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—”