Willow stepped back as the electric winch whined with the strain of dragging the trap off the ocean floor.
Ray leaned over the side of the boat and hefted the green wire lobster pot up onto the gunnel. He reached up and turned on the wheelhouse light, then manhandled the cumbersome trap down to the deck as if it weighed no more than a sack of groceries.
Willow took another step back from the odor of stinky bait wafting into the air, and watched as Ray opened the door on the top of the trap, reached in with his gloved hand, and pulled out a lobster.
It sat listlessly in his hand but for an occasional spasm of twitches, acting just like the one he’d shown her on the pier. Ray set it beside the trap and reached in again and pulled out a crab. The crab was obviously dead. He threw it onto the deck of his boat, then reached in a third time and pulled out what looked like a healthy two-pound lobster, its claws snapping and its tail flapping frantically.
“This seems to be about as far as the contamination goes,” Ray said, quickly picking up a plierslike tool and slipping a wide rubber band over first one waving claw and then the other. “I’ve set a couple more traps closer to the island, and a few farther out and to the south and east, so we can see how far the problem’s progressed.”
Willow looked down at the dead crab lying next to the blue and pink buoy only to realize something. “I thought your colors were orange and white,” she said, pointing to the buoy displayed on the roof of his boat.
Ray waved at the expanse of ocean around them. “These waters are usually filled with hundreds of buoys, but now there’s only the seven I set Tuesday, so they stand out like a sore thumb. I wasn’t about to advertise my interest in this area, so I painted seven buoys with colors that aren’t already taken along this part of the coast.”
Willow knew that each fisherman had his own distinct colors and designs on the buoys that marked his pots so that when fishing close to others he could distinguish one from another.
The fact that Ray didn’t want anyone to know these were his traps set off alarm bells in Willow’s head. “Why did you insist we come out at night?” she asked. “And why did you warn me not to tell anyone I was meeting you?”
Ray tossed the now banded lobster into a plastic bin, and gathered up the dead crab and listless lobster and tossed them into the bin with it. Then he carried the trap to the wide transom at the back of his boat, tossed the stinky bait into the ocean, and started undoing the shackle that secured the long rope to the trap.
“There’s been some strange happenings around here lately,” he said as he worked in the shadow of the wheelhouse light, obviously well acquainted with his equipment. “Dozens of trap lines have been cut, sugar has been poured into a few boat and pickup truck gas tanks, and Frank Porter’s boat was deliberately sunk on its mooring.”
“A trap war?”
Ray tossed down the freed end of the rope, turned to her with his hands on his hips, and shook his head. “Trap wars start with harmless but clearly implied warnings: a lobsterman might pull a trap and find all the doors open, or he’ll find his rigging half hitched, or it might escalate to finding his lines cut. But a man’s boat is sacred, and messing with each other’s equipment just doesn’t happen unless our livelihoods are truly threatened.” He shook his head again. “But things around here have gone straight to hell without any warning, which tells us this is the work of someone who doesn’t want word spreading that something’s wrong out here. Only those fishermen who have been vocal about what they’ve been catching have been targeted.”
He stepped closer and stared down at Willow, his frustrated eyes searching hers. “I’m counting on you to keep this quiet, Willy. Keep my name out of it, and don’t even let on that the rumor of sick lobster has reached your office.”
Those alarm bells in her head grew louder. “You think someone will come after you?”
“They already have,” he growled, his eyes hardening even more. “Not long after I contacted Marine Resources, I had to rebuild the engine in my pickup when someone poured sugar in the gas tank.”
Willow could only gape at him.
“There’s eight of us who have been meeting secretly out at sea for the last month, away from watching eyes,” he continued. “And we’ve discussed our options and decided that you’re the only one we can trust.” His features suddenly softened and he shook his head and smiled. “Well, except for Frank Porter. He remembers how wild you were in high school, and some of the pranks you pulled.”
Prickling heat rushed to Willow’s cheeks. Frank Porter had been the brunt of one of those pranks when she and a classmate had changed the name on the transom of Frank’s lobster boat from Kiss the Lazy Sun to Kiss the Lady’s Bum, and made it out of Skunk Harbor instead of Trunk Harbor. Willow spun away from the light of the wheelhouse and silently stared out at Thunder Island.
Ray quietly laughed behind her. “Frank said he knew it was you and Jenny McGuire who rechristened his boat when you came strolling onto the pier that morning to see the results of your prank and you both had red paint on your fingers.”
“It was Jenny’s idea,” Willow said with a small laugh of her own, turning back to Ray. “And we only did it because Frank had tattled to our dads about seeing us smoking a cigarette while out kayaking. So who else is in this secret group of yours?” she asked, turning serious again.
Ray reached behind the bib of his rubber fishing overalls into the chest pocket of his heavy wool overshirt and pulled out a piece of paper. “I’ve made you a list and included our phone numbers, so you know who you’re dealing with. You’ll recognize just about everyone,” he said as Willow unfolded the paper. “We’ve all agreed to keep quiet about what’s happening here and decided to let you earn your paycheck.”
Willow stopped scanning the list and frowned up at him. “I work just as hard as you to make my living.”
He chucked her under the chin. “I’m aware of that fact, Willy. We all are, and we’re all damn proud of you. Even Frank admitted he always knew you’d amount to something,” he added, turning and putting the quietly idling boat back into gear. “But he said to tell you he’s not so old that he can’t put you over his knee if he catches you near his boat again.”
“I’ll consider myself warned,” she said, tucking the paper into her pants pocket. “Have you seen anything out of the ordinary going on in the last year or so, Ray? Any strange boat traffic?”
“Nothing,” he said, slowly starting them toward the island. “And believe me, that’s been the main topic of discussion at our little meetings.”
“Thunder Island is—what—ten miles from the mainland?”
“Twelve,” he corrected, checking the monitor for the exact coordinates of where he’d set his next trap. “And the four Pilot Islands are five miles beyond that.”
Even over the chug of the engine, Willow realized she could hear the waves of the incoming tide break onto Thunder Island. The two-mile-long, one-mile-wide island was nothing more than a huge outcropping of granite, and had likely gotten its name from the sound of the waves crashing against its craggy shoreline.
In its heyday, Thunder Island had been one of many quarries supplying the beautiful granite that had helped build the city of Boston. Sailing schooners had sidled up to the massive pier jutting into the water and been loaded with heavy, square-hewn blocks for the trip south.
But a four-lane highway had replaced the ocean as the means of interstate commerce over half a century ago, and tractor-trailer trucks had quickly replaced the schooners. Steel had become the cheaper building material of choice, and many of the granite quarries along the coast of Maine were simply abandoned, only to become the playground of high school kids looking for someplace to gather away from their parents’ watchful eyes.
“You called it contamination earlier,” Willow said, moving to stand beside Ray at the wheel. “Is that what you think is causing the twitching? It couldn’t be a disease?”
“We keep up on diseases that could ha
ve an impact on our industry,” Ray said as he reached up and pushed a button that changed the screen on his monitor. “And there’s nothing like this in any bulletins. It’s contamination, Willy,” he added with a growl. “And it’s only around Thunder Island.”
“Have you been on the island to look around?”
“Sure. Frank Porter and I searched it three times just this month, and we couldn’t find anything.” He looked over at her and frowned. “The quarry pond is a lot fuller than when we used to swim there, but nothing else has changed. It’s just like any other island around here—covered with weather-beaten scrub pine, wild roses, and a few rotting buildings.”
“The quarry filled up? How deep?”
“The exposed walls were—what—forty feet tall when we were in high school?” he said. “Now they’re less than twenty. It’s filled all the way up to sea level.”
“That wouldn’t be unusual, would it? Granite has cracks that the seawater would seep through. It was just a matter of time before the ocean invaded the quarry.”
“Yeah. But now you can see tidal lines on the sides, which means those cracks are big enough to let a high volume of water in and out.”
“Didn’t we decide back in high school that the water was about thirty feet deep then? So it must be fifty now,” Willow calculated out loud. “Are you thinking someone dumped something in the quarry, Ray?” she asked, tugging on his sleeve to get his attention when he leaned over the side of the boat to look for another buoy.
“Yeah,” he said past his shoulder. “That’s our guess.”
“But that means they’d have to land on the island with a boat big enough to carry barrels or crates or something,” she continued. “It would take a lot of toxic waste to spread that kind of damage two miles out from the island.”
Ray shrugged and took the boat out of gear. “That’s your area of expertise, Willy. I’m just the messenger.”
He grabbed his hook and reached over the side and pulled up another buoy. Willow stepped out of the way again, watching Ray work as she listened to the waves crash onto Thunder Island.
The heavy, resonating sound of the surf sent chills down her spine, and Willow snuggled deeper into Ray’s jacket. The lobster sickness had to be coming from toxic waste, but if the toxins weren’t coming from the island, then where?
It was possible that someone had dumped barrels overboard near the island, which made more sense, considering how hard it was to land a large boat there. Usually dumpers just drove along and tossed their cargo over the side without even stopping. It wasn’t unheard of that some company had contracted to legally dispose of waste only to take the easy way out.
Doing things the right way cost money—lots of money—and then only after years of petitioning to open a licensed and closely monitored site. Which meant that slow-moving bureaucracy might invite some unethical and greedy people to take shortcuts.
Tracing the origin of containers dumped at sea was not easy. They either rotted quickly, or if found intact, all traceable markings would have been removed, including serial numbers.
That was assuming containers were even involved. Sometimes the chemicals were just poured into the ocean.
Willow watched while Ray worked into the small hours of the night to find and pull all seven traps, and by 3:00 A.M. she was starting to feel light-headed from both fatigue and constant shivering.
“We’ve got to head back now,” Ray said as he stashed the last trap on the transom of The Corncobb Lady. “I want you gone before the dock starts getting busy.”
Willow was sitting on the box just inside the wheelhouse again, her arms wrapped around her knees as she stared at the bin full of sick and dead lobsters and crabs. “I want to take several specimens with me,” she said, looking up as Ray stepped back to the wheel. “Including the healthy ones. I’m going to send them to the lab.”
“Can you do it anonymously? Or use an out-of-state lab?” he asked. “You don’t need to draw attention to yourself, either.”
Willow thought about that. She doubted there was any danger to her personally, even if someone did figure out what she was doing. The bad guys might go after a few loudly complaining lobstermen, but they probably wouldn’t mess with anyone in the AG’s office. Angering the wrong people was tantamount to corporate suicide, not to mention long jail sentences for anyone involved.
“I’ll think about using an out-of-state lab,” she offered. “But it’ll take longer to get the results. Meanwhile, you guys should continue to stay quiet and wait until I know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
Ray looked over and nodded, snapped off the wheelhouse light, and plunged them into darkness but for the tiny running lamp at the back of the boat. He gave The Corncobb Lady full throttle again and headed them back to Trunk Harbor.
Willow burrowed deeper into Ray’s heavy jacket, thankful he’d given it to her and hoping he didn’t catch a cold for his gallantry. She was chilled all the way down to her bones now, although she didn’t know if her shivers were caused from the cold or from what she had learned tonight.
Not only were the waters near Thunder Island contaminated, but it appeared that whoever was responsible was still hanging around, trying to cover up the crime.
Chapter Four
The stars were just beginning to fade with the first hint of dawn when they idled into Trunk Harbor. Willow could see a few fishermen already had their boats tied to the dock and were loading them with bait, traps, and spools of thick rope.
Ray had found her a smelly old cap in his toolbox, and Willow twined her hair in a knot, crammed the cap on her head, and turned up the collar of Ray’s coat as they edged against the far side of the pier.
“Don’t talk to anyone when we head to your truck,” Ray said, setting the covered plastic bin on the pier. “And wait until you get to Puffin Harbor before you stop to buy ice.”
Willow understood he didn’t want her seen near Trunk Harbor, which was twelve miles east of Puffin Harbor, and that she needed to get the lobsters on ice if she wanted them to be alive when they reached the lab. She scrambled onto the dock, her hand covering her face at her collar, and fell into step beside Ray as he strode down the dimly lit pier.
They walked in silence up the steep lane that led to the parking lot, and Willow was thankful the other fishermen were too busy preparing for a hard and hopefully profitable day at sea to do more than wave a greeting to them. She freed her hand from the long sleeve of Ray’s coat and fished in her pants pocket for her spare key only to realize she’d left it on the floor of her truck.
It amazed Willow how quickly her hometown habits returned. She never left her truck unlocked or the keys on the truck floor in Augusta.
Ray suddenly stopped, holding the heavy crate in front of him. “Where’s your truck?” he asked, looking around the mostly deserted parking lot. “And who is that?”
Willow stopped beside him, pushed the oversized cap off her forehead, and followed Ray’s gaze to the shiny maroon Jaguar parked under the only streetlamp.
Duncan was leaning against the rear fender, his arms crossed over his chest and his feet crossed at the ankles, looking for all the world like the patron saint of patience.
Willow started forward again, not the least bit surprised he was here. “It’s just Duncan,” she said, only to stop and turn when she realized Ray wasn’t following her. “It’s okay,” she told him. “He’s a friend of mine.”
“I asked you not to tell anyone,” Ray said, eyeing Duncan suspiciously.
Willow walked back and touched his arm. “His name is Duncan Ross, and you can trust him. He’s not interested in our problem.”
“Then what is he interested in?” Ray asked. He suddenly looked down at Willow with dawning awareness, his eyes crinkling with amusement.
“Me,” she snapped, turning on her heel and walking over to Duncan. “You stole my truck.”
“Nay,” Duncan said with a shrug. “Luke drove it home for ya.”
“Th
at was kind of him,” she said ever so sweetly through clenched teeth. “Why would he do such a thoughtful thing?”
“Probably because he didn’t want it to be seen parked at the Trunk Harbor pier all night.”
Ray came up beside Willow. “You the guy she’s supposed to marry?” he asked, giving Duncan an assessing look.
Duncan shrugged, still not straightening from the fender. “I suppose I am,” he said. “You the guy getting her in trouble?”
Willow heard the undertone of warning in Duncan’s voice, and apparently so did Ray. He set down the crate and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m just a friend asking a friend for a favor,” Ray said. “Which I wouldn’t do if I thought there was any danger to her. She has the power of her office protecting her.”
Willow dropped her gaze to the pavement and shook her head, half expecting one or both of them to start beating their chests.
“I’m tired and freezing,” she said, glaring at Duncan. “And I have to get my lobsters on ice.”
He finally straightened away from the fender, but instead of turning to open the trunk of his car, he reached out, pulled the cap from her head, unzipped her jacket and peeled it off, and tossed both to Ray. Then he took off his own jacket, settled it over her shoulders, and zipped it up to her chin.
Willow wiggled her trapped arms inside the spacious leather jacket and slid her hands through the sleeves. “Thank you,” she muttered, walking to the passenger’s side of the car. She opened the door and looked back at Ray. “I’ll be in touch later this week. Until then, stay out of trouble.”
That said, Willow slid into the seat with a tired groan, only to stare at the dash in utter confusion as she listened to the trunk open, felt the car dip under the weight of the lobster crate, then close again.
The Dangerous Protector Page 4