veins. Was he already too late?
But then the boy let out a sudden, violent cough, water spewing from his lips. Booker’s hands shot away as if they’d been scalded, and the boy struggled to fill his lungs with air.
A sudden cheer erupted from the beach around them. It was so deafening, Booker couldn’t even hear his own burst of relieved laughter as he gripped the boy’s shoulders. “You’re okay, buddy!” he shouted, as the boy blinked furiously and began to cry. Shielding the kid’s eyes from the sun with his hand, Booker said, “Can you hear me? What’s your name?”
Still crying, and blinking confusedly, the boy said, “R-Riley.”
“You’re going to be okay, Riley,” said Booker. Even as he said it, paramedics from the fire rescue office down the beach were descending around them, shoving Booker aside.
His whole body shaking, Booker staggered away from where Riley was now being loaded on a stretcher and sank down to the sand. Before he could do more than let out a huge breath of relief, hands were grabbing him from all sides, pulling him up to his feet again. He recognized Russell’s voice saying, “Holy shit, man! That was crazy! Did that surfer get you?”
Abby was there too. “He’s bleeding! Booker, you’ve got blood down your neck!”
“Oh, man, you got nailed! Look at this!” said Russell, and Booker felt a sharp pain on the back of his head as Russell touched what must have been a cut. Then he heard a smacking sound as Abby slapped Russell away.
“Don’t touch it, you idiot!” she yelled.
Breathing hard and feeling as though he’d just run a marathon, Booker could only laugh as he draped an arm around each of his friends and let them guide him back up the beach toward Tower 12 and the search and rescue office.
✦✦✦
A few hours later, after downright refusing to go to the hospital, Booker was finishing up an incident report for the office. Once all was said and done, he removed the whistle from around his neck, replaced it with his camera, and was finally free to go home. He shook hands with the department head and left the office with a great sense of relief.
As he emerged into the reception area of the office, a storm of applause met him. All the admins and a large portion of the lifeguards on duty that day had waited for him. Grinning ear to ear, Booker tried to wave away their cheers as several approached him to shake hands and wish him luck.
“We’re going to miss you around here, kid!”
“Go get ‘em!”
“Nice work today!”
Russell emerged from the throng and threw an arm around him. “Hell of a last day!” he said. They walked through the double doors into the fading afternoon light. Russell moved his hand in the air as if highlighting every word, as he said, “‘Booker Dunn! Hero!’ Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“We’ve done this sort of thing loads of times,” said Booker with a dismissive shrug.
“Not like today, buddy,” said Russell. “Little Riley Green was a goner if not for you.”
Russel went on, saying something about how the fire rescue chief had chewed out the lifeguards on duty nearest the boy for not paying close enough attention, but Booker was distracted. When Russell had said the boy’s name, an image of the birthday postcard from that morning floated to the front of his mind.
Hadn’t the post card said that ‘Riley Green’ needed his help? How could someone have known Riley would be in trouble? Who had sent the card to him in the first place? He was shaken out of his reverie when Russell punched his arm. “Huh?” he said.
Russell rolled his eyes. “I said, ‘do you want to grab a beer? Hang out?’”
“Oh! Thanks, but I think I just want to turn in. I’m pretty tired. Maybe tomorrow?”
Russell said he would hold him to it, then, with one last fist bump, headed in the direction of the parking lot. Booker walked in the opposite direction, toward the beach. Booker lived with his father in their new house on Ocean Front. About a year ago, his father had moved them from their small home in the suburbs to the beachfront property in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in all of California. Just one of the many perks from his dad’s new job.
Money was never an issue anymore, and his father had a new car to match the new house, a new country club membership, and, more recently, a new wife. Monica, Booker’s new stepmother, appeared in their lives seemingly out of nowhere. She’d been attracted by the smell of his father’s newfound fortune no doubt. It only took her three months to sink her claws in and secure an engagement. The wedding took place swiftly, and, with his father being away on business for weeks at a time, Booker was forced to put up with her on his own most of the time.
All the houses on Ocean Front were cramped together along the shoreline, leaving just enough room to walk between them. Booker shuffled through the sand toward his back porch. A water spigot below their wood deck had been turned into a makeshift outdoor shower so they could rinse off sand and salt before going inside. Booker tossed his camera and bag onto the deck above him and rinsed off the sweat, sand, and sunscreen from a long day at the beach as quickly as he could. The shower was even colder than the pacific.
Above him, a voice said, “Hey there, Wonderboy. Save any lives today?”
It was their neighbor, Joanna Jones. She was looking down at him over the railing of her own back porch. Her blond hair was tied in a messy bun, and she wore a white long sleeve shirt and cut off jean shorts. Leaning against the railing, she sipped a steaming mug of tea and bounced on her tiptoes in the chilly evening air.
Grinning, Booker shrugged and said, “I had to jump in a few times today. Nothing special though.”
“I saw you on the news,” she said, chuckling. “They said you saved that boy’s life today.”
“Just another day at the office I guess,” he said, trying hard not to check out her long, tanned legs as he grabbed a towel from the plastic bin under the deck. Joanna was in her mid to late twenties, and she’d moved to Ocean Front around the same time that he and his father did. Booker remembered seeing movers carrying her things inside while she tanned on her back porch.
While he didn’t speak with her much, Joanna had struck up a friendship of sorts with Monica from the get-go. Joanna was rich, no doubt, and beautiful too; both important qualities his stepmother looked for in friends. At first, Booker thought Joanna must be a model or TV star. It made sense for someone so young, beautiful, and rich living along the beach in California. But the truth was, he had no idea what she did for a living. She might be a trust fund kid all grown up. Or something else entirely.
As he dried his face, Joanna said, “Your mom said you would be out of town this weekend.”
“Stepmom,” he corrected her. “And yeah, that was the plan. My friend Russell and I were planning to go on a boat trip with a few others after work. Kind of a birthday surprise, last hurrah kind of thing. But he let us all know this morning that the boat’s still in dry dock and we can’t use it. I guess it’s just me for the next couple days until Monica and my dad get back.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Joanna, nodding toward the front of the house. Booker looked down the alleyway between their houses toward the street and saw two people standing beside a silver Porsche. He didn’t recognize the car, or the man, but the woman was most definitely Monica. She was wearing her white silk robe, wrapping it closed with both arms against the chilling evening air.
He could hear them chatting and laughing, but the thrum of the ocean behind him drowned out the words. He felt an icy, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with the icy shower he’d just taken. The man she was with was young, fit, wearing a black polo shirt and slacks. As Booker watched, the man pulled Monica into a tight embrace. She wrapped her arms around his neck as they kissed.
He looked away, feeling a sudden rush as his heart beat furiously in his chest.
“You okay?” said Joanna.
Booker scoffed, “Unbelievable,” and cursed Monica under his breath. The man was now getting into his car, and Monica waved him goodbye before returning to the house. Booker moved hurriedly around the deck and ascended the stairs two at a time. Joanna called out to stop him, but Booker wrenched the sliding glass door open and entered the house.
Monica was entering the kitchen from the garage door, grinning to herself and sifting through the mail in her hands. She was a thin woman, with manicured nails, jet black hair, and pale skin caked in foundation. She was pretty enough - many of Booker’s friends teased him about having a hot step-mom - but he didn’t see it that way. Her constant dieting and obsessive workout routine gave her a boney figure and her eyes a sunken look.
Before he could think of what to say, she looked up and seemed to jolt. “Jesus! Booker? What the hell?” Wrapping the robe more tightly around herself, she said, “Oh my God, you scared me. What are you doing here? Why are you soaking wet?”
“Who the hell was that?”
“What?” Her face was quickly turning brick red.
“The guy you were with! Who is he?” Looking around, Booker saw two empty plates at the breakfast bar and dirty dishes in the sink.
“Oh, him? That’s Allen. You know Allen. He works at the country club. He was just here to help me with - he was just stopping by to-”
Booker rubbed his forehead with one hand as she stammered, and then cut across her, saying, “Does my dad know?”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“Does my dad know about this?” he shouted, gesturing in the direction of where the man had driven off. “What were you thinking? How long has this been going on?”
She finally seemed to be gaining some composure back. Still red in the face, she raised a finger and said, “Don’t you dare raise your voice with me, Booker! What are you even doing here? You’re not supposed to be back until Sunday!”
“Seriously?” said Booker. “Sorry to barge in and ruin your cozy little weekend plans! Russell’s dad couldn’t lend us the boat, so here I am!”
“It’s not what you think, Booker, so watch your tone!” she said, the muscles around her jaw tightening. Gesturing to his wet clothes, she said, “Why are you such a mess? Get off my carpet! It’s brand new!”
“Your carpet?” he said, with a vicious laugh. Monica was now grabbing the dirty dishes and the two empty glasses of wine from the counter and piling them into the sink.
“Yes, my carpet!” she shouted back. “It’s my house too!”
“It’s my father’s house!” he said.
“And I’m his wife! Ergo, my house!”
“You won’t be his wife for long when he hears about this!”
“You didn’t see what you think you saw!” she said, furiously scrubbing one of the plates in the sink.
Leaning against the breakfast bar, Booker said, “Oh really? Then tell me what I saw exactly?”
She rounded on him, hands on her hips, and took a deep breath as if re-setting. “Look, what you saw is none of your business. But I’ll tell you what is - Your father called me today. He knows you still haven’t reached out to Hummel Labs about that job he set up for you. Oh, he is pissed, Booker! He told me to do whatever it takes to make sure your ass is in that lab on Monday! And if not, you’re out of here!”
Booker glared at her but felt a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. It was true, Booker had not signed the work agreement that his father had set up for him at Hummel Labs. He had been putting it off, hoping, rather than believing, that ignoring it might get him out of the job.
Monica plowed on, a dangerous glint in her eye. “After everything he has done for you, I can’t believe how ungrateful you are! He pays for your school, your food, he lets you live under our roof!”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” said Booker, regaining his composure. “You’ve been here for what? Six months? He’s my father! You think he’s going to care about this stupid job at Hummel when he hears what I have to say?”
She laughed a high-pitched cackle full of contempt. “Please. You think he is going to believe you? Booker, I’m his wife. You’re just the failed son who’d be happy as a minimum wage lifeguard taking pictures all day for the rest of his life! He’s embarrassed by you! You know that right? He tells me all the time that you’re such a screw up!”
“Shut up!” said Booker. Her words cut like a knife and his heart was pounding like it had when he had jumped in the ocean after little Riley Green.
Monica grinned triumphantly as she turned off the sink. “Oh, come on. You can’t be that stupid. He told me all about it. How you were an accident that he and your mother didn’t want - how taking care of you set his career back more than ten years - how he wished you’d just grow up!”
“I said shut up!” said Booker, kicking one of the breakfast bar stools aside. He couldn’t look at her anymore. Running a hand through his hair, he took a deep breath and tried to calm the sudden uproar he felt inside.
The silence stretched until Monica retrieved the stack of mail she’d brought in and dropped it on the counter between them. “For you,” she said, coldly.
Booker looked at the small stack of envelopes. The topmost letter was from his school, UCSD. It was a generic, mass-print graduation card with his name stamped sloppily in the center. It offered information on how to apply to graduate programs with the school. He slowly sank into one of the remaining breakfast bar stools and flipped through the other envelopes.
Above him, Monica tied her hair back into a ponytail, a look of smug superiority on her face. “Do what you want, Booker. Tell your father, don’t tell him. Take the job, don’t take the job. Just know that, either way, your father is sick and tired of babysitting you. You’re on your own.”
Booker glared at her, but before he could think of what to say, she turned her back on him and walked away. As she reached the steps on the other side of the kitchen, she said, “Enjoy the place while you can! And my carpet better be clean when I get back, understand?”
“Going somewhere?” Booker called back.
Already halfway up the steps, she leaned against the railing, looking down at him and said, “As a matter of fact, I am.”
Monica disappeared upstairs, leaving him alone at the breakfast bar. Still breathing hard, Booker shook his head and flipped through the letters she’d given him. Beneath the UCSD card were more college letters vying for him to join their master’s programs, and, at the bottom of the stack, a postcard.
Booker was still fuming, but the postcard sent a shudder down his spine. It was from Nevada, just like the one from that morning. It depicted a flying saucer hovering over the desert with a blue tractor beam shining down on the silhouette of a man. Superimposed over the top corner of the image, in huge green letters, were the words, “Get in loser!”
Feeling a rush through his body, he quickly flipped the card over to read the message:
To: Booker Dunn
From:
Watch the sky
Take the box from the office
Leave after Summer
Private terminal on the West side of McCarran
JANET flight 412 arrives at 5:07 pm
Don’t trust the doctor
Don’t trust the Captain
There’s still time to help your father.
P.S. You can trust your neighbor
Booker read and re-read the message several times. What could it mean? Who had sent this to him? Every time his eyes scanned the last line, he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach - ‘There’s still time to help your father’