* * *
“Time hasn’t been kind to the memory behind the original purposes of the eight observation towers scattered across the length of the island.” Emily Jacobs sighed. “Soon after the last missile was fired from our shore, the Naval and civilian scientists associated with Operation Bumblebee departed.
“Memory of the towers as observation platforms for the missile testing began to fade all together once the dismantling of Camp Davis was completed.”
Bob dutifully jotted down every word Emily, the director of the Topsail Island Missiles for More Museum, spoke in shorthand on his note pad. While he also used a digital tape recorder for interviews, he liked to have a more traditional written backup in case technology failed.
Mrs. Jacobs was cordial enough. She had been on hand to welcome him when he had arrived at the old Missile Assembly Building, which was now the museum. She was a petite middle aged woman with faded shoulder length blonde hair who obviously took pride in her Southern-style manners. Yet, Bob strongly suspected that she was giving him the Cliff Notes version of the standard fifty-cent tour spiel that she gave every journalist.
She certainly did her upmost to rush him through the exhibits—including the one displaying the only remaining “flying stovepipe” supersonic missile launched from the island. It had washed ashore nearly a decade ago after a storm. Now the missile rested in a glass tank, completely immersed in salt water in order to preserve it. He barely had time to snap a photograph of it before she had walked on to the next exhibit.
Bob knew that she had a finely tuned gaydar sense upon shaking hands with her. Her lack of genuine hospitality was just her way of showing her non-vocal disapproval. It was not the first time he had encountered the silent, homophobic prejudice Mrs. Jacobs was intent on practicing. Nor would it be the last.
She had managed to maneuver him right in line of the front door. Refusing to take her none-too-subtitle hint, Bob decided to press onward with his questioning.
“If I’m not mistaken, a road crew laying new sewer pipe back in 1978 rediscovered an underground tunnel that was part of the Operation Bumblebee setup?”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Jacobs replied, nodding slightly. “The tunnel had connected the missile assembly building on the south side of the island to the ocean front launch area.” She checked her watch. “Now if you have no further questions, Mr. Crisci; I really must be getting back to—” She didn’t finish. Her eyes widened from a combination of distaste and disgust as she looked beyond Bob to see who was trudging up the museum’s sidewalk.
Bob turned to look out the front door to see who was coming. “What in the blue bloody blazes brings that toad Kenneth Rizzo here,” she growled. Her cold green eyes latched onto Bob with unspoken accusations. “And why is Chief Hazelton trailing behind him?”
Rizzo didn’t let a simple thing like a glass door break his stride. It was a small wonder that the door hadn’t been knocked off its hinges due to the force he swung it open with. He pointed to Bob.
“He’s the witness I told you about Chief,” Rizzo said. “He’ll confirm that Mary Morgenstein assaulted me. Then you can lock that crazy old bitch up after he tells you what he saw!”
“How you dare talk about Mary that way!” Mrs. Jacobs admonished Rizzo. “All I saw earlier this morning was you wetting your pants in front of Aunt Mary, her niece, and myself,” Bob said calmly. “I’m not sure what the law is around here concerning that. In some venues, that’s considered indecent exposure.” He directly addressed Chief Hazelton. “Surely you certainly can’t arrest Aunt Mary for laughing at this fool.”
The police officer’s brown eyes gave Bob an acknowledgement of gratitude. “Filing a false report is a serious offense, Mr. Rizzo. Either you leave Miss Morgenstein and her niece alone, or I’ll have to lock you up.”
Rizzo pointed to Bob. “What about his dog? It’s dangerous and should be put down.” Hazelton’s six-foot, football player frame easily towered over the pudgy troublemaker. “Get this through your thick skull, Mr. Rizzo—bother anyone again, and I’ll personally arrest you.”
Rizzo made for the door. By now his beet red complexion had returned in full force. At the door, he turned to face all three of them, angrily jabbing a finger at Hazelton.
“Next time the city council meets, I’ll be presenting a petition to have you fired,” he told the police chief. “I’m far from done here.”
Bob was surprised when Mrs. Jacobs snorted in a most un-lady like fashion. He really hadn’t had imagined her being capable of voluntarily stepping outside the realm of Emily Post etiquette. Still, she had sworn.
“Lots of luck getting any one to sign it,” she called out to the departing Rizzo. At least Rizzo had taken Hazelton at his word about what would happen if he caused anymore trouble in the immediate future. He hadn’t slammed the door on his way out.
Hazelton sighed and looked at Bob. “Hopefully Mr. Rizzo’s churlishness about Mary hasn’t put you off about the island. You may find it hard to believe, but he was once smitten by her nearly fifty years ago.”
“Now that is hard to believe,” Bob replied. “From the way Mary acted, I thought she loathed Rizzo.”
“More of a one-sided romance on his side,” Mrs. Jacobs said. “Rizzo had a rather obsessive schoolboy crush on her. Mary couldn’t stand the sight of him. When Mary used to babysit me during the summer, all she would talk about is George. He was a transient beach comber who won the heart of the island’s summertime beauty. She nearly died of a broken heart when he vanished.”
“George vanished?” Bob asked. “Nary a trace,” Hazelton said, shaking his head. “Mary’s come back faithfully every year since then for fifty years. Guess she’s hoping against all hope that he’s still going to come back to her.”
A fleeting thought passed through Bob’s head as he wondered if Rizzo could have murdered George in a jealous fit of rage.
“Sorry we couldn’t have met under more pleasant circumstances,” Hazelton said. He offered a hand to Bob, who shook it. “Ms. Morgenstein mentioned that you’re staying next door to her at the Pelican’s Perch. She also told me the nudist’s name. I’ll swing by later this evening to make sure Rizzo isn’t causing you any trouble.”
“Thanks, but there’s really no need for you to do so,” Bob said. He knew the real reason why Hazelton wanted to drop by later. Gold wedding band aside, the handshake between them had spoken volumes. “Buddy’s barking earlier today was enough to keep him at bay. I’m sure it will do so again.”
“No problem at all,” Hazelton reassured him. “Your place is on my way home. Who knows, I may finally be able to cite Connor for public nudity if he’s frolicking around on the beach.”
Bob clamped firmly down on the quip threatening to escape from his lips as the chief exited the museum.
“Funny, George was also one of those shameful exhibitionists back then,” Mrs. Jacobs said softly. She blushed at the thought. “Mary told me that he just strode onto the beach one day, naked as a jaybird. He claimed her beauty stole him plum right out of the sea.” Her hazel eyes had lost most of their frostiness. “How you stood up for Mary was wonderful. How I’ve behaved toward you hasn’t been so.”
As she checked the time her silver filigree watch, Bob assumed she was figuring out the best way now to get rid of him. She surprised him by placing a hand on his back and firmly guiding him back into the museum.
“Let’s go back to my office before we continue on with our interview,” Mrs. Jacobs said. “It just so happens that I have a spare photocopy of Commander Tad Stanwick’s personal journal I can give you. It’s just chock full with all kinds of insights on Operation Bumblebee and life on the island back when they were testing the missiles.
“Then, provided you haven’t already done so, I’ll personally arrange for Helene Ogle-Thorpe to give you a tour of her home tomorrow. She and her husband converted the observation tower that’s part of their house into two bedrooms and a third floor art studio.”
> “I’d like that very much,” Bob replied, smiling. “Thank you, Mrs. Jacobs.” “Oh, tish tosh, please call me Emily,” she said, smiling back. “Now you’ll want to know how many night clubs called the missile assembly building home before the Topsail Historical Society took over.”
* * *
Emily Jacobs had certainly redeemed herself with the info dump on Operation Bumblebee that she had graciously provided him with.
She had even insisted on treating Bob to a late lunch at the Emerald Dragon—a New Yorkstyle Chinese restaurant that catered heavily to the annual tourist crowd that descended upon Topsail Island at this time of year. The chicken with curry sauce and fried rice he had eaten had an authentic taste of the Big Apple that he hadn’t been expecting.
Emily had also called Mrs. Ogle-Thorpe and arranged for him to have the complete fifty-cent tour of her home.
Bob flexed his long fingers over the laptop’s keyboard. He took a break from typing for a few moments to consult the current open page in Commander Stanwick’s personal journal. Fortunately, the former commander of the missile base had had neat and legible handwriting. Stanwick also provided a wealth of detail on the inner workings of Operation Bumblebee in his journal.
An odd entry off to the side near the end of the page Bob was reading caught his attention: Seaman Robert Albertson was last seen walking arm-in-arm into the ocean with an extremely beautiful and very naked raven-haired young woman. Her beauty and grace has stolen him from land.
Stanwick had written nothing further about Albertson’s disappearance on the preceding pages. It was definitely a curious omission by someone who was so meticulous about documenting every facet of daily life on the missile testing facility. Why did Stanwick go into detail about all the courtmartials and other forms of military discipline that occurred under his watch, and then omit any further details on an apparent desertion and double suicide by a sailor and his lady love?
Bob sat back in his chair; biting his left thumb as he pondered how Stanwick’s offbeat entry fit into the puzzle Connor had presented him with earlier in the day. Emily had told him that Mary’s beauty had stolen George from the sea.
A tentative knock on the front door caused Buddy to suddenly stand up. He was in full panting friendly mode. The wolf hound had been sleeping beside the desk.
Bob half suspected Buddy was still bloated from all the “doggie treats” he conned out of Aunt Mary throughout the day. Poor Carol had been so mortified to discover that Aunt Mary had doled out the entire box to the gluttonous wolf hound. Perhaps she was making good on her promise to bring by another box, though Bob had reassured her that she didn’t need too. As far as he was concerned, it was only Buddy who had misbehaved by working the magic of his “begging eyes” on Aunt Mary.
“Be there in a minute,” Bob called out. He winced inwardly upon recalling Chief Hazelton’s promise to swing by once his shift was over. Hosting a quick blow-and-go session was not how he wanted to spend any part of any evening—especially with a married man he wasn’t the least bit attracted to.
Buddy let out a happy bark. At least the wolf hound wasn’t sensing Rizzo creeping around outside somewhere. Bob instinctively saved what he had written so far on the laptop—about 3,000 words in length—before getting up to look out the peep hole to see who was waiting for him at the front porch.
Buddy followed alongside him, carrying a leash in his mouth. The man waiting patiently with a genuine happy smile on his face was the last person Bob had expected—Connor, and wearing clothes!
Buddy had to nudge a shocked Bob into opening the door. “Don’t tell me that you’ve forgotten all about our date,” Connor gently chided. He gave Bob a bashful smile. “I even scrounged up some clothes for the occasion.”
“Mmmmm . . . I didn’t think you were being serious about taking an evening stroll on the beach,” Bob replied. He was doing his utmost not to laugh out of fear for hurting Connor’s feelings.
Connor had definitely scrounged up some clothes alright. There was no denying that the tight fitting grey military hooded sweat shirt he was wearing nicely highlighted every square inch of his slim muscular torso. Yet Connor had chosen to wear it with a near pinkish pair of oversized speckled shorts and mismatched, different colored neon crocs.
Bob just hoped that Connor hadn’t borrowed the clothes from anyone’s clothes line. Where he had gotten the crocs was anyone’s guess.
It was Buddy who broke the impasse by brushing the leash against Bob’s hand. “I definitely could use a break after hours at the computer,” Bob said. He quickly attached the leash to the wolf hound. No sense in having Connor strip down for another ocean rescue. Though, if truth be told, he wouldn’t mind the chance of seeing the young man a-la-natural again.
Once Bob locked the door, they headed down to the beach at a leisurely pace.
Buddy eagerly sniffed the fresh expanse of sand, exposed by the outgoing low tide. “So how long before you head back to school?” Bob asked. “I imagine you must be studying oceanography. Emily Jacobs said you’re the current crop of a long island tradition of ocean loving nudists.”
Moonlight reflecting off of Connor’s face revealed him to be struggling how best to answer the question.
“I’m thinking of dropping out, provided I discover a strong enough and true reason to do so,” he finally admitted, frowning a bit. “As for the ‘ocean loving nudists,’ it’s a family tradition best shrouded in silence for now.”
Ouch, Bob thought. He definitely hadn’t meant to step on an emotional landmine. Connor smiled again, taking Bob’s leash free hand in his own. “Hey, let me teach you how to swim. There’s nothing to compare with how moonlight feels against your body in the coolness of evening waters.”
Bob pulled gently out of Connor’s grasp. “I don’t have any swimming trunks back at the cottage.”
“We don’t need clothes to go swimming.” Connor stripped off the hooded sweat shirt, tossing it on the sand. He winked as he kicked off his mismatched crocs. All that remained on him were those pinkish, oversized speckled shorts. “We can have all kinds of fun in the sea. Just take my hand and let me lead you into the surf.”
“What about sharks?” Bob nervously laughed. Unrelenting aquaphobia, not the thought of seeing Connor stripping off the shorts, was making his heart pound wildly against the walls of his throat.
“No problem. I’ll just ask a few of my friends to hang around while we frolic in the waves.” Connor let out loose a series of clicks and whistles toward the ocean that sounded to Bob’s untrained ear dolphinesque in nature.
A few seconds later, a dolphin rose out of the moonlit ocean and responded back to Connor’s call. “Twirls says she and her siblings will keep any sharks who wander to close at bay.”
“I can’t.” Bob pleaded, breathing heavily now. “Please, no, don’t make me.” He was trembling now. Bob was panic stricken not only by the thought of actually going into the ocean, but of who, and what Connor may be.
Connor drew him into a comforting embrace. “I would never force you to choose to be with me in the sea,” he whispered reassuringly into Bob’s ear. “Many options are afforded to us by the Choosing.”
Connor gently kissed him before Bob could form a coherent reply. Bob tasted the depths of the ocean on Connor’s lips. Those soft lips were warm and inviting. He liked how Connor’s body felt against his own. Yet, he was being pulled in a direction he was terrified of.
Reluctantly, Bob pulled away from both the kiss and Connor’s embrace. He distanced himself from the young man by a few feet. Buddy was puzzled by the interplay between the two.
“Connor, I’m not sure of anything right now. Least of all who and what you are,” Bob said. Connor’s kiss had been a gentle one, but it still left him breathless. “You’re everything I’d want in man —except close to my age. I don’t want to wake up in bed one day and find you’re gone. Been there, done that, never again. Please understand.”
Before Connor could respond, Twi
rls rose back out of the surf and whistled and clicked what sounded to be a warning.
“Some of the pod has spotted Chief Hazelton’s cruiser coming up the road,” Connor said. “Best I leave now before he offers me a way out of getting cited for public nudity.”
He kissed Bob again. “I’ll see you soon.”
Connor ran back into the ocean and disappeared beneath the waves before Bob could respond.
“I think that was the quickest first date I’ve ever had,” Bob told Buddy.
The wolf hound just cocked his head to one side in gentle bemusement. A wave brought Connor’s shorts ashore. Bob picked them up along with the discarded crocs and the hooded sweat shirt. Now his only immediate problem was dealing with Chief Hazelton.
His unwanted visitor had just pulled into the driveway of Bob’s rental and opened the car door when Carol stepped outside from hers.
“Say, Bob, would you mind bringing Buddy over here?” she called out. “Hate to be a bother, but Aunt Mary won’t go to sleep until she says goodnight to him.”
“No bother at all,” Bob replied. “We’ll be there in a second or two.” Hazelton just waved an acknowledgement before getting back in the cruiser. By the time Bob had reached Carol, the police chief had backed out of the driveway and was gone.
“Whew, thanks, I definitely owe you one,” Bob said. He had left Connor’s discarded clothing at the bottom stoop.
“Anytime.” Carol smiled. “Now let’s go say goodnight to Aunt Mary. Then you can tell me all about your date with Connor over a cup coffee and a slice of chocolate cake.”
“How could I refuse after your timely rescue?” Bob laughed as he followed Carol inside.
* * *
“My boys just loved climbing up the ladders to their tower rooms,” Helene Ogle-Thorpe told Bob as she began ascending the final ladder leading up to the third floor. He followed behind her at a respectable distance.
Joseph Baneth Allen - Neptune's Tear Page 2