Fishermen's Court

by Andrew Wolfendon

  “We’d prefer to speak to Mr. Goslin directly.”

  “Yeah, well I’d prefer to be married to George Clooney”—says it Jawdge Cwooney—“but that aint’ workin’ out so good. I speak for Edgar when it comes to money matters.”

  “Well, Mrs. Goslin... Is it Mrs. Goslin?”

  “It’s Begley, and there’s no ‘Missus’ involved.” I think I hear her mutter, “thank Christ.” According to Sure Search, Goslin co-owns his house with a Priscilla Begley. She must be the live-in girlfriend who’s been mentioned.

  “Well, Ms. Begley, we’re not sure if we’re talking about a monetary situation or not. We would have to speak to Mr. Goslin to make that determination. If he does have the information we think he has, then we could be talking about a substantial sum.”

  “You sure as shit better be.”

  “Why is that, ma’am?”

  “How should I put this? There may be a, ah, existing marketplace for this, ah, commodity, which you might not be, ah, cognizant of.” She chuckles, proud of the verbal triple-Axel she has just stuck.

  “Has he talked to someone else?”

  “You’ll have to ask him that.”

  “May I do that, please?”

  “He ain’t here.”

  “Can you tell me when he’ll be back?”

  “No, I can’t. He’s off on one of his, what do you call, ‘unscheduled junkets.’ Why don’t you tell me what kind of money we’re talking about, so I can know how many five-star hotels I should try ringing him at?”

  “I’m not authorized to talk with anyone but—”

  “Good luck with that.”

  She hangs up.

  I can tell she’s interested in the (fictitious) money, but she’s wary, too. Wants me to show more of my cards. Hanging up on me is Negotiations 101 for Priscilla Begley.

  Fine. I can play Negotiations 101 too.

  I take a quick look out a couple of Jeannie’s windows again, scanning for unwanted company, then call the number back. Begley answers with a sigh, affecting boredom. “Yeah?”

  “Perhaps I wasn’t clear, Ms. Begley. Our offer is time-sensitive. We’re prepared to wire Mr. Goslin the money, but we need to know within the next twelve hours if he has the information we’re looking for.” I’m sounding more and more like a B-movie extortionist, but I can’t seem to dial it back. “After that, our offer may no longer be on the table.”

  “Offer? What offer?” she replies. “I ain’t heard no offer.”

  “We’ll talk numbers with Mr. Goslin as soon as we—”

  “Edgar ain’t here. Are you deaf? I ain’t seen him for days. But I know everything he knows, so you can—” She stops herself and says, “Hey, wait a second. I see your number, pal.”

  Shit. I forgot to block caller-ID when I called her back!

  “Listen, asshole, you probably know where Edgar is better than I do. Who is this, really?”

  “My name’s David Slade and I—”

  “Yeah, and my name’s Katy Perry, and my tits are insured for twelve million bucks. Listen, whoever you are, you’re going to tell me your real name and why you want to talk to Edgar, or this conversation’s over.”

  “Mr. Goslin has twelve hours to—”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  The line goes dead again.

  . . . . .

  I’m pacing like a shooting-gallery target again. I should be galvanized by what I’ve learned about Goslin and Begley—they definitely know something the police don’t—but my mind wants to focus on only one thing right now: the way the conversation ended. Begley reacted to Jeannie’s phone number as if she recognized it! How could that be? The Begley-Goslins and Jeannie in communication with one another? I don’t even want to consider the implications of such a thing. But the implications are inescapable.

  Peering out the windows again, I think about the two times I was followed in the dark. In both cases, I had just left Jeannie’s presence. I also recall Jeannie’s secretive conversation with the person in the alley behind the lobster traps. A visual detail from that scene—one my mind has been diligently trying to Photoshop away—now insists upon revealing itself in blazing hi-def. When that person strode away from Jeannie, I saw a flash of color through the traps.

  It was a tone we painters call Davy’s grey.

  Fuck. No, Jeannie, no.

  I feel as if the bottom is dropping out of my world yet again, and I’m tumbling through space. I’m starting to think Miles might be my only friend in this after all. I want to call him and tell him everything I’ve just learned, but the Miles/Beth situation is delicate.

  I don’t know what to do. But if I don’t get out of Jeannie’s house right this minute, I’m going to pop a blood vessel.

  As I’m locking the door behind me, an idea strikes me.

  Chapter 25

  “Mr. Carroll, oh wow! How’s it going?”

  I’m at the front door of Preston Davis, the young deckhand I spoke to on the ferry.

  Preston’s mom invites me in, and we exchange the requisite whatcha-been-uptas. I’m something of a hero in the Davis household because I took young Preston under my wing when he was ten or eleven and gave him free art lessons. And now, I’ve just learned, he has a full scholarship to study art in college. Wow—occasionally I fail to fuck people’s lives up despite my most valiant efforts.

  The moment Mrs. Davis departs the room, Preston looks me hard in the eye. He can tell by my energy this is not a social call. “What’s up, Mr. Carroll?”

  Preston is a young man now, so I decide not to sugarcoat my answer. “Someone followed me to the island on the ferry, Preston; someone who wants to seriously hurt me, maybe kill me.”

  “Jesus, Mr. Carroll.”

  “Does Trombly Boat Tours keep records of passenger data?” I ask him point-blank. I hate to put him on the spot, but, fear not, I’ll get over it.

  “We collect a lot of information on passengers, actually,” he says. “Contact stuff, especially. That’s ‘cause sometimes, like when we cancel a trip for bad weather, we have to get in touch with passengers at the last minute.”

  “What happens to all that data?”

  “It’s stored on a hard drive at the mainland office, but we also export some of it to an online database our webmaster uses to send out ads, newsletters, other stuff.”

  “Who’s your webmaster?”

  “You’re looking at his ridiculously handsome face.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Well, they don’t give me that title, ‘cause then they’d have to pay me webmaster bucks, but yeah, I designed the site and do most of the—”

  “You have access to that database?”

  “‘Course.”

  “Is there any way you could take a peek at it for me, without getting in trouble?”

  “It’s not the Pentagon Papers, Mr. Carroll. Even if it was, I’d do it for you.”

  “Do you keep records of who was on every trip?”

  “The company does. But all the trip-ticketing stuff is done on this antique Dell system in the office. That data’s only stored locally, not on the Cloud. Every few weeks, I export any new names and contact information it collects into the database I use.”

  “So there’s no way for you to find out if a particular person was on a particular trip? Like on the same trip I came over on.”

  “I could, but I’d have to call someone at the mainland office, and come up with a good excuse why I want that info. If you need it, though, I’ll get it for you, Mr. Carroll.”

&nbs
p; “First things first. Can we check out your database?”

  We go to the computer in his bedroom. He he quickly navigates to the Excel file he wants and pulls it up.

  “What’s the person’s name?”

  “Edgar Goslin. G-o-s-l-i-n.”

  “You sunk my battleship. We got a hit. He’s been a passenger.”

  He points to the screen. My heart does a little jig-step. Not only is there an Edgar Goslin on the spreadsheet, but there’s a home phone number, a cell number, and an email address too. The home number I recognize from Sure Search, confirming it’s my Edgar Goslin. The cell number and email address are new information. I hungrily jot them down.

  “There’s no way we can find out when he used the ferry?” I ask.

  “I can’t pin it down to an exact date from here, but there is something I can do.” He clicks through his folders with a techno-speed unattainable by anyone over twenty-two. “Every time I update the database, I create a new file. But I save the old versions. I can step back through them, one at a time, and see when his name shows up. Here’s an old one I saved on August eighth.”

  Less than four weeks ago.

  Preston opens the file and says, “Dude.”

  He tilts the screen toward me. There’s a “Goski” and a “Gosselin,” but, as of 8/8, no “Goslin” in between them. Aha, so Edgar Goslin was added to the database only on its latest update. That means his ferry trip has been very recent. That information, coupled with Begley’s news that he is currently away on a multi-day trip, is all the proof I need that Goslin is indeed on Musqasset Island right now.

  He is one of the guys who followed me here from Wentworth.

  He is Trooper Dan or Chokehold. Probably the latter.

  Not only that, but I now have his cell phone number and email address.

  Holy shit.

  Holy Sanctified, Consecrated, Beatified Shit on Toast.

  I stand up and take a deep breath, feeling something approaching exhilaration. For the first time since that fateful evening in my parents’ house, I have my hands on something real and actionable. Something I can base a strategy on.

  Even better, I feel an emotional anvil lifting off my heart. Maybe Priscilla Begley didn’t recognize Jeannie’s actual phone number! Maybe she just recognized the prefix—the three numbers after Maine’s 207 area code—as that of Musqasset. If she knows Edgar took that ferry here, then she would definitely react suspiciously to receiving a mystery call from the same obscure island thirteen miles off Maine’s coast.

  I give Preston a bear hug of thanks and head out. I have things to do.

  Yes, I am a living, breathing man with things to do.

  . . . . .

  The moment I step back into Jeannie’s house, the smell hits me like a tire iron. Rotten seafood. My nose leads me to her bedroom first. Someone has tucked a half-dozen spoiled mackerel into her bed, pulling the covers up to their nonexistent chinny-chin-chins. A decaying jellyfish-looking creature has been mashed into the keyboard of Miles’ laptop with a rubber spatula, and the kitchen and living room are festooned with dead crabs, fish, and smashed shellfish that smell as if they’ve been sitting in a boat’s hold for days.

  I make a dash through the whole place to ensure the perpetrators are no longer on site. I don’t see anyone—but I’m not convinced I’m alone; I sense human presence nearby.

  I throw open the cabinets and closet doors in every room, exactly as I swore I wouldn’t do, and open some windows to air the place out.

  If this stunt is supposed to piss me off, it’s working. On the bright side, this is proof that Jeannie has no involvement in this. No way she would allow her home to be desecrated in this way. Another voice in my head immediately retorts, On the other hand, what a perfect way to throw suspicion off herself.

  No. I can’t allow myself to be eaten up by this cancer of doubt. I have to trust Jeannie. Period. She let me into her home because she trusted me.

  The cartoon demon on my left shoulder fires back, But why were those guys waiting outside her house like they knew you’d be heading here?

  Maybe they saw her hand me her house keys, the cartoon angel on my right shoulder rebuts. Yes, of course! That would explain it. She handed me the keys right in front of Pete’s!

  I realize there’s one easy way to find out who Jeannie’s been chatting with lately—by checking the call history on her landline. I know how to do that; I bought the damn phone system when I lived here.

  No. Again, no. Not only would that be breaking my word to her, but it would be breaking my fundamental trust in her. And once that dam breaks, it might never be rebuilt. Screw that.

  I grab a small garbage bag from under the sink and begin collecting the animal corpses from around the house, using a doubled-up plastic grocery bag as a glove.

  When that task is done, I throw on Danny’s rain slicker, unzipped, and step out the back door, checking for attackers as I exit. No one in view. I look toward the green trash bin across the yard, beyond Bree’s play castle. That’s when I notice more “gifts” strewn about the tiny, overgrown yard: eight or ten piles of rotting fish entrails, oozing their juices into the muddy ground. The stink is ferocious, even though the wind is blowing the other way.

  I march toward the trash bin, ready to blow a gasket. My shin catches on something unseen, and I go sprawling on the ground, my chest landing smack in a pile of fish guts.

  My head whips about to see what I tripped on. I spot a length of clear nylon fishing line strung bow-taut across the yard, about eight inches above the ground, hidden by the tall grass. Hilarious. You guys are a serious laff riot.

  The bio-muck I have landed in is quite possibly the most abhorrent physical substance I have ever come in contact with. As I try to push myself out of it, something hard strikes my skull with brutal force, rocking my head back. Stunned by the blow, it takes me a moment to realize I’ve been hit by a rock. I’m dazed and disoriented.

  Next thing I know, I’m being bombarded with rocks from more than one direction. I dive for the ground again, using my arms to cover the sides of my face. Several lemon-sized rocks strike my back and side like hammer blows. This must be payback for my rock-throwing.

  Another rock connects with my head and I hear a sickening crack. For a moment I think my skull has been split, but then I take a quick look and notice the “rocks” are actually clams. Hard-shelled clams of cherrystone or quahog size, still in their closed shells.

  After a couple more direct hits to my thighs and ass, the air assault stops, and I hear two sets of footsteps running away. By the time I get to my feet, my attackers are gone.

  Once I determine I haven’t suffered any serious injuries—perhaps a mild concussion, though—the first thought that crosses my mind is, “I am going to get Goslin. Fuck him.”

  My second thought is that I have a lot of work to do now. I can’t go anywhere covered in this vile-smelling filth, and I can’t leave Jeannie’s home and bed befouled.

  Before I start my cleanup, though, I need to send a couple of text messages.

  The first is for Miles, to let him know what’s been happening to me. I go back inside the house, strip off my shirt and pants (again), toss them into the washer, scrub my hands, and grab my phone. For a moment, I forget why I grabbed it—maybe I am concussed. I shake my head clear and type the message: Lots to talk about. Goslin is the man. He’s here on the island right now. He just attacked me, but I’m okay. Can we meet somewhere?

  The second message is for Goslin. I find a dead fish icon on an emoji app and select it as a text message for him. I would love to see his face when he receives this message from me to his personal cell number, which there’s no w
ay in the world I should know.

  It’s time for me to start messing with his head.

  Chapter 26

  I’m about to hit Send when an alien impulse—I think it’s called wisdom—intercedes. If I text Goslin that emoji, I may gain a moment of satisfaction, but I’ll also be playing his game. And tipping my hand in a way that doesn’t serve me. I need to maximize my advantages.

  What are my advantages, as things stand? I shake my head again to reboot the synapses. One: I know who Goslin is, and he doesn’t know I’ve figured that out. Two: I know he’s on the island—and I have ways to contact him here; he doesn’t know that either. Three, and this might be the biggie: I know he has anger management issues. That might be his Achilles heel; I can’t afford to let it be mine.

  Whatever my plan of attack is going to be, I need exploit his weaknesses and leverage my advantages to the fullest. Yes.

  First things first. I toss Jeannie’s sheets into the washer with my clothes. Dressed in Danny’s slicker and some men’s sweat pants (not mine, alas) I found in a closet, I grab a couple of trash bags and a snow shovel, and go to work cleaning up the fish guts in the yard.

  After triple-bagging everything I can pick up, I thoroughly hose away the residue from the grass. Wasting water is a capital offense on Musqasset, but I can’t count on the rain to do this job. Next I set to scrubbing the indoors clean.

  The whole time I’m doing these tasks, I’m thinking about how to deal with Goslin (who may be watching me every moment). Casting this as a game scenario, I realize my range of options hinges on one key variable: if I can find out where Goslin is staying on the island, then I can employ a “first strike” strategy of some kind and surprise him. If I can’t find out where he is, then I must lure him into some sort of trap, which involves an entirely different type of strategy.

  So, first and foremost, I must try to determine Goslin’s whereabouts.