The Hunger of Crows, page 13
“Hey, little lady. Ready for a bite of heaven?” He had shaggy blond hair with lighter highlights. A sparse moustache the same colors. Talked with a cowboy drawl. Little lady.
She gestured toward the frying pan. “Where’d you get that stuff?”
“The bacon? Just ran to the Quicky Mart. The inside of your fridge looks like a feed-and-grain store. God save me from vegetarian food Nazis.” He turned back to the stove. “I mean, your big sister’s fun, but Jesus!”
My big sister. Did any of those guys really believe that?
“We better eat that before my sister wakes up,” she said.
This poor dummy didn’t have a chance. He hadn’t been notified that this was a one-night stand.
There were always men, from as far back as Carla could remember. Mostly one-nighters like this one. But some others moved in long-term—meaning for as long as her mother needed them—and were like pets. Like dogs, or not-very-clean cats hanging around the place. They were generally balding, paunchy, older guys named Ronnie or Bert and Bud. Carla got used to them being there: slouched hungover on the sofa watching sports or sleeping on a chaise longue by the pool in their old-man boxers. Carla always understood that those guys were from outside the local art world, where her mother had a name and a certain artistic appearance to keep up. It took her a little longer to figure out that their money was how her mother could afford to navigate that world in the first place.
They paid to have the patio tiled. A sun-room added onto the house. New pool decking. In return, her mother made sure they got everything any man could want from a woman—until she got everything she wanted from them. The transaction took exactly as long as each job lasted. Carla liked them. And felt bad for them. Some brought her little gifts and acted like they were her father.
My father.
Of course this memory veers down that path. Carla doesn’t remember her father—she was too young. But how many times did she hear her mother’s version of his overdose? “Halcion,” she would say. “He always had trouble sleeping.” A pause. One arched eyebrow. Her best half smile. “But not anymore, of course.”
* * *
Memories evaporating, Carla sits up in the bunk and inhales the bacon fumes filling the boat. She cranes around to see Scott in the galley, his back to her. Her wet clothes are draped on the bench seat, on cabinet doors, dangling from the handle of the little refrigerator. “God, that smells good,” she calls out.
He turns at the hip. “Good morning. I put out some things of mine. I think they might be pretty big on you, but yours are still wet.”
She slides out of the sleeping bag. “What time is it?”
He’s spread some of his own dry clothes across his neatly made bunk. Declining the big white jockey shorts and the heavy canvas work pants that would fall right off her small hips, she pulls a red flannel shirt on over the T-shirt and rolls up the sleeves. It hangs just short of her knees, covering all the things you are expected to keep covered at breakfast. No need for pants.
“About eight o’clock,” he says.
“I didn’t think you’d let me sleep that long.” She glances out the sun-filled windows, half expecting to see a boat approaching, D’Angelo at the helm. She finger combs her hair as best she can—it’s gummy with seawater salt—and climbs the steps to the warm, food-scented galley. Scott is leaning over a heavy iron frying pan, bacon grease snapping like fireworks.
“You were sleeping pretty hard. I’ve been up a while.”
“I can see that.” She nods toward the stove. “The last man who cooked for me wants to marry me. The second to last man who cooked for me wants to kill me. Maybe I should fix my own meals from now on.”
“Volker cooked for you? I wouldn’t have guessed. He looks more like a pickled-eggs-and-extra-smoky-jerky kind of guy. Maybe because I only see him in the bar. He asked you to marry him?”
“He tried to woo me with poached eggs.”
“That’s how he gets all the young ones? I’ll have to write that down.”
Carla is more pleased about being lumped into that age category than she cares to think about.
Scott plucks the bacon strips out of the frying pan and sets them on a paper towel. “I don’t dislike George. I’m just jealous. I’m happy to hear you only moved in with him to hide out. I mean, if he’s what women want … That’s too depressing to think about.” He hands her a coffee. “Sit.”
Carla sits over her coffee mug, looking out the boat window at the wispy fog patches lingering over the cove. A handful of black-and-white birds of some kind paddle in erratic circles, their reflections cruising upside down beneath them. A sea otter lounges on the slick surface, belly to the sky, toes in the air, wearing his own fur survival suit. Hard to believe that water tried to kill her last night.
Scott sets two plates of fried eggs and bacon strips on the tabletop, slides into the seat across from her. “Eat up, and we’ll get out of here.”
Ravenous, Carla stuffs bacon in her mouth and mumbles, “Where will we go?”
“When Shire’s skiff is found, your name will be on the radio today and in the papers tomorrow: the Homer News, the Peninsula Clarion, and the Anchorage Daily News. We can’t just sit here a week until the search for you is called off. We need to get you someplace where nobody knows you. Someplace you can lay low until we figure out how to get the picture out of the truck. I was going to say we could pull anchor, head out around the point, and shoot for Seward. It’s just a long day’s boat ride from here.”
“Why? What’s in Seward?”
Scott laughs. “A lot of drunk fishermen. Just like here. But nobody knows you there.”
“God, I’ve been here two months, and I’m so sick of drunk fishermen.”
“You’re starting to sound like a real Alaskan woman.”
“What do you mean you were ‘going to’ suggest Seward?”
“It’s a moot point now. It’s calm here, but there’s a small-craft advisory for the other side of the peninsula. Storm warnings. Winds from the east. Seas to eight feet. We might make it alive, but a head wind like that would beat our brains out all the way. And if anything went wrong with the boat …” He lets that fade out. “Sorry.”
“So, what do we do?”
“In my divorce deal, my ex is keeping the house I built in town. I get this boat. Fine with me. But I can’t run my business out of it. So I’m fixing up an old house I own on the river fifteen miles north of town at Anchor Point. Nothing fancy. Couple acres with a gravel pit on it. I keep my construction equipment there. If we can get you up there unseen, you can hide for a few days while I find a way to get to your truck before D’Angelo does.”
“That’ll be the first thing he does when he hears I’m dead, won’t it? I mean, he’s got to figure I either had the photo on me when I drowned or it’s in the truck.”
Scott shrugs. “Like I said before, right now the truck is too exposed. He can’t get to it where it’s parked any easier then we can.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Yeah, I guess. It’ll give us time to figure out how to grab the photo.”
“And then what?” Carla asks.
“I’m fucked if I know.” He shakes his head. “I’d say I’ll drive you up to Anchorage. You give the thing to the FBI. But if you’re right about McKint having people inside the feds ….”
He finishes his food and stands. “Well, we can’t stay here. Half the captains on the bay know this boat. Somebody will come investigating why we’re sitting here before the day’s out.”
He starts the engines. The boat vibrates with their power. He lets them run while he carries their empty plates and cups to the galley and runs water on them. “Will you wash these while I pull the anchor?”
“Sure.” She goes to the sink.
Scott sits at the wheel and flips a switch. Carla feels the boat shift as the anchor line tightens. It feels good to be doing something. To be moving. But then a thought hits her.
“Scott, how do we get through the docks and up to your hideaway without me being seen?”
He turns and smiles. “I have an idea.”
“You have an idea?” She scoffs. “One that includes keeping me alive?”
“Half the guys in the marina know you from the bar. And even if they didn’t, they’d never let a woman like you pass without eyeballing her. You’re going to turn heads, and we don’t want that kind of attention.”
“What do you want me to do, put on a disguise?” she jokes.
Scott doesn’t laugh.
“Oh, come on. What, a fake beard and moustache?”
“It doesn’t have to be that dramatic.” Scott keeps his eyes on the anchor chain clanging into its hold in the bow of the boat. “Every day, some new young guy shows up on the docks looking to crew on the commercial boats. They’ve been watching Deadliest Catch and want in on the glamour and excitement of the most dangerous job in America.”
“I know a few crab fishermen. Glamour is not the word that comes to mind.”
“A lot of them learn that real quick and take off for warmer, safer jobs on dry land. That’s why the Salvation Army store is loaded with almost pristine work clothes.”
“So …?”
“So there’s going to be one more scrawny young deckhand in the small-boat harbor. Very soon.”
CHAPTER
23
A RAUCOUS CAWING ROUSTS D’Angelo out of an earthquake dream he knew was a dream but couldn’t climb out of. He’d been in an earthquake in Turkey once. Single scariest day of his life.
He sits up, squinting at the morning light pouring through the sliding glass doors to the room’s balcony. An enormous, glossy black raven is perched on the railing, squawking at a group of equally black crows strafing it and shrieking their opinions of its species. The raven sounds like it’s gargling with rocks, the much-smaller crows like children imitating an older sibling. What are they saying? It’s clearly not friendly.
D’Angelo climbs out of bed and raps on the glass. The raven’s head swivels. It mutters something toward him with obvious irritation and launches off the railing straight into the squadron of angry crows. The aerial bird battle flaps out of sight. He flips on the coffeemaker and finds his way to the shower, muttering in his own language that he should have brought some good coffee packets with him.
Hunkering to fit his tall frame under the showerhead, he lets the hot water drum on his skull, thankful that he’s finally dreaming of something other than his daughter. Even earthquake dreams are better than that.
The coffee steams in the pot when he comes out of the bathroom. He throws a robe on and takes a cup out onto the balcony in spite of the cool early-morning air. The midnight storm had been brief, and now the bay is calm under clearing skies. Soft, residual swells roll past the end of the spit. He sips the coffee and grimaces. Funny, after all the years spent drinking camp coffee unfit for human consumption, only four years into management and city life he’s already a caffeine snob of the first order. Surely the hotel must have an espresso bar. He leans over the railing and tries the coffee again. He dumps the cup onto the rocky beach below.
On the other hand, the scenery is spectacular.
He takes in the view, instinctively determining the compass rose—an old habit from years in the field when directions made a difference between life and death. The balcony faces due south across the Kachemak Bay. To the west, the open waters of Cook Inlet stretch to a horizon jagged with dormant volcanoes and the mountains of the Aleutian range. Eastward, the bay is shouldered by low hills dotted with the houses of the town on the north shore. On the south, snow-topped summits sit shrouded with leaden clouds. Two blue glaciers, lucent against the gloom, wind between conical peaks like the frozen rivers they are. At their base, a thin layer of cottony fog carpets the water as far as he can see toward the head of the bay.
A dozen yards away from the hotel, a motion catches his eye. The low morning sun flashes white on the bellies of small shorebirds soaring along the surf line. On an apparent whim, the flock abruptly folds over on itself like a sleight-of-hand trick and lands on the pebbled shore, suddenly invisible. There’s mystery everywhere.
It all makes him wish he were just a tourist gawking at this beautiful place. He isn’t looking forward to the work he has ahead of him today. But Carla Merino must be dealt with.
That damned photo. If he’d acted decisively the moment he put his hands on it, none of this would be necessary. If only he’d gone straight home the night he got back from that tough job overseas instead of to the Sierra Vista for a drink. After two weeks among potential enemies, he thought Carla Merino was exactly what he needed. Now look where he is. He wishes he’d never met her. Right now he wishes he’d never met Gordon McKint. But then, where would he be? Hell, who would he be?
From the balcony he can hear the clink of silverware and plates. Someone is having breakfast out on the restaurant deck.
Jesus, he’s hungry.
He dresses, hangs his Nikon around his neck, and heads down to the hotel restaurant to find out how good those crab omelets really are.
Over the bar in the restaurant, a TV screen shows the face of Gordon McKint, glaring belligerently with his one good eye. Luckily, the sound is muted. D’Angelo has eaten enough meals listening to Gordon McKint over the years. More than enough.
* * *
After the breakfast—omelet very good, coffee not so great—D’Angelo drives to the marina. He parks and walks down a steep aluminum ramp to the docks. Somebody there might verify—or dispute—that Carla Merino went out into last night’s gale in a small boat. He’s stepping off the ramp onto the dock when he sees a hard-hulled Alaska Department of Fish and Game inflatable towing an aluminum Lund skiff. He walks along the dock and stands near the slip where they tie it off. It’s not hard to see that the skiff has spent some time more or less submerged. A foot of muddy water sloshes in the hull. The cowling on the big outboard motor is missing, the center console festooned with sea grass and long kelp tubes. D’Angelo loiters close enough to hear the fish cops telling someone that early-morning dipnetters found the swamped boat on the other side of the bay. Two names are mentioned. Shire Kiminsky. And Carla Merino. He hears the words “presumed drowned.”
Apparently, that much of Volker’s story is true.
Word gets out quickly. In minutes the harbor master, State Troopers, local police, and the Coast Guard swarm the dock. A reporter from the town’s weekly newspaper shows up, a nice-looking middle-aged woman with a tremendous pile of crinkly black hair streaked with silver. She’s wearing a blue raincoat, black-and-yellow-striped tights, and the brown rubber knee boots half the people on the docks have on their feet. Somehow she makes it all work.
D’Angelo ambles past the cluster of law enforcement types, slouching as he walks, trying to look as much like a simple curious tourist as he can manage. That’s a stretch, him being much taller and a lot fitter than most of the paunchy sightseers wandering the docks.
He stalls there as long as he can, mingling with a group of aging, Patagonia-clad ecotourists—all high-end optics and stainless-steel water bottles—waiting to board a big catamaran for a birding charter. Listening in on the police conversations, he holds the camera to his face and aims it at a crow perched on the wide gunwale of a commercial seiner. The bird has a blue-black mussel clamped in its beak. It bashes the shell against the aluminum rail with a musical, bonking sound.
If Carla is dead, where is the photo?
An older, overgroomed woman with perfectly coiffed auburn hair mistakes D’Angelo for one of the birding group. The only person without binoculars or a gigantic camera, she looks out of place in that crowd. Her clothes more tailored, less outdoorsy than the others. The lightweight loafers all wrong for a boat deck or a stony beach. “Is that some kind of sea crow?” she asks him.
D’Angelo shrugs, puts on an embarrassed grin. “Beats me. I’m new to this.”
“Me too,” she says. “I got talked into it.”
One of the men in the group turns their way and scoffs. “There is no such thing as a sea crow. It’s a common American crow. Or maybe a Corvus caurinus, the northwest crow. But we’re probably a little out of their range.”
The woman turns away from the pedant and leans closer to D’Angelo. “I like ‘sea crow.’ It’s a nice name.”
“It really is,” he whispers back, then notices the police talking to a short, middle-aged woman with a blinding white-blond ponytail. Beside her are two small girls wearing diminutive life jackets. The boat’s owner? If so, she’s the friend of Carla that George Volker mentioned, Shire Kiminsky. Another looker—this town seems loaded with them—but way too wholesome for his taste. The appeal of the girl-next-door types has always been a mystery to him. He likes women a little less pristine looking. Carla Merino, for example.
Shire Kiminsky looks distraught, close to tears. But she’s no china doll. Ignoring the muck in the recovered boat—she also wears the brown rubber knee boots that seem de rigueur among the locals—she hops down into it. With obvious experience, she scrutinizes the damage to the outboard. The little girls stand on the dock in matching boots of their own, looking up at the uniformed giants towering over them.
“She was heading for your cabin on Loon?” a Trooper about D’Angelo’s size asks Shire Kiminsky. “Any chance she made it to the island? I mean, maybe she just didn’t tie the skiff off well enough? Boat drifted off during the night, swamped? You said she doesn’t have a phone. Maybe she’s over there asleep in a warm bed?”
“I don’t think so. When Fish and Game called to say somebody found the skiff, I phoned Heidi Skirlin. She lives down the beach. Nobody’s been there.”
