Just Past Oysterville: Shoalwater Book One (18 page)

Once again, Jack ordered for the both of
them, including a soda for Cassie and water for himself. His first
glass he drained at once, with several aspirin from a bottle he'd
picked up earlier that morning.

"Head still hurt?" asked Cassie.

"Yup," Jack replied with a grimace. "This is
the part you never remember when ordering that first drink."

Cassie nodded with as much sympathy as she
could muster. Jack noticed and smirked.

"I've never met a woman who had much pity
for a hangover," he smiled, "my friend Beth reminds me regularly
that God invented liquor so we Irish wouldn't rule the world."

Cassie nodded again, "Sounds like a smart
woman."

"Oh, she is," he nodded, "believe me."

Cassie laughed. "I'm looking forward to
meeting her."

Jack's smile seemed to fade a little when
she said this and he looked away quickly, fumbling with the long
stem of his now-empty water glass. Cassie noticed and quickly
changed the subject, hoping to avoid a repeat of the disastrous
dinner the night before.

"So, what the heck am I eating?"

"
Oysters en Brochette
," Jack
replied, relishing the words as though he could taste his meal
already, "is oysters sautéed in butter with mushrooms, cherry
tomatoes, and garlic, then spooned into a hollowed loaf of French
bread and baked. Food of the gods, my dear!"

"Sounds like a heart attack on a plate to
me."

Jack smiled.
"
Part of the secret of success in life
is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out
inside
."

Cassie waited until she could stand it no
longer.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Mark Twain," Jack laughed,
"
Samuel Clemmons
if you prefer. A man wise enough to have two names." With
this, he winked at Cassie, who quickly looked elsewhere.

The meal was served, and proved to be every
bit as decadent as Cassie had feared. Hot sweet garlic butter
pooled on the plate beneath the bread. The meal was to be her best
experiment with oysters yet, and she fell to it with gusto.
Finally, pushing the remains of her dinner away, Cassie
groaned.

"You're bad for my health, Jack," she said,
rubbing her stomach, "I'll bet I've gained ten pounds since I met
you!"

"Yes," Jack sighed, leaning back in his
chair, "friendship can be broadening. Besides, you could use
another pound or two; you're a twig."

Cassie snorted, rubbing her imaginary
belly.

They sipped their drinks as the sun dipped
to the horizon, sinking below the vast rim of the Pacific Ocean in
umber glory. The blazing sunset slowly faded to twilight until
finally the pounding waves became an invisible murmur in the
darkness.

"Well," Jack said, breaking the silence with
a vast yawn, "I don't know about you, but I didn't get much rest
last night. I think I'm going to turn in early."

"Good idea," Cassie nodded, realizing
suddenly that she was bone weary and very, very full. Once they had
returned to the motel, each said goodnight and headed to their
separate rooms.

A half hour later, Cassie was asleep, warm
and comfortable.

An hour after that she was whimpering in her
sleep.

*

The wind rattles against the windows,
moaning across the desert in a cloud of dust and grit. The trailer
rocks fitfully in the storm, the slam of a loose screen door wakes
Cassie with a start.

Despite the chill of the night, she finds herself sweating
as she reaches out to snap on the light. Nothing happens. The storm
must have blown down a line somewhere between here and
town.

"Cassssiiiiieeeeee…." A
voice, barely audible above the wind, calls
her name.

Her breath catches in her throat as she
slips from her room and down the darkened hallway. "Momma?" she
whispers, "Momma are you there?” The door to Kathy Belanger's tiny
bedroom stands open. The room is empty, a thick layer of dust coats
the closet shelves, and cobwebs hang from the naked light
fixture.

"Cassssiiiiieeeeee…."

She whirls; the voice is closer, just
outside, barely past the thin metal walls. A man's voice is calling
her name.

Her hand cramps with fear and, looking down,
Cassie realizes that she is holding a gun, the huge revolver from
her mother's dresser drawer. The trigger lock is missing now and
she can see, in the reflection of the glinting streetlamp, the dull
brass casings of the loaded gun.

The streetlamp. Its thin, yellow light seeps
through the windows and across the faded carpet to her feet. No
power lines have gone down, if they had, the lamp would be dark as
well.

The gun is heavy, cold and frightening, as
her chilled, bare feet lead her across the room to the front door.
The living room is also empty of furniture, thick with the musty
odor of abandonment. Glancing back into her own room she is hardly
surprised that her bed is now gone.

The lamp that had refused to light moments
before has disappeared as well, and her room, like the rest of the
trailer, is an empty tomb.

And outside, through the filmy haze of the
thin, tattered curtains, she can make out the form of a man
standing in the amber spill of the streetlamp, a bottle held
loosely in one hand.

Somewhere, a small voice whispers that this
is wrong, that beds and blankets don't just disappear when you turn
your back, that…

"Cassssiiiiieeeeee…."

The voice, more insistent now, rises with
the howl of the storm and, unwillingly, she lays a hand on the cool
metal of the doorknob. It turns and a shrieking gust of wind rips
it from her grasp, slamming the door open. A cloud of dust swirls
around her, pulling at the hem of the dress that she and her mother
had bought just the week before.

"He's not someone you want to know, Cass,"
her mother's voice comes from behind her, and Cassie shivers,
refusing to turn.

"You may be the only good thing that Bill
Beckman’s done in his whole life…"

Cassie begins to cry,
fighting to keep from throwing down the gun and covering her ears
to shut out the terrible, familiar, dispassionate voice. Instead,
she raises the revolver, gripping it with quaking, bloodless hands,
as her father steps away from the lamppost and toward
her
.

"I've cleaned up after drunks before," Kathy
Belanger whispers in her ear.

As she pulls the trigger, his head comes up
and the pale electric light washes over Jack Leland's face.

The gun belches flame and thunder, and
Cassie screams--

--and sat bolt upright, alone in the
darkness of the motel room. Her hair was matted to her
sweat-slicked face as she stood shakily and felt her way to the
small bathroom.

Finding the light and the sink, she splashed
cold water on her face, looking up at the pale trembling figure in
the mirror in front of her. The clock beside the bed reads
12:45.

She lay back down, staring at the ceiling
for a long time.

Sometime before the first light of morning
crossed the eastern hills, Cassie fell back into a dreamless sleep,
and when Jack finally pounded on her door at nine, she woke feeling
more refreshed that she had in days.

Jack grunted through the door that he was
going down to the café for breakfast and coffee. Cassie called back
that she would meet him there and, after a quick shower, she
repacked her bag and hurried to the restaurant, whistling as she
blinked in the bright midmorning light. She found Jack hunched over
his morning cup, staring absently at the menu in front of him.

"You look chipper this morning!" Cassie
laughed.

Jack grunted and closed his menu, wrapping
both hands protectively around his steaming coffee. By his third
cup, he seemed to be able to focus his eyes and, pushing away the
remains of their breakfast dishes, he and Cassie began discussing
their plans for the day.

"Well," said Jack, "if we push through all day, we should make
Astoria just after dark, that'll put us home around
midnight."

Cassie nodded.

"I don't suppose," Jack looked away, "that
you've changed your mind about going to Portland." It seemed to
Cassie that he was nearly pleading with her, his hand clenching and
unclenching his napkin as he spoke. "I could have you there by six
tonight."

"No way," Cassie replied, her voice firm, "I
want to see Nahcotta, Oysterville, the whole peninsula
firsthand.

Jack's shoulders sagged in defeat, as he
dropped his napkin on his plate and looked up.

"You're a stubborn one, you know that?"

"Yeah," she smiled, "I've considered that
possibility!"

Jack laughed, and then pointed a finger,
scowling in mock ferocity. "Fine," he said, glowering, "but get
whatever you want here in town, and drink light, 'cause I ain't
stopping!"

"Well, it's your van I suppose," Cassie
replied, rolling her eyes, "But a potty-break here and there would
be a lot cheaper than new upholstery."

Jack gave her a sour look. "You've got an
answer for everything don't you?"

"That’s what they tell me."

"Yeah," Jack said, giving up and laughing,
"I'll just bet they do! Let's pay the bill and get out of here.”
Jack laid his wallet on the table next to his plate and stood,
reaching for his coat.

"Uh oh," he said.

"What's wrong?"

"Too much coffee," Jack grimaced, "Hang
tight, I'll be back, I've gotta…"

"…
talk to a man about a horse
."
She finished, "Yes, I know."

Cassie rolled her eyes as Jack laughed,
making his way to the other end of the restaurant. Sipping her
water, she was watching the slow hum of weekday traffic up and down
the highway, when she noticed that Jack had left his wallet on the
table. The worn leather tri-fold had fallen open to series of
plastic covered photographs.

"Cassie Belanger," she chided herself,
"don't be a snoop!"

The first picture was of a beautiful woman
in her late forties with dark, almost black hair. Her high
cheekbones and chiseled feature hinted of Native American ancestry,
and she had a slightly mischievous twinkle in her eye common among
those who grew older but refused to grow old.

Cassie had a feeling that
this was the woman Jack had called on Valentine’s Day,
what was her name
?

"Beth," Cassie murmured.

The next shot was an old black and white,
creased and dog-eared with age. In it, two boys, maybe ten or
twelve years old, clad only in tattered jean cutoffs, stood at the
bow of a small fishing boat. Piled high on the deck behind them
were mountains of bleach-white oyster shells, and they stood, one
with his arm around the other's tanned shoulders, barefoot and
grinning on a cloudless summer day. The taller of the two boys had
his tongue stuck out at the camera, and a devilish smirk on the
other boy's face hinted of the man that Jack would one day be.

Cassie snickered and turned the page. The
next photo was a grainy snapshot of a young Jack, late teens or
early twenties, wearing fatigues, and hefting a large crate into
the open door of a helicopter. Jack was looking at the camera with
his familiar grin, his hair cropped close, and a pair of aviator
sunglasses perched low on his nose. Sweat stained the front of his
shirt, and his face and arms were deeply tanned.

Must be the airstrip in
Vietnam
, she thought.

Cassie glanced up guiltily, scanning to room
to make sure that Jack wasn't in sight before turning to the last
photo.

Glancing down she froze, her jaw dropping as
the blood drained from her face. For just a moment Cassie's vision
was filled with small swirling black dots and she was sure, she was
going to slip from her chair to the floor in a wave of vertigo.
Shaking her head, she brought the faded photograph closer to her
face. There was no question the young woman in the photo, clad in a
sleeveless white wedding dress and holding a small bouquet of wild
flowers was a very young Katherine Belanger.

*

With trembling fingers, Cassie slipped the
picture from its plastic sleeve. It had been torn in half, and only
a hand around her mother's waist and a single black dress shoe were
left of whoever had stood to her right.

Cassie took a deep hitching lungful of air, realizing that she
had been holding her breath. The room seemed to have become very
quiet, save for a faraway buzzing in her ears. Her mind spun, how
could Jack Leland have this picture, and what did it
mean?

Suddenly she remembered her dream from the
night before, the man standing beneath the street lamp, calling her
name.

The man with Jack Leland's face.

Cassie heard the echo of
Jack's voice,
"…names are like clothes,
different suits for different occasions, that’s what I
say."

“
Jack?” she
whispered.

The twisted logic of it actually made
frightening sense. He was from the same tiny village as her father
or, at least, a very close neighbor. He was alone, the right age,
even the drinking…

"I've cleaned up after drunks before."

It all added up, and Cassie felt a wave of
nausea sweep over her at the thought that Jack Leland might be the
man who had abandoned his wife and baby all those years before.

Quickly she put the photo back in Jack's
wallet, fumbling twice with quaking hands before the picture
slipped back into its plastic sheath. Cassie laid the wallet on the
table and gulped the last of her water, suddenly parched. A moment
later, she heard Jack's footstep approaching, and stood quickly as
he arrived and scooped up his wallet and jacket.