by Lea Wait
I kept watching the woods above us, and the edges of the beach. I was shaking. The last time I’d been here Jesse had shot at Dave and me.
Pete took the rope and tied it around a large tree near the high tide mark.
“This way,” said Joe, stepping over unsteady rocks and around crevices. We followed him up the hill. My feet slurped in my water-filled sneakers. The narrow path was muddy between rocks and barely visible. If Joe hadn’t led the way, I wouldn’t have found it. Once we were above the jagged granite ledges we had to step over exposed pine roots and through high, thin grasses.
Before we headed inland I turned around.
The view was spectacular, even in the rain. Maine waters were littered with islands. But most islands were low, deforested granite ledges, or nubbles—immense piles of stones submerged in high tides and winter storms.
King’s Island rose high above the tides and still boasted trees, although many were skeletal.
During colonial days families pastured their sheep and cows and goats on islands near land, like the Three Sisters in Haven Harbor. The sea provided a natural boundary for livestock and didn’t require cutting trees for fences.
During the American Revolution British ships took advantage of this tradition and stole most of the district’s livestock and small boats. Since vegetables and grains didn’t grow easily on the ends of the rocky peninsulas where people lived, and losing their boats meant losing their access both to fish and other communities, those years were hungry ones for many Mainers.
Had anyone lived on King’s Island in those days? The island was too far from shore to have been used for livestock. But fishermen had often set up camps on islands like this, near where fish ran each year.
On the mainland Queen Anne’s lace and goldenrod colored fields yellow and white. Here there were only rough yellowed grasses. We dodged dripping branches of low scrub bushes, but there were too many. If any part of me had still been dry when we left the beach, it was now soaked. I brushed the rain off my face, focusing on pushing my way after the two men along the rough path. At least we could see where we were going. How did Jesse manage at night?
He must know the island so well he didn’t need light. Or he followed the ways of early settlers and slept when it was dark. On winter days Maine had fourteen hours of night.
Joe turned and headed into the woods, where whatever invisible path he was following was at least easier to walk. Winter ice and winds had left trees bent and naked, some on the ground. Jesse’d cleared the path here; broken tree limbs had been moved away. Little vegetation was below the trees.
No one spoke. How far into King’s Island was Jesse’s home?
Joe slowed his pace and turned to Pete and me. “Jesse lives just ahead. Strange. Either he hasn’t heard us, or he’s somewhere else on the island. Even in winter he shows up to meet me on the path.”
Both men had their guns out, held quietly at their sides. I left mine concealed. We had more than enough firepower.
“Jesse doesn’t have a gun,” I said, hoping what Jesse’d told me was true. “He only uses his bow for protection.”
“That bow almost killed Dave Percy yesterday,” Pete said quietly. “Jesse could be hiding anywhere. He knows every inch of King’s Island.”
I glanced around. Compared to the coastal rocks and low bushes, the area we were in now was exposed. If Jesse were nearby, we should be able to see him.
And he could see us.
Joe kept walking. About twenty feet farther he pointed at a low pile of dead branches and driftwood covered with lighter branches, grasses, and pine needles.
“His place,” he said.
“That’s Jesse’s home?” I blurted. I’d imagined he’d built a small log cabin or shack out here.
“He’s done an amazing job with it,” said Joe. “Someone must have lived here, or had a fishing camp, years ago. Early nineteenth century, or even before, King’s Island must have been someone’s wood lot. Nothing’s left now but their cellar hole lined with sea stones. It’s almost deep enough to stand in. Jesse added uprights from dead trees and a couple of aluminum poles, covered them with a four-season tent, and then covered the tent with the branches you see. He has two other tents for supplies and dry wood.”
“Jesse!” Joe called out. “Jesse, it’s Joe. Pete Lambert, from the Haven Harbor Police Department, is here with me. Your friend Angie Curtis is, too. We want to talk to you about Dave Percy.”
“He’s all right,” I shouted. “Jesse, Dave’s okay. He’s in the hospital, but he’ll be fine.”
The only answer was the sound of the sea and the rain.
Where was Jesse?
“Jesse!” Joe called again. No one answered. Joe moved a weathered plank on Jesse’s construction to the side and uncovered an opening to the house. “Want to see, Angie? I don’t think he’s home.”
“I’ll keep watch,” Pete said.
I bent over and followed Joe down four granite steps leading to what had once been a cellar. Despite the darkness, I could see a low, rough pallet in the small room, the sort early settlers had used, filling muslin or wool bags with pine needles. This one was covered by two sleeping bags. Bags holding canned goods and water lined one wall. Jesse’s bow and a small stack of arrows stood next to them.
Wherever he was, he didn’t have his weapons.
“There’s no light inside,” I commented.
Joe looked around. “Jesse says he’s like the animals. He hibernates in winter. Days are shorter then, and he sleeps a lot, so he doesn’t need much food or light. He has a propane stove and flashlights. When it’s warm and light enough to keep the door open, or sit in a sheltered spot on the island, he reads.” Joe pointed at a small collection of books I hadn’t noticed, propped on pieces of driftwood in a shadowy corner.
“He must be cold.”
“He says he gets used to it. But few folks could live like this nowadays.”
No wonder the coast guard checked on Jesse. I couldn’t believe he survived with only a propane stove in the winter. My house was roofed and clapboarded and had a furnace and three fireplaces, and I remembered cold winds blowing through when I was a child.
“He’s not here, for sure,” confirmed Joe. “Let’s get out of here.”
I’d reached the top of the steps, with Joe close behind me, when Pete yelled, “Found him!”
Chapter 25
“May I with innocence and peace
My tranquil moments spend
And when the toils of life shall cease
With calmness meet my end.”
—Sampler stitched by Phoebe Doan, age thirteen, in 1834 in Clinton County, Ohio. She also stitched a large building, perhaps her school, four sheep, and a man with a dog.
Jesse was lying on the ground about twenty feet from his shelter, in back of a yellow tent that stood eerily glistening in the wet, dark pine woods.
“He’s gone,” said Pete, bending over the body. “Nothing we can do for him now.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I suppose he could have slipped and fallen. But I don’t see any rocks or branches here he could have hit his head on.”
Shaken, I approached where Jesse was lying. I’d never seen Mama’s body. She’d died too many years ago. But this was the second time in two months I’d seen the body of someone I knew. Both times the shock took me right back to Mama.
“Don’t come closer,” Pete cautioned. “Until we know what happened we shouldn’t disturb the scene.”
“He was alive yesterday, about this time. He was fine,” I said quietly.
“With all the rain it’s hard to tell, but I’m guessing he bled a lot. Head injuries do that. And this one was in the front of his head, on his forehead,” said Joe.
“If he’d slipped on pine needles or leaves wouldn’t he have fallen forward? He wouldn’t be lying on his back now,” I said, looking at Jesse’s body.
Pete stood. “I hate leaving the guy here, but looks
to me as though the place should be checked by the crime scene guys from Augusta.”
Joe nodded. “I agree. We need to get someone out here from the medical examiner’s office, too.”
“You mean we should leave him here?” I asked. “Alone? In the rain?”
“No. I’ll stay. Make sure no one—or no animal or bird—disturbs the scene. Joe, you take Angie back to Haven Harbor and call for assistance. Let Ethan Trask know, too. In case.”
In case Jesse’d been murdered. I shuddered. How could this have happened?
“Maybe he wasn’t killed. Maybe it was an accident,” I ventured. “If anyone else was here on the island, wouldn’t Jesse have had his bow with him?”
“I don’t know. What if he knew whoever was here? What if he didn’t hear them coming?” Joe looked baffled. “I have no idea what happened.”
The rain was lighter now. I looked up, hoping to see a little blue sky. Instead, I saw a pair of great cormorants sitting on a high branch of one of the skeletal pine trees, their wings outstretched. Dark sentinels.
Did they know their protector was gone? What could they have seen?
Unfortunately, whatever they knew would remain a secret.
Joe and I followed the path, now trampled by our footsteps, back to the beach at the small cove and headed back to Haven Harbor.
I’d been worried about confronting Jesse.
Now I was worried about telling Dave his friend was dead.
“Dead? Jesse’s dead?” Dave’s skin was pale, but he was sitting in his hospital bed. “That’s impossible! He was fine yesterday. How? When?”
I shook my head. “They’ve called in the medical examiner and crime scene technicians to figure out what happened.”
Dave caught on immediately. “Pete Lambert thinks someone killed Jesse? Who would want to do that? Jesse was one of the good ones. He wanted to live in peace with nature, with his birds.” His eyes filled with tears. “He saw so many of his friends die in the Middle East. All he wanted was to be left alone. To make a small, positive difference in the world.”
I handed Dave a box of tissues.
“He was my best friend.” Dave kept shaking his head. “I can’t believe it. You’re sure it was Jesse?”
“I saw him,” I said quietly.
“He’d found his place, his purpose. All he wanted was to protect his birds. Why would anyone want to kill him?”
“Someone wanted to buy his island,” I pointed out.
“That might explain why Jesse freaked out and attacked me. But why would anyone kill him?”
“Maybe someone thought if Jesse was gone it would be easier to buy King’s Island.”
“Angie, get real. I can’t believe a rich guy from California would sail out to King’s Island on his yacht and knock Jesse on the head just so he could buy the place. Maine has thousands of islands. I never figured why Bentley wanted that particular island anyway. The only thing King’s Island was good for was the cormorants.” Dave winced. His leg must have been bothering him. “And Jesse. The island was good for Jesse.” He rang for a nurse. “Sorry. Could I have more pain medication?”
The nurse looked at his tearful face and then at me. “A little something to relax you, too? Your body won’t heal if you don’t rest.”
“Whatever,” said Dave, waving the nurse away.
“At least we won’t have to worry about Jesse’s losing the island now,” I said.
“That’s supposed to make me feel better? Jesse may be gone, but the great cormorants are still there. Jesse would want us to take care of them. Protect them, the way he did.”
The birds would be affected by Jesse’s death. But what could Dave or I do about them? Dave couldn’t even leave the hospital right now.
“The birds will have to take care of themselves,” I said, perhaps too hastily.
Dave winced again. Where was that nurse with a painkiller?
“We can’t let that Bentley person buy the island. We owe that to Jesse. And to the cormorants.”
“Let’s talk when you’re feeling better,” I said, as the nurse returned with a long needle. I turned away so Dave could have privacy.
“I have a telephone. Even when I’m in here I can talk with people. We have to move fast. That Simon was supposed to arrive yesterday.”
He’d been here since Wednesday night. But knowing that wouldn’t help Dave feel better. “I see Gram brought your pajamas.” They were folded in a neat pile next to the roses I’d brought that morning. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“When I saw you and Charlotte this morning I wasn’t thinking straight. I forgot something important,” Dave said. “So, yes. There is one more thing you can do for me. You can check on the kittens.”
Chapter 26
“From the most remote ages, the employment of the Needle has formed a source of recreation, of remunerative work, and no less of economy, the useful occupation of time and charity, amongst all classes of women in all parts of the world.”
—From The Dictionary of Needlework: An Encyclopaedia of Artistic, Plain, and Fancy Needlework by Sophia Frances Anne Caulfield and Blanche C. Saward, London, 1882.
“The kittens?” I repeated blankly. “What kittens?”
“The three in my barn,” Dave said. “They were born there, about six weeks ago. The mother cat disappeared. Must’ve gotten run over or something. I’ve been feeding her babies. Three are still alive. Or were before we headed out to King’s Island.”
Kittens? I like cats as much as the next person, but I was more worried about whether Jesse’d been murdered. And about the cormorants. And about how fast Dave was healing.
But those were complicated questions. How complicated could kittens be? “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the kittens for you,” I assured Dave. “I’ll go right now. You rest.”
I hoped they’d survived. Dave didn’t need any more bad news now. I didn’t know much about kittens, but Dave had been away from home over twenty-four hours now.
Twenty-four hours in which he’d been shot and Jesse had died.
Faced with a problem I knew nothing about, I did what I usually did.
I called Gram. She knew more about cats and kittens, among other things, than I did.
“Why didn’t he tell us about those kittens this morning?” she said. “And don’t bother to tell me you didn’t go to that island. Jed Fitch stopped in this morning looking for Tom. He told me you’d gone out with Pete and the marine patrol.”
Was nothing in Haven Harbor a secret?
“Are you and Tom thinking of buying real estate?”
“Don’t change the subject. Jed was here to tell Tom that Carole was going to have another treatment tomorrow. He was sad and frustrated. They’d thought she was doing better. He wanted Tom to stop in to see her, and said they wouldn’t be able to be greeters this Sunday after all.”
Right. Jed’s wife, Carole, had cancer.
Gram sounded thoughtful. “I suspect they’re having money troubles again, too. He asked me if I’d heard of anyone needing work done on their house, or stacking wood for winter. Jed’s getting a little old to do handyman chores, but not much real estate is turning over in Haven Harbor these days.”
“I’ll have to call him about my snow plowing,” I said. “And those window panes that need replacing.”
“Good,” said Gram. “But you haven’t explained what you were doing with the marine patrol.”
“I know what you said yesterday. But I really thought I could make a difference when Pete talked with Jesse.”
“You know how dangerous that was.”
“Relax, Gram. Remember, I didn’t go alone. I went with Pete and Joe. And now I’m back, and I’m fine.” Then I decided I had to tell her. “Jesse’s dead.”
For a moment she was silent. “I’ll meet you at Dave’s house and we’ll see how those kittens are doing. And you can tell me about Jesse.”
I parked outside Dave’s house and walked around to his bac
kyard. I’d sat on his patio several times in the past months, and I’d seen his fenced-in poison garden. I’d never paid attention to his barn. Most older houses in town had them. Not the enormous barns farmers needed, but smaller barns, or carriage houses, which once held two or three horses, their hay, tack, and a wagon or two. Today, people used them as garages or workshops and storage areas.
The warped sliding door on Dave’s barn was ajar. No doubt that was how the feral mother had gotten in.
I pushed it open.
It didn’t take long to find the kittens. They weren’t newborns, but they were tiny. Three babies nestled together on a nest of soft blankets and towels in a cut-down refrigerator carton. Weak, but alive.
“Thank goodness,” said Gram, joining me. “Dave was taking good care of them. He must even have bottle-fed them for a while.” She pointed at several bottles on a shelf next to a box of powdered milk labeled FOR KITTENS.
“Will we need to bottle-feed them, too?” I asked. I couldn’t take my eyes off those tiny creatures. When had I last seen a kitten that small?
Then I remembered. I’d been about five. I’d been playing in a neighbor’s yard and found an injured kitten. She’d been gray, I remembered. And one of her legs was crooked and bloody. I’d picked her up carefully and carried her home, both the kitten and me crying the whole way. On my way a neighbor boy had stopped me. “That’s the kitten Eric Dowling dropped out of the tree. He wanted to see if she’d land on her feet.” He peered at her. “She didn’t. Guess cats don’t really have nine lives.”
I’d run the rest of the way home, depositing the poor injured kitten in Gram’s lap.
Despite Gram’s ministrations, the kitten had died an hour later. I’d cried and buried her in our backyard, by the old pump house. I hadn’t thought of that kitten in years. But I’d never liked the name Eric.
“The kittens are eating on their own now,” Gram was saying. “See?” She pointed at several overturned Frisbees filled with food. “Dave’s mixed up the special milk and left it for them.”