Black River (18 page)

Saturday, October 21

4:54 p.m.

His mother, his brothers,
and his sister were inside with the relatives, huddled around
casseroles and coffee, the air filled with hushed talk about moving on
to a better place and how maybe it was all for the best or was part of
some grand plan not apparent to humble folk such as
themselves.

He stood on the dirt floor of the
garage, looking up at the trunk in the rafters, half expecting some
specter to appear and demand to know why he wasn’t inside with
his mother and what in hell he thought he was doing. He
shivered.

He pushed the rusted wheelbarrow
over to the center of the room, stepped up into the bucket and grabbed
the trunk with both hands. Somehow, he’d always imagined the
trunk to be of great weight and so was momentarily taken aback when it
turned out to be a mere fraction of what he’d
expected.

The metal strapping was cold to
the touch as he slid the trunk into his arms and then stepped down onto
the floor and started across toward the ancient GMC pickup truck
backed halfway into the garage.

He wasted no time. Just set the
trunk on the tailgate, hurried over to the workbench, and grabbed a
claw hammer. The brass key that opened the lock was probably around
somewhere, but he wasn’t inclined to look.

With a single snap, the hammer
pulled the hasp free of the trunk. He took a deep breath and pushed
open the lid. The top layer was a shallow tray, divided into
compartments. Closest, a pair of rusty dog tags and three dull brass
shell casings. To the right, an American flag folded into a tight
triangle. A stack of letters, written in his mother’s childish
hand. Got as far as
Dear Wayne
before his
eyes refused. Bunches of army insignia, campaign ribbons. A small
porcelain figure of a smiling hula dancer with
HAWAII
painted across the base.

He grabbed the brass rings and
lifted the tray from the trunk. On top was a neatly folded dress
uniform and hat. He carefully pulled the hat and uniform out and set
them on the tray. Beneath the folded pants was a brown paper sack from
Baxter’s Market.

He peeked inside. His breath
caught in his throat. A leaner, younger version of his father stared
back at him. He stood knee-deep in snow, leaning on an M1 rifle,
looking like he’d rather be any other damn place on earth. When
he pulled the picture out, the headline hit him in the face:
LOCAL POW COMES HOME
TUESDAY
. His hands shook as he
picked the yellowed newspaper article from the bag and carefully
unfolded it. The
Buford County News,
November 10, 1954: Longtime Tiree resident Wayne D.
Corso returned to his wife and family after nearly three years in a
North Korean prisoner-of-war camp. Captured early in the Korean
conflict, Mr. Corso…

As he stood peering down into that
broken vault, he’d felt his childish sense of certainty float
off and disappear into the winter sky, until he was left with only the
disquieting suspicion that, from that moment forward, the world would
always be something other than what it first seemed to be, a thought
that left him shivering in that dank garage, feeling more alone than
he’d ever felt in his life.

And then an iron hand gripped his
shoulder, and he knew it was him, come back to…

C
orso opened his eyes. Joe Bocco stood next
to his chair.

“I think she’s waking up,” he
said.

Corso blinked twice, ran his hands over his face, and
got to his feet.

Something certainly had changed. She was restless,
trying to move her hands, which were secured to the metal bed rails by
elastic bandages, designed to keep her from disrupting the IV tubes
sprouting from her body like vines.

Corso walked to the side of the bed and put his hand on
her arm. Her body jumped as if she were startled by the intrusion.

“Should I get somebody?” Bocco asked.

Corso said yes. Joe Bocco buttoned his coat and left
the room at the exact moment when her eyes popped open. Her eyes
squeezed down in pain when she tried to move her head and survey the
room. She groaned and then tried to speak. Nothing.

Corso poured a glass of ice water from the chrome
pitcher by the bedside, stuck one of the hinged hospital straws in, and
held it to her mouth. Took her lips three tries to master the sucking
thing. She closed her eyes and made noises like a puppy having a bad
dream as she slowly but surely emptied the glass. When her lips
released the straw, he refilled the glass and repeated the process.

She was halfway through the second glass when Joe Bocco
returned with a nurse. She was maybe thirty, a big woman but nicely
shaped. Apple cheeks and sparkling blue eyes, hair a little too red to
be real. Had a name tag with rhinestones around the edge that read
TURNER
. “Easy now,” she said
to Dougherty as she took the cup from Corso’s hand.
“There’s no rush.”

Dougherty’s eyes opened and found the new
voice.

“Nice to have you back,” the nurse said, as
she began to unwind the elastic. “You don’t have to answer
me; just listen,” she said. “I’m going to free your
hands now. I’m going to need you to keep your hands away from the
top of your head.”

Dougherty tried to nod and immediately regretted the
action, as even a slight movement squeezed her eyes closed in pain. As
the nurse made her way to the other side of the bed, Dougherty took her
freed hand and rested it on her stomach. She looked over at Corso.
“Hey,” she croaked.

“Hey yourself,” he said.

She swallowed twice and asked, “How
long?”

“Since the crash?”

She blinked what Corso took to be a yes. He counted
backward in his head.

“Four days,” he said.

“What day?”

“It’s Saturday the twenty-first.”

“David?”

Corso looked over at the nurse, who gave him a somber
shake of the head.

“He’s been in a lot,” Corso assured
her, and then abruptly changed the subject. “Just blink if
I’m right, okay?”
Blink
.
“You walked in on something going on at Evergreen
Construction.”
Blink
. “A
killing?”
Blink
. “You saw the
killers?”
No blink.
“You
didn’t see the killers.”
Blink
.
“They chased you.”
Blink
.
“You crashed your car into a moving van.”
Blink
. “That’s all you know.”
Blink
.

She looked over Corso’s shoulder and noticed Joe
Bocco for the first time. She frowned and mouthed the word
who
.

“His name is Joe,” Corso said.
“He’ll be over there in the chair in case you need
anything.” On cue, Bocco crossed the room and settled himself
into one of the chairs, facing the door.

Nurse Turner came back around the bed. “The young
lady’s had about all she can handle at a time like this,”
she said. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow? She may be
feeling better then.” Corso started to protest, but when he
looked over at Dougherty her eyes were closed and her mouth hung open
in a manner she wouldn’t have permitted if she had been
awake.

He looked over at Joe Bocco. “You got everything
you need?”

“Marvin gonna do ten to six,” he said.
“I’ll be back after that.”

Corso let the nurse lead him by the elbow toward the
door. She looked back over her shoulder at Bocco. “You too. Come
on.”

Corso shook his elbow free. “Mr. Bocco will be
staying,” he said.

She wanted to argue, but something in Corso’s
flat gaze brought her brain around. “Oh, you mean from like
before…downstairs.”

Corso pulled open the door and followed her out into
the hall.

Sunday, October 22

9:41 a.m.

C
orso held his breath as the straps began to
tighten. Somewhere beneath his feet a timber groaned and then the
sound of falling water began, as the engine whined and the Travel Lift
started to raise
Saltheart
from the water,
pulling the big boat higher and deeper into its belly until the keel
came clear of the dock and swung gently between the massive tires of
the machine.

Paul’s son Eric fed diesel to the engine, and the
Travel Lift began to ease
Saltheart
forward, down the ramp, into the boatyard.

“You said you called Dave Williams.”

Paul Hansen was third generation. His family had owned
the Seaview Boatyard for over seventy years. “Yeah,” Corso
said, as he watched
Saltheart
roll off
across the asphalt. “He said he’d start on the woodwork
first thing Tuesday morning.”

“So what that means is Thursday or Friday.”
Hansen waggled the clipboard. “You know how he is. He’ll
be shacked up with some Betty and I’ll have to send one of the
boys to roust him.”

“He does good work.”

“The best,” Hansen agreed. “Long as
you’re not in a hurry.”

“So how long you figure?” Corso asked.

Hansen checked his list. “Ten days minimum. You
got any unauthorized through holes, maybe two weeks.”

“All I’m sure of is that I’ve got a
forward bilge pump that won’t quit running, so either something
clipped a waterline somewhere in the boat or I’ve got a bullet
hole somewhere in the hull.”

“Heard you had a little excitement the other
night.”

Across the yard, an old man with a white beard was
sanding the window casings on an ancient tug, whose chipped and peeling
transom announced her to be the
Cheryl Anne
IV
. He was humming as he worked. Not a whole song, just some
little part that he kept recycling over and over.

“Let’s do the bottom the same color it is
now,” Corso said.

Hansen chuckled and scribbled on his clipboard.
“She was due for bottom work in the spring, anyway,” he
said.

“Tell the crew I’m grateful for them coming
down on a Sunday.”

He shrugged. “Christmas is coming. They can use
the extra cash.”

A burst of static hit his radio. He pulled it from his
back pocket, pushed it against his lips, and spoke. Another longer
burst of gibberish crackled from the speaker.

“Bernie says your cab is at the gate.”

“Have him let it in, will you? I’ve got
more crap than I want to carry that far.” He gestured toward the
dock, where a suitcase, a garment bag, a backpack, and an Igloo cooler
lay in a heap.

Hansen relayed the message and returned the radio to
his pocket. “Got a number where you’re staying?”

“I’ll call
you
,” Corso said.

Hansen permitted himself a small smile.
“Can’t be too careful, I guess,” he mused. “Be
sure you keep in touch. You know how it is. There’s always
something we didn’t count on in the estimate.”

“That’s what insurance is for.”

“You call them yet?”

“Said they’ll have somebody out
tomorrow.”

“What’s your deductible?”

“Fifteen hundred.”

Paul Hansen snorted. “So you’re out what?
Maybe five percent of the tag?”

Corso shrugged. “I’d rather have the
boat.”

The sound of tires pulled Corso’s head around.
Yellow cab. He crossed to the pile on the dock, threw the backpack over
one shoulder, handed the garment bag and the cooler to Paul Hansen,
and grabbed the suitcase.

Satisfied that any hard work was past tense, the
cabdriver got out and opened the trunk. Hanson and Corso threw his
stuff inside and closed the lid. Corso sighed and gazed blankly out
over the forest of grounded boats.

Paul Hansen smiled and bopped him on the arm.
“You getting that hard-core boaty look, Frank.”

“What look is that?” Corso asked.

Hansen inclined his head toward the old man on the
Cheryl Anne
. “You’re gonna end
up like Ole there. I can see it coming.”

“How’s that?”

“Got him a nice snug little apartment over in
Fremont. His kids pay for everything, utilities and all.”

“Nice kids.”

“He only goes there to shower and do his
laundry.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because he can’t sleep anywhere but
onboard anymore. Don’t matter whether she’s afloat or on
the hard. Either way, it’s the only place he can get a
wink.”

“I’ll call you,” Corso said, as he
got into the cab. “The Marriott on Fairview,” he said to
the driver.

Corso kept his eyes straight ahead. Something about the
sight of
Saltheart
up on jacks always
bothered him. Like somehow being on land took her one step closer to
joining the legion of derelict vessels who were pulled from the water
for repairs and then, for one reason or another, never made it back
afloat and now languish in backyards, along waterways, or in forgotten
corners of boatyards, hoping for a last-minute pardon, as the brass
turns green and the paint curls to the ground.

The driver bounced out into the street and turned right
down Leary Way, running along the ship canal, where the last of
Seattle’s commercial boatyards, dry docks, and parts suppliers
still held out against the yuppie condo tribe, whose insatiable
appetite for waterfront has reduced what was once the very soul of the
city to something like an outnumbered cavalry troop, holed up in the
fort, brave and defiant but knowing it’s just a matter of time
before it gets dark and the Apaches come and kill them all.

An electronic beep pulled Corso’s attention to
his jacket pocket. He extracted his cell phone and looked at the caller
ID number. Nothing he recognized, so he figured it must be Robert
Downs. “Corso,” he said into the receiver.

A woman’s voice. “I hope you’re
having a better morning than I am,” Renee Rogers said. “I
just got off the phone with the AG herself.”

“Trading recipes?”

“Getting canned.”

“Really?”

He heard her sigh. “They’re never quite
that direct. If you read between the lines, I’m being offered the
opportunity to resign. Nice letter of recommendation and out the
door.”

“I take it Warren was much displeased.”

“Actually—to tell you the truth—the
little jerk was happy about it.”

“That figures.”

“Tomorrow’s my last day in court.
They’re sending a replacement to take over on Tuesday
morning.”

“I’m sorry to hear it…assuming you
are.”

“Tell you the truth, Corso, I’m feeling
ambivalent as hell. Part of me says, Good, let’s get on with
whatever comes next in life and be done with it.”

“Yeah.”

“And another part of me feels like I’ve
failed at something. Like I’m being sent home in disgrace with a
brand on my cheek.”

“Know the feeling well,” Corso said.

She sighed again. “Yeah. I’ll bet you
do.”

After a moment of silence, she asked,
“How’s your friend doing?”

Corso told her. The news seemed to buoy her slightly.
“Well, at least there’s
some
good news,” she said.

“Except she doesn’t know her
boyfriend’s dead.”

“Jesus.”

Corso cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean
for my life to slop over on yours,” he said.

“Oh, hell, Corso. I was already on the
skids.” He heard her laugh. “It was as much my doing as
yours. I’m the one wangled the invite from you.”

His first instinct was to argue about who was more to
blame, but he stifled it.

“You coming to court tomorrow?” she
asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Should get Lebow on the stand sometime tomorrow
afternoon.”

“I’ll be there.”

“See you tomorrow,” she said.

“Yeah.”

Corso pointed at the Fremont Bridge and the western
shore of Lake Union. “Go that way,” he said to the
cabdriver. “Let’s take a slow drive around the lake.”
He scooted over to the water side of the seat, rolled down the window,
and stuck his nose into the salty breeze.

He closed his eyes and let the wind take him out onto
the water, out past the channel buoys and then dead north, to where the
tall-tale monsters lurked beneath the hull, until, suddenly, he was
among the islands. In his mind’s eye, he saw Dougherty leaning
over the bow, directing him this way and that, as they rode the flood
tide through Thatcher Pass,
Saltheart
so
close to the rocks they could smell the barnacles as they eased through
the crack into the nearly landlocked body of water, smooth and black
as oil in the lifting morning mists. And how, just as they’d put
the rocks to stern, she’d pointed to the north shore of Blakey
Island, at a family of deer as they emerged onto the shore like a
smudged pencil drawing.