JOVE AND HAWLEY DROVE FROM Portland to Seattle, then took the ferry from Mukilteo out to Whidbey Island. It was Hawley’s first time in the Northwest and he was surprised how different the air felt, the mist that clung to his skin, the fir trees and cliffs and mountains looming over the edge of the sound. Jove drove their car right onto the boat, and together they bought a couple of coffees from the canteen and watched the hulking white form of Mount Rainier rising in the distance.
Jove leaned over the rail and pointed. “Watch for the spout.”
“A whale?”
“Gray, I think.”
“How can you tell?”
“It’s got two blowholes.”
Jove held the cup with the tips of his fingers and passed it between his hands. Hawley peeled back the plastic lid on his own coffee, took a sip and burned his tongue.
“How big do they get?”
“Around fifty feet.”
The men waited in silence. Hawley had never seen a whale before. He kept his eyes on the spot Jove had pointed to and felt a strange thrill in the pit of his stomach. He tried to imagine the whale’s body, hidden under the waves. All that weight lifted by fins and tail, the thick, crusted skin and giant gaping mouth beneath, opening and swallowing. Minutes came and went. The creature did not surface, and Hawley realized that the whale was just another thing in life that he was going to miss out on.
“You think this fellow Talbot knows we’re coming?” he asked.
Jove shook his head. “Not a chance.”
He took out a map and passed it over, showed Hawley the road that would lead them to the north end of the island, where Talbot was supposed to be holed up. Talbot was a hired gun, like them, but he’d taken off with the goods he was supposed to deliver. Now it was their job to get the goods back. As long as they got the drop on Talbot it would be easy. Collect what had been stolen and bring it back to Ed King, Jove’s old friend from prison. If things went well, King had promised there would be other jobs. And Hawley and Jove both needed the money.
“How’s your hand?”
“It’s all right.”
“You should use your left more.”
Hawley tossed his coffee lid into the ocean, then wrapped his busted knuckles around the warm paper cup. Last night Jove had had too much to drink at the hotel bar and a couple of bikers had pushed him off his stool and tried to take his wallet. They hadn’t realized Hawley was with him, even though the two had been sitting next to each other for hours. Hawley had been thinking on this all morning—how good it had felt to throw those punches, the satisfying crunch of bone, the blood on the barroom floor; and also how he’d been so closed off that everyone had thought he was drinking alone.
Before they had finished their coffee, the captain announced they were landing, and the men got back into the Chevy. They’d stolen the car in Portland and it was on the small side—Hawley had to move the seat all the way back to fit his legs. The boat hands waved them through and they drove off the ferry and onto the island. They went past Useless Bay and then got on the road to Freeland and up through the state park. The house they were looking for was on a reserve, perched high above an embankment overlooking the water. They pulled onto an unmarked gravel road and traveled a mile into the woods until they reached a low wooden gate. Hawley got out and lifted the rope latch and then looped it over the post again after Jove had driven through. They parked, blocking the entrance, and went the rest of the way on foot.
Hawley had brought his father’s rifle. He always felt better with a rifle if he was in the woods. It reminded him of hunting, of listening close and feeling ready. Jove took a .45 revolver and stuffed the gun down the back of his pants. They walked another quarter-mile up the road and then Jove said they should cut through the forest. They passed a grove of cedars, trunks ribbed and flared where they met the ground, then came to a shaded ravine that was awash with bright-green ferns. Hawley stopped for a moment, knee-deep in those ladders of leaves. The ferns were thick and lush and Hawley was flooded with the same sense of anticipation he had had on the water, when he was looking for the whale. Then Jove called his name and he gripped the rifle and continued on through the trees.
Twenty-nine years old and Hawley still carried the feeling he was not where he was supposed to be. He had spent the last years drinking and moving from place to place, having one-night stands, working retrievals like this, pulling the occasional robbery, playing cards whenever he could find a game and losing, losing, losing. The bad luck had gone on so long now he felt marked, like a smudge had been left on his forehead. He kept expecting something to happen, some outside force to sweep in and change everything and take him in some new direction, give him a more normal life. But instead it had been years of loneliness, and now here he was again with Jove.
Talbot’s place was set in a clearing at the top of the ridge, overlooking the water. The view was spectacular compared to the house, which was not much more than an old beach shack. The boards were worn white by the weather and the front steps sagged as if soaked through with water. There was a crumbling chimney releasing a thin cloud of smoke. Parked beside it was a cherry-red monster pickup, high off the ground, with double tires and a cabin big enough for six.
A woman opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. She was in her fifties, with high cheekbones and thick gray hair that curled around her face. She was wearing men’s clothes, a flannel shirt over a tank top and a beaded Indian belt holding up a pair of jeans. Right away Hawley saw there was something wrong with her eyes. The left was all milked over and wandering, while the right was the color of violets and stared straight and clear and curious.
“You Talbot’s wife?” Jove asked.
The woman nodded. “He’s out fishing,” she said, and then she noticed their guns. Her mouth had been a little bit open as she spoke and now it closed up tight. She moved into the house and tried to slam the door, but Hawley got there before she did and jammed it back. The edge of the wood bashed her nose and she stumbled and blood ran down across her lips and chin.
“Ed King sent us,” Jove said. “You know who Ed King is?”
She stayed bent over, pressing the sleeve of her shirt against her face. She nodded.
“Talbot disappointed him.”
“He disappoints me, too,” she mumbled.
“I guess he’s not a very good husband, then,” said Jove, and he stepped past her into the house.
The woman raised her head. Her milky eye twitched nervously over to Hawley, who was still gripping the door. She shuffled out of the way and let him pass.