Page 25

Thorough Investigation

On the second morning after the explosion, Paul and Estuardo shepherded the four women to a meeting with the officer overseeing the search-and-rescue operation.

As Pam entered the tent pitched on the marina’s lawn, her eyes adjusted to the dimness.

Three uniformed men stood to the side, holding their hats in clasped hands.

A circular fan plugged into an orange extension cord panned the room, offering little relief in the close quarters.

Four folding chairs, like you’d see at a church euchre night, were lined up in the center, and Pam took the one closest to the fan.

Nancy, Shalisa, and Marlene fell in beside her, and Paul stood behind his mother with his hands on her and Shalisa’s shoulders.

Estuardo rested a hand on Pam’s shoulders, and without thinking, she reached for it.

Estuardo squeezed her fingers; his broad grip reminded her of Hank’s, and Pam bit her lip.

The senior officer faced the group.

A boat engine started in the distance.

One of those big cigarette types that only go fast, screaming for attention.

It idled and then switched into gear, and Pam could tell by its low throttle that it was headed out to sea.

Against that background, Pam heard the words catastrophic, explosion, recovery.

Exhausted our resources.

Pam lifted her head.

“Wait a minute.

Are you saying you’re giving up and you haven’t found their bodies?”

The official exchanged a glance with his colleagues.

Another stepped forward and said, “Yes, ma’am.

I’m afraid so.

With the strength of the explosion, I’m sorry to say we’ve been unable to locate—”

“But surely, there’s something left? You have to keep looking.”

Would it be gauche to say she needed proof for the insurance? “We need to find something .

.

.

for closure.

There has to be something.”

The official cleared his throat.

“I’m afraid, ma’am, that with the currents, and .

.

.

other factors at play in the ocean, and, uh, currents, we have not been able to recover .

.

.

anything. That is typical of this kind of event, I’m afraid. Especially at night. We’re often unable to recover anything before the sea takes . . .”

Pam stopped listening and squeezed her eyes shut.

She had fucking told Hector they needed bodies.

How could he fuck that up as well as the date? There was no way in hell she was paying him full price.

“Wait.

How do you know for sure they were even on the boat? Maybe they jumped off?”

A third official stepped forward.

“We did find fragments of .

.

.

nonorganic material.

Phones, watches, a belt, shoes, and other clothing.

We’ve done a thorough investigation, ma’am, and there were no other vessels in the area.

Even if they did jump off, their chances of survival were . . . nil. Especially now, since so many hours have elapsed.”

The first official said, “We are very sorry for your loss.”

He turned and joined his colleagues.

Pam stood and moved toward Shalisa, Marlene, and Nancy, wrapping their arms around each other’s waists, and resting their heads on their shoulders.

Paul pulled out a pocket-size package of tissues and offered each woman a sheet.

What an absolute prince.

Fuck Larry for ever causing his boy any pain.

The officials shook everyone’s hands, offering whispered condolences, and then slipped through the tent’s doorway.

The friends huddled a moment, and Paul and Estuardo waited, until finally the women broke apart, walking back into the sunlight, toward the car.

Pam guessed Nancy and Shalisa hadn’t yet realized how fucked they were.

No bodies being recovered meant a seven-year wait until their husbands were declared legally dead and they’d get the insurance money.

Fuck.

Nancy leaned hard against Paul.

Pam decided that tidbit of news could wait.

Hank had kept his boat at this marina for more than twenty-five years, and Pam couldn’t count the number of times she’d lugged coolers, thermoses full of margaritas, towels, toys, sunscreen, and bags of potato chips across this lawn.

She veered away from her friends and followed the familiar brick path to the dock and stepped onto its weathered planks.

Seven Winds wasn’t a high-end marina.

It was a practical, workingman’s facility with an outside stand-up fridge to hold bait.

A few vending machines stood on a cement slab underneath an overhang.

Pam caught a whiff of gas from the two pumps at the end of the longest dock.

Hank’s berth was five spots from shore.

Close enough that it wasn’t a slog to haul provisions, but near enough the harbor side that when the sea was rough, they could stay tied up and still have a nice view.

The dock was familiar under her feet as Pam walked to the edge of Hank’s empty slip.

Yellow police tape stretched from one post to the other.

She was standing in the same spot as when she had last seen her husband.

She had stood there and said her last words to her partner in life for the past thirty-five years.

He had been coiling a rope, and talking about a cigar and a nightcap.

Pam had turned and walked away, but he’d said something else.

She had heard his voice one last time.

Pam could see the harbor bottom through the clear water and watched a hundred tiny little minnows sprint left, then right.

Into the dock’s shadow and out.

She had turned and walked away from Hank, and as she had headed up the dock, she had thought she’d heard a seagull, but now she knew it was his voice that had broken the silence.

What was it Hank had said?