Collision Course

by Matt Hilton

  ‘That stuff about Hayley learning her life was a lie and deletin’ her past sounded as if he’d practiced it in front of a mirror.’

  ‘Yeah. As if he knew exactly what she’d done, because Hayley told him so.’

  They eyed each other. Po’s mouth quirked. ‘Do I have that same fool expression on my face when I talk about you?’

  ‘Most people find you harder to read than a brick wall, Po. I saw what you meant with Jacob though.’

  ‘He’s still carryin’ a torch for Hayley Cameron. He got all gooey-eyed every time he mentioned her name, but talked about his latest girl as if she was just part of the furniture.’

  Poor Stacey. It was obvious to Tess that she was a simple convenience to Jacob, and that he was still clinging to his feelings for Hayley. Perhaps Stacey meant no more to Jacob than part of the barricade he’d helped pile up to conceal Hayley. It could be assumed Stacey was cover for him too, because seemingly busy with a new girlfriend he could plead ignorant to what had become of his ex. It was apparent that his brothers had given him a hard time over his relationship before, and he was dangling Stacey before them to both convince them he’d moved on and to avoid a front yard smackdown.

  ‘He couldn’t help himself,’ Tess said, only for Po to crease his brow in response. Tess explained. ‘I said it was worrying that she’d de-activated her social media accounts, but Jacob was unconcerned. He couldn’t help offering the reason for that like he’d practiced it, or for going one step further and blurting out a clue …’

  ‘Maybe she’s still on there but under a different identity,’ Po recited ad verbum. He started the car, waited for a gap in the traffic and pulled out into the rain-washed street.

  ‘Exactly. She’s using a fake profile on one or other of the social media platforms, through which she can keep in touch with him.’ Tess had taken out her cellphone before she’d finished speaking and though it would be almost impossible to randomly identify Hayley’s new identity, she had a shortcut in mind. She searched for Jacob’s profile instead. Unfortunately she came up blank using his actual name. She switched to a page dedicated to Cooper’s Bar, and in short order found comments added by Stacey Mitchum. Following Stacey’s comments back, she found the profile of the girl who’d recently attempted to serve them at their table, and as girls these days often did, she’d shared dozens of photographs of her and her new boyfriend, tagged in the photos as Jakey D. Swiftly. Tess brought up Jakey’s profile and checked out his list of contacts: unfortunately her delving ended there as the site would only display mutual friends Tess shared with Jacob … of which there were none. It didn’t perturb her; she had access to programs that’d circumvent that problem once she was back at her computer. For now she was happy that she’d found her way to Jacob’s profile, from where she could dig deeper. She was confident she’d soon have Hayley’s pseudonym, and soon after a location where she was hiding.

  Po brought the Mustang to a halt outside Tess’s previous home. Since Pinky had moved in, her old apartment hadn’t changed externally, and for the briefest of moments Tess felt homesick. The major difference was that drawn up on the sloping driveway alongside the steps that gave access to the upper-story apartment, was a huge Volvo SUV. Prior to this her diminutive Prius would have taken pride of place. The presence of Pinky’s ride was enough to remind her that they’d all moved on, and home for her was now Po’s ranch-style property north of town near Presumpscot Falls.

  ‘Want me to go get him?’ Tess offered.

  ‘Unnecessary.’ Po leaned on the car’s horn.

  Below Pinky’s apartment, Anne Ridgeway kept shop. When Tess lived there Mrs Ridgeway had acted as her unofficial gatekeeper, alert to the comings and goings of visitors to Tess’s house. It appeared that since Pinky had taken up tenancy her role hadn’t changed. She was elderly, small of stature, almost as fragile as a bird to look at, but she was also a force to be reckoned with. She appeared at the door to her antiques and curios store, mouth pinched and eyes magnified by the spectacles she held up to better see the culprit who’d shattered her peace. Her disdain lasted only a second before affection flooded over her features and she waved in greeting. It shamed Tess that on previous occasions she’d tried to sneak past Mrs Ridgeway, because once she began talking she sometimes forgot to stop. It mattered not if Tess was investigating private or sensitive matters because the old woman couldn’t help prying. In reality Mrs Ridgeway had been looking out for her, and all she’d desired in return was a little company. It surprised Tess to realize she’d missed their chitchats. She made a mental note to return to visit Mrs Ridgeway, but now wasn’t the time. She waved in return, gestured at the rain and grimaced. Mrs Ridgeway held up both hands, and gave a nod to the deserted shop – business was slow – but then she retrieved a paperback novel she’d been reading and indicated all was not bad.

  ‘I’ll come see you soon,’ Tess mouthed, and received a smile and a thumbs up, before the old woman retreated back to her reading nook.

  Pinky stuck his head out of the upper-story door. His dark features spilt in a grin, before he grew aware of the rain pattering on his forehead, which swiftly received a derisory scowl. The inclement weather didn’t deter him much; he closed the door behind him and danced down the steps with a grace that belied his girth. Tess held her breath until he’d alighted the bottom step – they could be treacherous when slick – and was safely at the bottom of the ramp. He graced them both with a beaming smile and his usual gregarious and idiosyncratic manner. ‘I’m pleased to see you guys, I was going stir-crazy up there, me.’

  Getting wet again didn’t appeal to Tess. She made room, squeezing between the seats onto the rear bench seat. Pinky accepted her vacated seat up front alongside Po, the car rocking on its chassis as he clambered in.

  ‘So what’s the job?’ he asked. ‘Something interesting, I hope.’

  ‘Just your run-of-the-mill locate-a-person-who-doesn’t-want-located case,’ Tess said. ‘Bread and butter stuff, really.’

  ‘Aww, man, I was hoping for something that’d get my heart pumping, me.’

  ‘You missed all the excitement earlier,’ Po said, and Tess leaned forward to menace him if he took the story any further. Of course, he wouldn’t be put off. She sat back heavily in her seat: Po may as well get it off his chest, they could have a laugh and pull her leg but at least it’d be over with. Po, however, could be infuriating at times. ‘I’ll tell you later, Pinky.’

  ‘Oh?’ Po’s reticence piqued Pinky’s interest more. ‘Do tell, you.’

  Po glimpsed Tess’s glowering visage in the rearview mirror. ‘Nah, best we wait, brother.’

  ‘I knocked out a guy,’ Tess blurted. ‘It’s no big deal. Can we move on now?’

  ‘Say what?’ Pinky howled.

  ‘You heard right, Pinky,’ Po crowed. ‘One punch in the mug and down he went. An’ was I grateful; I’d’ve been tastin’ his boot leather otherwise.’

  ‘Some dude tried to kick you in the head, Nicolas?’

  ‘Pardon the pun,’ Tess said before Po launched into a blow-by-blow account of the fight, ‘but things just got off on the wrong foot. It was due to a misunderstanding which was swiftly rectified.’

  ‘Very swiftly,’ Po added. ‘Wham and down he went like a sack of—’

  Pinky threw his hands in the air, finishing Po’s exclamation with the desired profanity. In the back seat, Tess shook her head in mock dismay. She gave Po a harder than usual tap on the shoulder to chivvy him on and he got the Mustang moving. He and Pinky relived the fight, laughing and hooting at the siblings’ comeuppance, before sobering slightly at how things might’ve turned out much worse had Po been alone at the time. It occurred to Tess that they were paying a compliment to her judicious intervention, but if she hadn’t taken Po to the Doyle house then the fight probably wouldn’t have happened. But life and its consequences – for good and bad – were deemed by a series of random choices, right? She shut out Po and Pinky’s voices, closed her eyes and relax
ed into the plush leather seat. Rain drummed on the car’s roof while she contemplated where her next move might take them.

  FIVE

  The prevailing winds pushed bands of rain towards shore. They followed one after the other with metronomic regularity, timed by each surge of the ocean. Out on Penobscot Bay visibility was so poor that both the Rockland Breakwater Lighthouse and Owls Head Lighthouse had been activated. The lights would’ve helped steer the returning fishing fleet into Rockland harbor except they were largely invisible beyond the curtains of steadily falling rain. These days, commercial fishermen didn’t rely on beacons the way sailors of an earlier age had; their boats were equipped with sonar and GPS navigation, but that only went for the skipper at the helm. Those on deck still sought recognizable landmarks as they headed for home. Of the mainland nothing could be defined yet.

  Mike Toner braced his feet and rode the swell as the prow of the boat lifted skyward. In the next instant the prow dipped and he leaned backwards, fighting gravity. Nearby, another fisherman staggered against the gunwales, cursing. His voice was immediately snatched from his throat and carried away on the wind, but Toner could read the frustration on the man’s bearded face. As he rode the next swell out, he saw the other man shamble, bent over towards where the ropes tethering the catch pots had come undone. The fisherman skidded on the deck and fell hard. He struggled up, face reddened with effort, pain or humiliation. Toner should’ve offered help, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He only wished to have land beneath his feet again, and the less he had to do with this boat and crew the better. He feigned ignorance to the man’s plight, grasping the rails and staring ahead, searching for signs of the coast.

  Working on the boat hauling lobster pots, was never his choice of career. It was difficult, dangerous, exhausting work, all facets of a job Toner was averse to. This, he’d already decided, would be his final time out with the fleet. Fishing and the harvesting of lobster was Rockland’s oldest commercial enterprise, dating back centuries, and continued to play a significant role in this modern age. From now on, Toner was determined it was an industry that’d continue without his input. Why work his knuckles raw when there was money – good money – to be had without the physical toil and little risk? He’d come late to this understanding, prompted by one much younger but with greater vision than he’d ever had.

  Through the billowing gusts of rain he finally caught sight of the first pinpricks of light denoting the mainland. The boat had already crept around the breakwater, though it had done little to calm the surging waves yet. The skipper turned the boat towards the harbor’s Municipal Fish Pier, as much by familiarity and experience as guided by his instruments. Toner glanced back at his crewmate, to share his joy at spotting terra firma, but the other fisherman was still lashing down equipment, swearing furiously. Another six men crewed this boat, but aside from the skipper and the cursing man Toner had no idea where they’d gotten to and didn’t care. There wasn’t one amongst them he cared for; he certainly wouldn’t miss them after he walked away from the boat this final time. In fact, to hell with it, he wasn’t even going to wait for their catch to be unloaded and the wages of their labor shared out. His take from the haul would amount to a couple of hundred bucks at most, while through his new direction he could make easily twenty times that much with a few keystrokes. Actually, he didn’t even have to hit the keys when his partner would do that for him.

  He spat over the side into the brine. He had no personal disliking of the sea, only that he preferred it to be blue and calm, fringed by white sandy beaches and palm trees. In short order he was about to amass wealth that’d let him pick and choose where next he took to the ocean and it’d be on a vessel more salubrious than this old junker. The engine roared and diesel fumes wafted over him. The smell was as loathsome to him now as the stench of fish guts and he couldn’t wait to get far away from it. From inland came the clang of a bell, and the distant shouts of workers whose day wasn’t over despite the teeming rain. The skipper powered down and edged towards a pier at the posted speed limit. Toner readied to leap overboard and tie off the boat as soon as they arrived. Except that, he realized, tying off was an old habit. Let one of the others secure the boat: if they didn’t and it drifted out to sea it would be no loss to him. He was poised to leave, and he wouldn’t look back.

  There was a cessation of the wind and the docks and wharfs of Rockland loomed into view, all painted in the dreary shades of the pouring rain. Light switches had been thrown to combat the unexpected dimness, and pale halos surrounded the windows and open doors of the nearest buildings. Further back the streetlights were on timers and remained dark, but the town had come alive with the headlights of vehicles. He was home, though his time spent in Rockland would be brief, only as long as it took to grab his few belongings and throw them in his truck. He’d be gone, and the only view of Rockland he cared to see after that was the one that’d be in his rearview mirror. A rush of anticipation went through him; he shivered in almost orgasmic pleasure at the thought of leaving behind the crappy life he’d been stuck with until now.

  The boat bumped against the pier, muffled thumps that he felt through the deck as much as heard. Behind him his crewmates spilled from below deck, heading to their prescribed stations as they prepared to unload their catch. Toner glanced once over his shoulder, offering a sour grin at the men bustling about, they were already drenched through despite their oilskins. He flicked them a sharp salute, then clambered over the side onto the pier. ‘Take it easy, losers,’ he grunted as he strode away.

  If anyone noticed him leave they didn’t bother hailing him. It showed his worthlessness to them, but that was OK because he cared as little for them in return. Maybe if anyone had noticed him abandon the boat they hoped he’d keep walking, because then their percentage of the takings would rise. Toner could imagine their greedy snatching hands as the skipper divvied out his wages to the others.

  He laughed aloud.

  There were other people on the piers. Dockworkers were as hardy as those that put to sea and a little rain wouldn’t slow them. He caught a quizzical glance or two, but nobody chose to ask why he was so happy. He must look insane, chortling away to himself but wasn’t deterred from laughing harder. A man stepped from under an awning and aimed a sharp nod at him. He was tall, with fair hair neatly groomed, and a severe, almost ascetic face to match his wiry build. When Toner didn’t immediately respond, the man pulled open the front of his jacket to show the pistol holstered below his armpit. He crooked a “come hither” finger at Toner. Then Toner’s laughter caught in his throat and he faltered in his step. He darted a look each side and saw the sea to his right, and the wall of a warehouse to his left. He could retreat, but sooner or later he’d run out of pier and his options would be to dive in the sea or do as the man commanded. The man was a stranger to him, but Toner guessed what he was. He wasn’t carrying that pistol for show.

  Toner touched his chest, opened his mouth, in a silent ‘Who me?’

  The gunman stepped back under shelter, indicating with another sharp nod that Toner should join him.

  To hell with him! Toner wasn’t about to do the bidding of an armed stranger, just because of a threat. If the guy meant business, he’d have taken out his gun but hadn’t. Toner felt for the knife he kept strapped to his belt: it was used for shucking seashells, but could as easily lay open a would-be mugger. It wasn’t very accessible with his coat zipped, but if it came to it he could draw it in seconds. The gunman wasn’t going to shoot him where there were so many potential witnesses. Right?

  His thoughts of refusal and rebellion followed instantly, one on the back of the other. But they were merely illogical responses to the gunman’s appearance. Instinct in such cases usually took one of very few forms: under threat a person would run, fight or freeze. Though he’d considered fighting back, it was because he was static by shock. Immediately all thoughts of resistance trickled out of him, along with any spine he had for a confrontation, and the only r
emaining reaction took hold of him. Now that the gunman had stepped back under shelter, he had a free run past him, to where he could seek protection from a bunch of dockworkers clustered near the Municipal offices. He took a clumping step forward.

  From behind a hand grasped his left elbow, and something hard was shoved against his ribs. Toner blinked in dismay at the bearded face looming alongside his. A second stranger had moved in on him, probably having followed him along the pier after he left the boat. The guy was large, with a thick neck and broad shoulders, with the mark of a brawler scrawled all over his face. For the briefest of seconds he wondered if this was some kind of retribution organized by the skipper, but no. The skipper had no idea of his intention to leave his crew, so couldn’t have gotten these thugs in place. This was something else. Something worse!

  ‘Do as you’re told or you’ll be hurt,’ the man growled in Toner’s ear. To emphasize his point he jabbed the muzzle of his gun deeper into Toner’s armpit. ‘Get moving.’

  ‘What’s going on, man? What do you want with me?’

  ‘I ain’t asking twice.’ The man stuck tight to his side, steering Toner for the doorway from where the first gunman eyed him somberly. Toner glanced around, hoping somebody else had spotted his abduction, but everyone’s heads were averted against the weather. He could shout, try to escape, but any notion he’d had of fighting back had burst with the wet bubble of phlegm in the back of his throat.

  He was propelled towards the door, and the first gunman stepped aside so he could be shoved inside. Toner found he was in a boat shed. Apart from the upturned hull of a rowboat under repair, and an assortment of joists, pulleys and tools, the workshop was otherwise empty. He wondered who owned the shed. Neither of the men who’d grabbed him struck him as sailors. They’d simply chosen to use this shed because it was deserted. They pressed him on, aiming towards a door at the far end.