Prologue

 

An old man stood on the bluff overlooking the bay. How many times had he done this—a thousand? Too many to count. Leaning on his cane and breathing through his mouth, he had shuffled up the dusty path to the wooden bench he had set there years ago. He chuckled to himself. Never mind how many times he had been at that very spot—how many more times would he be able to walk here up hill from his house? He settled himself on the bench. His breathing eased and he began to take an interest in the sea a thousand feet below his perch. A smile crinkled his face. God, but it was beautiful. The bay reached fifteen miles across to the mountains on the other side, their jagged peaks so white it looked like someone had dumped ice cream on them. Boats gently bobbed on the bay’s blue surface this fine evening in August. He looked up. Not a cloud to be seen. Wasn’t it good to be still alive here in Alaska? Yes, yes.

He had made it to the bench. If he died on this very spot, this very second, his life could be counted as wonderful. If he completed the second part of his ritual, he’d feel truly blessed. With quivering hands he removed the binoculars from their case and lifted them to his eyes. 

He could see only two skiffs, but that was not surprising. After all, it was past ten in the evening, and all the charter boats had long gone back to their harbor slips. That was okay; two boats were worth his trouble. No counting the times he’d watched as a boat’s occupants pulled a big halibut out of the water. Sometimes they were close enough for him to see them clubbing the poor creature to death. Not a pretty picture, but it was necessary. 

He leaned forward on the bench and propped both arms on his knees to steady the binoculars as he focused on the two skiffs now very close to one another. There was a woman in each boat. They must know each other. Probably going to share a cup of coffee since the sea was so calm. Well, life was boring at times when you were waiting for Mr. Fish to bite. Hmm . . . the one in the blue jacket was getting in the boat with the one in the red jacket. Now that was odd. Ah, well, perhaps she was going to help the other woman. Yes, no doubt, that is what it was, something tangled up perhaps. 

As the two talked they leaned toward each other, mouths moving, arms waving. It didn’t look very friendly. He lowered the binoculars and sat back, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them wide, trying to clear his vision, but it was no good. He sighed and spent a moment stretching out the kinks in his neck and shoulders. Giving up, he leaned forward again, lifted the binoculars back up to his eyes, and adjusted the focus.

One skiff was leaving. Must have gotten through with whatever they were doing. He glassed back over the sea to the other skiff. Wait a minute—where was the other woman? One skiff was empty and the other skiff was quickly moving away. He could distinctly hear the roar of its motor as it strained to get the boat up on step and then its sound leveling out as it cruised, waves slapping at its sides.

Something was wrong, terribly wrong. That woman in the blue jacket. Hadn’t he seen her somewhere? But where? Well, there was time enough to think about that later. He struggled to his feet, blowing through his mouth. Hell! Of all times to be impaired with a shortness of breath. Of course, that’s what his daughter had told him to expect after smoking all those years. To hell with his breathing! He had to get to a phone and tell the Coast Guard what he had seen. He stabbed the ground with his cane as he walked down the hill. His heart pounded. That was nothing new. But it was getting worse. His doctor had warned him about overexerting himself. He paused and put his free hand to his heart. 

Oh, no. Not now! 

His vision blurring, with one hand still bracing himself on his cane, he fell to his knees, then on his side onto the path. His vision cleared a few seconds, then dimmed. What beautiful roses.

* * *

Two days later the corpse of the woman lay face down in the sand. She wore Levi’s, a white sweater, and a red coat because even in summer the wind blowing over the cold waters of the bay could be quite cool. On the high bluffs above the beach, ravens soared and croaked their talk one to another. Intrigued by the red coat, they flew down close to the body as if daring it to come alive. Since only its arms moved in the small surf, they became bored and went back to their play. A few hours later a lone coyote came sniffing by. No doubt he was overjoyed by this prospective new food source, yet after a few more sniffs he wandered on, perhaps repelled by the human smell. Humans were dangerous.

She lay there through the night, the tide coming back yet again to gently nudge her. In the early morning of the following day, a passing pilot happened to look down as he turned on a long final at the airport of the nearby Alaskan coastal town. The sight of the body so rattled him that he did a go-around. This time he flew lower and slower making certain of what he had seen on his first pass. It was definitely a body.