Author's Notes
We find the character of psychopaths, and also narcissists for that matter, to be shallow. They are what they are—perhaps clustered around by those in their thrall, but without the depth of relationship that makes fiction interesting. Typically, this is handled in popular storylines by having them commit horrific acts of unfathomable evil—the Criminal Minds sort of thing. In reality, they look pretty ordinary. You never really get to know their destructiveness unless you become aware you’ve been caught in their web. I have handled Pierre’s evil in the novel that subtly too—deviousness typically undetected by those he imperils.
In An Incoming Tide, I added depth to Pierre Bolton’s character by making him a fussy sort of man, compulsive, even prone to a twinge of anxiety. But interactions with others were always only about accomplishing his own ends. His role in the novel is that of a fixer hired by a consortium of pharmaceutical companies.
As I come to add backstory, all I can do is show another example of him. In fiction, what shines forth is that backed by contrast. And so, I’ve added a couple of incidental characters, ones rich in their own capacity for relationship, for wisdom. What better than a grandson and a granddad, loyal and connected to each other?
And, there is a small detail of the plot from An Incoming Tide hidden within this narrative. Can you find it?
In An Incoming Tide, I added depth to Pierre Bolton’s character by making him a fussy sort of man, compulsive, even prone to a twinge of anxiety. But interactions with others were always only about accomplishing his own ends. His role in the novel is that of a fixer hired by a consortium of pharmaceutical companies.
As I come to add backstory, all I can do is show another example of him. In fiction, what shines forth is that backed by contrast. And so, I’ve added a couple of incidental characters, ones rich in their own capacity for relationship, for wisdom. What better than a grandson and a granddad, loyal and connected to each other?
And, there is a small detail of the plot from An Incoming Tide hidden within this narrative. Can you find it?
Evildoers
Sunlight on Snapper’s Point Lodge came as a welcome relief to Pierre after his drive. The traverse of Vancouver Island on BC HWY 4 west was dimmed by the misty gloom of the Pacific rainforest. The day before, Pierre had resented the rental car company putting him into a mid-sized SUV for the trip from Victoria—suitable for the destination he had disclosed at the counter but not at all to his inclination. Pierre had eyed a low hung sport coupe in the pickup aisle but the manager wouldn’t release it given the road construction he would encounter where he was headed.
True enough, several hours into the trip he was caught in a rain soaked, hour long delay. Watching graders and dump trucks, he sat sandwiched between a cut of exposed rock and a cliff down to a lake imprisoned in the wood. Other occupants of the waiting vehicles got out, stretched, and shared coffee from thermoses. Conversations broke out and dogs went for a sniff and a run.
Pierre had little more than an obituary to amuse him while he waited—an obituary as the only guide to his destination. He sat alone in his vehicle, reading it over and over, trying to extract some further clue. Back in Victoria, a genial and overly helpful librarian had looked at that obituary, pulled some historic maps of the west shore of the Island, and located Delectable Bay—a sickle shaped cove. More recent maps identified a large building, presumably a resort, located close by. A place to start.
Finally, the long line of vehicles followed a pilot vehicle through the construction. Pierre slowly drove the bypass lane of ruts treacherously filled with muddy water, his Nissan Rogue lurching and pitching toward the imprisoned lake.
But he made it through. They all made it through.
The parking lot for Snapper’s Point Lodge has a recharging post for the Teslas. There are Audis and Jaguars in the lot too, and other rental SUVs. A teenager is out washing the mud from the guests cars when Pierre drives up. He waves. Pierre muses on how the Teslas, Audis and Jaguars could have managed the road construction he’d just suffered. Momentarily he resents again the rental he’d been given—then, seeing the mud caked to its side, he resigns himself to it. He motions to the teen, making a washing gesture toward his vehicle in request.
Once inside, Pierre discovers Snapper’s Point Lodge to have done itself up well as new construction capturing an old aesthetic. Exposed beams grace the interior, holding up a pitched ceiling. Walls are of skinned logs. There are windows, lots of them, looking out at the roiling Pacific pushing at the beach. And, there’s a hush to the place, a hush braced with the gentle scent of cedar. A dignified gent greets him, dressed with informal precision much like Pierre himself. His name tag identifies him as the Denton Myers, Lodge Master—an odd term, Lodge Master, which Pierre notes with a slight smile.
Denton Myers meets Pierre’s enquiry as to the precise location of Delectable Bay with a long exhaled breath and a ‘one moment, please, if you may’. He leaves. A few minutes later, after Pierre had amused himself with the collection of Haida prints and button blankets that adorn the walls, Denton Myers returns with the young fellow from the guest parking lot, introduces him as Keith.
The walk from Snapper’s Point Lodge with Keith takes Pierre through dense underbrush soaking his clothing through to his skin. The rain had stopped an hour or more before, giving way to brilliantly blue skies above the well-washed air. The upper canopy of the Pacific Coast forest still drips, releasing its burden downward.
The teen talks incessantly on the walk. The roar of waves drowns out most of what he says about college, and career, and grandfather, and such.
They pass a sign, weathered wood giving itself away to moss and rot, a sign that had long ago announced K’adsii Kabins. Keith explains that K’adsii was an old Salish word, meaning near the sea. He seems proud to share some historic folk lore. Pierre takes a photo of the sign. A string of small cabins retreats into the bush. A larger building identifies itself with a crooked sign--Office.
“Granddad’s a bit hard of hearing, you’ll have to speak up, because of the sea, the sea and the wind.” With that Keith opens the door to reveal an interior space jammed with excess furniture. A man in his seventies doesn’t look up from a well-worn chair by an unlit woodstove sitting black and solid in the corner. There’s the stale smell of wood smoke in the air perfumed by the lingering tobacco scents of cherry and vanilla.
Pierre moves toward the man assertively. “Bolton, Pierre Bolton, I’m investigator. I have a few questions about Delectable Bay.” He reaches into his shirt pocket to take out a now soggy business card to hand to the elderly gent. The gent, now warily looking at his visitor, waves it off.
Keith intervenes in a awkwardly loud voice, “Grandpa, this man wants to know about Delectable. Can you tell him? We figured over at the Lodge that you knew more about this stretch of shore than anyone else still around.”
“Damn shame.” The elderly man says. His eye goes to the window. “Used to be able to see the point from here. But then the woods grew in. And that damn Lodge went up. Don’t look over that way anymore.”
He takes a pipe from his pocket, fingers it. The three are silent while the older man gathers his thoughts, puts some tobacco in the bowl, tamps it down. A few wayward shreds fall from the pipe to join others already ground into the floor. When it is lit, the saccharine scent of cherry saturates the air.
“Delectable Bay was over that way. Still is, I guess. No one goes there anymore.”
Keith waves Bolton over to the seats beside the woodstove.
“I’m interested in anything you might remember about a woman who drowned there, twenty-five years or so ago. I don’t know if you would remember.”
“That? Why would I ever let myself remember something like that? Don’t think so, eh.” He coughs out a knowing sort of laugh while looking at Keith.
“Granddad. You remember. You told me about that woman. Often. You remember, the last one.”
The elderly gent turns away from Bolton as if it is easier to talk with his grandson.
“Her? Hah, her, eh! The last one, that I know of anyway.”
“Do you remember her name?” Bolton asks.
Ignoring the investigator, Granddad talks on. “Damn fool city folk. Go walking with the tide coming in. After that last one, Coast Guard and me put up signs telling people not to go there. Cut a path through the trees to let people get out of there if they got trapped. Hung a rope ladder down over the rock.”
“Do you remember her name?” Pierre asks.
“No, why would I? Doctor’s wife though. Fool doctor, kept coming even after his wife died there. Even brought his kids. Think he’d know better. Damn city folk. No business coming here if they don’t respect the sea. Not worth the money they spend.”
With that, and with a few self-satisfying puffs on the pipe, he walks over to the window, stands there staring.
Keith turns to Pierre.
“That woman drowning, that was before I was born. I came here a lot when I was a kid to be with Granddad. Every time I came he told me the story. Always the same one, what he just said to you. It was like he never really got over it. Lost interest in the cabins after that, getting them rented out. Then the Lodge was built.
“When the developer sited the Lodge, it blocked the route that led over to the cove. Granddad said that was a good thing, to have it there, so people wouldn’t try going there and get trapped by the tide. He helped with building the Lodge, stayed on as maintenance, got me summer jobs there so I could come and stay here.
“It’s posh, for rich folk, you saw, not rustic like the cabins Granddad had. Now all that’s left over here is what was his office, granddad’s home now. He won’t leave, says he’ll die here.
“Back when I was a kid, Granddad and me would go over to Delectable when it was safe, when the tide was out. We’d walk there, scale the fence back of the Lodge. It’s beautiful there at low tide. Tidal pools with tiny sea creatures.”
“… he came back wearing a wet suit, you know.” Granddad turns from the window, his eyes fixed on the visitor.
“What was that, Granddad? Something about a wetsuit?”
“One of those black skin tight things that the divers wear. Under his soaked clothes. Damnedest thing, that was.”
“Who?” Bolton asks.
“That damn doctor. A doctor he was. The cabin was full of wine bottles when they left, too many. City folk and their wine. Too much for my liking, if you get my gist, eh?”
Pierre and Keith go over to the window to stand with him.
“Let those shysters at that damn Lodge deal with them now. The city folk and their wine.”
“What else do you remember about the doctor’s wife?” Pierre asks.
“They had kids, little kids. He brought them here after his wife died. Did I say that? That he did. Damn fool. Finally, I told him I didn’t want anything more to do with him, him and his kids. Not worth the risk. He’d come here with the kids and I could smell his breath, the booze on it, the hard stuff. Not safe. And that boy of his, caught him cutting everything up with a knife, foul mouth, that boy he had.”
The old man turns to his grandson. “Where’s the tide at, boy?”
“I’ll check on my phone.”
“Feel like walking? The name’s Charles, by the way.” He goes over and offers a hand to Pierre.
“It’s out, not fully in until nine tonight.” Keith says, looking at his phone.
“Yah, what I thought. Let’s go.”
The walk toward Delectable takes them back of the parking lot, behind where the Teslas are plugged in. Keith takes a moment to switch out a fully charged one with another needing yet to be charged. In that moment, Charles looks at Pierre and says, “It was devilish too, you know. All depends … "
Pierre stares back, trying to place the non-sequitur. He had wondered if he’d played it right, managed the old man in a way to get the information that he needed—an assertive opening salvo, then silence to let what the man knows percolate to the surface. And now this is it, this is the start, this thing about delectable also being devilish--a doctor, an alcoholic doctor, bringing his little kids to where their mother drowned, unaware of the trauma that would entail, in that way devilish in his own right. A useful hypothesis that—Pierre tucks it away.
And as they walk on, Pierre finds himself liking the teen even though he is now of little further use. There’s something compelling about the relationship between Keith and his grandfather, something that feels quaint and foreign. Some powerful force draws this teenager to a used up old man. Odd it is, yet it tugs at Pierre. A tug he can’t just let go.
They walk the road behind the Lodge where the garbage trucks come to empty the large bins of waste. A small pond gives off a sewage stench as they head down a thin foot trail—cedar fronds and stiff needles brush them, dry now with the sparkle of sunshine coming through the clearing.
A six foot high chain link fence blocks the path. A DANGER, DO NOT CROSS sign is posted at eye level. Keith and his grandfather scale the fence more easily than Pierre. His shoes are not right, not right for this.
Out of the cabin Charles seems younger.
Delectable Bay is only a hundred metres or so wide, sickle-shaped. They make their way down the rope ladder to a beach of smooth stone and veined rock. A succession of small pools head out toward the sea. Plastics and sea shells are scattered about, thrown up by the sea, left behind when the tide retreated. Charles picks up the plastic, tucking it into his pockets, muttering while he does so, walks off from the other two.
Keith starts his commentary again. “Without the rope ladder and path that we came down, a person can get trapped in here when the tide is fully in. No escape if the rope wasn't here.
“It’s been years since I’ve been over here. I’m surprised that Granddad was willing to bring you over at all.” Keith pauses. “Over there, at the other side of the cove, you can see around the corner of the peninsula, out to the ocean. That’s where the tide comes in. Let’s walk over there, I’ll show you.”
They walk. Keith babbles on, pointing out this and that with a sense of being inspired by the wild beauty of nature. Pierre barely notices.
“Izzy it was,” Charles says, approaching them at the far end of the cove. “Dizzy Izzy. Dizzy Izzy drowned in the tide.
“And that fool doctor, wish he had too. Glad to be done with him.”
Charles inhales, as if he is going to speak, takes a long silence, then turns to Pierre, holding his gaze.
“One day, in the rain, back at the office, I sensed something was wrong. I went down the beach in front of the cabins. it was low tide, so okay. But who was a half mile down the beach but that scared little girl of his and the boy chasing her. Both of them out without their father or the older sister. I took them back. Not safe. Not safe for little kids to be out there alone at all. City kids.”
He exhales. Pulls his pipe from his shirt pocket.
“Not safe at all. Little children … wandering like that … in the rain … with no one to look after them.”
Granddad stares long at the place where the Pacific is visible around the point of the peninsula. He turns back and heads toward the rope ladder, figuring the tide had turned—was coming back in.
True enough, several hours into the trip he was caught in a rain soaked, hour long delay. Watching graders and dump trucks, he sat sandwiched between a cut of exposed rock and a cliff down to a lake imprisoned in the wood. Other occupants of the waiting vehicles got out, stretched, and shared coffee from thermoses. Conversations broke out and dogs went for a sniff and a run.
Pierre had little more than an obituary to amuse him while he waited—an obituary as the only guide to his destination. He sat alone in his vehicle, reading it over and over, trying to extract some further clue. Back in Victoria, a genial and overly helpful librarian had looked at that obituary, pulled some historic maps of the west shore of the Island, and located Delectable Bay—a sickle shaped cove. More recent maps identified a large building, presumably a resort, located close by. A place to start.
Finally, the long line of vehicles followed a pilot vehicle through the construction. Pierre slowly drove the bypass lane of ruts treacherously filled with muddy water, his Nissan Rogue lurching and pitching toward the imprisoned lake.
But he made it through. They all made it through.
The parking lot for Snapper’s Point Lodge has a recharging post for the Teslas. There are Audis and Jaguars in the lot too, and other rental SUVs. A teenager is out washing the mud from the guests cars when Pierre drives up. He waves. Pierre muses on how the Teslas, Audis and Jaguars could have managed the road construction he’d just suffered. Momentarily he resents again the rental he’d been given—then, seeing the mud caked to its side, he resigns himself to it. He motions to the teen, making a washing gesture toward his vehicle in request.
Once inside, Pierre discovers Snapper’s Point Lodge to have done itself up well as new construction capturing an old aesthetic. Exposed beams grace the interior, holding up a pitched ceiling. Walls are of skinned logs. There are windows, lots of them, looking out at the roiling Pacific pushing at the beach. And, there’s a hush to the place, a hush braced with the gentle scent of cedar. A dignified gent greets him, dressed with informal precision much like Pierre himself. His name tag identifies him as the Denton Myers, Lodge Master—an odd term, Lodge Master, which Pierre notes with a slight smile.
Denton Myers meets Pierre’s enquiry as to the precise location of Delectable Bay with a long exhaled breath and a ‘one moment, please, if you may’. He leaves. A few minutes later, after Pierre had amused himself with the collection of Haida prints and button blankets that adorn the walls, Denton Myers returns with the young fellow from the guest parking lot, introduces him as Keith.
The walk from Snapper’s Point Lodge with Keith takes Pierre through dense underbrush soaking his clothing through to his skin. The rain had stopped an hour or more before, giving way to brilliantly blue skies above the well-washed air. The upper canopy of the Pacific Coast forest still drips, releasing its burden downward.
The teen talks incessantly on the walk. The roar of waves drowns out most of what he says about college, and career, and grandfather, and such.
They pass a sign, weathered wood giving itself away to moss and rot, a sign that had long ago announced K’adsii Kabins. Keith explains that K’adsii was an old Salish word, meaning near the sea. He seems proud to share some historic folk lore. Pierre takes a photo of the sign. A string of small cabins retreats into the bush. A larger building identifies itself with a crooked sign--Office.
“Granddad’s a bit hard of hearing, you’ll have to speak up, because of the sea, the sea and the wind.” With that Keith opens the door to reveal an interior space jammed with excess furniture. A man in his seventies doesn’t look up from a well-worn chair by an unlit woodstove sitting black and solid in the corner. There’s the stale smell of wood smoke in the air perfumed by the lingering tobacco scents of cherry and vanilla.
Pierre moves toward the man assertively. “Bolton, Pierre Bolton, I’m investigator. I have a few questions about Delectable Bay.” He reaches into his shirt pocket to take out a now soggy business card to hand to the elderly gent. The gent, now warily looking at his visitor, waves it off.
Keith intervenes in a awkwardly loud voice, “Grandpa, this man wants to know about Delectable. Can you tell him? We figured over at the Lodge that you knew more about this stretch of shore than anyone else still around.”
“Damn shame.” The elderly man says. His eye goes to the window. “Used to be able to see the point from here. But then the woods grew in. And that damn Lodge went up. Don’t look over that way anymore.”
He takes a pipe from his pocket, fingers it. The three are silent while the older man gathers his thoughts, puts some tobacco in the bowl, tamps it down. A few wayward shreds fall from the pipe to join others already ground into the floor. When it is lit, the saccharine scent of cherry saturates the air.
“Delectable Bay was over that way. Still is, I guess. No one goes there anymore.”
Keith waves Bolton over to the seats beside the woodstove.
“I’m interested in anything you might remember about a woman who drowned there, twenty-five years or so ago. I don’t know if you would remember.”
“That? Why would I ever let myself remember something like that? Don’t think so, eh.” He coughs out a knowing sort of laugh while looking at Keith.
“Granddad. You remember. You told me about that woman. Often. You remember, the last one.”
The elderly gent turns away from Bolton as if it is easier to talk with his grandson.
“Her? Hah, her, eh! The last one, that I know of anyway.”
“Do you remember her name?” Bolton asks.
Ignoring the investigator, Granddad talks on. “Damn fool city folk. Go walking with the tide coming in. After that last one, Coast Guard and me put up signs telling people not to go there. Cut a path through the trees to let people get out of there if they got trapped. Hung a rope ladder down over the rock.”
“Do you remember her name?” Pierre asks.
“No, why would I? Doctor’s wife though. Fool doctor, kept coming even after his wife died there. Even brought his kids. Think he’d know better. Damn city folk. No business coming here if they don’t respect the sea. Not worth the money they spend.”
With that, and with a few self-satisfying puffs on the pipe, he walks over to the window, stands there staring.
Keith turns to Pierre.
“That woman drowning, that was before I was born. I came here a lot when I was a kid to be with Granddad. Every time I came he told me the story. Always the same one, what he just said to you. It was like he never really got over it. Lost interest in the cabins after that, getting them rented out. Then the Lodge was built.
“When the developer sited the Lodge, it blocked the route that led over to the cove. Granddad said that was a good thing, to have it there, so people wouldn’t try going there and get trapped by the tide. He helped with building the Lodge, stayed on as maintenance, got me summer jobs there so I could come and stay here.
“It’s posh, for rich folk, you saw, not rustic like the cabins Granddad had. Now all that’s left over here is what was his office, granddad’s home now. He won’t leave, says he’ll die here.
“Back when I was a kid, Granddad and me would go over to Delectable when it was safe, when the tide was out. We’d walk there, scale the fence back of the Lodge. It’s beautiful there at low tide. Tidal pools with tiny sea creatures.”
“… he came back wearing a wet suit, you know.” Granddad turns from the window, his eyes fixed on the visitor.
“What was that, Granddad? Something about a wetsuit?”
“One of those black skin tight things that the divers wear. Under his soaked clothes. Damnedest thing, that was.”
“Who?” Bolton asks.
“That damn doctor. A doctor he was. The cabin was full of wine bottles when they left, too many. City folk and their wine. Too much for my liking, if you get my gist, eh?”
Pierre and Keith go over to the window to stand with him.
“Let those shysters at that damn Lodge deal with them now. The city folk and their wine.”
“What else do you remember about the doctor’s wife?” Pierre asks.
“They had kids, little kids. He brought them here after his wife died. Did I say that? That he did. Damn fool. Finally, I told him I didn’t want anything more to do with him, him and his kids. Not worth the risk. He’d come here with the kids and I could smell his breath, the booze on it, the hard stuff. Not safe. And that boy of his, caught him cutting everything up with a knife, foul mouth, that boy he had.”
The old man turns to his grandson. “Where’s the tide at, boy?”
“I’ll check on my phone.”
“Feel like walking? The name’s Charles, by the way.” He goes over and offers a hand to Pierre.
“It’s out, not fully in until nine tonight.” Keith says, looking at his phone.
“Yah, what I thought. Let’s go.”
The walk toward Delectable takes them back of the parking lot, behind where the Teslas are plugged in. Keith takes a moment to switch out a fully charged one with another needing yet to be charged. In that moment, Charles looks at Pierre and says, “It was devilish too, you know. All depends … "
Pierre stares back, trying to place the non-sequitur. He had wondered if he’d played it right, managed the old man in a way to get the information that he needed—an assertive opening salvo, then silence to let what the man knows percolate to the surface. And now this is it, this is the start, this thing about delectable also being devilish--a doctor, an alcoholic doctor, bringing his little kids to where their mother drowned, unaware of the trauma that would entail, in that way devilish in his own right. A useful hypothesis that—Pierre tucks it away.
And as they walk on, Pierre finds himself liking the teen even though he is now of little further use. There’s something compelling about the relationship between Keith and his grandfather, something that feels quaint and foreign. Some powerful force draws this teenager to a used up old man. Odd it is, yet it tugs at Pierre. A tug he can’t just let go.
They walk the road behind the Lodge where the garbage trucks come to empty the large bins of waste. A small pond gives off a sewage stench as they head down a thin foot trail—cedar fronds and stiff needles brush them, dry now with the sparkle of sunshine coming through the clearing.
A six foot high chain link fence blocks the path. A DANGER, DO NOT CROSS sign is posted at eye level. Keith and his grandfather scale the fence more easily than Pierre. His shoes are not right, not right for this.
Out of the cabin Charles seems younger.
Delectable Bay is only a hundred metres or so wide, sickle-shaped. They make their way down the rope ladder to a beach of smooth stone and veined rock. A succession of small pools head out toward the sea. Plastics and sea shells are scattered about, thrown up by the sea, left behind when the tide retreated. Charles picks up the plastic, tucking it into his pockets, muttering while he does so, walks off from the other two.
Keith starts his commentary again. “Without the rope ladder and path that we came down, a person can get trapped in here when the tide is fully in. No escape if the rope wasn't here.
“It’s been years since I’ve been over here. I’m surprised that Granddad was willing to bring you over at all.” Keith pauses. “Over there, at the other side of the cove, you can see around the corner of the peninsula, out to the ocean. That’s where the tide comes in. Let’s walk over there, I’ll show you.”
They walk. Keith babbles on, pointing out this and that with a sense of being inspired by the wild beauty of nature. Pierre barely notices.
“Izzy it was,” Charles says, approaching them at the far end of the cove. “Dizzy Izzy. Dizzy Izzy drowned in the tide.
“And that fool doctor, wish he had too. Glad to be done with him.”
Charles inhales, as if he is going to speak, takes a long silence, then turns to Pierre, holding his gaze.
“One day, in the rain, back at the office, I sensed something was wrong. I went down the beach in front of the cabins. it was low tide, so okay. But who was a half mile down the beach but that scared little girl of his and the boy chasing her. Both of them out without their father or the older sister. I took them back. Not safe. Not safe for little kids to be out there alone at all. City kids.”
He exhales. Pulls his pipe from his shirt pocket.
“Not safe at all. Little children … wandering like that … in the rain … with no one to look after them.”
Granddad stares long at the place where the Pacific is visible around the point of the peninsula. He turns back and heads toward the rope ladder, figuring the tide had turned—was coming back in.