Death at Devil's Bridge

by Cynthia DeFelice

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “We’ll have us a party!” he said, then added with a wink, “Better get going. You don’t want your mom to ground you.”

  I stood for a moment, watching Donny walk back to the garage, before I got on my bike and began racing down the hill. The beam of the Aquinnah lighthouse flashed red-white-red-white-red-white across the sky. Usually the familiar light was a comforting sign that all was well, but no matter how hard I pumped my legs, I couldn’t escape the feeling that tonight it was sending me a warning.

  Five

  Barry’s car was in the driveway when I got home. I lingered outside for a minute, trying to collect my wildly spinning thoughts. Somehow, without exactly meaning to, I had promised not to tell about Donny and the Porsche. Donny had invited me to go with him to the fireworks the following night and, somehow, I had agreed that he would pick me up at eight o’clock.

  Mom would not approve of any of this, I was sure. But the opportunity to arrive at Oak Bluffs for the big Fourth of July celebration in style, in the Tomahawk, with Donny, was too good to pass up. I’d been so dumbfounded when he asked me—okay, I admitted to myself, I’d been so flattered—that I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t look at Donny and say, “My mom won’t let me.” I’d feel like a total weenie. Especially since Jeff was going.

  So I had to figure a way to get out of the house without Mom knowing I was going out with Donny. And now I had to go inside and act normal, or Mom’s radar would pick up right away that something had happened tonight.

  I took a deep breath and opened the front door. Mom called, “Ben? Is that you?”

  “Hi,” I said, walking into the living room, where she and Barry were sitting.

  “How are you, Ben?” said Barry. “I hear you made quite an interesting discovery.”

  For one panicked second I thought he knew I had discovered that Donny had sunk the Porsche. But then I realized he was talking about me being the one to find it.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Good thing it wasn’t one of your rentals, huh?”

  Barry laughed. “People have done a lot of stupid things to my cars, but nobody’s sunk one—yet.”

  “Tell Ben what you were just telling me,” Mom urged Barry. Mom tended to be kind of a cheerleader when it came to Barry and me, always trying to keep the conversation going between us. I’d told her to relax, that Barry and I were fine with each other and she didn’t have to worry about it. But sometimes she couldn’t help herself, I guess.

  I sat down, glad to have Mom’s focus on Barry and not me.

  Barry began, “Well, tonight I rented a car to the parents of the boy who was driving the Porsche. The Maddoxes. They flew in this evening because their son Cameron still hasn’t turned up.”

  “Really?” I asked, definitely interested now. So the kid’s name was Cameron Maddox.

  “It’s so peculiar,” Mom said. “Where do you suppose he’s hiding? And why?”

  I could think of plenty of places to hide in the miles of forest and sandy dunes and hidden coves and inlets around the island. As for why he was hiding, I had a pretty good idea about that, too.

  Now that I knew the story about this Cameron guy flirting with Jen, I thought it was possible he was hiding from Donny. Or, maybe after seeing what happened to his car, he’d gotten Donny’s message loud and clear, and left the island on the next ferry. But that wasn’t what I said to Mom and Barry.

  “Don’t you think he’s embarrassed that his car ended up in the ocean?” I asked. “He’s probably not exactly looking forward to seeing his parents. ‘Hi, Mom and Dad. Hope you don’t mind that I ruined your zillion-dollar sports car.’”

  “True,” Barry agreed. “Mr. Maddox was rather intimidating.”

  “How so?” asked Mom.

  Barry was silent for a minute, as if choosing his words. “It struck me that he seemed less interested in finding his son than in blaming someone for the kid’s disappearance. He’s convinced the police know something and are covering it up.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Mom protested.

  “I know. I tried to tell him that, but he more or less told me to shut my mouth, mind my own business, and rent him a car.”

  Mom shook her head.

  “What a jerk,” I said. It was one thing that I used to bad-mouth Barry; it made me really mad to think of this Maddox guy doing it.

  “I told myself the man is under a lot of stress, with his son missing and all,” said Barry.

  “Still, there’s no excuse for being rude,” Mom replied.

  “I figure Cameron will show up soon,” said Barry. “When he’s hungry and thirsty enough, or”—he gave a short laugh—“when he runs out of money.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Mom. Then she turned to me. “What time are you meeting Chick in the morning?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  “Hadn’t you better turn in? It’s almost ten.”

  For once I didn’t argue. I said good night and got ready for bed. I worried that I might toss and turn all night, thinking about Donny and Cameron Maddox and how I was going to get out of the house to go to the fireworks, but I must have been more tired than I realized. Anyway, before I knew it, the alarm was ringing and it was time to go fishing again.

  Six

  I didn’t completely wake up until I was on the road to West Basin, with the sun warming my face and lighting up the dune grass, and shining through the mist that rose from the salt marshes. Hardly anyone was out and about except fishermen, who were either coming in from a night of surf casting off the beach or preparing to head out in their boats. It was a time of day Pop and I used to share, and in those early morning moments, it was easy to imagine that he was still close by.

  Chick passed me in his blue pickup and waved. Soon I pulled into the parking area and chained and padlocked my bike to his rear bumper. By five minutes to seven, we were ready and waiting for our charter to arrive. At seven-fifteen, we were still waiting. By seven twenty-five, Chick was checking his watch every three seconds and muttering impatiently under his breath.

  I knew how he felt. If our charter didn’t show up, he was out a whole day’s pay. If they showed up late, there was a good chance somebody else would have beaten us to the spot where Chick wanted to go, and we’d have to work that much harder to find fish and catch them.

  We waited, watching other boats leaving the harbor one by one. At ten minutes of eight, Chick was just about to pack it in, when a brand-new Jeep sped into the lot, then a guy and a girl got out. I wasn’t so good at telling people’s ages, but it seemed to me that they were somewhere in their twenties.

  They were both really good looking. I mean, I was no expert on guys’ looks, but even I could see this was the kind of guy a lot of girls went nuts over. I admit I didn’t spend a whole lot of time checking him out because she was, as Donny would say, a major babe. I’m talking about looks that don’t seem real, as if she’d stepped out of a movie or the pages of a magazine or something.

  I was just standing there, staring like an idiot, as they began walking toward us, but Chick called to them, “I wouldn’t park there.”

  The guy turned back toward his Jeep. There, in plain sight, was a sign that said, PERMIT PARKING ONLY. Five spots were reserved for the harbormaster, the shellfish warden, and a few charter-boat captains who had paid for permits. The guy shrugged and kept on walking toward us.

  “You’ll get a ticket,” said Chick.

  “Whatever,” said the guy carelessly. “It’s ridiculous. You can’t park anywhere on this stupid island.”

  It was an annoying comment, made more so by the fact that there were half a dozen open spaces not twenty feet from the guy’s Jeep. He wasn’t entirely wrong, though. Once the summer season started, the narrow, winding roads of the Vineyard were overrun with more cars than they could handle, and parking became a nightmare, not just for tourists, but for everybody.

  Chick turned away, muttering to himself, “Suit yourself, buddy.”

/>   “You know the car they found in the water?” the guy went on. He acted as though he was talking to his girlfriend, but he spoke loud enough for us to hear. “I figure the owner gave up and pushed it in because he couldn’t find a place to park it.”

  He laughed, and the girl laughed, too, punching his arm and saying, “You’re terrible.”

  I looked at Chick, rolled my eyes, and muttered, “Ha ha.”

  The guy came closer and said, “So you’re Chick?”

  Chick turned back around. “Yes,” he answered evenly.

  “Oh.” The guy sounded disappointed. “I was hoping your boat would be bigger.” He frowned, looking the Something Fishy over. Turning to the girl, he said, “What do you think?”

  With a sinking feeling, I realized that this guy and his girlfriend or wife, or whoever she was, were our charter for the day. I didn’t dare look at Chick. Like most of the captains I knew, he took a lot of pride in his boat. Chick kept the Something Fishy clean and in great shape, and it was plenty big enough for this guy and his girlfriend to fish from comfortably.

  The girl looked at Chick and flashed a flirtatious smile. “I only care about one thing,” she said. “Does it have a bathroom?”

  “The head’s up there,” said Chick, pointing under the bow.

  “Can I look?” She smiled like a naughty little girl when she said this.

  Chick shrugged and said, “Be my guest.”

  The girl ignored the towel Chick had spread on the dock for wiping feet, and stepped into the boat. The treads of her sneakers left clumps of wet sand with each step as she moved to the bow, bent over, and peered through the forward hatch. She stayed that way for a long time, as if she was posing for a picture in her teeny little sweater and tight, low-cut jeans. I had the feeling she knew exactly how she looked and that she knew we were watching. I turned away.

  “Well,” she said, glancing up at the guy and shrugging delicately, “I guess I can rough it.”

  That really bugged me. The head in the Something Fishy was nice, roomier than the ones in most other boats and spotlessly clean, thanks to me. What the heck did she expect?

  The guy laughed and, without a word to Chick or me, thrust a cooler he’d brought from the Jeep into my hands. I took it, and bent to stow it where it wouldn’t bounce and slide around when we were running.

  “Just a second there,” Chick said. I looked up when I heard the sharp tone of his voice, very different from his usual friendly, laid-back way of speaking. He was staring right at the guy, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. He appeared relaxed. But from the tight set of his jaw and the narrow squint of his eyes, I knew that Chick didn’t much like this guy and was about to set him straight.

  “Am I to assume you’re my charter for today?”

  The guy made a face that implied Chick was the stupidest person he’d ever met. “Well, yeah. What’d you think?”

  “I think you’re late,” said Chick.

  Now I knew Chick was PO’d. He was basically pretty easy-going, and was always polite to clients. Unless they really provoked him. Way to go, Chick, I thought.

  “Yeah, I know you said seven,” said the guy. “But I figured that meant, you know, around seven.” He grinned, and jerked his thumb toward the girl. “You know how tough it is to get chicks moving in the morning. The hair, the makeup, the clothes. You’re lucky we showed up before noon.”

  “You’re lucky we’re still here,” said Chick. There was a pause, and I waited tensely to see if this was going to turn into a real argument. Then Chick said, “But since we are, let’s go fishing.” He put out his hand. “I’m Captain Chick Flanders, and this is my first mate, Ben Daggett.”

  I felt myself start to relax. Chick was going to try to lighten things up. The guy stared at Chick for a moment before taking his hand. “Brad Gibbons,” he said finally, ignoring me.

  The girl stepped up and took Chick’s hand next. “Nicole Ford,” she said. “But you can call me Nicki.”

  Chick nodded briefly. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Brad stepped into the boat. I sighed as I noticed that his shoes had black rubber treads. I’d be spending a good half hour that afternoon scrubbing stubborn black scuff marks off the deck.

  Chick had heard that the bonito and false albacore were feeding right outside the jetties at the mouth of Menemsha harbor. We still had gas from the day before, so we headed through the channel into the open sound. Sure enough, we could see places where the surface of the water was boiling. The commotion was made by hundreds of lightning-quick fish called bonito swimming hungrily through schools of panicked little sand eels. The air was filled with the shrieks of terns and gulls as they hovered over the frenzy, then dipped down to grab the wounded bait fish left behind after each blitz.

  To me, there was nothing more exciting than casting into a group offish feeding at the surface like that. But we were too late to get near them. Twelve other boats encircled the feeding fish. Fishermen, just as agitated as the fish and birds, threw lures at the seething water. Chick pulled up outside the ring of boats and put the engine in neutral while we watched one guy hook up, then another.

  Brad turned to Chick and said impatiently, “What are we waiting for?”

  “Pretty exciting, huh?” said Chick, still watching the action and smiling. “But I’m not going to crowd those guys,” he explained. “They got here first.”

  “So?” asked Brad. “I thought we came out here to catch fish. That’s what I’m paying you for.”

  I watched Chick take a deep breath before he answered. I was thinking it was a good thing I wasn’t the captain because I’d be tempted to tell Brad off. “Those guys got out here bright and early and got the jump on us,” Chick said. “We’ll find some other fish.”

  Watching the effort Chick was making to control his anger, I tried to do the same. It was easy for Brad to say we should horn in on the action by the jetty. He had just breezed onto the island for a few days of sun and fun, while we lived here year-round. Many of those guys were our friends and neighbors, and there were some things you just didn’t do when you were fishing. It wasn’t that there were rules, exactly. It was like anything else: you went by common sense and courtesy. Two things Brad didn’t seem to be overflowing with, I thought, getting mad all over again.

  Chick put the engine in forward and said to me, “We’ll check out the bar and see if there’s anything going on. If not, we’ll work our way up around the cliffs.”

  I nodded. We ran the shoreline toward the big sand spit known as Dogfish Bar. It was a calm morning, and the sun was already beginning to warm the air. It was going to be a beautiful day. I hoped Brad would loosen up and enjoy it.

  There was nothing doing at the bar, so we moved on to work the rocks at Devil’s Bridge. No fish showed on the surface, but Chick said he wanted to try drifting the rocks for bass. “Do you want to spin cast or fish with bait?” he asked.

  Brad reached for one of the spinning rods. Nicki, already looking bored, said, “Whatever.”

  Chick told me to rig up a bait rod for her. I was slipping a chunk of mackerel on the hook, when Brad cursed loudly, adding, “Cheap piece of junk rod!”

  He had tried to cast a lure, but instead of sailing out in the direction he intended, it dropped onto the deck behind him. That was not the rod’s fault, but Brad’s. He had released his thumb from the spool too early in the cast. Lots of people who weren’t used to fishing did that before they got their rhythm. It wasn’t anything to make a big deal about.

  Chick and I looked at each other, then turned back to what we were doing without saying anything. From the corner of my eye, I watched Brad cast again. That time he released too late, and the lure landed with a loud splat in the water two feet from the side of the boat.

  Swearing more under his breath, he tried again. The lure landed a decent distance away, but instead of retrieving it, he seemed to be struggling with the reel.

  I saw the problem: he was holding the rod upside down and
reeling backward. “It works different from a bait-casting reel,” I said. “Turn it over. Like this.” I demonstrated with the rod I held in my hand.

  “I always do it this way,” said Brad.

  I shrugged and turned back to the rod I was rigging. I felt like laughing out loud, but I knew it would only make the situation worse.

  Finally, Brad turned the rod right side up and began reeling, but by then his lure had sunk too deep and gotten hooked on a rock. He hauled back and yanked hard on the rod.

  “Take it easy, there,” said Chick. “Let out some slack and I’ll—”

  But at that moment Brad jerked again and the line snapped. With an exclamation of disgust, he threw the rod onto the deck and said, “I need a beer.”

  Chick picked up the rod and checked it for damage. From where I was, I could see that one of the eyes had broken off.

  Nicki reached into the cooler, handed Brad a can of beer, and took one for herself. He said to her, plenty loud enough for Chick and me to hear, “There’s no fish here, anyway.”

  Yeah, right, I thought furiously. A lot you know. Pop had caught the biggest striped bass ever recorded on the island right here at Devil’s Bridge. And during the fishing derby last fall, casting from the beach toward this very spot, I had caught my big one. I was about to say something when Chick caught my eye, nodded toward the rod I was holding, and picked up a spinning rod himself.

  Hiding my grin, I let down the hook baited with mackerel and waited, while Chick threw out a heavy, silver bucktail jig. After a few casts, Chick pulled in a nice striper. Without a word to Brad, he removed the hook and released the fish. A few seconds later, I felt a tug on the end of my line. I, too, had a fish. Following Chick’s lead, I unhooked mine and watched it swim away.

  Figuring, I guess, that we’d made our point, Chick said casually, “So, are you guys going to fish or what?”

  “I’m going to catch some rays,” said Nicki, stepping out of her jeans and pulling her sweater over her head. In her bikini, beer in hand, she spread out on the bow with her face to the sun.