by William Cook
The Pastor stopped his message and opened his arms wide. “Friends, please come forward and surround our grieving families with your love and prayers. Shore them up in their time of need.”
In ones and twos and threes, people left their chairs and went to the front of the church, where Holly and Heidi and the children sat. Those closest to the grieving families put hands on their shoulders, while others farther away extended their arms toward them. A susurration of impromptu prayer filled the air like a sweet cloud of incense.
In the rear of the church, Chloe and Kaitlynn stood up. Chloe tugged at Charley's hand. “C'mon. We have to go and pray for them. Tony and Diana and their two sons are already up there.”
“Kind of outside my comfort zone,” Charley whispered. “I'm not so good at this conversational prayer stuff.”
“You'll do fine. C'mon.”
Charley relented and accompanied her. As they reached the group, he held tight to Chloe's left hand, unsure what to do next. He saw her raise her right arm and whisper words of comfort in the direction of the mourning families. He shifted from one foot to the other, until he remembered a prayer from his childhood and said it aloud in a quiet, throaty voice. A few minutes later, as if on some unspoken cue, the people concluded praying and began to drift back to their chairs. Charley could hear the sobs of the children, huddled with their mothers, who were crying with them. As he walked back to his seat with Chloe, he saw that most of the faces in the church were wet with tears. He found it hard to breathe.
He kissed Chloe on the cheek. “I have to step outside for a moment. Back soon.”
Once outside, he took deep breaths of the chilled air. Light was draining from the sky as the twilight deepened. He pulled up the collar of his coat against the breeze from the sea. What comfort can we give those children who will grow up without a father? he thought. Why is life so cruel? He gave a jolt as he remembered reading The Brothers Karamazov at the age of twenty-three and the impact it had had on him. He could still recite a favorite line, when Ivan describes his rebellion against creation to his brother: “The whole world of knowledge is not worth the tears of that little child...'”
The tears of that little child. He wanted to believe in a God of love, but it didn't come as easy to him as it did to Chloe. He turned and walked back into the church.
The pastor was finishing his remarks, and then he invited members to come forward and share a story about Derek or Rick. Men and women walked up to the lectern, some telling anecdotes that had the congregation laughing, others that impressed those present with the innate goodness and generosity of the men they were honoring. Charley saw Holly and Heidi and the children sitting up straighter, obviously proud of the tribute being given.
When the memorial service concluded, the pastor reminded everyone about the crab feast at The Barnacle, with the donation of all the proceeds to the families. Holly and her children positioned themselves on one side of the vestibule, while Heidi and her brood took the other side. As people filed out, they said kind words to the children and embraced the mothers, in final gestures of respect.
“We'll meet you at The Barnacle,” Charley told Chloe. He and Tony had driven to church together from the station.
Once in the cruiser, Tony said, “My boys aren't much for crab, so Diana is taking them home. I'll hang out with you guys, if that's OK.”
“Sure thing.” He pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the restaurant. Night had fallen, but the sky had cleared, and the temperature was dropping. He was silent for a few minutes. “Don't know what to say after that memorial.”
“You and me both. They did a real nice job, though. You know, I've thought about what Diana and the boys would do if I bought it in the line of duty. Especially after getting shot last year. Kind of gets you thinking.”
“Yeah. I worry about Chloe. That's why it took me so long to ask her to marry me.”
Esperanza nodded his head. “But we go on. Me, with my wife and two kids. You, tying the knot in the fall. We make like it's normal to pack a gun to work, to be looking over your shoulder when you go out on a call, to be wondering if the next car you pull over the guy will jump out blastin'. It's a crazy effin' world we live in.”
“You said it, partner.” Charley pulled into one of the reserved parking places behind the restaurant and saw the Coronado Cab parked back there as well. “Chris Harper's here. Don't think I've laid eyes on him since we busted Friese at Peter Bristol's place last spring. It'll be good to touch base again.”
The Barnacle had been a fixture of Driftwood for as long as most could remember. Established originally in 1967, shortly after the Driftwood Boardwalk Fire, the current owner, known only as “Mack,” had taken to advertising it as “an anchor for the community,” an intentional pun referring to its over-the-top nautical décor. Brass and bronze maritime hardware hung from the ceiling. One wall sported a huge, heavy-duty fish net with glass and cork floats. Another held an assortment of essential nautical knots. Oil paintings of sailing ships fighting stormy seas were prominently displayed, especially the owner's favorite, Shackleton's Endurance, caught in Antarctic ice. Mack's most recent acquisition from a museum shop in New Bedford, Massachusetts, was a collection of three antique whaling harpoons from the era of Herman Melville. He had just finished hanging these above the mirror behind the oak bar.
“Hey, Tony. Charley.” Billy, the bartender, waved at them. “Can I start you with something? Got a new IPA here that's killer with crab.”
Both policemen nodded. As they walked toward the back to find a table, Charley spotted Chris and Peter engaged in an intense discussion with another man standing beside them. Chris looked up and motioned them over. The former Navy Seal turned cab driver still sported what he called his “two-button beard,” describing its length as reaching down to the second button on his shirt. It was turning grayer with each passing month. “First kid that calls me Santa Claus, I’m cutting it off,” he had threatened to his friend Peter. His regular work-outs at the gym were beginning to pay off, shedding some excess pounds, and honing his six-foot-four physique into a mountain of muscle.
“Hey, guys!” He and Peter stood and shook hands with the policemen.
“Good to see you, Chris. You, too, Peter. You guys look none the worse for wear after our little incident last spring.” Charley was keenly aware of how badly things might have gone were it not for Chris's bravery and the quick action of Peter's dog Hammer.
“The kids at Pacific Crest were pretty shook up about Friese and Wasserman. But the school has calmed down a lot.” Peter loved his job as a Psychology professor at the university on Cascadia Head. His grief for his lost wife Helen had subsided enough that he had finally allowed himself to begin dating. His calm demeanor and ever-present smile made him a faculty favorite on campus. “Drug traffic is probably the lowest it's been since I started teaching there. We've finally hired a new dean and we've got a new Biology professor on board.” He smiled. “Of course, Hammer remains a champ.”
Tony nodded. “And what about you, Chris? How's the taxi business treating you?”
“Never better. I think Peter's been the best advertisement I could have on campus. I get a lot of calls from the college kids. But look. Before we go any further, I got an introduction to make. This is my friend, Henry Webber, of Driftwood Marine Salvage. You probably saw him on the news. He's been cleanin' up the Johnny B. mess.”
“Never formally met you guys, but I've seen you around a lot.” Henry shook their hands in greeting. A five-day growth of beard blackened his face, which looked like a bas-relief map of the Coast Range. “Chris and me go back to when he first moved here from California. And I was real good friends with Carl.”
“Pull some chairs over, guys,” Chris suggested.
The policemen put their hats on a nearby table to claim it for dinner and slid their chairs around the table with the other men. Peter grabbed a chair for Henry. Billy came by with their beers and a new round for Chris, Peter, a
nd Henry.
Henry raised his glass. “To my brave friend Carl and his crew. I'm gonna miss 'em. Can hardly believe they're gone.”
“Hear! Hear!” They all joined in the toast and took long drafts.
When Henry lowered his glass, he continued. “We're just about done over at the bay.”
Tony took another drink. “Tell us about it. It looked like it was gonna be a helluva job.”
“Yep, I was sure trying to get Carl's boat off that damn boardwalk pylon was gonna be a pain in the butt. Anyway, I figured I'd empty the fuel tanks first so we didn't have a spill to mess with and make things even worse. So, I go up in my friend Tommy's cherry-picker. Boat feels pretty stable, so I climb inside to see what I'm up against. Decided I'd bring a siphon up when I've scoped it all out. So, I'm walking on that deck like I'm walking on eggs. You know? Not wanting that boat to come loose and take me down with it. Anyway, I get to the tanks and the friggin' things are empty. Like bone-dry. 'Thank you, God,' I say, 'for small miracles. One less thing to worry about.'”
“Must've got punctured. Or maybe a line came loose when the ship capsized. Diesel got washed out at sea.” Charley frowned as he shook his head back and forth, unaccustomed to miracles large or small.
“That's just what I thought. So, I checked out the whole system.” Henry's face beamed with pleasure. “It's intact. No holes. No ruptured lines. Once I take it apart and clean it up, I'll be able to sell the engine and tanks for top dollar—more than recoup the cost of the whole salvage operation.” He took another drink. “We wrapped the cradle under the Johnny B., and the crane slid it off that post as smooth as glass. All in one piece.”
“Congratulations, Henry,” said Chris, as he raised his glass. “Glad to see some good come out of this sad day.”
“'Course, any extra beyond my expenses I'll give to the wives. I wanna do right by them.”
“You're a good man,” said Chris. “I'm sure they'll appreciate it.”
“Well, speak of the devil. Here come the ladies now,” Henry responded, as he turned toward the door.
“Looks like most of the congregation,” said Charley, as he stood up and watched the crowd entering the restaurant. “We'll see you guys later. Have to switch tables and join my wife-to-be.”
“See you, Charley. Tony.” Peter looked fondly at the policemen. “I won't forget all you've done for me.”
As they turned to greet Chloe and Kaitlynn, Tony whispered in Charley's ear. “What's with you? I saw your expression go south when Henry was talking about the empty tanks. You didn't look happy about his windfall.”
“Not now, Tony. First, I gotta talk to Chris privately. Get an opinion from an old Navy man.” He turned to his friend and looked intently into his eyes. His voice was barely a whisper. “It's not a windfall,” he hissed. “Not a small miracle.”
Tony knew better than to push things when the Tracker got onto a scent.
5. The Tracker Picks Up the Scent
On Saturday morning, the cloud cover was thinning to a paper white, and the sky looked like it might grudgingly yield a bit of sunshine before the rain that evening. Whitehorse turned on Furlong, then pulled into the small driveway of the cottage, snuggled into the border of the forest that loomed behind it.
“Shhh,” said Chris Harper when he opened the door. “Walk real slow to the back window with me. There's a herd of elk at the edge of the woods, comin’ out to sample my grass.”
The policeman followed him to the den, his motions cautious as they approached the glass.
“Beautiful, aren't they? There must be a dozen of 'em. That's the most I've seen at one time.”
“You gotta love Oregon,” Whitehorse said.
“We'll let 'em be. Come on back by the wood stove. The air out there is still pretty chilly. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“Sounds good. Black, please.”
Chris brought him a mug of the steaming beverage. “I keep the pot on all day when I'm home.”
“Old Navy habit?”
“Yep. Speakin' of which, you said on the phone you needed the opinion of a Navy man about somethin'.”
Charley wrapped his hands around the mug, relishing its warmth, and took a sip. “How well did you know Carl Hamisu?” He savored the smooth, unsweetened taste on his tongue.
“We were good friends. He even let me come with him on a couple crabbin' trips, just so I could get some salt water in my face.” The big man shook his head at the fond memory.
“What kind of a seaman was he?”
“One of the best. Knew his boat like the back of his hand. And knew the ocean, too. Why?”
Whitehorse had thought about what to say and how to say it on the ride here. “How do you account for the boat’s empty tanks? A master-class seaman who knows every rivet in his boat? Henry said the tanks were completely intact, so the fuel couldn't have leaked out.”
“Well, Carl musta run the engine dry.” He jerked his head and his eyes went round. “Wait a minute. I see what you're drivin' at. Carl was too good a sailor to run outta fuel. Henry was so excited not to have a spill to worry about that he missed the obvious.”
“That's what I thought. Crabbers get their rigs completely ready before they go out. Right? Get all the pots aboard. Get the bait. Make sure the tanks are full. Tune the engine so it’s running OK. I'll bet there's a whole checklist they follow. So why did a seaman like Carl run out of fuel?”
“Sweet Mother! There's no way he would've. He'd know just how long he could run the engine at what speed. How much fuel he needed to get home. He'd be checkin' the gauges. Shit!”
“Let me ask you another question.” Charley raised the mug to his lips and took a sip of the hot brew. “What's a good way to make a diesel engine run for a good long time, but then die suddenly and refuse to start?”
Chris didn't hesitate. “Make the sucker run out of fuel. Even if you had more fuel with you, you probably couldn't get the sonofabitch to start. The engine would be air-locked—you'd have to bleed all the lines. It'd be a real pain in the ass.”
“That's what I thought.”
“So, am I understandin' you right? You think the Johnny B. was…” He was almost afraid to say the word. “…sabotaged?”
“Yep.” The policeman nodded. “It would still take some doing. You'd have to siphon fuel off after the boat was all ready to go. Then you'd have to disconnect the fuel gauge so it wouldn't register. I'm guessing a guy like Carl would catch on quick that the gauge wasn't working, but he probably wouldn't worry about it since he knows his boat so well—knows how far he can go before he has to turn around for home. He'd figure he could fix it after he got back.”
Chris expelled a large breath of air. “Jesus. You're talkin' murder.”
“I am. But swear to me you won't breathe a word of this to anybody until we have an actual case, with suspects and motive. The last thing those poor families need to hear is that we believe their men were murdered when we don't have any proof.”
“You bet, Charley. You have my word.”
“Thanks. For your coffee and your help. And keep your eyes and ears open.”
That night, Charley lay on his back in the bed, eyes wide open, while Chloe traced the outlines of the scars on his bronze face. Her touch was light and loving, a gentle caress.
“What are you doing? I mean pretty soon I'll start purring like a cat.”
“Reminding myself what a brave guy my Kalapuyan fiancé is. You had to fight your way through grammar school and high school when they made fun of your name and your Native American heritage.” She remembered the stories he had told her.
“Just for the record, it didn't feel very brave when I got my nose broken or punched another kid's lights out. I felt kind of stupid when I got hauled into detention or got suspended.” He looked into her eyes. “I think I still had a chip on my shoulder during my first marriage. That's probably what my ex would tell you.”
“You never...” Her voice hesitated.
&nbs
p; “Got physical with her? No. Never. I was just ornery, unhappy. Life started getting better when I quit the heavy drinking and teamed up with Tony. Of course, by then it was too late.”
“For your marriage, but not for you.”
“No, not for me. Thankfully. Somehow, I made peace with myself and my history. I'm a Kalapuyan who grew up in white America.” He snorted. “Sometimes it still does a number on my head.”
“What do you mean?”
“Native American, African American, Hispanic American. We all get names, like we're derivatives or afterthoughts.” He rolled onto his side and leaned up on his elbow. “Who thought up all those nasty words? You know—redskin, nigger, spic. And before that there was wop, mick, polack. The list goes on and on. Ever look up racial or ethnic slurs on the Internet?” He lay back down. “I think we're all just Americans. We live here. We share this sometimes bloody piece of ground, for better or worse. Sure, ‘my kind’ were here first, but on the geologic scale of time, I'm not sure that matters much.”
“Charley, I love you, but I don't know what to say.”
“You don't have to say anything. I'm just mouthing off. I got a lot of stuff bouncing around in this head of mine.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “Which leads me to change the subject. I called Chris this morning and paid him a little visit.”
“Oh? What about?” Her curiosity turned somber when she saw the expression on his face. Her body tensed.
“I need you to promise me that you won't say anything about this to anybody, even Kaitlynn.”
“You're beginning to scare me, honey. What is it?”
“Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill Carl Hamisu, Derek Lea, and Rick Perrins?”
“What?” She sat bolt upright. “That's crazy!”
“I mean it. It looks to me like their boat was sabotaged.”
Chloe fell back to the bed. Charley leaned over and saw tears forming in her eyes.
