A Superior Death

“Ah. Well, I’d better get on with it before we get run down out here,” A

“Whatever your business is here, finish it up pronto,” Scotty said, enjoying himself. “I need you on the north shore on a day like today.”

“Will do.”

Inside and out of A

A

“Coffee…” she croaked at the door of the dispatch room and Sandra returned a throaty chuckle.

“Fresh pot,” she said without turning from her keyboard.

“When you die you shall be canonized,” A

“Not your cup,” Sandra admonished as A

“I’m using Lucas’s,” she confessed.

“That’s tantamount to sitting in the emperor’s chair,” Sandra warned. She’d finished whatever she’d been working on and turned to face A

“I’ll polish my prints off when I’m finished.” A

“Are you working over here today so Scotty won’t be all by his lonesome? Terrible to be all dressed up and nobody to boss.”

“Nope. Already got my marching orders from the Acting Chief: back to Amygdaloid ASAP. Suits me fine. I just came by to dish the dirt.”

By way of repayment for the information Sandra had provided, A

“He’ll come up with something,” she said confidently. “His mother owns half of San Diego County. There’s bound to be a few pocket senators or congressmen he can lean on to lean on somebody.”

Over a second cup of coffee A

“Whatever works,” A

Tinker and Damien provided the only good news. Evidently Scotty had ceased his blackmail and they were of good cheer. Sandra said they were haunting McCargo Cove every spare minute in search of the mythical peregrine.

“They won’t find it today,” A

“Rumor has it it’s foggy.”

A

Coming around Blake’s Point, eyes glued to the Loran, A

Between Blake’s Point and Steamboat Island, A

The dock at the ranger station was deserted. Having eased the Belle Isle into her space, A

Indoors, with four cluttered walls and a fire roaring in the woodstove, the fog seemed less malevolent. A

Over a tuna fish sandwich and soggy potato chips, A

Tea, food, and routine paperwork had a normalizing effect. A

Staring into the blankness beyond the window, A

Molly was her arbiter of sanity, her rock, anchor, and reality check. Without a doubt, A

Molly didn’t hold with suicide. “You’ve got to stay in the game. Your luck’s bound to change. Be a shame to miss it,” she liked to say.

And this morning, when her sister was in trouble, all A

Somewhere in the conversation there must have been a word or a phrase that should have meant more to A

The sense of something missed might have been the squandered chance to repay even a fraction of the debt she owed her sister. A

Beyond the window dusk was robbing the world of light. Two of Knucklehead’s kits had come to play near the clearing. Their red-orange fur provided the only color on the scene. The smaller of the two stood up on his hind legs and danced, trying to reach a fat bunch of thimbleberries. The pose was so like that of the fox trying for the “sour” grapes in Aesop’s Fables that A