What Washes Up

by Dawn Lee McKenna

“Actually, Patrick, because of that very sentiment, I’m going to accept half the responsibility for your actions.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I think you’ve lost your damn mind,” Boudreaux said quietly. “I think you’ve lost it to drugs and greed and bad raising.”

  “You and Mom raised me,” Patrick said.

  “Precisely,” Boudreaux said. “And failed. Something I’ve been thinking about quite a bit over the last few weeks.”

  Patrick’s relief must have caused an acute hysteria, for he actually almost laughed. “Are you apologizing to me?” he asked, then instantly seemed to regret it, as Boudreaux slowly walked toward him, his hands still in his pockets.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve fallen too far from grace for me to apologize to you, even for my own mistakes.” He stopped a few feet in front of Patrick’s chair. “What I am doing is trying to atone, in some small way.”

  “What way is that?” Patrick asked uncertainly.

  “You have one week to get out of the country.”

  “What?”

  “I suggest you go somewhere that doesn’t have an extradition agreement with the US,” Boudreaux continued. “And make it someplace you can stand to live for the rest of your life, because you won’t be coming back.”

  “I have a career here,” Patrick said. “Damn it, I’m the Assistant State’s Attorney!”

  “You’re retiring,” Boudreaux said. “You will take whatever money you have left, you will take what is in your trust, and you will get your ass to Venezuela or wherever it is you decide you’re going, and you will arrive there no later than one week from today.”

  Patrick opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before finding his words. “Are you serious?”

  “Are you unfamiliar with my serious face, Patrick?” Boudreaux asked quietly.

  “I can’t just…go into exile and lose everything!”

  “Is there something you haven’t already lost?”

  Patrick didn’t answer, just licked his lips nervously.

  “One week. I’ll release the funds in your trust account when you’ve arrived where you’re going.”

  “That’s not enough to live on indefinitely,” Patrick said.

  “I suggest you pick someplace with a low cost of living, and develop a marketable skill.” Patrick shook his head, his mouth open slightly. “It’s time for you to leave this room, Patrick.”

  Patrick stood up, his hands on the armrests of his chair as though he needed some support. He walked slowly to the door.

  “Patrick?” Patrick stopped and turned, his hand on the door knob. “You need to understand that I’m giving you this option because I do feel some responsibility for the man that you’ve become. I don’t want to add you to my already overburdened conscience.”

  Patrick looked at him a moment, seeming slightly dazed, then walked out of the room and closed the door.

  Boudreaux turned around and walked back to the French door. His eyes scanned the yard, but the squirrel was no longer under the avocado tree. His eyes filled suddenly with warmth and moisture, and he pinched at their inner corners, blinked a few times, and stared out at the empty yard.

  Maggie breathed in the smell of salt and the slight, metallic odor of rain from tin-colored clouds off to the east. There were few other boats out, and once she checked her coordinates and cut the engine, there was very little sound, outside the slap of the wake against the fiberglass hull.

  Maggie dropped the sea anchor, then stretched her back and walked to the port side. She leaned over the rail, hung on with one hand, and just managed to trail the tips of her fingers through the water. When she lifted her hand up, she wondered if any of David’s ashes lingered here where they’d spread them, in David’s favorite shrimping hole, or they’d all scattered miles away. Still, this was as close as she would get.

  She touched her fingers to her neck, and closed her eyes a moment as the sea water cooled her. Then she sat down on one of the bench seats and sighed as she looked out at the water.

  She sat there for almost an hour, willing the sun and the water and the sounds of the occasional gull to help her feel grounded again, to remind her of who she was, where she came from, to bring her back to herself.

  She stood up and leaned over the rail again, cupped some water and dribbled it over the top of her head, seared by the mid-morning sun. Then she sat back down and sighed.

  “So, I hope you realize that you left me with almost nobody to talk to,” she said quietly. “Not like us, anyway.”

  She looked up as a couple of gulls flew overhead, arguing about something pertinent to gulls, then she looked back out at the water.

  “I’m not sure how much you still care about what goes on around here, but I gave Sky your truck. I see her sometimes when she’s leaving or getting home, and she sits in it for an extra minute or two. Kyle has your guitar, the new one, and he’s gone back to practicing almost every day.”

  Maggie chewed at the corner of her lip, as she watched the two gulls dive, then take back off, one of them with a small fish in its beak.

  “Wyatt’s angry with me,” she said finally. “I may even have…I don’t know, I think maybe that’s not fixable. I would never have asked your advice about it, but I bet you would have given me some if I did.”

  Maggie blinked back tears as she got a scent memory of sun-warmed flannel and Jovan Musk. “Or maybe…maybe I would have just forgotten about Wyatt, because how good is a man who would give that kind of advice to his ex-wife?”

  She laughed softly, but she had to blink a few more times. “You know, I keep wondering if they have baseball in Heaven, because every time I picture you there, you’re taking practice swings. Or rounding second base.”

  She suddenly felt a little self-conscious, and looked down at her hands. “Anyway,” she said. She picked at a hangnail on the middle finger of her right hand. “You know I loved you, right?”

  Wyatt stood with his hands on his hips near one of the stainless-steel tables, watching Deputy Mike Calder scrape the inside of the last drain.

  Calder had already done the other nine floor drains, as well as swabbed the rims, inspected for hairs, and collected swabs from the grout between the white, square-foot tiles.

  Judge Richardson, one of the few judges that Wyatt suspected might grant him the search warrant, had allowed for Wyatt, one deputy trained in biological evidence collection, and one other deputy, mainly for appearances. He had not agreed to a forensic team from Tallahassee.

  When Wyatt had first shown Boudreaux the search warrant, Boudreaux had called his attorney, who had immediately conveyed to the court that the use of Luminol, to detect blood trace in a room used to process food, presented a danger to the public. Wyatt thought it funny, even in his present frame of mind, that the new search warrant, with that addendum, had been faxed to Boudreaux’s office. Wyatt wasn’t too bent out of shape about the Luminol. Blood ran all over the floor all day long. The whole damn room would probably light up, without giving them anything they didn’t already know.

  Across the long, narrow room, Bennett Boudreaux leaned against the wall by the walk-in coolers, arms folded loosely across his chest. He was put out, but had been polite and decidedly unconcerned when Wyatt, Mike and Deputy Gina Farrell had shown up with the search warrant. The receptionist had seemed far more upset by it than Boudreaux had, but she looked like the type to get easily upset. Boudreaux was not.

  Boudreaux had sent the dozen or so fish processors out on an extended break, sent the receptionist fluttering back down the hallway, and been watching Wyatt and his team from the wall since that time, almost two hours.

  Wyatt saw Boudreaux looking at his expensive watch, and he wandered over there, more out of a need to stretch his legs than anything else.

  “How much longer do you think you’ll need, Sheriff Hamilton?” Boudreaux asked as Wyatt approached him.

  Wyatt put his hands on his hips and glanced over at M
ike, who was putting the drain cover back into place. “Not much longer,” he answered with a shrug.

  “I’m not trying to be difficult,” Boudreaux said. “We just have a lot of fish waiting to be dressed yet today.”

  “I understand,” Wyatt said politely.

  Boudreaux nodded his head toward Mike and Deputy Farrell. “I’m surprised this is all you brought with you,” he said.

  “This is all I was allowed,” Wyatt said.

  “You have a law enforcement officer stating that she’s certain I killed Sport Wilmette, and all you got was Deputy Dan with his Q-tips?”

  “That’s your way of asking me if I do have a law enforcement officer who said any such thing. I won’t be responding to that question.”

  “For the record, she told you with my blessing.”

  “I’m sure she appreciated that,” Wyatt said. “For the record, what I have is a witness who saw you let Wilmette in that Tuesday night, then saw you leave, but never saw Wilmette come out.” He looked over at Boudreaux. “And a confidential informant who says that Wilmette might have been trying to blackmail you.”

  Boudreaux knew damn well there was no confidential informant. The only one who knew about Wilmette’s attempt to get money from him was Maggie. He held Wyatt’s gaze for a moment. “You didn’t tell them about Maggie,” he said, his surprise cool but evident.

  Wyatt didn’t answer, just leaned back against the wall and watched as Mike and Deputy Farrell started putting things back into Mike’s case.

  “Well, given that circumstance, I’m surprised you got a search warrant at all,” Boudreaux said.

  “Judge Richardson’s not that fond of you.”

  “I’m aware of that, yes,” Boudreaux said pleasantly.

  Wyatt checked his watch without unfolding his arms from his chest.

  “Why didn’t you say anything about Maggie?” Boudreaux asked.

  Wyatt just looked at him, then looked away.

  “We both know what we’re talking about here, so I don’t see why you’re hesitant to explain that to me.”

  Wyatt looked at him, his brows knit together. “Look. I realize you and Maggie have some kind of semi-confessional pas de deux going on, but you and I don’t have that kind of relationship.”

  “I can understand why that bothers you,” Boudreaux said

  “What? That you and I aren’t real close?”

  One corner of Boudreaux’s mouth curled up in something that threatened to be a smile. Then he and Wyatt both watched as the other two officers crossed the room.

  “I can understand it troubling you, given your own relationship,” Boudreaux said. Wyatt turned and looked at him. “You are her supervisor.”

  “I’m all set, boss,” Mike said as he and Deputy Farrell approached.

  “All right,” Wyatt said, pushing off from the wall.

  Mike and Farrell preceded him the few feet to the door, and Farrell opened it. Wyatt watched them both go out into the hall, then turned to look at Boudreaux.

  “I’m concerned because I’m responsible for her,” Wyatt said.

  Boudreaux nodded. “Yes, you are. I hope you don’t forget that.”

  Wyatt looked at him a moment, then opened the door and walked out.

  Maggie had just crossed the parking lot at the marina, heading back to her Jeep, when she saw Wyatt’s car and another cruiser parked in front of Sea-Fair, next door. She changed direction and walked that way. She was halfway across the Sea-Fair parking lot, oyster shells crunching beneath her hiking boots, when Mike Calder and Gina Farrell walked out the front door. Wyatt was right behind them.

  Maggie stopped, noted the crime scene case in Mike’s hand. He saw her and waved, and she raised a hand back, including Gina in the gesture. She looked away from them as they turned toward the cruiser. Wyatt was standing in the middle of the lot, hands on his hips, staring at her.

  She stared back for a moment, then started over to him. “What’s going on?” she asked when she was a few feet away.

  Wyatt gave her a look that clearly indicated she’d asked a ridiculous question.

  “Did you find anything?” she asked.

  As she reached him, he took her elbow and started walking her the way she’d just come. “If I had, I wouldn’t be able to discuss it with you, would I?”

  “I’m just asking,” she said.

  “I’m just not answering,” he said, though his tone wasn’t especially unkind. “What are you doing here? You and Boudreaux don’t have a lunch date, do you?”

  “No, smartass, I just came back in Daddy’s boat,” she said.

  “Where were you?”

  “I took a mental health break out on the water,” she said, stepping over a sparsely planted median between the two parking lots.

  “How’s your mental health?” he asked.

  “About what you’d expect. How’s yours?”

  “Not as vigorous as it was before I moved here,” he answered. They stopped at her Jeep, and he let go of her elbow.

  “Wyatt, I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “Last night—”

  He nodded, almost dismissively. “We were both upset. Listen, I need you to stay away from Boudreaux. I need you to stay away from that whole damn family, you understand?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “No, not questions, just compliance. Can you give being compliant a shot? Cause that would make my life quite a bit easier right now.”

  Maggie stood up a little straighter, the literal manifestation of getting her back up. “Yeah, I can comply.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Can you at least tell me what you think?”

  He jammed his hands onto his hips. “About what?”

  Maggie sighed. “About Boudreaux.”

  Wyatt pulled off his ball cap and slapped it back on. “Oh, I can talk to you all damn day and half the night about what I think about Boudreaux,” he said. “I think he was wholly unconcerned about me coming in there with a search warrant, because he’s careful as hell. We swabbed all over that tile floor, but we’re not going to find anything, Maggie. I can almost bet on that.”

  Maggie folded her arms across her chest. “Okay,” she said.

  “I also think that he’s definitely got a thing of some kind for you, and that this doesn’t necessarily make you any safer with him,” Wyatt said. “For all we know, his last sixteen girlfriends all went into the ocean, too.”

  “Has he had sixteen girlfriends?”

  “Well, how the hell would I know? But you’re right, he does have significant charm, which I think I dislike quite a bit.”

  “I’ve never heard of any girlfriends, dead or otherwise,” Maggie said.

  Wyatt raised an eyebrow. “Have you met his wife?”

  “Barely,” Maggie said, her distaste evident.

  “She’s a real piece of work,” Wyatt said. “I’m surprised she’s lived this long. Of course, he’s Roman Catholic, so maybe he thinks she’s his penance.”

  Maggie shrugged and Wyatt looked away for a moment, watched a date palm dance a little in the slight breeze, and then looked back at her. “My point is that I think his interest in you is a lot more personal than I originally thought, and that’s not necessarily a good thing.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because I have a prostate,” he said. She squinted her eyes at him and he elaborated. “I’m a man.”

  “Well, I’m a woman and I think you’re off base. I would know if he was interested in that way.”

  “Really? When did you know I was interested, Maggie?”

  She looked away from him for a second and shrugged a little. “When you told me.”

  “Bingo. Did you know Dudley Do-Right had it bad for you right up until he got married?”

  “Dwight? No he didn’t!”

  “How about Axel Blackwell, did you know about that?”

  “Wyatt, Axel was David’s closest friend. I’ve known him since we were like twelve.”


  “Case rested.” Wyatt said. “You don’t have a clue about men where you’re concerned.”

  “I’m sorry, Wyatt, but I don’t get that vibe from Boudreaux at all.”

  “You don’t get vibes, period.” He took his cap off again and ran a hand through his damp hair. “Would you just please do what I ask and stay away from the guy?”

  “Okay,” Maggie answered.

  “Thank you. Now, I need to go to the courthouse.” He put his cap back on. “I’ll see you at work.”

  “Okay,” Maggie said quietly. She watched him walk back over to the Sea-Fair parking lot, a sadness weighing in her chest for just a moment, before she pushed it down, compartmentalized it, as was her habit. Then she got in her Jeep.

  She sat there for a moment with the door open. The interior of the Jeep was like a rice cooker, and she was damp from the trapped humidity the moment she got in. She started the engine and turned the air on with the door still open, and watched Wyatt pull out onto Water Street and make a left.

  She tried to push her worries about Wyatt out of her mind by focusing on something that had bugged her when he’d been talking about Boudreaux, but it wouldn’t come back to her. She gave up when the inside of the car become bearable enough to close the door and leave.

  She pulled out onto Water Street and made a left, as Wyatt had. The niggling came back to her as she waited at Apalach’s token red light, but was gone by the time she made a right to head over to her parents.

  On impulse, she pulled into Piggly-Wiggly a few blocks later. She knew the sudden decision to pick up a bottle of wine was probably just a way of delaying the conversation she knew she was about to have, but she figured they’d probably need the wine anyway.

  She was coming back out with a bottle of Riesling she didn’t remember actually choosing, when she saw John Solomon headed toward the door. John had been with the Sheriff’s Office for twenty years, then took a job as the director of the Chamber of Commerce, where he seemed to have found his real calling.

  He seemed to really enjoy working on things like the Florida Seafood Festival, the biggest in the state, and the town’s celebration in Riverfront Park on the 3rd of July. It had been there that David had been killed, his boat blown up as he headed out for a night of shrimping. John had been a hero that night, jumping into the river to help rescue one of David’s crewmen.