Authors: Linda J. White
Stepping outside he threw the ball for Jazz over and over.
Finally, she grew tired, and he sat down on the back step.
Panting hard, Jazz sat down in front of him. He scratched her
ear with his left hand. “What do you think I should do?” he said. “Go for it?”
Jake looked into her dark brown eyes as if there was an answer hidden there.
Suddenly, he stopped petting her. He stood up. He broke into a sweat.
“Are you ready?” Trudy asked, stepping out of the door.
“Trudy!” Jake responded, turning and grabbing her arms.
“What? Are you all right?”
“He was wearing boat shoes. Those brown boat shoes.”
“Who, Jake?”
“The guy who hit me!” Jake paced away. He rubbed the back of
his head. His heart was pounding. “He was wearing brown boat shoes, and on one
of them the front eyelet was pulled out!” He looked at Trudy.
“That’s wonderful, Jake! You remembered something! You need
to tell Craig.”
“You bet!” Impulsively he kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll call
him on the way to the doctor’s.”
• • •
“Mr. Tucker, what I am suggesting is this: we open the
skull, excise this bit of tissue, and close.”
“And I would be awake during the surgery?” Jake sat in Dr.
Harrington’s examining room, staring at films illuminated from behind by a
bright white light. The films were of his head, and he could clearly see a dark
area on his brain, at the impact point of his injury.
“Yes, you’d have to be awake, but you would feel no pain. It
would take a couple of hours, and then we’d keep you for a few days while you
recuperated.”
“And … what are the risks?”
“Any brain surgery is a high-risk procedure. If we go too
far, you could lose some motor function. There’s obviously the risk of
infection. That’s normal with any surgery.”
Jake exhaled loudly. “I don’t know, Doc.”
Dr. Harrington sat down on the small, wheeled stool. “How
often are you having seizures?”
“At least once a day.”
“And, at worst?”
“Seven. I’ve had seven in one day.”
“And is that the way you want to live?”
Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not living. It’s not
living at all.”
Oxford, Maryland, Scrub’s hometown, was first designated a
port of entry in 1683 and for many years rivaled Annapolis as a shipping
center. Located on Town Creek off the Tred Avon River on the east side of the
Bay, Oxford’s commercial trade had begun with cordage and hemp and had
graduated to tobacco, then oysters. As the oystering fell off, the town began
to decline. These days tourism provided the biggest influx of cash, and the
town was a quiet, picturesque escape from 21st Century life.
Cassie wanted to see the area by boat. It was quicker to cut
across the Bay than to travel by car north to the Bay Bridge and then south to
Oxford. And although she would not admit it, going by boat made it less likely
she’d be followed.
Early in the morning she’d driven to her dad’s house, pulled
Mike’s SUV out of the garage where it had been stored for the last six months,
and put the Cabrio in its place. She didn’t want to deal with the body damage
right now.
The night before she had called in a favor from a friend and
arranged to borrow his powerboat, a solid Grady-White fishing boat. This
morning she had driven to a marina in Herring Bay, south of Annapolis, parked
the SUV, picked up the boat, and headed out over the Chesapeake.
The day was already hot and still. Humidity hung heavily in
the air, forming a gray haze. Dodging crab pots as she went, Cassie negotiated
the channel and headed for the open water. Traveling at twenty knots in the
powerboat was a lot different than moving at the 4 or 5 knots she could usually
expect on her sailboat. The world seemed to fly by.
Up ahead, two pelicans were diving for food. Pelicans had all
but disappeared from the Bay after World War II. Scientists thought it was
because the DDT they had ingested made their eggshells too thin, killing the
babies. Now that DDT was outlawed, they were thriving in the region once again.
Cassie looked ahead and watched the pterodactyl-like birds wheel and spin
overhead. When they saw a fish, they’d drop head first into the water like
they’d been shot. Cassie never got tired of watching them.
A line of bluefish just under the surface formed an
arrow-like ridge in the still waters of the Bay. Just off to port, a sailboat
sat, becalmed. Cassie waved as she went by. In the shipping channel a large
cruise ship was headed north, back to Baltimore, which had become a new port
for the industry with the construction of a large cruise terminal. Behind it, a
gigantic cargo ship filled with containerized freight churned on.
Cassie’s plan was simple. She had told Len she would not be
in tomorrow. Instead, she would spend the night at a bed and breakfast in
Oxford, preparing for this week’s festival. When he’d protested the expense,
she’d waved him off, saying she was paying for it and she just needed a change
of scene.
He’d bought it. In reality, Cassie expected it would take
very little time to explore little Oxford. The rest of the time she would spend
poking around, searching for answers to the question: could Scrub be a serial
arsonist?
Cassie flew south, past Thomas Point Light and then Bloody
Point. Then the leaning lighthouse, Sharps Island Light, came into view, and
she rounded the lower end of Tilghman Island and headed into the mouth of the
great Choptank River. She waved to a few fisherman and several crabbers in
their low-slung workboats and followed the channel markers up the Choptank. How
different it was not to have to think about depth or wind direction in the
shallow draft powerboat. It almost made things too easy. Traversing the Bay in
the Grady-White had taken an hour. In her sailboat it would have been a
half-day trip.
There were three major tributaries of the Choptank on the
north side, before the Tred Avon River. She decided to explore the first one,
Harris Creek, before proceeding to Oxford. It was not yet noon, she wasn’t
starving, and the weather was good. She turned north, up the broad, sparsely
populated waterway. The wind on her face was refreshing and the smell of salt
comforting.
This is my element
, Cass thought.
A few houses were beginning to be built in the Harris Creek
area. The whole Bay area was becoming popular, especially as a retirement
location. Off to starboard a contemporary home with huge windows facing the
water sat on a cliff. Down below, at water’s edge, was a dock with a sailboat
tied up and a small boathouse with a ski boat on a lift.
A “creek” in Bay country was no little waterway. As wide as
many rivers and deep enough to accommodate good-sized boats, Harris Creek ran
along the east side of Tilghman Island, a traditional waterman’s community. It
offered shelter from the Bay when the Chesapeake became stirred up by storms.
Near the north end of the creek it broke into two branches. As she neared the
fork, Cass slowed the engine. When she hit a dead end, she reversed course.
She made her way back down the creek, diverting into Cummings
Creek, and Briary Cove, Waterhole Cove and Dun Cove, a favorite anchorage for
sailors. Then she turned east again, toward Oxford, the laughing gulls overhead
offering commentary on her journey.
Cassie pulled into the marina at Oxford. Stopping first at
the fuel dock, she filled the tanks, grimacing as she did so. The sailboat
took, at most, $10 worth of diesel. She could run all day on that. Powerboats
in contrast were gashogs, or “stink-pots” in Chesapeake Bay vernacular.
Shelling out $150 for fuel was not Cassie’s idea of a good time.
Cassie secured the boat, grabbed her backpack, and headed for
the bed & breakfast, the Sally Johnston Inn, which was within walking
distance. The Inn was operated by two sisters. Catherine and Emily, both now
well into their sixties, had been in business for ten years, since Emily’s
husband died. It was a place she’d always wanted to visit with Mike.
The Inn was a turreted Victorian house, painted blue with
white gingerbread trim. The walk up to the spacious front porch was lined with
perky petunias. Two planters stood near the front steps, filled with red
geraniums and trailing ivy. Cassie walked up the steps, opened the front door,
and walked in.
When the screened door closed behind her, Cassie felt like
she’d entered a different world. A glossy dark staircase led upstairs. To the
left was a room with a medallion sofa, marble-topped walnut tables, and an
oriental rug on the floor. Soft music played in the background and a
rose-scented candle filled the air with a heavy, sweet fragrance.
Catherine greeted her at the door. “Welcome, dear. We’re so
glad to have you!”
“Thank you,” Cassie said. “I’m glad I finally made it.”
Catherine showed her to her room, a large, airy bedroom with
a queen-sized pineapple bed and a large wardrobe. Challis curtains covered the
windows, two of which looked out on the water, and a comfortable rocker sat in
the corner.
“This is nice,” said Cassie, “very nice.”
“You make yourself at home. The bath is in there,” Catherine
pointed to a door within the room. “We serve breakfast at seven-thirty. But any
time you’re hungry, you just come down to the kitchen and we’ll find you
something, honey.”
“Thanks, thanks very much.”
As soon as Catherine left, Cassie undressed and showered,
then lay down on the bed for just a moment. She fell asleep, which shouldn’t
have surprised her, but she was annoyed when she woke up and discovered it was
nearly dinner time and she’d wasted several hours. Irritated with herself, she
slipped on a summery dress and sandals, fixed her hair and make-up and sprayed
on a bit of perfume. Then she left the B&B and walked to Hilda’s, a
restaurant at water’s edge, for dinner.
It was hard eating alone. She ordered crab cakes and Cobb salad,
which were very good, but she had a difficult time enjoying them. Mike should
be here. Mike should be sitting across from her eating steak, smiling and
laughing.
Cassie tried to refocus her thoughts, concentrating on the
conversations around her. Somebody’s granddaughter was headed off for college.
There hadn’t been a summer like this in years for tomatoes. The Baptists never
did know how to put on a strawberry festival.
Life goes on
, thought Cassie,
even when marinas are
being burned and people are being killed.
“Excuse me, miss.” The waiter was a young man in his twenties.
“That gentleman over there,” he nodded toward a slim dark-haired man in his
forties wearing a dark blue suit, “was wondering if you would like some
company.”
Cassie froze. “No, tell him, thank you, but no.”
She watched the waiter go back to the man, who nodded and
lifted his drink toward her. Cassie looked away. She finished her meal, paid
her bill, and walked back to the B&B, tired and discouraged. How was she
going to find out about Scrub? The shops were all closed, no one was around.
How much time could she spend in the morning? “All day, if I have to,” she
muttered out loud to herself.
The evening was still steamy and there was heat lightning in
the distance. The two sisters were sitting on the front porch as she walked up,
and they invited her to sit with them.
She accepted, and Emily insisted on getting her a glass of
cold lemonade. The crickets were chirping in the grass as twilight yielded to
night. The old ash rockers on the porch were comfortable. Citronella candles in
clay pots kept the mosquitoes away. Soon Cassie found herself engaging in small
talk with the two older women. What did people do in Oxford for fun? Did they
grow up here? What was the job situation like?
They, in turn, managed to extract from Cassie the fact that
her husband had died, and that she’d grown up near Easton. She told them she
was worried about a friend who’d been hurt, and about her job with the
newspaper, which they thought was very glamorous.
“So, you’ll be back down for the Heritage Festival?”
Catherine asked.
“Yes, but just for the day. I’m coming with a photographer to
cover it.”
“Well, that’s just wonderful, honey. You be sure to stop by
and say hello.”
Cassie smiled. “I will.” She smoothed her dress. “Say, a guy
I know is from around here somewhere. His name is Myron Tunney, but everyone
calls him Scrub. He helped me fix my sailboat. Either of you ever hear of him?”
Catherine and Emily looked at each other. “Oh, yes, we know
the Tunneys,” said Emily, leaning forward, “but the one that knows them best is
our brother, Billy Thompson.”
“Any chance I could talk to Billy?’
“He should be ‘round for breakfast in the morning.
Seven-thirty, he’ll be here,” Emily promised. “You can’t find a better man than
our brother. The only thing is … if you want him to talk, you have get him out
on the water. Only thing that loosens his tongue is boats.”
“He’s a waterman?”
Catherine nodded. “Crabber. Fisherman, too.”
“Would he take me on one of his runs?” She could get some
good story ideas from a trip like that.
Emily giggled. “Most likely.”
“I’ll look forward to meeting him,” Cassie said, and she
excused herself, went upstairs, and climbed into bed, tired and not just a
little lonely.
And, as had become her habit, Cassie took the extra pillow,
and held it close to her chest until she fell asleep. It was a poor substitute
for Mike. But it was all she had.
Billy Thompson was a waterman, born and bred. Perpetually
sunburned, his large hands bore testimony to years of hard work, pulling crab
pots and nets full of fish up from the waters of the Bay. His face was broad
and open and his forehead was covered by a shock of white hair. His eyes were
bright blue, like the sky and the sea on a perfect summer day.