Free Salvage by Duncan Ralston Page A

Their baby boy began to cry the moment they stepped back out into the heat.
    Skip Wickman turned from the closing door, its bell tinkling. "God loves His children, but they sure do test His patience with all that crying," he said, more to himself than to Owen, his realtor's smile still affixed, turning it like high beams toward Owen. He was in his early fifties, hair salt-and-pepper at the temples, beige suit and slacks creased just so, his tie nearly the same shade of brown as his skin. "Now, how can I—?"
    Skip's mouth remained open but no words came out. He stood there, still holding the door handle, looking Owen up and down.
    "You okay?" Owen asked.
    Skip closed his mouth. "I'm sorry. You must be Mr. Saddler." His eyes narrowed. "You know, it's uncanny how much you look like her." The man swallowed hard. He seemed to consider how to proceed, having perhaps said too much. "I was so sorry to hear about your sister. Lovely girl." After a pause, he stuck out a hand. Owen shook it. Skip's handshake was firm, his palm as cool and dry as his office.
    "She was," Owen agreed, not expecting how much it would hurt to speak of her in the past tense. "On the phone, you said the cottage—"
    " House ," Skip corrected. "Belonged to one of the Hordyke boys. Their family founded Peace Falls. Jim Hordyke built the house by hand in the mid-'50s. There's a plaque put up by the Historical Society, a sort of honorary commemoration, I'm sure, it being the only house from Peace Falls still standing, after the flood, where it had been built. But nobody cares much for historical footnotes like that anymore. When he'd built the house—old Jimmy Junior, who was actually the fourth in a long line of Jimmys—it lay on the top of the hill overlooking the town of Peace Falls, about as far away from the water as you could get."
    Skip opened a palm toward his desk, the only one in the office. "Can I offer you a drink? I've got terrible coffee and lukewarm water." He grinned. "Not to oversell either."
    Owen chuckled. "I'm fine, thanks." He sat in one of the gray tweed chairs: threadbare, a bit wobbly, but comfortable enough. He'd avoided the other, where the young father had been sitting, having noticed a suspicious dark stain on the seat. Skip sat opposite, in a weathered but still serviceable leather chair.
    "He was a fisherman," Skip continued, "which explains the 'fisherman' part of its name, Fisherman's Wharf, but not the 'wharf.' I believe some of the locals started it as a bit of a joke. Now, of course, Jimmy's probably laughing from his grave at all those old fools who'd made their jokes at his expense. Now that they've flooded the valley for their hydroelectric dam," he said with obvious scorn, "the house rests neatly on the shore of Chapel Lake. So in a way, I suppose you could make the argument that Jimmy Junior was somewhat of a prophet."
    Skip reached into his desk, brought out a pack of gum, and gobbled up a stick. He held the pack out to Owen, who shook his head. The man shrugged and tucked it back in the drawer. "Bank took it away not long after the dam went up. Whether Jimmy Hordyke was a prophet or not, the bank still had to make one. A profit, I mean." He smiled lightly at the pun. "When he'd built it, in the 1950s, I suspect property taxes weren't much of an issue. The '80s changed that quickly enough. Even more people are foreclosing around here these days than they were back then, I'm sorry to say."
    Skip lowered his head and paid them a moment's respect. "I suppose one could also say old Jim Junior was a pioneer in that respect, as well. Not that it's anything one would want to be a pioneer of ." He chewed his gum thoughtfully a moment. In the silence, Owen heard a chainsaw in the distance.
    "Now that you know the history of Fisherman's Wharf," Skip said finally, "I wonder if I might ask you something. I'm not usually one to pry, but it does concern me a fair bit, and I feel I would be remiss not to ask. If I offend you in the