by A. C. Fuller
She touched his shoulder, but he didn't turn. "Have you ever seen him with children? I mean with a kid?"
She knew he couldn't hear her.
"What kind of dad do you think he'd be?"
22
Sealth Ferry, Puget Sound, Between Seattle and Bainbridge Island
"Is there such a thing as a sea-level-high club?" Camila asked.
"What?"
"Like the mile-high club?"
"You mean people who have sex on the ferry at sea level? Really, that's what you want to be asking me right now?"
"Trying to keep things light. And I thought it would be lame to ask you about grunge music."
Camila leaned on the ferry's forward deck railing, and Alex did the same. The midday sun had cut through the clouds, but a fine mist was falling, and he peered through the fog at the island in the distance.
"Grunge was coined by the media," Alex said. "We wore flannel shirts because they were comfortable. The press needed a narrative and they ran with it."
"Tell me something more about this part of the Pacific Northwest."
"We call milk 'melk' and pledge allegiance to the 'fleg.' Also, the spiders come out in September." Alex pointed to a web spread between the railings.
"Even on boats?"
"Usually not on the ferries. We don't call them boats here. That just means this'll be a bad year for spiders. Most of the ferries around here are named for the tribes that lived here for centuries. And still do. This one is the Sealth. He was the chief of the Duwamish and Suquamish Tribes who signed the Treaty at Point Elliott in 1855."
"What was the treaty?"
"Well, long, horrible story short, the tribes gave up their lands in exchange for fishing rights, which they still hold today, though there are constant disputes." He paused. "Anyway, the ferries are mostly named after the tribes in the area. Hyak, Kitsap, Cathlamet."
"That's nice. I mean not nice. I guess it's the least the state can do, given the history."
"All people seem to know about the area is that it rains here all the time. But they don't know that half the time it's this kind of rain where you never really get wet. Hence the flannel."
"Where are we going to stay, Alex?"
He turned toward her. "I have two ideas. I left a message for my friend Bearon. He's still in New York, but his family lives here. We grew up together and his family works at the casino about twenty minutes from the ferry dock. We might be able to stay there. I also called an old family friend. She owns the bookstore in town and has a little B and B. We can walk there from the dock. And if she's there, she'll talk your ear off about local history."
He scratched at the gray, sandpaper-like material on the ferry deck with his toe. "Her name is Betty. She was close to my parents—let my mom read her poetry in the bookstore."
"Do you think she might know something about whatever your source was talking about?"
"I don't have any idea. I still don't know why we're going or where to start when we get there."
The salty air was doing him some good, but his mind was still cloudy. He watched Camila for a moment, then looked out at the water, which was gray-blue and dotted with tiny sparkles.
"What?" she asked. "What do you want to say?"
"Do you remember when I told you about my parents' deaths?"
Camila slid closer to him, and they both leaned forward, resting their elbows on the railing.
"You never really told me. I know it was a car crash, and I know it happened right after your NYU graduation."
"Seven years ago, now."
"I know that they lived on Bainbridge. And you told me about some weird dinner you had the day of your graduation, back in New York."
"I haven't been back here since the funeral. Came home, identified the bodies, left, and never came back."
Camila lowered her head to try to catch his eyes, but they were trained on the tip of the ferry, which was slicing through the water.
"What are you looking at?" she asked.
"Just the water. The way it looks like it's anticipating the ferry, like it's parting for it, when, really, it's the ferry moving the water." He glanced at Camila. "What do you remember about what I told you before? My memory is usually great, but not when it comes to this subject."
"I remember that your parents didn't visit you in New York much, and that they came a few days before graduation. I remember the dinner you told me about."
He watched the evergreens along the shore of Bainbridge Island and remembered doing the same as a child, thinking they were growing larger as the ferry approached the shore. "What did I tell you about the dinner?"
"You said your mom was really into food. That you and your dad had made plans to take her to a fancy place weeks in advance, but on the night of the dinner, a few hours after your graduation, she didn't want to go."
Alex closed his eyes, and Camila put her hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"
"No. It's like there's a knot in my stomach, and it keeps getting tighter as you talk. But we need to talk about this. What else?"
"You said that, in retrospect, you saw your parents' relationship as a 'third thing.' Like there were two separate people—your mom and your dad—who had each had blurred around the edges, softened so much that a third 'person'—the relationship—had formed between them. And that, after you and your dad convinced your mom to come to dinner, that third 'person' was gone."
He opened his eyes and turned toward her. "I was in a genuinely good mood that night, too. I'd just gotten an e-mail offering me my first internship. A paid internship—back when those still happened."
"And you never asked your parents about what was going on with them?"
"No, it was one of those things I only noticed in retrospect. Like I didn't become fully conscious of it until the next day, and by then, they were dead. And you know me, I don't believe in feelings and intuition and stuff that isn't said out loud. All that kind of stuff you like."
Camila smiled. "I do know that about you."
"But I knew something was off. Like really off."
"So, tell me anything you remember about the next twenty-four hours."
"We had dinner. Then, the next morning, they flew out. I had partied after the dinner. I was probably still awake, or still partying, when their flight took off."
"I bet."
"Anyway, they got into Seattle around 11:00 a.m. local time, then took the ferry, just like we are, to Bainbridge."
"This exact ferry?"
The ferry hit a wave left in the wake of a cruise ship that had passed ahead of them earlier. It gave a jump and shot up a thread of mist that disappeared ten feet below them. Camila was startled and jumped up, then leaned back onto the railing.
"Well, probably not this exact one, but yeah," he answered. "They had parked their car at Sea-Tac airport while they were in New York, so they just picked it up and drove onto the ferry. You know, there are two decks of cars below us."
"Yeah, I saw them when we were getting on."
"So, they drove off the ferry around 1:00 p.m., and they would have gotten onto 305. They lived on the east side of the island, where I grew up. So, within about five minutes, they would have been turning onto Cedar Hill Road, then meandering along until they hit Salmon Berry Street. That's where they died. The house was right on the water on Salmon Berry. But they never made it. Their car swerved off the road. They had this blue Camry. I learned to drive in that thing. Faulty gas tank or something. Cars don't usually burn with an impact like that. That's what the officer said, anyway. Somehow, the car got wedged up beside a tree and burned, with both of them in it."
As the ferry approached the island, Alex noticed a familiar row of cedar-sided houses lining the beach. In the distance to the west, over the tree line on Bainbridge, he could see the Olympics just under the cloud bank, deep blue and white-capped. "You can't see it all from here—Bainbridge is pretty big. About twelve miles north to south and five miles wide. Twice the size of Manhattan
, but with all sorts of little inlets and bays. We'll be docked soon. You want to head down to the deck where we can get off?"
"I do, but first I want to ask you something. What do you think happened?"
"We really should get down toward the exit."
"The boat is still moving. We're not going to miss our chance to get off." She put her hand on his forearm, which was resting on the peeling metal railing. "What do you think happened?"
"I don't know. But it's never felt right. Even the officer who found the bodies said it didn't feel right. But it's not like they get many homicides out on Bainbridge. I only remember ever hearing about one. A crazy triple-murder in 1989. Scared the hell out of me. From what the officer said, in my parents' accident, there was no evidence of . . . of anything. My dad was sixty and had never had an accident. Then, to crash two blocks from his house on a clear afternoon? And when I thought back on the dinner the night before, I don't know . . ."
The ferry neared a slip between two massive poles covered in barnacles. A man appeared on the deck below them in a bright yellow, rubber suit. He gestured and guided the ferry into the slip, and it came to a stop with a slight bounce.
On the shore, rows of cars and bicycles waited to board the ferry.
"What are we gonna do when we get off?" Camila asked.
Alex turned toward the center of the ferry and began walking toward the staircase. "We'll go see Betty."
23
Inn on the Sound, Bainbridge Island
The Inn on the Sound sat two blocks from the ferry terminal at the eastern edge of the island.
"I think this used to be apartments," Alex said, staring up at the cracked, light blue paint of the three-story building.
They climbed a few exterior stairs and entered a small lobby. Alex rang a bell on the counter.
"It's nice," Camila said, moving from the lobby into what looked like a sitting room.
The walls were lined with books and the mantle held a row of model sailboats. A small copper telescope pointed out toward the sound from a bay window.
Camila flopped down on an old couch covered in hand-embroidered quilts. "You called her, right?"
"Yeah, I left a message, but didn't hear back. It's weird, walking through town, I was thinking that it doesn't feel the same."
"Maybe it's you that's changed," Camila said, turning toward the sound of a closing door.
"Oh, deary, is that you, Alex? I just got your message."
Alex turned toward the warm, familiar voice of Betty Goodson, who was emerging from a room off the lobby wearing a simple turquoise top over white slacks. Her light gray hair was tied up with a pencil, her face caked with tan makeup.
She stood on her tiptoes to hug him. "My, I'd forgotten how tall you are."
"Hi, Betty. It's good to see you. This is Camila Gray."
The women shook hands and Betty said, "It's nice to meet you, too, deary." Then she led them to the lobby and had them sign the reservation book at the front desk. "You'll be in room number three."
"Do you have two rooms available?" Camila asked.
"Just the one, I'm afraid."
Alex and Camila exchanged glances.
"Well you are a couple, aren't you?"
Camila smiled. "We're just friends, Betty. But the one room will be fine. Maybe if another frees up while we're here?"
"It does have two beds. Nice beds, too. Soft and pillowy," Betty smiled. "I'll take you up." She led the way up a dark, narrow staircase, with Camila behind her and Alex in back. At the top of the stairs, she pulled a room key out of her pocket. "So, whatcha doing back home anyway, Alex? Come to show your friend the sights of the island?"
"We, uhh . . ." Alex trailed off.
"You know, Betty, we're really tired, and Alex isn't feeling well. Maybe you two can reconnect tomorrow?"
Betty frowned at Camila. "Did Alex tell you the history of the island, at least?"
Camila smirked at Alex. "Well, I was trying to get him to, but either he doesn't know it or didn't want to talk about it. He mentioned the Point Elliott Treaty, but—"
"Oh, yes. I'm a local history nut. I can tell you all about it. The Suquamish Tribe—"
"Speaking of the Suquamish," Alex interjected, "Do you keep in touch with the DeCoteaus?"
"I talk with Linda from time and time. She and—oh, heavens—now what was Bearon's dad's name?"
"Joe."
"That's right! Joe. I'm afraid they split up."
"Joe and Linda? Why?"
"I don't know. People split up, I guess. He was always a little traditional. And I don't mean to their cultural traditions. I mean, he thought a woman's place wasn't in the workforce. When they started at the casino, he was the food and beverage director and she cleaned rooms. Now, he's the assistant food and beverage director and she manages the entertainment for the whole casino."
"Good for her," Alex said. "Bummer they split up. Bearon never told me about that."
"Well, you should drop into the casino and say hi to Linda while you're in town."
Betty opened the door to the room and stood beside the doorway as they entered.
"It's small, but cozy."
"Thanks, Betty," Alex said. "It'll be fine." He smiled and sat on the bed near the door, and Camila smiled at Betty, who closed the door as she left.
"I've been thinking," Camila said, sitting in a nook by a large bay window that looked toward the ferry dock. "It seems like we know Bice had a hand in James's disappearance, but just for argument's sake, if it wasn't Bice, what else could have happened?"
"That's what I've been thinking about. James did get a weird call from a source last week."
"About what?"
He told her about the call from Innerva Shah while walking around the bed, then toward the door, then back around the bed.
When he'd finished, she said, "I think this room is too small for effective pacing."
"Yeah, and it doesn't feel like it's working, either."
"So, there are all these different threads. We know that, eventually, they're going to lead to the same sweater, but we need to pick one to follow. There are the details of James's disappearance, but we need to just let the police handle that. There's the thing about your parents, and whatever your source was referring to. Maybe you can learn more about them from Betty. Then there's the story you were working on and the source who called James."
"But we don't even know if James met him or her, or even if it was a real person."
"I know, but if it was, maybe James had some contact with him or her that you didn't hear about. Pull out your phone, I want to hear that message again."
Alex fumbled around for his Blackberry, put it on speakerphone, and played the message.
A few seconds of silence, some muffled sounds. "A-Alex, find Bhootbhai."
Camila took the phone, held it close to her ear, and played it again. "He's stuttering a little."
"He does that when he's scared. Or just anxious."
"I know that, Alex. Sounded more like 'booth' than 'boot' to me. 'Booth Buy.'"
"Could be either," Alex said.
"James said 'find Booth Buy' kind of like you would say 'find Sam.' Makes me think it's a person. When you add in the fact that Innerva said she might contact him at the conference, I'm thinking that somehow Innerva Shah is connected to his disappearance."
He shrugged. "Maybe Booth Buy is her nickname?"
"Or a location. But, somehow, he found enough time to make a short call, and he thought that was the most important thing to say."
"So, we should figure out who, or what, Booth Buy is."
She slid next to him on the bed. "Give me your laptop."
He handed his laptop to Camila, who proceeded to run a series of searches, starting with "Boot Buy," two words. The results were mostly shoe stores, and nothing that indicated anything useful.
Next, she typed "Booth Buy," and once again, found nothing that seemed relevant.
"Innerva Shah is clearly an Indi
an name," he said. "Is there any way to spell 'Booth Buy' in Hindi?"
She tried "bhoot," and found quickly that it was Hindi for "ghost."
Then she tried "bhoot" with every combination of the second part of the phrase, both as one word and two: bhootby, bhoot by, bhootbuy, bhoot buy.
Nothing. No people by that name. No movies or books with references. No locations.
"Do you know anyone who speaks Hindi?" Alex asked.
She opened the homepage of the NYU East Asian studies department, clicked on the faculty link, and scanned the names. "I'm hoping I'll remember someone from when I worked there."
Next, she clicked on the "All Faculty" list. It was hundreds of names long, and she scrolled through slowly. At the bottom of the first page, she stopped and tapped on a name: Mara Cheema, Professor of Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies.
"I started teaching at around the same time she did, and we bonded at boring faculty lunches."
As Camila dialed and stepped out into the hallway, a new voice mail popped up on Alex's phone. He cursed the poor cell reception as he called in to listen to the message.
It was Nors. "Mr. Vane, this is Officer Nors from the SPD. We have the security footage from the hotel. It will take us a while to go through it, probably a day or two. At this point, we're not treating this as an abduction or a crime, so I will let you know what we find. We were able to confirm with the hotel manager that the call to your cell phone came from the extension in the bathroom of room 2014, Denver Bice's suite. But, given that we already knew he was there, and we have zero evidence of a crime . . . well, I don't know what to tell you at this point. I'll be in touch when we learn something more."
Alex opened the door just as Camila was on her way in. He told her about the call, then asked, "What'd you find out?"
"I was able to reach Mara, and she's not sure, because it could be a few things. She said that we might be looking for the word bai—like B-A-I, which appears in a lot of languages and means almost anything you want it to mean."