Still Water (14 page)

He passed the turning to the point where the big houses owned by summer people were hidden in the trees. The road dropped and levelled out and he looked for a track that headed through the woods in the direction of the water. When he found it, he emerged into a clearing where there was a wooden house with a screened-in porch. Alongside were a garage and a small barn. The scene was quiet. Matt turned off the engine, and absorbed the stillness that descended around him.

It was quiet, just the sound of birdsong. The house and clearing were bathed in golden light that slanted low across the trees. The house itself was painted white, though the colour was faded. Parts of the grey slate roof had been patched and there was a new frame in one of the front windows. Perhaps, Matt reasoned, it was Howard’s undisguised pleasure at the feeling that was running against Ella in the town that had brought him to the cove. Perhaps he didn’t want to see Howard win the election, and that was why he had started to wonder what had really happened to Bryan. Or maybe it was self-interest that motivated him, because it seemed clear that until the issue was settled one way or the other, the distance that existed between himself and Ella wasn’t likely to be bridged. He wanted to believe her when she claimed she hadn’t killed Bryan, and for the most part he did. But she knew something, and she wasn’t telling him. He thought he could get used to the idea that perhaps she wasn’t exactly the person he’d thought she was, that she could hold a rifle to a man and threaten to shoot him. But not while this enigma of Bryan’s disappearance remained between them. He thought that for her too it was as much of an obstacle, though he was uncertain why. Perhaps if he knew that, he would know everything.

Whatever his motivation, he decided he had to discover what had happened to Bryan Roderick.

He walked around the house, but it told him nothing. At the edge of the clearing a path ran for fifty yards before it emerged from the trees to a strip of stone and sand beach that curved right around the edge of the bay. On the southern side the trees appeared to reach almost to the water’s edge, and the beach petered out to rocks. The ground rose gently, and further out on the point Matt could see the roof of a house here and there. In the other direction, three quarters of a mile away, the beach curved around to the foot of sheer cliffs that extended all the way along that side of the cove, reaching out to the entrance where the surf pounded the rocks. Something flashed in the sun, and shielding his eyes from the glare, Matt saw a sports boat moored a little way out from a large black rock on the beach, but there was nobody around that he could see.

An old boat shed stood at the water’s edge. The door was partly ajar, and when Matt looked inside he found it was empty. The air smelt of mould and towards the back was shot through with shafts of light where the sun poured through missing boards in the walls. At the other end a wooden ramp led down to the water, which at the edge was dark green and appeared deep. A wooden jetty extended twenty yards out into the bay.

Neither the shed nor the jetty had been there when Matt and Paulie had once come here with their little sailboat, though that was more than twenty-five years ago. He hesitated at the end of the jetty, looking out across the water. It was warm, but cold sweat prickled his brow, and his heart beat climbed a notch or two. There was barely a breath of wind, and the surface of the water rippled gently, deceptively calm. He put his foot on the first board of the jetty and tested his weight. It creaked a little but seemed firm. He took another step. Looking down through the boards he could see the bottom fall rapidly away. The water was clear, but looking ahead it was dark where the ground dropped steeply. Matt paused, his hands were slick and he wiped them on his pants. There was a roaring sound in his ears. The long ago sound of kids laughing rang in his ears. He told himself not to look at the water, and stared ahead to the end of the jetty which seemed as if it was a long way off. With each step he took he tested his weight on the boards, and each creak and groan from a rusty nail made him sweat harder. When he was fifteen feet out he stopped and looked down. He couldn’t see the bottom. He felt dizzy, spinning with vertigo, and for a moment thought he would drop to his knees. Taking deep breaths he counted slowly to thirty. Just in front there were several boards missing and he knew he wouldn’t be able to cross the gap, though it was no more than eighteen inches across. He turned and went back, concentrating on where he placed each step.

For a while he listened to the gentle suck and draw of water on the shore, rattling pebbles on the slope so they rubbed against each other, inexorably smoothing their edges. He squatted at the water’s edge and scooped up a handful of stones. They felt smooth and wet in his hand, their sharp angles dulled and worn away. He remembered Paulie, pulling him from the water, how he’d laid gasping on the beach that day, how Paulie had water streaming across his face, his hair plastered to his skull. He stood up and threw the pebbles into the water.

Something flashed in the sunlight again a half mile away. Along the curve of the shore, a figure moved near the black rock where the boat he’d noticed earlier was riding at anchor a short distance off the beach. Curiosity drove Matt towards it and as he drew closer he saw that what he’d mistaken for a rock, was in fact something else. Its shape and texture seemed too smooth, but vaguely familiar, though what it could be he didn’t know.

He was still two hundred yards away when a stench carried on the breeze made him pause. The smell was redolent of fish, but there was a stronger, more powerful smell that assaulted the senses, something rotting and fleshy. He’d rounded the curve of the shore now, and as he hesitated, unsure if he wanted to get any closer, a figure appeared and seeing Matt, raised a hand in greeting.

The thing on the beach was half in, half out of the water, and rather than being black all over it was in fact marked with pale patches. When they were fifty yards apart Matt recognized the man he’d seen at breakfast that morning. He also saw that the thing lying on the shore was in fact some kind of animal, and by its size and markings he thought it was a whale of some sort.

The man smiled as he approached and held out his hand. “Hi, I’m Ben Harper.”

“Matt Jones.”

They shook and Matt gestured along the beach. “What is that?”

Harper looked back, and took off his glasses which he polished on his shirt. He squinted, screwing his eyes against the light bouncing off the water. “That,” he said, ‘is the most magnificent creature living on this earth, in my opinion anyway. At least this one was. It’s dead now. It’s an orca.”

“A killer whale?” Matt knew they were seen in the gulf now and then, but he’d never seen one himself, except on TV. The image that sprang to mind was of captive animals performing tricks at Seaworld. Somehow, even dead, the animal on the beach was far more impressive. For one thing it looked bigger in the flesh. He could make out its flippers now, and the shape of the head. “What happened to it?”

Just then he caught a whiff of the stench of decay on the breeze, and he gagged, swallowing bile.

“You get used to it after a while.” Harper seemed unaffected by the foul odour.

“You’re used to this?”

“I’m a marine biologist down at the oceanographic institute at Woods Hole. I see a lot of dead animals in my work. Actually I’m on vacation right now, but I found this orca last week and I’ve been trying to figure out what happened to it. Near as I can tell it died from pneumonia.”

They walked back towards the orca, Matt’s curiosity overcoming his reluctance to get any closer to the source of the putrefying stink. He saw a pile of greyish coloured material on the sand and moved around to get a better look, and then he understood what Ben Harper had been doing. Alongside a pair of muck covered overalls and an open bag were what looked like oversized surgical instruments. The whale’s underside had been slit open from close to its head right back to near the tail, and part of its guts had been pulled out. Aside from the mass of intestines it seemed as if some of the animal’s other organs had been removed.

The lungs were clogged with mucus,” Harper explained, apparently oblivious to the shade of green that Matt had turned. “My guess is that it beached itself here before it died. It’s a female. Pretty old I’d say from the state of the teeth. Maybe sixty or seventy years.” He paused, and only then seemed to take note of Matt. “You okay? You look sorta pale.”

In response Matt turned and rushed with stumbling steps back along the beach, making a line for the trees. He bent over and retched, vomiting into the undergrowth. The smell from the dead whale felt as if it had attached itself to the soft tissue in his mouth and throat, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get rid of it. Each time he thought he’d finished, another violent spasm would grip him.

“Here, drink this.” Harper appeared at his side and offered a flask which Matt sniffed suspiciously. “It’s lemon juice,” Harper told him. “I find it helps.”

Gratefully Matt took a drink. The juice was sour and strong, but it seemed to do the trick.

Try gargling a little,” Harper advised.

Matt did. He spat once he’d rinsed his mouth, then handed the flask back. “Thanks.”

They walked back along the beach, to where the smell wasn’t so overpowering.

“I guess I forget how it can get to you when you’re not used to it,” Harper said.

“What are you going to do with it?” Matt asked. He was thinking about all the stuff on the sand.

“I’ll take some more samples, some of the teeth, but I’ll just leave the rest to nature.”

Already the carcass was dotted with a mob of seabirds that had been waiting nearby for their chance.

“Nature’s very efficient at cleaning up after herself. In a month there’ll be nothing but bones on the sand. It’s unusual,” he added thoughtfully.

“What is?”

“To find an orca like this. Normally they die at sea, and just sink into deep water.”

“But this one beached didn’t you say?”

“Yeah. But these animals don’t usually strand themselves the way some species do. I don’t know what it was doing in this bay in the first place. Normally orcas travel in groups of around a dozen or so. I’ve spent time studying them in Newfoundland and off the west coast up around Vancouver Island. They’re not that common around these waters, though sometimes we see them down off the cape. I guess it’s possible this one got lost and disoriented because it was sick.”

They had walked back some distance now, to where the beach curved back around towards the jetty in the distance.

Matt was thinking about something Harper had said. “How long ago did you say you found that whale?”

“Orca,” Harper corrected him. “Strictly speaking they aren’t whales. They belong to the dolphin family.” He thought for a moment. “It was Tuesday. I came out here early to do some fishing.”

“You happen to see anyone? A guy.” He gave a rough description of Bryan as well as he could remember him.

“Sorry.”

Matt shrugged. “It was a long shot.”

“I did see a woman that morning though,” Harper said. “If that helps at all.”

“A woman? Here?”

“About where that jetty is.” Harper pointed. “Is it important?”

“It could be. What time was this?”

“A little after six maybe. There was some early mist, and I was anchored further along the beach, maybe fifty yards out. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone out here. Gave me a start when I saw this figure come out of the trees on to the beach, then she stopped for a moment and stared out across the bay. I don’t think she even knew I was there with the mist and all. To tell the truth it was a little strange. It was quiet, and very still, and suddenly there she was.” Harper shrugged a little selfconsciously.

“Where did she go, this woman?”

“After a little while she went off along the beach that way.” He gestured towards the point.

Almost unwillingly, a tight feeling in his gut, Matt said, “Can you describe her?”

“Slim. Good looking, thirties maybe.”

“What colour was her hair?”

“I couldn’t tell. She had a sweat top on with a hood, and jeans I think.”

It could have been Ella, Matt thought. But it could have been anyone. “You said she was on foot. You didn’t see a boat?”

“No.”

“Could you have missed it because of the mist?”

“I don’t think so. I would have heard it if there had been one. I didn’t move from where I was until the mist lifted, and there was no boat then.”

“This woman,” Matt said. “Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”

Harper thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, I think I would.”

The house where Howard lived had been built by his father nearly sixty years before. In the study, a portrait of the older Larson hung from the wall over the desk. Howard kept it there to remind him that his father had wanted him to stay on the island and dedicate his life to the damn fish plant the old man had built in the thirties.

“This wouldn’t be happening if you’d listened to me,” Howard said as he stared up at the wall and took a sip of bourbon. The door was open, and his wife paused on her way past.

“Howard, are you talking to that picture again? He’s been dead nearly fifteen years.”

“He’s still around, trust me. I can feel the old buzzard looking down on me. I think he gets a kick out of seeing me go under.”

Howard had received bad news from his accountants that afternoon, warning him that if the plant continued losing money at its current rate he would be broke within a year. “I told him to sell that damn plant fifteen years ago, but he wouldn’t listen. You could see then the industry was going to go all to hell one of these days. And I was right wasn’t I?”

Angela Larson came into the room and smiled. “Howard, that isn’t why you wanted him to sell and you know it. You just never liked it here, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well, who can blame me? I’m forty-seven years old Angela, and look at me. Stuck in this crumbling ruin, sweating and worrying myself into an early grave to keep that plant going. I swear that place will be the death of me. I tell you, one morning you’ll wake up and I’ll be lying next to you stiff as a goddamned board.”