Chapter 5 - The Glass on the Deck
By 3:30 in the morning, the rain had settled into that persistent, gray drizzle that makes the Pacific Northwest feel like it’s slowly sinking into the sea.
Clara had finally fallen asleep at the dinette, her head resting on her folded arms, her breath coming in soft, ragged whistles. Noah hadn't moved; he was buried so deep under the Hudson’s Bay wool that only a tuft of brown hair showed above the hem.
I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, the image of Evan’s face in the yellow kitchen light flashed against my retinas—not the anger, but that split-second of shock right before Dad spoke through the phone. That look of a man who realized he wasn't alone in the room with his victim anymore.
My shoulder burned like fire. The hospital had given me three white tablets of codeine, but I hadn't taken them. I needed my head clear. If you’ve lived with a man like Evan for seven years, you develop an animal instinct for changes in air pressure; you know when the floorboards are settling naturally and when they’re settling under the weight of someone trying not to be heard.
A floorboard doesn't creak on a boat.
A boat talks in a different language: the groan of nylon lines against rusted iron cleats, the wet slap of the swell against the chine, the sudden screeech of an old rubber fender being pinched between the yellow cedar hull and the fir piling.
Screeech.
It was subtle—barely louder than Clara’s breathing.
I sat upright in the captain's chair, my left hand instantly gripping the edge of the chart table. The pain in my clavicle screamed, but my ears were locked on the sound.
The fender had compressed on the port side. The wind was coming from the southwest tonight, which meant the boat should have been pushing away from the slip, holding the lines taut. A fender only compressed if something—or someone—had just stepped onto the outer rail and forced the hull against the timber piling.
I looked at the dinette.
Dad was already awake.
He hadn't been sleeping. He was sitting in the corner of the bench, his Carhartt coat still on, his hands resting flat on the mahogany table on either side of his cold tea mug. His eyes were wide, clear, and fixed on the companionway stairs.
He didn't move fast. He rose with the smooth, fluid economy of an old predator, his wool socks making no sound against the teak floorboards. His left hand picked up the Remington from the corner; his right thumb hovered over the action release.
He caught my eye. He didn't say a word, but he pointed one thick finger toward Noah’s bunk, then down toward the floorboards of the forward cabin. Stay down.
I slipped out of the chair, my knees trembling, and dropped onto the carpet beside Noah’s berth. I reached up with my left hand and laid it over his small ankle through the heavy blanket, just enough to feel his warmth, just enough to keep him from kicking if he woke up.
Above us, on the deck, came the sound.
Scritch.
It was the sound of wet rubber soles stepping on the non-skid paint of the wheelhouse roof. Someone had bypassed the gangway entirely. They hadn't walked down the pier where the halogen light was burning; they had climbed across the rusted cross-bracing beneath the wharf, hauled themselves onto the pilings, and dropped down onto the boat from above.
A shadow broke the yellow light coming through the small rectangular deck prism in the cabin ceiling.
Then came the click of the companionway door latch.
It was locked—Dad had shot the heavy bronze barrel bolt from the inside before he poured the tea—but the brass handle rattled once, twice, with a sudden, violent impatience.
"Arthur," a voice called down through the louvers of the hatch.
It was Evan.
His voice didn't sound like it had in the kitchen. It was wet, ragged, and shaking with cold. He had been out in the tideflats for four hours in forty-degree drizzle with no jacket, and the chill had gotten into his teeth.
"Arthur, open the hatch. I know you're down there."
Clara jerked awake, her head snapping up from the table, her eyes wide with instant terror. She opened her mouth to scream, but Dad’s hand dropped onto her shoulder like a five-ton crane hook, silencing her before she could draw breath.
"Go away, Evan," Dad said. He didn't yell. He spoke at conversational volume, knowing the thin cedar of the companionway doors would carry every syllable. "Dan Higgins has three cars between here and the bridge. You're cornered."
"Dan Higgins doesn't give a damn about me!" Evan rasped, his shoulder hitting the hatch doors with a wet, heavy thud. "Beth! Beth, you listen to me! You tell your old man to open this door! You think you can take my kid down to this dirty old scow? You think you can take my boy out of my house?"
Noah stirred beneath the blanket. His thumb slipped from his mouth, and his eyes fluttered open in the dim light of the diesel stove.
"Mommy?" he whispered.
"Shh," I breathed, leaning my face over his, my cheek pressed against his warm forehead. "Stay right here, baby. Don't move."
"Bethany!" Evan screamed, his rage finally tearing through the shivering exhaustion in his voice. He kicked the lower panel of the companionway door. The old cedar groaned, the bronze screws holding the barrel bolt pulling half an inch out of the jamb. "You come out here! You owe me seventy-three dollars and my truck keys! You hear me? You think you can steal from me and run to your daddy?"
Crack.
Another kick. A splinter of yellow cedar flew inward, landing on the second step of the companionway.
Dad took two steps forward. He didn't shout a warning. He didn't ask for a surrender.
He racked the slide of the Remington.
CH-CHUCK.
In the small, enclosed wooden cabin, the sound of twelve-gauge steel chambering was deafening. It sounded like an iron gate being slammed shut in a stone tunnel.
Outside, the kicking stopped instantly.
The silence that followed was absolute, save for the rhythmic, uncaring slap of the tide against the hull.
"Evan," Dad said, his voice dropping into that dark, bottomless gravel that had made sixty-man dock crews shut their mouths and look at their boots. "There is one ounce of lead shot in this barrel. In about three seconds, it’s going through the center panel of that cedar door at twelve hundred feet per second. If your chest is on the other side of that wood, you won't live long enough to hear the sirens."
A wet, hitching breath sounded from the deck.
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"You won't shoot," Evan whispered, but the bravado was gone, replaced by the thin, reedy squeak of a cornered animal realizing the trap had teeth. "You're a retired foreman. You won't go to prison for her."
"Try the latch again," Dad said simply. "Let's find out."
