“Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.
—NATALIE GOLDBERG
The interior of Thoreau cottage is in shadows as the first tongues of morning light filter through the wall of glass. Jason wakes in a cloud of invective as he remembers last night’s intent to kill Mick was thwarted by Hemingway’s unexpected presence.
After a quick shower, Jason heads out to do reconnaissance. Aware that perception is often more important than reality, he takes his camera. In the event he encounters anyone who’s suspicious of his activity, he does a quick mental rehearsal. I’m a photography buff. I’ve learned that outdoor shots are best when the sun isn’t bright—early morning or late afternoon is ideal.
He’s also learned that a powerful zoom lens proves almost as effective as binoculars without raising any suspicion. His excuse for not having his nose to the grindstone at work on his manuscript? I shipped my manuscript so I wouldn’t have to carry it on the plane. It should arrive today.
Jason’s shark-like gray eyes consume the details of his surroundings. The smell of wet earth, heavy with dew, assaults his nostrils as he creeps through thick woods. Simple young flowers, their blue heads still bent in the predawn light, add random flecks of color in nature’s otherwise green and brown carpet. His ears are alert as he keeps well off the pathway.
No stranger to stealth, he chooses his steps with care. Snapping a twig, like he did last evening, would sound like a shot in the pre-dawn quiet. Similar to long sleeves, dark green moss with a faint hint of yellow envelops the surface roots of trees, and lichen covers jutting rocks with crust-like caps of pale grayish green.
Intent on the task at hand, the breeze, just a shimmering ripple on the air, carries a noise to his attentive ears. He freezes in mid-step. What the hell? With his head cocked like a dog, he turns to catch the sound. There it is again.
Jason eases his way toward the source of the sound and realizes that it’s soft, contemplative music. Not wanting to give himself away, he crouches behind bushes and peeks through the thick foliage. In the distance, he sees a large, raised pavilion. It has a pagoda-style copper roof, patinated with age, and corners that flare out over Chinese-red supports. Its design is distinctly Asian.
As the sky grows lighter with the birth of a new day, Jason can just make out the silhouettes of five people, one in a wheelchair, in the spacious structure. He lifts the camera to his eye and zooms in for a closer look. What he sees reminds him of a trip he and his twin took to China to employ “mules”—couriers who smuggle narcotics—to avoid getting caught themselves.
He sees Libby, with her back toward the others, at the front of the group in loose-fitting, white silk pants and matching jacket. Jason remembers his brother snickering in derision at similar clothing with odd-looking front closures called “frog buttons,” and short, unfolded fabric at the neck called a “mandarin collar.”
Libby radiates confidence and control. Her color is high and her skin smooth, as she moves through the tai chi forms with graceful energy.
Jason can see her lips moving, but she’s too far away for him to hear her voice.
Cynthia, Fran, and Emma are imitating Libby’s lithe movements—Emma, using only her arms.
In the back of the group, Mick wears garb similar to Libby’s, except his is black. His slow movements are impeccable.
Jason’s attention is caught by a line of shoes next to the ramped entrance. He looks back at the group and sees that they’re all barefoot.
This crack of dawn bullshit is going to cramp my style. That damn dog must be with Niall. He peers through the lens one last time. Jason gives the group a withering look before turning away, no longer careful with his tread. When he passes the garden area, he hears Niall’s voice. “I’m going to the butcher shop this afternoon, Hemingway. I’ll pick you up a nice big femur bone while I’m there.”
Jason pauses behind a fifteen-foot wall of late spring, pink rhododendron, but doesn’t hear anything further. Curious, he separates the dark green, oblong-shaped leaves for a better look and meets a pair of menacing eyes.
Hemingway lets out a deep-throated growl.
“Hey, what’s the matter, boy?” Niall asks.
Smokey-blue eyes replace Hemingway’s as Niall looks to find the cause of irritation.
“It’s just me,” Jason says, careful to erase the annoyance in his voice. He lifts his camera. “I’m trying to capture a few shots before my manuscript arrives this afternoon.”
“Hold on a second. I’ll come around.”
Niall’s easy smile and his firm grip on Hemingway’s leather collar go a long way toward reassuring Jason.
“I guess you were admiring these ‘rhodies,’” Niall says, nodding toward the giant shrub. “Coast rhododendron is the state flower.”
Like Eddie Haskell—Wally’s smooth-talking friend on the old Leave it to Beaver television show—Jason shifts gears to insincere charm. “I didn’t know that, but I’ll make a note. By the way, I’m heading to town to pick up a few supplies and take more photos. I’m glad I ran into you. Which way is it?” He feigns ignorance.
“We keep a full assortment of office supplies right here.”
“Oh no. It’s not those type of supplies I’m after.”
“I’m heading into town later. I’d be happy to give you a lift,” Niall offers.
“Thanks, but no. I’d like to get some photographs on the way,” Jason says, raising his camera again.
“Would you like to take a bicycle? It’s only five minutes by bike, but it’ll take you fifteen on foot.”
“No thanks, I’d prefer to walk.”
“Well then, follow me,” Niall says, then taps his thigh for Hemingway to come along.
Niall lifts the lid on one of the saddle-style bicycle baskets, pulls out a map, and hands it to Jason. “Magdalena’s Creperie on Tenth Street has great food and coffee. If you stop in, tell Maggie I sent you.”
“I’ll remember that, thank you.”
“If you wouldn’t mind putting the map back when you return, I’d appreciate it,” Niall says, nodding at the map. “Enjoy your walk. Come on, Hemingway, we’ve got work to do.” And with that, the pair return to the garden.
“God-damned dog,” Jason mumbles under his breath. As he turns toward town, aggravation glints in his moody gray eyes. Once again, he finds himself no longer wanting a drink, but needing one.
He gives a wide berth to the off-leash dog park and crosses Fourth Street to catch the Larrabee Trail. Fog hangs heavy on the path and the foliage framing it. The map shows that the trail cuts through the Dirty Dan Harris homestead where it connects with Harris Avenue. Once he turns right, the Visitor Information Center will be less than a block further on the left-hand side. Fueled by need, Jason makes quick work of the route.
He grasps the handle of The Farthing Bar & Grill while shouldering the door. It takes a moment for him to realize that the entrance is locked. Anger mounting, Jason spots the posted hours and checks his watch, painfully aware that it isn’t yet seven in the morning. Where the hell is that creperie? It’s got to be somewhere in this God-forsaken town! He yanks the map out of his pocket and recalculates his bearings.
Jason rubs his shoulder as he walks with steady determination to Mount Bakery Café only to discover they don’t open until eight. Eyes blind with fury, he steels himself against the urge to smash his fist through the showcase window. He turns on his heel—the town’s shops are little more than a blur—and strides back the way he came, stopping when he reaches a park bench at Padden Creek Lagoon.
He glares at his right hand, trembling, as it clenches the crumpled map in his balled fist. Son of a bitch! He extends his left hand, turning it palm up for closer inspection. It, too, is shaking. I need a drink, but I have at least an hour to kill.
Surrounded by a dozen historical markers, Jason walks from plaque to plaque reading. Not what he’d planned for the morning, but by the time he heads back to the café for coffee, he’s learned quite a bit. Playing it back in his mind, he adds his own two cents worth:
“Fairhaven, Washington was founded in the late 1880s and is now part of the City of Bellingham. It’s on the south side of Bellingham and borders Puget Sound on the west, and Western Washington University on the northeast. Its center is the Fairhaven Historic District.” Where I’m walking right now. “It features a seasonal farmer’s market.” Who cares? “As well as numerous restaurants and shops.” Yes, but they’re not open when you need them.
“The district is a popular tourist destination.” God only knows why! “All newly-constructed buildings in the historical district are required to conform in outward appearance to the community’s traditional 19th-century style.” My task in life has been to conform in outward appearance to the rest of society.
The tinkle of the shop bell announces his arrival. Jason’s nostrils widen in appreciation of the heady smell of warm baked goods mingled with the rich aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. His stomach lurches. So focused on getting a drink—a single drink goddammit!—he hadn’t realized how hungry he was. While placing his order, the pleasant woman behind the counter looks at him with concern.
“Are you okay?” she inquires, her glasses perched precariously close to the end of her nose.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Jason says, smiling at the woman. “You must be Maggie. Niall told me to tell you he sent me. I’m at Pines & Quill this month and stayed up late following the thread of a good story. I ended up pulling an all-nighter.” He shoots her a manufactured, embarrassed grin. “I didn’t realize until this morning that I’m out of coffee.” I hope this broad doesn’t know how well stocked the cottages are.
Jason turns at the tap on his right shoulder and sees a man wearing a clerical collar.
“I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re staying at Pines & Quill. I’m Father Patrick MacCullough, Niall’s brother. Welcome to Fairhaven. I hope you’ll join us at St. Barnabas while you’re here.”
When hell freezes over! “Thank you. I don’t think there’ll be time for that.”
Maggie wipes her hands on a cloth, leans over the glass display case, and asks, “What are you writing about?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” Jason winks. “It’s cloak-and-dagger stuff.”
“Oh dear! Well we can’t have that now, can we?” Maggie says, with a conspiratorial smile as she fits the plastic lid on a large to-go cup of black coffee.
Jason pauses at the door and turns back. “If this tastes as good as it smells, I’ll be back.” He smiles. “By the way, can you tell me where the nearest liquor store is?”
“Old Fairhaven Wines is just up the street,” Maggie says. “They have a large assortment of local vintners including Oregon and California, and a great selection that spans the globe.”
“I’ll remember that for my hostess,” Jason says. He’s seething with impatience, but his face is a mask of diplomacy as he continues. “I mean hard liquor like scotch, gin, and vodka.”
Father MacCullough interjects, “Oh. That’ll be Washington State Liquor out on Old Fairhaven Parkway.” When he sees Jason’s eyes widen in urgency, he adds, “But they don’t open until ten.”
“Is it within walking distance?”
“It’s about a mile and a half from here.” Father MacCullough points west. “Near Interstate 5.”
His words fall on deaf ears as the door shuts with a resounding bang and the tinkle of the shop bell echoes after Jason’s retreating back.
It’s eight o’clock now. The liquor store doesn’t open until ten. I’ll go back and hitch a ride into town with Niall. I can’t waste any more time. I want to be there when UPS delivers my packages.
The walk back to Pines & Quill is much slower as Jason eats the baked goods and sips at his hot coffee. He sits on a fallen tree. His hawkish features are frozen in concentrated effort as he thinks about his next steps. Buy alcohol and poison. Kill Mick and the damn dog.
Buoyed by his thoughts, Jason arrives back at the retreat. Careful not to be seen, he slips behind the wall of Western Red Cedar trees and enters the confines of the simple, natural cottage named after Henry David Thoreau. He pauses in front of the all-glass southern wall. A glint of reflected morning sun winks at him through the foliage. He leans forward and squints to get a closer look. He can just make out two figures, one walking with a limp, the other in a wheelchair. He remembers how Mick and Emma talked, laughed, and looked at each other during dinner last night.
The coin drops.
Emma is Mick’s Achilles’ heel—his weakness, his vulnerable point. I can use her to get to him. Jason’s slow smile is self-congratulatory, having nothing to do with the breathtaking view.