As I board the Knot for Sail—yes, tragically, that is the ferryboat’s name—I feel a thrill of excitement about seeing Musqasset again, even under less-than-optimal circumstances.
“Hey, Mr. Carroll,” shouts a smiling deckhand, about seventeen or eighteen, hurrying by with a rope and bucket in his hands. He looks familiar, but I can’t quite place him. “Preston Davis,” he says, seeing my confusion.
“Of course! Preston! Holy shit, look at you. I’ll catch up with you when you’re not busy.” I gave Preston painting lessons when he was still a pudgy kid. Now he’s grown into a handsome young man with scruffy whiskers. Better brace myself for more changes.
The ferry has an upper and a lower deck. The lower deck offers both indoor and outdoor seating, but I decide to seek a spot on the open upper level. It’ll be less crowded up there, with the weather as it is, and I want to be alone. I climb the steps, hearing the familiar clang of my shoes on the metal grating. I find an open deck table in the rear corner and claim it with my shopping bag and backpack.
The boat is already dipping like a tilt-a-whirl car, though we haven’t left dock yet, and the wind is whipping my hair, but I feel incongruously calm and even-keeled. The sludge of depression that has been gumming up my life of late seems completely absent. I find I can move and breathe with unaccustomed ease.
I’m glad I made this decision to get away. I do feel a bit awkward about descending on Miles’ family—especially Beth, whom I’ve always suspected enjoys my company about as much as she enjoys a nice root canal—but I intend to stay out of everyone’s way. Their house is huge and if I can’t find a quiet corner to read in, I’ll hike the trails (weather permitting) or slip off to the village or out to Studio Row. There are a few people I wouldn’t mind saying hi to.
Which brings me to a topic I’ve been strategically avoiding. Jeannie. She still lives on the island. It was “her” place before I moved there, and it seemed only right that it should revert to her after we broke up. That was one of the reasons I left. It’s a small community, Musqasset is. Fewer than a hundred people live there year-round. Socially, things can get a bit “close.”
I’ve heard she had a child with my replacement dude. I don’t know if he’s still on the scene—my replacement—and frankly I don’t much care to find out. Do I want to see Jeannie? Well, she’s only the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’m not even joking. So on a selfish, testosterone-driven level, of course I want to see her. Do I think it’s a good idea? Not even close. I’m sure we’re both over the breakup and would behave politely toward each other. But I’m certainly not her favorite human on Earth, and I don’t want to rock the boat of her new life (or, if I’m being brutally honest, to find out I am impotent to do any rocking).
Besides, I’ve got enough things to worry about as is. Why pile on?
The captain’s voice comes over the P.A. “Okay, folks, we’re going to be shoving off. Waters are pretty choppy, as you’ve probably noticed. We’ll do our best not to t-bone the big rollers, but still, it might not be pretty.” He proceeds to give half-joking instructions on what to do if you need to barf, which, of course, instantly makes me want to barf.
I look over the railing and see Preston Davis pulling up the rubber dock fenders and untying the moorings. My mind pulls a U-turn and I decide this is the worst idea I’ve ever had (no minor achievement, given my track record). I seriously consider bailing—grabbing my stuff, running downstairs, and heading for gangway, which will be closed off any second now.
But as I watch the deckhands detach the gangplank from the boat, I remain glued to my seat. My ass, not for the first time in my life, has made my decision for me.
The captain blasts the horn. The folks on the dock wave goodbye.
We’re off. Like dirty skivvies, as my dad used to say.
. . . . .
I try to read a book, but the motion of the boat, combined with my inner turbulence, makes concentration impossible. After reading the same paragraph eight times, I give up. A coffee would perhaps be therapeutic.
Leaving my bags to mark my spot at the table, I head for the downstairs snack bar. The cabin is jammed with gabbing passengers, some drinking coffee, some hoisting ten-a.m. Pabsts and Sutter Home singles, yo ho ho. The choppy waters have everyone laughing a bit harder than strictly necessary and struggling to find their sea legs. I move to the end of the customer waiting line and take my place. I suddenly realize how zonked I am from lack of sleep. I plant my feet wide apart for balance and let my eyelids drift shut. The chattering voices meld together in my mind and become the echoey “rhubarb” of a movie mob. The sound has a soporific effect, and I find I’m getting drowsy on my feet.
I think I actually do doze off for a second or two, in spite of the boat’s rocking.
Something snaps me to attention—three syllables, leaping out of the random noise of the crowd behind me: “Bim bam bom.”
Nope. Didn’t hear that. Not possible.
My impulse is to whip my head around and try to pinpoint where the voice came from, but I force myself to keep my gaze trained on the Harpoon Ale sign on the wall. My legs feel numb as I shuffle forward with the wobbly-legged snack line.
Did I really hear what I think I just heard?
Once again, my brain spins wildly as it tries to make sense of the incomprehensible. No way Trooper Dan could be on this boat. I left Wentworth in the dead of night, from an obscure fleabag motel where I paid with cash, and there were no cars anywhere near me on the road.
And yet, “bim bam bom.” Who says that? And did I even hear it? The voice I think I heard was definitely in the same upper range as Trooper Dan’s. But I might have drifted into a REM state for a moment there and dreamt it. Or maybe my stressed-out brain distorted some similar-sounding syllables. I try to think of phrases in English that are phonetically similar to “bim bam bom.” I come up with precisely jack.
Still, Trooper Dan can’t be on this boat—can’t be.
But what if he is?
Then two things are true. One, he’s watching me like a cat. Two, he’s not wearing his Storm Trooper mask. I have no idea what he actually looks like, except he has a short reddish beard and small, even teeth. Nor do I know what his cohorts look like or whether they are traveling with him today.
I don’t want to look as if I’ve become suspicious, so I force myself to stay in line and buy the coffee I no longer want. When I get the lidded Styrofoam cup in hand, I stroll back through the crowd, exchanging friendly glances with the faces I encounter. I pass a trio of middle-aged women, the two island geezers from the dock, a couple of teenaged boys...
I wander out onto the exterior deck and stroll around the whole perimeter of the boat, nodding greetings at my fellow passengers. I encounter only one reddish beard, but it’s longish and attached to the face of a tall, gaunt guy with Coke-bottle glasses. Anyway, Trooper Dan might have shaved his beard by now, or dyed it. So the beard isn’t much to go on.
I go back upstairs and repeat the same procedure, walking around the whole upper-deck perimeter wearing my rendition of a friendly expression. I spot only one possible Troop candidate leaning on the rail, smoking an e-cigarette, looking out at the water—a guy about five-seven or so, trim of build—but his lips seem a bit too dark, his beard too wispy and light in color. I think I’ll know my guy when I see him, and no bells are ringing. Not loudly anyway.
I return to my spot at the rear table, yawn and stretch and look around inconspicuously. Only two new parties have moved into the table area since I left. One is a couple in their sixties with puffy pale-blue winter jackets and lots of camera equipment, the other is what appears to be a family of three: a husband and wife in their upper forties and an adult daughter in her twenties. They look vigorously “down east”-y i
n their fisherman’s hats and L.L.Bean rainwear.
I ask myself, being strictly logical and unemotional, which scenario is more likely: that a stranger uttered the phrase “bim bam bom” or that Trooper Dan is actually on the boat? I must give high odds to the former, though I’m not too bullish on the wager.
I try to banish fear from my mind and go back to my book. But as the boat churns its way over the endless hills of water, I begin to feel that every person who glances in my direction wants to murder me. Maybe that’s because we’re all feeling pretty seasick by now. The ceaseless rise and fall of the Knot for Sail has put a dark look in everyone’s eyes.
The watched feeling grows stronger by the minute, though I have no concrete reason to give it credence. The only passengers facing my way are the old photographer couple and the L.L.Bean family. The latter are in their own world. Daughter is asleep with her head on Dad’s shoulder. Dad is willing himself to sleep with a crunched frown on his face. Mom, an intriguing shade of green not theoretically attainable by mammals, is trying to read her Kindle.
Several other passengers have begun milling about, though. I notice e-cigarette guy turn and look in my direction a couple of times. Am I imagining things or does he also shoot a meaningful glance at another guy sitting on the opposite side of the deck—a bigger guy wearing a slate-grey slicker with a hood?
If Trooper Dan is on board, I must find a way to force his hand and make him reveal himself. The prospect of being stuck on a small island with a psycho like him—with no means of escape for several possible days—is unthinkable.
So how can I flush him out? I ask myself what I would do if I were a character in one of the adventure games I work on for a living. This is a mental trick I sometimes use for problem-solving. Thinking like a game character, I come up with an idea. A ridiculous one, admittedly, but maybe worth a shot.
I pick up my cell phone and locate VoxFox, a digital recorder app I use for work meetings. I open it and hit Record. Then, inviting attention, I go digging loudly in my grocery bag as if hunting for a snack. I secretively slide the phone into the white paper bag containing the crusty bread and then bunch the bread bag closed.
Next, I take my idea notebook out of my backpack and begin looking around conspicuously. I try to convey the impression that I’m getting juuuust a tad suspicious about being followed, without overdoing the act. I start writing some notes, as if I’m recording my suspicions. As I do this, I make eye contact with every male who looks my way, as if to say, I see you. I’m actually writing random observations, but I hope to pique the curiosity of Trooper Dan, if he’s here. I carry on with this for a while, then pretend I’m feeling sick. I stand up, holding my belly. I “surreptitiously” hide the notebook in the shopping bag, atop the crusty bread, and cover it with groceries. Then I lay my rain jacket over the bag and head for the stairs.
Here’s my thinking: if I’m being watched, my watcher is going to want to know what the hell I’ve been writing—i.e., am I on to him? By my going to the bathroom for a sick visit, I am offering him a grand opportunity to check out my notes. There’s a long waiting line for the bathroom right now, so he can safely assume I’ll be gone for a while.
And if he goes through my bag, aha, my phone will record him. I’ll hear the recorded jostling of the groceries and whatever other sounds he makes. This may not tell me who my stalker is, but it will at least confirm my suspicion that I’m being followed. And that’s a start.
What if he—or they, as the case may be—finds my phone/recorder in the process? I really don’t think they’ll look in a bread bag for a phone, but even if they do, they’re the ones with the problem. See, if they shut off my phone, or steal it, or tamper with it in any way, I’ll still know they went through my stuff. Pretty clever, eh?
Okay, no, but got a better idea?
I wait in the long line for the unisex toilet. At one point I turn and see L.L.Bean daughter waiting behind me. She’s cute, I realize—really cute—despite the current pallor of her skin. We exchange playful glances, but the tang of fresh bile in the air, our mutual nausea, and our age difference nix any actual flirting.
The guy in the slate-grey slicker—actually, I’d use Davy’s grey if I were going to paint it; slate with a tinge of green—strides by after a while, casting a hooded glance in my direction. Checking to see if I’m still occupied? I finally make it into the bathroom—gad, what a horror show, we shall never speak of it—and then go hang out in the snack bar area for a while.
At last I go back upstairs and reclaim my spot at the rear corner table. I’m careful not to open my shopping bag for a while. When it feels natural to do so, I remove the rain jacket from the top of the bag, reach inside, and slip the phone out. Pretending to pull it from my pocket instead, I make a show of flipping through some menu screens and plugging in earphones. I lean back in my seat, tapping my hand in idle rhythm, as if listening to music.
What I’m really doing, of course, is listening to the audio recording I’ve just made.
For the first few minutes of the recorded session I get nothing but a hiss and a low rumble: the background noise of the ocean and the boat engine.
Then I hear something that puts me on high alert.
The bag is rustled and a voice says something that sounds like, “You stay on that side.” It’s a voice I believe I know, but I can’t be sure. One thing is certain, though. If this guy is talking to someone, he’s not traveling alone.
I hear about five seconds of rifling noises that drown out whatever the voice says next. Then the voice, just above a whisper, says, “Here it is.” It’s him. I’m certain of it. Trooper Fucking Dan. I feel a fresh surge of nausea. I stand up, turn around, and look out over the back deck-rail for fear my face will betray the horror I’m feeling.
“Doesn’t seem to go in order,” comes a second recorded voice, a deeper one with a heavy Boston—Brooklyn?—accent. Must be talking about my written notes.
“Here’s some stuff, dated today,” says the Trooper voice. There’s a fifteen-second pause before he says in his high tone, “It’s nothing. Just random bullshit. He’s clueless.”
I hear the bag being repacked. Then I hear cloth zippers being opened: my backpack, I assume. “Oh look,” says Troop in an aww-isn’t-that-cute voice, “he bought a round-trip ticket.”
Recorded Chokehold laughs as if this is the funniest joke he’s heard in quite some time, and then I hear the two men clomp away.
I shut off the recording. I don’t want to turn around until I’ve regained my composure, so I remain standing at the back railing staring out at the water. As I watch the wake of the boat melding into the rolling waves, I feel as if I’m watching my entire past slip away behind me.
Only the present remains.
The terrible, poisoned present, in which I am royally screwed.
I do have one possible advantage, though. I know these jagholes are following me. But they don’t know that I know.
Chapter 8
The sight of Musqasset’s domed silhouette on the horizon does not lift my spirits as it always has in the past. I feel like a baby mouse about to be set loose in a snake terrarium.
Several concerns vie for attention in my fear-hijacked brain. First and foremost, I need to make sure Miles does not meet me at the dock. I mustn’t lead a psychopath posse to my friend’s home. Staying at Miles’ house is officially off the itinerary. I text him: Miles, if you were planning to meet me at the ferry, don’t. I’ll explain later. Hate to sound cryptic, but DO NOT come to the ferry. IMPORTANT. Trust me.
Miles texts back a minute later: Roger that, but I WILL want an explanation ASAP.
My second concern is that I must find a way to ditch my pursuers as soon as I set foot on the island. I must do
this (a) without knowing who they are and (b) without betraying that I know I’m being watched.
Third—and this is the biggie—I’ve got to figure out a way to get back on this boat for its return trip. The ferry won’t be staying on Musqasset overnight. It always docks on the mainland, so it will be going back today, regardless of weather, and I need to be on it.
As if reading my thoughts, the ferry captain comes on the P.A. “Ahhhhh, listen, folks we’re going to be doing a quick turnaround. I doubt we have any day-trippers on board today, but if you or anyone you know has a ticket on the four o’clock back to New Harbor, tell ‘em we’ll be heading back early, as close to one-thirty as we can make it. It’s twelve-thirty now.”
Normally the ferry stays on the island for four-plus hours, giving the day-trippers time to poke around the shops and grab some lunch. Not today.
The stepped-up schedule means I have less than an hour to figure out how to get back on the ferry without being stopped or followed by Trooper Dan and company. Working in my favor is the fact that they don’t know I’m on to them. The last thing they’ll be expecting is for me to turn around and get right back on the ferry I just arrived on.
So goes my theory.
. . . . .
The crew has a tough time docking the Knot for Sail because of the rough waters, but they finally manage to get the gangplank in place. It’s moving up and down like a bellows as the passengers disembark. I never got a chance to talk to Preston Davis, I realize. Oh well, now’s hardly the time for grand reunions. He’s busy assisting passengers anyway.
Anxious as I am to get off the boat, I stick to the rear of the exiting crowd. I want to be a watcher, not a watchee, see if my pursuers reveal themselves in any way.
It’s been storming on the island already, I see; everything’s soaked, and some pretty hefty debris has been blown about. But the rain, if not the wind, has stopped for the time being.
Fishermen's Court Page 6