Fishermen's Court

by Andrew Wolfendon

  A couple of the fishermen toss out lines to our two small boats. I grab one of the ropes, and Jeanie and I start pulling the inflatable toward the larger boat. Miles tries to lift his hands in surrender, but the instant he moves he is blasted from all directions by searchlights and flashlights. He covers his face with his hands to block the dazzling light.

  A man’s voice issues from a smaller speaker on another boat; I can’t tell which one. “Miles Sutcliffe,” it announces in a formal tone that defies challenge, “Fishermen’s Court finds you guilty of treason.”

  A woman’s voice—it might be Ginny Harper’s—shouts from a megaphone on another boat, “Leave this island and don’t come back. If any of us ever see your face again, your sentencing will commence. And it will be harsh.”

  I half expect Jim to make some sort of pronouncement about how there’ll be no vigilante justice here, yada-ya. But he says no such thing.

  He’s a cop, but he’s an islander first.

  . . . . .

  I stand on the high bridge of the Bourbons’ party boat with Matt and Enzo, as Matt navigates around Seal Point and steers toward the harbor on the south side. Jim is holding Miles, Bodyguard, and Chokehold—his real name turns out to be Bela Negrescu—below on the first deck. Jeannie sits alone in a passenger seat at the rear of the upper deck.

  “How did you find us in the pitch dark?” I ask Enzo.

  “GPS. On your burner. We figured you had to come through the channel.”

  It was a total shot in the dark that he’d get my call and figure out what was happening, but if anyone could do it, it would be Enzo.

  “Keeping the line open was smart,” he adds. “I’m just glad the mike was decent and the battery held up. I recorded everything.”

  “You must have worked your ass off to pull all this together,” I say to him.

  “Nah. Once I put the word out, everyone mucked in.” He winks.

  “Whoa. What have we here?” says Matt, looking out a fair distance beyond his bow.

  A private yacht—Simon Fischer’s—is chugging around the island from the opposite side. Two smaller craft fan out from behind it and flank it on its starboard side—they’re “herding” it into the harbor. I can’t read the lettering on the escort boats, but both of them have blue lights. Police. The smaller of the two, I’m guessing, is Kelvin, our part-time peace officer. The bigger one must be the Maine Marine Patrol or State Police. Kidnapping, murder, and conspiracy to commit murder are evidently frowned upon in these parts. I’d still love to shove a grenade up Simon Fischer’s ass, but watching him get hauled away in handcuffs will have to suffice.

  I turn to Matt Bourbon and say, “I was surprised to see the whole gang show up tonight. Especially after… today. I thought Fishermen’s Court only looked out for its own.”

  “We do,” says Matt. He doesn’t look me in the eye, but he reaches out stiffly and touches my arm. “We do.”

  I want to say something, but nothing comes.

  I have no idea how to feel about Fishermen’s Court right now, and maybe I never will. But I am happy, so bloody happy, to be alive.

  I wander toward the back of the upper deck. Jeannie is standing now, looking out over the deck rail. Not at the parade of fishing boats churning up the brine behind us but across the Gulf, toward the mainland. I stand beside her and look out too.

  “Going back on the ferry tomorrow?” she asks. “Back to Wentworth?”

  “Ferry, yeah. Wentworth, nah. Just long enough to pack my stuff and settle things up with the house. It’s not my home anymore. It should have been Angie’s all along.”

  “Uh-huh. And your long-range plans?”

  I make my way over to the opposite rail so that I’m facing the island. Jeannie moves along with me. “I already told you those.”

  She shoots me a questioning glance.

  “I’d like to meet your daughter. And if meeting me doesn’t make her puke, I’d like to start spending time with the two of you. And if that goes well...”

  “Shh, Finn,” says Jeannie. “Stop... Please.” But there’s no anger or acrimony in her voice.

  Fine. I’m good with silence. I gaze across the short stretch of water, locking my vision on Musqasset’s town dock. Jeannie studies my face for a long moment, as if to see whether any trace of falseness is showing in my eyes. Then she settles her gaze on the town dock alongside mine.

  After a few silent moments, her hand sneaks tentatively toward me and grasps the loose fabric of my shirt with two fingers. This is an old, old move of hers, going back to college. Whenever she wanted to be close to me but wasn’t quite sure where we stood at the moment, she would lightly clasp my shirt between her first two fingers and wait to see how I responded. It was a gesture I found irrationally endearing.

  I reach my arms around her and pull her to my chest, pressing her head to my heart. And I just hold her there, hard. This is not a move I would typically make, because it smacks of possessiveness, of territoriality, of dominance, but right now I don’t much care what it smacks of. And neither, it seems, does Jeannie.

  I feel her warm tears soaking my shirt, but they are good tears, cleansing tears, tears we have earned together. She wraps her arms around me and clutches me like a life preserver.

  I look back at the line of fishing boats pushing us onward from behind, then at the harbor pulling us forward with ever-widening arms, and I feel peace. Maybe for the first time in my sorry-ass life. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I don’t have a plan. I don’t have a goal. As of this moment, I know only three things with certainty.

  This is my love.

  This is my island.

  This is my life.

  The End

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to my wife and soul-partner Karen for tirelessly insisting I was a novelist, despite my many years of well-constructed arguments to the contrary. Thanks to my late parents, Bob and Irene, and to my sisters, Carol, Maureen, and Diane, for their delirious love affair with the English language over the years—and to my daughters, Phelan and Quinn, for continuing that affair. Together, you’ve been my writer’s institute.

  I also wish to thank Jill Marsal of Marsal Lyons Literary Agency, who was the first “industry” person to believe in Fishermen’s Court, and whose generous notes made it stronger. Immense gratitude goes out to friends and family who read various beta versions of the book and gave me much-appreciated feedback—Ken Laverriere, Tom Vittorioso, Ken Mokler, Matt Sughrue, and Chase Fraser. Ken L., you will never know how much your ongoing enthusiasm for FC, and your gorgeous photographs, buoyed me. I’d also like to thank my first “professional” reader, Danielle Winston, whose comments grew on me over time and helped me make some needed changes.

  Many thanks, too, to the folks at Black Rose Writing for launching Fishermen’s Court into the world.

  Finally, I would be remiss not to thank Mr. Warren Hayes of Central Catholic High School, Lawrence, Massachusetts for teaching me, and thousands of other teenage imbeciles, what the craft of writing was all about. May your retirement be ever free of comma splices, Mr. Hayes.

  About the Author

  Photo by Ken Laverriere

  Andrew Wolfendon is a ghostwriter of over sixty books for adults and children. His screenplays have been optioned numerous times in Hollywood. He has written/designed over twenty-five computer and video games, many of which have won major industry awards, and has penned the song lyrics for several children’s entertainment titles. Andy has done scriptwriting work for Blizzard Entertainment, Disney, Titanium Comics, and other entertainment companies. Fishermen’s Court is his first novel.

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