Open Chains Read online

  Fifteen murdered.

  Seven witnesses.

  One by one they fall.

  ※

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  For my boys:

  Asa, Jonathan, Jonah & Solomon

  ※

  “Everybody, soon or late,

  sits down to a banquet of consequences.”

  — Robert Louis Stevenson

  ※ — ONE — ※

  AS EVE NOON drove her car off the ferry and onto the wharf on Mayne Island, she had no idea of the trouble following her. No sense of dread or apprehension — certainly no sense of doubt. Instead, her mind kept imagining the scene in front of her. What would happen when her eyes finally settled on Will Finch, she wondered. When she drew in his scent. When he touched her.

  As she drove up the steep ramp that led to Village Bay Road, Eve tried to gauge what she was actually feeling. Lost? Alone? No, more like emptiness than anything else, she told herself. The gut-gnawing void of having worked far too long on a job that had little prospect of reaching a satisfying conclusion. Not to mention the constant scramble to find enough cash to run the internet news hub. Some days she felt as if all her fingers and toes were plugging a dike that spouted a new hole every hour. “But that’s what you bought into when you purchased The Post,” she said to herself, as if she still hadn’t come to terms with her situation.

  She waved a hand to dismiss these thoughts and when her Acura TLX reached the top of the hill she turned left and followed the line of six cars heading toward the village. Now that the thousand-mile journey from San Francisco was nearing an end, she knew she could soon relax. Finch had given her directions to his cabin on Campbell Bay. Good thing too, because the south end of the island lay just far enough off the grid to render the car’s GPS useless. Finch had told her that sometimes he could get a few bars of cell phone reception from the island village, but the closer he moved toward the bay, the more often he’d lose contact with the digital world.

  “It's not so bad,” he'd told her last week when he called from the landline phone in the general store. “Some days I prefer living off the grid. Writing, walking the high-tide line, cooking a fish stew. And two weeks ago when the power went down, I went three days without electricity. Cooked on the wood-burning stove and read from the lamp-oil light.”

  She could hear the pride in his voice. “Sounds romantic,” she’d said, then added, “Slightly.”

  “You start to wonder if the big spark is really necessary.”

  She shook her head and let out a sigh of exasperation. How can you live without electricity? She decided to let him try to convince her. “Maybe I could give it a try.” Her voice carried a note of expectation. What she really wanted was a second invitation. Make him beg a little.

  “Then fly up.”

  “Yeah? I wouldn’t get in your way?”

  “Are you kidding?” He laughed, then his voice dropped to a warmer tone. “You know I miss you.”

  “I mean while you’re writing the book.”

  “I just finished the third draft. Tomorrow I’m mailing the manuscript to Jenny.”

  Jenny Waterman, his new agent. The woman who’d finally sold the movie rights to Will’s first book, Who Shot the Sheriff?

  “So I won’t get underfoot?”

  “Ha-ha. You’ll get under something. That I can guarantee.”

  They both laughed and she suddenly sensed everything that had once felt so good, so complete about their life together — all of it came back to her. At that moment she resolved to take the next week off. But instead of flying, she decided to drive. Give herself time to think. Yes, the company would miss her, but she knew it was up to her to rekindle her relationship with Finch. Three months ago, while she devoted all of her energy to building the financial resources of The Post, he decided to move to Canada — to Mayne Island of all places — from their Alta Street home on Telegraph Hill. He was determined to complete his new book, Death of a Second Life. To finish it in three months. Alone. Now it was up to her to retrieve him. To bring him back into her life.

  After another ten minutes she turned onto Campbell Bay Road and rolled up and down the steep hills until she reached the south-facing bay. On the left, she saw his cabin standing on a gentle slope. A gravel driveway led from the road above the waterfront bay up to a circular turn-around that terminated just below his front porch. The cabin was a Pan-Abode build-it-yourself cottage. The two bed, one bath A-frame was dwarfed by the forest that stretched up the long hill above the roof. The building was simple, functional, and blended into the surrounding wilderness.

  She parked the Acura alongside Finch’s Toyota RAV4 and set the handbrake. As she tugged her suitcase from the trunk she drew a deep breath. The shock of the crisp, clean breeze startled her and she paused to gaze at the ocean churning against the pebble beach below the roadway. A few feet above the water a bald eagle spun in a low circle. In an instant, his talons slashed beneath the surface. The raptor struggled briefly and then drew a massive salmon into the air. Fish scales glittered in the sunshine and where the talons punctured the flesh a narrow dash of blood wet the air. The bird let out a cry — eep — and then, struggling to lift the weight from the ocean, he reeled toward his nest in the evergreens towering over the shoreline.

  What a place. No wonder Will wanted to write here. The question was, would he ever leave? Or put another way, could he convince her to stay? As she considered the pretzel twists of their current relationship she heard the screen door rattle on the porch. She turned.

  “Hey there.” He waved a hand and smiled.

  “Hey.” She studied him a moment. He wore blue jeans, a tattered lumberjack shirt, the quilted vest she’d bought him at REI last fall. He leaned on the deck railing and ran a hand through his dark hair as he stared at her. He stood barefoot. Unshaven. My God, but he looked good. How long would it take to get him into bed? She made a bet with herself. Five minutes. Ten at the most.

  ※

  Will Finch stirred a little cream into the two cups of coffee and carried them into the living room. Normally they took their coffee black, but he'd convinced Eve to try the cream from the local farmer. It was a day old, unpasteurized, unrefrigerated, straight from the cow. As he set the cups on the table next to the fireplace he heard the crunch of gravel squeezing under a set of tires as they rolled up the driveway.

  “Visitor,” he said and walked to the door and drew the curtain a few inches away from the window frame.

  Eve glanced at the wall clock. Ten thirty. “Isn’t it a little late?” She snugged the flaps of her bathrobe against her throat and let out a light cough.

  Finch studied the car as it approached the house. “No lights.”

  A worried look crossed her face. “What does that mean?”

  He shrugged as he watched a 2002 Ford Tempo park in the slot opposite his RAV4. A stranger climbed out of the car, stood a moment and then turned toward the house. Finch decided to meet him before he climbed the stairs to the porch. He sauntered over to the light switch and clicked on the porch light.

  “Might be best to wait in the bedroom,” he said to her and opened the front door.

  Eve didn't hesitate. She was naked beneath the bathrobe and didn't relish the idea of exposing any part of herself in front of a strange man. She shut the bedroom door behind her and eased next to the window. From where she stood, she could see Will and the stranger talking just off to the right.

  “Lost?” Will offered, his voice tentative but friendly.

  “Maybe.”
The stranger flicked a bit of ash from the cigarette in his right hand. “Unless you're Will Finch.”

  “Finch?” His voice carried a note of doubt. His head swiveled to the left as he took a closer look at the car in the driveway. A 2002 Ford Tempo with a Golden State Warriors sticker on the bumper. Obviously a fan of the NBA champs. “And you are?”

  “Yeah. Right. Now that you've turned like that I can see you're him. Will Finch. One and the same.”

  “Look. Who are you?”

  Finch turned to see if Eve was at the window. When she saw his expression, she decided to dress and scrambled to find her clothes in the darkness.

  “Tony.” He smiled. A gap in a row of teeth — a missing incisor — came into view and he promptly pushed his lips back into a frown.

  “Tony?”

  “Turino.” He took a final drag on his smoke and ground the butt into the gravel under his boot heel. “From the 9th Engineer Battalion. The boys used to call me Tony Tornado.”

  Finch paused to consider this. He shook his head as he tried to recall this face staring up at him. Grizzled, tired, worn, wasted. Was it drugs? Maybe painkillers had gripped his jaw and twisted it into that lean snarl.

  “Tony Tornado?” He shrugged, unsure how to reply. “Sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met.”

  An embarrassed look washed over Tony’s face. “No. I know. But I’ve seen your picture. On the news.” He lifted a hand in the air, a gesture seeking an invitation into the house.

  Finch crossed his arms over his chest. A feeling of dread sunk through him and he took a step forward.

  “Look, Tony.” He hesitated again. Should he open his door to a fellow vet, or listen to his inner voice? A voice that whispered, be careful. “I got company staying right now. But I'd be happy to talk tomorrow. There's a resort just back up the hill. Mayne Island Resort. This time of year it'll be half-empty.”

  Tony didn't respond.

  “You turn left at the top of the hill and drive maybe ten more minutes. You can't miss it.”

  “You know, Mr. Finch, I've gotta talk to you. I really do.”

  Mr. Finch? The deferential tone surprised him and he wondered if he’d misjudged the situation.

  “There's trouble coming at us. All of us. J.R. said you could maybe set it straight.”

  Finch narrowed his eyes. “J.R?”

  “Jeremiah Rickets. You know. J.R.” A light laugh burbled up from is throat. “Remember? Black on a bruise.”

  Finch nodded. He knew J.R. well enough. Enough to renew his sense of caution. “Like I said, Tony, I've got company. Why don't you check into the resort and swing by for breakfast tomorrow. Say ten o'clock.”

  “Well….” Another hesitation. “All right. Ten?”

  “Right.”

  “I think they're shifting the clocks tonight. You know that?”

  “Yeah. Back an hour.”

  “Okay, see you at ten — tomorrow time.”

  “Right.”

  When Tony turned and stepped toward his car, Finch felt a stroke of guilt, as if he'd dismissed someone in need. A fellow traveller. Nonetheless, he knew it was the right move. Especially with Eve back in his arms now, he couldn't put any of that in jeopardy. Still, he felt an urge to reach out and when he heard Tony open his car door he called to him.

  “Look, if you find yourself getting up a little early, you can walk down the peninsula to the left of the resort. A place called Bennett Bay Park. Good chance you might see blacktail deer. Maybe even some Killer Whales off the point.”

  ※

  Finch shifted on the mattress and tugged the blanket across his shoulder to block the early morning chill. As his chin settled on the pillow, his jaw slipped open and he began to wheeze. Within ten minutes, his rasping turned into a steady snore. Eve rubbed a hand over her eyes and pressed her naked back and buttocks against him. He radiated a deep warmth and despite his snoring, she loved this tenderness, the way his body sustained her, even as he lay sleeping.

  Her eyes settled on the light seeping through the gingham curtains, and as the sun rose over the cove she could make out the sounds of seagulls bickering, and in the distance, the deep bell of a raven piping across the bay. She knew she couldn’t slip back into sleep, and made a plan to dress and tiptoe into the kitchen. Then she’d fill the stove with some kindling that Will had set aside in the wood box. Last night he’d reminded her how to split the quarter-rounds of firewood with the hatchet and stoke the embers in the stove to rebuild the fire. It was a chore she’d done many times as a teenager when her parents took her and her sister on summer camping trips along the Oregon coast.

  Twenty minutes later the coffee was percolating on the stovetop. She poured herself a cup and stirred in a dollop of the farmer’s cream. Then she tugged on her fleece and stepped onto the cabin porch to admire the view. The sun now stood an inch above the horizon and in the distance she could see the profile of the Olympic Mountains glowing pink in the autumn light. It would have looked exactly like this ten thousand years ago, she told herself, and she wrapped her arms across her chest and felt the permanence of the moment settle through her bones.

  Then in the distance came the sound of a car. She rolled her eyes and accepted the inevitability of it. Modern life disrupting her fleeting epiphany. She heard the car descend through the woods down the long hill on Campbell Bay Road. As it came into view, she realized it was a police car, a modified Ford Crown Victoria. The car slowed at the foot of the driveway. Just before it turned up the gravel track toward her, she could make out the insignia on the door panel of the vehicle: RCMP.

  She set her coffee mug on the porch step and slipped inside. The screen door banged against the door frame and rattled a moment as it settled into place.

  “Will, get up.” She marched to the foot of the bed and yanked his blanket away. “The RCMP are here.”

  “What?” He struggled to pull the sheet over his belly but she dragged it out of his reach, too.

  “The Royal Canadian Mounted Police.” She stood at the window, pulled the curtain to one side and studied the squad car as it parked in the turn-around. Two cops sat in the front seats. One of them talked into a hand-held mic as the other appeared to be making notes on a pad.

  “What’re you talking about?” He sat up and gave her a weary look.

  “The Mounties.” She raised her hands and let them drop with a sigh of exasperation. “Something must have happened.”

  ※

  Corporal Simon Renzo sat on the chair facing the front door while Officer Giles Vanier perched on one side of the love seat next to the bookcase. After Eve provided everyone with cups of coffee and some packaged shortbread cookies that she found in a cupboard, she sat beside Finch on the low sofa, a reupholstered piece of furniture that might have been a hundred years old. While she’d been scurrying around, the police had already gathered some basic facts from Finch. Now they pressed him for more details.

  “So you’ve been renting here for three months, is that it?”

  Renzo’s voice had a flat, unassuming tone. But Finch knew this was no courtesy call. During the winter months, the local population on Mayne Island dropped below a thousand residents. And the cops from the RCMP detachment — based on Salt Spring Island, twenty miles east across Active Pass — only made the occasional visit to Mayne Island to keep up appearances.

  “That’s right. From Annette Shatley. Her family have owned this place for the past twenty years or so.”

  “And you’re up from where in the States?”

  “San Francisco.”

  Renzo turned to Eve and put on an easy smile. “And when did you arrive, Ms. Noon?”

  “Yesterday. Sometime late in the afternoon, I guess.”

  Finch glanced at Eve. Obviously they’d noted the California plates on his Toyota RAV4 and her Acura. He assumed they’d called in both tags and determined exactly when they’d crossed the border into Canada. In order to minimize any suspicions, he decided to be as accurate as possible.


  “So both of your are from San Francisco?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have passports?”

  “Yeah, I do.” Finch looked at Eve and she nodded.

  “Can we look at dem please?” Vanier smiled as if he needed to coax them along.

  Dem. Now Finch recognized the accent. French Quebecois. He’d lived in a French neighborhood during his high-school years in Montreal, when his parents had moved from New Jersey to Canada so that his dad could take a job in his grandfather’s jewelry store.

  So far the questions were polite and business-like. But with this request, Finch knew they’d turned a corner and that something serious must be at hand. “Of course,” he said and he and Eve took a few moments to get their passports from the bedroom.

  “What’s going on?” she whispered as she sorted through her purse.

  He shrugged. “Must be that guy last night. Turino.”

  They handed their documents to Vanier who opened them, laid them flat on the dining table and used his phone to take pictures of the ID pages. He returned the documents to Eve, then clicked on his photo app and showed an image to Finch. “Do you know dis man?”

  Finch studied the photo, a head shot of Tony Turino, his eyes closed, his neck twisted to one side. “Yes, he was here last night. Around ten thirty. Said his name was Tony Turino. I’ve never met him before.” He passed the phone to Eve with a shrug.

  Eve studied the picture a moment. “My God,” she whispered.

  Her response drew their attention.

  “And you, madam. You’ve seen him, too,” Vanier continued. Polite. Very French.

  “Yes,” she said and returned the phone to Vanier. She cleared her throat. “Like Will said. Last night. He was here.”

  “Look. Can you tell us what this is about?” Finch glanced from one to the other. “Until yesterday, this guy was a stranger. Now all this. What’s going on?”