Fishermen's Court

by Andrew Wolfendon

  At the precise moment I step outside, the island plunges into blackness. I hear Jeannie follow me out.

  “Are you going to be safe tonight?” she whispers.

  “Probably not.” Why start lying at this point in the proceedings?

  “Then stay here,” she says. “Sleep on the couch.”

  I grunt my refusal. The last place on Musqasset I would sleep tonight is Jeannie’s house. Not because I don’t want to but because I’ve put her in far too much danger already.

  “You be careful, then,” she says. “You be very fucking careful, Finn Carroll.”

  I realize I forgot to bring a flashlight along, a major blunder on Musqasset. I meant to buy one today. Shit. Jeannie doesn’t offer one, and I don’t ask. I start off down the road in the enveloping darkness. I hear Jeannie patter a few steps after me.

  She aims her voice at the night sky, and I’m honestly not sure whether she’s addressing God or me. “I’d have done anything you wanted. I was just waiting for you to ask.”

  I want to say, “Is it too late now?” but the words stick in my throat.

  I hear her door close quietly. Musqasset darkness swallows both of us.

  . . . . .

  The walk from Jeannie’s to Harbor House takes maybe eight minutes in broad daylight, but the going will be a tad slower in the black island night. Luckily, the route is by open dirt road—no winding forest trails this time—and the rain has let up.

  I’ve gone no farther than two kicks of a can when I hear the sound of heels crunching in the muddy gravel behind me. Three or four pairs of feet. Moving as a coordinated unit. About ten or twelve yards behind me. This time there’s no attempt to be stealthy. My followers want me to hear them. Clearly they’ve been waiting for me outside Jeannie’s.

  Shit. I should have been expecting this.

  I stop. The footsteps stop.

  I walk forward again. The footsteps walk forward.

  I stop. The footsteps stop.

  So that’s the game we’re playing? It’s such a primitive scare tactic, it would almost be laughable... if it weren’t so damned effective. Few fears are more deeply embedded in human DNA than that of being followed in the dark by an unseen enemy.

  “Fuck off, gentlemen,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. No response.

  I can’t imagine they would really try to assault me, or worse, right here on this open road, in one of the most populated parts of the island. Even in the pitch dark. If I screamed for help, a dozen people would come running with flashlights. But still.

  I walk again. The footsteps follow again.

  I stop. They stop.

  I take a stutter step just to catch the men off guard. One of them stumbles as he tries to stop on a dime. Ha. If they’re going to screw with me, I’m going to screw with them. I peel off at a sprint. Their flashlights turn on and light my back as the men take up pursuit. The instant I turn my head to look behind me, their lights go off again.

  I slide to a stop in the dirt. My pursuers stop. They wait patiently in the dark, thirty feet behind me.

  I stand there silently for a full minute. Two minutes.

  I crouch in the roadway, wait some more.

  I’ve got all night, lads.

  If I just camp here indefinitely, I wonder how long they’ll remain at a distance. At some point, will they get bored and make their move? What if I remain here till sunrise?

  I’m feeling an urge to taunt them, to draw them into action and get this over with—whatever this is going to be—but my unarmed state makes that a foolish option. Why have I stepped out without a weapon?

  I try to put on my gamer hat again. If I were a game character, how would I gain some advantage in this situation? I almost laugh out loud as I remember an actual puzzle from a game I worked on a couple of years ago. I pat the dirt road around me and lay my hand on a nice, egg-sized stone the rain has laid bare. I stand, take my shoes off, and remove my socks. I insert one sock into the other to form a double layer, then drop the rock inside, creating a homemade blackjack. I slide my bare, gritty feet back into my shoes and swing my new weapon around.

  Damn—this thing could do some serious damage. It’s got a nice reach too.

  I suddenly don’t feel quite so vulnerable. I’m guessing my pursuers have weapons of their own, but even so, if they try to come near me, they’re going to have regrets.

  “Do you have your lopper with you tonight?” I call out to them. “Why don’t you bring it over here? I’ve got something for you too.”

  No response. No movement.

  “Or do you only attack people who are drugged and strapped into chairs?”

  Again, nothing.

  I turn to start walking, and my foot slips on some more wet rocks. I’ve stumbled upon a cache of excellent throwing stones, loosened by the erosion of the rain. I gather six or eight of them and stuff them into my pockets, then collect a couple more to hold in my hands. If these guys continue to follow me, I’m going to start pelting them with rocks. I can sense their general location well enough that, even in the dark, I’m confident I can score some hits.

  I start walking. They start walking.

  I stop and turn. They stop too. I’m about to hurl a rock in their direction when I freeze my arm. I realize they haven’t technically threatened or assaulted me yet. If I injure one of them, I might be guilty of criminal assault. I probably owe them a warning at least.

  “Listen to me,” I announce. “If you follow me one more step, I will consider that a threat. And I will defend myself. With rocks. I have a good throwing arm and you will get hurt. If you try to come near me, I’ve got a weapon I will use with force. Consider yourself warned.”

  I turn back toward the road ahead and start walking again. I am gratified to note the men don’t immediately follow. I’ve at least put a hiccup in their confidence. They seem to be conferring amongst themselves back there. Fine, confer away. Assholes.

  I hear them start walking again, but farther back now. They’re keeping a greater distance. Good. Still, I warned them not to follow at all. I stop, turn toward them, draw my arm back like a fastball pitcher’s, and throw a rock as hard as I can. I hear it go skittering and clacking down the dirt road. I’d better be careful not to bust someone’s window.

  No reaction from my pals.

  I load another rock into my right hand, an angular one, and go into my windup. This time I hear the rock whistle through the air and strike one of their rain-jacketed bodies with a solid thwhack.

  “Ahh! Fuck!” cries a voice. Good.

  All at once, three flashlights turn on and the men start chasing me at a gallop. I run. They’re keeping their lamps trained fully on me now. This lights the road for them, enabling them to run full-throttle. But it also lights the road for me, allowing me to keep pace ahead of them. I can’t stop and throw another rock, though; that would allow them to close the gap between us. I keep running.

  The men chase me till we’re about twenty-five yards from the village, and then, as if on cue, they shut off their lights and melt silently into the night. Like they never existed.

  . . . . .

  The upstairs rear hallway of Harbor House is dimly lit by a rechargeable night-light. As I pass the room where Mr. and Mrs. Bean—I probably should learn their real names at some point—are staying, I see a faint glow highlighting the crack under the door. A laptop or a Kindle in use. For some reason, I take comfort in this. I don’t want to be alone tonight.

  I grip my homemade blackjack tightly as I unlock my door with my pointless skeleton key. The room is black. Reflexively, I flip the wall switch, even though I know there w
on’t be electricity till morning. I have never felt more fear of a dark room. I know I left my stalkers behind outdoors, but still I feel an absolute certainty that someone is hiding under the bed or behind the door.

  My phone is on the dresser, where I left it charging. That is, it should be there.

  I cross the room in two quick bounds, grope for the phone on the dresser, and find it. I quickly locate the flashlight app. It lights the small room like a crypt in a ghost-hunting show.

  No one behind the door. No one under the bed. No one under the work table.

  No dead fish anywhere, at least that I can see—or smell.

  I jam a wooden chair under the doorknob and allow myself to relax a bit. I take off my jacket and shoes and flop on the bed with my phone. There’s a text message from Jeannie: Be safe. A well-intentioned, if utterly non-actionable, sentiment. There’s an earlier text from Miles too: Talked to Jim. We were right. Call me! Right about what? Intriguing, but too late to call.

  I see there’s also a voicemail from Angie. It arrived just a few minutes ago. This one fills me with unaccountable dread. I touch the “play” arrow.

  “Finn? It’s me,” says recorded Angie. She’s drunk. Kind of like saying Yao Ming is tall. “You have to talk to me. I don’t understand what’s going on. Why is everybody calling me? Why is everybody suddenly so interested in ancient history? I’m confused. I’m scared. What’s going on? Call me.” She mumbles something I can’t decipher, then says, “You’re a good person, Finn. Don’t let anyone tell you different. You’re a good person. Call me.”

  Ange, over and out.

  Hmm, strange. Who does she mean by “everybody”? Has she talked to someone besides me? About the accident? About something else from the past? I wonder who and what. And why would she say she’s scared? Maybe about my mental health—is she still flogging that mule?

  I punch Angie’s number. Might as well get this over with; I know she’s still up. Sodden as a mezcal worm but up. The call rings through and she picks up, but then the line goes dead. A moment later, I see a return call come through from her. I push Answer, but again the line goes dead. I try calling her again. Same thing.

  The Musqasset phone gods are not going to cooperate tonight. Oh well, I tried. I’m about to fall asleep right there with my clothes on when I hear the phone bloop the arrival of a text-message.

  I look at the screen.

  A single character. An emoji. Of a dead fish.

  Before I can identify who the sender is, the message disappears from the screen. Poof.

  My brain can’t handle any more. I shut down.

  Chapter 20

  I dream I’m on the ferry to Musqasset. I’ve just sold my parents’ house, and the new owners are scheduled to move in later today. I suddenly remember that, gosh darn it all, I have left several dead bodies in the basement. I buried them years ago and forgot all about them. I need to get back to the house NOW and move the corpses before the new owners show up. I jump into the water and follow a slimy, miles-long rope that leads back to the dock.

  From there I embark on an epic journey to the sold house. I encounter endless obstacles and detours on the way and make numerous attempts to call the new owners to dissuade them from showing up as planned. But I can never get a call through.

  At some point in my frantic journey, it dawns on me the bodies aren’t even buried; I’ve left them lying right out in the open. If the new owners take one look in the basement, they will see them. I recall I’ve left some wrecked cars down there too. The license plates will clearly identify who the dead people are.

  Dreams are so mysterious. Dagnabbit, if only I could unravel the arcane symbolism behind this one.

  As I finally near my house, I see the neighborhood has been cordoned off with police tape. Dozens of police cruisers, with blue lights flashing, are parked on my street...

  I wake up, fully alert, heart jackhammering.

  I realize it isn’t the dream itself that has awoken me, or even an external stimulus, but rather my own pressured thoughts. Yes, I have awoken myself from an anxiety dream with an even more anxious waking thought. My brain is telling me there’s something critically important I need to remember from earlier in the evening.

  I strip off my jeans and shirt as I try to think. What could it be?

  It has something to do with an encounter that occurred in the village.

  The encounter itself was seemingly insignificant. I stopped at the Mercantile on my way to Jeannie’s—before grabbing the pizza at The Barnacle—to buy the bottle of wine. As I approached the store, I noticed a trio of young men sitting on the covered porch of the closed gift shop next door, trying to stay dry.

  “Excuse me, sir, can I ask you something?” spoke the tallest of the three from under a hooded rain visor. “My friend T-Bone here is twenty-one,” he said, pointing to one of his buddies, who flashed me an insincere grin, all teeth. “Honest to God, but he left his ID on the ferry. Right, T? We wondered if you could possibly grab him a twelve-pack of Coor’s Light.” He held out a twenty and said, “Keep the change?”

  Tempted as I was to risk prosecution for a cool $4.71, I politely declined their business offer and wished them well. And that was that. Finis.

  So why is this scene playing insistently in my head, driving me from sleep?

  Finally, “Light dawns on Marblehead,” as my mother used to say.

  Twenty-one!

  The reason I can’t remember buying that bottle of scotch for Miles all those years ago is that I didn’t buy it. I wasn’t twenty-one yet. I was a year younger than my classmates all through college, thanks to an accelerated academic program I was shoved into in high school. I didn’t like to advertise my age difference, but when I graduated college I was still only twenty. Anytime I’d gone into a liquor store during my college years, I’d been with Miles or some other older friend.

  I couldn’t legally buy booze yet, and I couldn’t ask Miles to buy that particular bottle for me, because it was a gift for him. So I asked someone else to buy it for me.

  With a shudder, I remember who that someone was.

  . . . . .

  A knock on the door awakens me from deep sleep. My phone shows five past eight. I must have crashed heavily when I finally fell asleep again.

  “Who is it?” I ask, groping for my makeshift blackjack.

  “Me.” Miles.

  I throw on last night’s clothes, remove the security chair from beneath the doorknob, and open the door. Miles enters, holding two large coffees from Mary’s Lunch and a bakery bag. He sets them on our worktable and sits down as if ready to dig into another day at the office.

  “I can’t stay long,” he explains. “Beth’s on the warpath. Her folks are coming for an unplanned visit, as soon as they can get over, and she’s freaking out.” Right, she’s freaking out. “I promised I’d help her with the shopping and cooking and housecleaning.”

  “You and Beth do your own housecleaning?” I gasp, pulling back in silent-film horror.

  “Our help’s not on the island this weekend,” he replies, straight as a nail. Alack, the human tragedy of it all. “So listen,” he says, slapping the table, “I talked to Jim.”

  “And?”

  “He talked to the Mass police. He confirmed that the cops did find bottle fragments at the scene. Mostly in Goslin’s car; the bottle punched through the windshield as it shattered. There were some fingerprints on a couple of the pieces too, but no matches popped up in the database. But listen: the investigators were able to figure out the make of the whiskey by fitting together a few of the label pieces.”

  “Holy shit,” I say. It was exactly what we deduced must ha
ve happened, but still it’s a shock to hear we were right.

  “According to Jim, they tracked down three of those ‘special anniversary’ decanter bottles of sixteen-year Glenmalloch that had been sold locally. All three bottles, evidently, were bought with credit or debit cards. So they were able to identify all of the buyers.”

  My blood runs chilly when I hear this.

  “Here’s what’s weird, though,” he says. “You weren’t one of them.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask (even though I’m sure).

  “Yes, because they talked to all three of the buyers. Two of them still had the bottle on their shelves. The third guy said he had finished the booze and put the bottle out in the recycling bin the previous week. It was a few weeks after the accident by that point. The police had no reason not to believe him.”

  “Who was this person, this third buyer?”

  “Jim didn’t say. Anyway, after that the bottle angle dried up for the cops. But obviously they didn’t know what we know.”

  “Which is...?”

  “That there was at least one other bottle sold. Somewhere. The one you bought. I wonder why that one didn’t get reported by any store owners.”

  I know one very good reason: because I didn’t buy it. But I am not ready to tell Miles that just yet, or to remind him I wasn’t twenty-one. My mind is laser-focused on the almost certain identity of that third buyer and why he told the police what he did.

  “You still don’t remember buying that bottle?” Miles asks.

  “No,” I say, which is the truth, but not the whole truth. “Was Jim able to find out anything else?”

  “He got some dirt on this Goslin character too. The guy’s not just a bad actor; he’s an ex-con. Did time at Walpole. Runs with some seriously shady people. And apparently he had alcohol in his system the night of the accident, but it was just below the legal limit. He’d also had a run-in with his wife, or live-in girlfriend or whatever, twenty minutes before the accident. So he may have been ‘emotionally impaired’ if not drunk enough to blow a point-oh-eight.