3 a.m. (Henry Bins 1) Page 12

  A vibration in my pocket startled me out of my rumination. Staring at the screen, I fought the urge to flip the phone open. It pulsed four times then relaxed, then pulsed again two minutes later, notifying me I had a new message. Must be some message. But then again, Alex loved Kathy Bates.

  I stared at the phone for a solid minute, then reared back and hucked it at the setting sun. For a brief moment I thought it would reach the rippling black water. But it lost velocity, splattering against the rocky shore, its ashes quickly swept away by the incoming tide.

  Bye, Alex.

  I rubbed my right shoulder and peered over the edge of the balcony, then I leaned down and squinted hard. Something was floating in the water. It would hit the black rocks then be sucked back into the channel with each ebb and flow. The white water receded into the black rocks, and I was granted a quick glimpse of arms and long black hair.

  It was a woman.

  Chapter 3

  I should mention that in another life I’d been a homicide detective. So I’d seen my fair share of dead bodies. In fact, I’d seen most people’s fair share of dead bodies. For the last four years of my career I’d been a Special Contract Agent to the FBI’s Violent Crime Unit. In a nutshell, I outsourced my skills, instincts, cleverness, and good looks to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Half the time I was working hand in hand with the FBI—Fruitdicks, Backstabbers, and Impersonators—the other half I was getting yelled at by them.

  Then I went and got killed. But as you can see, I’m not dead—thanks to some stubborn doctors, a couple of electricity-charged paddles, and eight pints of somebody else’s blood.

  I bought a quiet house in Maine—wheelchair accessible, of course—and opted for early retirement. I kept myself peripherally related to the world of law enforcement by teaching an intro-level criminology class at the local university. But I’d lost my passion for this as well. I’d lived my life by the age-old axiom, “Those who can do. Those who can’t teach.” But all I wanted to do was sit on my couch. Without the job, I wasn’t really sure who I was. I was defined by the job. I think this may have contributed to Alex leaving me for a day trader, but then again, I might just be Monday morning relationshipping.

  But now, here I was, and the last thing I wanted to see was exactly what was staring me in the face this very second. A dead woman washed up on a piece of remote coastline that just happened to make up my backyard.

  For Pete’s sake.

  There were two routes to the water. Route A was a straight shot down four hundred vertical feet. If you did it right, you could get to the water in about five minutes, but one missed step and you were shark bait. Route B had you walking a half mile south to a scenic overlook. One of those places where they have binocular posts bolted to the ground. Most afternoons a decent crowd of tourists could be seen patiently awaiting their turn to drop fifty cents into one of the binoculars for their chance to catch a glimpse of a whale tail or a bald eagle through the foggy lenses. Enough people had made the trek from the viewing platform to the rocks below that a trail had formed, which would eventually lead to the crescent shaped cove directly beneath my house.

  I decided on route A. I braced myself against two trees and started down. If I could go back and do it all over again, I would have done a few things differently. One, I wouldn’t have turned off that football game. Two, I’d have thrown a sinker instead of a fastball. And three, I would have taken route B.

  As I continued down the treacherous path to the water, I contemplated a couple possible scenarios. People died on the water frequently. In the two years I lived in Maine, there were nine separate occurrences when someone died in the water. Or at the hands of it. Things were a bit different here on the Sound, where there weren’t quite as many recreational boaters. The main concern here being fishing boats and ferries, with your occasional scuba diver. Now the Sound isn’t exactly the Bering Sea, but it is connected to the Bering Sea, and the water temperature was still in the mid-forties. This means if you did happen to fall off a boat—or get pushed for that matter—you had about seven minutes to get your ass out of the water. So, logic told us the woman died by accident or in some other benign fashion. But, logic is overrated.

  Granted, I’d only seen the body for a split second and I was gazing down from four hundred vertical feet above and the sun was setting in my eyes and my contact prescription was three years old and I’d once mistaken a three hundred pound elk for a mailbox, but my instincts told me this was no accident.

  This conjecture was based solely on the fact the woman appeared to be naked. In the summer months on the Penobscot it was swim trunks, a polo, and docksiders for the men. Women were a bit more loosely clad; a skirt and a blouse with the optional bikini underneath. Maybe even a thin sweater or jacket. But this was the Puget Sound in November. If it wasn’t raining, then it was cold, the average high for the month around fifty. Typically, the attire for both men and women was a windbreaker, jeans, boots, gloves, with optional thermal underwear.

  But then again, maybe this woman was a light dresser. Maybe she was menopausal and she’d just had a hot flash. Maybe she’d ripped her clothes off as she thrashed about in the cold water. Or maybe she’d been going at it with él Capîtan and slipped and fell off the edge. Who knows?

  Anyhow, the trees gave way to the black rock and I slowly began lowering myself down the steep bluff. It was far from a sheer drop-off, the grade about the same as the steps in a football stadium. Except instead of steps there was jagged quartzite and instead of falling into the arms of a drunken fan, you fell into the teeth of an angry shark.

  As I mentioned before, the area directly behind my house was shaped like a crescent. It was a stretch of rock separated by two bluffs which my mother had referred to as Prescott Cove. I should also point out that whereas along other parts of the shore the water lapped nonchalantly against the banks, the water in Prescott Cove was white and angry. Which, if you’d known my father, might have been another reason it got its name.

  I stopped to get my bearings at a relatively flat section of rock twenty vertical feet above the crashing surf. It was high tide and the small powerful waves came in six-second intervals. The waves would sweep in high on the face of the opposing bluffs a milky white, two separate forces destined for a head-on collision, and then they would become one, sending a violent surge of white water high into the air. Droplets of spray found me, as well as the stark revelation that my present undertaking was a bad, bad, bad idea.

  The sun was sucking in its final breaths before plunging its head beneath the cold water, and I figured I had less than two minutes before I was engulfed in darkness.

  After two more explosions of water on rock, I still hadn’t seen any sign of the woman. There was a strong possibility her body had been carried by the undertow and sucked from the cove, whereby it would become someone else’s problem.

  And good riddance, as they say.

  I decided to give it one more wave before hightailing it up the rock while I could still find my hand in front of me. Then I saw her, her body twisting and rolling in the white water just off the rock bank. I nearly made a dash for it. I caught myself, and seconds later the cove erupted. The blast would have sent me reeling into the icy water.

  At this point it dawned on me it was going to be impossible to extract the woman from the freezing water without getting soaked myself. I removed my wallet and wedged it between two rocks.

  Got to keep those Benjamins dry.

  The water calmed, but the woman had disappeared. A moment later, her body popped up, rolling against the rocks. This was my first good look at the body. Or what was left of it.

  Her right arm was missing at the shoulder. Both legs had been stripped down to the bone. Huge chunks of flesh had been ripped from her torso. The remaining flesh was a chalky purple and the exposed bone stained a deep red. It was evident the body had been attacked by something. Mauled. I’d said sharks earlier, but a more likely scenario was killer whales. They were
abundant in these waters and although it was rare, they did attack humans. But the odds were this woman was dead hours, or even days, before the feast.

  I jumped down the last couple feet and huddled behind a large boulder. The blast came, showering me in salt water. I wiped my eyes and waited for the woman to resurface. She popped up and I took the four strides to the edge of the churning Sound. I could hear the next wave making its approach, but I was at the point of no return. I lowered myself onto the rock and wrenched my arm under the woman’s remaining arm.

  The body rose with the incoming wave and I pulled the woman up and out of the water. The blast came, spraying the two of us in a couple thousand gallons of sea water. Freezing would be an understatement. It was a biting cold, one that clawed at your very insides.

  I coughed a couple dozens times before pushing myself off the rock. I then dragged what was left of the woman to a haven behind a large boulder.

  My chest was heaving as I turned and looked out on the dark water. The sun was gone, a faint reddish glow all that remained.

  I turned my attention to the body. The woman was even worse off than at first glance. Maybe a third of her body remained, reduced to mere bones and torn flesh. Half her torso was eaten down to the ribs, and her entrails spilled out through her lower abdomen. Her head and neck had for the most part been spared. I brushed the woman’s dark hair from her face.

  If I had my doubts this woman was killed by Shamu and friends, now I was positive she wasn’t. I’d only heard of a handful of killer whale attacks, and I’d never heard of a killer whale carrying a gun.

  There, just above the woman’s left eye, was the distinct fingerprint of a bullet. A small black hole.

  Chapter 4

  I considered draping the corpse over my shoulder, but the thought was fleeting. The chances of going up the way I’d come down were slim, so I reluctantly started down the path of route B. I found the trail and slowly began picking my way through the rocks.

  As if the traverse weren’t hard enough in the pitch dark, ten minutes into my hike, it started raining. Which quickly turned to hail. Awesome. Twenty minutes and 2,548 little hail daggers later, I pulled myself under the railing to the viewing platform. This particular scenic overlook was fairly popular, and there was a small covered veranda illuminated by a handful of dimly lit bulbs. Informative posters clinging to the walls displayed what exactly people were paying fifty cents to look at. Another wall housed dozens of pamphlets promoting different ferries, tours, whale watching excursions, and various other ways for tourists to waste their money. Attached to the veranda was a public restroom as well as a pay phone.

  I picked up the phone and dialed 911.

  I was asked if it was an emergency and I decided it wasn’t, seeing as how the lady had probably already been digested by whatever had eaten her, and I was put on hold. I perused a pamphlet on the San Juan Islands as I waited. Apparently, it had never been a better time to visit the San Juans. I flipped over the pamphlet and read the copyright: 1992.

  The woman came back on the line and after a short conversation told me, and I quote, “Being that it’s Thanksgiving and all, it will be about an hour before we can get anybody out there.” I told her I didn’t think the dead lady with the bullet hole in her forehead cared what day it was and hung up.

  I trekked the half mile back to my place.

  I pulled off my soaked garments, tossed them on the floor, and made my way upstairs into the bathroom Lacy and I had shared as children. My sister had a thing for flamingos, and they were everywhere. Toothbrush holder, shower curtain, Kleenex box. You name it and it had a flamingo on it. There was a flamingo pink rug as well as a matching flamingo pink toilet seat cover. Two towels hung from a towel rod and each was adorned with—you guessed it—a giant fucking flamingo.

  I had just wrapped a towel around my waist and was heading for my dad’s closet for some duds when I heard a knock at the door. It’d only been twenty minutes since I’d spoken with one of Seattle’s finest, but I wasn’t expecting anybody else, so I was led to believe someone of the law enforcement variety was standing on my doorstep. I waddled down the stairs.

  I’m not sure who I’d been expecting on the other side of the door, but I can assure you it wasn’t this. This being a woman clad in a red turtleneck sweater—the tight fitting kind, mind you—black pleated pants and a standard issue .45 holstered on her right hip. From my experience, oil and vinegar mix better than women and guns. Just saying.

  I noticed the car on the far side of the street. It was an unmarked car, tan, probably a Chevy. So she either worked for the IRS or she was a homicide detective.

  The woman raised a badge to eye level and said, “Detective Erica Frost. Seattle Police Department.”

  So I wasn’t getting audited after all.

  I asked, “Did you guys get new uniforms or something?” If they had, bras were apparently optional. I mean, she looked like she was smuggling honeydews. Not that I was complaining.

  She glanced down at her sweater. “I was at a Thanksgiving get together.” Raising her eyes to check out my damp, towel-clad form, she added, “You obviously were not.”

  “I ordered pizza.”

  She stared at me.

  “I went with the Hawaiian.”

  No response.

  “That’s pineapple and Canadian bacon to the laymen.”

  Again. Just stared.

  “Dominos.”

  A little nod.

  “The kid on the phone talked me into getting the cinnamon breadsticks.”

  “Sorry I missed it.”

  “Me too.”

  I should mention Detective Erica Frost was attractive in that tongue hit your boot sort of way. Of course, if she’d been ugly I would have been slightly less annoying. Slightly. She had wavy brown hair, light brown, almost hazel eyes, and looked like a poster girl for pilates. I should also mention I was mesmerized by her sweater. It was my hero.

  She was eyeing my towel again and said, “Nice flamingo.”

  I looked myself up and down. “Frank.”

  She looked confused.

  “Frank the flamingo.”

  Eye roll.

  “You came alone?”

  She nodded.

  “Where’s your partner?”

  “I didn’t see any reason to call him.”

  “What if I was a bad guy?”

  Erica Frost probably felt like I was patronizing her, but I wasn’t. At least not completely. A few years back, I’d come across a serial killer who would report a crime, then ambush the first officer to arrive. He killed four officers and two detectives before we caught him.

  I couldn’t help but notice Erica’s hand was now resting on the butt of her pistol. I think she was toying with the notion of shooting me. She wouldn’t be the first. Nor the last. She asked, “Well, are you a bad guy?”

  “No. But people say I can be an asshole.”

  “Imagine that.” Apparently, she’d already come to this conclusion on her own, but she stepped into the foyer nonetheless. “Are you going to tell me your name or am I just supposed to guess?”

  Frosty this one.

  “Thomas.”

  “Thomas what?”

  “Just Thomas. They ran out of last names before they got to my family. We’re on a waiting list.”

  She sighed, a heavy one. “Well Thomas, do you want to show me to this body?”

  “Sure thing. But we’re going to need flashlights.”

  “I have a couple in my car.”

  She ran out to get them and I ran upstairs. I grabbed an old pair of my dad’s gray sweat pants and a red hooded sweatshirt.

  Erica was standing in the foyer when I made my way downstairs. She didn’t comment on the fact that I looked like an ad for Russell Athletic.

  She thrust a flashlight in my hand and we made our way outside. The storm had subsided, but it was still drizzling, which didn’t seem to bother Erica in the slightest. Although, to be fair, to your native Sea
ttleite, drizzle was about as mundane as breathing.

  I flopped up the hood on my sweatshirt and said, “Nice night.”

  She didn’t comment on this and I took her silence as agreement. As we started around back, I informed Erica of the options for getting to the body. She lobbied for the quickest path and I went on to explain the dangers. I did a bit of exaggerating, a decent amount of embellishing, and even a couple of outright lies. And yes, when I was finished, route A did carry a remarkable likeness to that of the Fire Swamp from The Princess Bride. But I’d already risked my life twice on a day I’d been penciled in to do so zero times.

  Again, she thought I was mocking her and started picking her way down the bluff.

  I yelled that I’d meet her down there in about half an hour.

  She scoffed. “C’mon, it’s a little hill.”

  One, this thing ate hills for breakfast. Two, it was pitch dark. Three, it had been hailing for the past thirty minutes. And four, there were quicksand pits and R.O.U.S.’s (Rodents of Unusual Size.) Hadn’t she been listening?

  She shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.”

  She continued down and I reluctantly started after her. When I caught up with her, I said, “That’s a pretty spiffy sweater. I’d take it off if I were you.”

  “How ‘bout not.”

  “Worth a try.”

  “Stop trying.”

  “Noted.”

  I thought perhaps Erica would have let me take the lead seeing as how 1)I’d done this only hours earlier, 2) this was my backyard, 3) I knew the best path to the water, and 4) I had a penis. She veered off to the left and found a trail. I guess not.

  I said, “It’s better to stay in the trees.” It was more difficult and time consuming, but if you fell in the trees there was something to hang onto.

  Erica cut her eyes at me and said, “Thanks, but if I want your help, I’ll ask for it.”