can."
John Bragston was as good as his word and he became a major influence in Elvis' life. Gruff and blunt-spoken, he was nevertheless the first adult male to give Elvis attention that was exacting and yet positive. When school report cards were handed out shortly after Elvis started working at the police station, the sheriff demanded to see his and having done so said Elvis could do a helluva lot better.
Elvis did.
He wanted to know Elvis' plans for the future. "So what are you gonna do when you graduate?" he asked at the end of Elvis' junior year.
Elvis shrugged. "Blow this burg."
"And do what?"
"Huh?"
"Dammit, son, think ahead a little," Bragston advised impatiently. "It's not enough simply to say you're gonna blow the island. You've got to have some sort of plan. Where you gonna go once you hit the mainland, boy? How you going to make a living?" He fixed him with a fierce eye. "You just going to take off for Seattle or another big city a little further away with—what?—a couple hundred dollars in your pocket? I can guarantee that'll have you peddling your ass for the rent money in about two weeks' time."
"So, maybe I'll be a cop, like you," Elvis retorted, watching the older man carefully to see if he'd laugh in his face.
Bragston merely nodded. "You'd make a good one," he said matter-of-factly. "But to get anywhere in law enforcement these days you need college. And to afford that, you might have to stay on the island for a few extra years."
Elvis did. He commuted off-island four years, and when he graduated Sam Mackey and John Bragston were the only ones there to see him. His mother said she'd come, but she didn't arrive until after the ceremony was over.
He then followed through on his oft-stated threat to leave Port Flannery behind. Securing a job with the Seattle Police department, he worked his way slowly up the ranks until a car bomb meant for a witness he was protecting put an abrupt end to his career.
Well, perhaps that wasn't strictly true. After completing nearly a year of physical therapy he could have gone back to the SPD at a desk job. Instead he opted to return to the island of his birth.
When the chips were down, he supposed, it was still the only place he'd ever really considered home.
Chapter 4
An outboard motor rumbled to life out in the bay and the faint scent of gasoline drifted in to shore to mix pleasantly with the salty aroma of the waves lapping the rocky beach. Pebbles rattled gently with the tide's retreat, a sound that was momentarily drowned beneath the raucous, echoing cry of a seagull circling overhead. Gracie, her pockets bulging with the morning's finds, squatted on the beach to examine yet another potential treasure. The gull's noisy cry and its white-winged glide across an overcast sky caught her attention, and she looked up. Tracking the bird's progress as it circled and soared, she watched with such interest and enthusiasm in her expression that Emma's heart contracted. She squatted down next to her daughter.
She was enjoying Gracie's enthrallment with the delicate pink inner whorls of a broken shell when Clare hallooed them from a short distance down the beach. Gracie immediately abandoned her position, bobbing to her feet and racing to meet her newest acquaintance. Emma rose to her feet more slowly.
"Hi, Miss-us Mackey! Lookit I found." Gracie started pulling rocks and shells from her pockets, thrusting them forward with both hands.
"Hi, Clare," Emma added her greetings as she came forward. "Are you out in search of a little fresh air, too?"
Clare shook her head. "Actually, I was changing the store window when I saw you two head down to the beach, and I thought if you were still here when I took my break I'd come say hello." She handed Gracie a little yellow plastic sand pail and shovel. "This is for you, sweetheart," she said with a soft, wistful smile. "No child should be without a sand bucket if she lives near the shore."
Gracie's handful of treasures hit
John Bragston was as good as his word and he became a major influence in Elvis' life. Gruff and blunt-spoken, he was nevertheless the first adult male to give Elvis attention that was exacting and yet positive. When school report cards were handed out shortly after Elvis started working at the police station, the sheriff demanded to see his and having done so said Elvis could do a helluva lot better.
Elvis did.
He wanted to know Elvis' plans for the future. "So what are you gonna do when you graduate?" he asked at the end of Elvis' junior year.
Elvis shrugged. "Blow this burg."
"And do what?"
"Huh?"
"Dammit, son, think ahead a little," Bragston advised impatiently. "It's not enough simply to say you're gonna blow the island. You've got to have some sort of plan. Where you gonna go once you hit the mainland, boy? How you going to make a living?" He fixed him with a fierce eye. "You just going to take off for Seattle or another big city a little further away with—what?—a couple hundred dollars in your pocket? I can guarantee that'll have you peddling your ass for the rent money in about two weeks' time."
"So, maybe I'll be a cop, like you," Elvis retorted, watching the older man carefully to see if he'd laugh in his face.
Bragston merely nodded. "You'd make a good one," he said matter-of-factly. "But to get anywhere in law enforcement these days you need college. And to afford that, you might have to stay on the island for a few extra years."
Elvis did. He commuted off-island four years, and when he graduated Sam Mackey and John Bragston were the only ones there to see him. His mother said she'd come, but she didn't arrive until after the ceremony was over.
He then followed through on his oft-stated threat to leave Port Flannery behind. Securing a job with the Seattle Police department, he worked his way slowly up the ranks until a car bomb meant for a witness he was protecting put an abrupt end to his career.
Well, perhaps that wasn't strictly true. After completing nearly a year of physical therapy he could have gone back to the SPD at a desk job. Instead he opted to return to the island of his birth.
When the chips were down, he supposed, it was still the only place he'd ever really considered home.
Chapter 4
An outboard motor rumbled to life out in the bay and the faint scent of gasoline drifted in to shore to mix pleasantly with the salty aroma of the waves lapping the rocky beach. Pebbles rattled gently with the tide's retreat, a sound that was momentarily drowned beneath the raucous, echoing cry of a seagull circling overhead. Gracie, her pockets bulging with the morning's finds, squatted on the beach to examine yet another potential treasure. The gull's noisy cry and its white-winged glide across an overcast sky caught her attention, and she looked up. Tracking the bird's progress as it circled and soared, she watched with such interest and enthusiasm in her expression that Emma's heart contracted. She squatted down next to her daughter.
She was enjoying Gracie's enthrallment with the delicate pink inner whorls of a broken shell when Clare hallooed them from a short distance down the beach. Gracie immediately abandoned her position, bobbing to her feet and racing to meet her newest acquaintance. Emma rose to her feet more slowly.
"Hi, Miss-us Mackey! Lookit I found." Gracie started pulling rocks and shells from her pockets, thrusting them forward with both hands.
"Hi, Clare," Emma added her greetings as she came forward. "Are you out in search of a little fresh air, too?"
Clare shook her head. "Actually, I was changing the store window when I saw you two head down to the beach, and I thought if you were still here when I took my break I'd come say hello." She handed Gracie a little yellow plastic sand pail and shovel. "This is for you, sweetheart," she said with a soft, wistful smile. "No child should be without a sand bucket if she lives near the shore."
Gracie's handful of treasures hit
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