The Mist of Quarry Harbor

by Liz Adair

  “Are there any department stores? Macy’s? Mervyn’s? I was on a boat and fell overboard,” she said, suddenly wondering why she felt a need to explain.

  “Four blocks up, three blocks over, there’s a mall. Then there’s a Nordstrom on the next block. You should find what you need.”

  “Thanks,” Cassie said.

  She walked the seven blocks and bought two outfits from the skin out, including shoes. She wore one and carried the other, along with Aaron’s sweats, in a shopping bag. The second outfit was for her appointment with Mr. Hubbard of the Border Patrol. Remembering the soggy fleece, she decided she had better have a jacket as well. Then she found a drugstore and bought makeup and a toothbrush. With everything in two shopping bags, she stopped at the food court and had some Thai food. Her last stop was a magazine stand, where she bought a map of Seattle, a book of crossword puzzles, and a newspaper. When she finally emerged from the mall, she saw that the sun had already slipped below the horizon. Mindful of the seedy waterfront section she had to pass through, she quickened her pace as she retraced her steps. The further down the hill she went, the fewer people she met. Three young men standing under a streetlight watched her in concert, but she anchored her purse under her arm and kept walking with her eyes on the ground. She passed a shabbily dressed old man shambling up the hill and a fierce-looking young man with a wispy beard and dreadlocks who sat in the shadow of a doorway, talking to himself in an angry tone of voice.

  At last she reached the stairs. She flew down them, turning right and then right and then right again until she came to the Red Swan, bobbing gently at her mooring.

  The cabin was still cozy from residual engine heat, and Cassie set her shopping bags and purse down on the counter. Fumbling for the light switch, she finally managed to find the one over the sink. After that, she found three more and felt quite at home in the brightly lit cabin. She heated water for a cup of cocoa on the alcohol stove and sat at the counter reading the newspaper while she drank it. Then she washed her cup and took her crossword puzzles forward to lie down on the bunk. She turned on an overhead light and noticed a radio in a little cubby. Searching around the stations, she came upon A Prairie Home Companion and put her puzzle aside to listen, chuckling at the Guy Noir skit and the vignette presented by the National Ketchup Advisory.

  When the program was over, she left the radio on and began working her crossword puzzle, but her attention was drawn to the mention of the Phoenix police on the news. She listened, riveted by the scanty information passed along: two Phoenix police officers were down in a standoff with a man who had killed his wife in a grocery store parking lot and then fled to his home, where he was barricaded with a small arsenal.

  Cassie dropped her book, rushed in to where her purse was sitting, and dug with trembling hands for her cell phone. She had to say Ben’s number aloud to focus her frantic mind while she punched the buttons and waited for the signal to bounce clear to Arizona. “Come on, Ben, pick up,” she urged, but instead, a mechanical voice came on announcing that this cell phone user was not receiving at this time.

  Knowing it wasn’t any use to try Punky, she looked up Bishop Harris’s phone number and tried that. There was no answer, just prolonged ringing. Next she dialed information and got the number of the Phoenix police department, but when she got through, the officer wouldn’t give her any information. They would release the names to the press after the next of kin had been notified, he said in an impersonal voice.

  “Just tell me,” Cassie begged. “Was one of them Ben Torres?”

  “I am not at liberty to say.”

  Cassie pushed the disconnect button and fumed. Trying to remember Ben’s mother’s name, she called information and asked for a Mrs. Torres on Eucalyptus Street.

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Do you know how many people there are in Metropolitan Phoenix with that last name?”

  “But she’s on Eucalyptus Street. That should narrow it down.”

  “Yes. To about thirty. I cannot give you a number without more specific information.”

  Cassie hit the red button again and threw the cell phone back in her purse. “This thing is giving me a headache,” she muttered, and rummaged in the galley cupboard for Aaron’s bottle of pills.

  After downing the capsules, she dug her toothbrush out of the shopping bag but then remembered the parcel with her new pantsuit in it. She hung her clothes up so they wouldn’t be wrinkled when she went to the Border Patrol to see Mr. Hubbard. After brushing her teeth and changing back into Aaron’s sweats, she set the dead bolt on the cabin door, turned out the lights, and went forward to the berth.

  After saying her prayers, she crawled into the bunk and lay there in the dark, sick with worry and her head still throbbing. It didn’t help when she reminded herself that there were hundreds of police officers in Phoenix and that Ben was a detective and not likely to be involved in such an incident. But she couldn’t bear the thought of little Ricky being left alone or what it would be like to lose Ben as a friend. Her mind went to her appointment with Mr. Hubbard, wondering what he might be able to tell her about Chan and his work. And then she worried about being alone on a boat in a seedy part of town. Her mind was racing, and it didn’t seem possible that she would ever be able to sleep. But in time, weariness overcame her, and she dozed off.

  25

  Cassie spent a restless night. The sounds of the waterfront mixed with a troubling dream in which a shambling old man was hit by a car and went cartwheeling through the air to land in the street by Cassie. When she knelt to look at him, it was Ben, and her scream became the whistle of a tugboat in the harbor that woke her up.

  It was still dark, and looking at the luminous dial of her watch, she saw that it was four o’clock. She turned onto her side and pulled the blanket up around her ear and tried to go back to sleep. Only partially successful, she surfaced every half hour to check the time again.

  At six-thirty she decided to get up. Anxious for news of Ben, she dialed his number, only to get the same mechanical message of the night before. It was chilly, and she sat cross-legged on the bunk, wrapped in the blanket, and ruthlessly dialed Punky’s number, aware that she probably hadn’t gotten to bed until one a.m. When Punky’s machine picked up, she disconnected and dialed Bishop Harris. He answered on the third ring.

  “Oh, Bishop, I’m so glad I caught you! This is Cassie.”

  “Cassie! What’s the matter? Are you all right?” There was concern in his voice.

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine. I’m worried about Ben. I heard on the news last night about two Phoenix policemen being killed, and I can’t find out who they are. Have you heard anything?”

  “They didn’t give the names on the news this morning. I haven’t read the paper yet. Have you tried to call Ben?”

  “He doesn’t have his cell phone on. I’m just frantic. I’ve called the police and they won’t say. I can’t remember his mother’s name, so I can’t call her.”

  “Let me see what I can do. I think it’s a pretty tense situation. The news says that the fellow is still holed up in his house, and they have a negotiator talking to him.”

  “Call me on my cell phone if you find anything out, will you?”

  “I will, but I wouldn’t worry, Cassie. If anything had happened to him, I’m sure his mother would have called me.”

  “All right, Bishop. Thanks.”

  “By the way, did you get the information you needed from the Edmonds bishop?”

  “Oh, golly! I forgot. No. He couldn’t help me, but I got the name of the membership clerk, and every time I called, no one was home. I’ll try right now. Thanks, Bishop. ’Bye.”

  “Good-bye, Cassie.”

  Cassie looked on her “to-do” list for the number and dialed the membership clerk. She was dismayed when the phone rang four times and switched to the answering machine. She was just about to leave a message when she heard a click, and a sleepy vo
ice said, “Hello?”

  “Brother Minor? This is Cassie Van—Cassie Jordain. I’m sorry to call you so early, but I’ve tried several times, and I’ve never been able to get ahold of you. This is a matter of some urgency.”

  “No, no. That’s all right.” He cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m calling for information about a former member of your ward. His name was Chandler Jordain.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember Brother Jordain. He was a great fellow. Fought in World War Two. Had great stories. He died some time after the first of the year. Nice man. What did you want to know?”

  “You’re sure this was Chandler Jordain?”

  “Yes. Chandler, what was his middle name? I saw it not too long ago. I’ve only been membership clerk a little while, and I’ve had a mountain of work to catch up on. His records hadn’t been sent to Salt Lake with a note that he was deceased, and I did that just the other day. Not to take anything away from the former clerk. He’s been fighting cancer and has a tough old row to hoe. I’ll think of the middle name in a minute.”

  “That’s all right. It doesn’t matter. You say he died after the first of the year?”

  “Yes. February or March. Some time in there.”

  There was silence on the line and then Brother Minor said, “Are you still there, Sister Jordain?”

  “Yes,” Cassie said in a strangled voice. “I’m still here.”

  “I guess this is your long-lost grandfather, huh? A great genealogy moment!”

  “Yes,” Cassie lied.

  “Well, it was a privilege to be a part of it. If you need anything else, just give me a call.”

  “I will. Good-bye.” Cassie pushed the stop button and sat staring at the phone. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

  Flinging the blanket aside, she rushed to the cabin and dug out the map of Seattle. After spreading it out, she looked for a library icon near downtown. Bingo. There was one twelve blocks away. She glanced at her watch, knowing that it was a rare library that opened before ten o’clock. She had three hours to kill.

  It felt like the longest three hours of her life. As she showered and washed her hair, she felt the bump on the back of her head and was satisfied that it was a bit smaller than yesterday. She dressed with care, mindful of her one-thirty appointment. Though the Red Swan was moored in the shade, the harbor beyond the sheltered pier was bathed in sunshine and the sky was blue, and she decided not to wear her jacket. The air outside the cabin was chilly, but she warmed up as she climbed the stairs, headed again for the commercial district of downtown Seattle. She had breakfast at a hole-in-the-wall café that she chose because of the newspaper stand beside it. She bought a paper, quickly opened it to the national news page, and found a three-line article about the standoff in Phoenix that told her no more than she already knew. She didn’t take the paper with her when she left.

  After breakfast she walked, window shopping through the commercial district, looking at jewelry, glassware, and clothing that she would never have the money to afford, nor want if she did. At Pike Street, she came to the not-yet-open Pike Place Market and watched the vendors preparing their booths. The street in front of the colorful market was jammed with trucks and vans, and noisy workers were busy unloading flowers, fruits and vegetables, and other wares. There were other tourists there, hanging around, waiting for the shops to open, and the smell of fish hung in the cool morning air. Cassie checked her watch. Nine-thirty. Close enough. She headed for the library.

  Expecting some staid, red-brick, turn-of-the-century building, she was unprepared for the sight of the new Seattle Public Library. It wasn’t yet open and she plopped down on a bench across the street and stared. That looks like I felt after talking to ‘Brudder Bidor’, she thought. It didn’t look like a building at all. There were few rectangular lines. It was all angles and different planes, covered with reflective glass that mirrored whatever was presented to that particular view: sky or city or street. A huge slab three stories up cantilevered out over the sidewalk, and six stories higher another trapezoidal extension jutted out in another direction.

  When people standing at the door began to enter, Cassie crossed the street and joined them, wondering what she would find on the inside. What she found was function and flare. Standing at the base of an eleven-story atrium that was dubbed the “living room,” Cassie was awed by the light pouring in through the slanted wall that was completely windows. She followed the signs to the reference room, riding up a screaming yellow escalator that dumped her off on the seventh floor, in an area housing a crayon-red librarian’s desk set on an aluminum floor.

  The librarian was a fortyish fellow wearing a plaid shirt, Levi’s, and shoulder-length hair. He looked up as Cassie approached, and she told him she needed to find an obituary from last spring. February or March.

  “What paper?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Cassie said. “The man was from Edmonds.”

  “Let’s try the Seattle papers,” he said, walking from behind the desk and leading her to an area where a bank of computers was available for patrons. He walked her through the process of searching for an obituary by date or by name. “If it’s not here, we’ll have to go to issues of the local newspaper, or consult a microfilm copy.” Cassie thanked him, typed in Chandler Jordain, and hit the search key. She found that the obituary had been published for a week, March fifteenth through the twenty-first. The funeral had been held at the Edmonds chapel, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Mr. Jordain was in fact a veteran of World War II and was eighty-three when he died.

  Cassie considered what to do next. She had obviously been way off base about where Chan was from. She glanced at her watch. She still had several hours before she could meet with the Border Patrol and attack the problem from the other end. She would ask Mr. Hubbard about the agent who was working in the Quarry Harbor area, and they could take it from there.

  Since she had time and the computer was at hand, Cassie decided to find out more about Aaron’s brother. She searched for the name Jared Fletcher and came up with a very short item containing most of the information that Amy had told her. Nothing new.

  Wondering if there might be more information in the local paper, she went to the desk and asked the librarian if they had back issues of The Island Standard.

  “Those would be on microfilm.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Follow me,” he said, leading her down a hall to a room with no windows and a row of microfilm readers. “What date?”

  “March of this year. Middle of the month.” Cassie sat at the machine he indicated and waited for him to bring her the microfilm.

  It took only a moment. She took the film out of its container and threaded it on the reel, then switched on the lamp, adjusted the focus, and began to turn the crank. The pages blurred as she turned rapidly through the first issue in March, and she slowed down for the second week’s edition, published on March tenth. That was the issue where she had read about Aaron’s accident. As she scanned further, she brought the March seventeenth edition up on the screen. There it was, in bold type: “Local Boat Seized in Drug Bust.” Cassie didn’t read the article, because just below the headline was a snapshot of a smiling Jared Fletcher standing on a sailboat with one hand on a spar. Dumbstruck, Cassie gaped at the picture of the man she had married just a few weeks before, the man she knew as Chandler Jordain!

  The room began revolving, and Cassie felt darkness closing in on her field of vision as a buzzing began in her ears. Not caring whether anyone was looking, she bent over and put her head between her legs. The buzzing finally subsided, and she cautiously sat up. Staring again at the picture, she thought, What does that make me, if he was already married!?

  She took a deep breath, trying to get her mind around what she had discovered. At least I can tell Amy that Jared Fletcher wasn’t lost at sea. He was lost in the desert. Lost . . . lost . . .

  Feeling light-headed, Cassie r
eturned the microfilm to the desk and asked for a copy of the article and picture. As she opened her day-timer to get change to pay for the copies, she saw her “to-do” list, and she made a heavy black line through her note to go see the Border Patrol.

  She left the library, fleeing like a wounded animal to the safety of the Red Swan. It was only when she got there that she remembered that Aaron wouldn’t be back until four. She considered what to do, then climbed the stairs again and walked up the hill, past the downtown area, under the freeway, and into a residential area of turn-of-the-century homes overlooking Elliott Bay. Scuffing through some fallen leaves, she smelled the musty fragrance of autumn.

  Cassie couldn’t stop walking. She felt that she had to keep moving because if she stopped she would burst. Or go crazy. Or cry. Her salvation was in motion, so she walked up one street and down another. She didn’t look at the manicured lawns or the Victorian architecture, didn’t admire the view of the city skyline and the bay. She just walked.

  As she did so, she thought of Chan with Ricky at the zoo, making her think he would be a terrific father. And all the time he had a beautiful child of his own that he had abandoned. I’ll bet Mrs. Mefflin was a set-up, too. And he wasn’t my age! He was six years younger than I am. She shook her head. He played me like Mark O’Conner plays the fiddle.

  A hundred vignettes ran in an endless loop through her brain, a veritable video arcade of deception and mendacity. The corners of her mouth turned down in a sneer as she thought of the night she had sat up chronicling each “precious moment” she had spent with her husband. What a dupe she had been! What a fool!

  Still carrying the sheet of paper, the proof of Chan’s betrayal, she grew weary at last and sat on a bench in a little green triangle where three roads came together. Looking out over the water, she watched a sailboat skate in front of a ferry coming in to dock. Farther out, a small tug pulled a huge barge stacked high with containers slowly north.