Eagle bay, p.2
Eagle Bay, page 2
Minutes later, he stopped at a gas station to fuel up and add two quarts of Pennzoil. He remembered the library across the street offered printing and copying, so he asked the attendant to add the oil and a filter before darting over a crosswalk while clutching the newsclip.
Inside the library, he focused on the image transferred onto white paper and grew pleased with its clarity; anyone could easily discern that two of the three men pictured were a Westbrooke and McCloud. John folded the print-out twice, grabbed the original from atop the copier glass, and returned to the service station.
He paid for the gas and oil and added a tip that prompted a beam from the uniformed, shaggy-haired teenager sporting a shirt with blue stitching that read “Reggie.” Stepping into his Bronco, he checked the time and decided to drop by his parents for a quick hello. Three weeks had passed since his last visit.
Upon arrival, John slid down his seat and strode into the house through the garage, just as he had for twenty years. He heard running water in his parents’ master bath toward the back of the home. Turning left in the hallway, he nearly crashed into his father.
“How’ve you been, son?” They hugged, and John was again impressed by his ex-military father’s muscular arms. His dad held up a folded piece of white paper. “This was lying on the driveway next to your truck. Without my glasses, it’s just a blurry photo. Is it yours?”
John wasn’t ready to divulge the fascinating discovery linking an earlier generation of Westbrookes and McClouds. He snatched the paper from his father’s grasp. “Yep—it’s just a copy of an old photo of the Cape taken decades before developers transformed Eagle Bay.”
“Well, progress was inevitable for this slice of heaven. Hey, why don’t you join me in the den?” They entered, and his father grinned while tapping the side of a brown cardboard box folded shut. “You’ve promised to remove this stuff for I don’t know how many years.” Patting John McCloud III on his back, John McCloud II said victoriously, “Today’s our lucky day.”
The younger John laughed while unfolding the four top panels. “I think it’s one of those things I want but don’t want. I mean, look at this junk: prom pictures, yearbooks, baseball cards, and magazines. Oh, and Grandma’s mysterious pendant.”
John lifted a strange piece of jewelry depicting a fiery sun. Someone had looped a leather strand through a hole above the crudely made silver and gold medallion. He placed it around his neck and smiled at his namesake. “I’ve always thought this thing was cool. Still no idea where Grandma got it?” He held it between his thumb and forefinger, focused on its detail. “It looks somewhat authentic, in an antique-ish kind of way.”
“My mother told me it showed up just before my father’s departure for Alaska, sometime in the 1920s.”
“But you’re positive it’s worthless crap?” John asked.
“Yep, according to that jeweler downtown—Van Dykes—it’s a fake relic. They offered me twenty bucks for it.”
“Didn’t they go bankrupt?”
“You think that means they misvalued it?” He chuckled and offered a knowing expression. “Go ahead and get it reappraised. If it’s worth anything, consider it an advance on any inheritance. That is if your mom and I don’t spend all our meager savings.”
“Deal,” John replied while fitting the pendant’s leather necklace over his head. He placed the folded copy of the news clipping inside the front cover of his high school yearbook, dropped it into the cardboard box, and lifted the contents. “I’ll transfer this stuff right now. No more cluttering your house.” He turned and found his mother approaching, dressed in sweats and Nikes, her dark hair still damp. John set the items down, and they embraced.
“How’s my favorite son?” she asked. “Can you join us for dinner? Where are Skye and my darling grandchildren?”
As an only child, John grew used to his mother’s excessive attention. Since her diagnosis of Parkinson’s, he relished a devotion that might be difficult to express one day. He noticed the trembling of her left hand had worsened.
“Sorry, Mom, I need to go. Skye and the kids are waiting at home, and then it’s off to the Westbrookes. Thomas and I are fishing the delta tomorrow. We’ll see you and Dad for Johnny’s birthday, right?”
“Of course.”
Sensing his mother might insist on an extended visit, John pecked her cheek and walked briskly toward his truck as he called out reassuring words to parents he cherished. He leaped inside and put the car in reverse.
“Give the kids our love!” she yelled as John gunned down the driveway. “And say hello to Thomas!”
John leaned over the passenger seat toward an open window. “Will do!” The heavy pendant tugged uncomfortably on his chest hairs as he sat back. He adjusted it, honked twice, and roared away. The visit extended his good mood.
Driving over twisting country roads to what he sometimes referred to as his “poor man’s estate,” it wasn’t until he turned up his driveway that John realized he had, once again, left the box of his teenage nostalgia in his parents’ den. Smiling, he questioned whether his father would stick it back in the closet and forget about it for another five years.
John and Skye’s light brown residence was a single-story, L-shaped ranch home clearly in the throes of renovation. John and his friends recently installed new siding, windows, and doors that dramatically improved its curb appeal.
Six-year-old Johnny and four-year-old Dakota waited for him while straddled atop a corral fence, their hands and heads in constant motion. He turned off the ignition and placed the rediscovered original newsclip in the glove box to share with Thomas later that night. Stepping from the Bronco, the kids screamed and grabbed his legs as he palmed each of their heads; it was a ritual he relished. Skye stayed in the house, waving through a window.
The trio stepped through the front door, walked hand-in-hand toward the kitchen, past a sunflower wall clock, and greeted Skye. She kissed her husband, and John asked the kids how they’d spent their day. Then he beamed as Johnny and Dakota spoke faster and louder to ensure their account drowned out their sibling. The kids’ incessant chatting continued through dinner.
John helped Skye with the dishes before spending twenty minutes in his office filing business receipts. It was Skye’s turn to read aloud, a bedtime routine often lasting half an hour or more. Later, John kissed both children good night, and the couple plopped themselves onto the middle of a worn sofa.
Skye exhaled melodramatically and presented an adoring smile. “Well, honey, this is the life we asked for,” she said, pointing down the hall toward the kids’ bedrooms. “Honest to God, the two of them are nonstop energy. I’m exhausted.”
When John leaned in for a kiss, the pendant’s outline grew visible through his sweatshirt. Skye squeezed it through the gray cotton. “What’s this?”
John leaned back and pulled the relic from under his shirt. “Just a remnant of my youth that I grabbed from my parents’ house. This thing mesmerized me as a teenager.” Skye studied it, front and back, and projected intrigue while lifting her shoulders. “I agree,” John said. “I’m not sure what to make of it either. Dad had it appraised—says it’s worthless.”
“Well, it’s certainly unusual.” She released it. “But I’d never wear it.”
“And you don’t have to,” he replied with a thumbs-up. “I’m hoping it’ll bring us luck tomorrow; we got skunked the last time we fished the delta.” He placed the pendant beneath his sweatshirt while staring into green eyes that reminded him of springtime in coastal forests. “God, you’re beautiful.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. McCloud. So why don’t you cancel your fishing trip and join me for some adult playtime?” She lifted her brows and squeezed his hand. “Make a choice: your beautiful wife or your best friend.”
He laughed. “Sorry, I’m committed. But twenty-four hours from now, your stinky husband will need a shower and might be too tired to lather himself up. So don’t make any plans.”
“Hmm, sounds interesting, but I’ll have to check my calendar.” Skye caressed his shoulder. “Thomas needs another distraction besides you. Tell him I think he should settle down with an amazing woman and raise a brood of little Westbrookes.”
“I have, but he says he hasn’t found a woman as great as the one I’ve got.” John put his arm around her, buried his face in brunette locks, and inhaled. “And he never will. Skye McCloud is one-of-a-kind.”
Chapter:
3
Thomas accepted that he should have assumed fragments of the Westbrookes’ dark history could eventually surface, though he never considered that his dear friend might be the trigger. But if John had indeed stumbled onto links between their two families, it would be naïve to assume he didn’t know more than he’d revealed. Robert always demanded caution: Trust no one. So despite John having been the epitome of loyalty since grade school, Thomas forced himself to consider that he might have dangerous intentions. His heart reasoned that John was incapable of such scheming, but Robert raised him to presume the worst.
Thomas’s hesitations eventually faded—as they always did—allowing him to justify the harsh verdict. If John knew more than he let on and shared that information with Skye, his parents, or close friends, it could invite scrutiny and cause the downfall of the family dynasty. Robert programmed Thomas from an early age to eliminate such possibilities. The astonishing secrets lying in a vault below Robert’s estate enabled everything three generations of Westbrooke men had achieved. Thomas knew if John learned the origin of those secrets, his reprisal would be swift and thorough. Strict principles guided John McCloud’s life, and that was now a problem, regardless of how little he knew.
Thomas attended his meeting with Westbrooke Coastal Industries’ vice president of marketing before clearing his late-afternoon schedule. The young executive needed time to think. Staring out at three Douglas firs, he watched squirrels and blue jays scurry over trunks and branches, peaceful images contrasting his disturbing thoughts.
Rational people would have summarized reasonable options, but Thomas’s next step felt preordained. His dread struck like physical pain. He again challenged whether the decision needed to be binary and necessary. Perhaps he and Robert could compromise.
Thomas turned and absorbed a photo of John and him in a dory boat fishing for lingcod. They were smiling with arms stretched around each other’s shoulders. Should he have shared the burdens of his childhood with John during those teenage years? Would his friend have intervened and redirected Thomas’s future? And his own?
At five-thirty, Thomas stepped out the front doors of the family’s corporate headquarters. He walked to his Jaguar, acknowledging an employee’s greeting with a faint smile and flick of his chin. He opened the door, sat down, placed his briefcase on the passenger seat, and turned the key. The rumbling sounds of the sports car’s exhaust pipes typically enthralled him. Not today.
Driving through the north side of downtown Eagle Bay, he recalled pedaling his Schwinn alongside John to a ’40s-era malt shop on 2nd Avenue that served Tillamook ice cream. Restored buildings and bungalows lined every street, most of them between seventy and one hundred years old. All newer construction complemented the historic structures. The city center bustled with a thriving business, arts, and entertainment district due to the Westbrookes’ influence.
As he sped past a herd of elk he’d often seen grazing between the city and his family’s estate, Thomas reminisced about his many hunting trips with John. The two friends would drink whiskey stolen from Robert Westbrooke’s bar while seated next to a roaring fire encircled with stones John yanked from a stream bed. Before bedding down in their tent, they would place two or three of the heated rocks inside their goose down sleeping bags to counter the biting chill.
Pulling over to a bluff, he studied views of Eagle Bay, Cape Nahteenwa, and the coastline. Stunning nature and the comforting smells of a warm fall day could not diminish his burning unease.
He got back in his car and drove three more miles. Upon pushing the remote on his Jag’s sun visor, the wrought iron gates to his family’s estate opened; he lived in the property’s guesthouse. Thomas had called from his office an hour earlier, advising Robert they needed to speak.
Thomas parked and entered the den of his parents’ residence. He found Robert smoking his pipe, wearing silver-rimmed bifocals, and turning the pages of a book chronicling the adventures of Spanish conquistadors.
Thomas stepped toward a bottle of Scotch lying atop an English antique and asked his father if he’d like an ounce of the aged whiskey. He declined. Thomas filled his glass and studied the deep wrinkles etched between Robert’s brows; they projected the intensity of a hawk.
Marking a page, Robert set his book next to a desk lamp and asked for a recap of his son’s lunch meeting with John. Thomas sometimes wished his father would show as much interest in him as in matters affecting the family’s secrets. He repeated his conversation with John, after which he hoped to see an expression of sympathy, but Robert conveyed nothing. It was an unreasonable expectation.
Thomas stared away as Robert offered his opinions on the troubling development, including courses of action. Something needed to be done, and he understood his father’s words were more of a directive than a discussion. Thomas had hoped their chat might lead to sharing the burden, but he knew better. That had never been Robert’s style.
Having swallowed the last of his second drink of whiskey, Thomas set his etched glass on a silver coaster. Robert’s final words halted him: “You always knew your friendship with John was a risk. You and Emma supported it; I never did.”
Thomas remained still, recalling when he’d first met John in grade school fifteen years earlier. Though he’d stopped seeking comfort in God since Robert forced him to kill as a child, Thomas nonetheless pleaded for intervention that might prevent what remained disturbingly inevitable. He made his way down the hall.
Entering the home’s impressive library, where over three thousand books lined the shelves, he scanned those with science and medical titles. He selected one on the history of anesthesia, supposing he had time to mix the chemicals required to create chloroform. It turned out it would take too long. The book also explained that chloroform does not quickly induce unconsciousness as he had presumed; that’s a Hollywood myth. He checked his watch and moved outside.
Low clouds obscured any light. Thomas stopped his march down the path, telling himself he should rewrite the family’s future, ignore Robert’s tutelage, and protect a friend who could never understand his fate. The son was more capable than the father in every way. Do it, he argued, defy the patriarch. Establish new rules. He resumed his walk outside, tormented by a truth.
Thomas isolated himself in the barn for sixty minutes. He gazed out a window and saw John’s Ford idling at the estate’s gates, then lowered his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Wasn’t there a less excruciating choice? No, of course not. Nothing about his life had ever been easy—that was another myth.
Sounds from John’s approaching truck indicated the stone driveway was barely wet from the settling mist. High beams swept around a corner of the barn. John parked near a side door and stepped from his vehicle dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt, and boots. He smirked. “Thomas, still wearing your suit? Seriously? We’re going fishing, not to an interview.” John pulled something from an envelope. “I found the newspaper photo! Here are our grandfathers standing together. Incredible, right?” John moved below an outdoor floodlight and read aloud the print proving their identities. He looked up and stressed, “They knew each other.”
Thomas forced a weak smile, then asked for the photo and inspected it. “Who would have guessed? Let’s get inside.”
His tone surprised John, who recalled Thomas’s similarly subdued reaction when first told of the newsclip at lunch. Why hadn’t he grown spellbound?
They entered the dimly lit century barn, and Thomas switched on more lights. “Something to drink? Coke, 7Up, beer?” He flicked his chin at a restored ’50s-era refrigerator. “The fridge is full.”
“Sounds great,” John replied. He opened the door and scanned the variety of cans and bottles lining the shelves.
While John was deciding what to drink, Thomas asked, “Is this the only original clipping you have? Are there any other newspapers in the museum?”
“That’s our only link to history, Mr. Westbrooke. If we lose that, no one will believe us.” John chose not to mention the photocopy he’d printed at the library; he considered it immaterial. “Ah, man, this hits the spot,” he said after taking a swig of a cold brew. Upon his second sip, clarity struck: Discovery of the family links had genuinely unsettled Thomas.
John sensed movement over his right shoulder before powerful blows crumpled his body to the floor. He blacked out.
Thomas glanced at the mallet, released it, and felt repulsed by what he’d done. With glassy eyes, he bound John’s wrists and ankles together with duct tape. He dragged the unconscious body to the middle of the barn. Thomas hoped his instincts were correct, that John knew more, and this wasn’t all for naught.
As he positioned John’s back against a thick wooden post, Thomas noticed something protruding from underneath his sweatshirt. He reached down and exposed it. His instincts were proven correct, and he turned at once elated and devastated.
Minutes that felt like days passed. John began to stir, hurting and moaning, confused and barely able to sit upright against the post. “What happened? What’s going on? Why . . . why am I bound up?”
Thomas stepped closer but said nothing.
“God, my head’s throbbing.” He stared at a rubber mallet lying on the floor that he hadn’t noticed upon entering the barn. “Thomas? What the hell? Tell me you didn’t hit me with that.”
