The Edge

Harper said, “He was a lobsterman. Foul weather means nothing to him. And I told you he lost his wife. He probably didn’t even know what he was doing. Just wandering aimlessly.”

“Did he walk from his house, or drive?”

“He walked. And he happened to come over to this spot and just stared out at the ocean. A place he spent most of his life. And then he looked down and saw her. And called 911.”

“So it was just a coincidence that he picked this spot out of all the others around here to go and take a look at the water and happen to glance down and find a body?” Each word that came out of Devine’s mouth sounded more unbelievable to him than the previous one.

“Coincidences like that do happen, Devine,” said Fuss.

Maybe in novels, thought Devine. But not ever in real life.

They parted company with the agreement to meet up at the inn the following morning.

As Devine drove back into town he stopped and quickly pulled over to the curb.

Dak Silkwell, whom he recognized from the photo in his briefing book, had just walked into a bar called The Hops.

Chapter 10

Devine had been in countless watering holes in many countries during his military career. They pretty much all looked and functioned the same. Although there had been one in South Korea that had been a little out there. Over their torsos the waitresses had worn crisscrossed ammo belts with orange-flavored tequila shots instead of bullets in the cartridge pouches. And that was pretty much all they had on.

The Hops was far more formulaic in its offerings: a scattering of tables and chairs; a small, scuffed parquet dance floor; a tiny, raised stage for live music, empty now; and a long bar with wooden stools, a big mirror, rows of terraced liquor bottles, and six beers on tap.

A Janis Joplin song was playing on an old-fashioned jukebox and the late singer’s one-of-a-kind voice resonated over them like thunder across a flowered meadow. Although the singer had died over two decades before he was born, one of Devine’s father’s friends had introduced him to rock-and-roll performers from that era. Joplin had quickly become one of his favorite vocalists. He had often listened to her songs during combat deployments overseas, much to the amusement of his fellow soldiers, who were far more into musicians from their own generation.

Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes-Benz...

The bar was mostly full, and Devine could imagine it was probably the only such establishment in town. Set off in a small wing of the building were two pool tables, where men and women were smacking the balls around and performing the flirty, maybe-something-later ritual that such social environments inspired. A well-used Terminator pinball machine was being played by a blond woman in her mid-thirties dressed in tight jeans and a loose black blouse that enticingly displayed her ample cleavage. Nearby, two young men in their early twenties were enjoying a furious match of foosball, all the while eyeballing the blond with equal parts lust and youthful hope.

Dak Silkwell was easy to spot, with his height and heft. Devine knew all the man’s vitals from viewing his Army file. He was six four and looked to be carrying about two hundred and thirty pounds. He had on jeans, muddy boots, and a leather jacket. Devine watched as he shed the jacket and hung it on a wall peg. Underneath he had on a white muscle shirt that showed off his impressive biceps and delts as well as a sculpted back, his lats and rhomboid muscles heavily chiseled. Both arms were fully tatted, as were the tops of his pecs. The image of an emerald-green snake wrapped around his thick, veined neck.

Dak claimed a stool and lifted a finger at one of the women working behind the bar. The young woman poured out a Yuengling from one of the taps and carried it over to him. Dak waved and nodded to several people, who performed the same gesture back.

A regular, thought Devine.

An old man next to Dak paid his bill, hopped off his stool, threw on his coat, and was gone, his thirst evidently satiated.

Devine sat down on the vacated stool and motioned to the other woman working the bar. She was in her forties, with sandy hair and a wiry physique. In the mirror he could see the edge of her smartphone sticking out of one rear pocket and the top of a purple vape out of the other.

“Yuengling, on draft,” he said.

She nodded, poured, and delivered it. “Five bucks.”

Devine slipped her a ten and told her to keep it.

Dak sipped his beer, staring straight ahead, but Devine knew this game and had glanced twice in the mirror to see Dak’s pupils swivel in his direction. In fact, everyone in the place pretty much had shot looks at the outsider in their midst.