by John Saul
“There’s always wreckage,” Jeff said. “It’ll turn up somewhere.”
“If I were you I’d just go away and forget all about it,” Riley said. “Ain’t nothing you can do about it, son. Clark’s Harbor ain’t like other places. Things work different here.”
“That’s just what the police chief said last night,” Jeff said angrily. “What do you mean, things work different here?”
“Just that. It’s the sea, and the beach. The Indians knew all about it, and they thought this was a holy place. I suppose we do too. Strangers have to be careful here. If you don’t know what you’re doing, bad things happen. Well, I guess you know about that, don’t you?”
“All I know,” Jeff said doggedly, “is that my boat’s wrecked and my brother’s missing.”
“He’s dead, son. If he was on that boat he’s dead.” There was no malice in Riley’s voice; it was simply a statement of fact.
“If his body turns up then he’s dead,” Jeff replied. “As long as there’s no body he isn’t dead.”
“Suit yourself,” Riley said. “But if I were you I’d just head on back to wherever you came from and start over again. And stay away from Clark’s Harbor.”
He reached out and patted Jeff on the shoulder, but Jeff drew angrily away.
“I’m going to find out what happened,” he said.
“Maybe you will, son,” Riley said placidly. “But I wouldn’t count on that. Best thing to do is learn to live with it, like all the rest of us.”
“I can’t,” Jeff said almost inaudibly. “I have to know what happened to my brother.”
“Sometimes it’s better not to know,” Riley replied. “But I guess you can’t understand that, can you?”
“No, I can’t.”
“You will, son. Someday, maybe not very far down the road, you’ll understand.”
The old man patted him on the shoulder once more and started back toward shore. Then he turned, and Jeff thought he was going to say something else, but he seemed to change his mind. Wordlessly, he continued on his way.
Jeff stayed on the wharf awhile longer, then began walking south along the narrow strip of beach that bordered the harbor. Somewhere, parts of Osprey must have been washed ashore. If he was lucky, one of those parts might offer some clue.
The storm of the night before had left a layer of silt on the beach, washed down from the forest above. Wet and thick, it clung to Jeff’s boots as he trod slowly out to the end of the southern arm of the harbor. Nowhere did he find even a trace of wreckage. He hadn’t really expected to. If there was going to be anything it would probably be north, taken out by the ebbing tide, then carried up the coast on the current. But from the end of the point he would have a good view of the rocks. Perhaps something would be visible from there that couldn’t be seen from the wharf.
There was nothing, only the black and glistening crags of granite, clearly visible and unthreatening in the calm sea. Nowhere was there a sign of the damage they had wreaked the night before, nowhere a scrap of the boat that had broken up on them.
Jeff lingered on the point for a while, almost as if his proximity to the scene of the disaster would somehow help him to determine what had happened. But the reef merely mocked him, taunting him with its look of innocence.
After thirty minutes he turned away and started back along the beach.
He didn’t go out to the end of the sand spit at the north end of the harbor. Instead he followed the worn path that cut across it to the rock-strewn cove beyond. Jeff explored the small beach carefully, inspecting pieces of driftwood that appeared to have been brought to shore the night before, his eyes carefully searching for any familiar object, any broken piece of flotsam that might be part of the vanished trawler. Again there was nothing.
Finally he rounded the point and stood at the southernmost tip of Sod Beach. For the first time his eyes stopped searching the shore at his feet and took in the beauty of the spot. It seemed incongruous to him that something as magnificent as this could be here, in the middle of such deadly surroundings. The beach lay bathed in sunlight, and the surf, free to wash the shore here, had cleaned away the silt that covered the harbor sands. Only a haphazard scattering of driftwood gave evidence of the storm that had battered the coast the night before, and even that, strewn evenly over the beach, only enhanced the beauty and peace of the place.
Jeff began walking the beach, no longer really looking for wreckage from Osprey. The splendor of the white sands had overcome him, and for the moment he forgot about the previous night and let its serenity wash over him. He picked up a small stone and threw it expertly at one of the logs that lay along the tide line, then laughed out loud as the tiny brown shape of a baby otter sprang out from behind it, peered vacantly at him for a moment, and began scurrying toward the woods.
He began running, and the running felt good, felt free. He could feel the tension he had been under releasing itself as he ran and pushed himself harder. When he felt his breath grow short and his heart begin to pound, he slowed to a trot, then gave it up entirely and sat panting on a log, facing the surf.
He had been staring at the object floating in the water for several seconds before he even realized he was watching it. It was about thirty yards out and nearly submerged; all that showed above the surface was a grayish mass, gleaming wetly in the sunlight. At first Jeff thought it was a piece of driftwood, but as the surf carried it slowly shoreward he realized it was something else. It looked like canvas. Jeff stood and advanced toward the water, straining for a better view of it, sure that it was from Osprey.
The object washed back and forth, but finally a large breaker rolled in, caught it up, and threw it forward. Jeff dashed into the surf, his outstretched hands reaching to grasp it.
He had a firm grip on it before he realized it was Max.
The body, limp and grayish, was suspended under the sodden life preserver. Without thinking, Jeff grasped his brother under the arms and pulled him up onto the beach, far beyond the reach of the surf, and lay him gently on his back.
He wrestled with the straps of the life jacket, tugging at swollen strips of material, forcing them loose. Then he cast the preserver aside and pressed violently on Max’s chest. A stream of water gushed from between the lips of the corpse, and there was a faint gurgling sound as the water was replaced by air when Jeff released the pressure.
Feverishly, he worked over his brother’s body. He knew Max was dead, yet his mind refused to accept the fact. Over and over he applied pressure to the torso, but after the first efforts no more water appeared. Max lay limp and unresponding on the sand.
Jeff gave it up finally and crouched on his haunches next to his brother, staring down into the open, unseeing eyes. When he could stand it no longer he gently closed the eyelids. For the rest of his life he would live with the memory of Max’s eyes, staring up at him from the sand, almost reproachful.
Jeff began to cry, his sobs shaking him, his tears flowing freely. And then, a few minutes later, it was over.
Jeff Horton picked up his brother’s body, cradling it in his arms, and began to walk back down Sod Beach, back toward Clark’s Harbor.
A few minutes later the beach was empty once more, except for the gulls wheeling overhead and the baby otter playing in the driftwood. All was peaceful.
But far out to sea, beyond the horizon, the clouds began to gather and the wind began to blow. Another storm was coming to life.
19
“How much farther?” Elaine asked.
“Five miles? Ten? Something like that,” Brad answered. “Please note that it isn’t raining.”
“Noted,” Elaine said. By rights they should have run into the storm that had battered Clark’s Harbor the night before, and Elaine had made a bet with Brad that they would make the entire drive out to Clark’s Harbor in a downpour. But as they swung around Olympia and started west, they encountered nothing but clear skies, and for the last two hours they had been enjoying the warmth of a spring
sun. A ground layer of mist lay in the valleys, intertwined with the ferns and salal that blanketed the area in a spectrum of greens, broken by the brown trunks of the giant cedars and the silvery whiteness of budding aspens. Here and there a rhododendron was bursting with color, the sunlight flashing in the raindrops caught in its petals.
“You want to pay off now or wait till we get there?”
“I’ll wait,” Elaine said complacently. “You never know when it might cloud up. If there’s even a drop of rain while we’re unloading, I win.”
Brad glanced up at the clear blue sky, and grinned. “I can’t lose.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, as he had every few minutes for the last three and a half hours, checking to make sure the truck was still following behind them. “I can’t believe how much stuff they jam in those trucks,” he commented.
“I can’t believe how much stuff we’re dragging with us,” Elaine replied archly. “The house out here is furnished as I recall.”
Brad shrugged indifferently but couldn’t keep himself from flushing slightly. As the movers had begun loading Brad had begun adding things to the load. His desk and chair had been first, followed by an ancient leather-upholstered club chair that Elaine had claimed would fit in perfectly since it was nearly as dilapidated as the furniture already in the house on Sod Beach.
When he had started to add the television and stereo console, Elaine had drawn the line, reminding him that there was no electricity in their new home.
Finally they had been ready to go; the truck was almost full and the storage room in the basement almost empty. But, as Brad kept insisting, at least they were getting their money’s worth out of the truck.
They swung around a bend in the road. They were almost in Clark’s Harbor. Ahead of them they could see the intersection with Harbor Road and, just beyond, Glen Palmer’s gallery.
“Are we stopping at the gallery?” Elaine asked as Brad began slowing the car.
“I thought I’d stop off at the police station first and pick up the key,” Brad replied. “Then you can ride on out to the house in the truck and supervise the unloading while I talk to Glen.”
“The hell you will,” Elaine protested. “If you think I’m going to try to get all that junk into the house by myself, you’re crazy! Besides, I want to see Glen too!”
“All right, all right,” Brad said. He completed the turn and they started down the gentle incline into the village. “Well, whatever’s going on, it certainly looks peaceful enough.”
Elaine couldn’t disagree; Clark’s Harbor, basking in the sunlight, lay clustered peacefully around the harbor, its brightly painted buildings sparkling against the backdrop of blue sky and water. Once again Elaine was reminded of a New England fishing village, an image enhanced by the small fleet that was neatly moored at the wharf.
They pulled up in front of the police station and Brad told the truck driver to find someplace to park the truck for a few minutes without blocking traffic. Then he and Elaine went inside.
They found Harney Whalen in his office talking on the telephone. He looked up, stared at them in apparent surprise, then returned to his telephone call. Elaine lit a cigarette and occupied herself by peering uncomfortably out the window. But Brad made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was listening to Whalen’s end of the conversation.
“I’m telling you,” Whalen was saying, “there isn’t any point in your coming up here. It was an accident, nothing more. There’s nothing to investigate. Not even a trace of wreckage has washed up. Only the body.”
He listened then, his eyes on the ceiling, almost closed, as if whatever he was hearing was hardly worth listening to.
“Listen,” he said finally, apparently interrupting whoever was on the other end of the line. “I looked the body over, and Doc Phelps looked the body over. Now, I’m no expert, but Phelps is. And we both agree the guy drowned. Looks like the guy went overboard when the boat cracked up. Hell, nobody can last long in the water this time of year.”
He seemed about to say more but fell silent again, and Brad assumed that whoever he was talking to was objecting to something Whalen had said.
“Well, anyway, I’m gonna ship the body up to Port Angeles tomorrow. The guy’s brother’s hanging around getting on everyone’s nerves, and I’ve just about had it with the whole thing. So if you want to do anything—look at the body or something—you’d better do it today.”
Just then the door to the police station opened and a young man Brad didn’t recognize came in. Whoever he was, he was not a native of Clark’s Harbor. He seemed very upset—his face was flushed and his eyes flashed with anger. He glanced at Brad and Elaine, then turned his attention to the police chief, who was still on the phone. As he listened, Harney Whalen watched the young man pace the small room impatiently. In his mind Brad put it all together and decided this was the brother of the dead man, and that he had stumbled into the “something horrible” Glen Palmer had been talking about on the phone that morning.
“All right, all right,” Whalen said at last. “I’ll wait till you get here.” He slammed the receiver down and stared balefully at the young man.
“What is it now, Horton?” he said levelly.
Jeff Horton stopped pacing and stood squarely in front of Whalen’s desk, glaring at the police chief.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded.
“I think I’m the police chief here,” Whalen said easily, enjoying the young man’s discomfiture. “What of it?”
“That gives you the right to decide what’s to be done with my brother’s body?”
“You heard?”
“I heard. And I’d like to know why you didn’t tell me you were releasing it. I can get it home myself.”
“Fine,” Whalen replied, getting to his feet. “I just thought I’d save you the trouble.”
“Save me the trouble!” Jeff exclaimed. His face turned scarlet and his fists began working spasmodically. “I don’t need anybody to save me any trouble. I need someone to help me find out what happened to Max.” Then, as suddenly as his face had turned scarlet, it drained of color and became an ashen gray. Brad stood up and moved to the young man’s side.
“Sit down,” he said gently but firmly. When Jeff started to resist, Brad took his arm. “If you don’t sit down, you’re going to pass out,” he said. He pushed Jeff into the chair he had just vacated and made him put his head between his knees. “If you start feeling like you’re going to be sick, lie down on the floor. You’ll feel foolish but it’s better than throwing up. Now breathe deeply.”
Brad turned his attention to Whalen. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“It’s between him and me,” Whalen declared. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“I’m a doctor and this fellow’s not in the best shape. I’m just wondering why.”
“And I’m telling you it’s none of your concern,” Whalen snapped.
“Whose concern should it be?” Jeff said, sitting up again. He looked at Brad. “Who are you?”
“Brad Randall,” Brad said, extending his right hand. “I’m a doctor from Seattle. I take it it’s your brother who died?”
Jeff nodded. “This guy keeps claiming it was an accident but I don’t believe it. And now he’s made plans to ship Max home and he didn’t even tell me about it.”
“Max, I assume, is your brother. Mind telling me your name?”
“Jeff. Jeff Horton.”
“Fine, Jeff. Now, what happened?”
But before Jeff could tell him, Harney Whalen interrupted. “This your office all of a sudden, Dr. Randall?” he said unpleasantly. “ ’Cause you’re sure acting like it is.”
Brad bit his lip. “Sorry,” he said. “It isn’t any of my business, of course. But Jeff seems pretty upset, and dealing with people who are upset happens to be my specialty.” When Jeff looked at him quizzically, Brad winked. “I’m a psychiatrist.”
Elaine stood up suddenly, and the movement cau
ght Brad’s attention, exactly as she had intended.
“Why don’t I take Jeff out for a cup of coffee while you settle our business with the chief?” she suggested. “All right?”
Brad knew immediately his wife was trying to defuse the situation. He smiled at her gratefully. “If you don’t mind,” he said, knowing she didn’t; knowing, in fact, that she had taken the situation in hand.
“Of course I don’t mind.” She turned to Whalen and smiled at him. “Is there anything I’ll need to know about the house right away?”
Whalen shook his head slowly, glancing from one of the Randalls to the other and back again. But before he could speak Elaine plunged on.
“Fine. Then we’ll see you in a few minutes,” she told Brad. She took Jeff Horton by the arm and pulled him to his feet. Jeff, looking baffled, offered no resistance as she led him from the office.
“Do you have the keys?” she heard Brad asking Whalen as she walked down the corridor. She silently congratulated herself. Maybe the wrong member of their family was the psychiatrist.
“It hasn’t been easy for you, has it?” Elaine asked Jeff. They were sitting in the café, drinking their second cup of coffee, and Jeff had told Elaine what had happened.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Jeff said bitterly. “The worst of it is, I’m not going to be able to hang around here any longer, and the minute I leave that police chief is going to drop the whole thing. Hell, he almost has already.”
“It might really have been an accident,” Elaine offered.
“If it were anyone but Max, I’d agree. But Max was one of those people who just doesn’t have accidents. He was always methodical, always careful. He always said there’s no such thing as an accident. Like the other night, when the storm caught up with us? Anyone else would have tried to make it down to Grays Harbor, and if they hadn’t made it, it would have been called an accident. But Max would have called it damned foolishness and blamed it on the skipper.”
