Friday Harbor, page 31
Happily, Miles was able to reach Marion by phone when he got to the station just after 9 a.m.
"That was a lovely evening," she said.
"It was, wasn't it? Good food. Good company. But I believe we ended things with the mutual understanding that we'd had to break our conversation off prematurely."
"It was rather an abrupt ending."
"And that we should resume our discussion, perhaps, today. Which is part of why I'm calling. So I'm wondering if I might talk you into meeting for lunch."
"Today?"
"Say a picnic at Mulno Cove. I know you're reluctant to leave Sylvia by herself with your mother. But it would mean a lot to me if I could have you to myself, alone, for just a bit."
"Alone?"
"Yes. I'd very much like to speak with you, but without an audience."
"About what?"
"I'd rather tell you in person."
"Ah. I see. Well, I'm sure it would be lovely. But between my family obligations and duties as a host to Sylvia, it might not—"
"It wouldn't be long. I promise. Just a quick lunch. Maybe a game or two of Sink the Deutschland," he said, referring to a game they'd invented as kids—named after the one-time flagship of the Imperial German High Seas Fleet. It involved setting a log of driftwood afloat and seeing who could score more hits with rocks as the tide slowly carried it away. "Or maybe a quick blackberry fight, like in the old days."
"Ha."
"I'll have you back before anyone misses you."
"Oh, Miles. I really . . ." The line was quiet for a moment. "Alright. Alright."
"Fantastic. When should I pick you up?"
"I'll meet you there."
He hung up and, with a wide smile on his face, got a fresh percolator of coffee going on the stove just as Floyd and Bill arrived.
"You look happy this morning," Floyd said.
"Yes. I suppose I feel rather good."
"What's on the agenda for today? It seems we're running out of options."
"The only thing I can think to do is take another run at Rupert Hawkins."
"You really think he knows something?" Floyd asked.
"Probably not. But what else are we going to do? Callahan and the highbinders are surely gone by now."
"They're not," Bill said.
"You're joking."
"No, sir. I checked the outbound passenger manifests at the steamship terminal not ten minutes ago. Unless they found private transport, which I doubt, they're all still here."
"Still here? Why?" Miles asked of the ceiling. "Callahan already gave his speech at the Odd Fellows. And the highbinders know we're onto them. In their shoes, I'd have been on the first boat out of here."
"Maybe Aunt Fanny bakes a mean apple pie," Floyd said.
"Maybe Callahan did kill those girls after all," Miles said. "Maybe he heard the Lucky Lena was going to be full of Chinese, but didn't know they were going to be women. Then, in a panic, he killed them because they were witnesses to his murder of the Jensens."
"Along similar lines," Floyd said, "maybe Reverend McCaskill thought he was going to make an example of some rumrunners, and then killed the girls for the very same reason Callahan might have. Though it's hard to imagine a self-professed man of God slaughtering innocent girls."
"Apparently you've never opened a history text."
As Miles said this, two weathered, frightened-looking fishermen came through the door in an obvious rush. They looked like they'd come straight from their boat, still in coveralls and rubber boots.
Please, no, Miles thought. Not something else. Not before lunch.
"Sheriff," one of them said, his eyes big.
"What is it, Charlie?"
"We was running back from Sidney this morning after buying a new net and, anyway, a girl. We saw a girl."
"A body?"
"No, sir. Live girl. Oriental. On Halibut Island," he said, referring to an insignificant landmass Miles hardly thought of as an island—a narrow, 1/3-mile-long rock with a small stand of trees on its crest, about a mile inside of Canadian waters, and only three miles north of D'Arcy Island.
"We spotted her on the northeast part," the old fisherman said. "Then George took a look with the binoculars. Looked like she was gathering oysters. But something wasn't right with her."
"Not right, how?"
"First off, she tries to run and hide when she spots us motoring around the point. But she runs funny. Lurching, sort of. Like she's hurt."
*****
Utterly dejected, Miles called Marion back to cancel their lunch date at Mulno Cove, noting, with unease, what he took to be a hint of relief in her voice. "What about tomorrow evening?" he asked with a sudden sense that a door was closing—that he was fast running out of time.
"Tomorrow?"
"Please. It would mean a lot."
After another minute of unabashed coaxing, she finally agreed.
"I promise you, cross my heart, that I'll be there no matter what comes up," he said before hanging up.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Haro Strait, British Columbia
(near D'Arcy Island)
Ten Days Earlier
I have lost a lot of blood. On the boat, I could see a large puddle on the deck under me when I dared to open one eye. And even though I held my hand against the wound—tried to hold it shut—I am sure much blood has leaked out of my body since they threw me overboard into the water. The coldest water I have ever felt.
At first I thought it was a miracle when I saw the floating wood plank after I drifted away from the boat. But the pain became so much worse when I struggled to clamber onto it, sliding back into the water on my first three tries. Pain like fire. Cold fire. So bad I almost wanted to die to escape it.
And then more cold. I shivered so hard and for so long, my teeth chattering, my free hand barely able to hold onto the metal spike in the wood that I have been using to keep myself from slipping into the dark water again. But finally, the shivering stopped and the pain was not as bad. And I grew very tired. Very sleepy. I tried to stay awake, knowing I might roll off the plank if I fell asleep. But sleep—the escape, the peace, the warmth and comfort of sleep—was so tempting. I imagined dragging my sleeping mat over by the stove back home in my village. I imagined the wonderful warmth.
Through a break in the clouds, I could still see the seven stars of the Northern Dipper, so I knew I had not yet left the earth. But the stars had grown brighter. The gateway to heaven had grown closer. I prayed for forgiveness. I prayed that I might see my family again one day, in this world or the next.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Miles had the old fishermen run him and a petrified Floyd up and around the north end of San Juan Island, past Roche Harbor, and across thoroughly choppy waters in Haro Strait to tiny Halibut Island, where they claimed to have seen a skittish and possibly injured Asian girl that very morning. As they approached the Canadian maritime border, they caught sight of the USRC Arcata patrolling near D'Arcy Island, to their south, its funnel pouring thick black coal smoke into the sky such that every rumrunner within ten miles would know exactly where she was. Miles pictured Captain Eckart sitting on its bridge, grumpy, slouching, and constipated, squinting through binoculars and obsessively searching for rumrunners like some modern-day Captain Ahab.
"There she is," Charlie, the elder of the two fishermen, said, pointing straight off the bow. The low form of Halibut Island was just now distinguishable against the backdrop of much larger Sidney Island behind it.
"Shouldn't we at least radio the Canadians?" Floyd asked from where he cowered in the very middle of the wheelhouse, his eyes glued to the deck.
"After the fact," Miles said. "The girl could be mortally injured. Last thing we need is cross-border bureaucratic processes slowing us down."
"Point taken."
They motored to the northern tip of the rocky islet, where a tiny cove afforded the only sheltered and relatively safe landing point, then drifted forward until the hull just touched beach gravel. Charlie dropped an anchor off the stern to keep the boat from turning sideways against the shore. Then, having asked the fishermen to stay onboard, Miles and Floyd hopped off into knee-deep water, carrying a medical kit, food, and a wool blanket.
"I'm going to have to take up drinking if this job is going to have me riding in boats this frequently," Floyd said.
As the narrow island was barely 60 yards across at its widest point, by keeping about 80 feet apart, they were able to view its entire breadth as they slowly made their way south. It didn't take them long to find signs of life. A few feet into the island's one small stand of trees, in a nook of rock offering shelter from the prevailing winds, Miles came across a small, crude, recently constructed shelter—more of a cocoon—made of branches wrapped in bull kelp. It was stuffed with dry madrona leaves and tall grass. He pictured the girl crawling inside and surrounding herself with a thick layer of debris to keep warm. Simple and moderately effective protection from the elements.
Downwind of the shelter, he found a scattering of cracked mussel and oyster shells—undoubtedly the girl's main form of sustenance. At least she wasn't starving. Miles did, however, wonder where she got water to drink, until he came upon a series of small, stale puddles in a shallow fissure in the island's ice age glacier-scoured rock.
He and Floyd came together as they neared the narrowing southern end of the island. Given that the girl had no doubt seen the boat approaching, Miles guessed that she was retreating further and further down the island as they advanced. But she was running out of land. Soon, they'd have her cornered and there would be no place for her to hide.
Indeed, a couple of minutes later, Floyd froze in place and, without a sound, raised his hand to signal for Miles to stop. He pointed to a small boulder, just large enough to conceal a child or very small adult. Miles nodded, then quietly sidestepped over to where Floyd stood. He could just see the top of the girl's head. Her hair was black and disheveled.
Without coming any closer, and in the softest, most sympathetic voice he could muster, Miles said, "Girl, we're not going to hurt you." He knew she probably didn't understand his words. But he hoped his tone would carry the gist of his message. "We know you're afraid. But we're here to help. We'll wait for you by your shelter. I'm going to put a blanket and food here for you," he said, taking the wool blanket from his satchel and setting it on the ground at his feet. He took out an apple, a piece of smoked salmon, and a canteen of fresh water and set them on top of the blanket. The girl didn't move a muscle. Miles and Floyd slowly withdrew.
Back near her cocoon-like shelter, the men got a big bonfire going. Floyd warmed himself by the fire while Miles went to update the fishermen and beg them to stay put. When he got back, Floyd asked if he really thought the girl would come willingly.
"I don't know," Miles said, staring into the fire. "But if she's badly injured, we don't want to risk trying to physically force her unless it's absolutely necessary." Then he looked up into the treetops. "The breeze is coming from the northwest."
"So?"
"She's downwind of us. I have an idea." Miles found a long stick, sharpened the end with his knife, then extracted several strips of bacon from the food bag they'd brought along and began roasting them over the fire. The air filled with their aroma and the gentle breeze carried it down the island toward the girl.
"You may be a genius," Floyd said.
"I can't argue with that."
*****
Men have come. Always men. I saw their boat approaching the island and moved to the far end to hide. But to move hurts so much. Takes so much energy. I just want to sleep. I have wanted to sleep since I spotted this little island in the moonlight and slowly paddled my plank of wood toward it with one hand. Why do I still try to stay alive? I am so tired of trying.
The men have lit a fire. I can smell the smoke. They are cooking. A warm fire and warm food. They want to draw me out of hiding. The aroma is delicious. Something both salty and sweet. How I long for something warm, something salty and sweet to fill my stomach. Or even just to taste it after these long, miserable days of being in pain. Of being cold. With nothing to eat but cold shellfish and cold seaweed. Nothing to drink but cold, foul-smelling water. I would do anything to be able to drink—to even just sip—a warm cup of tea.
But there will be no tea. This time they will find me. I have no more energy to run. This time they will make sure I am dead like all the other girls.
*****
They spent a couple of hours roasting bacon, strip by strip, eating most of what they cooked. But the smell didn't lure the girl. As the shadows were growing long, they gave up on Miles's plan and walked back down the island, seeing no sign of her until they got all the way back to the boulder she'd tried to hide behind earlier. The wool blanket, food, and canteen sat exactly where they'd left them. Desperately hoping the girl wasn't dead, Miles picked up the canteen and blanket and slowly sidestepped until he could see her leg sticking out from behind the boulder. "Hey there," Miles said, again in his softest audible voice. "It's alright."
He stepped forward until he could see most of her body—could just make out that her chest was rising and falling with her shallow breathing—then opened the canteen and held it out to her.
"Are you thirsty?" he asked, creeping around the edge of the boulder. The flat, fading light revealed an emaciated apparition—a frail ghost of a girl. Filthy, shoeless, and clothed in nothing more than the torn and tattered remnants of a simple Chinese peasant's tunic. But alive.
He gestured for Floyd to come help and unfolded the blanket to wrap the girl up. It was then that he noticed her injuries. A probable bullet wound between her breast and shoulder, and what looked to be a foot-long slash to the left side of her belly. Both wounds were covered in some sort of poultice made from what looked like ground up seaweed. As he draped the blanket over her, an edge of it caught on the poultice covering the longer wound, causing it to fall off, revealing a deep cut with a portion of intestine bulging through it.
Miles gasped. He'd seen his share of wounded during the war. But this wasn't a soldier. It was a child. "Jesus wept," he whispered, meeting Floyd's eyes. "She's just a girl. Somebody's little girl."
FIFTY-NINE
Back in Friday Harbor well after nightfall, Dr. Boren and Sylvia—who Miles had called in because of her battlefield hospital experience—did their best to clean, sanitize, and stitch up the Chinese girl's bullet wound and the deep slash in her belly. They had to remove a bit of necrotic tissue, but were amazed at how little there was given how long the girl had probably been wounded and without medical care. It made them wonder at the possible healing secrets of the pulverized seaweed poultices she'd self-applied.
She yelped when they flushed her wounds with antiseptic, but was otherwise an unflinching and compliant patient—this despite the fact that nobody could communicate with her, including Henry, whom Miles had practically dragged from his bed. Henry's best guess was that she spoke a lesser-known Cantonese dialect.
Meanwhile, Miles and Floyd waited in Dr. Boren's reception room.
"Never in my life," Floyd said, letting the statement hang.
"I know," Miles said, shaking his head. "It's just beyond imagination."
Miles wondered how the girl had managed to survive. The Lucky Lena was probably smuggling her to San Juan Island from some rusty, rat-infested steamship anchored in Canadian or international waters after crossing the Pacific from Shanghai or Hong Kong. From there, she'd have been escorted to Seattle, Portland, or maybe San Francisco, probably to work as a prostitute in a tong-run brothel. Instead, hijackers had taken over the boat, shot and sliced everyone open right before her eyes—shot and cut her—then thrown the bodies overboard. Only, in all the madness, blood, and fading light, they didn't notice that their handiwork hadn't quite finished off one of the girls. That when she'd gone overboard, she'd pretended to be dead, treaded water, maybe climbed onto a log or wooden plank drifting by, and then ridden it north on the tide, through the cold darkness, to Halibut Island. There, she'd somehow managed to recover from certain hypothermia, done her best to treat her own wounds, then hidden—subsisting on raw oysters, seaweed, and maybe wild berries, with little hope of survival and little idea of what to do next—for more than a week.
"The one bit of good news," Miles said, "is that if she survives, we now have a live witness. Someone who can positively identify the gunman."
Floyd looked up at him, his face grim. "Yes. Good news."
"But I'm sure word is out about her rescue. Needless to say, if the killers are still on the island, they'll come for her. We have to keep her safe."
Sylvia came out of the examination room. "I think she'll make it," she told them.
"Thank goodness," Miles muttered.
"We have her about as fixed up as we can get her. Both wounds are deep. I'll have Swedish Hospital send up another tetanus serum tomorrow. For now, she just needs to rest. Anyone around here speak her language?"
"No. But we'll summon another interpreter from Seattle in the morning. Listen, Sylvia, I can't thank you enough. Dr. Boren is a fine physician. But, well, with all your experience with combat wounds—"
"No need to explain."
"And I'm so sorry for dragging you out of bed in the dark of night."
"Don't be silly."
"You've just, I mean, for you to—"
"Miles, do I need to slap you? The situation is as under control as it is going to be. Go home and get some sleep. You're too tired to even form a sentence."
"I can't leave her here undefended."
"Bill is going to be outside all night."
"We don't know how many killers there are. Someone needs to be inside too."
"Then give me your pistol," she said. "Really, give it to me. I'm wide awake."
"You can shoot?"
