Nocturne In Ashes: A Riley Forte Suspense Thriller, Book One Page 4

  Topper took the Puyallup exit, glancing in the rear view mirror. “I feel like David’s with us on this, riding in the back seat.”

  Jack bobbed his head. “Amen.” He swallowed, and crumpled the sandwich paper into a ball.

  They drove in silence, miles sliding under the tires at a steady pace. As they approached the road block area, the atmosphere changed. Pickup trucks were pulled to the side, parked at crazy angles, tailgates open, lawn chairs out. Portable barbecues smoked and sputtered, and hot sauce flowed as folks served up “lava burgers” and “fire dogs.”

  Music blared, metal competing against bluegrass and hip-hop for volume points. Ball caps and T-shirts, printed with pithy, volcanic remarks like “Me and Joe vs. The Volcano,” “I reigned on Rainier,” and “Just when you thought it was safe to go hiking,” were on offer by enterprising citizens. Card tables were set up with vials of ash, pumice stones, volcano-shaped ashtrays. Buy two, get one free. Artists with easels sketched and painted the mighty mountain, working from photos because there’s no vantage point when you’re this close. People strolled and laughed. Money changed hands.

  Jack stared, mouth hanging open under his crumb-strewn mustache. “I’ll be damned.”

  Topper nodded. “Welcome to hell.”

  CHAPTER 8

  FROM THE KITCHEN, RILEY HEARD the growl of a motor crawl into her driveway and putter to a stop. Her stomach gave a lurch. Last night’s disaster was sure to bring a little media retribution her way, and she wasn’t ready to face the probing questions, the same ones she’d been asking herself. Teren had arranged to pick her up early and get her out of the house. She passed her wet hands over a kitchen towel and stepped across the cool tiles and onto the hardwood floor of the living room, peering out at the boxy SUV. The scowl she wore dropped away and she laughed as Teren’s legs emerged and he strode across the lawn to the front porch. She walked out to meet him.

  “Good morning, Riley. Share the joke?”

  “I expected you to pull up with a couple kayaks strapped to the top of your smart car. The mental picture is amusing me.”

  He grimaced. “Your derision is what I hoped to avoid. I use my Smartie most of the time, but sometimes you just need a utility vehicle.” He looked her up and down, nodded, and asked, “Ready?”

  “After last night’s fiasco, I am more than ready. You promised this would melt away my stress and I hope you can deliver.”

  He drove along the lakeside road to the small boatyard used by the residents. She helped him load and secure two kayaks to the overhead rack.

  “Why is one long and skinny and the other short and stout?” Riley asked. “They remind me of my grandparents.”

  Teren smiled. “The long one is a sea kayak. It’s fast, but harder to handle and tips easily. The other one is a recreational kayak. It’s more stable and easier to get in and out of. What’s your preference, first-timer?”

  “I guess it’ll be me and grandma.”

  Half a mile down a steep hill, they arrived at the Sound. Teren pulled down the broader, blue kayak and fitted it with a back rest, adjusting the foot pedals and helping Riley climb inside.

  “You’re sitting in the cockpit,” he told her, “and this,” he said indicating the lip around the large hole of the cockpit, “is the rim. Why is that important? Because you’re going to want to attach a spray skirt to keep yourself dry.” He paused. “Well, relatively dry.”

  He placed a thick, rubbery, apron-like apparatus over Riley’s shoulders and stretched it snug around the rim of the cockpit. He handed her a paddle and shoved her boat into the water, before pulling down the narrow, red kayak, and fitting himself through the much smaller cockpit opening. Soon, they were paddling across the smooth surface of the Case Inlet and it was much easier than Riley had feared. Like gliding.

  Teren shot ahead, his sleek kayak slicing the skin of the Sound like a razor on wrapping paper. He showed off some fancy maneuvers and bowed to Riley’s applause, then waited for her to catch up. As they paddled side by side, Teren pointed out and identified some of the plants that grew along the edge of the Sound. He kept her entertained with tidbits about birds and animals, but she was most interested in his stories about the human activities, former and present. They paddled past a house with imposing walls closing it off from the land side, but it was open to the water and Riley goggled a bit at the extravagance. She’d attended a number of parties and events hosted by the affluent residents in the area. Her status as a concert pianist married to a handsome firefighter had opened a lot of doors, but she was by no means inured to such a high level of gloss.

  “Smuggling money, there,” Teren said, waggling a paddle at the house. “From way back. There are a lot of caves near here, hideaways and trading posts for smugglers. I wouldn’t be surprised if some were still in operation.”

  “What were they smuggling?”

  “Everything from bootleg whiskey to opium. The U.S. imported a lot of Chinese labor back then, to build the railroads, work the mines, run the laundries. And they liked their happy poppy juice.” He dipped his paddle and worked it against the subtle current, slowing his kayak’s passage, and turned to squint at Riley. “You ever tried geoduck ice cream?”

  “Never heard of it. What’s a gooey duck?”

  Teren let out an amused bellow and then cut it off. “You’re serious,” he said, with a touch of awe. “You’ve lived a half mile off the Puget Sound for six years and you’ve never met the favorite phallic symbol of the Pacific Northwest?”

  “Sounds intriguing. And they make it into ice cream? What does that tell you?”

  He laughed again. “It’s all the rage at the Geoduck Festival. Really, you’ve never been?”

  “In my defense, I must point out that for much of that six years, I was on tour in far-off places and for the last two years my social calendar’s been…less than festive.”

  Teren grunted. “Point taken.”

  There was a silence. “So,” Riley said, “don’t leave me hanging. What’s a gooey duck?”

  Teren started paddling again. “I take your education of such matters very seriously, so I’m going to give you the long version.” His voice floated back to her. “The geoduck is a sort of clam, native to this region and distinctively shaped, as I think I mentioned. It might surprise you to know that it was also a hot ticket on the smuggling catalog and was traded, with gusto, on the international black market. The name comes from the native Nisqually and means dig deep and they weren’t kidding.” He described the method for digging the clam out from the mudbed, shucking rocks and snails the size of softballs, the mollusk doomed but resisting still. “You gotta work for your supper, but so worth it. Although my first encounter with a geoduck was supremely unappetizing.

  He wiped a hand over his forehead as if shining the memory to life. “Shortly after we moved here, a neighbor took my wife and daughter clamming. They brought home a geoduck and instructions for cooking it, and wanting to immerse themselves in the local culture, they heated up a pot of boiling water and went to work. When I came home, I was met with the most hideous smell and Beth and Amy were both crying. I couldn’t imagine what had happened. When they told me how they’d botched up the cooking of the clam, I thought it was hilarious and they were both furious with me. My wife maintained that it was one of the most horrendous episodes of her life. They went to bed hungry, leaving me to clean up the kitchen and sample the seafood. I don’t know what they did wrong, but it tasted like raw sewage and smelled worse than that.”

  Riley couldn’t get past the thought. “And they make ice cream out of it?”

  Teren chuckled. “The lemon geoduck’s not half bad. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

  They’d been paddling through an open area and now approached an island. Teren gestured to it. “Let’s pull up there.”

  After they’d beached their kayaks, Teren surprised Riley by opening a hatch in her wide-bodied blue boat and pulling out a blanket and a cloth bag packed wi
th a picnic. “Brunch,” he told her. They spread the blanket on the grassy bank and Teren passed her a croissant stuffed with ham and asparagus. The day was fine, laced with a cool, light breeze and the marshy smell of muddy earth.

  They munched, content and quiet, and then Riley swallowed and said, “I’m ashamed of myself, Teren. I’ve been so caught up in my own misery and struggles that I forgot that other people have theirs, too.” She paused. “You never told me what happened to your wife and child. You only said you were in a unique position to understand my pain. What does that mean?”

  Teren tore out little handfuls of tufted grass and threw them toward the water. For a long moment, he said nothing and when he spoke his voice sounded rusty. “They died in a fire. A forest fire. It hit quick and moved fast and they were caught.”

  Riley felt the sun dim on her day. “I’m sorry,” she said and then her throat closed and she felt a fresh stab under her breastbone. Teren’s hand covered hers, she felt its warmth and strength, and they sat, listening to the lapping waves.

  The doubts sucked at her, like a sinkhole. How do we survive? How do people manage after soul-searing disaster strikes? It’s been two years. Does anyone ever regain their footing? Does anyone ever feel whole again? A flock of birds flew overhead, stirring the air. It was time to go.

  Back in the kayaks, they glided over the water and Teren pointed to an island in the distance. “Herron Island,” he said. “Privately owned. About a hundred and fifty people live there and if you’re not one of them, you have to show an invitation to board the ferry.” He looked up into the sky, noting the position of the sun, trailing his paddle into the blue-green water. “Time we headed back.”

  He turned his kayak and struck off toward the east. “Let’s paddle back along the opposite shore,” he called. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  He led her into a channel with tapering sides which narrowed until the bank was only a paddle’s length away on each side. Drooping trees, willows perhaps, dipped their pale green fronds in the water and formed a leafy tunnel through which the sunlight filtered, a wavering, liquid gold. Teren turned his kayak sideways, blocking the channel and bringing her to a stop against him.

  “Hear that?” he asked.

  Riley listened, hearing the gentle slap of water against their boats, the faint gurgle of tiny waterfalls formed by branching, wayward trickles. A bird called in the distance and here, under the canopy of leaves, crickets chirped.

  “The crickets, you mean?”

  “Yes, the crickets. Isn’t it odd?”

  “What’s odd about it?”

  “Think about it, Riley. When do crickets sing?”

  This was a subject she’d never thought much about, but as she listened, she began to realize that there was something strange about the cricket song.

  “They chirp at night,” she said.

  “Yes. They chirp at night.”

  They sat, holding against the current, listening to the creaky music.

  “Do you know why they chirp at night?”

  “I suspect you’re fixing to repair another gap in my education.”

  He remained quiet and after a moment, she said, “I really am interested to hear about it.”

  “Male crickets sing to attract a mate. They chirp at night because, well, night time is the right time, and they shut up during the day to escape the notice of predators.”

  “So, why are these crickets making such a racket now?”

  “Because they have nothing to lose. We’ve come to the very end of summer. The cricket has only a few weeks left to live. If he gets taken out in June, he loses the chance to mate dozens of times throughout the summer and leave hundreds of offspring. But to hold back now, what would be the point?”

  “Make hay while the sun shines?”

  “Hay or whoopie. You are listening to the final, desperate song of the male cricket looking for a mate.”

  Riley sensed an undercurrent in his words and felt her cheeks go warm. Teren had been so much to her in the two years since Jim died. Friend, sounding board, punching bag, but not this. She hadn’t considered this, and a pang of regret went through her, tinged a little by selfish anger. Why would he jeopardize their friendship, putting it on new and shaky ground, when she still needed him so much?

  He’d left her the option of feigning oblivion and she’d take it, at least until she’d had time to examine her feelings and decide how to handle this new dimension. She was aware, in that moment, of no waking passion, only an abiding affection.

  She put a light note into her voice. “To me they sound,” she searched for the best descriptor, “cheerful. Not desperate, but hopeful.”

  He cocked his head, evaluating. “Hopeful, it is.” He looked away and cleared his throat. “In Eastern culture, crickets are a symbol of protection. They alert households to threats.”

  “They set up a clatter, like a watchdog?”

  “Quite the opposite.” He let out a sudden harsh cry and smacked the water with his paddle. The cricket song ceased.

  “They go silent, complete and sudden absence of noise. That’s a sign. They sense danger and they shut up to protect themselves. There are several Chinese accounts in which crickets have saved lives by alerting the family to intruders. Sometimes, when danger threatens, it’s best to be still. Like the crickets.”

  They sat in silence, the moment congealing.

  “You make them sound quite useful. Do people keep them as pets?”

  “Absolutely. They fashion cages from bamboo, ceramic, even gourds.” He released the kayaks from their holding position and they proceeded through the channel. “I’m surprised you haven’t seen this in your world travels.”

  “I spent so much time rehearsing and sleeping, I missed a lot. I have seen some amazing things, but not crickets in cages.”

  They paddled homeward, Teren delivering up a stream of wildlife trivia, but Riley felt a layer of melancholy descending over her once again, not to be dispelled by the sunlight breaking through the trees overhead.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE KILLER TURNED OFF THE main road and parked the vehicle at the deserted trailhead, where it rested half-hidden by a drooping profusion of multi-colored leaves, motor ticking as it cooled. He turned up the radio, scanning through the channels, listening to snippets of songs, a brief snatch of Mariachi, the boom of Rush Limbaugh. He flipped over to FM and paused as the plaintive strains of guitar and violin reached him and he recognized Kansas with Dust In The Wind. It conjured a memory, shimmery at first, then solidifying until he smelled the hot french fry grease, felt the pinch of his too-small tennis shoes.

  It was his birthday. He turned nine that day and he wanted a hamburger. They’d left their place in the woods, hiking to the highway and waving their thumbs at passing cars. When a car pulled over to collect them, his dad said his mother’s long legs had done it, and his nine-year-old mind had been confused because he thought you did it with your thumb.

  They rode in a car with big yellow curves, singing boom-di-ada, boom-di-ada, boom-di-ada, boom-di-ay and trailing their fingers out the windows in the warm breeze. They stopped at a road-side burger stand and his mother had smooched their driver on the cheek as he dropped them off. The man had turned red and tapped the horn in a merry toot as he’d motored away.

  The burger joint rose up from the dust, a garish pink box with bright green trim. The lurid colors nearly knocked him over after weeks of shady browns and grays in the forest. His knees wobbled a bit as they approached and he reached out a hand to steady himself, laying it on the rear fender of a shiny convertible with its top down. A foursome of teenagers filled the car, burbling with talk and laughter, and music blasted from the car’s speakers. He could feel it through his fingers, absorbing the ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh that was the essence of Stayin’ Alive.

  It felt like a gift. For his birthday. This sun, this music, these vibrations in his hands. He stood there, grinning and shuffling his feet in a private sort of dance
. He looked at the backs of the teenager’s heads, saw sleeked hair, turned-up collars, a blue ribbon tied around a blond ponytail. And then the ponytail flipped and the girl turned her head and saw him shuffling side to side on the pavement behind the car. She froze, a french fry dipped in ketchup hovering an inch from her mouth.

  “Alan,” she said to the boy at the steering wheel and dipped her head toward the rear of the car. Her voice brayed like a donkey’s, like the gray one he petted in the paddock at the edge of the woods. The boy peered over the seat back.

  “Hey, kid. Get your hands off my car.”

  The couple in the back seat turned around also. “Oh, he’s dancing,” said the dark-haired girl, laughing. “Can’t you see he’s dancing?”

  The back-seat boy popped up on his knees for a better look and shouted, “If you gotta pee, the john’s around back.” They all broke into laughter, the donkey girl’s brays floating up and up, like soap bubbles you made with a wand.

  The music from the radio changed to melancholy strains, sounding unutterably sad. He dropped his hands and stepped away from the car, looking around for his mom and dad. They were standing at the order window, nearly at the head of the line. The woman in front had her big, brown purse open, counting out change.

  Guitar and violin sang together and he heard the words of Dust In The Wind. He watched as his dad stepped forward, pushing past the woman to grab two filled bags off the counter before turning to sprint away. His mother, already running, reached him where he stood behind the shiny fender and grabbed his hand, pulling him along.

  They ran deep into the trees, his parents whooping victory shouts. When it seemed safe, they sat on logs and his mother opened the grease-stained bags to see what they’d got.