Freelance and Fishmaids is a supernatural novella, serialized in twelve episodes. This is Episode Nine. Start Here.
Previously, Reyville and Caroline followed their lead to the mysterious Brack, where trespassing comes with dire consequences…
In this episode, a sudden grief prompts Caroline to begin her own investigation—not into the supernatural, but into the man she thought she could trust...
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For more tales set on Ferris Island, check out the Ferris Island Index.
Swaying. Swaying.
Reyville rowing the dinghy back to the big blue trawler, invisible in the gloom. The stars had all gone out, and the sky was sickly and close. There were eyes watching them from the shore, watching them from the big house on the bluff, watching them go. The eyes of the dead and the living, unblinking.
Caroline’s arms were still warm where he had held her. Her scalp still tingled from the touch of his fingers. The rumble of his voice. The rise and fall of his breath.
But a voice called out across the water, unnaturally loud, shouting a name. Caroline knew that it was supposed to be Reyville’s name, but she didn’t recognize it. And when she turned to look at him at the oars, she didn’t recognize him, either.
Wrong face. Wrong name.
She was alone with a stranger.
*******
When Caroline woke suddenly from her uneasy dream, the cottage was cold, and she could feel the eyes of her own personal ghost upon her, staring out unseen from a corner. But she was growing used to that, somehow. That wasn’t what woke her, and it wasn’t what drew her attention. It was the light of her phone on the nightstand, glaring ineffectually at the ceiling after vibrating with no one to pick it up, the voicemail symbol appearing on the screen.
Caroline looked at the time. Just after four in the morning.
She picked up her phone and tapped the voicemail, rubbing her free hand over her eyes as she settled back into bed to listen to it.
“Cora, hey. It’s Phillip. Sorry for the early call.”
Her brother, second to the eldest. Caroline sat back upright in bed.
“I just wanted you to know that, uh…Auntie passed, about an hour ago. She went singing and smiling, and ready to go meet Jesus. You know how she is. Was. Is, I mean. So. Yeah, give me a call back when you can. Some of the ladies from her church are making funeral plans to help us out, maybe even as early as this weekend, so…we’ll let you know when we know. Anyway. I love you, kid. I hope you’re doing okay out there. Miss you. Talk soon.”
Caroline sat with the phone pressed against her ear for a long time as the electronic voice of her voicemail system cued her to save, delete, or repeat the message. She felt like she was floating, not quite awake and not quite asleep.
But she was awake. She knew she was awake.
After the tinny voice repeated itself three times, Caroline pressed the button to end the call, and set the phone down on her lap as the dark closed back in around her. She was still bone-tired from the ordeal on the Brack, could still feel Reyville’s arms holding her close, could still hear the voices of Stella Whitman’s house circling around her.
Captain Nestor. A liar, as well as a thief.
And now, Ida. Thoughts and memories turned stove-hot under her touch. She wondered briefly why she couldn’t cry, but the idea of crying only deepened her sense of exhaustion, and then she felt guilty for feeling that way.
A floorboard creaked, elsewhere in the cottage, and Caroline lifted her eyes to the shadows where she knew the ghost was lurking. That was all it took for the grief to harden into anger, white-hot and electric.
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” she said aloud, and the volume of her own voice startled her. She almost felt grateful for the opportunity to think about something, anything else than Ida and funerals and brothers and voicemails.
“You think you and I can live in this tiny place forever and I won’t get a picture of you? I’m going to figure out what your deal is.”
Captain Nestor, a liar as well as a thief.
Caroline blinked in the dark. “I’m going to figure out what everyone’s deal is.”
*******
It was a Sunday, and the General Store was closed, so the whole day was available to her. As soon as she was awake and suitably caffeinated, Caroline got to work. She sat down at her desk with her second cup of coffee, pulled out a fresh scratchpad from a drawer, and slipped back into journalism mode. It was comfortable, and she had forgotten how much she missed it: the thrill of an unanswered question, and knowing that the whole arc of your day is bending toward answers.
From her vantage point at her desk, she could see that the Princess of the Weathers was gone from the marina. She had been so exhausted the night before, that she barely remembered whether Reyville had chosen to dock or head back to Port Salish after dropping her off. Regardless, knowing that he wasn’t lurking out there waiting for her made the whole idea of what she was about to do a little less daunting.
She started with Liam Lucas, plugging his name into various databases, either with or without the context of “Lancaster”. A few things popped up, and she was not a little bit surprised. As she suspected, the hits on social media didn’t seem to be him. And there were one or two that were possible links, but impossible to confirm without an image.
But after sifting for about an hour through various hits, there was one photo, an old clipping from a local Lancaster-area newspaper, of a small youth soccer team. When Caroline looked at the photo, a shiver went down her spine. She picked him out immediately, a gawky kid of about fifteen or sixteen with that same frank expression, standing at the edge of the uniformed team of boys, smiling an unpracticed version of that cheeky grin. The date would match up with the age she assumed that Reyville was; it all appeared to check out.
The caption mentioned the team name, along with Liam Lucas, Team Captain.
Captain. Always comes down being a captain, somehow.
So at least, at long last, it seemed that he wasn’t lying about Liam Lucas. Caroline decided to move on to her next search, feeling the unease creeping into her soul as she typed Captain Nestor, Ferris Island, Washington into the search bar.
She wasn’t sure what she had expected to find. But it was not what she found.
There were only two hits that appeared relevant in any way. One was a ship’s manifest, which listed Frederick Nestor as first mate of a British naval vessel, and the other was from a slim paragraph in a locally-published Ferris Island history book.
But Caroline felt that there must be a mistake. The ship’s manifest was from 1842. And the history book centered around the role of Ferris Island in the diplomatic conflicts surrounding Washington State and Great Britain during the years before, during, and after the Civil War.
Fascinating reading, certainly, but ancient history as far as Reyville was concerned.
The paragraph in the book was little help, referring instead to other texts that Caroline couldn’t find online.
A germ of a notion had taken hold in Caroline’s journalistic brain.
She was going to have to go deeper. And there was only one place—and one person—who could help her do that.
*******
Caroline had always felt that the Municipal Library in Port Salish was an inviting place, a sanctuary of knowledge. She had spent many a lunch break there when she worked at the Chronicle, sitting in the stacks to work on a particularly difficult piece, or simply perusing the shelves for something to dip into.
But not today. Today, the gray sky overhead felt oppressive as she approached the grand two-level brick building, one of the oldest on the island, holding court near dead-center of the city’s modest downtown. The library itself seemed to watch her approach. Would it have warned her away, if it could?
Once inside, she didn’t bother with anything else, but headed straight for the main reference desk where the librarians sat.
Caroline was relieved to see Sleane Redding behind the desk; she doubted there was anyone else who could help her with this task.
Miss Redding was one of those older women who appear strangely ageless, with a runner’s build and a lustrous shine in her stark-white hair. She carried her reading glasses on a purple-beaded string around her neck and always wore clothes straight out of a classic Audrey Hepburn movie. Lots of turtlenecks and cardigans and A-line wool skirts, slim lines and an overall gamine tidiness.
As Caroline approached, Miss Redding looked up from whatever she was doing at the computer, a flicker of recognition passing over her features.
“Can I help you?” she said. If she recognized Caroline at all, she said nothing about it. Professionalism over all.
“Yes, hi. I’m looking for these books,” Caroline said, handing over a piece of paper ripped from her scratchpad, listing three books too rare to find online.
Miss Redding took one brief look at the list and didn’t bother typing anything into the computer. “I’m sorry,” she said, “those books aren’t available.”
Caroline frowned. “Oh. You don't have them?”
“No. They simply aren’t available.”
“They’re checked out, then? Can I place a hold?”
Miss Redding stared into Caroline's soul, through her spine to the back wall. “We don't have them to hand at this moment, Miss Phelan.”
Ah. So you do know me.
There was something in Miss Redding’s tone that tickled Caroline’s inner radar. “Are you sure they aren’t…elsewhere in here? Somewhere?”
That certainly got the librarian’s attention. Miss Redding’s blue eyes turned cold. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“This is a big building,” Caroline said. “I imagine there are…corners of it that are hidden from public view. Maybe whole wings of it. If you catch my drift.”
Miss Redding blinked, appeared to weigh something out. “From what I understand, you no longer work for the Chronicle, Miss Phelan,” she said, calmly. “So perhaps this would all go a lot smoother if you would tell me what exactly you’re hunting for. And I don’t mean the list of books you’ve got there.”
Caroline decided that she preferred this from the old librarian, dropping the pretense. A bit of honesty couldn't hurt at this point. She leaned in on the desk. “I am looking for a certain figure from Ferris Island history. Captain Frederick Nestor. Leads online were sparse, but these books came up as possible resources. I know about the library’s secret wing, and I thought…”
She paused. “I thought you were my best chance at getting the information I need.”
When Miss Redding spoke again, something in her tone softened ever so slightly. The flattery seemed to hit its mark. “Is this a professional interest?”
Caroline wanted to say yes, but something stopped her.
“Personal,” she said, after a moment.
Sleane Redding nodded, thoughtfully, then stood up, motioning to a librarian in the back. “I’ll be about fifteen minutes, Betty. Please cover the desk.”
Then, to Caroline, “Follow me.”
*******
Caroline had snuck into the library’s secret wing once or twice, but never really came away with any clear answers about what it was and why it was there. An eternity ago, when the Captain was simply a voice on the phone telling her about the island’s paranormal hotspots, the hidden wing of the library had simply been one of his strange tips, a novelty for her blog.
Now, she followed the beacon of Sleane Redding’s bright white hair as the librarian led her behind the reference desk and back into the employees-only area, down a hallway and up a flight of stairs through the old parts of the building, the parts that had never been remodeled, the parts no one ever saw.
At the top of the stairs was a door marked ELECTRICAL.
Sleane pulled out a jingling keyring from her pocket, shuffled to an unassuming little key, and unlocked the door. When she pushed it open, a cold draft wandered out over the threshold with the scent of loam and soil. The space beyond was black as a void, unlit.
“After you,” said Miss Redding.
Caroline walked in, half expecting the librarian to lock her in, but Sleane followed, picking up two big flashlights from the floor beside the inside of the doorway. She handed one to Caroline, then tapped hers on, closing and locking the door behind them both before sweeping her flashlight around the space.
Caroline turned on her flashlight, too, to reveal that they had emerged onto an old wooden landing, with two sets of stairs—ornate banisters, thick railings—one going down to the right and one going up to the left, hugging the wall. The flashlights were not powerful enough to reveal everything in what seemed like a cavernous space, but Caroline caught the glint of tree branches in the dark in the empty void beyond the landing, leaves perfectly still in this windless place.
She got the sense that where she and the librarian were standing was up at a height, though she couldn’t be sure how high.
“Now,” Sleane said, all business, “the Local History section is this way.”
She turned left to the stairs heading up, and Caroline followed.
“What is this place?” Caroline finally whispered, unable to contain it, though something about the hush of the place made her want to keep her voice down.
“You made it seem like you’d been here, before,” Sleane said.
“I have,” Caroline replied. “But I didn’t exactly get to ask the right questions at the time. I wasn’t…invited to be here.”
Sleane Redding seemed to accept this, switching easily into her role as local historian. “The Municipal Library is one of the oldest buildings on the island,” she explained. “Most of the island’s oldest buildings are built on top of older, less permanent structures, and this one is no exception. To build the library, they had to raze some of the cabins that made up the village of Port George, just a hub for trappers in those days. It’s possible that was the cause for what followed, but no one is certain.
“Ever since its construction, the library was plagued with hauntings. And sometime in the 1920s, this wing began to be…overtaken. Trees started growing up through the floor, and no matter how much they would be cut down, poisoned, burned, they would always come back, growing to maturity overnight, destroying the foundation and threatening the structural integrity of the bookshelves. Apparitions appeared in full-body form, scaring the librarians so badly that no one wanted to work here. Strange creatures would nest in the rafters, some even threatening harm to staff. It was a real problem.”
They reached another landing, this one lined on either side with dusty bookshelves, full of old books. Sleane investigated these with the flashlight as she continued.
“In the end, the city decided that since this wing was the only part of the library affected by the phenomena, they would simply wall it off and move all of the most important and popular books into the rest of the building. So the strange trees grow here quite happily in the dark, the ghosts—and other things that we dare not speak of—wander around unimpeded, and those of us who know how to navigate it come in only when we need something rare.”
Sleane paused midway through a shelf.
“Ah,” she said. “Here’s one of the ones on your list.”
Caroline took the book Sleane offered her, sweeping her hand over the embossed, fading title. The book was very old, the brown cloth cover coming apart at the seams, spine crackling when she opened it to leaf through. The title read Ferris Island: The First Hundred Years, published in 1905, and each chapter overviewed significant events from the history of the island, starting with William Ferris’s shipwreck on the island in 1792, through the founding of Port George and other important dates to the turn of the century. Caroline saw, as she flipped through, references to Orchard Island—the old name for the Brack—and other local names she recognized, and many she didn’t.
In the period around the Civil War she slowed down, scanning each page for Captain Nestor’s name.
And then, there it was. Halfway down the page, under a subheading about the Pig War, some border dispute between the fledgeling Washington Territory and Great Britain in 1859:
At the start of the conflict known colloquially as the Pig War, Captain Frederick Nestor was a British naval officer stationed at Garrison Bay on San Juan Island for the twelve years of the conflict’s duration. While dwelling there, Nestor took great interest in nearby Ferris Island, visiting as often as his furloughs allowed, and he retired to the island after his naval service concluded in 1874. Nestor lived out the remainder of his days as a shipping merchant in Port George, and is credited with brokering the first tentative trade agreements with the elusive residents of Orchard Island.
Caroline flipped the page, and her blood ran cold.
There, a faded black and white photograph stared back at her, speckled with age and the printing practices of yesteryear. A portrait of a man in some kind of uniform, white hair under his cap and a big white beard and distinguished spectacles on his nose.
It was Captain Frederick Nestor, dated 1880, according to the caption.
But it was Reyville.
Reyville, as a sixty year old man.
Reyville, with wrinkles and spectacles and white hair.
She thought about the youth in the photo she had seen online that morning. Fifteen years old and the exact same gaze. Frank. Sincere.
Liam Lucas, Team Captain.
Frederick Nestor, Naval Captain.
Reyville, Captain…of what, exactly?
Sleane noticed Caroline’s stillness, turned to look at her, “Did you find something of interest?” she asked.
Caroline nodded, mouth gone dry.
“Yes,” she said. “You could say that.”
*******
Caroline started to tremble when she pulled into the Port Salish Harbor parking lot and saw Reyville standing with Dan outside the Harbormaster’s office, discussing something with a couple of fishermen. But she climbed out of the car, crossed the parking lot, and shoved her emotions as far down into her throat as they could go.
Reyville spotted her over Dan’s shoulder, and Caroline witnessed the moment in real-time when the light in his face died, noticing her expression as she drew closer. She could not imagine what her own face looked like to throw him so badly, even from far off.
He stepped away from the huddle of people, excusing himself, and approached her, closing the distance. She kept her hand tight around the strap of her bag, body closed and locked against him as they stood feet away from each other. It was hard to believe that they had been wrapped in each other’s arms only hours before.
“Caroline?” he said. “What is it?”
The confused tone of his voice almost knocked her sideways, but she set her jaw firmly.
“Can we talk?” she said.
He nodded, gesturing, and she followed him around the corner of the Harbormaster’s office, a spot sheltered from the wind and away from the eyes of Dan and the fishermen.
“I thought you might still be resting,” Reyville said. “After…everything, last night.”
“Resting, no. I’ve been busy.” Caroline pulled out her phone. The voicemail symbol from Phillip was still waiting at the top of her screen but she ignored it, opened up her photo gallery. Tapped on the first image, the picture she had taken of Captain Frederick Nestor in the pages of the old book, since Sleane wouldn’t let her take it out of the library.
She held up the image, wordlessly.
Reyville glanced at it, then past it, to her face. “What is this?”
“I think you know what it is. Or who it is,” Caroline said, feeling something rising in her, a flame licking her from the toes up. “Stella Whitman called you Captain Nestor, and you didn’t deny it. I see why. The resemblance is uncanny. But I confess, I don’t get it. Is he an ancestor, Reyville? That would at least make some kind of sense. Give me something. A true answer. Please.”
Reyville shrugged, clearly trying to disarm her. “Look, Stella Whitman had a lot to say, and the bit about Captain Nestor…that was nothing. Dan and I have been discussing how to handle the poaching problem, gathering evidence against RUMOR. We’re close to a plan, and we could use your help. I think that’s a little bit more important than the stray word of some hateful old woman speaking for the spiteful dead.”
“Not to me,” Caroline said, surprising herself with her own fervor. “Those dicks at RUMOR will get theirs, I’m sure you and Dan and all the rest will see to that. But you’ve never been clear with me about who you are, Reyville, and you’re still not being clear, and you know—”
She choked on a sob, firmly swallowed it down. No. Not this time. “You know how much it matters to me, to know important things about the people I care about,” she finished in a hiss, lowering the phone. “So. Who the hell are you?”
Reyville squinted out at the horizon, sighing. “Caroline, this isn’t…it’s not something I can talk about. But it’s not important, to us. You and me.”
“You and me. Meaning what?” Caroline said. She never realized, until that moment, how much she wanted to hear him say it.
And the Captain—the always self-assured, the navigator of rough seas, the man with the plan—suddenly, and for the first time in her presence, appeared completely lost.
“We’re…partners, aren’t we?” he asked, and she thought she heard the echo of that fifteen year old kid from the soccer photograph in his voice. “A…good team. I thought. Maybe even…”
He stopped himself. Caroline winced. It occurred to her, briefly, that her anger was misplaced. She wanted his arms around her, again. She wanted to lie safely in his bed, knowing he was nearby.
She wanted a lot of things, many of them she wouldn’t dare name, even to herself.
But for some reason, all she could hear was her brother’s voicemail, playing on a loop in her mind. It was fuel. It was pain. Red-hot, stove-hot, fingers recoiling…
A farmhouse on a hill. A ghost story no one believed. A pattern of secrets, spiraling out like a vine through the generations.
Not again. Never again.
“A good team,” she repeated, hollowly. “Yeah.”
She turned away for a moment, then said, “Do you remember what I told you? Back at the Clinic, when all of this started? I told you that a good team needs trust. And you…you made me think I could trust you, but…”
You made me think I could love you, but…
“...you’ve got secrets. And just when I think it doesn't matter, they pop up and cause us trouble. And I can’t…I can’t do that, again.”
Not again.
The effect on his face, on his eyes—those eyes!—was terrible. They closed like a door with a nearly audible snap, like a light doused by a strong draft, and he wore his pain openly, without pretense.
Before he could respond, she turned her back on him, and she walked away. She knew it wasn’t fair. She knew it, and she did it, anyway. Because she hoped he wouldn’t let it stand. Every nerve was braced to hear him call after her, to feel him approach gently from behind and hold her. Anything.
But, no. He was a perfect gentleman. He knew a rough sea when he saw one.
He let her go.
And she went.
*******
The funeral was held the following weekend, and Caroline was there.
In so many ways, Denver had changed, but Caroline barely noticed. Instead, she let herself be swept along in the mix of it all, family and old friends, all asking her about herself. All asking her about what she was up to.
And she would smile, of course, and tell them, “Oh, well, you know. Keeping busy.”
Not a journalist, anymore. Not a blogger. Not writing a book.
What even am I?
But there wasn’t enough time to work that out. Too much to do, too many people to see. There were gatherings. Conversations. Lots of food. Lots of hugs, and held hands, and weeping on each other’s shoulders, and condolences, and memories, and stories. So many stories.
At some point, a lawyer approached her about Aunt Ida’s will. But Caroline told him to discuss the matter with her brothers, and excused herself from his presence. A will would mean that Aunt Ida was gone, and she didn’t feel gone. She was still in that place, somehow, a tangible thing, moving among them all, laughing at all of the jokes in that head-back eyes-closed way she used to do, filling the room with it.
Caroline thought of Mrs. Benoit at the hospice back in Damascus, and the man of light. She felt that—perhaps—she finally understood what the old woman had been trying to say.
Some things have no tidy answers.
Even though she was only in Denver for a handful of days, she found that she slipped easily back into the conversations, found her footing again with her brothers, all of them—six siblings in all—stratifying into their proper places in the invisible hierarchy that they had had since they were kids. Everyone called her “Cora”, here, and she had forgotten how much she missed that. So much so, that the idea of “Caroline” felt like another person, another identity altogether. A usurper, professional yet pretending.
During one family meal, Caroline felt her phone buzz, and she looked at the screen, numb to what she saw there.
Reyville was calling her. She ignored it, and he left a message. She did not listen to it.
By the end of the long weekend, a seed had planted in Caroline’s mind that she could not shake: maybe it was time to move back home. Back to Denver. Away from that haunted westmost island in Washington State, back to the place where people knew her, and she knew them.
And even though the idea seemed crazy, the more she thought about it, the more it seemed possible. Maybe even wise.
Maybe it was time to live in a home without mysteries. A home without questions.
A home without ghosts.
*******
The following Wednesday morning, after flying in the night before, Caroline returned to work at the General Store. Mr. Banfield had offered her as much time as she needed, but she told him that she was happy to get back into her routine. She needed time to think, something to keep her hands busy while she assessed her options.
The thought of moving back to Denver had not left her mind. It was still hanging there in midair, waiting for her to reach up and grab it. Moving would be a stress, of course, but the idea of a restart was starting to feel more and more attractive.
What do I have, here, really?
When she walked into the General Store kitchen that morning, Noah was already getting things set up, and he gave her a sympathetic smile, awkward yet well-intentioned, from the big industrial coffee machine.
“Hey. Welcome back. Sorry about your aunt.”
She smiled. “Thanks, Noah.”
“Just so you know,” he said, “someone came looking for you, yesterday. They went to the cottage and came here to the store. Dan somebody. Lady with short hair.”
Caroline frowned. Dan, here? Looking for her? That seemed odd. “Really?”
“She said she needed to get a hold of you, but she wouldn’t say what it was about.” Noah shrugged. “I know that’s not very helpful.”
“No, it’s fine. Can you keep getting set up on your own? I need to check something.”
Noah slouched off to continue setting up the kitchen, and Caroline ducked around the corner, out of earshot. The voicemail from Reyville was still sitting there on her phone, unlistened to.
She tapped it, and only then did she realize she had two missed calls. One of them must have come through when she was on the plane the day before, and she simply didn’t see it.
The most recent one was from Dan.
“Caroline? This is Dan, the Harbormaster out in Port Salish. I’m so sorry to call like this, the kid at the General Store said you’re at a funeral and I’m just…I’m so sorry. But, I need to know if you’ve heard from Reyville. He hasn't checked in for two days. It’s not like him at all, he usually…well, you know how he is. Anyway, please call me back when you can. Thanks.”
As the voicemail ended, Caroline’s heart thundered in her chest.
Missing? Reyville?
It was hard to believe. Impossible, even. She wanted to think it was all just a misunderstanding. Would he leave this place, this island, without saying goodbye?
No. Not Reyville. He would never.
But before she could think any further on this, the next message played automatically. It was the one Reyville had left her on Sunday. He sounded tired, wrung out, but resolute.
“Caroline. I’m…you’re right. If the past few months have shown me anything, it's that if anyone could handle hearing my secrets, it’s you. I've probably known that for a long time, I just…we're partners. Right? That should mean something, right?”
Here he paused, leaving those questions unanswered, and Caroline's heart squeezed. Then, he continued.
“Listen, I’ve got a plan to sort out this RUMOR thing, and I'm off to gather some evidence. If you're around and you want to come along…um…either way, I'm going to take care of this, and then I’ll make it all up to you, if I can. I promise. No more…no more secrets. See you soon.”
The voicemail ended, and Caroline stood in the kitchen, frozen, mind racing.
Alone. He went alone. I let him go alone.
And now…he’s gone.
Thank you for reading! 📸
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Oh man.
Oh wow.
This was so good. The "Keeping busy" line, because I saw myself in that because what else *can* you say, Caroline and Reyville... oh man.
DANGIT.