Fisherman's Bend Page 8

  Don’t get defensive yet, I warned myself. “Which one?” I asked.

  “The Knox County sheriff.”

  So, now the men knew I was not just the insurance gal, which was fine. “And?”

  “Well, I didn’t know he was your boss until I called,” Dane said, sort of apologetically. “When the state police left, we got worried about what could happen if the fishermen regrouped. Quasar and I both think that the vandals were trying to keep us from doing the survey that’s needed for the leasing of ocean floor from the state. That didn’t stop us, so they planned the blockade. There must have been a leak or a tip-off, and now the blockade has been foiled. We’re not locals. We’ve heard stories about how these people treat their neighbors, so we can only imagine how they would treat people from another part of the country.” Again, there was a pause. He hadn’t said anything that required me to respond, so I didn’t. The captain looked at the scientist for reassurance, which came in the form of a coaxing head nod. He began anew, this time speaking faster. “The cops said we should contact the County Sheriff’s Department as this kind of problem is more in line with what they—or you, I guess as it turns out—would handle.” Dane stirred his tea relentlessly as Quasar nodded his head in agreement to everything he had said. “The sheriff said he had already given you a heads-up and that you should be here. And here you are.”

  “Here I am. Everything is copacetic. I don’t plan to leave until I get to the bottom of a few things, so I’ll be around.” I had actually intended to return to Green Haven fairly soon after the boats involved in the memorial service had been secured back to moorings, and after I had the chance to offer condolences, and, in the process, connect with some members of the Alley family. If timing and the stars lined up just right, I figured I could then get the information from those family members that I would need to begin my investigation into the source of illegal drugs in the region. Best-case scenario was a meeting with Parker Alley’s wife, I thought. Connect, go home, return … that was the original plan. But I could hang a bit longer if Dane Stevens and Quasar felt my presence was necessary or made them more comfortable.

  “Actually, the conversation turned from our equipment to the subject of that poor missing fisherman. What your boss said was that going offshore with us to find his body was entirely within your jurisdiction and duties,” Quasar blurted out. That took me by surprise, but didn’t stun me. I just didn’t see it coming. “North Atlantic Shell Farms is okay with us recovering the body if it’s within our survey plot.” I swallowed and thought for a few seconds, formulating a response that wouldn’t sound negative. Quasar continued: “Your boss wants you to call him. Do you have a cell phone? Cell phones work here. They work fine. There’s a tower on Swan’s Island. Or you could borrow mine. It works great.”

  Dane Stevens dug in his pocket and fished out a crumpled scrap of paper. “Here’s the eight-hundred number, in case you don’t have it on you,” he said, and handed me what looked like the edge of an envelope. “Here, use my phone.” I would have preferred to make the call in private, but knowing what was behind the door for weather, I decided to remain right by the stove. I was prepared for the answering service to say that no one was available to take the call and advise me to leave a message or call 911 should it be an emergency, but when the beep sounded for the message, I hung up without leaving one.

  “There’s nobody available to take a call. When do we leave?” I asked, intentionally including myself in the trip. Now that I had a minute to digest the idea, I realized that it was a good one. Both of my bosses would be satisfied, I thought.

  “As soon as this weather passes, which could be right about now.” Dane Stevens got up to look outside. “Let’s cast off. Quasar, you can finish the magnetometer on the way to the site, right?”

  “Yes. Yes, indeed. It won’t take but a few more minutes.” Quasar stood and pulled his yellow slicker back on.

  “I wasn’t planning to go, but that’s fine,” I said, resolved to do the right thing concerning both of my jobs. “When will we be back ashore?”

  “As soon as we have a dead body or a completed bottom survey, whichever comes first.” The captain disappeared out the door, saying he had to fire up the engines while Quasar secured the galley for departure.

  “Don’t worry,” said Quasar. “We can’t stay offshore for more than seventy-two hours. It’s written in our contract. If we want to stay longer, we need to hire crew, and we can’t afford employees—tight budget. In fact, if you weren’t going, we would have only forty-eight hours. It’s an insurance thing. I guess you understand that!”

  I was being shanghaied, I thought. I was the nonpaid crew member who was buying them an extra twenty-four hours to do their job. I hoped that I was being paranoid and that Dane and Quasar really felt that I was needed in some way that related to my insurance or law enforcement jobs. But if the speed at which the ship was made ready to go was an indication, they were nervous that I would come to my senses and bail out before the lines were thrown. What the hell, I had had worse duties, I thought. Much worse. I could always make the best of any situation, I knew. I followed Quasar onto the deck, where the sun was now shining brightly. I was reminded of a saying I had recently heard: If you don’t like the weather in Maine, wait a minute.

  I assured Quasar that I could handle the bow and aft spring lines, and carefully walked the narrow rail around the wheelhouse to the foredeck. Out in the channel I could see the boats making their way back into port. At least the sun had come out for their homecoming. Cremation is nice and neat, and either useful or terrible if it later turns out that an autopsy is needed. Several times during my stint working homicide I had been frustrated by a cremation. By the time an autopsy was ordered, the body was already toast and the crumbs had been sprinkled in the wind. Oops.

  “Let ’em go,” called Dane Stevens, referring to the lines he was now ready to see cast free of the pilings. Quasar and I coiled and stowed the sections of braided nylon while the captain slowly maneuvered Quest away from the wharf and toward the buoys marking the north end of the narrow channel. The wind had switched to northwest with the passing of the low pressure system; steep waves, working against the incoming tide, crashed onto the man-made, rocky breakwater whose purpose was to protect the inner harbor from storm surge. Chilled from spending so much time in the rain and wind, I sat for a minute to soak up some of the sunshine and allow my rain gear to dry out in the stiff breeze. The inlet looked rough enough to send spray onto the bow, so I headed for the shelter of the bridge.

  “May I borrow your phone again?” I asked the captain, who stood behind a huge spoked wheel. Impressed with the range and number of electronics and computer monitors, I thought it would be fun to learn about some of this high-tech equipment, and began looking forward to getting to work. The captain handed me the phone without a word. I could see that he was concentrating on navigating, so I stepped out the open door on the lee side of the house to make a call to my landlords, the Vickersons, to let them know I wouldn’t be home tonight. In the sun and sheltered from the wind, I was happy and comfortable. I would connect with some representative of the Alley family soon enough, I thought. It might actually be better to wait. I sat on the foredeck with my back pressed against a bulkhead and dialed the phone. I was relieved to get the Vickersons’ machine and thus not be stuck in conversation and interrogated about my whereabouts. I left a brief message. I closed my eyes to enjoy the warmth and thought I would remain here until we were out of the narrows and onto smooth water, and then I would join Quasar on deck.

  I braced my feet and pushed my back harder against the steel bulkhead as Quest began rolling from side to side in increasing swells. Deep rolls turned to sudden pitching and slatting as we crawled by the breakwater that lined the west side of the channel. It would be rough for only another minute or two, I thought, as I gazed beyond the rocks spewing spray, out to where the surface glistened like polished silver.

  A crash on our port side a
nd a lurch toward the rocks felt like quite a heavy wave had caught us broadside, but when it was followed by a loud “What the fuck?” from the wheelhouse, I jumped to my feet and scrambled inside to see what the problem was. Something was obviously terribly wrong. Dane Stevens looked more than worried as he pushed the throttles up to full ahead and turned the wheel to the left, putting the rudder hard to port. I glanced out the windows on our port side to see the top of a boat.

  I hurried across the wheelhouse for a better look at what was happening. A lobster boat had its stem against our port bow and was pushing us rapidly toward the breakwater. Even though Quest was at full power, we were losing ground quickly. Quasar came in from the work deck and screamed, “Oh my God! What’s he doing?”

  “He’s forcing us onto the rocks, and there’s not a fuckin’ thing I can do about it.” Dane held the wheel hard to port, eased the throttle, and shifted into reverse in what I supposed was a desperate attempt to let the lobster boat slip by our bow. It was no use; this resulted only in increasing our speed toward the breakwater as the lobster boat persisted in propelling us closer to where the violent surf pounded. Dane put the engine back in full-speed-ahead mode, and we watched the distance to the menacing shore grow smaller still. “Quasar! Get the survival suits!” The scientist was paralyzed with fear. He didn’t budge, and it didn’t matter, I thought. There wasn’t time to climb into the clumsy survival gear. I knew I had to do something fast, or we would be pummeled against the breakwater until the ship broke up and sank. “Quasar! Come on, snap out of it! Fifty-four-degree water!” This time the captain had shouted even louder at his friend, who still was unable to move.

  That did it for me. I tore my gun from its holster and charged out onto the foredeck, where I was nearly face-to-face with a dark figure behind a windshield glaring from the sun. The other boat was truly right upon us, like some kind of demon. Aiming to the right of the figure at the helm, I squeezed off a shot that blew a hole in the Plexiglas the size of a nickel. Shifting my bead to the left, I hesitated before firing again. But the warning shot had done the trick. The lobster boat that had been driving us into the rocks suddenly drew away. And as she turned, I caught the name on her stern: Spartacus.

  7

  I WATCHED SPARTACUS over the top of my gun and kept the sights trained on the middle of the driver’s back until I was certain that he had no intention of having another go at us. He never glanced back, so I didn’t get a look at his face. A police sketch rendered from my eyewitness account would bring in most of Cobble Harbor for the perp walk: adult male, average height and weight, wearing orange foul-weather gear—useless. But, I thought, as I lowered my gun and secured it back in its holster, I did have the name of the boat. One phone call would give me the name of its owner. And tracking down a person by name had always been infinitely preferable to going door-to-door with a fuzzy picture. I took a deep breath and contemplated how effortless firing the shot had been—like second nature. Slinging a gun was a knee-jerk reaction born of good training and bad experience. Chalk another one up for the latter. I gripped the handrail and peered down into the water, preparing for reentry into the wheelhouse. What would the men think of their new shipmate—a modern-day Annie Oakley with sensible shoes?

  I could see the bottom down below the scarce few feet of water we were in—jagged rock and ledge that have the ability to tear open the hull of a steel boat like a can of sardines. Good thing this old tub of a vessel didn’t have a deep draft, I thought. The way Quest rolled nonstop suggested that she had a fairly round bottom and didn’t require much water to float, and the fact that we weren’t sinking was a better indication yet. I watched the harbor’s floor fade and disappear in the increased depth as Dane found the center of the channel again. Far behind us I could see several segments of the funeral procession landing at docks and moorings, and I wondered whether Spartacus had been part of the service or had just found it convenient to tag along, hoping for an opportunity to pounce. My investigation into the identity of our attacker would, of course, need to be put on hold until I was back on terra firma. And that would be sometime in the next three days. I waited outside the bridge an extra minute to allow Dane Stevens time to get squared away as I assumed this episode was far enough out of his comfort zone to warrant it. I waited another minute to fully recover from the physical aspects of my fight-or-flight reaction. I needed to transition back to my more casual and less primal self.

  When I felt fully composed, I stepped into the wheelhouse and latched the door behind me. The captain was busy increasing the range of the radar, putting a waypoint in the GPS track plotter, and getting the autopilot set up. Quasar, who appeared to be in shock, stood gripping the edge of the forward console panel and staring wide-eyed at the horizon. Rather than pretend that someone hadn’t just posed a serious threat to our lives, I decided to remind the two that I was, in fact, in law enforcement and was not simply to serve as their crew member. Yes, Dane Stevens was our captain. And yes, Quasar was our scientist. But I had something of value to offer, too, and had clearly already proven myself to be more than just their ticket for an extra twenty-four hours offshore or someone to put a pot of coffee on the stove. “What do you know about the Spartacus?” I asked, intending the question for both men. Neither answered. “Anything?” I hoped to get something of a reply, even if it was a flat “No.” When Dane finally pulled his face out of the radar, he shook his head and frowned. “Have you ever seen that boat before?” I kept asking questions but wasn’t getting much in return.

  Again Dane shook his head. When I forced eye contact, he said, “No. I don’t remember ever seeing it. But there are so many lobster boats in Cobble Harbor that it’s hard to place one specific boat.”

  “How about you, Quasar?” I asked, trying to shake him out of his trancelike state. I placed a hand on his shoulder and asked again, “Quasar? Spartacus? Any recollection?”

  “Yes, of course,” he answered, seemingly pulling something from his memory. The captain and I waited as Quasar rubbed his chin in concentration. I was holding my breath in anticipation as Quasar slowly emerged from sub-consciousness. He tapped his right temple with an index finger, then opened his eyes wide in an aha expression. “The movie was released in the early sixties. It starred Kirk Douglas.” Dane rolled his eyes—either in amusement or exasperation or both. I was merely disappointed. I had thought for a second Quasar was going to tell us something really useful. Quasar, unbowed, continued. “What a story. And based on fact! Spartacus was captured after deserting the Roman army and was made a slave. The biggest and strongest slaves, like Spartacus, were sent to school to become gladiators. Watching fights was the Romans’ favorite form of entertainment—quite the barbaric sport. Spartacus led the slaves in a revolt against the Roman Empire in what we now know as the Servile War.” I was relieved that Quasar was not showing any signs of classic shock. He was speaking coherently, albeit about something totally irrelevant. Interesting how Quasar’s speech lost the nervous repetition when he was reciting fact from memory. “At the top of his game, Spartacus had one hundred and twenty thousand followers. They raised havoc for a couple of years, but were finally defeated by forces led by Crassus. It’s believed that Spartacus died engaged in battle in southern Italy, but his body was never found. As an interesting aside, Pompey—”

  “Quasar, shut up. That’s not funny,” Dane interrupted.

  “It wasn’t meant to be funny. I was answering Ms. Bunker’s question. And if you weren’t so rude, you might learn something,” Quasar scolded.

  “Our bodies could be smashed to bits against the breakwater right now if Jane hadn’t fired her gun and convinced that guy that the next bullet was going right into his head, and you’re giving a lecture on ancient Rome.” Quasar hung his head slightly and pouted like a child who had been reprimanded. The captain, aware that he had hurt his friend’s feelings, softened his tone as he continued. “Look Quas, if you have something pertinent to say, please do. If not, why don’t you ge
t to work on the gear? We’ll be on-site in thirty minutes. We haven’t given up on that bonus yet, have we?”

  “Right. I’m going. I’m going,” Quasar replied. “We have a bonus to collect. A bonus. Let’s just pretend that didn’t happen back there.” Quasar moved toward the door slowly, talking as he went, supposedly to himself, yet just loud enough for Dane and me to hear every word. “Pertinent, what could be more pertinent? What I was trying to get to before I was so rudely interrupted was what Spartacus represents. It’s the classic struggle: good versus evil, oppressed versus oppressors, peasants versus aristocracy. The good people of Cobble Harbor think we’re the bad guys. No wonder we’re under attack.…” And his voice trailed away and faded into silence as he disappeared around the corner. I was relieved to hear the mention of a bonus, which I assumed was some financial reward for meeting a schedule. The quicker, the better, I thought.

  Alone for the first time with the attractive captain, I hoped I would not revert to the idiocy I had come to expect from myself whenever I found myself in the company of a potential suitor. Suitor? I hated myself for the thought! And I also hated myself for using, even in my head, such a weird old-fashioned word. Why do I become like some Jane Austen character the minute I start to fancy someone? The absence of a ring on his finger and the fact that he had just referred to me by my first name had led me to premature, immature castles-in-the-sky musing about whether he found me at all enchanting. That I had never been described in that way before did nothing to keep me from hoping that he was, right now, in his head, applying that very word to me. It was just a few short months ago, I reminded myself, that I had had a near miss in a love connection with Green Haven’s most eligible bachelor. My role in sending his brother to prison hadn’t done much to get our relationship out of the blocks, I knew. My brand of “justice above all” had fouled every good relationship I had ever almost had, but my dismal record never stopped me from trying to start new ones.