And now curious members of the town Council were crowding in.
Something new showed on Krom’s face, the thick look of a cornered animal, and then the CNN minicam nosed out of the crowd and Krom panicked. He lumbered to the video cart and killed the picture. The fissure expired. The minicam swung for a head shot of Krom. He put up a hand, blocking the lens. Carow whistled and hooked a finger and the plump reporter altered course. Attention shifted Carow’s way, leaving Krom for the moment free.
I moved in, close enough to smell his sweat. I said, “Are you scared?”
He had hold of the brushed-steel handle of the video cart. He made no answer, did not acknowledge he’d even heard, as though the blood was pounding so hard in his ears he’d gone deaf to all but his racing heart.
I waited with my own heart pounding, greedy for something more.
Walter was beside me. “Shall we?”
I waited until Krom finally swung his head my way, until his depthless brown eyes hooked on mine, and I tried to read in there his future—where he’s pilloried for Mammoth—and then I turned and broke free of him and walked with Walter out from beneath the blue canopy into the open.
“Are you satisfied?” Walter asked, and I didn’t know how to answer. The rush had passed, as adrenaline will, leaving me hollowed. I asked, “Are you?” He took so long to answer that we’d started walking, and when he finally said “It’s a rough sort of justice,” I didn’t press any further. I wasn’t sure how to quantify rough justice. On the one hand, Adrian Krom had committed murder and he was free. On the other hand, he wouldn’t be playing hero in anybody else’s town, playing challenge with anybody else’s volcano. Was that enough?
Walter and I headed up Minaret, boots crunching paved pumice.
Minaret Road had grown noisy: chatter, shouts, somebody crying, the crash of rubble thrown on top of rubble. People stood out in bold relief, dwarfing the remains of buildings. Even in the distance, mile after unobstructed mile, tall figures could be seen tramping over the corrugated landscape.
We came upon what we judged to be the lab. We went inside and settled onto low seats of pitted concrete. I rubbed the ridged scar on my right hand, then pressed my hands between my knees. Maybe it’s a female thing, trying to hide scars.
“Well.” Walter braced his hands on his thighs. “What are you going to do?”
“Maybe go see if I can find the house.” I suddenly wanted to go see it all—the house, Walter’s place, Lindsay’s. Eric’s. I didn’t want to leave a stone unturned. I wanted to see everything, burn it into my memory.
“What are you going to do for a living?” Walter said.
“Oh.”
“You must give it some thought.”
I had, actually. “Maybe go into geotech reconnaissance.” Soil stability studies, make sure houses are built on solid ground.
Walter snorted.
Nobody gets killed. “What about you?”
“I’m too old to begin anything else.”
I thought, he doesn’t look too old. I’ve been treating him like old porcelain, but he looks crisp in his tan field jacket with the epaulettes and flap pockets. He looks jaunty with his scar, as though he’s fought a duel and won. He looks as though he’s finished aging, having reached an accommodation with the elements, his face settled into its final high-relief topography.
He said, “I’ve been thinking about the name.”
“What name?”
“Of our business. Sierra Geoforensics. I think we might personalize it.”
Before he spoke again I understood what was coming.
“Shaws and Oldfield, Geoforensics.” He looked at me. “I am proposing a full partnership.”
“You’re serious?”
“I do think my name should come first.”
“I’m serious, Walter.”
“So am I.” His eyes, on me, were sharp again, astringent blue.
“You wanted more than you got, just like I did.”
“Very well then, dear, what do you expect? Batting rate of fifty-fifty? I say we can do better. Or you can go crawl around building sites and expect zero percent and achieve what you expect.”
I flinched. “Do we need to do this now?”
“We need to do this here.”
I got up, and paced the lab. Not much had survived. Concrete survived, blasted and tossed here and there. Steel survived, I-beams in tangles like ropes. The storefront window survived, shattered and melted and blackened. The lab was gone but its footprint remained. I felt the sudden sharp pain of loss. I knew it would last a very long time. A lifetime. And I knew, at last, there was but one way to bear it. Try again.
I turned to Walter. “I think we should stick with Sierra Geoforensics. It’s an established brand.”
EPILOGUE
SIERRA GEOFORENSICS
TOWN OF BISHOP
INYO COUNTY, CALIFORNIA
We’re busier than water on rock, and after work today I’ll fill a thermos with coffee and catch the shuttle to L.A. to catch a red-eye to Taiwan to examine soil particles caught in a batch of black-market microchips. It promises to be an interesting case—one that will not raise my blood pressure.
Statistically, though, somewhere down the line a case is bound to come along that will grab me, again, in the heart. That’s the one my ghosts will be watching.
That’s the one I both dream of and dread.
—END OF BOOK 3, VOLCANO WATCH
—TURN THE PAGE FOR A PREVIEW OF BOOK 4,
SKELETON SEA
PREVIEW OF BOOK 4
SKELETON SEA
CHAPTER 1
When the detective phoned to enlist our services he characterized the case as a mystery at sea.
Thirty-eight hours later we got our first look at the ghost boat.
It had been found adrift and deserted.
It looked ghostly enough right now, docked in the fog at the end of the pier.
Fog eclipsed the horizon. Best I could tell, the pier jutted into a channel near the mouth of a harbor. I strained to see farther but I could not find the ocean beyond. Best I could do was taste its salt and smell its kelp and hear its waves.
Walter and I stepped onto the ramp that led down to the pier where a man in a Morro Bay Police Department parka awaited us. He was tall and lean with graphite-gray hair worn in a spiky pompadour. He looked to be in his forties or fifties—younger than Walter's sixties-ish, as Walter liked to phrase it, older than my straight-up thirty—in any case, experienced.
The detective greeted us first. “I'm Doug Tolliver, and if I'm not mistaken you'll be Cassie Oldfield and Walter Shaws of Sierra Geoforensics.”
I smiled. “You're not mistaken.”
Walter said, “We're pleased to meet you.”
“I'm pleased you two agreed to come on such short notice.”
“You were in luck,” Walter said, “we'd just wrapped up a case.”
“Let's hope that luck holds.” Tolliver gave us a probing look. “Because this one's damn strange.”
Walter's eyebrows lifted and then he smiled, face seaming like a layered seabed.
I shivered.
Wished I'd worn a warm scarf.
Or perhaps it was a shiver of anticipation. I had to admit that the detective had hooked me, too. I felt curiosity kindling, the imperative to find out what happened to that boat, out there at sea.
Tolliver directed us down the pier. “Welcome to my patch of ocean.”
***
Early this morning we'd left our home base in the California mountain town of Bishop, embarking on the four-hundred-mile drive to the California central coast town of Morro Bay. Bananas and donuts and thermos of coffee on the road for breakfast, In-N-Out burgers for lunch, vowing to eat vegetarian for dinner. We took turns driving and reading aloud—Walter, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner; me, Boats for Dummies. We arrived here at the edge of the sea in the early afternoon.
Tired, buzzed on caffeine, happy to stretch our legs, ready t
o collect the evidence.
***
As we moved down the pier the fog shifted and the boat gained definition. It was about twenty-five feet long, stacked with a wheelhouse and a mast and antennae and wires and lines that I hadn't yet learned about. The wheelhouse was at the front and on the open deck behind there was a big drum wrapped in netting.
The name painted on the white hull in red block letters was Outcast.
We halted beside the boat.
Tolliver asked, “You want the whole nine yards before we talk evidence?”
Walter nodded. “On the phone, you said the fisherman disappeared.”
“Uh-huh.” Tolliver folded his arms. “Here’s everything we know. It’s not a helluva lot. The Outcast turns up adrift, yesterday morning, not far outside the harbor. Nobody aboard. Had her running lights on, for night fishing. She belongs to an anchovy fisherman named Robbie Donie. No sign of Donie, or his body—the Coast Guard did a tide-currents-wind grid check. We assume he went out fishing the night before, Saturday—it's usually a nighttime job. Nobody saw him leave the harbor on that trip. Donie runs a small-scale operation. The fellow who crews for him is visiting family back in Pennsylvania, and he has an alibi. Nobody home at Donie’s place. He lives alone, divorced. There's an aunt in Bakersfield who never sees him and doesn’t much care. Not many friends. Nobody reported him missing. Hell, just see what he named his boat. Outcast.”
“Are you thinking homicide?” Walter asked.
“I’m looking into it—the logbook’s missing and the GPS is broken. That raises the question. But if we go the homicide route, we need a better motive than somebody thought Donie was disagreeable. I thought so myself.”
“Any prints?”
“Donie’s of course, and half a dozen unidentified sets. One set will be from Jim Horowitz, he’s the crew. We also collected hairs and fibers. Old stuff, new stuff, we’ll have to see.” Tolliver glanced toward the sea. “Other side of the coin is, could be an accident. Fishing is a damn dangerous operation. And if that’s what it was, that’s sorrowful enough, but it happens.”
“Cassie and I will shed some light.”
Tolliver slowly nodded.
I said, “Endeavor to.”
“Endeavor. Please. I've got three things I want you to shed light on. First is this damage on the stern rub rail.”
The boat was angled so that the Outcast's stern butted up to the pier. I'd read the relevant section in Boats for Dummies so I immediately ID'd the rub rail here: a vinyl strip protected the seam where the hull met the deck. There was room for only one of us so I took my hand lens from the field kit and moved in. A long scrape marred the rub rail and it was encrusted with tiny mineral grains. I put my lens to a large-ish grain. It came into twenty-power magnification. Size, somewhere around seventy microns. Shape, angular. Color, reddish. I used tweezers to pluck out the grain. Walter passed me a specimen dish.
Tolliver hovered. “What do you think?”
I said, “An oxide of iron.” I passed the dish to Walter and he grunted in agreement.
Tolliver said, “I thought maybe the boat collided with something, maybe a rusting buoy. Or it got scraped by some kind of debris, tossed up there by turbulence. But it sure doesn't look like an impact gouge.”
“Is the seafloor around here heavy in iron?”
“Despite claims to the contrary from boaters who’ve run aground, the seafloor doesn’t just jump up and hit a boat.”
I smiled. “I was thinking more along the lines of a...sand bar or something.”
Walter said, “You did mention sand evidence, Detective.”
“Make it Doug. Yeah, I did. There was sand in a duffel pack lying on the deck near the drum roller. The drawstring top was wide open. Looked like somebody ransacked the thing. Found what he was after, or it wasn't there to begin with. All we found was a bit of sand.” Tolliver took a zippered baggie from his pocket and held it up.
We peered. Not much sand in there. A pinch.
Enough.
I said, “And the third thing?”
“Over here.” Tolliver led us to a plastic bin, and opened it.
Smelled like brine. Smelled like the sea.
Inside was a rubbery stalk of brownish kelp with leafy fronds and fat bulbs, attached to a tangled root ball.
“We found that entangled in the anchor chain,” Tolliver said. “It's giant kelp, grows in coastal waters. I'm looking at the idea that Donie anchored in a kelp bed night before last. And then pulled up anchor. And then went overboard. And then the boat went adrift.”
Walter said, “Mightn’t he have caught that kelp on a previous trip?”
“Not likely. No experienced fisherman is gonna leave kelp tangled in his anchor chain.”
I said, “And our evidence?”
“In there.” Tolliver indicated the thick tangle of reddish roots at the base of the stalk. “That's the holdfast—a chunk of it, anyway. It anchors the kelp on rocky surfaces. All kinds of critters live in holdfasts—anemones, sponges, crabs, what have you—but you'll be interested in the pebble caught inside. The holdfast has been to the lab and the techs got what they wanted. Thought you’d want to extract the pebble yourselves.”
We both nodded. Grateful for a cop who recognized rocks as evidence, who treated them with the same respect given to fingerprints or cigarette butts or bloodstains or what have you.
“I'll have you sign off on the chain of evidence and you can take this stuff with you. Oh, and, we'll be moving the Outcast to our storage dock so if you need another look, let me know.” Tolliver ran a hand through his hair, spiking it even more. “I'm real eager to know what happened to her out there.”
I peered through the fog, which had thinned enough to reveal the general lay of the land. Of the water. Tolliver's pier stuck out into a narrow channel, which extended southward into the mist. The pier was at the northern end of the channel, which bent westward and opened up into a harbor. At the harbor’s mouth was a mammoth rock, a fog-hung ghost whose shape and height I could not clearly discern. Big. I looked past the ghost rock, out to open sea, just visible now as a gray rolling field beyond the mouth of the harbor. The sea was an inhospitable-looking place. Had been inhospitable, certainly, to the Outcast.
I turned back to Tolliver. “Are you sure Donie was aboard? Could the tie line have come undone and the boat went adrift? Or someone cut the line?”
“Let me show you something that says the Outcast didn’t just goddamn wander off.”
He moved to the ladder that was braced on the pier, rising to the railing at the stern. He looked back at us. “Come on, it's aboard.”
We joined him.
He started up the ladder. “Here's where it gets even stranger.”
***
At first, as I stepped over the railing, I thought blood has been spilled. And then I saw I was wrong. There were stains sprayed across the deck in thick teardrops like projectile blood spatters. But blood dries brown. These stains were blue-black.
“Feel free,” Tolliver said. “My techs have already sampled.”
Walter approached the nearest stain. Squatted. Took out his hand lens.
Tolliver said, “You need a magnifying glass to tell you that’s ink?”
Walter stood. “I’m not a mariner—much as I might have wished it. I see black viscous stains on a boat and the first thing I think is engine oil.”
“Ink from what?” I asked. “Octopus? All this?”
“Squid,” Tolliver said.
“You said Donie fished for anchovies.”
“That’s right. But he was also doing a little moonlighting, taking sport fishers out. My town’s got two businesses—a working fishing port, and tourists. We get a lot of sport fishers, real hotshots. About a month ago, we got an invasion of squid.”
“Invasion?”
“I’m not talking market squid, the kind on your plate. I’m talking jumbo.” Tolliver lifted his arm above his head, as if holding up a trophy catch. “Man-si
ze.”
I thought, holy shit.
“Invasion from where?” Walter asked.
“From southern waters, coming up from the Humboldt Current. They’re called Humboldt squid.”
“Why are they coming?”
“Hunting—the fish they eat are moving north, something to do with warmer waters moving north.” Tolliver shrugged. “Supposedly.”
I looked again at the deck, at the length and breadth of the spray, the sheer quantity of black teardrops. “You think...”
“I think hunting Humboldts is a whole new ballgame.” Tolliver pointed out a big smear of ink near the stern rail. There was a heel print in the ink. “Rubber boot. Slippery deck.”
“I see why you think he went overboard.”
“It happens.”
“And the sport fisher?”
“We're checking missing persons reports. Still, if Donie was out squid jigging by himself... Risky business.”
Walter cast a glance at the thick net wrapped around the drum roller.
“That’s how you take anchovies,” Tolliver said. “Here’s how you take Humboldts.”
Tolliver led us to an open fiberglass gear locker. We looked inside. Reels of heavy-duty fishing line. Foot-long tubes that looked like glowsticks, ringed by multi-spiked hooks.
“Humboldts hunt in packs, like a damn gang. They often come up at night—and light attracts them. Attach that jig to your line, bait the hooks, put the jig in the water. If they're around, they hit it.”
Walter gestured to the ink. “And get caught.”
“There were no squid in the hold,” Tolliver said. “So I assume the one that got caught was used as chum. Humboldts are cannibalistic.”
I said, “It sounds a little dangerous.”
“Like starting a bar-room brawl.”
END PREVIEW OF SKELETON SEA
FROM THE AUTHOR
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The Forensic Geology Box Set Page 78