Fishermen's Court

by Andrew Wolfendon

  When I was in the maintenance barn, I saw no evidence he was camping there, but I still can’t rule out that possibility. Nor can I rule out the idea that he’s rented a room. I do know his cell number, though. That’s huge. I don’t want to call it directly; not yet—not until I know what my play is. But I wonder: is there a way I can locate him based only on his cell number, via GPS? Or is that something only the police can do?

  I don’t know the answer to that, but I know someone who might.

  The wash is finished drying, so I make Jeannie’s bed and strike off into the storm again.

  . . . . .

  “Private property is an illusion,” shouts a voice in response to my knock. I think that’s Enzo’s way of saying, “Come in, please.”

  I shake off the rain and step into his rattletrap house. He’s working at his computer wall. After our last exchange, I’m not sure what Enzo’s attitude toward me is, but I elect to believe our old friendship means something.

  I sit on the edge of a low bookcase, and he surveys my bruised and nicked-up face. He doesn’t ask how it got that way, and I don’t explain. “Hey Enzo, you’re a pretty paranoid guy, right?”

  “It’s not paranoia...”

  “If they’re really out to get you. Tell me about it. What do you know about tracking someone’s location by using their cell-phone number?”

  “What do you need to know?”

  “Well, like... can it be done?”

  He grunts as if to say, It’s not a simple answer. “Is this a hypothetical situation or...?”

  “Let’s call it quasi-hypothetical.”

  He laughs a bone-dry heh-heh. “Well, question number one is: do you have the person’s permission to track them? If so, you just download an app. Your friends and family sign onto your list, like good little sheep, and then you can all find out who’s sneakin’ off to the no-tell motel when they’re supposed to be in church praying to the Flying Spaghetti Monster.”

  “And if you don’t have the other person’s permission?”

  “Then you have to get more creative. It all comes down to whether you can get your mitts on the person’s phone. I mean physically. If so, there are GPS trackers you can plant that act like human LoJack systems. The software sits there completely invisible; the person has no idea it’s on their phone. In fact...” He leans back in his chair and wiggles his brow. “If you can get hold of someone’s phone, you can do a whole lot more than track their location.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are programs you can install—not strictly legal, mind you—that’ll let you turn that phone into a spying device J. Edgar Hoover would have creamed his tighty-whities for. You essentially gain complete control of the person’s phone, remotely.”

  “Holy shit.” That would be handy as ass.

  “Holy shit indeed.”

  Unfortunately, there’s no way I can get my hands on Goslin’s physical phone, so that route is moot. “What if you only have their number, not the phone itself?”

  “Then you’re shit-out-of-luck. If it’s an emergency situation—a missing person or someone threatening to rape your cat—the cops can get a warrant and work with Lord Verizon to triangulate the person’s location. But that option is generally unavailable to the merely curious private citizen.”

  He turns back to his computer screen and cracks his knuckles. I take the hint and stand up to say goodbye. But then a thought occurs to me. “Hey Enzo, can I ask you something else?”

  He hears a note in my voice that makes him turn and give me his full attention.

  I decide to skip the hypotheticals this time. “Some pretty scary people planted a document—a letter—on my home computer. The letter claims I wrote it, but I didn’t. But here’s the crazy part: anyone who read it would swear I did. It has my humor, my writing style, personal stuff about me. Even I’m half convinced I wrote it in some kind of fugue state. I can’t freakin’ figure it out.”

  “What type of scary people are we talking about? Criminal? Corporate scum? Government scum? High-level? Low-level?”

  “I think it’s just a personal revenge thing, but I’m not a hundred percent sure.”

  “The reason I ask is... Well, let me back up a bit.” He leans his chair back and thinks for a moment. “Do you know the main reason most second-rate scams and hoaxes fail? Shitty writing. I kid you not. Most people can’t write and have no clue what it takes to create fake letters and documents that are convincing. That’s why you can usually spot an email scam; something’s a little off about the wording and punctuation.

  “But there are people out there who are good at this stuff,” he continues. “Literary forgers. They’re like art forgers but with words.”

  “Wasn’t there a book out a few years ago by someone who did that?”

  “There was, but this is bigger than just writing fake Dorothy Parker letters for fun and profit. Government agencies and criminal enterprises—as if there’s a difference—employ these folks too. They’re talented writers, but they’re also cunning linguists. Ha! I knew if I lived long enough I’d find an excuse to say that! They can recognize any linguistic style and emulate it. And now they have technology on their side too. If they can access your computer, directly or remotely, they can run everything you’ve written—emails, docs, online posts—through a software program that scans for all sorts of writing tendencies: commonly used words, sentence structure, literacy level, punctuation and formatting habits, common errors, even personality markers. With that kind of help, these forgers can write a letter even your wife or mother would believe you wrote. Fool the experts too.”

  Well, well, well, I am certainly getting an education from Enzo today. I feel the coil of anxiety that has been tightening in my chest for the past week start to loosen a little. Why? Well, now there is at least one plausible explanation for how that suicide note got written that doesn’t involve my being bat-shit insane. It also would explain why Troop and company spent so much time dicking around on my computer that day.

  It’s hard to believe a guy like Goslin would go to the trouble and expense of hiring a “literary forger,” though. But then again, if he runs in criminal circles that might have access to that kind of specialist, it’s not so farfetched, is it?

  I thank Enzo for his help and get up to leave. As I’m heading out the door, he shouts in a movie-Amish accent, “You be careful out among them English.”

  Chapter 27

  As soon as I leave Enzo’s, I notice a reply from Miles to my earlier text. It reads, Beth and I want to buy you dinner tonight. How about the Mermaid at 6:30?

  I recognize the purpose of the invite. Treating me to dinner at a restaurant will allow Miles and Beth to buy off some guilt about shunning me, while still keeping me away from their home, their family, and their prying friends. Still, I suppose I’ll have to eat something one way or another. So I text him: Sounds good. Thx. Miles texts back: Why don’t I pick you up at 5? That’ll give us time to talk about Goslin first. We’ll meet Beth at the Merm.

  Good. Miles has managed to wangle some Beth-free time with me so we can strategize about how to handle the latest developments.

  I have a couple of errands to run—buy a flashlight and some trail mix and also, now, some first-aid supplies to treat my wounds. Once I’ve completed those tasks, it’s time to start getting ready to meet Miles. I’m still officially a guest at Harbor House, so I decide to shower there. Anyway, Miles still thinks that’s where I’m staying.

  There are no private bathrooms at HH, as I’ve mentioned, only a suite of shower and toilet stalls in the middle of the second floor. As I take my clothes off in front of one of the large mirrors, I see I’ve got three quahog-s
ized bruises blossoming on my sides, and a couple of nice ones on my back. The right side of my forehead is cut and bruised from where a cherrystone struck it, and my lip is puffed up—don’t know how that happened. I have another cut on top of my head, with a visible lump under it. This new “fighting hobo” look is not going to play well with Beth.

  The worst thing I see in the mirror is not the cuts and bruises, though; it’s the hollow look in my eyes and the tremor in my muscles. Each encounter with Goslin and his goons has been more extreme than the last, and I have a pretty good idea what it’s all leading up to. The torment they’re putting me through now is just foreplay. Payback for all the years of suffering Goslin believes I caused him. But the real payoff is yet to come.

  I need to come up with a plan tonight to deal with Goslin and, if possible, execute the plan tonight as well. Tomorrow morning at the latest. I don’t want to wait around to find out what his next move is going to be. I have to make the next move. Somehow.

  . . . . .

  I sneak out of Harbor House by the fire escape to find Miles already waiting for me in his golf cart. He looks… tense. I slide into the cart beside him, and off we go.

  It appears the rain may finally have stopped for good.

  Miles waits till we’re out of the village and then starts peppering me with questions. “Are you sure Goslin is one of the guys who attacked you?” “How do you know?” “Are you sure he’s on the island?” “How do you know Goslin and Begley have inside information about the accident?”

  The more I provide credible answers, the more agitated he becomes. Again I find this odd. If he really thought I was nuts, he wouldn’t be grilling me this way. And he wouldn’t be getting so worked up about my answers.

  I would love to believe his concern is solely for my safety, real or psychological, but I know Miles well enough to suspect there is more to it than that. He only gets this concerned about things that affect him personally.

  As if to confirm my suspicions, Miles pulls the cart over, jumps out, and starts pacing in circles. “Fuck,” he says. “Why does this have to be happening right now? Could the timing be any worse? Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!”

  “What is it, Miles?” He doesn’t answer. “Does this have anything to do with the career moves you were telling me about?”

  “Yes, damn it to shit!” He continues to pace a groove in the road.

  “What’s going on with all that?” I ask.

  “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

  I can tell he wants to talk about it, though, so I don’t say a word. I just fold my arms and wait. It’ll come.

  It does.

  “Remember I told you there might be an opportunity coming up for me in Washington?”

  “No, I forgot. Of course I remember.”

  “It’s in the Senate, Finn.”

  “Holy crap.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know if you keep up with political news, but there have been rumors in the press about Pat Aldridge being in poor health, possibly resigning before his term is up.” Aldridge is one of Maine’s two U.S. Senators. “All pretty vague stuff, but my name has been tossed around in a couple of newspapers—very purposefully, by the way—as a possible replacement. Anyway, within the next week or so, Aldridge is going to announce he’s stepping down. Turns out, he has terminal cancer and wants to spend his final months with his family. This isn’t public information yet.”

  “And?”

  “In the state of Maine, it’s the governor who appoints an interim senator in a situation like this. And... it turns out I might have an ‘in’ there. Some kind of ‘favor-owed’ situation. Anyway, things have been heating up behind the scenes and now, well, it’s...”

  “Time to buy a Keurig machine for your new office on Capitol Hill?”

  Deflecting my lightness, he says, “This could become more than just a Senate seat too, Finn. A lot more, if a certain group of people have their way.”

  Is he saying what I think he’s saying? “Wow, Miles. That’s pretty freaking exciting.”

  “Try terrifying. If there was ever a time in my life when I had to be absolutely, positively, boiled-in-a-sterilizer clean, it’s right now. I can’t afford to have even the whiff of a scandal floating anywhere near me. Why does this stuff have to be surfacing now? Why?”

  “Whoever is pursuing me, Miles—Goslin and his gang—has no knowledge of you being in that car.”

  At this, Miles’ face flashes red and he stares hard at me for several seconds. He holds up his phone like an accusation, showing me a text message on the screen: Carlisle Road, Bridgefield, MA. 1:20 am, May 13, 1999. Jesus. What? In the Sender box is a garble of numbers, like the one I saw on my phone when the dead fish messages came in.

  “Who... Who sent this? When did you get it?”

  Miles says nothing. His eyes dig into mine with almost physical force.

  “This is impossible,” I say. “There were no witnesses, and the bottle connects me to the scene, not you. The only person on Earth who can possibly put you in that car that night is...” I leave the unspoken “me” hanging heavily in the air.

  A storm cloud passes over Miles’ expression.

  “Jesus, Miles. You don’t think I sent this text… do you? You don’t think I’m the one who’s been—”

  “No. Well, not... deliberately.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning if you were… in ideal mental shape—the Finn I’ve always known—of course you would never...”

  “Do you still think I’m delusional? Do you still think I made up that story about being attacked at my parents’ house? That I’m the one stirring all this old stuff up? Even after what I’ve told you about Goslin? He’s on the island, Miles; that’s a fact.” I lift my shirt and rotate my torso to show him the bruises on my sides and back. He gasps. “Do you think I did that to myself? Real events are happening here.”

  “I know. I know real events—some real events—are happening. But I also can’t forget the fact that you did just get out of a psychiatric hospital. I’m sorry, Finn, but I can’t help but wonder how much of what’s happening to you is—okay, I’ll say it—your guilt orchestrating events so you somehow get punished for your misdeeds.”

  “God, Miles.”

  “People do that, Finn. I’ve seen it. They bring down upon themselves the punishment they think they have coming to them. And if that’s what’s happening here, then maybe part of you wants to make sure I get punished too!”

  Ah, the nub of it. We face each other on the road like unarmed gunslingers. “You’ve been watching too many old Hitchcock movies,” I say. “Tell Beth thanks for the dinner invite, but I have a date with Chef Boyardee this evening.” I start off down the road.

  After a few seconds, I hear the bloop of a text message coming through on Miles’ phone. Miles pulls up next to me in his cart and stops. His face is the color of a cadaver’s. He shows me the text he just received. It’s identical to the last one: Carlisle Road, Bridgefield, MA. 1:20 am, May 13, 1999.

  And I sure as hell didn’t send it.

  . . . . .

  We drive around the island in silence for many minutes. Miles is chewing his lower lip like it’s calamari. Finally, he releases a few tight syllables. “All right, assuming Edgar Goslin is on Musqasset right now—and that’s still a big assumption in my mind...”

  “He took the ferry here, Miles. He did. Ask Preston Davis.”

  “...Then where does that leave us?”

  I tell him about acquiring Goslin’s cell-phone number from Preston. I also tell him about the money-for-information ploy I used on Priscilla Begley.

 
“That wasn’t a terrible idea,” he concedes, stopping the cart to think. “Actually, I don’t see any reason it can’t still work.”

  “Begley hung up on me. She knew I was conning her.”

  “No, I mean we approach Goslin directly. Leave Begley out of it.”

  “But he may have talked to her by now. If so, I’m sure she told him about my call.”

  “So? What’s to say we can’t still reach out to him? We call his cell, tell him we know he’s on the island, tell him that we’re an interested party, that we’re on the island too, and that we have cash for him if he can provide us certain information. Act like we’re the ones with all the leverage. Play it coy, don’t give him any details, just say we want to meet him. If I’m Goslin, I’m going to be curious enough, or suspicious enough, to show up.”

  “Maybe. But I’d be super-cautious too, if I were him. I’d definitely bring my goons along. And let’s assume it works: we get him to show up—either alone or with goons—at a meeting place. Then what? I mean, we’re not really going to hand him a wad of cash, so...?”

  Miles pauses and thinks. “Right, we need to be crystal clear about our objective, and our move. Also—shit!—we’ll have to find a stand-in to do the actual meeting for us; Goslin knows who you are, and he might know who I am too.” He looks at his watch, blows air out of his cheeks. It’s obvious this thing is going to require more strategizing than we have time to do in the ten minutes remaining before we meet Beth.

  “Let’s plan on doing something in the morning,” he says. “Meanwhile, let’s enjoy a...”

  “Last supper?”

  “Nice meal.” He starts driving again. “Needless to say,” he adds, needlessly, “don’t tell Beth what we talked about.”

  . . . . .

  Beth is a better actor than I remembered her to be. She orders a nice bottle of wine to get dinner rolling, makes lively conversation throughout the meal, and, in general, plays the perfect hostess. She even accepts, unchallenged, my obvious lie about slipping on some wet rocks at Mussel Cove as the explanation for my cuts and bruises. A neutral observer would never imagine: (1) she thinks I’m criminally insane, (2) she loathes my relationship with her husband with every mitochondrion of every cell of her being.