The kid seemed to catch his expression. “Aw, hell, Burke,” he said. “It’s not like that; you don’t have to worry. Boyd wouldn’t do anything to Lucy.”
Mason kept driving. Winding two-lane road, the Pacific Ocean visible in glimpses through the forest, the truck’s engine revving coming out of the corners.
He focused on the road, on the turns of the highway. On the feel of the steering wheel in his hands.
“You’re right,” he said finally. “He won’t.”
FOUR
Mason was alone the second time he met Boyd. No Rengo, no Lucy. A rainy day, and Joe Clifford’s wonky back starting to ail him, so they’d agreed to take an off day at the jobsite and just rest and relax some. Jess was at work, with Lucy riding shotgun in a Makah County cruiser, so Mason more or less had the day to himself.
He’d eaten breakfast at Rosemary’s, two eggs over easy, sausage and hash browns, a cup of black coffee, in the corner booth. Then he’d browsed for a while in Chase Ogilvy’s marine supply store, shot the breeze about the weather and the Mariners and the state of Joe Clifford’s boat. And Mason had wandered around town awhile, thought of dropping in on Hank Moss at the motel, just to say hello. Besides Rengo, Hank was about the only friend Mason had in Deception; the rest of the town seemed to still regard him as an outsider at best, and at worst, as the man who’d helped murder three of Deception’s sons.
Mason figured the average citizen probably saw him as a convicted killer from back east who’d somehow sunk his hooks into the town’s decorated war hero, but either way, he’d grown used to eating his meals alone, to the slow sidelong glances in his direction, the hushed voices. To the people who saw him coming and quickly crossed the street.
He was alone in Deception, more or less, but as long as Mason Burke had Jess Winslow, and Lucy, he figured he’d be just fine.
He wound up back at the Nootka, curled up on the settee with the stove running and a book in his hand, rain spattering against the wheelhouse window and the harbor outside a monochrome of gray sky and black water and faded reds and blues. He tried to read but couldn’t fully focus, caught himself looking up every page or so, thinking the dog should be snoozing at his feet somewhere, but of course the dog was with Jess and Mason was alone, so he spent the afternoon alternately reading and watching the rain.
Until he heard the footsteps on the wharf outside.
There wasn’t much of a fishing fleet in Deception Cove anymore, certainly not many boats that were operational, and visitors down Mason’s stretch of dock were rare. He set down his book and listened—heavy boot steps on wet lumber—and he slid off the settee and reached for the baseball bat, just in case, slipped on his boots, and pushed open the top half of the Dutch door in back of the wheelhouse to see who was coming, and why.
The visitor was Brock Boyd. The hockey player was dressed for the weather, his motorcycle jacket replaced by a fancy hiker’s raincoat in electric orange. Mason watched Boyd scan the dock, read the name on the stern of Joe Clifford’s boat, and look up toward the wheelhouse. Watched him see Mason and smile, raise his hand in greeting. “Burke,” he said. “They told me I’d find you here.”
“Guess they were right,” Mason replied. “What can I do for you, Mr. Boyd?”
The too-friendly smile only widened. “Brock, please,” he said. “Hell, call me Boyd if it suits you. Was wondering if you might want to go up to the Cobalt, drink a beer together. Trade war stories, kind of thing.”
Mason shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“You busy?” Boyd asked. “Some other time, then. Hell, maybe you’ve got a bottle on that boat of yours, save us the trip up the dock.”
Mason realized he was still holding tight to the bat. “That’s not going to work for me,” he told Boyd. “Not here or the Cobalt, I’m afraid.”
Boyd studied him, from out in the rain on that dock in his expensive designer raingear, eyeing Mason like he wasn’t sure what to make of him, his smile fading slightly, and the rain wreaking havoc on his haircut.
“Some other time, then,” he said again. “Listen, Burke, I’d really like to talk. Maybe you’ve heard, but I’m not the most popular man in this town, not anymore, and I doubt very much that you are either. Seems to me we could both use a friend.”
Mason forced himself to hold the man’s gaze. Wished he could see another way out of this but figured he was better off cutting Boyd loose right here and now instead of letting this fester.
“I won’t ever be your friend, Boyd,” he told the dogfighter. “I don’t mean any offense, but that’s just how it is.”
Boyd opened his mouth to reply. Closed it again. He blinked.
“You’re shutting me down?” he said finally. “What am I, not rough enough for you, Burke? Because I’ll tell you, I never killed anybody, but—”
“It’s the dogfighting,” Mason replied. “I don’t think you and I could ever find common ground, not if you’re the type to find sport in that kind of thing.”
Boyd stared at him, still partway smiling, incredulous. And Mason figured there was no point in prolonging the conversation any further.
“No offense,” he told Boyd. “But I reckon I’ve said all I need to. Good luck, Mr. Boyd.”
He leaned out, took the top half of the Dutch door, and closed it. Set the bat against the bottom half and kicked off his boots, returning to the settee. Picked up his book and opened it to his page, stared at the words but didn’t read anything, not until he’d heard Bad Boyd’s boots beat a tattoo on the wharf boards, the dogfighter retreating to dry land again.
* * *
“You couldn’t just pretend to be nice to him, Burke?” Jess asked later, propped up on her elbow in bed—her bed, this time—watching Burke’s face as he relayed the story.
Burke shook his head. “I just don’t like him,” he told her. “I don’t like what he stands for, or what he’s done in his life. There’s no point in pretending otherwise.”
Jess exhaled, rolled onto her back. Looked up at the ceiling—Hank Moss’s best room, and still the odd stain up there. Hank had offered her a sweetheart deal on the room, so she’d taken it; she liked Hank, for one thing, and she liked having a space of her own, somewhere she and Lucy could be alone if she wanted, where she could work on the exercises the VA doc had assigned her, mindfulness stuff to go along with the therapy, some way to move on from Afghanistan—and move on from Afia, specifically.
Whatever Burke thought about their separate living arrangements, he didn’t complain, and Jess knew he wouldn’t. He’d have gone back to Michigan if he believed it was best for her and the dog.
Instead, he was here in her bed, his powerful body stretched out beneath a tangle of sheets, one strong arm wrapped around her, pulling her close enough that she could feel his heart beating, steady, in his chest.
“Seems like you know a lot about the guy for someone who never struck me as a hockey fan,” Jess said, lifting her head slightly to study Burke’s face. “How’d you get caught up so fast?”