Blue Twilight by Jessica Speart Page A

sight of Terri’s chalk white knuckles gripping the sides of his seat.
    We were next ushered into what could best be described as a redwood tunnel, with a canopy so dense it obliterated the sky. The remains of an ancient forest, the trees soared above us. Some reached up to three hundred and sixty feet in height, with hefty trunks that were twenty feet in diameter. Each redwood base was surrounded by a network of Medusa-like roots spilling over into a lush fern-filled grove. All this shadowy old growth was caressed by a ghostly fog that provided the forest with droplets of moisture. Looking around, I realized this could very well have been the prototype for Jurassic Park.
    I reveled in the fourteen-mile stretch, aware that less than four percent of virgin redwood forest still remains today, and only half of that is protected. The throaty rumble of logging trucks rolling past helped bring the message home.
    What took me by surprise was the whiff of salt breeze that unexpectedly tickled my nose. We reached the end of the Navarro River and turned onto a stretch of ocean road. But I had little time to appreciate its beauty as the Ford was pulled inside a dense pillow of clouds. I drove on instinct alone, aware of the precipitous drop onto the rocky cliffs and pounding surf below. The road was dangerous enough during the daytime. At night it could prove to be deadly.
    A shaft of sun broke through the haze as we continued our approach, its light so bright as to be nearly blinding. It took a moment before my eyes could adjust and I was finally ableto see. What appeared to be a New England village lay stretched along the bluffs, staring out toward the ocean. Perched on a craggy coastline, Mendocino was nestled in the curve of a cove, wrapped on three sides by the Pacific.
    The ramrod-straight spine of a church marked the town’s entrance, its razor sharp spire perforating the sky. Its stark primness was offset by a cluster of Victorian houses, all punctuated with steep gable roofs, bay windows, fanciful filigree, and porches trimmed in gingerbread.
    The town seemed to hold its breath as a set of waves violently crashed and churned against the convoluted shoreline. Or perhaps the stillness was due to the wet fog blanketing every surface from the sidewalk to the water towers to the board-and-batten siding on the buildings. I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover this was where the Ghost and Mrs. Muir now resided. More than anything, Mendocino resembled an old sepia photograph that had sprung to life.
    “Unbelievable, Rach. You certainly know how to pick the most out-of-the-way spots,” Terri murmured.
    “What do you think? It looks pretty interesting, huh?”
    “I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to get back to you on that one. To tell you the truth, this place kind of gives me the creeps. I don’t know whether to explore the town or run for my life.”
    “What say we grab something to eat while you decide,” I suggested.
    “Good idea. I didn’t have any breakfast, and I’m sure you must be coming down from off your Cocoa Puff high.”
    I grinned, accepting the fact that Terri knew me all too well.
    We drove into town and parked on Main Street. Then, following a sign, we climbed a set of rickety wooden steps up to a restaurant that overlooked the bay. The place had the feel of a hippie dive trying hard to appear casually chic. We kicked back, sipped some coffee, and ordered a couple ofomelets. After that, we proceeded to study the local wildlife outside.
    One resident wandered around with a furry raccoon tail hanging from the back of his pants. It gave him the appearance of a brand-new species that was half critter/half human. He strolled past a battered VW bus with tattered lace curtains strung across its scratched-up windows. A girl emerged from within wearing a denim vest and a long flowered skirt.
    Our waitress delivered two how-fast-can-these-clog-your-arteries brie omelets, along with a mound of greasy homefries. We