Generation Loss (16 page)

"Going
for another pounder?" She pronounced it
poundah.
At my blank look
she picked up the beer and held it in front of my face. "Sixteen
ounces?"

"Yeah.
And two pints of Jack Daniel's." She raised an eyebrow. "I'm on the
South Bend Diet."

"Too
quiet for you here?" She dragged over the ladder and got my bottle from
the shelf. "Coming from the big city?"

"Seems
busy to me. That girl disappearing. Bodies washing up on the beach."

"Aw,
that happens all the time. The bodies, I mean. Often enough, anyway. The hungry
ocean, it's a dangerous business. " She took my money, put the bottles in
a paper bag and pushed it across the counter to me. When I started to remove
the beer, she shook her head. "You can't drink that in here."

Before
I could retort, she motioned behind her. "But you can drink it out
here."

I
followed her into the kitchen. She grabbed a coffee mug then kicked open a
battered wooden door, letting in a blast of wintry air and revealing a rickety
set of steps. One of the rails was broken, and there was only room for two
people to stand side by side. But it had a commanding view of a dumpster and a
propane tank and, past a ragged scrim of stone buildings and faded clapboard,
the harbor. Suze leaned against the intact railing, leaving me to stand with my
back to the door.

"Yeah,
Mackenzie." She cupped the mug in her hands. "John Stone called me a
little while ago—county sheriff—I guess they're waiting till tomorrow to
officially call it a missing persons case."

I
popped my beer. "Isn't that kind of a long time to wait? If they're really
worried?"

"That's
what I said." Suze nodded vehemently. "I asked him why this wasn't an
Amber Alert—they practically shut down 95 and close the Canadian border if that
happens—but he said she's too old. Under fifteen, that's the cutoff date.
Older'n that, you're screwed. And the local authorities, they don't have a lot
of manpower. So they don't like going off on a wild-goose chase, which is what
John Stone thinks this is."

She
shook her head, disgusted. "This is so messed up, man. You're from away,
so you wouldn't know, but this kind of shit happens all the fucking time. Kids
go missing, no one ever finds them. Or they show up ..."

Her
husky voice trailed off.

"Dead?"
I suggested.

"No,"
she said. "A lot of people just never get found. But I think that's
because they don't want to. The rest, mostly they turn up alive, in Florida or
South Carolina or someplace like that. Someplace warm. Kenzie's mom, she lives
around Orlando. Her and Merrill had a really nasty divorce. Kenzie hasn't seen
her mom in two years. I think she headed down there. But in the meantime
everyone's all worked up and the cops are pulling over everyone with a broken
headlight. Over there, I mean."

She
indicated the mainland. "And, I mean, some scary shit does come down, you
know? People disappear, you don't find the body for ten years, or maybe ever.
And maybe you never find out what really went down. Then you get the critter
factor, and you got to bring in forensics from Augusta ...

"What's
the critter factor?"

"You
know—animals getting to the body, eating it. This ain’t Disneyland. People
forget that. Even people who live here and oughta know better. Like, you don't
fuck around on a boat in the winter. You don't get drunk when you go out to get
your deer."

She
glanced at my leather jacket. "You don't forget to wear blaze orange in
November. Anyway, that body in Seal Cove? Maybe they drowned, maybe it was or
suicide or drugs." She sighed and drank her coffee. "Our local law
enforcement sucks."

"I'm
surprised you have local law enforcement."

She
gave a croaking laugh. "We sure don't have much. John Stone has to come
over from Burnt Harbor whenever a call goes in. That can take hours, if he's up
in Eastport or someplace. If you need an ambulance, someone has to take you to
Burnt Harbor by boat. If things are really bad they Medivac you out by helicopter.
That costs, like, three thousand dollars, so you better be insured. Which of
course nobody is."

"So,
what—you just don't get sick out here?"

"Pretty
much." She smiled, and a sheaf of blond dreadlocks fell across one eye. I
reached to brush the matted curls away, waiting for her to flinch or snap at
me. But she just stared out toward the shore.

"Sure
is slow today." She laughed again and pointed to where a figure in yellow
raingear paced slowly along the beach, head down. "Look at Tyler! He's
still looking for his keys. Man, he was pissed. He came roarin' back up here,
but they were gone, and he starts yelling at me—
'Where's my goddam keys,
goddamit, where the goddam hell you put my goddam keys!'"

She
finished her coffee. "I told him he better not be accusing me. You saw
them, right? Right there on the counter? I told him he probably came in and got
'em and just forgot about it. He's always wasted. That or one of his friends
picked them up for him and he'll get 'em later when he runs into them."

I
watched the man on the beach.

"Yeah,
I saw them," I said thoughtfully. "They were right there on the
counter. Maybe one of those little kids picked them up."

Suze
frowned. "Yeah, maybe. I'll ask Becky next time she comes in. Or I'll just
sic Tyler on them—that would teach 'em."

She
gave her rough laugh and edged past me to the door. "I better get back,
before someone else loses something. So, you're a friend of Gryffin's? He's an
odd guy."

I
finished my beer and followed her back inside. "Odd?"

"Well,
you know." Suze pulled her dreadlocks back from her face and fastened them
with an elastic. She looked prettier that way. "His family's kind of
weird. Did you know his father, Steve?"

I
shook my head. Suze gave me a funny look, as though she was about to say
something. Instead she began fiddling with the register.

After
a moment she glanced up again. "He was a nice guy, Steve. A poet—he hung
out with Allen Ginsberg and those guys, they came up a few
times when
the whole commune thing was happening. I was just a kid, but I remember; it was
very cool. That's how Ray ended up here. But I don't really know what the deal
was with Steve and Aphrodite. He was gay, and, I mean, she had to know it.
Everyone at that commune was screwing like rabbits. Aphrodite got pregnant, and
then Steve and Ray, they began living together. Ray pretty much raised Gryffin
after his father died. He's a sweetheart—total opposite of Aphrodite. Who, as
you may have figured out, is a total bitch."

I
nodded. I took the two pints of bourbon from the bag and shoved them in my
jacket pockets, turned to toss the empty beer bottle into the trash.

"Hey!"
Suze frowned. "We recycle here!"

“Sorry.”

I
grinned sheepishly and handed the empty to her. Suze stuck it beneath the
counter then lifted her head as a woman walked in. Before she could say a word,
Suze had a pack of cigarettes and a lottery ticket on the counter. I looked
across the room to the darkened stairway. Historical Society open?"

“Yeah,
sure. Light switch's on your right. It's pretty rank, no one's been up there in
about six months."

I
went upstairs. A bare bulb illuminated a sparsely furnished room, cold and
smelling of mildew. Two grubby armchairs, their greasy upholstery covered with
knitted afghans. A few
makeshift cases held arrowheads, fishing spears,
rusted farm equipment. Faded photographs on the walls—members of the Paswegas
County Grange circa 1932, lobster boats, the Island General Store in palmier
days. The island school's eighth-grade class of 1978, seven bright-faced kids
in jeans and tie-dyed shirts. I looked at this one closely and recognized Suze,
her blond hair and the same puckish grin, flashing a sardonic peace sign.

That
was about it for the Historical Society. There was also a shelf labeled library
that consisted entirely of the collected works of Clive Cussler, and a
third-place trophy from the Collinstown Candlepins Bowling League. Beside the
trophy was a turtle shell the size of my hand, black with yellow spots.

Something
was scratched into the shell. I picked it up and tilted it until the ragged
letters caught the light. Letters and something else—a crudely carved eye.

S.P.O.T.

"Spot,"
I whispered and rubbed my finger across the carving. A pet spotted turtle. I
turned it over. Someone's initials were carved on the bottom.

ICU

I
started to put the turtle shell back on the shelf when something rattled
inside. I shook it, turning it back and forth until a small object dropped into
my palm. I held it toward the overhead bulb.

It
was a tooth. Not a baby tooth, either—a grownup incisor. The upper part was
smooth as ivory, but the long root was discolored, mottled brown and black.

Not
with decay. When I scraped it with my fingernail, flecks came off. Dried blood.

I
sank into one of the armchairs, set down these mildly gruesome trophies and
pulled out one of the pints of bourbon. I took a few sips, again picked up the
shell and the tooth and stared at them broodingly.

I
traced the letters on the upper carapace—S.P.O.T.—and wondered if
they'd
been carved while the turtle was still alive. I hoped not. I swallowed another
mouthful of Jack Daniel's, then slid my hand beneath Toby's sweater, across the
scar tissue on my lower abdomen and the raised lines of my tattoo.

I
let the sweater fall back and studied the shell some more. Some kid's pet, I
assumed. I peered inside, but I couldn't see anything, so I stuck my finger in
and wiggled it around. Something prickly was stuck on the bottom.

I
fished it out. I thought it was a wad of cloth, but when I rubbed it between my
fingers I realized it was a frizz of human hair, dark brown and friable as a
dead leaf.

I
flicked it away. I dropped the tooth back inside the shell and replaced it on
the shelf. I wiped my hands on my jeans, stuck the Jack Daniel's into my
pocket, and went back downstairs.

The
place was empty again, save for Suze and her dog.

"I
better go," I said. "See you."

Suze
leaned on the counter and grinned. "You get bored, you know where to find
me."

"Thanks.
I'll keep that in mind." At the door I stopped. "You know where Toby
Barrett lives?"

"Toby?
Yeah—he's right down there in the Mercantile Building—"

She
pointed to an old granite structure on the far side of the dock. "His
apartment's in the basement. You go round to the back, there's a door there.
You have to pound on it and hope he hears you. He's not there now,
though," she said, scanning the gray water. "His boat's out, so he must’ve
gone back to Burnt Harbor. He'll either spend the night there or come back here
late. You need to talk to him? I can give him a message when I see him.
Probably won't be till tomorrow."

"That's
okay. I was just curious. I'll catch up with him later," I said and headed
up the road. At the crest of the hill, I stopped.

There
on the beach was that stocky yellow-clad figure, still looking for his keys. He
was a lot higher on the shore than he had been; it must be close to high tide.
The sun had dipped behind the far end of the island. Ragged clouds hung above a
sea streaked yellow and green as an overcooked egg yolk.

I
wished I'd brought my camera. For a few minutes I watched the solitary form
pacing the shore, slate-colored gulls wheeling above his head like the black
cloud that used to follow Joe Btfsplk in old L'il Abner comics.

Some
people make their own bad luck. Others, I help them out.

Finally
I turned. As I approached the shadow of the firs, I looked down to make sure
the sea urchin was where I'd left it. It was.

12

By
the time I reached Aphrodite's house, it was almost dark. The wind had risen,
and my boots squeaked on the frozen ground. But in the kitchen everything was
noticeably warmer and brighter than when I'd left. All the lights were on, and
someone had stoked the woodstoves.

Aphrodite
was nowhere in sight. Neither were her dogs. I heard Gryffin's voice from the
next room, looked in to see him pacing as he talked animatedly on the phone.
Before he could see me, I retreated to the woodstove and tried to warm up. I
did another shot of Jack Daniel's. Then I pulled out the film canister I'd
nicked from the basket earlier and opened it.

Inside
was a roll of processed film. God knows how many years ago it had been
cooked—decades, maybe. I assumed the photographer was Aphrodite, though there
was no way to be sure. Whoever it was, he or she hadn't given much thought to
conservation.

Film
is alive. Too much heat, too much humidity, too much sunlight—these things kill
it. Fortunately, the chilly conditions in Aphrodite's mudroom had functioned as
a makeshift fridge and protected this roll, at least, over the years. I turned
from the woodstove, so the sudden exposure to warmth wouldn't cause
condensation. I unspooled the film carefully between my fingers and held it to
the light.