The Edge of the Water by Elizabeth George
“A trailer doesn’t make people crazy,” Jenn scoffed. “Like . . . what’s it supposed to do? Pollute someone’s brain? This isn’t a Stephen King novel, Dad.”
“Stephen King, Stephen Schming, I do not care. All’s I know is Eddie Beddoe didn’t wear a hazmat suit when they were cleaning the beach from that oil spill all those years back, and he carried that oil right inside that trailer, and he and Sharla were cooped up with it, and from that moment on, neither one ’f them was the same person they’d been. Come to think, you’re spending way too much time over there. Let’s call a halt to that.”
“Come on. That trailer’s not hurting me.”
“No? When’d you last attend to your soccer, Jenn? You want to tell me that?”
“I been practicing.”
“Like hell you have. Your mind’s taken up with other things and that’s what happens. You start thinking wrong. It happened to Eddie, it happened to Sharla, and I will not have it happening to you.”
Jenn rolled her eyes. “As if,” she said.
“You prove to me otherwise, or you stay away,” he warned her.
• • •
WHEN JENN HANDED over to Squat the information on the transmitter that she’d scored from Annie’s laptop along with the phone number and the location Monterey Bay, he told her that there was one hell of a very serious aquarium in Monterey Bay and a serious aquarium meant serious scientists associated with it, which may or may not mean serious information available on seriously different seals. Scientists and seals triggered thoughts of Annie being ahead of them in her quest for information about Nera. It also equated to Annie being way ahead of them when it came to plans.
They went to Squat’s house. They used Squat’s laptop and the phone. Their first hope was that the phone number Jenn had found was associated with the aquarium, but that wasn’t the case. It took a while for them to follow the leads and work out who had received Annie Taylor’s call. For when they called the number, they ended up with the school of life sciences at California State University. That CSU was in a place called Fort Ord wasn’t particularly helpful. That Fort Ord turned out to be up the road from the town of Monterey and practically sitting on Monterey Bay . . . That was something else altogether.
Jenn watched and listened as Squat navigated his way through various phone calls to various people. Depending on the person he was talking to, he morphed himself from a graduate student to a police official to a research assistant to a volunteer for a wild life rescue operation. She marveled at his ability to converse amicably with all these telephonic strangers.
He finally narrowed things down. She’d watched over his shoulder as he’d written evolutionary, ecological, micro, human, and then marine! on a notepad. Finally, he actually found the person Annie Taylor had called. He didn’t mention her name, but he didn’t have to. All he referred to was Whidbey Island and he’d used the terms “old transmitter on a seal up here,” and then he was listening and giving Jenn a thumb’s-up and taking notes as fast as he could.
She threw her arm around his shoulder and planted a kiss on his cheek and then stuck her tongue in his free ear. He waved her off, held up a finger to say “wait a second,” and ended the call with a formal, “That’s going to be helpful to our efforts up here, Dr. Parker . . . Yes, that’s right. F-e-r-g-u-s. Fergus Cooper . . . In the acknowledgments? Absolutely . . . No question about it. You’ve been really helpful.”
And then it was over and Jenn was saying, “What, what, what?”
Squat said, “I got to say it. Sometimes I amaze myself.”
“Tell me.”
“You putting out if I do?”
She punched his arm.
“Ow! Okay, okay. I got the goods. Annie Taylor got there first, by the way. Once I said Whidbey Island—”
“Yeah, I figured that.”
“—the guy, Dr. Michael Parker’s his name, gave me the story. And he said he’d already told it to Annie. Anyway, first of all, that transmitter’s way old. Over twenty years, and this guy Parker said he was surprised Nera’s still got it on.”
“It’s older than the oil spill, then,” Jenn pointed out. “Which says Nera’s not some mutant who was born a mutant because of the spill.”
“Yeah. She got it put on as part of a study in Monterey Bay and here’s what’s cool. As soon as I said coal black seal, this dude Parker knew exactly who I meant. Or what I meant, since I guess Nera’s a what and not a who, huh? Anyway, Parker says they were tagging all the seals and sea lions from a whole section of the coastline in California. Part of a study of feeding patterns and breeding problems and stuff like that. It was for the EPA and they were doing a study that went from Cambria to Santa Cruz . . . something like two hundred fifty or three hundred miles. But the black seal? She moved out of range within a week, he says.”
Jenn frowned. Squat was acting like someone who expected fireworks to go off at the conclusion of his story. She said, “So?”
“So that’s not how seals behave, this guy Parker said. He was totally amazed that she was up here at all, he said. And he was totally flipped out when Annie told him that she showed up around Langley every year, practically on the exact same date. And he said that when she was down there and they tagged her with the transmitter, it was like she knew they wanted to study her down there ’cause she totally disappeared. I mean, she moved out of range. And when Annie told him Nera still had the transmitter on, he said ‘That’s one hell of an interesting seal,’ and he said Annie’s gonna make her name in marine science if she can identify Nera, especially if it turns out she’s some new species or something like that. See, he said that everyone down there thought she just had that skin thing . . . What’s it called? Opposite of being albino?”
“Melanism,” Jenn told him. “That’s what Annie called it.”
“Yeah. That was it. He said Annie said she doesn’t think it’s melanism at all because Nera doesn’t look like any kind of seal that belongs around here anyway. So if she’s never shed that transmitter and if she doesn’t have melanism but is coal black because of the kind of seal she is, that means she’s some sort of new seal that no one in marine science knows about.”
“Except Annie Taylor,” Jenn noted grimly. “And she’s going to want to identify her, huh?”
“She’s going to want to figure out what she is, that’s for sure. I mean, what kind of marine biologist wouldn’t? You ask me, this guy Parker is probably buying a plane ticket right now so he can beat Annie Taylor to it.”
Jenn felt uneasy with all of the implications that were becoming apparent, most of which had to do with the safety of the seal. She didn’t know a thing about the process for declaring something a new species, but she was pretty certain a few photographs of Nera were not going to be sufficient proof to the scientific community. They would need a lot more than that to declare Annie the discoverer of an entirely new species of mammal. They were going to need the animal herself. Failing that, they were going to need a heck of a lot of DNA and whatever else they could get their hands on.
Squat said in a meditative voice, “There’s this one odd thing about all this stuff, though.”
She glanced at him. He was resting back against the sofa, looking thoughtfully up at the ceiling. He had his arms behind his head, and his T-shirt rode up to show a band of white stomach and a rust-colored tuft of hair crawling down into his jeans that made Jenn get hot-faced and look away. She said, “What?”
“Well, all the whacked-out seal spotters on the island know about her, right? She’s got her own website or whatever and they call each other the minute she shows up. They have meetings about her and . . . look at Ivar Thorndyke making sure everyone keeps away from her. You’d think someone around would’ve noticed she’s different besides just being black, wouldn’t you? I mean someone a hell of a long time before now.”
“Before Annie showed up.”
“I guess we know who it is, huh?”
“Ivar.”
They looked at each other. “What d’you think he knows?” Jenn asked.
“I don’t think that’s the question,” Squat replied.
“No? Then what?”
“Why doesn’t he want anyone else to know?” He yawned then and scratched his stomach. He saw her eyes follow the route his hand had taken. He said, “So . . . ready to pay up?”
“Tongues or what?”
“Or what,” he said. He pulled off his T-shirt.
She had a moment.
Lesbo freak.
No way, she told herself. She pulled her T-shirt off as well.
THIRTY-NINE
Diana Kinsale had learned about the girl at Possession Point the way most everyone else had: through the local newspaper. So she knew whom Becca was talking about the moment Becca brought up the topic. She agreed that something wasn’t right about the whole situation, and when Becca told her that Cilla had no whispers, Diana walked to the window of her sunroom, where she spent a few minutes looking out at Saratoga Passage.
It was one of those moments when Becca wished that Diana herself had whispers. There was something about how gravely she looked upon the water that told Becca once again that more was going on than met the eye when it came to some of the adults in town.
Finally Diana turned from the window. She said, “I’m not sure how useful I can be in a situation of physical illness.”
“I know you can’t make her better,” Becca replied. “But I thought . . . well, maybe between you and me, we could figure out who she is. We could maybe find her parents or something because it seems like they’d want to know she’s sick.”
Even as she said these words, Becca felt the small stone of sorrow that she always carried grow a bit heavier in her chest. Parents. A mom. Her own mom. She coughed, swallowed hard, and pressed her lips together.
Diana watched her, her face concerned. She said quietly, “Let’s go, then. I don’t know what we can do, but trying is better than doing nothing, isn’t it?”
When they arrived at Possession Point, it was to find Chad Pederson’s truck parked next to Annie’s Honda. No one was around the McDaniels house, but Chad and Annie stood out on the dock, and they looked like people having an intense conversation. Becca watched them for a moment, her eyes narrowed. Annie was pointing northeast into the water and then gesturing to the right of the dock where boats pulled up so that Jenn’s dad could sell bait to the fishermen who piloted them. So intent were they upon what they were saying that they didn’t notice Becca and Diana. Becca figured this was all to the good. It would be easier for them if they could see Cilla and try to read from her without Annie Taylor clouding the air with whispers.
They went inside the trailer. Cilla was lying on the couch, a comforter pulled up to her neck. Her breathing was loud and her eyes were half-opened although she appeared to be asleep. Her long dark hair was a tangled cloud around her shoulders. It descended all the way to the floor, and Diana picked up a lock of it and held it gently in her hands.
She said, “Hello, Cilla,” as she sat on a chair that Becca brought to her. “How are you, my dear?” But on the couch, Cilla didn’t respond.
Becca stood behind Diana’s chair. As before, she tried to hear something coming from Cilla. But just like Diana, there was nothing to hear.
With a soft touch, Diana put the back of her fingers on Cilla’s temple in a simple touch. She murmured, “You’re safe. You’ve had a long journey to get here, Cilla. I expect what you’d like most is to go home.”
Becca watched as Diana moved her hand from Cilla’s temple to her forehead, which she massaged tenderly. “It would be lovely, wouldn’t it,” Diana said, “to be in a place where safety is all that someone knows.”
Becca’s throat closed. Like Cilla, she found it hard to breathe. It was the thought of safety, which she had not known in these many months since she’d come to Whidbey. It was the thought of a gentle touch on a feverish forehead. It was missing everything that she had lost.
Diana looked at her. She seemed to read it all. She said, “I would make your journey easier if I could, but there are limits to what’s possible for me. And for you, too.” And saying this, she drew Becca around to her side while still she caressed Cilla’s forehead. Becca felt Diana’s arm encircle her waist and a warmth took the place of the desolation she was feeling.
Then it changed. Instead of Cilla lying on the couch in front of her, Becca saw water. It was calm and dark as the night and she was moving through it. She was under it. She was on top of it. She heard the thrub of an engine flowing through it. Then the water was heavy, like a canvas weighed down by a thousand stones. She rose to the surface but it was black night and there were no stars. She could no longer breathe. She twisted and turned and looked for someone, for something, for a way to go until she felt hands, gentle as a sigh, and they smoothed and smoothed the length of her body. She was a butterfly emerging from a cocoon and outside the cocoon there was air, air. And then there was nothing but stumbling on unsteady feet and falling onto sand in the moonlight. Then the sound of footsteps. A gasp. And then in water nearby a smooth head rose. Then bright lights struck and they were everywhere and whatever it was in the water was gone.
Becca’s vision cleared. Her heart was slamming in her chest, and she saw that Cilla’s eyes were open and that Cilla was watching her. Diana’s arm was no longer around her waist. She, too, was watching Becca.
She said to Becca, “Something’s happened, hasn’t it? And it happened once before, with Sharla.”
Becca didn’t know how to tell her or even what to tell her. She had no possible way to explain. It was being there with her and with Cilla but not being there with her and with Cilla; it was being there with her and with Sharla and not being there with her and with Sharla. It was like the whispers but it was more than the whispers. She didn’t know what to call it.
She said, “This’s about water. But I don’t know why.”
Diana said thoughtfully, “Yet things generally end the way they begin, in my experience.”
Becca said, “Eddie Beddoe. He’s where it started. That day on Sandy Point when he was shooting at the water.”
“You’re probably right,” Diana told her.
• • •
THEY WENT TO Eddie Beddoe’s car repair shop, across the street from a line of renovated old mercantile buildings that comprised the shops of Bayview Corner. As they approached the ancient gas station that housed Eddie’s establishment, Diana pulled to one side of the road. She said to Becca, “A reason for showing up would be good,” and she got out of the pickup and fiddled underneath its hood. When she got back in and turned on the engine, the truck misfired badly. Diana pulled into the forecourt where once the gas pumps had stood. Eddie came out of the shop, frowning at the noise from her truck and wiping his hands on a stained red rag.
Diana glanced at Becca before she climbed out of the pickup. “Ready, then?” she asked.
“Guess so,” Becca told her. She wasn’t sure how they were going to get anything out of the unpleasant man, but she would wait for a moment when it looked as if she could make a connection that he wouldn’t be wise to.
Diana said to Eddie, “It’s misfiring badly. Do you have time . . . ? To tell you the truth, I dread knowing. If it’s a head gasket, I’m in big trouble.”
Eddie glanced at Becca briefly. He said to Diana pleasantly enough, “Didn’t sound like a head gasket to me when you pulled in,” but his whispers told another tale about how he was feeling about their presence. Little bitches two of them . . . all the trouble . . . no way are they . . . with that hot pants scientist . . . came to Becca broken in parts as always, but it was a simple matter to interpret th
He lifted the hood. After a moment, he said, “Yeah, that ain’t no head gasket. Shut her down, will you?” and when Diana did so, he messed around under the hood. He emerged with two spark plugs, saying, “This here’s your problem. One of them’s wasted and the other’s about to be. Wait a second,” and off he went into his shop.
“Anything?” Diana murmured to Becca.
“Just that he’s mad at me and Jenn. Or you and me. It was hard to tell. And . . . he’s not a very nice man.”
As Eddie approached again, Diana smiled at him. He disappeared beneath the hood, replaced the spark plugs, and told Diana to start the truck up again. It purred. Diana thanked him and said, “What do I owe you?” to which he answered, “Come on inside.”
Becca followed them into the office, which was redolent of motor oil and grease. It was also so filthy that she took care not to touch anything, since it looked as if flesh-eating bacteria was the most likely resident of the place, and she waited for the moment to present itself.
Eddie wrote up the bill for the spark plugs. As she waited, Diana said to him in a friendly way, “I heard the good news about your boat being found, Eddie,” and in that way she had of connecting with people, she put a hand on his arm. “Becca here was the one to tell me. Have you two met? She was with me that day on the beach at Sandy Point, but I don’t think I introduced you two then.” She extended her hand to Becca, and Becca took it, seeing the direction in which they were heading. She said to Eddie Beddoe, “Oh yeah, hi,” and she heard Diana add, “Becca and I met in the most unusual—” before silence hit her.
She was in open water. But this time, she was on a boat. She saw its stern along with the waves that hurled themselves onto its deck. And then beyond the boat . . . the sleek black head of Nera in the water. She was a bare ten yards away, but she didn’t come closer. She rode the waves with ease. The boat’s motor gunned. Then things went awry as the boat came about. The boat aimed for the seal. Nera dove. Water washed the deck.