Chapter 3 ~ pg. 2

I braced myself against two trees and started down. If I could go back and do it all over again, I would have done a couple things differently. One, I wouldn't have turned off that football game. Two, I'd have thrown a sinker instead of a fastball. And three, I would have taken Route 2.

As I continued down the treacherous path to the water, I contemplated a couple different scenarios. People died on the water frequently. I saw it in the papers and on television as a kid and I heard the war stories about people dying in the coastal waters of Maine. In the two years I lived in Penobscot, there were nine separate occurrences when someone died in the water. Or at the hands of it.

Things were a bit different here in the Sound. There weren't quite as many recreational boaters; the main concern here being fishing boats, ferries, and scuba diving. Now the Puget wasn't exactly the Bering Sea, but it was connected to the Bering Sea and the water temperature was still in the mid 40s. This means if you did happen to fall off a boat-or get pushed for that matter-you had about seven minutes to get your ass out of the water.

So, logic told us the woman died by accident or in some other benign fashion. But, logic is overrated.

Granted I'd only seen the body for a split second, and I was gazing down from 400 vertical feet above, and the sun was setting in my eyes, and my contact prescription was three years old, and I'd once mistaken a 300 pound elk for a mailbox, but my instincts told me this was no accident. Of course as a detective you have to think like that. You are paid to think like that.

This conjecture was solely based on the fact the woman appeared to be naked. In the summer months on the Penobscot it was swim trunks, a polo, and docksiders for the men. Women were a bit more loosely clad; a skirt and a blouse with the optional bikini underneath. Maybe even a thin sweater or jacket. But this was the Puget Sound in November. If it wasn't raining then it was cold. The average high for the month around 50. Typically, the attire for both men and women was a windbreaker, jeans, boots, gloves, with optional thermal underwear.

But then again, maybe this woman was a light dresser. Maybe she was menopausal and she'd just had a hot flash. Maybe she'd ripped her clothes off as she thrashed about in the cold water. (Which you're supposed to do.) Or maybe she'd been going at it with the �l Cap�tan and slipped and fell off the edge. Who knows?

Anyhow, the trees gave way to the black rock and I slowly began lowering myself down the steep bluff. It was far from a sheer drop off, the grade about the same as the steps in a football stadium, except instead of steps there was jagged quartzite and instead of falling into the arms of a drunken fan, you fell into the teeth of angry shark. Just kidding.

As I mentioned before, the area directly behind my house was shaped like a crescent. It was a stretch of rock separated by two bluffs, and my mother referred to it as Prescott Cove. I should also point out that whereas other parts of the shore the water lapped nonchalantly against the banks, the water in Prescott Cove was white and angry. Which, might have been another reason it got its name.

There was a relatively flat section of rock about twenty vertical feet above the crashing surf and I stopped to get my bearings. It was high tide and the small powerful waves came in six or seven second intervals. The waves would sweep in high on the face of the opposing bluffs a milky white, two separate forces destined for a head on collision. And then they became one, sending a violent surge of white water high into the air.