“American.” He nodded and pointed to himself. “American. Prijatelj.” He used a cajoling tone. That was his plan. To sound as inoffensive as possible, to use whatever means available to get her to go with him.
She dropped the stones and, to his utter surprise, stepped within his grasp. She spoke some words that were nothing but gibberish to him.
“American. Prijatelj,” he repeated.
She nodded and wrapped her tiny arms around his neck. That move hit him hard. His toughened, unsentimental heart shattered. He cleared his throat to dislodge the lump that rose. Instinct took over. Without any conscious decision, without any active thought, his arms tightened around the diminutive figure.
“You’ll be safe with me.”
1
It was 176 steep spiral steps from the base to the viewing gallery of the Oyster Bay Lighthouse. Its life-saving beacon had stood as a lone sentinel on the northern most spur of the Washington state bay in fair weather and foul for 128 years. Built with back-breaking labor, it had been opened with great ceremony by the governor, who had invited himself to visit the coastal Pacific town to drum up support in the precursor to his failed re-election. The lighthouse had last hosted a human lightkeeper in 1979, the year it had been fully automated.
Valentina Galliano learned all these facts as she climbed upwards in a long continuous spiral. The heavy camera bag she had slung over her shoulder bumped against her hip with each step. She was the meat in the sandwich on this tour.
Behind her the tall man had to remember to climb in a semi-crouch or risk beheading himself on the upper rungs. Several times she heard the hiss of pained swearing through gritted teeth following the soft clang of flesh meeting metal.
In front of her she followed the jean-clad legs of a woman of similar stature to Galliano. That is to say slightly shorter than the average female height of five feet four inches. The woman had small, nimble feet in scuffed but sturdy athletic shoes, the type worn by nurses and waitresses who spent a lot of time on their feet. The shoes had loosely tied laces that Galliano worried would unravel and trip the woman up on her long climb. She was tempted to warn the woman of her possible impending fall, but couldn’t overcome a gnawing sense that it wouldn’t be polite.
The one member of their party not struggling with the climb was the tour guide, a spritely Septuagenarian volunteer leading the three of them upwards. He climbed the staircase multiple times a day. Galliano thought he could probably climb all the way to Mt Everest without running out of breath.
With his tanned, deeply creased face and wiry body, he reminded her of her own grandfather. Franco Galliano had kept going right through his own heart attack, refusing to slow down to even let his family take him to hospital. Galliano had never resolved her childhood dilemma. On one hand she was inordinately proud of his infallible work ethic and on the other she was undeniably furious at the hubris that had seen him die rather than retire. Work had been a matter of principle for him.
Galliano was broken out of her thoughts when they reached the summit of the lighthouse. The guide became animated as he explained the workings of the lighthouse Fresnel lantern, tracing its history to present day. The tall man asked a lot of questions. Galliano half-listened. She recognized some of the phrasing from the brochure she had grabbed from the tourism desk in the ground floor foyer of the lighthouse. Stepped, cut-glass lens. Flashes per minute. Periods of brightness. Flash panels. She had studied the brochure in the few minutes she’d waited for the tour to commence. Instead of focusing on details to include in the article she was writing, her attention was snagged by the young girl in the white tennis shoes.
She had a narrow face. Ink-black, straight hair held off her forehead with a blue bandana. Her cheeks were angular. Her nose slender with flared nostrils. Her lips were folded into a thin line, as though she contained her anger on a short, tight leash. Taken altogether, her features were striking rather than pretty. But it was her eyes that grabbed at Galliano. They were bleak, haunted. Her lifeless gaze sent a shiver down Galliano’s spine.
The woman showed no sign of interest in the guide’s spiel. She also showed no impatience to get outside to take in the view from nearly twelve stories high. What was she doing on the tour?
“Be careful stepping out. That wind is fierce. Up here it blows constantly.” The guide moved to the door. “Today’s a mild day, but even so that wind will be blowing around thirty knots.”
The metal door was fixed into the stone wall about six inches off the ground. It reminded Galliano of a submarine hatch. When the guide opened it, it was necessary to secure it to the wall with a metal clip so it remained open. He stepped over the sill.
“When you get outside, pay attention to the lantern. You’ll notice railings around it. That’s all the original lighthouse keepers had to hold onto while they cleaned the lantern glass. Now follow me and I’ll show you the best spots to take photos from the gallery of the Pacific coastline.”
He turned left. The tall man ducked to protect his head and followed him. Galliano hung back to open her camera case. The girl stepped over the metal sill. Galliano watched her turn in the opposite direction to the men. The balcony around the lighthouse was narrow. It was only logical for each of them to follow the other. It would be difficult to pass someone coming the other way. The hairs on the back of Galliano’s neck prickled upright.
Without a second thought, she slung the camera case back over her shoulder and plunged outside. It was like stepping into a maelstrom. The wind whipped her hair and her light silk pants and shirt out like a series of flags being unfurled behind her. She turned to circle to the right, following the woman.
As she rounded the curve of the wall, she could see the woman clambering over the railing, her hair flapping forward in a frenzy, lashing across her face. Under Galliano’s shocked gaze, she straddled the balustrade, one leg on the side of safety, the other dangling in mid-air. And paused. The two women locked eyes. There was no doubt in Galliano about the woman’s intentions.
“Help! Help!” she screamed, the wind tearing the words from her mouth. At the same time she lunged forward, arms outstretched. Her hands latched onto the woman’s arm, even as she was scrambling to get her other leg over. Galliano could see the void beneath her soaring down to the rocky coastline. If the woman released the railing Galliano knew she wouldn’t have the strength to hold her up.
The woman struggled to snatch her arm away. Galliano braced her feet and pressed her own body against the woman’s side, trapping her against the railing. Galliano’s lungs burned, her chest heaved, her heart hammered. It felt like minutes passed, but it was only seconds before the guide and the other tourist reappeared from the opposite direction.
The guide leapt into immediate action. He grasped the woman around the waist. The tall man gripped her legs. Together they heaved her back from the brink. The woman scratched and clawed at them, but the three of them held her against the wooden floorboards until she finally subsided into soul-wrenching sobs.
Galliano sat straight-backed on a winged armchair. The foam cushion under her butt sagged, the cushion behind her back was lumpy, as though it had been pummeled on a regular basis. Like a punching bag.
The chair was placed in the front room of a wooden-framed, Cape Cod-style, single story home overlooking the beach. The house belonged to Ermengarde Delabrousse.
Galliano could hear the roar of the waves through the open windows. The room’s low ceiling and dark timber flooring made her feel like she’d stepped back in time. As did the large hearth, chevron-tiled in slate gray that no doubt hosted roaring wood fires in winter. There was plenty of wood paneled bookcases lining the walls, the wood grain varnished to a high gloss. The bookcases held hard bound books that looked to be as old as the house.
Aesthetics aside, for Galliano the main attraction was the woman lying in a fetal position on a compact three-seater sofa upholstered in faded floral.
Midnight hair spilled against a yellow cushion. She
had one hand curled beneath her cheek. Her legs were tucked under her body. She wore a cotton housecoat and a pair of disposable toweling slippers that had been taken from a hotel at some time. Her eyelids fluttered, but she continued to breath slowly and deeply, the result of heavy sedation.
Her name was Eiza Braga and three days ago she had almost hurled herself over the edge of the Oyster Bay Lighthouse.
Since then she had been consigned to a psychiatric facility in Olympia but had refused to be held any longer than the 72 hours that was mandated. She had been released into the custody of her friend, Delabrousse. Galliano suspected Braga’s release had been partly secured by Delabrousse’s standing in the community. Delabrousse had informed Galliano that she was a former history teacher who had retired to Oyster Bay eleven years ago to write a history of the town. She had published a book every year since then, chronicling the town’s settlers, indigenous tribes, the oyster industry and its links to the railroad.
“Not that any of the books sell particularly well outside the Pacific area,” Delbrousse had confessed. “But there’s plenty of satisfaction knowing that local bookstores and tourist centers along the entire west coast peninsular stock them. During the summer months they move between two and three hundred books a year.”
With Delabrousse willing to take responsibility for Braga, overworked and understaffed local authorities had released her from their care. They had more patients to care for than they could handle.
Galliano shifted her attention from Braga to Delabrousse, sitting in the armchair opposite her, wearing a floral summer dress that blended with the upholstery. Over the top of her dress she wore an unbuttoned sweater. She had curly white hair held back at the sides with tortoiseshell barrettes. Behind steel-rimmed glasses, her eyes were a faded blue, but Galliano had a feeling they missed very little.
“Listen, Miss Delabrousse, I’m really glad I was able to help Mrs. Braga at the lighthouse, but I’m not sure why you tracked me down and invited me to your home. I don’t think I can do anything more for her.”
Delabrousse’s feet, in a pair of toweling slippers identical to Braga’s, shuffled on the threadbare rug occupying the space between the two armchairs and the sofa. She leaned forward, her hands on her knees.
“On the contrary, Ms. Galliano, you can be of enormous benefit to Eiza. In fact your help is needed by the entire Spanish-speaking minority of Oyster Bay! I overhead you tell the police that you were at the lighthouse researching a story on the town. I hope you don’t mind, but I then did a little online research of my own into your credentials.”
“I write for the Washington Witness so my bio’s not a secret. And I’m not worried, unless you confess to stalking me.”
Her bio listed her bachelor’s degree from the Bocconi University in Milan, where she had gone to explore her family’s roots, and her masters in journalism from Columbia University, where she had fled to escape her family’s roots. It mentioned her previous writing stints, starting with Il Fatto Quotidiano when she gained her first degree, and her five years at the Seattle Times. She had then shifted her focus from newspaper journalism to the airwaves. At WTOP in Washington she hosted a chat show interviewing everyone from senators to scientists visiting the area. Until founding the Washington Witness, she was proudest of the documentaries she had written and directed. Mafia Bambinos, about the effects of growing up where the family trade was crime and Chemical Analysis, bringing to light eight families’ anguish at unnecessary deaths caused by faulty ingredients in a fertilizer factory, had both been screened by PBS.
Delabrousse gave a nervous titter. “Oh, my goodness, no!”
She reached forward to the low table and depressed the plunger in the French press that had been waiting. Then she lifted the pot and poured the coffee into two china mugs. Her hand trembled. The glass tapped against the ceramic. The coffee steamed, releasing its bitter, pungent odor into the room. Galliano sniffed appreciatively before taking a sip. No one made coffee like the Italians, but French press was an adequate substitute.
Delabrousse left her cup to cool while she continued talking. “You run the Washington Witness which has a considerable social media following. That means you have a media presence that people pay attention to. It’s a platform that we desperately need to throw light on the plight of an entire community! If you don’t mind me saying so, as one writer to another, I appreciate the power of the word. And your power, my dear, is bringing this story to a wider audience so that maybe somebody in authority will look into it.”
“Story? What story? Are you talking about,” —Galliano paused to throw a nervous glance at Braga and lower her voice—“Suicide? Is there a rash of suicides in the town?”
Delabrousse waved an impatient hand, brushing aside the suggestion. “No. I’m talking about all the people that are disappearing from Oyster Bay. Fourteen at last count. I have everyone’s name listed in a spreadsheet including the last time they were seen in the town. It’s the same method I use to map my historical books. These fourteen people have just vanished.” Delabrousse gave a soft snap between wizened fingers. “As an example, let me tell you the story of Eiza’s husband. In his spare time he makes wooden bird houses that he sells via his social media page. Three weeks ago, Eiza told me Diego answered a message someone posted on his page who said they wanted to buy one of his birdhouses. He arranged a meeting before his work shift started. They were to meet at the North Pacific Bank on Sandrift Road. Diego told Eiza the guy wanted to meet at the bank so he could make a withdrawal and pay in cash. Eiza kissed him goodbye at the door. He never showed at work. He never returned home. Poof! No one saw Diego after that. He’s the fourteenth person to disappear from Oyster Bay. People are being kidnapped in this town and no one is doing a thing about it!”
Delabrousse raised a shaky cup to her lips.
“Are you saying that’s the reason Mrs. Braga tried to jump from the lighthouse? Because her husband disappeared? Maybe he was having an affair and ran off with his mistress? The divorce papers might be in the mail.”
Settling the cup back on the table, Delabrousse clasped both hands in a pleading gesture. Pain and frustration were etched in the lines across her forehead.
“Please don’t mock us, Ms. Galliano. Or may I call you Valentina? Eiza’s scared! Since Diego’s disappearance she’s barricaded herself in her house, terrified that she’ll be the next victim. No one knows who’s going to be the next target. I think the pressure of waiting and not knowing got to her. She decided she’d rather end it on her own terms.”
“What about this person who wanted to buy the birdhouse? Couldn’t you tell the police about them? Did you report Diego Braga as a missing person?”
“I couldn’t convince Eiza to go to the police. You’ve got to understand that this community, the Spanish-speaking community of Oyster Bay, they don’t want police attention. Many of them have no papers. They live day-to-day trying to avoid police attention. Not one of the families I spoke to will approach the authorities to make a statement.”
“You’re a researcher. You researched me. Who was this person Diego was supposed to meet?”
“Of course I looked into the person’s socials. The message to Diego came from a brand new page in the name of Benicio Morales. It had very little posted to it, no photos just a couple of meaningless memes, and there was nothing after the day Diego was supposed to meet with him. To all intents and purposes Benicio Morales doesn’t exist. And now it appears that Diego Braga no longer exists either, along with thirteen other Spanish speaking locals! That’s why we need you on our side, investigating this, Valentina!”
2
“Ledger, call the Sheriff’s office and tell them we’re making an arrest.”
Scout Ledger saw instantly that her face gave her away when Immigrations and Customs Enforcement Officer Whip Bogel’s face contorted with unspoken fury. That didn’t stop her making her point.
“Maria Garcia is a mother not a felon. I can’t believe you still wa
nt to pursue her for an easy bust.”
“Call the damn sheriff and tell him we’re attending Garcia’s home to make the arrest. That’s an order not a request. And I won’t say it again.” Bogel’s voice blasted at her across the partitioning that separated Ledger’s desk from his.
Bogel was nicknamed “Whip” for a reason. He was often heard boasting to his superiors that he could “whip his team into action” or “whip his men into line.” As far as Ledger was concerned all Bogel’s bluster did was a poor job of whipping ICE employees into subordination.
The three other agents on the team kept their heads lowered behind their partitions. No one added their voice to the discussion. These were the men Bogel had whipped into line. It was Ledger he was having difficulty with.
Ledger considered whether to push back against a direct order. She had made it clear how she felt about the Garcia arrest and Bogel had made it even clearer that he cared not one jot about her opinion. As the newest recruit to the enforcement and removal operations team she was already under a cloud for calling Bogel out on his paternalistic language when he referenced the team. Inclusive language wasn’t part of his vocabulary.
“I’ll make the call, Ledger.” The words came from Cyrus Carroll.
Carroll, or CC as he was called, had a face like a squashed lump of bread dough, crisscrossed by scars and wrinkles. His nose was crooked after several breaks. His eyes were two hooded currents. His chin was a belligerent jut of granite. CC had been an armed forces heavyweight boxing champ three years in a row more than a decade ago, before transferring to ICE. He had been considered one of the nation’s best advocates of the sport, but his body had paid the price of his many hours being pummeled in the ring. Despite his hardcore reputation, Ledger didn’t consider CC the misogynist Bogel was. During a late night stakeout Ledger had bonded with CC over a shared love of American muscle cars.
One Way Out: Scout Ledger Thriller Page 2