Page 4 of Water's Edge

Reserve Deputy Marsh speaks up. “I just completed my rotation through Marine Patrol. Captain Martin gave me a good write-up. He said I was his best intern yet.”

I’d met the captain one time duringmyacademy rotation. He was good-looking, in a Ted Bundy sort of way. I remember he was always partial to the female cadets. The guys, no matter how adept they were on the water, barely squeaked by with a passing grade.

“I can see that,” I say.

Nan and Marsh were exchanging looks and giving each other a knowing smile. It’s no secret that Nan has a picture of Captain Marvel—that’s what I call him—displayed on her desk. He is at the helm of his boat, bravely sailing into a perfect sunset. I remember a while back he gave Nan a ride on his personal boat. The next day she came to work in wrinkled clothes, messed-up hair, no makeup.

I just rolled my eyes when I saw her.

Sheriff Gray looks at me for a response.

“I won’t know if I need the Marine Patrol guys until I get there. What’s their location?”

Nan gives me a stare. “The captain didn’t say. He just asked if he should respond.”

“I’ll call Captain Marvel when I get there.” Then I change my mind. “I’ll call the captain on my way,” I say, and try to leave.

Sheriff clears his throat. “Aren’t you forgetting someone? Take Deputy Marsh with you.” He says this like I should stand to attention and salute.

I head to the parking lot, and Deputy Marsh trails behind me with her high heels clacking all the way. I get to my old Taurus and hit the unlock button on the key fob. I forgot that the key fob doesn’t work anymore. The good thing is the car is old enough that it still has a regular key on the fob. The bad thing is the car is old. I’ve asked for a new car. I won’t get one until I have to drive with one arm out the window holding the door shut.

The day just gets better and better.

I open the door with the key and hit the inside unlock button. Nothing happens. I lean across and unlock the passenger door. Ronnie Marsh waits until I pull out of the parking lot before she starts what will become stream-of-consciousness chatter. I tune out somewhere around her graduating from middle school at the top of her class.

Three

The drive to the scene isn’t a long one. We cross over the narrow causeway to Indian Island and a second causeway to Marrowstone Island. I turn left on State Route 116, which is also Flagler Road. Every now and then a cut through the thickets of ferns and old cedars reveals the sun reflecting off the waters of the bay. It reminds me of my little brother, Hayden. In Port Orchard we lived not far from a little creek, where he would look for salamanders. He was seven. I was fifteen or sixteen. I readA Tale of Two Citiesfor English class. Charles Dickens said what I was feeling about those times in Port Orchard. “It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.” There’s enough time and distance from those days that I choose to remember the good. The bad is too painful. Hayden remembers only the worst of days and my screw-ups. He has little contact with me, and that is more painful than the memories.

Mystery Bay is to our left, the state park straight ahead. I see a sign for the boat ramp and slow down. A state patrol car is parked several hundred feet down the road with the emergency lights on. In front of it is one of our Sheriff’s Office vehicles.

Further down is a relic: a red or oxidized brown Ford Pinto.

A young man, teens, early twenties, stands behind the deputy’s cruiser, one arm wrapped around his chest, his free hand twisting the hair of a skimpy beard and stuffing the end in his mouth. His hair is long and black and curly and looks like it hadn’t been washed in… well possibly,ever. He wears camouflage army boots with the laces tied so loosely, I can’t imagine how they stay on his feet. His faded jeans are cuffed and tattered.

The trooper’s corfam dress shoes are dirt- and mud-free. So very shiny. If I’d been inclined, I could use the toes for a mirror. There’s not a fleck of lint or dust on his sharp-enough-to-cut-you pressed trousers. I look at the statie’s name badge:MacDonald.

“Your deputy is down with the body,” he says flatly. “No need for both of us to get dirty. Besides, one of us had to stay up here to keep the road closed to civilians.”

I glance at the pair of cruisers with their emergency lights flashing and then return my gaze to him. I want to say that I would have totally missed the police cars with the Christmas lights going and driven right past. But since I have a trainee with me, I shift gears.

“That’s what I figured. Good thinking.” I give him “the look” so he knows he didn’t pull a fast one on me. To my pleasant surprise I hear my trainee giggle.

Maybe she’ll be okay.

“Is that the person that found the body?” she asks.

The young man stopped twisting his beard long enough to offer his hand. He says nothing and I don’t take the hand. I doubt anyone would.

Trooper MacDonald speaks up. “This is Mr. Boyd.”

I nod. “I’ll need a statement from you, Mr. Boyd. Why were you down there?”

I didn’t see a boat trailer or any fishing gear. He isn’t dressed for anything outdoorsy.

He appears surprised by the question. I half expect him to ask if he is a suspect and then invoke his rights. To which I might respond that he has no rights until he becomes a suspect. The truth is everyone is a suspect until they’re not. I have learned that from experience. He doesn’t disappoint.

“I’m not a suspect, am I?”

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