Cast in Stone by G. M. Ford Read Free Book Online Page B

attorney's business card among Heck's things.
    "Chipper,"
was all he needed to say.
    A
strained silence settled over us like a heavy dew.
    "Where
were we?" the big man asked, massaging the bridge of his nose
with a thumb and forefinger.
    "The
happy couple."
    "Oh
yeah." He started to rise, springing the bench. A thin smile
crossed his lips as he stretched in the sunshine.
    "Just
between you and me, I know this isn't nice, but when something like
this happens you get a chance to think. I remember thinking at the
time, you know, it being a honeymoon cruise and all, I remember
looking at the Sundstrom kid and thinking he better enjoy it while he
still could, because with this little honey it sure as hell wasn't
going to last."
    "What
wasn't going to last?"
    "You
know—the heavy breathing," he said, stopping and
thrusting his big hands into his pants pockets. "With her, it
just seemed to be something she
    could
turn on and off like the smile. Hell, by the time they'd signed the
contracts she had Chipper there running out for latte and tripping
over his dick."
    He
shook his head and turned to leave.
    "At
least he didn't have far to fall," I offered to his back.

5

    I
reached the top of the second tier of concrete stairs in time to
watch the forward ranks of a low, leaden fog bank as it rolled
swiftly across Elliot Bay and back toward the city like an advancing
gray brigade, enveloping any and all in its widespread, opaque arms.
Unconsciously pulling my green canvas jacket tighter about me, I
headed for the shelter of the car.
    I
recrossed the Magnolia Bridge and slid north on Fifteenth, toward
Ballard, Seattle's Scandinavian enclave. Fighting the car
windows back up just in time to dart across both lanes and jump off
on the Nickerson exit. Running purely on memory, I wound right, up
Emerson, then through the tricky chicane down toward Fisherman's
Terminal. Memory failed to suffice as I pulled into the crowded lot.
What had once been a greasy spoon and a bait shop had, I supposed
predictably, evolved into a fair-sized shopping center and
restaurant complex. An art gallery— "Afishionado." Cute.
The Wild Salmon Fish Market. A café.
    I
felt older than my father by the time I wove my way through the
commercial claptrap to the Fisherman's Memorial. I'd read about
it, but never seen it before. Twin granite blocks, rough on top,
framed a central obelisk. The plaque on the right held the
dedication—1988.
    Dedicated
to the men, women, their families and the members of the fishing
community who have suffered the loss of life at sea.
    On
the left, the names. From the turn of the century to the present.
Better than five hundred, I estimated. The central granite column was
decorated at the bottom with an encasing bronze fish ensemble: a
prominently whiskered sturgeon winked benignly at the tourists, while
at the top stood the mythic fisherman, seeming even harder and more
weathered than the dull metal of his body, inexplicably facing
landward as he pulled his resisting bounty from the sea.
    The
last of the day's tourists hurried toward warmth as I threaded my way
down to Dock 7. A maze of masts, booms, supports, antennae, and
cables multisected the backdrop into crazed segments, thin
against the sky like the lifeless remains of a drowned forest. As I
stepped out onto the stout timbers, I felt strangely unbalanced and
began walking gingerly as if on the high wire, hoping that no
one would notice my discomfort. I could make out the Lady Day's black
transom a third of the way down. I eased cautiously down the dock,
staying in the middle, feeling the ominous presence of the black
water in spite of having five feet to spare on either side.
    Berthed
now among less impressive craft, some of which were converted
pleasure boats, the Lady Day seemed larger than I remembered. Signs
of recent work were everywhere. A fresh coat of black covered
everything in sight. Four fancy, rectangular crab lights had been
mounted halfway up the rigging. Brand-new,