“Can I help you?”
He put his room key on the counter. “I’m checking out.”
“Why? You already paid for the night.” She pointed at the wall. “Sign says no refunds.”
“I don’t care. I’m just ready to leave.”
She shook her head and reached for the key. “Well, if that’s what you want, fine. Which way ya headed in such a hurry, anyway?”
“North. Just outside Oakland.”
She looked up at him. “Oh, you might want to think twice about heading out, then. They’re predicting some nasty weather north of here. Torrential rains, possible slides on some roads. You’d probably run right into it.”
Just my damned luck. Frank sighed. “That bad, eh?”
“Yeah, pretty bad for that area. I gather you haven’t been watching the TV.”
“No. No, I haven’t.” He looked at his watch again and weighed his options. He’d slept like shit last night with the nightmare and all. He could handle the drive home fine under normal conditions, but he really wasn’t up to tackling it in a downpour like that. “Guess I’ll stay, then. Thanks for the warning.”
“Sure thing.”
He took back the key, picked up his bag, and returned to his room. With a feeling of déjà vu, he dropped the key and the bag onto the table and went over and sat on the edge of the bed.
He had nothing to do and plenty of time to do it. With the room curtains drawn, the combination of gloom and the lack of good sleep last night made him quite drowsy. He yawned and decided to nap for a while, then have some dinner later.
Frank lay down on the bed and hoped for sleep.
But not for dreams.
* * *
Douglas Cromwell absently rubbed his throbbing arthritic knee as he sat in his pad-laden chair and obsessed about the surprise visit from that amateur reporter. He shouldn’t even have bothered to give him the time of day, but he hadn’t had anyone come by in so long, he agreed to the interview in a weak moment.
Who the hell was he, really, and what did he want? His questions were crap. He didn’t seem to know what he was doing. Douglas wondered if he was even a real reporter, and not someone casing the place or something. But if he were, he’d come a long way to find a place to case.
After several painful attempts to push himself up, he managed to rise from the chair. He tottered down the hall to his home office, a room that saw little use since he’d wound down the sawmill operations years ago.
He flicked on the overhead light and stepped inside. The glare made him wince. He preferred low light levels, but when he was working on serious business, finances, he wanted absolute clarity. So he’d made sure the fixtures in his office burned with high intensity. To allow for careful scrutiny.
Scrutiny.
He’d endured enough of it back then, right after the fire. Enough of it to last a lifetime. The cops, the townsfolk. The nerve of them all. His family had built this town, built it from the nothing shithole it started as. With the mill, he’d given most of the men here good-paying, secure jobs. When the mill did well, the town did well.
But that wasn’t enough for those ungrateful people. No, they wanted more. They had comfortable lives, decent salaries for their skill levels. But then the union types showed up and started breeding discontent.
They wanted to try to tell him how to run his business.
And that would never do.
It was their fault. The ingrates who started getting his men up in arms. He had to clamp down to protect his way of doing business, to protect, in the end, his own livelihood. So he restricted access to the plant to keep those people from coming onto his property and talking to his workers. It was his property, after all!
Some of his men complained to him, said it caused a safety issue, that they couldn’t freely enter and exit, except at shift change times. He told them that was too damned bad. They didn’t need to come and go during their shifts. If they didn’t like it, they could get work at the mill down the road. Oh, right—there was no mill down the road, so if they wanted to work at all, they’d just have to work for him.
That usually shut them up.
Douglas needed to sit down, to get off those accursed knees. He threaded his way to his chair and eased himself down into it. Then he stared down at the desk. Untouched for years, papers and other items lay covered in a thick layer of dust. Despite that, just sitting at the desk where he used to work on the books for his business brought those memories back in a flood.
He’d sat at this very desk during the boom times, and pretty much just watched the money flow in. But then, when the union organizers started trying to bust in, he did the math. He didn’t like what he saw. He’d have to pay much higher hourly rates and upgrade the facility in a number of ways. He’d have to set up pensions and all that crap. He didn’t like what it would do to his bottom line, and his freedom to run things as he damned well pleased.
His position in the matter had been no secret, so when the placed burned to the ground, all eyes looked to him. They all blamed him for everything from the men’s deaths to the actual starting of the fire. They’d put him through hell in the investigation, and damned near kept his insurance from paying out.
After everything finally wrapped up, he decided: screw them, he’d take his insurance proceeds and live out his life in the family home. He didn’t want the stress and aggravation of running a business after all that had happened.
They never did come up with the specific cause of the fire, but at least they ruled out arson. Good thing, else he wouldn’t have been able to collect on the insurance. He still wondered if some union type might have snuck in there and done something. He’d never know.
But beyond that, relatives of the men who died in the fire still gave him the stink eye whenever he had to go into town for something. The insurance had paid them off, too. What more was he supposed to do about it? Cry for the rest of his life? Shit happens.
The investigation revealed that, whatever its cause, the fire tore through the place pretty fast. Amazing what an incendiary sawdust can be. Even though he had nothing to do with the fire, people classified him as a murderer simply because the exits were closed off at the time.
He never did accept that. If the men hadn’t been getting cozy with the union organizers—against his specific instructions, no less—he wouldn’t have had to take measures to secure his property against those idiots coming in and talking to his men! They brought the restrictions on themselves. And how was he to know there’d be a fast-moving fire some day?
What other position could he have taken, really? He’d spent so much time over the years defending it, clinging to that version of reality, that it had formed a protective shell around his beliefs, protecting him from looking at it in any other way.
But today, that shell was cracking, just a little at a time, as he sat beneath the harsh glare of his office light these many years later. Now he was a frail old man, weak and tired, with twisted and tormented joints. Every move pained him, and he lived for his meds to keep him from enduring even worse agony. His ability to resist unbidden thoughts began to crumble.
Even if some union asshole hadn’t been the one to set the fire, it was, after all, a sawmill. Sawdust was known to be flammable, dangerous stuff. You insure sawmills against fire for that reason. He’d never had a claim, and maybe his luck had just run out.
Douglas reached into the bottom drawer on his right, where he kept the report he hadn’t looked at since it first came out. He picked up the single file folder, placed it on top of his desk and stared at it a moment, then opened it.
There were the pictures. The ones he’d tried to get out of his head all these years. They lurked in the back of his mind, but he’d kept a good, tight rein on them.
The pictures eloquently told him exactly what happened when the fire reached its peak. Most of the men survived long enough to get to the main exit in the intense heat and chaotic, choking smoke.
And that is where
they perished.
The photos showed him the charred remains of his men, all stacked up in front of the exit. They’d made it there while they were still alive and able to get out. But, the door wouldn’t open, and they died inches away from escaping. Inches.
Douglas took a magnifying glass from his center drawer and trained it on the photograph to get a clearer look. It told him all he needed to know. The way the arms reached toward the door, toward salvation denied. The charred skin, burned-away clothing. The men’s agony must have been extreme. At least it probably wasn’t long-lived.
He set down the magnifying glass and shut the folder, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He let the well-deserved pain wash over him as he finally, after all these years, admitted to himself what he had caused, and how he profited from that destruction.
EARLY EVENING
Frank awoke and grimaced with pain. He’d fallen asleep in an awkward position and now he had a cramp in his shoulder. But at least he couldn’t remember having dreamed. For that he was grateful.
His mouth tasted stale after the impromptu nap. He checked his watch, and was amazed to see it was already a little after six. He hadn’t realized just how tired he really was. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair.
The nap made him feel a little bit better, though he was still somewhat groggy, and quite hungry. He got up and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and straighten up before going out. At least he knew where to eat—the only game in town. He smiled. The food was decent, anyway.
A few minutes later, he felt presentable enough for The Cannery crowd and left his room to head over there. The sun had just set. A chilling fog had already moved in, and darkness loomed. He inhaled deeply, hoping for a rush of fresh ocean air to help clear his head. But instead he received a whiff of creosote and chemicals wafting over from the commercial docks. He made a sour face and kept walking.
He opened the door and stepped inside. The newfound familiarity of the surroundings provided him with an odd sort of comfort—all the denizens were lined up as usual. A few at the tables, a few at the bar. He smiled to himself. The place was consistent, he had to give it that.
Frank sauntered over to his usual booth. In town barely more than twenty-four hours, and he was starting to feel like a regular here. He wondered briefly if a change in environment would do him good, whether he should think about moving. The thought passed about as quickly as it had come. There was nothing for him here that he didn’t have back home. If anything, he had more opportunities there, and just hadn’t made use of them.
He picked up the menu and vowed to take it easy on the booze tonight. He intended to get a relatively early start in the morning so he’d arrive home at a decent hour. He wanted some decompression time to relax and settle in before facing work and his normal life on the following day.
The New York strip steak had probably served at least some time in a freezer before making its way to The Cannery’s kitchen, but he decided to take a chance on it anyway. A red wine would go nicely with it. Beef and red wine seemed a good antidote for the cold dampness outside, and the emptiness that plagued him every time he thought of why he was even on this trip.
Last night’s same waitress showed up to take his order. They were old-school here, but efficient as hell. She was back with his glass of wine in no time.
He sipped at it and gazed around the room while he waited for his meal. Last night he’d been too distraught to take it all in. Tonight he took the time to observe everything around him. The nearly total lack of windows gave the place an insulated effect. You couldn’t really tell if it was night or day, cloudy or sunny. It made for a strange feeling of suspended animation.
The guys at the bar looked like they never left their seats. They all perched on their stools, slumped forward over their drinks. They didn’t appear to converse, though surely they knew each other from long hours apparently spent in the same position.
His food arrived a short time later, and he set to work on his steak. He found it fair to middling, nowhere near the best he ever had, but it could have been worse. It bore the flavor of frozen, but there was no outright freezer burn, thankfully.
With nowhere else to go, no one to talk to, nowhere to be right now, he tried to relax and savor his food—something he didn’t usually bother to do. Life was short, might as well taste it. He ordered another glass of wine when he next caught the waitress’s eye.
Done eating, he leaned back in his booth and sipped his wine. He’d managed to stretch what should have been an hour-long meal into nearly two hours. No one seemed to mind; it wasn’t as if the place was full and he was tying up a choice booth. He’d leave a good tip to make up for it. He liked to be considerate that way.
Frank saw some other people come in and head straight for the back room. He realized there were pool tables back there. The Cannery had it all. You could get any meal, you could just booze it up, or you could have a little game of pool. After a while, though, the smoke and noise from the back room started to waft into the main room, and he’d had enough by then anyway. It was time to head back to his room and turn in for the night.
NOW
Frank stepped out of The Cannery and let the door swing shut and cut him off from the din inside. He took a deep breath. Even with the creosote scent, the cool outdoor air came as a welcome relief from the stuffiness and cigarette smoke.
Full darkness had arrived, along with a cold, clinging mist. Frank pulled up his coat collar to protect the back of his neck from the dampness and started walking back to the motel. The thick mist and low-lying fog bullied the light from the tall street lamps into mere haloes. Only weak, diffuse rays reflected off the wet road and pedestrian bridge.
Inside The Cannery, a feeling of normalcy pervaded as the locals ate and drank in the warm, comfortable space. The atmosphere had helped Frank take his mind off Roger for a while. But whatever false cheer he’d managed to muster fled before the bleakness of the scene confronting him now. The darkness and fog isolated him, making him feel vulnerable in this strange town.
He walked along the sidewalk purposefully, wanting only to get to his motel so he could close himself in and escape the fear that now clung to him like the fog itself. Then he noticed a figure ahead on the pedestrian bridge side of the road. Silhouetted beneath one of the lamps, it leaned against the rail and appeared to be looking down into the water.
Frank slowed his pace as he tried to assess the situation. The town had impressed him as being on the rough side, so he felt uneasy. No one else was out in the penetrating damp cold, and he wondered why anyone would just linger in the chill like that. Could it be someone waiting for a potential victim to come along?
He continued on his side of the street, keeping a wary eye on the figure. As he drew nearly parallel, he could make out a little more detail. It looked like a man, judging from general size and shape.
The figure stepped back slightly from the rail, shoved his hands in his pockets, and began to pace back and forth in an agitated manner. Frank froze in place and watched.
Then the figure stopped and placed his hands on the rail. He turned his head to one side, then the other, and then glanced around behind him. He flinched when he noticed Frank.
Frank tensed when he realized he’d been caught staring. He wasn’t sure if he should feel threatened—or if he was making the man feel threatened. Maybe he should just continue to his motel—but would the man follow him? In the brief time Frank stood there, uncertain what to do, the silhouette moved quickly, before Frank could react.
The man turned away from Frank and in an awkward motion managed to swing his legs sideways up onto the rail. Then he rolled himself off and over, letting out a brief cry as he went. A loud splash followed, then silence.
Frank sprinted across the road to where the man had gone over and peered over the rail. Inky black water lapped at the dock pylons. The man had left no trace that he could see. He pulled out his cell and punched in 9-1-1.
* * *
Frank heard the blare of the siren just before the police car rounded the corner with its red and blue lights stabbing at the fog and mist. The car came to an abrupt stop near where he stood. Leaving the lights flashing, two of Cromwell Bay’s finest got out and approached him.
The cop who’d been driving introduced himself as Officer Donahue and asked Frank what he’d seen. The other cop, a younger guy with a rookie look about him, just stood by and listened. Frank explained what little he’d seen and led them to where the man had gone over. Both cops peered down at the dark water. Still no trace of the man.
Officer Donahue nodded at the other cop, who nodded back, returned to the car, and picked up the radio transmitter. “We’ll need to bring in additional men and equipment to get down there with some high-intensity light.” He rubbed his chin and furrowed his brow. “This could take a while, and we’re going to need you to stick around to provide more information—possibly identify the body.”
“Well, I didn’t get a good look at his face, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Frank didn’t like the idea of delaying his departure any further. He’d had enough of this town—this trip—already. “Look, Officer, I don’t live around here. I was just passing through. I was planning to leave in the morning to get back home.”
“I see.” Donahue consulted his watch. “We still have a good number of hours ahead before that. You staying at the motel here in town?”
For a moment, Frank felt a jab of paranoia, like he’d been spied upon. Then he realized there was only the one motel in town, so the cop was just making a reasonable guess. “Yes, I am.”
“Tell you what. We can come get you there if something turns up in the night. Otherwise, we can check back in with you by, say, eight in the morning and decide then if we need you here any longer.”
Ash and Bone Page 5
