Footprints

a novel

robert m. rayner

P.O. Box 2188, 100 Water Street, St. John's, NL, A1C 6E6

www.jespersonpublishing.ca

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Rayner, Robert, 1946-

   Footprints : a novel / Robert Rayner.

ISBN 978-1-894377-33-1

I. Title.

PS8585.A974F66 2008     C813'.6      C2008-901653-X

© 2008 Robert Rayner

A
LL
R
IGHTS
R
ESERVED
. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit
www.accesscopyright.ca
or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

We acknowledge the financial support of The Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing activities.

We acknowledge the support of the Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation for our publishing activities.

We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities.

Printed in Canada.

also by robert rayner

Walker's Runners
, 2002

The Ragged Believers
, 2003

Miss Little's Losers
, 2003

Just for Kicks
, 2004

Suspended
, 2004

Out of Sight
, 2006

Falling Star
, 2007

For former students and colleagues at the old

Glovertown Elementary School and Glovertown

Regional High School, Newfoundland.

Thanks to Marlyng Jones for translating the writings of Raul Battista de la Cruz.

She glides from the shelter of the trees, clutching the device carefully in one hand, and is across the road, pressed against the wall of the cottage grounds, before the boys have time to worry about someone seeing her. Keeping low, she peers around the stone gatepost. No sign of Anderson's men. She eases herself up until she can reach the security panel, and presses in the code. She flattens herself back against the wall as the tall wrought-iron gates swing silently open. She has ten seconds before they close of their own accord. She peers around the gatepost again. Still no sign of life. With a glance back to where the boys wait in the woods, she sprints to the barn and slides into the space between it and the high garden wall. As she lowers the device towards the hole under the barn, the timer already set, she reflects: How did a walk on the beach lead to this?

When the long black car with the tinted windows stops at the end of the Old Beach Road, Drumgold ignores it, Isora gives it the finger, and Harper pretends he hasn't seen it. Already he has that cold, sweaty feeling, knowing something bad is going to happen. His friends walk on. He follows, sneaking a glance back at the car. The window slides down a crack. He knows it will be one of Anderson's men watching them as he radios to the cottage: Kids on the beach.

Drumgold drops to his knees to photograph a pattern of ridges left in the sand by the retreating tide, while Isora, beside him, gazes along Back River Beach, which sweeps before them in a long, gentle arc to the jutting rocks of Seal Point. Harper, after another nervous glance at the car, follows her gaze. For as long as he can remember he's loved this sensational length of white sand on Passamaquoddy Bay, the wildness and the solitude of it, bound by the empty woods – empty, that is, until last summer, when a clearing suddenly appeared on the rocky bluff above the beach and the Anderson cottage was built.

Today, skipping school on a spring afternoon, they've wandered the length of the beach, Drumgold photographing seaweed and wind-blown patterns in the sand, and textures of driftwood and rock, and trees stark against the sky at the top of the beach, while Isora has strolled dreamily, humming to herself, sometimes pirouetting in the sand, holding her arms wide, and Harper has followed.

Harper urges, “Let's get a move on, guys,” swivelling his eyes toward the car, from which a man in a dark suit is emerging, speaking into a radio.

“It's only Droopy,” says Isora.

They've met Droopy several times. They call him Droopy because of his long face, with the pouches beneath the eyes and the baggy cheeks and the flabby lips, everything drooping, as if his face is melting. Their last encounter was a week before, when they'd left their camp for an after-dark walk on the beach. Droopy had shone a powerful flashlight on them from the cottage and shouted, “If you kids don't clear off you'll be in serious trouble.” They'd waved, and Isora had blown him a kiss. By the time he and his fellow security guard, the one they call Diamond Head, had come down from the cottage by the winding steps at the far end of the bluff, they were hidden in a
fold of the sand, lying flat as the flashlight swept around and over them. They had to stifle their giggles when Droopy, standing close to them, said, “I'd like to get my hands on those kids.” Diamond Head – they call him that because of his pointed chin, wide cheekbones and narrow forehead – had said nothing.

Drumgold stands slowly and slings his camera over his shoulder. Isora pats her knees to summon George, her neighbour's dachshund, who is running in ecstatic circles around them. Drumgold moves on, Isora beside him, Harper close behind, glancing back again.

Harper knows he'll be the first target if Droopy catches up with them, because of how he looks. He's tall and broad and heavy for a sixteen-year-old, and his size, along with his close-cropped tawny hair with the zigzag pattern at the sides and the jeans flapping open at the knees and the long black coat and the beaten-up old leather hat, seem to be enough to convince adults he's trouble, without his having to do anything threatening.

He takes a couple of quick steps to walk beside Drumgold.

With his slight build and the liquid, dog eyes in his serious face and his shock of hair like meadow grass in winter, Drumgold looks like an emaciated angel. Adults – women, anyway – seem to want to take care of him. And not just take care of him. In the supermarket last week, when they were getting snacks, Harper had overheard a shopper murmur, nudging her companion and nodding toward Drumgold, “Heartbreaker.”

Harper glances behind again. The car is moving slowly back down the Old Beach Road, while Droopy is setting off after them, following the winding trail through the spiky grass that separates the sands from the worn circle of dirt at the end of the road. That was where people coming to the beach used to park. Now the Old Beach Road is a private road, leading to and
through the grounds of the Anderson cottage, which squats, low and sprawling, like a fat, predatory animal overlooking the beach.

When the cottage was built in the spring, Anderson was quoted in the newspaper as saying, “I hope the people of Back River will continue to enjoy the beach,” but when the friends went there, someone always seemed to be watching them from the rocks in front of the house, as if challenging their presence. Then, in the fall, the signs started to appear:
Private. Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted. Keep Out
. Harper waited for some public outcry, but none came. The imposing gate across the Old Beach Road followed, and finally the six-foot wire-mesh fence strung through the woods, so that Back River Beach became a huge private compound. Now everyone seemed to accept the beach was off limits – everyone except Drumgold, Isora, and Harper.

The cold, sweaty feeling grips Harper more fiercely as Diamond Head comes down the steps in front of them and Droopy calls from behind, “You kids better stop right there.”

Isora calls, “George! Here!” but the dog ignores her and continues running in circles.

Diamond Head, standing in their path, his feet apart and his hands twitching at his sides like a gunslinger in a western movie, says, “I'll shoot that mutt if you don't get it under control.”

They've never heard him speak before. His voice is soft and he doesn't seem to move his lips.

Isora says, “Piss off.” She grabs George as he runs past and holds him squirming.

Despite his growing apprehension, Harper grins. You never knew what Isora was going to come out with. He chides himself that there's no reason why a tall, slender, fifteen-year-old girl with almond eyes and long chestnut hair – a girl
like Isora Lee – shouldn't say “piss off,” but still he can't help finding it surprising.

Drumgold shifts direction and walks diagonally along the beach, toward the sea. Isora and Harper turn with him. Diamond Head moves to intercept them. When they're close, he says, “Are you kids having a nice time on Mr. Anderson's beach?”