Ghosted

Chapter Twenty-Five

The air at Salmon Harbor Marina in Winchester Bay was thick with the mingled scents of saltwater and sun-warmed wood, layered with the faint tang of diesel and imminent rain. Rows of boats rocked gently against their moorings, their white hulls catching the unsettled glint of afternoon sun: fishing boats, scarred and sturdy, their decks cluttered with ropes and buckets; sleek yachts with polished railings and carefully coiled lines. In the gray sky above, gulls wheeled, their cries sharp against the steady slap of water against the docks.

As the Uber drove away, Archie walked past the small harborside café, where deserted picnic tables were scattered under wide umbrellas, past a line of worn wooden benches looking out over the water.

After Beau’s phone call, he’d returned to McCabe house to change clothes and to pick up Beau’s Glock. Desperation made people stupid, and he did not want to underestimate the potential threat. But coming after him, particularly now, would be beyond stupid.

Still.

The pistol in its side holster was a comforting weight on his hip.

No one paid any attention to him.

Fishermen and deckhands moved about their boats with practiced ease, their conversations low and punctuated by laughter that rolled across the docks. The marina was quiet on this gloomy Thursday afternoon. Archie’s rubber-soled footsteps echoed faintly on the planked walkway as he made his way toward the end of the dock.

Even among the rows of sturdy fishing vessels and glossy weekend yachts, the Hinckley Sou’wester 52 stood out, like a swan amongst a flock of ducks: El Fantasma Blanco resting gracefully in her slip, waiting for her next adventure.

He reached the ship, and placed his hand on the polished teak railing, feeling the warmth of the wood beneath his fingers, smooth from years of care. He could almost hear John’s voice quoting, “The three great elemental sounds in nature are the sound of rain, the sound of wind in a primeval wood, and the sound of outer ocean on a beach.”

With a slight hop, he climbed aboard, careful to steady himself. He wasn’t quite sure how his concussed brain was going to handle being on water. He closed his eyes as the ship swayed lazily beneath him, a subtle reminder of the shifting currents below. The motion was lulling. He was not dizzy. He was fine. He opened his eyes.

The mast, tall and tapered, rose skyward, its lines neatly coiled and stowed, the mainsail, tightly furled, resting snug against the boom.

The wind whispered through the rigging as he made his way toward the hatch that led below deck.

The hatch was locked, as he’d expected. He reached into the pocket of his Levi’s, withdrawing the key—old brass, dulled with age but still weighty. The lock clicked open easily, and he slid back the door, stepping down onto the narrow companionway stairs, feeling a cool draft of air rush up from below.

He steadied himself, hand on the rail, as he climbed cautiously down to the enclosed space below deck. At the bottom was a closed wooden door. He turned the handle and pushed the door open, inhaling a faint gust of cool, musty air as he stepped inside.

The door closed gently behind him.

Archie blinked, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. The only light spilled in from the small, round portholes lining the sides of the hull. A faint smell lingered in the air—teak oil, mingled with the sharper scent of salt, and beneath it, something warmer, like aged leather and old books. The cabin was compact, meticulously maintained. Brass fixtures glinted in the low light, and a narrow wooden table stretched down the center, flanked by cushioned benches upholstered in dark blue, their fabric slightly sun-faded.

Along one wall, a small galley with neatly stowed utensils and a row of mugs hung from hooks, all unmoved since John’s last outing. Beside it, a built-in bookshelf held a mix of nautical charts, philosophy books with cracked spines, and a handful of guidebooks— Mariner’s Almanac, The Northwest Coast . A wooden compass rested on the shelf beside them, the lacquered casing worn but well-kept. Next to the compass was a framed black and white photograph he remembered well. John and himself a decade earlier. John was laughing in the sun, one hand resting on Archie’s shoulder, and Archie, one hand on the helm of El Fantasma Blanco , one hand shoving back his wind-blown hair, his eyes squinting against the light.

Lying face up in front of the photo was a white envelope.

Archie

Archie hesitated. His mouth felt dry, his heart pounded heavily as if he finally faced some long-awaited threat.

What the hell was the matter with him?

Did he want to know or not?

Know what?

But, of course, he already knew. Had been coming slowly, reluctantly to this now inevitable realization from the moment Ms. Madison had read aloud John’s final words Archer Everett Crane, who I have long considered my beloved son…

He slid his finger under the flap and ripped open the envelope.

Dear A.,

If you’re reading this, please forgive me. It was always, always my intention to tell you the truth in person, to honestly answer any questions, to reassure you on every point. I hope with all my heart that I can eventually burn this letter unread.

When I was a young medical student, I applied for a residency at a top-tier teaching hospital in Los Angeles. Like you, when I was growing up, I found Twinkleton and even Oregon too provincial, too insulated. I wanted to see what the wide world had to offer. I was very happy when I was accepted, and my years in Southern California were some of my most rewarding.

But I was a little shy back then, and a little homesick. I didn’t have a wide circle of friends in Los Angeles. When I had time off, I used to go sailing or to museums. One day I met a very young and very pretty docent at the Huntington Art Museum. Her name was Carolyn Barclay. We began going out and I quickly fell in love. I knew that Caro was recovering from a painful breakup, but I believed that, in time, she might love me as well.

Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Your mother eventually reunited with the man she truly loved. Though Caro was pregnant, Scott Crane had no hesitation about marrying her and becoming a father to our unborn child.

I was not happy about any of it, but I was particularly not happy about relinquishing custody of you. I could have—and threatened—to fight for custody. But I still loved your mother and, ultimately, I couldn’t do it. She promised that she would keep me regularly updated on you, and that when you turned eighteen, she and Scott would tell you the truth and, if you were willing, I would finally be able to be part of your life.

Again, I was not happy. But I was a single man with a very busy medical practice, and I was afraid that taking you from your mother was not the right choice for you.

When you came to live with me, I intended to tell you the truth right away. But it would have been one more shock, one more trauma, and you had lost too much already. I decided instead to stick to the plan and tell you when you turned eighteen. But when you turned eighteen, your friendship with Beau Langham was starting to fray, and again I was afraid to take anything else from you.

And so, the years passed.

I’m hopeful that the next time we’re able to spend some time together, I’ll be able to tell you all of this, and that it won’t be as painful as I fear it would have been when you were a boy. The simple truth is that you have been loved from the moment you were conceived. By your mother and by both your fathers. The years you spent beneath my roof were, without question, the very happiest of my life. I could not have asked for a finer son.

There’s so much more I’d like to say. My hope is that I’ll be able to say these things to you in person one day soon.

With all my love,

John

John’s face twisting in that final pained effort to speak. “Some... “

Son.

With his dying breath he had tried to say the word.

Archie did not realize at first that he was crying.

It was not until the print blurred and he tasted tears that he became aware that he was sobbing in the gently rocking cocoon of the yacht’s cabin. Crying for John, for his parents, for Kyle, for the time he and Beau had lost—and a future he wasn’t sure he had the courage to try for.

Once he started, he couldn’t seem to stop, and it was as raw and painful as being torn apart. Why did people say crying relieved stress? He felt like he was drowning.

Time passed.

The creak of footsteps overhead snapped him back to awareness.

Someone was deck side.

It was a surprise. He had accepted there was a possibility of this, but had not really expected it. Not here. Not today.

Of course, it could be the harbor master come to see who was up to no good on Dr. Perry’s yacht.

He was pretty sure the footsteps overhead did not belong to the harbor master.

Beau had expected this, had been worried about him, and Archie reached for the Glock 43. Beau’s backup piece.

He mopped his face with his arm, rose from the cushioned area and moved out of sight of the cabin doorway. His eyes were still leaking, but he felt eerily calm.

Footsteps on the companionway stairs. No attempt at stealth.

Archie steadied the Glock.

The creak of wood, From the other side of the door, Beau’s muffled voice called, “Archie?”

Archie relaxed. Still a surprise, but a much more pleasant one. He holstered the pistol and went to the door, opening it.

Beau, looking pale and grim, gazed at him. His expression changed to alarm. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“ Nothing ? You’re crying . Why are you crying?”

Archie shook his head, and then astonished himself by going to Beau, who automatically reached for him, folding him into his arms.

“What is it?” Beau sounded shaken. “What’s wrong?” He was holding so tightly, Archie’s bruises twinged in a way they hadn’t for days.

Archie, wet cheek to Beau’s warm one, got out, “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“The hell. A. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Archie shook his head again, drew back. He even managed a smile.

To which Beau exclaimed, “You look like hell!”

That actually helped. Archie laughed shakily. “Thanks.” He wiped his eyes impatiently. No lie about the human body being sixty percent water. “I really am okay. What are you doing here?”

Recollection came back to Beau’s face. He said, “I think you’d better sit down.”

Proof of how ragged Archie felt, how precarious the world seemed, he didn’t try to argue, didn’t think of arguing. He moved to the built-in table, propping his hip on the edge, folding his arms, and waiting.

“Leo Baker shot himself at John’s funeral.”

“What?”

Beau’s expression was bleak. “He shot himself. In front of everyone.”

“He…”

Archie remembered that terrifying smile Leo had given him at the church. Leo had looked like death, but Archie had not imagined—could still not imagine—

What had been in Leo’s mind? When had he decided to do that ?

Beau’s tone was flat. “His confession was delivered to the station about the same time he killed himself. He said he planned to commit suicide, but if we got there in time, that would be a sign that he still deserved to live. And if we didn’t, the spirits demanded his death as payment.”

Archie repeated in disbelief, “The spirits demanded his death?”

“According to the letter. I know. It’s crazy. I can’t believe somebody like Baker bought into that garbage.”

“I can’t believe any of it.” Archie felt stunned. Of all the possible scenarios, this one had never occurred to him.

“It’s a detailed confession.” Beau reached out and brushed his thumb beneath Archie’s eye, wiping away the wet. “You had it right. He was stealing from John’s investments. For years. To the tune of three million dollars.”

Three million dollars. How was that even possible?

“John either didn’t notice or wasn’t sure what was going on until he flew back from Wyoming with you. I guess at that point he decided to go through his statements, realized the discrepancies were real, and confronted Leo, and Leo somehow decided he didn’t have any choice but to get rid of John.”

Archie drew in a shuddering breath. He was past tears, though. The anger was almost worse. There was no outlet for it. He burst out, “Why the hell didn’t he shoot himself then ? Why kill John if he was just going to…”

Beau, had no answer of course. What answer could there be? He shook his head, said finally, “He couldn’t do it himself, because they were friends , so he enlisted Jon Monig, who, in addition to being on the verge of filing for bankruptcy, had his own issues with John. And you.”

“Me?”

“Leo was going to pay Monig one hundred thousand dollars. But two things happened. Monig got the bright idea of trying to frame you, which Leo correctly believed was going to backfire. Leo figured you’d be blamed anyway, because you had the most compelling motive. In his view. He thought that would solve all his problems because of Oregon’s slayer law. If you were found guilty of murdering John, you couldn’t inherit. But apparently Monig blamed you for John not marrying his mother—”

“Are you— What ?”

“He wanted to make sure you came under suspicion.”

Archie absorbed that. “You said two things happened. What was the other thing?”

“The other thing was Monig got greedy and decided he could blackmail Leo.”

Oh. Yes. That would have been a fatal mistake.

Archie’s thoughts cycled back to the most shocking information. “I can’t believe he killed himself. I thought for sure he’d come after me.”

“Oh, he was,” Beau assured him. “That’s in the letter too. He said he could tell you weren’t buying his story about John paying off Monig. He knew you were going to have to go too, if only to gain himself more time. But then, I guess something happened last night?”

Beau was eyeing Archie curiously.

Archie thought back to the séance, to those strangely comforting moments when he’d felt surrounded, engulfed by a sense of…something he still couldn’t define.

He said, “At the séance. I felt something. I don’t think I felt what Leo felt.”

“What Leo felt was his guilty, gutless conscience. He claimed to feel terrible about having to lose John, and that he got physically sick after killing Monig, but I think he’d have gotten over it. He’d have come after you.”

“Yes.” In some cold, implacable corner of his brain, Archie had been counting on it.

But in the end Leo had robbed him of that, too.

Or maybe saved him from it.

He wasn’t sure. He knew what John would have thought, though.

Beau said, “The difference is, you’d be a hell of a lot harder to take down than Monig. I think Leo knew it was over for him and he took the coward’s way out.”

“Did he say anything? At John’s grave?”

Beau said harshly, “He said, ‘Sorry, Pris.’ And then blew his brains out in front of her and everyone else.”

Archie closed his eyes to that image, closed his mind to all of it. There was only so much anger, grief, loss you could take before you had to call for a time out.

Beau said, “It’s a long letter. Full of rambling, self-exculpatory bullshit. You can read it yourself. When you’re ready.”

“I don’t want to read it.”

But yeah. He would read it. When he was ready.

He felt Beau move closer, felt Beau’s arm come around his shoulders, and Archie leaned into that silent offer of comfort and support.

The minutes ticked by.

“Are you falling asleep?” Beau asked gently.

Archie moved his head no .

Another minute or two. Beau said, still careful, “I guess the good news is, there isn’t any reason you couldn’t leave Twinkleton now.”

Archie opened his eyes, drew back to study Beau’s face. “You don’t think so?”

Beau’s half-smile was rueful. “You’re pretty noncommittal, every time I try to bring up the possibility.”

“The possibility of?”

Beau said succinctly, “Us.”

Archie was silent. It wasn’t great timing. He was feeling emotionally wrung out, hollow. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to be what Beau wanted, needed. He wasn’t sure of anything. What was the point to any of this? Was there a point?

Beau said gruffly, “I’ve never seen you cry before.”

Archie had cried before. He had cried the afternoon Beau had told him it was over. Cried in John’s arms. The first and only time. John had promised that everything would be okay, eventually, and then they’d gone out on the boat. Archie’s tears had washed away in the salty spray, dried in the windswept sunlight.

He looked at Beau, realized how tired Beau was. How much discipline it was taking for Beau to keep his feelings in check. Beau’s work day had started with a second homicide, followed by a suicide. He was fatigued and stressed and worried about a lot of things, but he had come after Archie, made sure he was the one who broke the news, made sure that Archie was all right.

Archie gazed into Beau’s eyes and saw the concern, the kindness. He could see that Beau loved him.

And he loved Beau. Still loved him after all these years and all that hurt. Would probably always love him.

What was life if not these fragile connections? Those hopeful tendrils stretching upward, outward toward the warmth and sustenance of closeness and belonging. Not always strong enough to endure a lifetime, but real while they lasted.

Everything while they lasted.

He wiped the heel of his hand against the corner of his eyes a final time. He said, “What time do you have to be back at the station?”

Beau considered, shrugged. “I can wait.” His blue gaze was steady, serious. “I’ll wait as long as you need.”

Archie said slowly, “Would you like to go sailing?”