driver. She’d planned to teach next fall.
“She wanted nothing more than to do something for kids,” said Barry Jones, her husband of five years.
Three of the survivors remain hospitalized. One, a 30-yearold Port Gamble woman, has been released.
Moira activated a few more links, some showing photographs of a barge transporting an enormous crane to the crash site, another as it raised the short bus out of the water, and finally a close-up of an exhausted pair of state divers standing at the rail. Their haunted eyes and grim expressions said more than anything a reporter could write.
Another article highlighted the joint memorial service held at Port Gamble’s church.
She recognized Kevin Ryan in one of the photos.
VICTIMS’ NAMES RELEASED,
TWO IN COMA
The names of the survivors of the Hood Canal Bridge bus accident were released this afternoon. Sandra Berkley, 30, and her daughter, Katelyn, 5, were thrown from the bus as it went off the bridge. Ms. Berkley suffered cracked ribs and abrasions. She and her daughter were treated and released from Harrison Medical Center, Bremerton.
The two other victims, 5-year-old twin girls Hayley and Taylor Ryan, remain hospitalized. Their parents issued a statement yesterday.
“Our daughters are fighters. Please keep them in your prayers. Believe in miracles.”
The parents indicated that the girls are still in a coma. Visibly shaken, Adam Larsen, 34, spoke to reporters outside his home in historic Port Gamble.
“We are grieving for the families who have lost their children and for the bus driver’s family too. This touches all of us here. I doubt many of us will ever get over it.”
Larsen’s daughter, Starla, also 5, was a member of the Daisy troop. She, however, did not go on the outing due to minor illness.
The last site Moira visited was one called Kitsap Kalamities, a forum devoted to—as its banner indicated —“happenings of the rotten kind, right here in our own twisted backyard.”
There was nothing really new on the site. In fact, after skimming it, it was apparent that all of the content had been copied and pasted from other websites. Moira sniffed at that. It was the fate of journalism today.
Kitsap Kalamities was created by someone named Maxi Taxi using a Word Press blog. Moira clicked on the comments field and scrolled through the missives people posted, mostly of the “that sucks” or “your blog is Maxi Stupid” ilk. A few were more thoughtful.
One was very, very intriguing.
Moira sipped the dregs of her sparkling water and twisted the top of its understudy. She tipped it back and drank while her eyes studied the results of her search.
Sweet Data File 31 also posted on “More Than Words,” a site about slanguage and how words are evolving faster than ever.
Comments were closed on that site, so Moira moved on.
As the hands on the clock whirred around on her computer, which searched for more Sweet Data File 31 entries, the thought filled Moira’s brain:
A farm-to-table site popped up, and its feature article, “Our Valley Is Green,” was local, from the Kitsap Peninsula.
Moira thought about it a moment and then posted a follow-up comment on the same thread.
She added her e-mail address and waited. She figured anyone lonely or self-righteous enough to post a comment like Sweet Data did would answer her comment. People like that always wanted to be in the paper. It was only a matter of time.
She looked over at the TV and saw that the chef was making some deep-fried apple dumplings. They looked so good she could feel her stomach trying to eat itself. She got up, went to the freezer, pulled out two Lean Cuisines (Butternut Squash Ravioli and Apple Cranberry Chicken), and headed for her aunt’s obnoxiously large microwave.
Next, she looked up Sandra Berkley’s number. She’d waited long enough to make the call. With the microwave beeping that her meal was ready, Moira quickly left a voice-mail message.
“Mrs. Berkley, Moira Windsor calling from the
Satisfied that she’d sounded kind, authentic, and deeply concerned, she ended the call with her phone number.
chapter 37
SANDRA BERKLEY HAD TAKEN HER LAST DRINK. There was no point in it anymore. She went around the house and collected the partial-empties from their assorted hiding places. She recovered a bottle of vodka from under a stack of old towels on the bottom shelf of the linen closet. She found two—rum and whisky—in the pantry behind the basmati rice bag that she’d purchased in bulk and doubted she’d ever use up.
There were six bottles in total, and she took them to the sink and poured out the remnants of each one until nothing remained.
Katelyn was gone. Harper was next door at the restaurant. She sat down and wrote out a letter. It was something that she’d wanted to do for almost ten years.
Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she finished and signed her name. She folded the slip of paper and put it into an envelope.
IT WAS AFTER SIX THIRTY WHEN KIM LEE finished her work in the mill office and began her precise and ritualistic practice of tidying up her desk. That was just how she was. Always the same, every day. Kim kept most things in order. As an accountant, that pretty much was her job. She closed her drawers, turned the locks, and got up to leave. In doing so, she noticed a small envelope in her in-basket. It had been addressed to her, care of the mill.
She used the letter opener that Beth had made in middle school, a red Plexiglas shark with a menacing jaw that cut through paper like a razor.
Kim started reading, and before she was finished, she was on her way out the door. Beth always complained that her mother was a slowpoke. If she’d seen her right then, she’d never dare to make that claim again. Kim’s
