3 a.m. (Henry Bins 1) (17 page)

Granted, I’d only seen the body for a split
second and I was gazing down from four hundred vertical feet above
and the sun was setting in my eyes and my contact prescription was
three years old and I’d once mistaken a three hundred pound elk for
a mailbox, but my instincts told me this was no accident.

This conjecture was based solely on the fact
the woman appeared to be naked. In the summer months on the
Penobscot it was swim trunks, a polo, and docksiders for the men.
Women were a bit more loosely clad; a skirt and a blouse with the
optional bikini underneath. Maybe even a thin sweater or jacket.
But this was the Puget Sound in November. If it wasn’t raining,
then it was cold, the average high for the month around fifty.
Typically, the attire for both men and women was a windbreaker,
jeans, boots, gloves, with optional thermal underwear.

But then again, maybe this woman was a light
dresser. Maybe she was menopausal and she’d just had a hot flash.
Maybe she’d ripped her clothes off as she thrashed about in the
cold water. Or maybe she’d been going at it with él Capîtan and
slipped and fell off the edge. Who knows?

Anyhow, the trees gave way to the black rock
and I slowly began lowering myself down the steep bluff. It was far
from a sheer drop-off, the grade about the same as the steps in a
football stadium. Except instead of steps there was jagged
quartzite and instead of falling into the arms of a drunken fan,
you fell into the teeth of an angry shark.

As I mentioned before, the area directly
behind my house was shaped like a crescent. It was a stretch of
rock separated by two bluffs which my mother had referred to as
Prescott Cove. I should also point out that whereas along other
parts of the shore the water lapped nonchalantly against the banks,
the water in Prescott Cove was white and angry. Which, if you’d
known my father, might have been another reason it got its
name.

I stopped to get my bearings at a relatively
flat section of rock twenty vertical feet above the crashing surf.
It was high tide and the small powerful waves came in six-second
intervals. The waves would sweep in high on the face of the
opposing bluffs a milky white, two separate forces destined for a
head-on collision, and then they would become one, sending a
violent surge of white water high into the air. Droplets of spray
found me, as well as the stark revelation that my present
undertaking was a bad, bad, bad idea.

The sun was sucking in its final breaths
before plunging its head beneath the cold water, and I figured I
had less than two minutes before I was engulfed in darkness.

After two more explosions of water on rock,
I still hadn’t seen any sign of the woman. There was a strong
possibility her body had been carried by the undertow and sucked
from the cove, whereby it would become someone else’s problem.

And good riddance, as they say.

I decided to give it one more wave before
hightailing it up the rock while I could still find my hand in
front of me. Then I saw her, her body twisting and rolling in the
white water just off the rock bank. I nearly made a dash for it. I
caught myself, and seconds later the cove erupted. The blast would
have sent me reeling into the icy water.

At this point it dawned on me it was going
to be impossible to extract the woman from the freezing water
without getting soaked myself. I removed my wallet and wedged it
between two rocks.

Got to keep those Benjamins dry.

The water calmed, but the woman had
disappeared. A moment later, her body popped up, rolling against
the rocks. This was my first good look at the body. Or what was
left of it.

Her right arm was missing at the shoulder.
Both legs had been stripped down to the bone. Huge chunks of flesh
had been ripped from her torso. The remaining flesh was a chalky
purple and the exposed bone stained a deep red. It was evident the
body had been attacked by something. Mauled. I’d said sharks
earlier, but a more likely scenario was killer whales. They were
abundant in these waters and although it was rare, they did attack
humans. But the odds were this woman was dead hours, or even days,
before the feast.

I jumped down the last couple feet and
huddled behind a large boulder. The blast came, showering me in
salt water. I wiped my eyes and waited for the woman to resurface.
She popped up and I took the four strides to the edge of the
churning Sound. I could hear the next wave making its approach, but
I was at the point of no return. I lowered myself onto the rock and
wrenched my arm under the woman’s remaining arm.

The body rose with the incoming wave and I
pulled the woman up and out of the water. The blast came, spraying
the two of us in a couple thousand gallons of sea water. Freezing
would be an understatement. It was a biting cold, one that clawed
at your very insides.

I coughed a couple dozens times before
pushing myself off the rock. I then dragged what was left of the
woman to a haven behind a large boulder.

My chest was heaving as I turned and looked
out on the dark water. The sun was gone, a faint reddish glow all
that remained.

I turned my attention to the body. The woman
was even worse off than at first glance. Maybe a third of her body
remained, reduced to mere bones and torn flesh. Half her torso was
eaten down to the ribs, and her entrails spilled out through her
lower abdomen. Her head and neck had for the most part been spared.
I brushed the woman’s dark hair from her face.

If I had my doubts this woman was killed by
Shamu and friends, now I was positive she wasn’t. I’d only heard of
a handful of killer whale attacks, and I’d never heard of a killer
whale carrying a gun.

There, just above the woman’s left eye, was
the distinct fingerprint of a bullet. A small black hole.

Chapter 4

I considered draping the corpse over my
shoulder, but the thought was fleeting. The chances of going up the
way I’d come down were slim, so I reluctantly started down the path
of route B. I found the trail and slowly began picking my way
through the rocks.

As if the traverse weren’t hard enough in
the pitch dark, ten minutes into my hike, it started raining. Which
quickly turned to hail. Awesome. Twenty minutes and 2,548 little
hail daggers later, I pulled myself under the railing to the
viewing platform. This particular scenic overlook was fairly
popular, and there was a small covered veranda illuminated by a
handful of dimly lit bulbs. Informative posters clinging to the
walls displayed what exactly people were paying fifty cents to look
at. Another wall housed dozens of pamphlets promoting different
ferries, tours, whale watching excursions, and various other ways
for tourists to waste their money. Attached to the veranda was a
public restroom as well as a pay phone.

I picked up the phone and dialed 911.

I was asked if it was an emergency and I
decided it wasn’t, seeing as how the lady had probably already been
digested by whatever had eaten her, and I was put on hold. I
perused a pamphlet on the San Juan Islands as I waited. Apparently,
it had never been a better time to visit the San Juans. I flipped
over the pamphlet and read the copyright: 1992.

The woman came back on the line and after a
short conversation told me, and I quote, “Being that it’s
Thanksgiving and all, it will be about an hour before we can get
anybody out there.” I told her I didn’t think the dead lady with
the bullet hole in her forehead cared what day it was and hung
up.

I trekked the half mile back to my
place.

I pulled off my soaked garments, tossed them
on the floor, and made my way upstairs into the bathroom Lacy and I
had shared as children. My sister had a thing for flamingos, and
they were everywhere. Toothbrush holder, shower curtain, Kleenex
box. You name it and it had a flamingo on it. There was a flamingo
pink rug as well as a matching flamingo pink toilet seat cover. Two
towels hung from a towel rod and each was adorned with—you guessed
it—a giant fucking flamingo.

I had just wrapped a towel around my waist
and was heading for my dad’s closet for some duds when I heard a
knock at the door. It’d only been twenty minutes since I’d spoken
with one of Seattle’s finest, but I wasn’t expecting anybody else,
so I was led to believe someone of the law enforcement variety was
standing on my doorstep. I waddled down the stairs.

I’m not sure who I’d been
expecting on the other side of the door, but I can assure you it
wasn’t this.
This
being a woman clad in a red turtleneck sweater—the tight
fitting kind, mind you—black pleated pants and a standard issue .45
holstered on her right hip. From my experience, oil and vinegar mix
better than women and guns. Just saying.

I noticed the car on the far side of the
street. It was an unmarked car, tan, probably a Chevy. So she
either worked for the IRS or she was a homicide detective.

The woman raised a badge to eye level and
said, “Detective Erica Frost. Seattle Police Department.”

So I wasn’t getting audited after all.

I asked, “Did you guys get new uniforms or
something?” If they had, bras were apparently optional. I mean, she
looked like she was smuggling honeydews. Not that I was
complaining.

She glanced down at her sweater. “I was at a
Thanksgiving get together.” Raising her eyes to check out my damp,
towel-clad form, she added, “You obviously were not.”

“
I ordered
pizza.”

She stared at me.

“
I went with the
Hawaiian.”

No response.

“
That’s pineapple and
Canadian bacon to the laymen.”

Again. Just stared.

“
Dominos.”

A little nod.

“
The kid on the phone
talked me into getting the cinnamon breadsticks.”

“
Sorry I missed
it.”

“
Me too.”

I should mention Detective
Erica Frost was attractive in that tongue hit your boot sort of
way. Of course, if she’d been ugly I would have been slightly less
annoying.
Slightly
. She had wavy brown hair, light brown, almost hazel eyes,
and looked like a poster girl for pilates. I should also mention I
was mesmerized by her sweater. It was my hero.

She was eyeing my towel again and said,
“Nice flamingo.”

I looked myself up and down. “Frank.”

She looked confused.

“
Frank the
flamingo.”

Eye roll.

“
You came
alone?”

She nodded.

“
Where’s your
partner?”

“
I didn’t see any reason
to call him.”

“
What if I was a bad
guy?”

Erica Frost probably felt like I was
patronizing her, but I wasn’t. At least not completely. A few years
back, I’d come across a serial killer who would report a crime,
then ambush the first officer to arrive. He killed four officers
and two detectives before we caught him.

I couldn’t help but notice Erica’s hand was
now resting on the butt of her pistol. I think she was toying with
the notion of shooting me. She wouldn’t be the first. Nor the last.
She asked, “Well, are you a bad guy?”

“
No. But people say I can
be an asshole.”

“
Imagine that.”
Apparently, she’d already come to this conclusion on her own, but
she stepped into the foyer nonetheless. “Are you going to tell me
your name or am I just supposed to guess?”

Frosty this one.

“
Thomas.”

“
Thomas what?”

“
Just Thomas. They ran out
of last names before they got to my family. We’re on a waiting
list.”

She sighed, a heavy one.
“Well
Thomas
, do
you want to show me to this body?”

“
Sure thing. But we’re
going to need flashlights.”

“
I have a couple in my
car.”

She ran out to get them and I ran upstairs.
I grabbed an old pair of my dad’s gray sweat pants and a red hooded
sweatshirt.

Erica was standing in the foyer when I made
my way downstairs. She didn’t comment on the fact that I looked
like an ad for Russell Athletic.

She thrust a flashlight in my hand and we
made our way outside. The storm had subsided, but it was still
drizzling, which didn’t seem to bother Erica in the slightest.
Although, to be fair, to your native Seattleite, drizzle was about
as mundane as breathing.

I flopped up the hood on my sweatshirt and
said, “Nice night.”

She didn’t comment on this
and I took her silence as agreement. As we started around back, I
informed Erica of the options for getting to the body. She lobbied
for the quickest path and I went on to explain the dangers. I did a
bit of exaggerating, a decent amount of embellishing, and even a
couple of outright lies. And yes, when I was finished, route A did
carry a remarkable likeness to that of the Fire Swamp from
The Princess Bride
. But
I’d already risked my life twice on a day I’d been penciled in to
do so zero times.

Again, she thought I was mocking her and
started picking her way down the bluff.

I yelled that I’d meet her down there in
about half an hour.

She scoffed. “C’mon, it’s a little
hill.”

One, this thing ate
hills
for breakfast.
Two, it was pitch dark. Three, it had been hailing for the past
thirty minutes. And four, there were quicksand pits and R.O.U.S.’s
(Rodents of Unusual Size.) Hadn’t she been listening?

She shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.”