The captain returned to the nerve center of the operation, where I knew he would be concentrating on towing the net over the spot where he believed the body of Parker Alley lay. Quasar and I hung out on deck while the boat moved steadily toward the sun, which was now fully above the horizon. Soon the boat spun around and towed back in the opposite direction. “He always makes two passes, just to be sure,” Quasar confided. “I suspect he had it on the first run, but there’s no way of knowing. Some boats have cameras they can launch with the net and see everything that goes in, but we don’t. That’s why he makes the second pass. Just in case. The net cameras are expensive. It’s a lot cheaper to make a second pass. Parker Alley is probably already in the net, but without the camera, there’s no way to know for sure.” Quasar was fidgeting nervously.
“I thought most drowning victims were recovered by divers.”
“We really aren’t interested in making our livings pulling dead bodies out of the ocean. This is not what we like to do. Dead bodies are not our thing. North Atlantic Shell Farms thought this would help with public relations. And divers are expensive. We can’t afford divers. We’re a low-budget operation. We may need to hire some divers later depending on what the data of the survey shows. We have equipment. Do you dive? We have our own compressor to fill tanks. Are you certified?” I shook my head and stared over the stern at our wake. I prayed that Quasar was right about already having the body in the net. There were so many questions that I couldn’t get answered until my feet hit shore, and I knew my impatience with this trip would grow exponentially. And Quasar’s repetitions were starting to annoy me.
Quest’s engine slowed to an idle, while my pulse sped up in anticipation. Dane arrived on deck and ordered me to release the winch’s brake and begin to bring the net up. As I did so, the men stood on either side of the stern and looked aft. “Keep a slow, steady strain on the wire. That’s a good speed,” the captain said, then quickly watched the water behind the boat again. When the last mark approached the winch, I slowed the winch slightly, as I knew the net must be close to the stern now. I watched Dane as he pointed an index finger at the sky and drew a circle around and around, the signal I recognized as an order to keep the net coming up. When the finger dropped into the hand, making it a tight fist, I shut the valve off, stopping the winch from turning. “Now back off the boom winch. The valve is on the bulkhead behind you.” I found the valve and followed his commands, going back and forth between the two valves, until the net had been disconnected from the tow wire and the mouth had been secured, by a hook, to the winch on the boom high above the stern deck.
“Okay, Jane, take it up slow.” As the mouth of the net was pulled up, the webbing behind it followed up over the stern, until the very end of the funnel slid onto the deck and hung, swinging slightly, just a few feet in the air. “Bingo. Got him,” Dane said, sounding quite relieved in spite of all of his confidence. I joined the men as Quasar gave the purse line, which cinched the end of the net, a quick jerk, popping open a clip that allowed Parker Alley to fall onto the deck like a dead fish. Although a dead man was precisely what we were expecting, we were all taken aback by the large steel rod that pierced his chest and what appeared to be blood or red paint on the side of his face and clothes.
8
MY SHIPMATES WERE INTENT on covering up the corpse as quickly as possible and so, in the absence of a proper body bag, produced a down-filled sleeping bag from within the fo’c’sle. This kind of sleep was probably not what L.L.Bean had intended for the users of their product, but Dane and Quasar had no qualms. I suspected that their haste to conceal Parker Alley was twofold. First of all, until you’ve seen a large number of dead strangers, the presence of a corpse is creepy and, as with the accident scene syndrome, compelling in a way that makes it difficult to remove your eyes. Unless you are conducting an investigation or an autopsy, there is some guilt involved in checking out a dead body. Out of sight, out of mind, I thought as the men gently lifted the body onto the open bag, placing it on its side so as not to disturb the steel, wooden-handled rod that ran completely through his upper abdomen, bayonet style. Second reason? Covering a dead body just seems the right thing to do and shows proper respect for the dead.
Quasar folded the navy blue, down-filled nylon over Parker Alley, and Dane operated the zipper that ran the length of the bag, miraculously, without a catch. I was still somewhat amazed that they had found Parker, and so very quickly. Either these guys are very good, or extremely lucky, I thought. I have always been somewhat relieved when things go according to plan, especially at sea. When Dane had casually mentioned the subject of superstition, I felt a bit of a pang of guilt; everyone knows that women are considered to be bad luck aboard a boat. Kindly, no one said anything. The thinking, or lack thereof, goes like this: When Lady Luck sets sail, she morphs into Jonah, and is held responsible for every bad thing that happens from foul weather to poor fishing to downright disaster. I’ve always been welcomed aboard boats, as I have learned that men like to have an excuse handy for when things go awry. Don’t get me wrong: I have never been blamed for someone else’s mistake, nor would I stand for that. Like Mother Nature, I have been held unjustly responsible only for the big stuff.
Accidental death was now a tough sell, I thought as I followed the men up to the bridge. Murder? There was no evidence of that. Parker Alley had been alone. And with so many boats working within radio or even visual contact, foul play was unlikely, I thought. Homicide would have to be ruled out. Suicide? Tough to fall chest-first onto a spike like that and then keel over into the water. But not impossible. If Parker Alley had indeed committed suicide in a grief-stricken or depressed state following the death of his young son, he certainly didn’t take any chances on the success of his first swimming lesson. While hari-kari may have been considered an honorable death in some Eastern cultures, suicide in any form is shameful in ours. The only explanation I could imagine for Parker Alley’s thoroughness in his self-destruction was, perhaps, his maritime heritage. Would it be considered an embarrassment for a fisherman to die with everyone thinking that he had accidentally fallen overboard? The amount of pride people take in their saltiness and seafaring abilities, nurtured over generations, could conceivably seduce someone on the brink to wish to leave no chance that people would think his death was caused by a misstep or incompetence. Better to show the world that this was quite intentional and remove all doubt of ineptitude. And yet how could he have been sure his body would be found? Maybe he just assumed as much.
The remains of what appeared to have been red paint, definitely not blood, formed a long smudge that ran the length of the corpse’s left side and gave the indication that Parker Alley was right-handed. Otherwise he couldn’t have painted the stripe on himself. Of course, I made the obvious connection to George Paul’s history lesson, recalling the early Native American Red Paint People. But I couldn’t figure out what kind of a statement Parker Alley was trying to make with the paint and it baffled me. Trying fully to understand the thoughts and intentions that would precipitate this kind of ultimate, violent self-destruction is often foolhardy, I know. But it’s what I do.
People who haven’t spent too much time around dead bodies are often reluctant to speak within their earshot, as if they could hear, and this was certainly the case aboard Quest. Nothing was said until we were all in the wheelhouse and the door had been secured. There was no real discussion, only a statement issued by the captain detailing our new course of action. He had decided that it would be best to steam to Southwest Harbor, where the nearest Coast Guard station was, and basically get rid of Parker Alley and me. He was almost that blunt. Keeping in mind our send-off from Cobble Harbor less than twenty-four hours ago, it seemed like a wise point of disembarkation for me, whether I was with or without a body. I was anxious to get ashore for many reasons and assumed that I could hire or hitch a ride to collect my car. So the captain got no argument from me.
I agreed to call the sheriff to report the re
covery of the body and to have him inform the next of kin. My call was accepted, and I learned that the county coroner would also be notified, as protocol necessitated the corpse be officially pronounced dead prior to anyone removing it from the vessel. We were just two hours out of Southwest Harbor, so this seemed like a good plan.
I borrowed a sheet of paper and a pen from Quasar, as I had left mine in the Duster back in Cobble Harbor. The first thing I wrote down was “Bait Iron.” Quasar, who was reading over my shoulder, questioned my notation. I informed him that this was the common term for the wooden-handled instrument with which the corpse was skewered. I recognized the rod as a bait iron, the kind used aboard many lobster boats to spear whole baitfish onto a line so that they could be held fast in the proper spot in a trap, and theorized that this one had been the personal property of Parker Alley. Next, I asked Dane for the precise latitude and longitude where he had “caught” the body, for accurate paperwork and to check against the location where Cal and I had happened upon the abandoned boat two days ago. Other than noting date and time and the other facts, there wasn’t a whole lot I could do in the line of duty until my feet hit the ground in Southwest Harbor. There was no urgent reason to call Mr. Dubois regarding what should be said to the underwriters of Parker Alley’s life-insurance policy, and it shouldn’t be done anyway until I had filed a proper police report. When you wear two hats, you have to make sure to remember which goes on first. The insurance folks would be the only people pleased to learn that accidental drowning had been ruled out. Parker Alley’s last thoughts had certainly not included his widow’s financial security. A simple jump into the water would have left open the possibility that his death would be ruled accidental and would have made it possible for her to collect.
The wheelhouse was uncomfortably quiet as the green puddle of landmass over the bow rose from the bay and took shape as if melting in reverse. “Is this detour going to screw up your bonus?” I asked, intentionally breaking the silence. Quasar seemed both surprised and ill at ease with my question about his compensation; I assumed that he’d forgotten that Dane had mentioned the bonus in front of me the day before, when he was trying to shake the scientist into action during the breakwater scare.
“I hope not,” replied the captain. Then the men looked at each other with what I felt was a bit of distrust, as if they both suspected the other of having foolishly shared a confidence. With a slight shrug that could have been forgiveness or apathy, Dane continued with an explanation. “Aquaculture is a hot topic these days and there’s a window of opportunity for public input. If North Atlantic Shell Farms can get their ducks in a row faster than the opposition can organize a fight, their chances of pushing the proposal through is good. Our data is a required part of the application for leasing the bottom from the State of Maine. Like most of our contracted work, there’s a small bonus in completing the job by a certain date. We still have two days and the weather report is good. So, as long as we don’t dally in Southwest Harbor, we could make it.”
“Any bonus for desired results?” I asked.
“No,” Dane replied in a tone that indicated that he had been asked the question before, perhaps posing it himself. “No money for shading data. North Atlantic has done their homework. They know that this area of Cobscook Bay has ideal growing conditions for oysters and that all variables that Quasar and I will measure and record will pass muster. Our work is a formality. The only obstacle to the proposal is the public’s opinion of it.”
“Well, so far it appears that at least some of the public is not on board to the project,” I said with a chuckle.
“And fortunately, our paychecks do not hinge on the success of the proposal. It doesn’t matter to us whether they grow oysters or not. That would only lead to suspicions that we fudge data. We’re not about that.” I believed him. Dane pushed a button on the autopilot, shutting it off, and began steering the boat by hand as we neared the first set of channel markers. Here were two nice-enough fellows trying to make an honest living, and struggling at that, finding themselves on the bottom floor of a contentious project, which made them into targets. Quasar had summarized the situation best in his Spartacus analogy. The residents of Cobble Harbor who opposed big business, or change, or aquaculture specifically, would naturally see Quasar and Dane as foot soldiers of “the bad guys,” and Quasar was certainly justified in his feelings of being “under attack.” All the more reason to be landing in neighboring Southwest Harbor. I wasn’t finding any comfort in my vague recollection of ancient history. As I recalled, yes, Spartacus and his band of rebel slaves had indeed defeated many Roman soldiers against outstanding odds, but in the end he failed in his attempt to flee Italy and that failure had cost him his life. Of course, Quasar had that history down cold.
I was so wrapped up in thoughts of Spartacus and also figuring out how best to organize my time once we hit shore that I scarcely noticed the beauty of the day and the surroundings as Dane Stevens navigated a wide channel that led to a junction of intersecting waterways. Quasar had binoculars pressed against his eyeglasses. He scanned the shoreline back and forth with a slow, sweeping 180-degree arc. The captain spotted the Coast Guard station and had chosen the channel that would take us there long before Quasar pointed it out. Floating docks were connected to high piers that lined the shore all along the face of the brick buildings that housed the Coast Guard base. Two of the larger government vessels were tied to the pier, while a number of small boats hung on floats. The Eva B. was tethered alone to the farthest float in the compound, as if she’d been quarantined. Moorings were held by skiffs and dinghies, all of which appeared to have been left by the fishing fleet, as they lacked the Coast Guard color scheme that signified and glorified every other floating object in the area. A flagpole towering above all displayed the appropriate symbols of our location: U.S. Coast Guard Group, Southwest Harbor, Maine.
Young men and women dressed in dark blue uniforms were busy with scrapers, paintbrushes, and garden tools as they manicured buildings, boats, and grounds; they were carbon copies of one another from their necks down to, and including, pant legs that bloused above boot tops into which they were neatly tucked. Two men stopped what they were doing on an adjacent float and hustled to the pier where we were coming in so that they could help catch lines. They wore dark blue ball caps embroidered across the front with yellow block letters: U.S. COAST GUARD, each hat read, and included the official insignia. The men greeted us with serious nods. High tide and a perfect docking by our captain made line tossing easy for Quasar and me. The young men placed eye splices down over pilings, and Quasar and I took tight wraps with bitter ends of four lines around prospective cleats. Then all bustle stopped momentarily, a clear indication that word of Quest’s cargo had preceded our arrival.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Dane Stevens said as he emerged through the starboard wheelhouse door and down three steps onto the work deck. His thank-you was a dismissal, and the young Coast Guardsmen took it as such. They asked if there was anything they could do to assist and seemed relieved to hear that we were all set and just waiting for the coroner to show up. They tore their eyes from the sleeping bag and walked back up the pier and into a central grassy area. Once there, they were quickly joined by half a dozen others who were, no doubt, full of questions and wanted the advance team to confirm or deny the rumors they had all heard about a dead body. I found it strangely refreshing that a corpse in their general vicinity had the effect that it did. The young men and women were distracted from work and their constant watch on the station’s entrance gate suggested that they were disturbed by the scene. How different, I thought, from Miami, where I had on occasion seen pedestrians step over a body lacking posture on a curb and never break stride or miss a sip of their Starbucks. “It might be a while before the coroner shows up,” Dane said. “Do you see any reason for us to hang around? I mean, if you need us, we’re happy to stay. But otherwise, time is really growing short. You’ll be okay, right?”
; “Well.” I tried not to sound disappointed. “Well, the only problem is that we aren’t supposed to move the body from the boat until there’s an official death pronouncement.” The three of us stood and stared at one another with expressions that spoke with some volume about how ridiculous that was. “Let’s pretend I didn’t say that. This has already been a huge inconvenience to you and, yes, I’ll be fine waiting here. The tide is going to start ebbing soon. Help me with the body and I’ll throw your lines.” It felt better being in favor of what was inevitable. Plus, being a proactive, take-charge girl who was willing to bend the rules was more becoming than being a whining stickler, I thought as I lifted what I knew was the foot end of the corpse. The three of us set the bagged body onto the pier with ease. We all shook hands, bid thanks, and said farewells. Dane Stevens and I exchanged phone numbers at his request, something that I naturally read more into than the stated, obvious reason: I would almost certainly need to follow up with him on official matters relating to the corpse and investigation, and to complete paperwork, and his employer might need to reach me. As Quasar slackened lines, I lifted the looped ends from the pilings, freeing Quest to venture back offshore. “I’ll return your sleeping bag to you,” I called through the open door as the boat pulled away. I watched until I saw nothing but stern; I was like the girl left behind at the railroad station. Out like a lamb, I thought. My wistful hopes of romance dissipated, like a green, twinkling, outgoing tide over sandy shallows. “Bye,” I mumbled. I looked down, and the sparkle-filled backdrop was gone. The lump in the blue bag brought reality screaming back into focus with some velocity.
Fisherman's Bend Page 10