part0011

On the trip in, Christa drove like a bat out of hell. Blake had to devote more attention than he intended to keeping the grey Lincoln MKZ in his sights as it swerved through traffic. After crossing the bridge and landing on the island, however, Christa hadn’t broken the modest speed limit once. He attributed her vigilance to the likelihood that the small-town police department occupied much of their time by handing out speeding tickets.

The Lincoln came to a stop at a four-way intersection. Blake rolled to a stop behind it. He took a quick three sixty. The town was quaint and very much like Christa had described it. There was a small post office on one corner, a church on another, and on the left, an old iron gate guarding what appeared to be a miniature cemetery. A handful of severely worn headstones protruded from the ground like a row of rotten teeth. Either the cemetery was ancient, or the weather conditions on the island were often brutal. Blake figured both.

Christa turned right. Blake caught the street sign affixed to a telephone pole.

Lined with homes, the road was straight and strangely dark, thanks to a thick canopy of overhanging trees. Blake was surprised at how lush the landscape was. Despite the small houses being set close together, it had a wild, overgrown quality.

Within a quarter mile, the canopy parted, and the sunshine returned. The Lincoln slowed, its left blinker announcing they had reached their destination. A small bright yellow Cape Cod style house with a picturesque front porch.

Blake waited as Christa pulled into the short gravel driveway. Ahead, the shimmering water of the bay was visible. Once the oncoming pickup truck passed, Blake made the turn.

Along the right side of the driveway was a scraggly hedgerow meant to mark the property line between the Cape and the small, rustic Georgian style home that sat next to it. Just behind the hedges, a man stood waving. Blake figured him to be about thirty years old, but he had the bearing of a child.

It was clear to Blake, based on his exuberance and giant, happy-go-lucky smile, that the man had a mental handicap. At least, Blake hoped so. Because, if not, he had just stepped into the Twilight Zone.

Blake inched the Nissan as close to Christa’s back bumper as he could to avoid sticking out into the road. He popped the trunk and stepped out.

“Hi.” The man’s arm still furiously waved back and forth.

“Hi,” Blake responded, “what’s your name?”

“Lucas,” he said.

“I’m Blake. Nice to meet you, Lucas.”

“Yeah. Nice to meet you, Lucas,” he said.

Blake smiled. He was struck by the young man’s sheer, unadulterated joy. He guessed that many people would feel sorry for him. But not Blake. What he felt was something akin to envy.

“Lucas is our welcoming committee.” Christa walked up beside Blake.

“Well,” Blake said, “he’s doing an excellent job at it.”

“Mr. Brier is going to be staying with us for a day or two,” Christa explained, “so he has to go and get settled in. Okay? We’ll see you later?”

“Yeah, we’ll see you later,” Lucas repeated.

Christa walked toward the front porch. Blake grabbed his bag and closed the trunk. Movement in the second-floor window of Lucas’ two-story house caught his eye. It was a woman. Lucas’s mother, no doubt. Blake gave a wave. The old woman stared back at him with a scowl. It was clear that Lucas didn’t get his happy disposition from her.

Blake followed Christa inside. She gave him the quick tour.

Just inside the front door and straight ahead was a steep staircase leading to the second floor. To the left, Christa pointed out, was the door to the guest room, blocked by the open front door.

To the right was a little living room that continued into a dining area with a rectangular table and six chairs. Behind the table was a sliding door that led outside, toward the back. Blake slid the screen and stepped onto the deck while Christa waited just inside the door.

The backyard was heavily wooded on three sides. In the middle was a patch of yard, half-occupied by a meticulous flower garden.

Rejoining Christa, Blake moved into the kitchen, segmented from the dining room by a half-wall. Still carrying his bag, Blake snuck around a two-by-three wooden table that sat in the middle of the kitchen floor and served as an island.

Midway through the cramped kitchen was a door that, he was told, led down to the basement. At the far end, just behind the fridge, was the bathroom. Christa lamented the fact that it was the only bathroom in the house.

Blake thought it strange that Christa asked him to follow her into the tiny bathroom. It made more sense once he realized that there was a second door leading from the bathroom into the guest room. Blake cut through behind her.

Christa made a show of presenting his temporary space. She had already made up the pullout couch, which took up most of the available floor space. There were three windows. One of which looked out to the front porch.

Blake dropped his bag onto the bed before visiting the upstairs. Christa pushed the front door closed so that they could pass out of the guest room and into the stairwell.

Upstairs in what was essentially a finished attic, there were two bedrooms. Each situated on either side of the top stairway landing. The outside walls of both rooms followed the contour of the roof. It was easy to pick out which room belonged to whom. One was decorated by teenage sensibility. Or a bomb had gone off. One of the two.

All in all, the hundred-year-old house was in great shape. The common living space was decorated in a tasteful nautical theme. Lighthouses, boat anchors, and rope seemed to be the main ingredients in the art and decor. As far as Blake was concerned, it was perfect.

The tour culminated where it began. On the front porch. Much like the rest of the house, the nautical theme pervaded. Cushions and throw pillows, all in rich navy blues and grays, adorned white wicker furniture.

“This is our favorite room of the house.” Christa laughed. “We spend most of our time out here when we’re home. Not in the winter, of course.”

“I don’t blame you.”

There was a quietness to the place. Not just the house, but all of it. A sense that there was nowhere else to be.

A group of people passed by, spreading into the middle of the road. They waved and said a friendly hello. Blake waved back.

“Boaters headed into town,” Christa said. “There’s a marina right at the bottom of the street. Come here.”

Christa walked off the porch, across the small patch of grass and into the road. She pointed down the hill, toward the water.

“That’s the West Ferry.” She turned around the other way. “If you follow this road to the other end, you’ll be at the East Ferry. That’s basically the downtown area. A few restaurants and shops. The hardware store is down there, the fire department, let’s see, what else? There’s a dive bar, the ‘Gansett. And McQuades, the grocery store, is about half-way down, just around the corner from that four-way intersection you saw on the way in.”

“I’ll have to take a drive down at some point and look around,” Blake said.

“No. You don’t drive. You walk. That’s the best part. Drive? You sound like Gwyn.”

“Where is Gwyn?” Blake said.

“She’s on her way back from the restaurant now. I told her to bring lunch for you.”

“You didn’t have to do that. I don’t want you going to any trouble. I can fend for myself. I’ll take a dr—, a walk, after I take a look at that phone.”

“Don’t be silly,” Christa said, “she already has the food. Plus, what’s the point of owning a restaurant if you can’t enjoy the perks?”

“You own a restaurant?”

“Not me. Gwyn. ‘Ohana, it’s called. It’s on the wharf in Newport. That’s actually why we decided to move out here. But I’m sure Gwyn will tell you all about it, ad nauseam.”

“Well, I look forward to it,” Blake said.

“I should warn you. She and I have been at each other’s throats for the past two days. This has put a lot of stress on both of us. I haven’t been sleeping. I have no appetite. I don’t know what to do with myself. I feel so helpless, you know? Every minute of the day, I feel like I should be doing something to find her. But I don’t know what to do. I took time off from work and all I ended up doing was driving around in circles, trying to see if I could spot her. Gwyn is so busy with the restaurant, it’s like I’m alone in this.”

Christa wiped a single tear from her cheek.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you. You’re not interested in my marital problems. What I meant to say was, I’m just glad you’re willing to help.”

“Tell you what,” Blake said. “It’s gonna take a while to break the passcode and dump the info, why don’t I go in and get that started before Gwyn arrives. This way we don’t waste any time.”

Before the two could step out of the road, Blake noticed an elderly man hobbling up the hill toward them. He had an intent look and was motioning as if he was trying to get their attention.

“Who’s this?” Blake asked.

“That’s just Chief.”

“Chief? As in Police Chief?”

Christa laughed. “He was. About forty years ago. His name’s John. But everyone around here just calls him Chief.” She dropped her voice as the man got closer to earshot. “Chief knows everything about everyone around here.”

Blake whispered, “Looks like he’s gonna hurt himself.”

“This damn knee.” Chief had a noticeable accent.

Many years prior, Blake had attended a five-week long sniper school in Georgia. The participants were paired up, one spotted while the other shot. Blake was with a kid named Collin, from South Boston. The way Chief spoke was not exactly the same as Collin, but it was similar. Only more subtle. Blake considered that it may have been the first time he had ever heard a Rhode Island accent.

“I’m sure it’s not her,” he said.

Whoever wasn’t her , Chief’s expression did not emote the same certainty as his words suggested.

“You didn’t hear?” he said. “Last night. They found a girl in the water over by Zeek’s. Awful thing. Probably one of these party boats. Girl probably got too drunk and fell off or somethin’. I’ll tell you what, nothing like that woulda happened on my watch.”

Blake could see that Christa had checked out. She stood motionless. The dread that must have been clamping down on her was almost palpable.

“Watch behind you,” Chief said.

Blake had been so caught up with Christa and with trying to process this new information himself, he had forgotten that they were standing in the middle of the road. The Range Rover that had approached from behind them had stopped only a few feet away.

“Gwyn.” Christa began bawling at the sight of her wife, who sat dumbfounded at the wheel of the SUV.

“What happened?” Gwyn said. “Is it Lucy?” The words came out more as if she were barking an order than expressing concern.

Blake was surprised at her physical appearance. Not because there was anything wrong with her, she was beautiful. But because the image he had in his head was so far off. He had pictured her more like Christa. Tall, blonde, sharp German features. In reality, Gwyn was tiny. He guessed she would be no more than five foot one or two if she were standing. And her jet-black hair and Asian features were about as opposite to Christa as could be.