Otto looked down. “Her spirit isn’t as strong as it might be,” he said. He knew why.
The attendant patted Otto on the shoulder. “She’s strong. There’s nothing life-threatening. It will just take time to get her patched up.”
Otto nodded and turned his steps to the exit. Outside he found Comstock lounging against the building, basking in the warmth of the sun even as the icy wind from the ocean slashed across the village.
“Tea?” Comstock asked.
Otto paused.
“Lemme rephrase it,” Comstock said. “Either come have tea with me at Ginny’s or I’ll follow you home and you can make it there.” He grinned.
The suggestion startled a laugh out of Otto. He nodded. “Ginny’s.”
Comstock straightened and nodded. “Good man.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and clapped Otto on the shoulder. He urged Otto onward with a subtle pressure. After a few steps he asked, “Wanna talk about it?”
Otto didn’t look up, just trudged along. The weight of his error seeming to drive him into the ground.
“She’ll be all right,” Comstock said.
Otto shook his head at that. “No. She won’t.” He shook his head again. “I’ve broken her.”
Comstock stopped short, the hand on Otto’s shoulder turning them face to face. “It’s not your fault. It’s that damn Tatum kid.”
Otto didn’t look up and he didn’t stop shaking his head.
Comstock shook him. “Look at me, Otto.”
Otto looked up. “Tatum is the symptom.”
Comstock’s eyes shot open wide for a moment before a frown narrowed them and wrinkled his brow. He gave Otto another shake. “You didn’t make Tatum into a wife-beater. This is not your fault.”
Otto sighed and looked into Comstock’s eyes. “We knew about Tatum. We knew about his father. We knew the cycle. We didn’t do anything to stop it.” He paused looking down at the ground between them, ashes on his tongue. “I didn’t do anything to stop it.”
“Otto. Look at me.” Comstock crouched down and got into Otto’s view. “Yes. You’re right.”
The admission startled Otto and he blinked, focusing on Comstock again.
“We didn’t do anything to stop it,” Comstock said, emphasizing the “we.” “The company didn’t follow up. I didn’t follow up. Bobby Tatum was a bomb waiting to go off and we—the company—we didn’t defuse him. I helped him. I figured that getting him working, getting him away from his father and showing him that he had a future would make the difference. If you’re to blame for any part of this, then I’m the guy who made it happen.”
Otto shook his head. “I’m the one who told her she had to marry.” He swallowed hard. “Over and over. When the job didn’t work out, what did that leave her?”
Comstock grabbed his arm and pulled him along. “Tea. We need to talk. There’s something you should know.”
Otto let Comstock lead him into Ginny’s Diner. Ed held up two fingers to the waitress and pushed Otto into a booth, sliding in beside him, blocking him in.
The waitress brought over a metal carafe and two mugs. She took one look at the men and left without saying a word.
Comstock poured the tea and slid a mug over to Otto before pouring one for himself. They sat there, sipping without speaking, until the heat forced Otto to struggle out of his coat.
“You gonna spill it, Ed?” Otto said, his voice a low growl.
“Bobby’s out on the ridge,” Comstock said. He sipped his tea without looking at Otto. “Left three days ago.”
The time frame skipped across Otto’s brain. He couldn’t quite do the math. “He was gone.”
Comstock nodded.
“She fell down the stairs?” Otto said. “Falling down the stairs did all that?” He realized his voice got out of control and he clamped his mouth shut when the other patrons looked in his direction before quickly looking away.
Comstock shook his head. “I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Tell you what?” Otto asked.
“Sarah ever mention anything about Bobby beating her?”
Otto shook his head. “No.” He stared into his mug. “I don’t know if she would have.”
“She wouldn’t have mentioned it to you?” Comstock stared at Otto. “Her father?”
Otto sighed. “You don’t have kids, do you, Ed?”
“No. Not yet anyway.”
“Sometimes kids don’t tell their parents. I’ve seen it enough.” A sigh clambered up his chest and exited his nose. “I thought ... I thought maybe Rachel and I wouldn’t have that problem. She was always an independent cuss.” He sipped his tea. “I encouraged it.”
Comstock nodded. “She close to anybody else in the village?”
Otto shook his head. “Not that I know of. She walked with a girl named Mary a few times. Something about a path up on the bluff.”
“Recent?” Comstock asked.
Otto shook his head again. “No. Not since before she got married. She’s been living in that house ever since. I only see her occasionally.”
“Never noticed anything?”
Otto sighed and let his head hang forward, bouncing slightly on his neck. “Never saw anything. Never sensed anything.”
Comstock leaned forward, hunching over his tea. “Otto. If she doesn’t file a complaint, my hands are tied.”
Otto looked over at Comstock. “What if she does? Will your hands be tied then?”
“We can do something about Bobby,” he said. “Get her out of his hands.”
“Then what?” Otto asked. “Where does that leave her?”
The air seemed to flow out of Comstock as he shrank into himself, the realization painted on his face.
“Exactly,” Otto said. “Damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t.”
Comstock took a deep breath and faced Otto, a shadow in his eyes. “At least she’ll be alive.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Cape Grace: January 30, 2352
OTTO WALKED THROUGH the darkened village, his feet dragging against the ground. The cold, wet evening kept everybody inside unless they had a good reason to be out. He wasn’t sure about his own motivations but he needed to see her. Needed to talk to her. He stopped in front of the Tatum residence—1432 East Shell Drive. It didn’t look any different from the last time he’d visited. The time he’d left a whelkie for Bobby’s mother. Years ago, but the house bore the passing time with good grace. Perhaps the foundation plantings were larger. The maple beside the house now reached into the sky. Time does that. He hadn’t been here since? He shook his head. The wedding and reception had been in town. He had never called before.
An owl hooted in the distance, loud enough for him to hear it over the heavy compressors at the refrigeration plant at the shoreline.
He steeled himself, taking a deep breath and letting it out before crunching along the path to the front door. He stopped on the landing and knocked—a quiet three-knock pattern with his index-finger knuckle. He eyed the doorbell but didn’t want to reach for it. If Sarah was sleeping, he wouldn’t want to wake her.
He heard footsteps inside the house before the snap of a latch. The door swung open and an older woman in medical scrubs peered out. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Sarah’s father,” he said. “May I come in?”
She stepped back, holding the door open, closing it behind him after he’d entered.
“Is she awake?” he asked.
The attendant considered him, her gaze sweeping him from head to foot and back again. “Why?” she asked. Her quiet voice carried steel.
“I’m concerned. She’s my daughter. I thought we might talk.”
She gave him a quiet harrumph. “Wait here. I’ll see if she’s awake.”
Otto nodded and stood by the door. “Thank you.”
The woman padded up the stairs, her rubber-soled shoes making no noise. After a few moments, he heard quiet voices but no words. When she returned, she n
odded to the stairs. “She’s had her evening meds and will be asleep soon. She’ll see you but I’m timing you. Five ticks. No more.”
“Five ticks,” he said, nodding. “Thank you.”
She nodded at the stairs again. “Straight down the hall. Door at the end.”
He climbed the stairs and made his way along the hallway. A bathroom on the left. A second bedroom on the right. The door at the end stood open a crack, pale light shining in the dimness. He took a cleansing breath, trying to calm himself before swinging the door open.
She lay on a double bed, pillows propping her up. The swelling in her face had subsided slightly but the dim light made the bruises stand out. A narrow bandage on her cheekbone seemed to glow. “Hello, Papa. Sorry, I can’t give you a hug.” Her right arm lay in a sling on top of the covers.
He crossed the room, his footsteps slow, his gaze taking in the furnishings. The door to an attached bath stood open, the bright light over the vanity glared on the fittings. “Sarah ...” His throat closed. He tried to swallow the lump down but couldn’t. He shook his head. Started again. “I’m so sorry.”
She nodded. “Me, too, Papa. Me, too.” She stared at him, pain in her eyes and metal in her voice.
“How did this happen?” he asked.
Her eyes blinked slowly and she drew a breath. “How did what happen?” she asked. “How did I get beaten up? How did I fall down the stairs? How did I marry that asshole? How did I stay with him all this time? How did you not know?” Her voice rose with each question until she practically screamed at him.
The nurse pounded up down the hallway and stepped in front of Otto, putting the palm of her hand on his chest. “I think that’s about enough,” she said.
“It’s alright, Rose,” Sarah said. “We need to talk.”
The nurse glanced at Sarah for a long moment before dropping her hand. “You don’t need to do it tonight, do you?”
Sarah’s shoulders twitched in what might have been a shrug, but she winced. “Tonight. Tomorrow. A week from now. It won’t change it.”
The nurse nodded to Sarah before casting a stink-eyed stare at Otto. “I’m watching.” She left, but Otto knew she hadn’t gone far.
“How many times did you tell me, Papa?” Sarah asked. “How many times? A hundred? A thousand?”
Otto swallowed and looked down. “I wanted you to stay. To walk the beach. To listen to the world.”
“To be a shaman,” she said. “Yes. I know.”
“You are a shaman,” he said. “I wanted you to stay. I wanted people to know.”
“I am a shaman,” she said. “But you told me I needed to be married. You pushed Bobby at me. I’m here. I can’t be deported. You got what you wanted.”
He shook his head. “Not like this. This isn’t what I wanted.”
She took several breaths, her eyelids flickering, as she sank into the bed, the tension bleeding out of her with each breath. “Be careful what you wish for,” she said. Her eyelids fluttered closed.
“She’s out,” the nurse said behind Otto. “That’s your cue.”
He nodded. He pulled a small figure from his coat pocket and slipped it onto the nightstand beside the bed.
“What’s that?” the nurse said, voice low but still suspicious.
“A whelkie,” he said.
Rose grunted but left it, standing aside with a pointed look at Otto.
He nodded and left the room, finding his way down the stairs and out into the chill night. The door closed behind him, the latch snapping into place.
Clouds had closed in, blocking the sky. A faint mist fell, giving the streetlights a halo. He sighed and hunched against the weather as he made his way back to the cottage, wondering if it would ever feel like home again.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Cape Grace: February 12, 2352
THE VIEW BETWEEN THE cottages wasn’t ideal but Otto didn’t dare get any closer. So much had gone wrong. Sometimes you just had to let the world unfold.
Sarah sat on the back stoop, her straight hair forming curtains that shielded her face. The sinking sun drew all the color in the world up into the sky leaving only grays and blacks. Even at a distance Otto saw pain in the way she hunched over the small object she held in her hands. Her fingers flashed in the gathering evening, rolling it round and round as she fiddled with it.
A stray breeze from the harbor brought the whiff of rotting rock weed and rattled the shells lashed to the top of his staff. The locals found him colorful with his feather and shell bedecked walking stick. The son of a shaman is a shaman. It wasn’t just a saying on St. Cloud. It was a way of life.
Her fingers stopped their restless flipping. She leaned forward just a bit for a moment, then tilted her head back to look up into the sky. As she gazed, her fingers wrapped around the small carving and Otto saw her posture stiffen from a resigned slouch to a vibrant resolve. She held the whelkie up once more and gazed at it for a long moment before turning her face to the sky once again.
Every real whelkie in the universe had been carved by a South Coast shaman. Otto reached into his pocket and pulled out the familiar carving—a small sand crab. The shape of the shell, the way the pincers and legs folded under yet still, unmistakably, belonged to the crab. His fingers had smoothed patches in the wood and the oil from his hand had darkened it over the stanyers. A true whelkie with a purple shell for its heart, carved by a real South Coast shaman, given to him according to custom and tradition many seasons gone. He rubbed a thumb across the crab’s broad back and blinked back the moisture.
She stood and entered the small cottage, the screen door slapping shut behind her.
Otto sighed and turned away. He glanced up at the sky and saw the diamond jewel of the orbital in geosynchronous orbit over Starvey Bay to the west. Even as he watched, a tiny sliver of light detached itself and coasted silently toward the universe beyond the sky of St. Cloud.
The sound of his staff hitting the ground with each step and the rattle of the shells against each other seemed loud in the quiet hush of evening. He heard the occasional seabird call and—in the distance—the faint crashing of the ocean’s waves against the breakwater at the harbor’s mouth. The quiet thrum of the world’s turning resonated at his core like the lowest string on some ineffable stringed bass. When he listened to the world, he sometimes heard the truth.
He stopped then, letting the wind rustle the shells and feathers, smelling the iodine on the salted breeze. He told himself that it was the wind that coaxed the tear from his eye, the salt that stung them.
The world knew the truth and Otto heard it.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Cape Grace: February 17, 2352
OTTO STOOD ON THE HEADLAND, looking out over the beach and the sea beyond. He lifted his nose and got a good whiff. Rockweed. Sea salt. A bit of dead fish. A seagull soared over his head, heading out along the beach. Perhaps looking for whatever died. Whatever that nasty scent had been, he hadn’t had even a touch of it for days.
“Otto!”
He turned, half expecting to see Flanagan. Comstock hustled up the trail from the cottage, his bright blue parka hissing as he arms swung. He puffed a few cloudy breaths as he finished the climb. “I’d have come down,” Otto said.
Comstock shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve been out here since, well, ever. Thought I’d come take a look.” He scanned the horizon. “I see why you like it here.”
Otto nodded. “It’s peaceful. I can see a long way. Not a lot of noise.”
A wave crashed against the headland, sending a finger of spume almost to where they stood.
“Well, except for that,” Comstock said, nodding at the rocks.
“Yeah, well. Listening to the world. It comes with the job.” He eyed Comstock. “You didn’t come all the way out here on foot just to look at the scenery.”
“No. Actually, I came out to see you.” He paused. “The crew is due back from the ridge tomorrow.”
“Bobby’s crew?” Otto
asked.
“Yeah. Well, Bobby’s ex-crew.” Comstock stopped talking, words on his lips.
“He got fired?” Otto asked.
“I just got off the horn with the Inlet.” Comstock looked at Otto. “Bobby’s dead.”
Otto felt it like a punch. “How?”
Comstock looked down at his feet and then out to sea. Anywhere but at Otto.
“How?” Otto asked again.
“I was going to ask you,” Comstock said, glancing over at him.
“Me? What would I have to do with it?”
“Seems young Mr. Tatum was screwing around on deck when they were putting the twine back in the water. Nobody’s really sure what happened—well, they know what but not how.” He took a breath. “Bobby went over the side with the net. Nobody’s sure if he slipped or hooked his gear in the twine or what.” Comstock shrugged. “By the time they got the boat turned and pulled the net back aboard he was dead.” Comstock cleared his throat. “They flew the body back to the Inlet day before yesterday. Medical examiner said he drowned.”
Otto nodded and took a deep breath, blowing it out. “That’s it then.”
“There’s one detail,” Comstock said. “Insurance. He died on the job. Goes to surviving family.”
Otto looked at him. “Me? I’m not family.”
“Sarah was,” Comstock said.
“Can you find her?” Otto asked.
Comstock shrugged. “Company, maybe. There’s got to be a record of the ship she went on.” He paused. “I thought you might have heard from her.”
Otto looked up, his gaze aimed at the daylight star in geosynchronous orbit over Starvey Bay. “I doubt I’ll ever hear from her again. She’s on her own now.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Otto.”
Otto sighed. “She thinks it was.”
“What do you think?” Comstock asked.
“I think she’s right,” he said, his voice barely audible over the sound of wind and wave. He shrugged and looked sideways at Comstock. “I think she is.”
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