“No.”
Abadi’s smile petered out.
“I want Alex for the entire night in my motel room.”
Abadi’s eyes flashed wide. “That how it’s done in San Diego?” “That’s how it’s done.”
“Only been asked for that a couple of times up here.” The cash register in his eyes went kha-ching, kha-ching. “Where ya staying?” he asked.
“I’ll call and tell you tomorrow.”
Abadi leaned his head back and threw the entire shot glass of whiskey down his throat. He swallowed hard. He laughed. “Here I thought you were a newbie when you walked in. I can see you’ve done this before. Don’t want Alex at the same place the company’s paying for, huh?”
I smiled and pointed at Abadi. “Smart guy.”
“Okay, here’s how it works. Eight hours. Twelve hundred dollars. You pay in advance. I’ll have Alex delivered to your door at ten P.M. tomorrow night and picked up at six A.M. the next morning.”
I took a swallow of beer. “One hundred now. One hundred when Alex shows up. A grand when she leaves.”
“No way.”
“Thanks for the beer.” I slid back from the table and stood up. I’d only walked a few paces when Abadi called out.
“Mr. Campbell, not so fast. Have a seat.”
I turned around and walked back but I didn’t take a seat. Abadi stood up to meet me. He rose only to the top of my chest. He looked up. “Two hundred. Five hundred. Five hundred.”
“One hundred for the seat. One hundred for the leading lady’s appearance. A thousand for her performance.”
Abadi took a deep breath. “Western sales manager, huh? They should make you the fucking CEO of Mitsubishi. All cash?”
“All cash.”
I pulled out a wad of twenties and peeled off five for Abadi. He handed me a card.
“When you know where you’ll be, call this number. I’ll have Alex there at ten.” He wagged the bills in my face. “Just remember one thing. You screw around with me and you’ll be pushing up daisies instead of my tulips.”
twelve
I awoke the next morning and lay in bed as the Noble Lady rocked gently, and a lone cloud moved slowly back and forth across the skylight.
Stepping over the line into the shadows of Bellingham frightened me less than watching my own shadow emerge. The part of me that enjoyed ramming Danny the Pimp’s head into his bumper I usually manage to keep in check. But something about a man who sells a woman’s body tips me over.
I tumbled out of bed, then pulled Maria Delarosa’s card from my wallet. I called her cell phone. She answered with the sounds of heavy equipment whining and grinding in the background.
“I need you to translate for me.”
“I’m a labor negotiator and human rights activist, not a translator. You can hire them from the yellow pages.”
“It’s a human rights issue. A young Mexican woman whom I’d rather not see at the bottom of the ocean floor.”
“When?”
“Nine tonight at a motel near Mount Vernon. I’ll call when I have the exact location.”
“I’ll be there.”
I also called Raven.
“Can you meet me in Mount Vernon this evening?”
“Where?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“When?”
“I’ll call later and tell you.”
“Why?”
“To talk a young woman out of winding up at the bottom of Eagle Harbor.”
“Hmmm. . . . Spirit called your name again.”
“Do you have a weapon?”
“Call me later,” Raven said.
I took that to mean yes, though I decided not to ask if he also had a permit.
I fell to the floor for a round of push-ups, sit-ups, and some stretching. Okay, so I didn’t raise the heat on the Noble Lady to 105 degrees like Kate’s hot yoga studio; still my body felt refreshed. I mixed a protein smoothie and, while sipping it, I read and hummed the first lines of the second movement of the English Suite. Afterward, I played them over several times on my guitar.
When I’d finished my morning rituals I popped the engine access cover, checking fluids and vital signs. Finally, I climbed up to the pilothouse and cranked the ignition key. The engine fired up and the Noble Lady purred.
I don’t like being shot at. Especially when I don’t know the shooter. Some things had bugged me ever since Raven and I took gunfire while diving in Eagle Harbor. How did the gunman get onto the island? And how did he escape from Eagle Harbor? Why hadn’t the park ranger run into him, when we so easily ran into her? Had I missed a trail? Had she not told us all she knew? Could Cypress Island yield evidence that we’d overlooked?
The wonderful thing about Cypress is that it’s only accessible by boat. So, satisfying my curiosity meant cruising there in the Noble Lady. A real sacrifice since I probably wouldn’t have time to cruise back to Bellingham and then drive down to Mount Vernon to rendezvous with Alex. What a hardship. I’d have to cruise the Noble Lady from Cypress to La Conner and tie up at one of my favorite docks.
With the Noble Lady ready, I unraveled the lines tethering me to land and pushed the boat back into the fairway. I hopped aboard and scrambled into the pilothouse. On our way out of the harbor, we slipped quietly past finger piers normally crammed with boats but now peppered with empty spaces. Boating season fast approached its crescendo in late July.
I rounded the breakwater and passed the green entrance buoy. I brought the Noble Lady up to speed, then set her on course. I clicked on the autopilot. The sun dazzled in a cloudless blue sky. Little wind blew across Bellingham Bay. Far in the distance, the clear weather treated me to a rare sight. I blinked my eyes, then pulled out my binoculars. No, the clouds hadn’t played a trick.
To the left of the saw-toothed, snowcapped peaks of the Olympic Mountains, the massive snowy dome of Mount Rainier stood tall behind the dark shadows of the low-lying islands that fringed the rippled waters of the bay.
When a coast guard assignment had first brought me to the Northwest years ago, I’d read a book on Mount Rainier. Tahoma, “the Mountain that was God,” the first inhabitants here called volcanic Mount Rainier. She stood across the water and apart from the “Home of the Gods,” as the Greeks knew Olympus—the fiery local god looking askance at the presence of stranger-gods bent on staying.
Tahoma disappeared behind the tallest part of Fidalgo Island. I turned my attention to the dark green hills south of Bellingham and several ridges in from the bay. A developer wanted to populate this landscape with hundreds of homes. And the fiery local residents looked askance at the presence of strangers bent on staying.
A swift ebb carried me through Devil’s Playground. I never did ask Raven what the natives called this stretch of water. Past Viti Rocks, the ebb whipped me like a slingshot pellet toward the Cone Islands. From there I headed into Eagle Harbor, where I counted fifteen boats at anchor—another sign of boating season under way, and diminished fears of more dead bodies. I didn’t share the same optimism of the captains who’d dropped anchor at Eagle Harbor.
A gleaming white Bayliner zoomed out of Eagle Harbor, headed my way. Water topped with foam curled from the boat’s bow. I slowed down as Wake Up sped past me with the captain waving and smiling as if to say, “See me in my pretty boat.”
I spun the wheel hard left, and a moment later Wake Up’s wake crashed into the Noble Lady, sending her rocking and reeling as though we’d just ventured into four-foot seas. Dishes rattled in the sink below me. Behind me, books jumped over guardrails and hit the floor. I slid the pilothouse door back and watched as Wake Up sped merrily along, oblivious to the havoc in her wake.
Now, I have nothing against going fast in boats. But I bet every captain of a sailboat or a slower trawler like mine would love to have the captain of a fast boat like Wake Up aboard just once to experience the broken dishes, lost meals, and bone-jarring crunch from a fast boat’s wake. Maybe then the captains of these s
eagoing rockets would slow down when they met us on the water.
I anchored at the mouth of Eagle Harbor in fifty feet of water. Behind me, toward the shore, sun glinted off the windshield of the park ranger’s boat tied to the two pilings, which leaned at angles and oozed tar from their pores as though suffering the withering effects of old age.
I lowered my dinghy and rowed a couple of hundred yards into the small beach where the park ranger had pulled her dinghy above the sand and rocks. The tide still ebbed, so I let my dinghy float in the water and tied a long line from it around a large piece of driftwood on the beach.
I had remembered my hiking boots. I slipped into them and left my sandals near the park ranger’s dinghy. Half a mile up the trail, a raven’s cluck emanated from the forest to my left, followed by the rhythmic swooshing of air as the big bird flew overhead.
I liked Raven. I’ve known men who’d spent many years embarking on dangerous missions, witnessing horrors, and committing unspeakable acts, all in the line of duty. They often appeared aloof as a means of self-preservation, a way of keeping distance between the outside world and the demons they battled within. I wondered how much of Raven’s seeming aloofness lay in his obvious spirituality, and how much resulted from the inner battles he fought.
Not much farther along the main road, a trail led off to my right. I had overlooked another way a gunman could have escaped. Grass had overgrown most of the trail, but fresh tire marks cut two narrow lanes through the growth.
It took me half an hour to reach the buildings where the park ranger lived and worked, at the edge of Reed Lake. No sounds of life emanated from the compound. I called out several times. No one replied. I knocked on the garage door. No one came. I climbed up a high stairway to a white door that looked like it might open into the ranger’s private residence. I knocked on the door pane. No one answered. I tested the handle. Locked.
Water from a fast-moving stream rushed behind the building. I turned to walk down the steep stairs when a loud buzz came at me. A hummingbird hovered a few inches in front of my face. We watched each other for several seconds before the bird buzzed away. Maybe it liked my bright orange T-shirt.
The throaty whine of a diesel broke the stillness of the day. It approached the compound from below, on the road I had walked to get here. I climbed down the stairs and took a seat at a picnic table near the interpretive signboards. Moments later, the park ranger bounced to a stop. I stood up. The ranger bounded out of the truck and over to me. She had a big smile.
“Mr. Noble, what brings you back?”
“It’s funny,” I said. “What I remember most about you is AWOL. But I’ve forgotten your name.”
She laughed. “At least you remembered what’s most important about me. Adventure without limits. Carol. Carol Jenkins.”
I snapped my fingers and pointed to her. “That’s right. CJ.”
“Just out for a cruise and a hike?”
“No, I came to ask you a few questions.”
Her smile dissolved. “About the women?”
“About the shots that were fired.”
“I told you all that I knew.”
“It’s more about the trails on the island.”
She squinted, then screwed up her face, accentuating the network of lines already there. “Trails?”
“Yes, that trail off to the right as you’re coming up here, where does it lead?”
“Oh, it connects to the Lake Loop, but most people don’t walk that way because it’s overgrown. I just came over it a few minutes ago. Lake Loop goes to Duck Lake, with turnoffs for Pelican Beach and Eagle Cliff. Beyond Duck Lake, the trail leads to Smuggler’s Cove.”
“On the west side of the island?”
“Yes.”
“On the day we were shot at, no one came up this way?”
“I told you before, no one as far as I know.”
“So whoever shot at us could have taken the cut-off to Duck Lake.”
“Could have.” CJ hiked her thumb over her shoulder toward the pickup truck. “Can you walk me back to the truck? I need to unload cut wood from a tree that fell on the Duck Lake trail.”
“I’ll help.”
She frowned and shook her head. “It’s what I get paid to do. Besides, you’re not insured.”
“Well in that case,” I said, “I think I’ll take a walk over to Smuggler’s Cove.”
“Hope you packed a lunch. It’s a good five or six miles there and back to Eagle Harbor.”
I winked. “For breakfast I had a protein smoothie with all manner of healthy ingredients.”
CJ shook her head and frowned. “Never cared for that stuff.”
“It grows on you,” I said.
I started back down the trail when I caught a glimpse of a rifle shell casing in the dirt. I walked over to the side of the road and bent down to pick it up. A Remington 30-06. I turned and called to CJ, who was unloading wood from her pickup.
“Spent rifle shell.” I waved it at her. “Do you own a rifle?”
She called back. “Hunters. The island’s open to deer hunting in the fall.”
I examined the shell further. It looked too new to have weathered the winter. I slipped the casing in my pocket and continued on to Smuggler’s Cove.
At first the trail paralleled Eagle Harbor, giving me a bird’s-eye view of the boats, most of which were sailboats or fast, sleek Bayliner types. But one boat caught my attention: a tugboat with a green and gray hull that stood proud among the boats around it. I couldn’t make out the boat’s name from this distance, but it looked like a Lord Nelson Victory Tug. A classic boat not unlike the Noble Lady.
At the head of Eagle Harbor, the trail cut through tall grass then headed inland past huge stumps of old-growth cedar. From some of the stumps, new cedar trees had sprouted and grown, wrapping their roots around the stump like a spider weaving a web around a fly, intent on sucking life from its host.
I reached the juncture of the Duck Lake trail and the trail to Pelican Beach. Ahead of me, two women were walking in my direction, engaged in an intense conversation. I didn’t think they noticed me.
I called out so as not to surprise them. “Hello.”
The heads of both women snapped up. “Ahoy,” the older woman said. She’d tucked her gray hair under a black Greek fisherman’s cap.
We stopped upon reaching one another.
“Are you on a boat?” the younger woman asked.
“Willard 36 Aft Pilothouse moored at the entrance to Eagle Harbor.”
The older woman nodded. “Bill Garden classic,” she said. “Don’t see many of them on the water.”
“You know boats.”
“We own a Victory Tug.”
“Gray and green? Anchored in the harbor?” I asked.
“That one,” the younger woman said.
“Out cruising the San Juans?”
“Hell,” the older woman said. “We ought to be in Prince Rupert by now, but we got a damn late start this summer. One of our cats got sick, and we had to leave him in a veterinary hospital for a month. It kind of set us back.”
The younger woman smiled. Her blue eyes sparkled. “But he’s okay now,” she said. “And ready to cruise north.”
“First time north?” I asked.
The women looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Twentieth summer to Alaska,” the older woman said.
“Oops.”
“Have you taken your Willard to Alaska?” she asked.
“Been to Alaska on a large boat, but only as far as Desolation Sound on my own boat.”
Both women shook their heads. In unison, they said, “You’ve gotta go north.”
“I intend to.”
“At least north of Caution,” the older woman said.
“Cape Caution?”
“Yep,” she said. “North of Caution. That’s where the cruising’s at its best.”
“We planned to cruise up to the Broughtons this summer,” I said.
“Nice,�
�� the younger woman said.
“If you get that far, go a little farther, through Nakwakto Rapids and back into Belize Inlet,” the older woman said. “Our friend Charlie shares a float home in Strachan Bay with a fellow named Buck. If you do go, please tell him Helen and Denise said ‘hi.’”
I extended my hand to both women. “Charlie’s my name too. Charlie Noble.”
Helen, the older woman, laughed. “Named after the galley stovepipe, huh?”
“My dad cooked on a merchant marine boat.”
“Guess you were fated to be a mariner.”
“We need to get back to Kaddis,” Denise said. “To check on our cats.”
“Kaddis? Interesting name for a boat.”
“Kaddis is a Nubian word,” Denise said, “which means cat.”
“Nice to meet you, Charlie,” Helen said. “And don’t forget. North of Caution. That’s where the real excitement starts.”
We parted ways, and I continued walking toward Smuggler’s Cove. Helen’s voice played over again in my mind. North of Caution? Forget cruising the Inside Passage. North of Caution seemed my destination tonight.
The trail to Smuggler’s Cove wove down through cedar and fir forests to the west side of Cypress Island. The remnants of an old cabin stood up from the shore.
A plaque in front of the crumbling remains told the story of Zoe Hardy, who early in the twentieth century rowed a boat out to Cypress Island and homesteaded this small bay, eking her survival from the land and the sea. She must have been one strong woman. Reading about her life brought to mind CJ, Kate, Janet, Helen and Denise, and the many other strong women who still cruised these seas.
I stumbled over rocks, making my way down to the water’s edge. From the number of crushed shells, it appeared that Native Americans long ago had also used this beach. I stooped down to pick up a broken clamshell.
Sharon loved to beachcomb. She’d spend hours walking the shoreline, picking up shells, lamenting that they were broken, placing them back where she’d found them, then continuing to look for more. I liked to walk with her to experience her joy upon finding a perfect shell or piece of glass with worn, rounded edges. We’d make up a story about the age of the glass, where the fragment came from, and the route by which it got to the beach where we had found it.
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