Sandcastles

  Sandcastles

  By

  April Hill

  ©2013 by Blushing Books® and April Hill

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  Hill, April

  Sandcastles

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62750-2825

  Cover Design by edhgraphics.blogspot.com

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books’ or the author’s advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue:

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  Chapter One

  A few miles beyond the cluster of trendy beach towns at the southern end of the coast highway, the road climbed higher and began to change character as well—back more or less to what it had once been before being “discovered.” As the road wound through dry brown foothills and turned gradually into scrub pine forest, Gwen remembered the way the area had looked when she was growing up. Once upon a time, the road had meandered at a leisurely pace through a string of small, sparsely populated “art colonies,” many of them blessed with ocean views of such grandeur that the drive took your breath away. The artistically inclined had gravitated here for as long as anyone could remember, drawn by the area’s sense of isolation, its natural beauty and the availability of inexpensive housing and studio space. Painters and writers and people seeking a simpler life found the life here unhurried and pleasant. People who worked in the bigger towns and cities at either end of the twisting highway found the commute prohibitive and the lack of schools and shopping unappealing—a comfortable dichotomy that worked well for years.

  And then someone had decided that the southern part of the coast highway needed to be “improved,” its curves straightened and its treacherous bends equipped with bright yellow warning signs and steel safety railings. Finally, driving north at higher speeds was safer, and the time necessary to rush from city to city—ignoring all that distracting scenery—was cut virtually in half.

  What followed was to be expected, of course. The once-scenic drive north was irretrievably blighted by people wealthy enough to buy it, but too self-involved to see that they were also destroying it. The smaller communities began to disappear, gradually absorbed into a seemingly-endless proliferation of high-end boutiques and pretentious pseudo-art galleries housed in strip malls designed to resemble charming New England fishing villages. Since her last visit to the area, though, most of the mock fishing villages, bowing to current fashion, had been newly done-up in soft pastels more suggestive of Miami Beach than Nantucket.

  Gwen remembered a series of documentaries she had recently seen on TV, suggesting what might happen to modern cities if all of mankind were to vanish from the earth in the same nanosecond. The viewer was asked to imagine that the entire population of the world has ceased to exist—beamed up to another galaxy by a technologically-superior race of extra-terrestrials, perhaps, or succumbing to some nameless and instantly fatal plague—a malady that left behind no hint of itself and no unappealing corpses lying about. In this “World After People,” the people have simply disappeared—vaporized presumably. Using scientific calculations and astonishingly realistic computer imagery, great cities around the globe were shown crumbling into dust year after year, eon by eon. Without human beings to care for them and keep them running, and with the ravages of time and nature unchecked, the planet’s man-made structures gradually disintegrate and the world itself reverts to what it had been before man arrived to colonize and pollute it.

  As a struggling journalist Gwen Walden harbored no expectation that she would ever be able to afford to live in one of the wealthy enclaves she’d just driven through, and she would have confessed to taking a degree of guilty pleasure in imagining the little anthills of greed and conspicuous consumption vanishing. In her mind’s eye, she could see the strip malls overrun by shapeless mounds of creeping green kudzu or whatever other rapidly-growing vegetation was indigenous to this region. The sort of people who wore three-hundred-dollar sunglasses and drove cars that cost more than she earned in four or five years would be gone, leaving nothing more than the occasional shattered Champagne flute and misshapen piles of rust that used to be invincible electric-blue Hummers.

  Her bitter little daydream came to an abrupt halt, though, when she realized that while she’d been mentally excoriating the rich and famous, she’d forgotten to watch for the turnoff she needed. It was almost dark now, and the fog that had begun as a light ground mist had grown thicker—so dense that she was having trouble making out the centerline or seeing the metal guardrail meant to prevent careless drivers from hurtling over the edge.

  Gwen had seen only two vehicles coming down the heavily wooded road since she began the drive up the mountain; both of them had been the death-defying lumber trucks. There were no houses at all that she could see—only the occasional blind and unmarked side road—all of them clearly marked “No Trespassing.” Very hospitable neighborhood, she thought, irritably. Retired Mafia bosses probably, or mob stoolies taking advantage of the Federal Witness Protection Plan. Nests of paranoid survivalists, maybe hoarding automatic weapons—growing pot and cooking meth while they prepared for a visit from the DEA.

  As she waited for the fog to clear, Gwen sat quietly in the front seat listening to the rumble of Charlie’s snoring, going over her plan and wishing desperately for a Seven-Eleven. She needed coffee, a couple of chocolate doughnuts and a bathroom—not necessarily in that order. Finally, she opened her purse and took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. If she was going to die out here, squashed like a bug by a truck the size of the Chrysler building, she might just as well go to wherever she was going happy. It was a habit she’d been trying to kick for six months and suddenly she was too tired to care. She opened the window a crack and lit up.

  * * *

  Three months ago, when the idea had first come to her to find Welsh-born author Joshua Denning, this entire misbegotten trip had seemed like a lark to Gwen—a charming madcap adventure, tracking down and wangling an interview and photo layout with the world’s most elusive and mysterious writer. It would be a challenge—the supreme test of her abilities as sleuth, spy, mistress of clever disguise—and brilliant photojournalist, of course.

  Ten years earlier, shortly after he emigrated from Wales to Maine, Denning’s stunning novel—a mammoth 1100-page epic called Jezreel had knocked the socks off the publishing world. Three days after it hit the shelves, it had already grabbed the number-one slot on the New York Times bestseller list. In the following weeks, the book shattered sales records all over the world. Finally, after a whirlwind year of lesser awards, Jezreel walked away with the Pul
itzer Prize for fiction—which the author politely but firmly refused—by registered mail.

  And then Joshua Denning disappeared from sight. In the ensuing years, he’d apparently spoken to no one—certainly not the press. During that time, it was variously reported that he had once turned a pair of vicious dogs on an uninvited visitor to his hideout in coastal Maine and leveled a couple of barrels of birdshot at several others. Many people believed he had returned to Wales, disenchanted with life in the U.S. Other rumors began to circulate that he was dead or insane—that he wore a filthy beard and lived in squalor—a crazed hermit, like a literary version of Howard Hughes. Now and then, someone would claim to have seen him, but all attempts to get a picture of the reclusive genius or a few words from him had failed.

  So if Denning were alive and if the stories about him were true, Gwen knew she risked being torn apart by flesh-maddened dogs or possibly blown to bits. One disagreeable fact kept her going, however. Unless a rich relative popped off and left her a fat inheritance, Gwen needed a highly sellable story like this one—and she needed it fast.

  And then, just a few days ago, after weeks of fruitless research, she had stumbled on something. A clue. Not much of a clue, admittedly, but something suggesting that Joshua Denning could be found along this very road somewhere on a rocky bluff overlooking the Pacific. A small local newspaper called the “Grove City Clarion” had run a story about a retired teacher who was putting up a house on a lonely cliff a few miles from town. Nothing new there, but the man was allegedly building the large wood and stone structure entirely by himself, hiring a local handyman to haul the truckloads of necessary materials from town to the building site. When the handyman—a guy a named either Ed (or Fred) Hingle mentioned the event to a drinking buddy—who happened to be the Clarion’s only reporter—the reporter drove out to get a picture of the man and his house. The “teacher” ordered the guy of the property, tossed a nine-hundred-dollar camera off the cliff—then apologized and paid the frightened reporter three times the camera’s value—in cash.

  A short, long-forgotten human-interest story probably used as a last minute filler—not much to go on. More on a wild hunch than anything else, though, Gwen had maxed out her credit card and flown to California at her own expense. Three days later, after asking every third citizen of Grove City if they knew Ed or Fred she managed to track the handyman down in a town six miles away in a grungy bar frequented by lumberjacks and out-of-work mill-hands. The information she wheedled out of her “Anonymous Source” had not come cheap, costing her two weeks’ salary, a case of better-than-average Bourbon and four cartons of unfiltered Marlboros. (She had intimated to the “source” that in return for his information, he might also expect to enjoy her feminine favors, then skipped town before she was forced to deliver on that unappealing promise. Ed or Fred was missing several teeth, sported an amazing number of obscene tattoos on each bicep and had grammar skills almost as offensive as his body odor. Despite her current worrisome financial situation, Gwen was making an effort to maintain some sort of standards.)

  Gwen smiled to herself as she remembered the conversation. Ed or Fred had never even heard the name Joshua Denning. Denning was apparently going by the name of “John Denton,” a slightly eccentric retired teacher. She’d scooped everyone, and the Denning prize was hers for the taking. Maybe she could pay next month’s car insurance after all.

  “Hey lady, it’s your ass,” the Anonymous Source had cautioned her, as he crammed his loot into the back of a battered pick-up, ogling her breasts at the same time. “But that Denton fella’s a fuckin’ nutcase. You don’t want to mess with the sonofabitch. I seen him throw a UPS delivery guy down a flight of concrete steps that day just for knockin’ on his damn door. I heard he got his ass sued big time but didn’t even show up in court. Just paid what they was asking for, to get rid of ‘em. Them ugly black dogs of his is nothin’ but big sloppy pups—wouldn’t hurt nobody—but they scare the shit out of you just to look at ‘em droolin’ and slobberin’ ever’wheres like they do. The twelve-gauge is real enough, though. He keeps it leanin’ by the front door. He told me he ain’t got a phone and don’t even get mail—just picks it up in town ever’ few months. If I was, you I’d forget it, even if he is some long-lost relative. Who the fuck needs more crazy-ass kin than they already got?”

  * * * * *

  Had anyone asked, Gwen Walden would have described herself—with a small self-conscious laugh—as an aspiring novelist. She had been aspiring to this notoriously unreliable occupation since childhood, and like most other would-be writers, she had accumulated reams of rejected and unpublished poems, stories and at least two full-length novels. With strangers, though, she never referred to herself as a reporter since such an admission might have required naming the publication for which she worked.

  The magazine for which Gwen Walden worked was called “SEEK!”(Both the capital letters and the exclamation point were mandatory.) Gwen and most of her underpaid fellows who toiled in “SEEK’s!” cramped cubicles usually referred to it—when management was out of earshot—as “SEEK AND DESTROY,” or more often “STALK AND KILL.” It was sometimes said in the industry that “SEEK!” gave gutter filth a bad name.

  Whatever her qualms were about working at “SEEK!”, Gwen was enough of a reporter by now to appreciate the career possibilities inherent in securing Joshua Denning’s story. Such an exclusive might well gain her a job offer at a slightly less sleazy publication. In her mind’s eye she could already see a grocery market copy of SEEK!” with Denning’s startled, unretouched photo on the cover—over her byline.

  Okay so not the “New Yorker,” but a living—barely.

  Her plan was simple enough, and based on the few personal details she’d unearthed about Denning, it seemed more likely to get her in the door than the other highly problematic scenarios she had devised and quickly discarded. As a young man, the “pre-recluse era” Denning had apparently shown a weakness for only three things other than his writing—women, the ocean and abandoned dogs. Gwen was—by convenient hormonal accident—a woman—maybe not the most alluring woman in the world, as she would be the first to admit, but not physically grotesque by a long shot, either. She could remember several men who had sought her company with eagerness and even lust (not including the “Anonymous Source,” either). Unwilling to depend exclusively on her own wiles, though, Gwen had decided to find herself some backup.

  She drove to the nearest animal pound, selected the most disreputable, wretched, woebegone canine to be had, handed over thirty-five bucks and walked out with a beast she christened “Charlie.” After she’d bailed him out, she stuffed Charlie into the back seat of her elderly Plymouth, certain he would infest everything he touched with fleas and mange and countless other vile doggy diseases. From a certain angle, and in just the right light, Charlie appeared to have been a Great Dane at one time, or something in that general vicinity. After feeding him sixteen dollars worth of drive-through “Big Macs” Gwen took a few minutes to explain the “plan” to him. When Charlie offered no objections and took the last “Big Mac” daintily between his jaws in lieu of a more binding contract, Gwen gave herself a pat on the back. Poor skinny Charlie had won the most miserable-looking dog award by a wide margin, and if he performed his part well, she intended to see that her partner in crime got a doggie salon makeover, a rhinestone flea collar and a loving home—with anyone dumb enough to take him.

  * * * * *

  Josh Denning finished the page he was working on, shut down the computer for the day and stretched his long arms above his head. The fog had lifted, but it was getting dark already and the rain had begun again. Below the house, he could hear the pounding surf becoming louder—a sure sign that the major storm they’d been predicting on the news all day was on its way. He walked out onto the deck and whistled. A minute later the Ben and Will, the two Rottweilers he’d nicknamed “The Twins” crashed through the brush and raced up the last few steps into the house, shaking sa
nd and water as they came. Denning grabbed for the towels he kept handy and scrubbed the dogs’ silken heads and broad backs to dry them off and closed the sliding door just as the rain began coming down in cold, heavy sheets. It was a good night to be inside. He knelt in front of the great stone fireplace and placed two more logs on the grate.

  A few minutes later with the fire burning well and the room warming up nicely, he heard a noise at the kitchen door—a scratching sound that would normally have meant that Will or Ben had gotten himself locked outside in the rain. Both dogs were dozing peacefully in front of the fire, though, so Denning looked out the small window in the back door, peering out into the slashing rain. He couldn’t see much, but when the scratching sound began again, he opened the door. A small figure was crouching on the back steps—a kid maybe, or a small woman, and huddled against her was an enormous, scrawny dog. Both woman and dog were drenched, shivering in the rain that sluiced down from the eaves. He switched on the porch light and stepped outside. A woman definitely. And she looked half-drowned.

  The woman didn’t speak, but raised her head weakly and looked up at him from beneath a tattered garment that might have once been a coat. She was barefoot and gripping a shabby leather suitcase in one mud-streaked hand. He opened the door wider and took her arm to help her into the kitchen. When the dog cowered and turned to bolt, Denning grasped it firmly by the scruff of the neck and pulled it inside as well. Within seconds the twins skidded into the room growling ominously. Yelping in terror the cringing dog slunk beneath the table.

  After he’d ordered Ben and Will from the room, Denning settled the woman in a chair and looked at her more carefully. Her lips had begun to turn blue and her hair was soaked and dripping, creating a circle of puddles on the kitchen floor.