The Darkest Joy (21 page)

I shake my head no.

“So take a chance, Brooke,” he says.

“A chance with what?” I ask.

“With the Taylor boy, of course,” he says, then winks.

I burst out laughing. He’s so clever and I utterly miss it. His eyes sparkle at me with mirth. I feel about a million pounds lighter having told someone here. This is the first time I’ve told an old truth in my new life.

It feels good . . . but still. “Will you keep this to yourself?”

He frowns and his eyes do a disappearing act within the folds of his face as he blinks and I feel bad about my earlier comparison to a troll. Now he looks like a wrinkled kind old man. Which he is.

“Be still my heart,” he says, putting a gnarled hand against his heart. “Do I look like the kind of fella who’d rat out his new friend? Milli’s flesh and blood?”

He doesn’t, his eyes as sincere as any I’ve looked into.

“No,” I answer softly.

“Not the vote of confidence I’m looking for but I’ll take it.”

I stand and Jake does too, the eerie light from the stormy sky giving a haloed affect around him, and I suppress a shiver.

“I’ll be watching,” he says.

Like he isn’t already
, I think. He has the pulse on, well . . . everything.

His comment strikes me as weird. “Why watching?”

Jake leans forward, his voice lowering to a near whisper and I find myself leaning forward as well, catching his soft words.

“Because that nut job is still on the loose.”

He couldn’t help me even if the murderer came here. He’s just a weak old man.

Jake sees my expression and interprets it, laughing.

“Sometimes physical strength isn’t everything. Someone like me”—he jabs a thumb into his chest—“no one sees. It’s like being invisible.”

I blink again. He’s surprised me twice today.

The second surprise is Jake’s acknowledgment of my deepest fear since I arrived here.

That it’s not over.

I
move up the gangplank, thoughts of a hot shower sharing room with those of Brooke.

I’ve blown it, I know it.

Not only did I lose my cool with a client, I did it in front of the only girl I’ve ever given a shit about. Nice, Chance . . . Smooth.

I push my hair back off my face, relieved I don’t have a set tonight. Thank God. I’m way too in my head to strum shit from Shinola.

I get close to my ’Cuda and catch movement in my peripheral vision.

Old man Kashirin comes over, his cane indented where the ivory bows underneath his hand. Have to be a Native to own ivory, work it. I know because I am. Even though I’m “white Native” and don’t live in a village like Seldovia or Port Graham, the full-bloods never let me forget it. Only the coal black of my hair speaks to my ancestry.

“Chance Taylor,” he says by way of greeting, smoke escaping out of the dual sides of his mouth, a pipe clamped in the center. I stride to Jake, palm first, and he fits his hand to mine like a glove.

“Hey ya, Jake,” I say with a smooth pump that’s met with his; hard as nails, like it has always been.

“How’s the catch?” he asks, those wizened eyes buried in a face like raisins in putty. He has the eyes of his Russian ancestry, pale blue, like a sky that’s heading toward autumn but hasn’t made up its mind. His cane pegs the ground at his feet and he does a practiced lean, his face tilted up to mine.

“Ah . . .” I scrub my face, then put my hands on my hips, the vinyl hot and slimy from the day. “Not so great.”

“Humph!” he says in disbelief. “I saw those desert folk taking their catch.” Jake takes his pipe out of his mouth and points the end at me. “That ’but was two hundred pounds of fish if it was an ounce.”

True.

“Yeah, but I sorta lost my cool . . .”

Jake guffawed. “A mite, I’d say.”

“You saw?” I ask and Jake nods.

“Shit.”

“There’s only two things that get a fella riled up like a cat in a room full of rockers.” He waits expectantly. It doesn’t matter if the worldwide apocalypse is here: when Jake Kashirin has a pearl of wisdom to bestow, you listen.

“Women . . .” He pauses, his index finger briefly touching the one on his left hand. “And”—he sticks his finger straight into the air—“money!” he says with an air of certainty.

His eyes narrow and he says, “I know you don’t need the money, Chance.”

Gotcha. “No, it’s not the money. But I screwed up so—”

“Never too late,” Jake says, interrupting. “She’s a fine filly that one.” He puffs on his pipe, his eyes on me.

Somehow . . . Brooke doesn’t seem like any version of a horse but I don’t say. Nor do I ask if we’re talking about the same girl. I think Jake knows every person in Homer. No one can miss Brooke. She draws all eyes to her when she enters a space.

“You guys done any chatting?”

I clamp down on my expression, my memories crowded with my hands on her body . . .

Chatting. No.

I smile and he gives a sly grin. Then it disappears like the sun sliding behind a cloud.

“You be careful with that girl.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, taking an unconscious step forward.

Jake shakes his head. “It’s not my story to tell but . . . she might need . . .” He shakes his head again.

“What?” I can hear how irritated I sound and try to dial it back, but the cloak-and-dagger shit is losing its shine.

“Careful handling.”

Fine. Fuck. “Okay, thanks, Jake.”

I walk away, glancing behind over my shoulder at an old man who knew my parents—hell, my grandparents too. He ought to—he’s my second cousin.

I add a Google search as a requisite for tonight. Shower,
stalk Brooke on the Internet like everyone before me . . . try to get her to listen to me.

Easy. Riiiight.

I pop the trunk on the ’Cuda, tossing my bibs into my long and narrow tote. It reeks and I sigh, adding a bleach wash to the list.

The list grows.

I drive home to my log cabin. Even the sight of something I built with my bare hands doesn’t do anything to suck me out of the foul mood I’m in. I’m a rare Alaskan: I have a garage. I pull the ’Cuda to the wide wood door and hit the button on the remote opener. It slides up smoothly and I pull my car inside. It’s an extravagance in a region that has a short summer like Homer. I drive my Ford Bronco when the weather turns; sometimes I even drive it in the summer on battered roadways. But for now, it’s about connecting with something I like.

Too much.

I grab my tote and dump the bibs and the rest of the gear onto the concrete driveway. I walk to the hose bib and give a sharp swipe on the mixer to the right and hot water flows inside the hose. I twist the faucet and after spraying the bibs with a bleach, I hose them down.

They sit steaming and I let them, walking away from the mess of my profession and going inside.

After a shower that’s as hot as I can stand, I plop down in front of my laptop, the picture window in front of my solid oak desk showcasing the ocean beneath the steep cliff my cabin is perched on. I can hear the waves crashing as Google lights up my screen.

I type in Brooke’s name.

Nothing relevant, no matter how many pages I scroll through.

I add her middle name: Elizabeth.

Suddenly the screen fills with hits that feel familiar. There’s plenty of reading about Seattle pianist Brooke Elizabeth Starr.

The more I read the worse I feel. It explains so much. My eyes move over the horror that was her life.

Words like
slaughter
and
instant orphan
spring from each page.

These are things you read about. They don’t happen to people you know.

I lean back, my eyes scanning the story from the
Seattle Times
a second time. Then, in very small print it reads:
see related search
.

I move the mouse to hover over that highlighted phrase, then click it.

As I read the story I sit up straighter, pieces falling into perfect place.

The FBI hasn’t apprehended the killer. There’s a third family that’s now dead.

Another Juilliard pianist is out of the running. Who can pursue any passion when their family has been ripped violently from them?

No one.

How convenient for the other candidates
, I think.

Which I am sure is what the other candidates thought too.

I close my computer and it sleeps.

It’ll be a long time before I can.

It certainly changes how I feel. I realize I’ve waded into a mess like a bull in a china shop. A little finesse won’t hurt.

I rub my chin, my fingers eventually finding my tired eyes, which feel shrink-wrapped inside my skull.

I’ve got to see Brooke. I know she’s pissed at me.

But I can fix this
.

I hesitate, thinking.
He who hesitates is lost
, I decide.

I grab the small pistol I keep in the downstairs window seat and slide it into the pocket of my leather jacket, the one I wear when I’m taking my bike. The sawed-off shotgun will remain in my bedroom on the upper floor where it belongs.

I don’t like that the man who killed Brooke’s family is still out there.

The gun is a cold comfort where it lays within arm’s reach.

It’s better than no comfort at all.

I pull up to the Homer post office and stare at the stately brick building. I’ve been here almost a month and this is only my second trip. I look at the post office box key in my hand, closing my palm into a fist around it. I step out of the bus, then jog up the wide steps of the building.

I move to the older section of post office boxes. I pass the modern ones and wind my way to the very back of the building. The old boxes come into view, forming a loose U and at the very end, housed in brass and glass, is Aunt Milli’s box. I slide the key inside the slot and pull out the mail. I look at it as I
walk over to the Paper Only recycling can, chucking junk mail in as I go.

At the bottom of the pile is a notice to sign for something.

I look up and see the line backed up to the door and sigh. I’m totally not waiting through that mess. No way. I look down at the slip: registered return receipt mail. In small letters I can just read the return address:

Federal Bureau of Investigation.

I hesitate between the long line and the short walk to the glass door. I see the colorful VW bus waiting for me outside.

No contest.

Whatever document I have to sign can wait. I stuff the slip into my pocket and walk out the door.

It’s pathetic that signing slips for the FBI is their only contact with me. I mean, my God . . . did they need permission for something else? Some other possession of my parents’ has been discovered and cataloged in some great cavernous place with an uncaring number slapped on for inventory? A sudden memory of Agent Clearwater’s text and voice mails piling up rises to the surface of my brain.

I squeeze my eyes shut against it. The heat of the sun’s low position on the horizon washes over me like bathwater and I let the soothing feel of the clean air and the warmth of the almost-summer air lull me for a few precious moments of forgetting.

Then I open them. With a sigh I hop inside the bus and back out, then make my way to Aunt Milli’s cabin.

I get a text. I keep a hand on the wheel and look down.

Lacey.

I swipe her image and her words read:
another family
.

I stop the bus. I text two-handed, my left leg jammed like a pirate’s peg leg into the brake.

Another Juilliard candidate’s family?

Yeah
. Then:
I’m scared for you, Brookie
.

Well, I’m scared too.

I reply:
yeah, me too
.

I look up at the crumpled slip on my dashboard and realize that I should have waited in that line. Even if I didn’t want to.

Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.

Didn’t.

Crap.

I reply:
call me
.

I wait for Lacey. I jump when my cell vibrates and my damp palm loses control of the cell and it falls to the floor. I retrieve it around my pedals.

I swipe her face on the glass surface and put the phone to my ear.

A shadow, a feeling, an instinct . . . I’ll never know, causes me to turn to my left, the bus noisily idling on the soft shoulder that leads to the deepest part of East End Road.

Two eyes greet mine, a hand raised to rap on the glass.

I give a low panicked cry and drop the phone again.

I can hear Lacey from the floorboards of the car.

The door is torn open and two strong arms pull me out of the car. I raise my face to a tall man, his face shadowed in the gloom provided by the spruce tree cover that lines the dirt road.

Adrenaline shoots from my center to my extremities, causing them to tingle as my heart launches itself into my throat.

“Brooke Starr?” he asks, his eyes a flash of the whites in the shadowed road, filtered sunlight a dream as I try to adjust my eyes to the ambient light provided by the dense tree canopy above us.