by Boyle, Gerry
“Hello,” Mia said again.
She looked out at the trees, trunks dark in the shadows like a crowd of people massed for something. “Hello,” she said again. Listened. Heard someone breathing and then they hung up.
CHAPTER 28
It was gray-blue light, the first stirrings of dawn. Diesels chugged somewhere across the harbor. Gulls warbled from roofs of the sheds, a tern chattered overhead. The wind flicked chop against the hulls, a soft slapping, a hundred different rhythms, one for each of the boats.
Brandon had been aboard Bay Witch since just before four, and now he sat in a chair on the top deck, turned so he could see both the harbor and the shore. He was bundled in two blankets and an extra pair of socks.
The lights of the Portland skyline were fading, a few headlights moving. No boat traffic showed, and above him the stars were dimmed by a wash of barely visible clouds.
Brandon sipped coffee from a mug, thought about the day. Back to Nessa’s. Class at nine. Meet with Griffin after that. Back to the marina to work. How much easier it would be if Nessa would come sit on the boat, even for a couple of hours.
And then he heard a rattle from the yard. The jingling of someone on the chain-link fence. Then another jingle, a thud. Someone had climbed over, dropped down.
Brandon eased out of his chair, moved around the deck, down into the cockpit. Slipped into the cabin, and then back up and off the boat, a flashlight stuck in his back pocket, the rifle in hand.
Silently, he moved down the dock, up the ramp, and into the yard. The sheds were shrouded in the shadows, the gate illuminated by the bare bulb of a single streetlight. He paused at the top of the dock ramp and listened.
Another fence rattle, from the direction of the big gates, the east shed. Then a faint brushing noise—someone moving through the vines that covered the fence behind the building.
A whisper, someone saying, “Be quiet.”
Brandon moved to his left, to the corner of the big north shed, crouched by a tangled stack of boat stands. Took out the light. When two figures materialized from the shadows of the brush, he waited. Heard feet scuffing on the gravel, then the soft-shoe footsteps as they started across the yard.
Two of them, moving single file. They were headed across the yard, toward the ramp. Frozen in the darkness, Brandon waited for them to pass, raised himself up, and fell in behind them. As the closest guy sensed him and turned, Brandon flicked on the light.
“Hold it,” Brandon said. “Security.”
They bolted, feet thudding on the gravel, headed for the west side of the yard, Brandon behind them, the beam of the light sweeping in front of him.
They passed the ramp, sprinted into the big storage yard, the guy in front headed for the stored boats. The closest guy was slower and Brandon gained on him, called out, “Security, freeze.”
The figure swerved left, into the open bay door of one of the rusted sheds.
Brandon followed. Stopped.
Listened.
The shed was dark. Still. He played the light.
White mooring buoys. Coils of rusty chain. A wooden day sailer on stands. A broken golf cart, one wheel off, listing to one side. A dinghy draped with a green tarp.
He took a step in. Heard rustling near the ceiling. A barn swallow, disturbed by the light, fluttered on a beam. The light flicked up, back down. Raked the clutter.
Behind the dinghy, Brandon saw a shoe. Black. Sole up. Someone on his knees.
Brandon moved quickly to his left, away from the boat. Stopped. Turned the light off and stood in the half light, then spun and rushed back.
The guy was lunging to his feet when Brandon caught him from behind, shoved him hard, sent him sprawling onto the concrete floor. His feet were scrabbling when Brandon put a foot on his back and said, “I have a gun.”
The guy froze.
It wasn’t Fuller.
Wasn’t Kelvin.
It was a kid, his cheek against the floor. Brandon told him to turn over slowly and he did, wide-eyed and pale above his black T-shirt. Brandon listened for the other kid, heard trucks rattling on the bridge, nothing closer.
“I.D.,” Brandon said, trying to sound like Griffin.
“I don’t have any,” the kid said, but half-heartedly.
“Then I’ll let the cops figure it out,” Brandon said.
“No,” the kid said. “My back pocket.”
“Take it out.”
The gun was pointed at Brandon’s feet, but the kid eyed it as he eased a wallet out of his jeans. Brandon took it, flipped it open with one hand. The kid’s name was Jason D. Roberts. He was a sophomore at South Portland High.
“What are you after here?” Brandon said.
“I don’t know,” the kid said. “Whatever.”
“Who’s your friend?”
The kid didn’t answer.
“You can tell me or the cops.”
“No. Jonathan. Jonathan Gault.”
“Same age?”
The kid nodded, head raised up from the concrete, hair dark streaks against his white forehead.
“Live around here?”
“One block over. We were just walking around. Jason started climbing the fence and I just kinda followed him.”
“What’d you think you’d do? Steal motors? Break into boats?”
“No, we were just gonna look around, I guess.”
“Cops won’t believe that. They’ll charge you with attempted burglary.”
“Don’t call the cops. We’ll just leave. Jonathan’s probably home by now.”
“Your parents home?”
“Yeah. But don’t call ’em, please.”
“They know you’re out?”
He shook his head.
“You always wander around in the middle of the night?”
“Sometimes.”
Brandon looked at the school I.D. again, then back at the kid on the ground.
“Then maybe you can help me. And we’ll forget this whole thing.”
“You see anybody hanging around on the street out there at night, you call me. I’ll give you my cell number. I’m looking for two guys, one big and stocky, wide face and a mullet. The other small and weasely, looks like a ferret.”
The kid was listening.
“So we just have to make sure these guys aren’t trying to get in here at night?”
“Right.”
“What if they come here and we see ’em and call you? Is there a reward?”
“Virtue is its own reward.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Don’t always have your hand out. Somebody famous said it. ”
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” Brandon said. “Google it.”
“So do we get any money?” the kid said.
In a string of fleeting images, Brandon saw Bay Witch, the deserted boatyard, rusted sheds. He saw Mia, asleep in the cramped cabin, her eyes closed, mouth barely open, her breath like the softest whisper. He pictured Fuller, his bitter smile, heard again the simmering anger in his voice.
“Twenty bucks,” Brandon said.
“Each?” the kid said from the floor.
Brazen little bastard, Brandon thought, but then he heard Fuller say how easily the old wooden boat would burn.
“Sure,” Brandon said.
CHAPTER 29
Shurstein was sitting on the front edge of his desk, pants hiked up, a swatch of white hairy leg showing above his socks and Topsiders. The class was nearly over and he was talking about fingerprints, the three types. He asked if anyone could name and define them.
The class stared back at him like suspects.
“Oh, come on,” Shurstein said.
“Three types,” Mia said, sitting by Brandon near the door. “Plastic. That’s when you put your finger on something soft, like soap or something. It leaves a negative impression.”
“That’s one,” Shurstein said.
“Visible prints,” a girl in the back said. “Like when
you have blood on your fingers and you touch something.”
“Right,” the professor said. “I hate it when I do that. Especially after I’ve killed someone.” He grinned, letting them know that was a joke. They looked at him like they were weirded out. Brandon smiled, knowing the guy meant well. Shurstein fastened on a sympathetic face on him, said, “And the third type, Mr. Blake.”
“Latent,” Brandon said. “Sweat or the oil on your skin leaves an impression. Usually on glass or something smooth like that. These are the prints they get by dusting or using chemicals.”
“Exactly. Nothing shows to the naked eye, but the secretions, if they mix with dust or dirt, leave a distinct impression,” Shurstein said. “It’s really amazing the trail we leave everywhere we go, on everything we touch.”
A guy near the door asked why anybody cared about fingerprints when we had DNA. Shurstein said DNA was found in traces of saliva, semen, blood, hair, bits of skin.
A fingerprint can come from any contact.
“And what’s another advantage?” he asked.
“Cheaper,” Mia said. “DNA analysis is expensive and takes time.”
“Anything else?”
The girl in the back waggled her red-painted fingernails. “There’s more fingerprints on file than DNA samples, especially for older cases,” she said.
“Very good,” Shurstein said, smiling now, feeling like the class had been a good one. He slid off the desk, moved around to pick up a stack of handouts. Brandon stared, but unseeingly. He was thinking about Nessa, at home on the point with the doors locked. Would Fuller think about prints? Would he wear latex gloves? Would he leave a cigarette butt behind, impregnated with saliva? Did his buddy have prints on file? Had Crystal called Griffin back?
“Okay,” Shurstein was saying, moving across the front of the class to hand out the papers. “Tire tracks and footprints. Question: Are all Nikes the same? Anybody? Mr. Blake?”
Brandon was thinking about Crystal, whether he should go see her alone. She’d looked at him like she was interested, maybe would talk to him easier than to Griffin, because Brandon was less of a cop.
“Brandon,” Mia whispered.
He looked over at her, then up at Shurstein, staring from the front of the classroom.
“You okay there, Mr. Blake?” the professor said. “Looked like you’d left us for a minute.”
“Shoes wear differently,” Mia said. “Depends on the weight of the person, how they’re built, how they walk. A shoe can actually be like a fingerprint.”
“Exactly,” Shurstein said. “So the thing to remember is, we leave traces of ourselves everywhere we go. You know the old saying, ‘Disappeared without a trace’—it doesn’t happen very often.”
Pleased by the flourish, the professor wheeled around, headed back to his desk. Mia looked at Brandon, caught the shadow that flickered across his face. He turned to her and mustered the barest of smiles.
“Sure it does,” he said.
CHAPTER 30
Dusk at sea, a hundred and fifty miles east of Portland. Irina was at the helm, lifeline clipped on, the boat headed northwest. The sun was setting, the endless sea shimmering like a billowing sequined cloth. The wind still moderate, four- to six-foot seas. At the tip of each wave, spray showed like someone waving a white flag.
Irina saw the speck of a vessel to the west. Lucky, coming up from below, said, “No problems.” Irina nodded, pointed to the ship off their port side. Lucky took binoculars from the storage bin under the compass post, peered into the sun, hand over his eyes.
“Ferry out of Bar Harbor,” he said, “headed for Yarmouth. They’ll cross south of us, but to make sure, let’s swing north twenty degrees.”
Glancing at the compass, Irina turned the wheel. Lucky moved to the winches on the starboard side, cranked, and came back to the helm. The radio crackled, nothing audible. From below came the sound of music.
“You put on Mozart?” Irina said.
“Yes, it’s calming,” Lucky said.
“Weather has cooperated,” she said.
“Shifts to the southeast tomorrow morning,” Lucky said. “Could be wet coming down the coast.”
“Just so it blows,” Irina said.
“Right. But we’re still ahead of schedule.”
She reached to tap the teak on the gunwale behind her.
They stopped talking, stood side by side. The boat rose and fell, spray coming off the bow as it plunged into the swells. There was a gust and the boat heeled, Lucky looking to the hatchway as Irina adjusted course, easing off. She looked to the screen of the GPS, the boat a flashing dot on the tracker. They were sixty miles south-southeast of Grand Manan Island. Lucky looked up to the sails again, said, “Why don’t you go below, see about food. I’ll take it for a couple of hours, anyway.”
Irina nodded, unclipped, and moved from the wheel as he took hold. She opened the cabin door and the music was louder, blending with the whistle-rattle of the wind in the rigging, then muffled as she closed the door behind her. Lucky watched the sails, the ferry to the west, the sun drifting down, a white ball behind a thin veil of clouds.
To the south he saw two fishing boats moving in tandem, fishing together. He watched them, thought they looked like trucks crossing a plain. He was thinking of this, the ocean as a desert, the waves like ripples in the sand, when he heard a faint clatter.
He listened. Turned left and right, and then to the stern. Saw the helicopter coming in low from the southeast.
“Shit,” Lucky said, and called out, “Irina.”
After a moment, the cabin door opened and she popped up, heard the helicopter, and frowned.
“Canadian Coast Guard,” Lucky said. “Look happy to see them.”
They turned and waved as the orange chopper roared over. It went a couple of miles north, then banked left and started to circle back. As it passed on their port side, they could see the pilot, then a crewman peering down at them with binoculars from the window in the bay door. As the helicopter slowed and hovered off their stern, the radio squawked.
“Osprey, Osprey, this is Coast Guard, go to channel 9, sir.”
Lucky waved, grinned, picked up the microphone, shouted over the din of the chopper.
“Hello, Coast Guard, this is Osprey, over.”
“Lonely out here, skipper. What’s your destination?”
“Grand Manan, sir.”
“Home port?”
“Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, sir. Just like it says.”
“Who’s on board, skipper?”
“Just the two of us. Me, Martin Mahoney, my wife Caitlin.”
Irina felt the binoculars on her and gave a shy wave.
“Canadian citizens?”
“Aye, aye,” Lucky said. “Nova Scotians from birth, sir.”
“Comfortable out here, skipper?”
“Not a problem. Wind shifting southeast tomorrow, we’ll probably stay in Grand Manan for a few days, wait for a better direction, blow us back home.”
“Low-pressure system coming through. Keep a close eye.”
“Ten-four,” Lucky said, and then with the mic off, added, “Keep smiling, Caitlin.”
She did, gave another wave, and the chopper dipped and whoofed by them, the pilot giving a salute as they passed. Lucky and Irina watched it grow smaller, an orange speck flying low over the waves.
“You think they’ll come back?” Irina said.
“No. My guess is he’s headed for St. John for the night. But to be safe, as soon as it’s dark, we’ll swing southwest. Get well into U.S. waters before dawn.”
Irina stepped to the stern rail, where the Canadian flag was snapping in the breeze. She leaned over. The white plastic sheet was still in place, the words “Osprey,” and “Yarmouth, N.S.” dipping in and out of the water as the boat rose and fell.
“You’ve got to scrape every bit of that epoxy off before we get back,” she said. “The registration numbers, too.”
“Nothing a little acetone c
an’t handle, Mrs. Mahoney,” Lucky said, bristling at the nagging. “Everything under control.”
Irina turned and went down into the cabin, Mozart billowing out as the door opened. Lucky stood at the helm, holding the wheel with both hands, feeling the big boat careen over the green foaming swells like a living thing, a sleek and giant porpoise, riding on the wind.
But the wind was cold, the salt spray like ice water on his face. He clipped on.
“Maybe Greece in September,” he said aloud to himself. “Or Morocco. Maybe the ice princess would melt.”
CHAPTER 31
Nessa was having white wine for lunch, a salad on the side. She was in her chair on the porch, the Times beside her, only the headlines read. She heard the door rattle, but didn’t flinch. Just lifted her glass and sipped, said to herself very softly, “Go ahead and kill me. Who gives a good goddamn?”
But it was Brandon who came through the door, and Mia, too.
“The door wasn’t locked, Nessa,” Brandon said.
“I must have left it open when I put the trash out,” she said.
“You can’t do that. And where’s your cell phone?”
“I can’t keep track of the damned thing. Dragging all this junk around.”
“Nessa, this is serious.”
“I’m serious, Brandon,” Nessa said. “And I’ll tell you, too, Mia. I’m not going to live like a prisoner in my own home.”
“It’s just until we find him,” Brandon said.
“Some hooligan who couldn’t find his way here with a road map,” Nessa said.
“Sure he can,” Brandon said. “And I’m sure he has. I’m sure he’s sat right outside the gates and watched this place.”
“Barbarians outside the city walls,” Nessa said. “This town is going to hell. I’ve been predicting it for years.”
She drank. Brandon looked down at the plate of lettuce and tomato.
“Is that your whole lunch?”
“I had a big breakfast.”
“What was it?”
Nessa hesitated.
“You need to eat better than that, Mrs. Blake,” Mia said.
“Call me Nessa, dear.”
“How ’bout some bread with that,” Mia said. “We stopped at the bakery.” She turned and left for the kitchen. Nessa drank again, a long swallow.