Eagle bay, p.4
Eagle Bay, page 4
Thomas emptied twelve fifty-pound bags of barnyard lime over John’s body and covered him in the dirt he’d excavated from the gravesite. Finally, he laid the wooden planks back down, concealing his work.
Thomas stood dirtied in a two thousand dollar suit he’d worn to bury his best friend in the corner of an old Oregon barn, in a gravesite he and Robert had previously disturbed. He considered the dichotomies of his life as his father casually repacked his pipe bowl, then ambled toward a cabinet that stored cleaners he’d use to mop John’s blood from the floor.
An incinerator ignited. A red glow emanated from the furnace’s belly, and expanded metal began pinging. Thomas would burn everything he was wearing. They considered incinerating John’s body but grew concerned about the odors of death drifting through the hills.
Robert offered a nod, exited the barn, and walked toward his residence.
His father’s shoes crunched over a gravel path while Thomas measured the ruthlessness of John’s slaying. Robert had never personally killed a man, but he’d still managed to destroy lives. Thomas asked himself whose acts people would judge most wicked. The thought faded; the conclusion was irrelevant.
Thomas recalled his family’s darkest secret. The night his grandfather killed the first John McCloud sixty years earlier, then stole the assets.
The night a dynasty was born.
Chapter:
5
Pitch darkness and chill settled. The boat ramp was empty and still. Rods, bait, and beverages for two leaned against the boat’s console. Two life vests hung from hooks on board.
Only one man stirred.
Thomas launched the dory into tranquil water before leaping back onto the riverbank with a length of rope he fastened to a small pine. He parked his truck and trailer on the pitted dirt lot and pushed his feet into John’s boots. Walking to and from the dirt lot and across the graded boat ramp, he ensured the tread marks of both men’s boots lay embedded in the surrounding mud. He untied the rope from the pine and slipped while shoving off, drenching John’s boots and his feet in a 51° chill. A Chinook salmon broke water ten feet out just as he gained control of the boat.
The twenty-two-foot wooden dory was painted blue on its sides; its flat hull and trim were bright yellow. The bow section arched upward. Five-inch horizontal oak capped the perimeter. He stepped behind the center console housing the captain’s wheel and throttle controls. He would’ve ordinarily attached the “kill switch” cord hanging from a toggle next to the ignition, which would stop the motor if an impact threw the pilot. Today it was an unnecessary safety feature.
Upon stretching a thick cap around his head, he fired up the Merc 120 and puttered out to the delta. He stared overboard into the still-dark waters. The Dungeness crabs, running salmon, and seals common to the area were not yet visible. He and John had shared similar moments many times. Now one of them was dead.
While moving past dunes and toppled trees, Thomas scanned ahead, carefully avoiding sandbars that could ruin the dory and his plan. He reached the unobstructed delta and tried to expel agonizing images from his actions seven hours earlier. It was futile.
The sun rose beyond gray skies, illuminating an estuary shrouded in mist. The brackish water appeared eerie at slack tide, and the shoreline remained barely visible. Memories came rushing back. He turned off the engine and closed his eyes. Thomas recalled Robert forcing him to kill a man on a different body of water when he was twelve years old.
He removed John’s boots and laced up his own before gazing at the channel. The consequences of his actions today and years earlier, and their permanence, engulfed him. “I didn’t want to hurt you, John.” The words dissipated across the broad expanse of water, dunes, and pines. He shook his head. “But you made a terrible decision.”
Restarting the motor, he continued his slow advance. As the haze lifted, he passed deer seemingly staring through him, judging him. “You were poking around. Conspiring. You forced my hand. You knew about the assets. Left me no choice.” The whirring of the motor muted his words.
He gauged the wind-swept whitecaps where the river met the Pacific while steering in tight circles. Gusts of wind picked up as the boat moved closer to the jaws. A combination of high tides, swollen river, and strong surf created a violent gateway to the ocean, a deadly mixture of natural forces. He, too, might die this day.
Needing more space, he piloted toward the cliffs, then back to the river’s mouth. Without hesitation, he pushed the throttle forward to full tilt. He’d timed it well; a ten-foot wave crested just as he charged into it. He turned hard at the point of impact.
The dory shot skyward as if constructed of balsa wood before flipping over amidst the breakers. Thomas and everything aboard got tossed into a raging sea.
Wild surf battered him; the smacking of a wayward oar pained his legs. Few men could survive the conditions, he realized. Pushed below the surface and swept out to deeper seas, he questioned whether this was his end.
Frigid water inhibited his movements. His boots made it difficult to stay afloat; he pried them off. He debated removing his life vest but didn’t, disgusted by a decision that would likely save him. He deliberated swimming further out to ensure his demise, but that was never part of the plan. Instead, the natural athlete stroked northward, away from danger, then toward shore. He could kill John but not himself.
The closer he made it to sand, the heavier the burden of truth became. John was gone forever, the victim of a tragic “boating mishap.”
“Ahh!” he screamed, struggling to stay afloat. “Ahhhh! Kill me. Kill me, too!” Minutes passed. His shrieks waned. He swam to safety, overcoming the swells and currents.
Standing waist-high in seawater, Thomas pondered being alive. If people understood the truth, they’d wish him a lifetime of torment for what he’d done. He again chastised his friend for unnecessarily sealing his fate.
Stepping onto the beach, he measured his contempt for Robert and the life of turmoil he’d orchestrated for his son. He debated how best to overcome demons his father had instilled, to become the decent and generous man people believed Thomas Westbrooke to be. I’m exceptional. I can transform myself.
“I loved you, John, but—” He stopped, having grown weary of justifying his deed, of struggling with his essence. He studied the horizon and whispered, “I’ll take care of Skye.” It was the single thought that eased his mind.
His constricted muscles shuttered, and walking grew difficult. The light breeze exacerbated the effects of his fifteen minutes in chilly waters. He embraced his misery as purging. Goosebumps grew conspicuous as he sought the shelter of undulating, grass-covered dunes blocking the winds. He sat and waited.
Twenty minutes of solitude along beaches littered with white-washed timber and dead sea creatures passed. He watched a bright orange and white HH-3F Pelican helicopter make its second of four daily passes. The Coast Guardsmen discovered the overturned dory with its bright yellow hull. Moments later, the copter made a beeline to Thomas.
Chapter:
6
Glimmering sunshine had broken through the fog.
A police lieutenant drove over rolling hills and up a gravel driveway past timber, corrals, and an old barn under renovation. The McCloud residence was a simple, sturdy home typical of the era of its construction—sometime in the 1920s. Panoramic views from its hilltop perch were stunning, capturing Eagle Bay, breakers of the Pacific, and the Coast Range to the east.
The doorbell rang as Skye cleaned the house. Her mood mirrored the beauty outside. Bono and U2 were blasting in the background. She turned down the volume on a Kenwood receiver and stepped to the front door. Gripping the brass deadbolt knob, she placed her other hand around the door’s handle. The hardware felt unusually cold.
She hesitated to turn the knob and twisted around to glance at Dakota and Johnny, both happily occupied by their toys. She swung the door open and saw a green and white police cruiser parked thirty feet away. The expression on the officer’s face unsettled her; she wished she hadn’t answered.
“Can I help you?” Don’t complicate our lives, she silently implored.
“Mrs. McCloud? John McCloud’s wife?”
She nodded but said nothing.
“My name is Lieutenant Boseman, ma’am,” he said while removing his brown trooper-style hat. The police officer’s appearance struck her: stocky build with dark fur sprouting from his nose, neckline, and arms. His pleasing hazel eyes appeared misplaced on a face one might otherwise judge as uninviting.
Resisting the officer’s intrusion, Skye rubbed the underside of her left wrist with her right thumb, a life-long habit and unconscious expression of anxiety. She replied ambiguously, “Yes, hello. I’m busy, officer. And my husband’s fishing.” Turn around and go away.
The officer provided his initial report. “Ma’am, are you okay? Did you understand everything I’ve just informed you of?”
She watched his lips move, and his words reached her ears, but nothing registered. Time seemed suspended. Her face turned blank as she stared at horses trotting through a corralled field. She turned to the officer but couldn’t hold eye contact and lowered her head. “What?” she finally asked, as if in a daze.
“Do you mind if I step inside?”
Snap out of it, Skye. “Yes, of course, come in.” She turned to the children. “Johnny, Dakota, you two go play in the den, okay?” She glanced at the lieutenant and added, “Mommy won’t be long.” Her arms tingled.
The siblings ran to the small room laughing. Moments later, a door slammed shut. Their shrieks of joyful laughter got ignored.
Lieutenant Boseman resumed, “There’s been a boating accident involving Mr. McCloud, based on information from Thomas Westbrooke. Was your husband expected to be fishing in the Bear Point Delta this morning?”
“Yes. He’s okay, right?”
“An extensive water and land search have begun. We haven’t found your husband yet, but please—”
“What? Are you searching the delta or ocean? Please tell me he’s not in the ocean.” Getting dumped into the delta offered a decent chance of survival, but the ocean could be unforgiving. She muted any screams and clutched a coat rack in the entry hall for balance.
“We’ve assembled resources in the area. Their boat flipped over in the jaws, and Mr. Westbrooke swam to shore. We’re searching for your husband in the Pacific. We’ll utilize every boat, aircraft, and technology available for this operation.”
“Dear God,” she whispered. Her mouth fell open. Glancing at the sunflower clock, she noted the time: 11:30. The guys typically launched at 5:30 a.m. It took thirty minutes to motor through the river and delta. If swept out through the jaws, John may have been struggling amidst merciless seas for five and a half hours.
“We have a grief counselor and another Eagle Bay officer arriving soon.” His police radio sounded; he silenced it and settled his gaze back on Skye.
She spoke through gathering tears, “A counselor? What are you suggesting? My husband’s alive. Find him! I don’t need a grief counselor.” She shook her head. “I need my children’s father. You understand?”
“Ma’am, a counselor will help you deal with the uncertainties of the situation. I want to locate your husband as much as you do. We all do.”
Twenty minutes after their daughter-in-law’s call, John’s parents stepped through the front door, appearing confused but acting resolutely. Skye updated them on developments, and John’s mother walked down the hall to occupy Johnny and Dakota. Skye’s father-in-law, wearing his standard U.S. Navy polo, wasted no time pressing authorities for information regarding the search for his son. Observing him interrogate officials and demand answers reassured Skye. It gave her hope.
Another police officer and a woman approached her front porch, which only added to Skye’s horror—this was all really happening. She nodded at the two faces and waved them in. The pair looked injured by the image of a young mother trying to make sense of a situation considered unimaginable minutes earlier. Skye stepped toward the female counselor and spoke, trying but failing to sound strong and fearless. Skye remained quiet for a long stretch. “Please help us.”
“There are over forty search and rescuers, ma’am. All are highly skilled and committed to finding your husband. Is there somewhere you and I can sit and talk?”
Skye nodded yes but quickly changed her mind. “I can’t just sit here. I’ve got to get to the beach near the jaws.” She left the counselor stranded in the family room. With Johnny and Dakota still oblivious and occupied by her mother-in-law, Skye grabbed John Senior and requested that he accompany her to the accident scene. It was now 12:30.
Lieutenant Boseman drove the anxious wife and father-in-law to the confluence of river and ocean. The officer glanced at Skye’s grief-stricken face as they meandered over coastal roads. She stared out her window and mumbled what he assumed were prayers.
Stepping from the car, she noticed the surf and swells were strong. Too strong. Clouds were moving in, and the skies were darkening. She scanned the waters repeatedly, counting and recounting the number of rescuers and other authorities on the scene. John Senior’s muscular, tattooed arm pulled her close. He said nothing, which further unsettled her.
Three hours on the sands beyond stretching tides passed, and the demeanors of those hunting for John appeared gloomier. Or was that only her imagination? Skye eventually asked Lieutenant Boseman to drive her and John’s father home, assuming the children were by now questioning their parents’ absence.
Upon their return, the further updates Skye received meant nothing. They were full of clichéd grandstanding about the broad scope of the search and exercises. What was missing was an announcement that they’d rescued John. Panic and doubt consumed her.
Late that afternoon, Thomas stepped through the kitchen door, expressing anguish and shaking his head with compassionate eyes. He hugged Skye tightly. “I’m so very sorry.” As he held her, he looked toward John Senior and nodded.
“But how can he be lost, Thomas? It makes no sense. He must have swum to shore as you did. Right?” Reddened eyes begged for an affirming yes. She clutched her father-in-law’s hand as he stepped forward to hear Thomas’s words.
“It was terrible. We got attacked by pounding waves.” He scanned the faces in the room before gazing at John’s father. “But he’s a strong swimmer. It’s not hopeless.”
“Oh Thomas, of course it’s not hopeless. He’s going to make it.” She waited for someone to agree. John Senior’s expression appeared transformed into pain or disbelief, unnerving her.
As two officers asked to speak privately with Skye, Thomas walked to the living room, sat on a sofa, and covered his face with his hands. Onlookers watched his quivering body rise and step outside.
Day turned into night.
Skye understood that staying alive in the frigid Northwestern waters would be difficult after twenty minutes during any time of year. She cursed herself for employing logic to weigh John’s odds of survival. She tasted blood after worriedly biting her lower lip for hours.
Hopes for a joyous ending faded. Officials hinted it might be time to accept the unbearable, to begin mourning. Hour by hour, person by person, the McCloud house emptied. At 3 a.m., John’s parents, Johnny, and Dakota lay sleeping down the hall. Skye rested in bed, exhausted. The concept of sleep felt absurd. She reenacted what most believed were John’s final hours and found herself focused on two thoughts. If he was gone, he knew she loved him. And he left this world enjoying one of his outdoor passions with his best friend, Thomas Westbrooke.
Dear God, no. Bring him home.
Chapter:
7
Emergency personnel insisted it was fortunate that even one man had survived. Overhearing such comments tormented Skye.
The Westbrooke family offered everything within its scope of influence to ensure the hunt for John was one of the most comprehensive in the history of Oregon Coast rescue operations. Once again, the dynasty had cemented its reputation as a staunch benefactor of everything decent within Eagle Bay. Robert gripped his omnipresent pipe while perched on the Bear Point Spit, observing maneuvers. Citizens were impressed by the Westbrooke patriarch’s commitment to a just cause: finding the body of a fine man, his son’s closest friend.
Then two days passed, and still, nothing. Skye remained certain John’s body would eventually float ashore; it was the conclusion she felt made sense.
Thomas’s younger sister, Sarah, a recent graduate of Wellesley College, clutched Skye’s hand on the sands of the delta. Other friends and family found it difficult to approach the grieving wife; there were periods when spectators uncomfortably observed Skye’s isolated silhouette.
On the day of the accident, Thomas provided the Eagle Bay Police Department with a statement:
We were having a great time fishing. John hooked a big Chinook just as the sun broke through. I saw it flash by, and it must’ve been fifty pounds. I throttled the main engine to follow the fish as it darted for the ocean. We were getting too close to the turbulent jaws, but he begged me to move out just a bit further to land the fish. I got caught up in the excitement and did as he said. A large wave pushed the front of the dory up almost vertically, drenching the engine with water and killing it instantly. I tried to restart the main engine and then the kicker—they just wouldn’t start. The rough waters ate us up, one huge wave after another, flipping the boat and tossing everything inside, including John’s life vest. He insisted it was too warm to wear, so he’d taken it off, against my advice. I loved the guy, but he could be very stubborn. There was no way for me to see or do anything once the boat flipped. I almost got swept far out to sea and barely survived. I knew deep down John was gone.
