by William Cook
“I know Carl Hamisu. He's a good man. He must have his reasons. But he's too careful to let his engine die on him. That's what I don't understand. He's been around this ocean a lot more years than I have.”
On the deck, Regents tried to peer through the wind-swept curtain of rain, made dazzling by the bright glare of the search lights. He could just make out the fishing boat ahead, a dark shape bobbing helplessly in the onslaught. He held tight to the rail as the cutter crashed through the waves toward the crippled vessel. The wind and the waves and the rain shrieked in protest.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Regents shouted. In the glow of the lights, he caught the shadow of a massive wave bearing down on the Johnny B. Goode. The mountain of moving water pounced over the bow of the hapless boat, flipping it broadside like a toy. With an animal roar, it rolled the boat over and swallowed it.
Regents clambered back inside as quick as a cat. “She’s capsized, Sir! Took one amidships and went over!”
“Sweet Mother!” The Captain wiped the sweat from his brow and took the measure of his men. “OK, every man we can spare, get out there now. Get all our lights on her. Find those men! Carlson, you hold us steady.”
The men scrambled out into the storm. Hartford did a quick mental calculation of how long a man could survive in 49-degree water before lethal hypothermia snatched his life. And that didn’t take into account waves that could gobble a man whole. He cursed under his breath. How long before they could no longer call this a “rescue” operation?
Sometimes he hated his job.
The next day, the sun briefly peeked through the cloud cover at the horizon before disappearing again, but the sky remained an eggshell white, nothing like the inky black of the day before. As ferocious as the storm had been, it was gone by morning, leaving only its unquiet sea behind. Ten-foot swells rolled toward the shore in a lazy, regular rhythm. The wind had died to a mere breeze, barely able to keep the scrounging seagulls aloft. Their cries were a welcome greeting after the howling crescendo of yesterday. The beaches were swept clean, with the exception of a few great logs half-buried in the sand.
Alongside the bay, a bearded cameraman and a young female reporter in a hooded red overcoat were setting up shop. A 4:00 A.M. tip to the newsroom in Portland had sent them scrambling to the little seaside town for the story.
“Hurry, Barry. It’s almost time. How do I look?”
“Laurel, you look little red riding hood, only cuter. Now let me concentrate on this equipment.”
The woman touched her earpiece. “Here they come. Are we ready?” She saw the red light on the camera and looked into the lens. “Good morning, Julie. I'm standing here by the bay in Driftwood, in front of two rows of upright pylons, all that's left of the Driftwood boardwalk after it was destroyed by the famous fire of 1967. Now look behind me. Just look what yesterday's storm did.”
The camera panned around behind the reporter. A small group of early morning beachcombers were staring upwards.
Impaled like a giant insect on one of the stanchions of the burned-out boardwalk was the Johnny B. Goode. A pillar had pierced its hull and protruded above the main deck, just aft of the wheelhouse.
“The Coast Guard reports that this commercial crabbing boat, the Johnny B. Goode, capsized last night in heavy seas and was hurled up here into the bay by the storm surge. The rescue boat Thomas Jefferson was unable to reach them in time. The body of the fishing boat captain, Carl Hamisu, was found on the beach this morning by a woman walking her dog. The crewmen, Derek Lea and Rick Perrins, have not been found, but are presumed dead.”
The camera returned to the reporter’s face.
“The tight-knit community of Driftwood is mourning the tragic loss of favorite sons, heads of families who had made their livelihoods here over several generations. They were well-known and well-liked, and two of the men leave behind grieving widows and young children. If you’ll come with me now, we’ll speak with some of the people who are beginning to gather here.”
She turned and walked toward the group near the water’s edge, her cameraman following dutifully behind. As she approached, two men separated themselves from the group and began to walk away. Both were wearing knit caps pulled over their ears against the cold. She found it difficult to determine their ages, since the faces of both looked leathery, etched by long exposure to wind and weather. One had a long black beard beginning to show streaks of gray. The other was clean-shaven. She thought they might be brothers.
“Excuse me,” she called, as she extended the microphone before her. “Please wait. Did you know these men?”
Both looked uncomfortable, unwilling to speak. After a moment of silence, the bearded one said, “Yes, we knew them. Good men. Tragic. Tragic what’s happened. They shouldn’t have gone out in that storm.” He swung his head in both directions, reminding her of an animal in a live trap, looking for an escape. As other people from the small crowd drew near, the two men slipped away.
“We knew them,” a woman hollered, raising her hand to be seen above the others. “Good men. Good families. Terrible loss.”
The newswoman returned to the camera. “I’ve been told that Darby Gallaway, owner of the local Reef Coffee Shop, will be starting a GoFundMe page to benefit the stricken families. Memorial services are being planned for later in the week.
“Now back to you, Julie.”
As he turned off the camera and lowered it, Barry said, “Nice job, hon. Shall we interview some of the others for the evening spot tonight?”
Laurel pulled some gloves from her pocket and put them on. “Good idea. That woman in the crowd seemed pretty eager to talk. Then we’ll walk around the town and take a look. Driftwood’s been out of the news since that club fire last year. What was it? Chaos? Anyway, let’s see if there’s been any changes.” As she turned back to the onlookers, she whispered, “Let’s milk this story for all it’s worth.”
2. Skating on Thin Ice
The TV droned in the background while they finished their simple breakfast. On the screen, the young anchor of the morning show was concluding her piece. “As we said, David Steele, Mayor of Portland, announced his candidacy for President of the United States last night at a fund-raising dinner in the Sentinel Hotel. The veteran of the war in Iraq and the one-time CEO of Northwest Advanced Artificial Neural Networks will run as an Independent. He is one of the earliest to declare his candidacy in a race which promises to attract an army of contenders. Now a look at today’s weather.” She paused, as if listening to something in her earpiece. “Just a moment. Before we turn it over to our meteorologist, Mary Cummings, we bring you this breaking news from correspondent Laurel Bandon.”
Chloe Denhurst stopped the coffee cup halfway to her lips and stared at the TV screen. “Dear God,” she muttered.
Charley Whitehorse, dressed for work in a brand-new policeman's uniform, paused and followed her eyes to the news program.
Chloe's twenty-year-old daughter Kaitlynn burst into the room. “Where's my...” She stopped at the unexpected silence. “What?” She turned to the image of a crab boat impaled on a weather-beaten timber. “Holy crap!”
“I knew Carl,” Whitehorse said, his voice somber. “Can't count the times he'd come in from days out fishing and make a point of bringing me a crab for my supper. Would never take a penny for it. 'Just because,' he would say.”
“Back in the day, I babysat for the Leas' boys when their mom and dad wanted a date night out.” Kaitlynn's eyes went far away. “They must be teenagers by now. Real hellions. I earned my pay with them, all right.”
“Derek's wife Holly was in my Bible study group at church. Sweet lady.”
Charley shook his head. “The blessing and bane of living in a small town. Everybody knows everybody.” He checked his watch. “I'm gonna have to hit the road once I finish this coffee. Honey, we gotta do something for those families.”
“I heard the reporter say that Darby will be doing a GoFundMe page for them. I'll check it out.” Chlo
e turned to her daughter. “What's on your agenda today?”
“I've got two classes at McCall this morning, and I have to meet with my Probation Officer at 3:00.”
“How's that going?”
“Not bad. I think she tried to scare me at first, but we're on the same page now. We get along fine.”
Chloe reached for her and gave her a big hug. “I'm so glad you're home. I hated every day you were in prison.”
“I'm glad to be back, too, Mom. But you do know that I'll be moving out with Tessa soon, right? We've started looking for a place in Depoe Bay.”
“What does Tessa's mom have to say about that?”
“She wasn't too happy at first. Thought I was going to corrupt her daughter. But I had a good long talk with her. I think she's coming around.”
“My little girl's all grown up.”
“Getting there. Make you feel old?”
“You said it.”
“Hate to interrupt, ladies, but I'm outta here. See you tonight.” Charley grabbed his hat and buttoned his overcoat.
“Goodbye, love.” Chloe kissed him on the cheek. “Stay safe. Catch some bad guys.” As Charley closed the front door behind him, she turned back to her daughter. “You be safe, too. Don't forget your books.”
“I won't. What time is supper?”
“I should be home by 5:30, so let's aim for around 6:30.”
“Works for me.” She pecked her mother on the cheek, threw on a navy wool coat, and grabbed her books.
“Got enough fuel in that heap you're driving?”
“Don't talk that way about Olive, Mom. She's sensitive.”
“So, you've named your car?”
“We have a relationship.”
“Of course.” A warm smile suffused Chloe's face. “See you for supper, sweetie.”
With the house suddenly quiet, Chloe poured herself another half-cup of coffee and sat back down. She had forty-five minutes before she needed to be at Coastal Information Technologies. Her eyes misted over as she thought about Holly Lea and her two boys, Heidi Perrins and her three girls. She couldn't imagine what the families must be going through—a worst nightmare. What would I do without Charley?
Then she chided herself. Does grief always become selfish—a passing nod to the unfortunate survivors, and then a sigh of relief that it didn't happen to me?
She took a sip of coffee and looked around the kitchen of the house she and Charley had purchased last summer. A new French-door refrigerator with a freezer drawer underneath stood guard against the wall. A six-burner stove nestled under the white cabinets above the counters. A granite center island invited meal preparation and entertaining friends. Adjoining the kitchen was a living room with the 55-inch flat screen that Charley just had to have. Three bedrooms upstairs gave panoramic views of the ocean four blocks away. Lots of stuff, she thought. Stuff like Holly and Heidi enjoyed until this morning, when it no longer meant anything. Stuff that could never bring their husbands back.
She stood and began to clear the breakfast dishes to the sink for a quick rinse before stowing them in the dishwasher. And here am I with everything I could possibly want. A lovely new house. A beautiful daughter restored to me. A man who truly loves me. A job that's not half-bad. Good friends like Indie. Why am I so blessed? Is it just a roll of the dice?
She knew that things could have turned out so differently. Raven might have succeeded in hurling Kaitlynn from the Yaquina Bay Bridge. Kaitlynn might still be in prison for shooting Ray Madras had the jury not determined it was self-defense. Dr. Sterling Friese or one of Abram Sokolov's henchmen might have killed Charley long before the Club Chaos fire. A hundred and one little turns in the road that brought her here, safe and whole. But for how long?
Is this the day Charley gets shot for pulling over a driver with a blown tail light? Or Kaitlynn gets into a head-on crash on 101 on her way to school in Newport?
“Stop!” she shouted aloud, shaking her head back and forth. She would drive herself crazy if she continued to imagine worst-case scenarios. Charley and Kaitlynn would be fine. She would go to work, have lunch with Indie, come home and make dinner for her family. A normal day.
But she knew the truth of it. All of life is skating on thin ice. Everything can change in a heartbeat. As it had for Holly and Heidi. She remembered the words of an eccentric English professor decades ago and miles away, lecturing on Romeo and Juliet. “Death has meaning only when you love someone,” he had said in his most pretentious style. She had scoffed at his affectation but had never forgotten his pronouncement.
She paused and said a silent prayer for the grieving families. Then she turned her attention to loading the dishwasher. When she had completed the task, she poured in the soap powder and started the machine. Clean dishes would be awaiting her return from work.
She stopped in the bathroom to run a brush through her blonde hair and to freshen her lipstick, then gathered her things and headed out the door. Before she got to work, her car seemed to turn automatically into The Reef Coffee Shop.
“Hey, Darby,” she said as she entered. She was fond of the pirate memorabilia that hung on all the walls—treasure maps, rusty swords, several Jolly Rogers.
Darby Gallaway stood behind the counter, black patch over his left eye, pirate's tricorn hat on his head. “Good morning, Chloe. What can I get for you?”
“How about a large soy cappuccino to go? And tell me about the GoFundMe page.”
He pursed his lips and shook his head from side to side. “Terrible thing. Holly and the boys are in pretty tough shape. I knew Derek was never much of one to save, so she's hurting for cash. I also spoke with Heidi. She has a bit of a nest egg, so she'll get by for a while. The girls are pretty broken up. You know they had been planning that big trip to Disneyland this spring. Anyway, I got permission from the ladies to start a GoFundMe on The Reef's Facebook page. You’ll be able to get to it from there. Should have it up by this afternoon. Looks like Carl didn't have any family around here after his wife's death. His kids are all grown and living down in California.”
He busied himself with the coffee machine. “Oh, I almost forgot. You know Mack? The owner of The Barnacle? He texted me as soon as he saw the news about the GoFundMe and said he'd have a crab-feed at his place Friday night. He'll donate all the proceeds to the families. Spread the word around.” He paused and took a breath. “You were friends with Holly, weren't you?”
“I knew her from my group at church. Didn't do much socially, but she's always been really thoughtful. Always the one to bring treats for everybody else. Kaitlynn used to babysit for her boys years ago. I don't know Heidi very well other than to bump into her in the market.”
“Damn tragedy, if you ask me. Shouldn't have happened. Terrible night to be out crabbing.” The coffee machine hissed as he foamed the soy milk. “You hear the latest from the Coast Guard?”
“I just heard that first report on the early news.”
“Well, they said they got a call from the Johnny B. that its engine had died. Before they could reach it, they saw it turn broadside and get swamped.” He frowned. “I get needing to earn a living, but being out in a storm like that?” He finished the drink and handed it to Chloe, who gave him a five-dollar bill and a single.
“Keep the change, Darby.”
“Thanks, Chloe. Say, how's that man of yours?”
“Charley? He's great. And we love our new house.”
“I thought you would. Great location. And Kaitlynn? She making the adjustment OK?”
“You bet. School's going well. If everything works, she'll go to PCU next fall.”
“Good for her.”
“And she may be looking forward to our wedding more than Charley and I are.”
Darby chuckled. “I think she likes seeing her mother happy.”
“I am. I have so much to be thankful for.”
The man nodded and grew thoughtful. “Yep. Hang on to that, Chloe. Around here the sea has a way of changing things awfu
lly fast.”
Chloe sighed and raised her cup to him. “Here's to my philosopher coffee-maker. Now I gotta get to work before Count Dracula checks my cubicle.”
“Take care, Chloe. Give my best to Charley.”
Whitehorse arrived at the Police Department just as the clock struck 8:00. Esperanza was right behind him.
“Hi, guys,” said Chiara from her desk. “Sure is a sad day in town. It's all anybody is talking about. Three good men.” Her hair today was flaming pink. She had graduated from high school last June, and on the first of July got awarded a full-time job in the office. Her bosses had been very persuasive at town council meetings, convincing the powers that be of the necessity of taking her on-board full-time after she had completed her work-study program for them. She was their girl Friday—answering phones, filing paperwork, researching case reports, divvying up tasks, arranging daily and weekly schedules. Despite her flamboyant appearance, including the sleeves of tattoos that had begun growing along both arms, she was a dedicated worker with a sharp intellect, often helping the policemen in their investigations, especially when a younger person's perspective was needed. She had helped with critical pieces of evidence in the case of Marisa Kennedy last year, and neither policeman would soon forget.
“It's a shame. I'm waiting to hear when the memorial service will be.” Whitehorse hung his coat on the hook by the door and walked toward the coffee pot. “Anything special going on today?”
“Wide open for now, Boss.” Her pink hair bounced as she nodded her head. She paused for a moment, studying both men. “Um, I have an announcement to make.” She took a deep breath as the two policemen focused their attention on her. “Sammy and I have set a date. We're getting married on August twenty-fourth.”
Both men stared at her, slack-jawed.
“Please say something.” Her voice sounded nervous and child-like.
“Congratulations, girl! Come here!” Esperanza motioned with his hand, and she stood up. The big man engulfed her in a bear hug that lifted her off the floor, then he handed her off to his partner, who also hugged her.
