by Gerry Boyle
Estusa looked over his shoulder, started down the steps, the phone still up.
“No comment, Officer Blake? No comment for the livestream?”
Brandon said, jumped over a step, started to go around him. Estusa stayed with him, the phone still up. “This is your chance to tell your side, Officer Blake. Thousands of people are watching all over the country.”
Mia appeared on the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps.
“Brandon,” she said. “Is everything—”
Estusa started to pivot, train the phone on Mia. Brandon slapped it out of his hand, the phone clattering down the steps. “Leave her alone, you son of a bitch.”
“Jesus, Blake,” Estusa said.
Brandon pushed him on the way by and Estusa stumbled, went to one knee.
“That’s assault.”
“You’ll know it if I assault you,” Brandon said.
“That’s criminal threatening.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’re a public figure, Blake. I can photograph you anytime.”
“She’s not, asshole,” Brandon said.
“Mia,” Estusa called. “He’s killed two people now, responsible for a third. How does that make you feel?”
Brandon took Mia by the shoulders, hurried her down the sidewalk. Estusa was picking up his phone. They crossed Middle Street, went around the corner.
“Where’s your car?” Brandon said.
“Up here. At a meter. I was waiting and you didn’t text so I thought I’d just see if—”
The Volvo was ahead, same side of the street. Mia had her keys in her hand and Brandon said, “Unlock it.”
She did, the car chirping and blinking. Brandon crossed into the street, yanked the driver’s door open. He pushed Mia inside, said, “Go.”
“But what about you?”
“The boat,” Brandon said. “It’s here.”
“But when will I see you?”
“Just go. Now.”
“Brandon, please don’t do anything. Don’t hit him. It’ll come back on you.”
“Go,” Brandon said. He slammed the door and crossed the street, broke into a trot. Estusa came around the corner, his phone in his hand. Mia floored it, whipped by him, flipped him off. Brandon was around the corner, zigzagging his way back to the harbor. Across from the wharf he looked back. Estusa was in the middle of Commercial Street, waiting for traffic. Brandon trotted down the wharf, stepped into the Port Hole restaurant, crossed the room, and went through the door and out onto the deck overlooking the harbor. He jumped a gate, and slipped down the ramp onto the float.
Jumping onto Bay Witch, he climbed to the helm, hit the blower. Counted to thirty and started the engines. They rumbled. He jumped back onto the float, whipped the stern line off, then the bow. Back on the boat, he reversed, cut the wheel hard, and powered forward and away. At the end of the wharf he hit the throttle. The V-8 roared and the boat lifted, the bow coming up. He skirted the first buoy, passed the stern of the cruise ship at eighteen knots. He followed the channel to the southeast, pounding into the chop, spray coming over the bow and slapping the windshield. Around Spring Point the waters were open to the wind, the chop four to five feet. The motors roared like lions, undulating with the hull as Bay Witch porpoised through the waves, wallowing and lunging ahead.
He was running. Thatcher and Amanda. Estusa and the mob. Broward and Garcia. Churning through the gray-green waves, he was leaving them behind.
South of House Island. Past Cushing. Portland Head. Cape Elizabeth to starboard, Brandon hanging tightly onto the wheel. Don’t think, just go.
His phone was buzzing in his pocket but he left it. He swung out to catch the buoys, continued south. Scarborough, the beaches. The seas bigger out here, a lot for a 50-year-old wooden cruiser. He throttled back, for Bay Witch, not for himself. And then he began to calm, realized his heart had been pounding in rhythm with the waves against the hull. He reached under the console for a chart, flipped it open to the coastline: Old Orchard, Pine Point. Something sheltered.
Woodford Bowl.
It was an enclave at the mouth of the Saco River, five miles downriver from the mill town where Danni lived. Old money in the Bowl. A different world.
Brandon knew of it from Mia’s friends, who had family summer houses there. He’d been to a barbeque. A guy named Chandler had footed the bill: inch-thick steaks, lobster and clams, cases of boutique beers, wine from the family cellar, fancy tequila. The place was sprawling, with two big shingled houses, some kind of compound. They partied next to the croquet pitch.
Across the road there was a tennis club, people playing in all-white outfits like it was 1950. Next to that was the golf club. The guys, all blonde and fit, had an eight o’clock tee time, were joking about how they played better hungover. They’d asked Brandon to join them but he’d never swung a golf club in his life. They knew it, that he wasn’t from a place like this. From the bathroom in the house he’d overheard through the window:
A cop? You mean like riding around in a police car? No shit. Hey, but that’s cool. Lives on an old boat. Some sort of screwed-up family with no parents and shit, but Mia’s really into him. Nice guy but don’t piss him off. He’s a cop, you know? They pound people for a living.
Brandon pushed them out of his mind, pictured the harbor. Chandler’s father had a boat moored there, a big center console with twin 150s. He’d said they could take it out but everybody had too many beers. Another time.
There were a handful of moorings in the Gut, Brandon remembered, picturing the deep part near the narrow entrance to the Bowl. It was mid-tide, two hours from high, no problem getting in. September, most of the summer people would be gone. He figured at least a couple of their boats would have been pulled for the season, but still too early for the mooring chains to be dropped to the bottom for the winter. He could hook up.
He was a half-mile east of Ram Island, Scarborough Beach showing as a white-sand strip. To the southeast were the two islands that sat out in Saco Bay. Brandon dug under the console for the charts, flipped the book open. Bluff and Stratton. Three miles beyond them was Wood Island, which marked the entrance to the bowl. The seas were bigger out in the bay and he slowed, marked a course for the island, hung on as Bay Witch rose and fell, shuddering as she knifed through the chop.
Three miles, twenty minutes. The island materialized, a green smudge that turned into spruce trees and rocky shore line, surf showing white on the eastern tip. Brandon checked the chart, traced the route to the harbor mouth. A rocky point to port south of the island, keep to the middle of the channel. He watched the island get closer, then he was past it, swung east, the chop calming in the lee of the wind. He saw a few boats on moorings on the outer side of the gut, steered for them in wide loop. And then he was idling in, past the sailboats, two moorings with dinghies swinging on them. Into the gut with the incoming tide.
A yacht club, red-spattered geraniums in boxes, sailing dinghies lined up on wooden stands. A lobster pound, crates on the float, restaurant on the deck above. A big catamaran on a mooring, a couple of lobster boats. He motored on, picked up the VHF mic and tried to hail the harbormaster.
No reply. He tried again. Waited. Hung up the mic and motored deeper into the bowl, away from the yacht club, saw an empty mooring to port, the nearest boat a buttoned-up 30-foot sloop, no sign of life. He swung around and came up alongside against the tide, threw the motors into neutral and slipped to the starboard rail, hooked the floating line with a boat hook. He hung on as Bay Witch lost momentum, and then he walked to the bow, cleated the line. The boat drifted back, then caught, and pointed into the current.
Brandon looked to the shore, both sides. No one was showing. He moved to the helm, shut off the engines. Bay Witch went still. The harbor was quiet, gulls slipping by, eyeing the boat for fish or bait. Brandon left the radio on, went below to the head. Came back out and went back up to the helm. He was hidden here, ten miles and a world away from Portland.
And then his phone buzzed again. He hesitated, then slipped it out and looked. His life came roaring back.
A list of texts and Twitter messages that went off the screen.
Mia: You okay? Let me know.
Kat: We need to talk asap. Heard you chewed out Broward, smacked Estusa. Gotta hold it together, Blake. Not good.
@righteous1: police state is crumbling, killer blake gonna be the first to go. #kidslivesmatter
O’Farrell: see me, tomorrow latest, Brandon. Gotta get this back on the rails.
Charlie Carew: Brandon, we need to regroup. Trying to rebuild some bridges. Will be in touch.
@realmaine22: I was assaulted by Officer Brandon Blake @bblake95 and my phone was smashed by him. Have filed complaint with Portland P.D. See where it goes. #policecoverup #kidslivesmatter #portlandjustice
@pshakespeare1979: how can you sleep? Maybe you can’t. when you’re lying there think of my beautiful baby girl and what you’ve done.
@munjoydude: can’t cover this up anymore. put another notch on your gun blake? The people gonna rise up and take you down with the rest of the Gestapo cops.
@jesusfreak545: you may get away with this, officer blake. But you will be brought before your maker. “when justice is done, it brings joy to the righteous but terror to the evildoers.” Proverbs 21:15.
@trawlingsmaine: you can’t hide, blake. The world isn’t big enough. There will be justice for Thatcher. You will spend many years behind bars. If you live that long. I hear they hate cops in prison.
Danni: Hey Brandon. How you doing? Worrying about you (the news). Hope you don’t think that’s weird! Gimme a shout, grab a coffee, pick up the book. I’m off today. Maybe you need a break.
The messages kept going, screen after screen. Brandon put the phone down, reached under his seat. The diary was still there. He took it out, flipped through the pages again. Closed it and put it down on the console. He picked up the phone, texted Mia:
How you doing? Sorry about today. You shouldn’t have any thing to do with this. Or me, for now. I’m fine. Found a mooring, tied on. Just needed a break. I’ll call you.
And then he called, said, “Hey there. This is Brandon.”
Danni said, “Hey, you hanging in?”
“Yeah, thanks. I’m fine. How you doing?”
“Good.”
“Listen, got your text. Thanks. I’m on my boat, but not in South Portland. Listen, how ’bout I just toss the thing. I could just burn it. Mia’s apartment has a fireplace. I’ll even send you a video of it burning.”
A moment of silence, then Danni said, “Nah, to be honest I’d kinda like to have it. Like a record of that part of my life, you know? I have a bad day I can look at that, say, shit could be worse. I could have a humungous zit on my forehead and my boyfriend just dumped me for my best friend.”
She laughed but there was something desperate about it, Brandon thought. Like she absolutely had to have the diary in her possession.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I mean, if you don’t mind. I’ll come to you, unless you’re out in the middle of the freakin’ ocean.”
Another laugh, still with the edge on it.
“Okay,” Brandon said. “Not in the middle of the ocean. I’m tied up in your town. Woodford Bowl.”
“I’ll come down.”
“I’ll watch for you.”
He did, after he straightened up the cabin, shoved the trash bags forward. And then he went back up the helm and waited, the diary in his hand, blood dried hard and black on the cover. A random page, Danni sleeping with an older guy who was living with a woman. She found out and the guy went back to the girlfriend. No boyfriend, no marriage. No babies, Danni wrote. I hate life. It sucks. Please let me die like my car.
Brandon could relate, everything falling apart. But the tone in her voice was more than trying to avoid embarrassment. More serious, like if Clutch found out she’d slept with four guys in high school he’d kill her. Why? Did he know her then? Was she sleeping with all of his friends?
He flipped more pages.
Danni fired from Dunkin’ Donuts for missing a shift. Bickering with her best friend because at a party the friend called her fat. Getting another old clunker car from her grandfather, caught driving it without a license.
Brandon held the book open, flipped from the back cover. Started to do it again and stopped. The pink page on the inside of the back: Danni had written names of boyfriends, crossed them out, like someone counting off days in a prison cell. The top right corner of the page was ragged, like someone had picked it with a fingernail. Brandon did just that, and the paper peeled back.
Inside was another piece of paper, the same handwriting but smaller. He slipped it out, read:
July 21, 2012
This lie is getting harder and harder to live with every anniversary. I want to leave Clutch, go somewhere where he can never find me. I could start over, work in a restaurant, change my name. But we’re tied together, him and me, all cause of what happened. I wish I’d of known then what it was gonna be like, carrying this secret around. I would of gone right to the cops. Say to them, do what you want to me. I don’t care. It can’t be worse than this freakin life sentence. But you can’t undo what’s been done. Maybe that’s your punishment, having to live with it, being stuck forever with a guy who could do that and not blink an eye.
Brandon turned the paper over. Blank. Turned back and read the note again. He flipped to the front of the book, started to pick at that page, too.
When his phone buzzed. He picked it up.
Danni: I’m here
He looked out toward the yacht club. Danni was standing on the float by the overturned dinghies. She waved. He waved back, went down the ladder, left the diary on the table in the salon, came back out and flipped the inflatable overboard, tied it off, pulled two lifejackets and the oars from the stern locker. He tossed the oars and lifejackets in, untied the dinghy and stepped in. It drifted off the stern and he rowed, thinking, what secret? Did the guy beat her, even back then?
Could have called the cops but went back to him? Accepted it? But she’d told him he didn’t hurt her, not physically.
A lie to cover up the reality? Maybe the truth was too hard to admit to. She felt complicit. Embarrassed.
He turned over his shoulder and she was standing on the edge of the float. “Hey,” she said. “That thing big enough for the both of us?”
Brandon got her aboard, steadying the dinghy against the stern. Danni said, “Jeez. This is like Gilligan,” and sang, “This is a tale of our castaways.” He smiled, tied the dinghy off and stepped onto the stern. Danni took a few tentative steps, peeked into the salon. “Hey, this isn’t bad. It’s like a camper but better.”
He led the way down two steps and in, the salon still smelling like oil and polish. Brandon said, “One of my fans decided to trash the place yesterday.”
“Are you serious?” Danni said. “What’s wrong with these people?”
Brandon shrugged. Picked up the diary from the table and held it out. She grabbed it, said, “I’m not even going to open it, I’m so embarrassed. I hope you didn’t read the whole thing.”
“Bits and pieces,” he said.
“Always having my heart broke. Some serious self-esteem issues. I know that now. Back then I was just a chubby high school girl, just wanted a boyfriend, you know? Somebody who thought I was special. Never quite found it.”
“Have you now?” Brandon said.
She looked at him, surprised.
“With Clutch? Hey, he’s rough around the edges but you get used to each other, you know? I mean, you didn’t exactly see him at his best. We talked and kinda straightened things out. He’s just got a wicked active imagination, thinks guys are all after me. Which is definitely not happening.”
Danni looked at him. She was holding the diary in two hands against her chest, the flower-print cover clashing with her bright blue sweatshirt. The sweatshirt said “MAINE” in big letter
s across her chest. Her jeans were cropped above the ankle and her white running shoes were a store brand, like you’d get at Kmart. There was a tattoo of a butterfly on her left ankle.
“I saw the note you stuck in the back,” Brandon said.
She flushed, stammered.
“Oh, jeez.”
“Sorry. I was just holding it and saw the page had been picked at and did the same thing. Didn’t mean to pry into your business.”
Danni flipped the diary open, slapped it closed.
“Nah, that’s okay, really. I mean, we had some rough patches there. Got ’em fixed back up. Whatever. So much for the fairy tale, right?”
“You said it was a life sentence, or something like that. You sure you’re all right? Because there are people you can talk to, places you can go.”
“Oh, I know. But we’re okay now, really,” Danni said. “No worries.
She stopped, looked around the boat as though to change the subject. Still looking away, she said, “The hard part is keeping it all to yourself, you know? It’s like you’re living this lie or something. After a while it gets to be a lot.”
“I know it’s not easy but you can get out,” Brandon said.
“Hey, I can hang in. Nothing like it used to be.”
“What’s the anniversary? Of when you got together?”
She looked at him, eyes narrowing, alarmed.
“You said that in your note. Anniversaries.”
The alarm passed.
“Yeah. Right. ’Cause we’re not married. I mean, Clutch, he thinks we’re either together or we’re not. We decide. I wouldn’t mind, too late for a church wedding, but maybe some small thing. In a park or Foxwoods or whatever.”
She grinned. “Every girl wants to be a bride, right?”
Brandon gave Danni the tour, which, in a 30-foot boat, doesn’t take long. She seemed interested but restless, like she wanted to go but then kept deciding to stay. She sat in the helm seat and Brandon stood beside her, explained the controls. They looked out over the basin, the boats all pointed to the harbor mouth into the tide. Danni said, “You must feel like you have nobody to talk to.”