by Stephen Bly
He cleared his throat. “Now, what do I know about good old Harvey Peterson?” He again reviewed each line on the notepad.
Born Fox Island, Washington, 1934. Graduated from high school in Tacoma in 1951. Served two years in Korea. University of Washington degree in engineering, 1959. Worked for Boeing, 1960 to 1990. Retired to pursue political causes. Island’s leading reactionary. He was against building the bridge, or the acoustic range, and closing the school. Ran for Pierce County Commissioner four times. Never received more than 269 votes. Wrote a book in 1992. Never married.
Tony tugged on his black felt cowboy hat, rolled up the windows, and took one last look at Mount Rainier. “Well… here goes.”
The big poster in Harvey Peterson’s front window read “Insured by Smith & Wesson: Policy 357.” A crudely painted sign in the yard boasted “Book Store In Garage.” Tony glanced in that direction but saw a “Closed” sign in the window. He hiked up the concrete and rock steps and rang the doorbell.
Peterson came to the door dressed in faded camouflage fatigues and worn combat boots. He stood a few inches shorter than Tony. He was stocky, but with no flab.
“Come in, Shadowbrook. Been lookin’ forward to meetin’ ya.”
The bachelor’s neat and orderly large living room included a variegated leaf pattern rug that coordinated with upholstered furniture. Fish decor hung from the walls and adorned throw pillows.
“Pull off your hat and sit a spell. Tony, I got to tell you the scene when Houston was reloadin’ those .44-.40 shells as he was ridin’ to Fort Laramie with the entire Cheyenne nation on his tail was almost as tense as being there. Keep up the good work.”
“So, you like the River Breaks series?”
“It’s your best yet. In fact, nobody describes the guns and gunfights of the Old West like Tony Shadowbrook. That’s a fact. Anyone who’s got an ounce of brains knows it. Can I get you a Coke? I’d offer you a beer, but I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Coke is fine.”
While Peterson stepped to the kitchen, Tony glanced at rows and rows of bookshelves and browsed the titles. The Butane Lighter Hand Grenade. Home-Built Claymore Mines. Survival Poaching.
“You find any good books?” Harvey returned with two cans of Coke.
“Pretty rough stuff here.”
“That’s my research. Mostly published by big companies who are interested only in making money. Most of it is useless. We might as well sit down.” He motioned Tony toward a leather chair. “Sure do appreciate you comin’. Hope the little woman didn’t get offended when I told her I didn’t do interviews with females.”
“She was delighted to send me.”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with women interviewers. They don’t know the right questions to ask. I had a gal sit right there from the Times and ask me, ‘Why do you always look angry?’ Can you imagine that? Why do I look angry? Who gives a squat how I look? Then she wrote an article about how I was advocating the overthrow of the U.S. government. I advocate the recapture of the U.S. government by democratic means. It belonged to the people and it’s been stolen by politicians and bureaucrats. But that’s not why you came. Go ahead, ask your questions.”
“I’m interested in your theory about a Japanese invasion of Fox Island during World War II.”
“Theory? The Japs were here. That’s no theory. I saw them with my own eyes. I was eight at the time.”
“What exactly did you see?”
“I was up island about a mile from here trying to hunt coons.”
“Doing what?”
“Huntin’ raccoons. Me and Pee Wee Mack used to hunt about every night. I had a 06 Winchester .22, and Pee Wee had a miner’s lamp he borrowed from his grandpa. We set off to be the big hunters. Only had one bullet that night, so we were determined not to waste it. Well, down there where they claim a F-94 crashed in ’53, we spotted some men snoopin’ around in the woods. Pee Wee blew out the lamp and we crawled on our bellies until we got real close. They were Japs, all right. We counted two dozen of them.”
“What were they doing?”
“Either they were lost and thought they were on a different island, or they were practicin’ night maneuvers. We lay there in the weeds and watched them. We were near enough to see the Japanese army insignia on their uniforms when the moon reflected right.”
“They did this all night?”
“Nope. After about an hour, they hiked to Big Rock and got in a rubber raft. Then they rowed out to Carr Inlet. That’s when we saw a submarine surface. A Jap sub. Even at night I could tell. And that’s the last I saw of them.
“Me and Pee Wee stood guard at Big Rock with our one bullet the rest of the night. Nothin’ happened, except we got whipped the next momin’ by our folks. Never read one word of it in the paper. Not one word.”
“And you never heard anything more about a Japanese invasion of the Northwest?”
“Nope, even though me and Pee Wee searched the ground and discovered several Japanese items. In fact, for years I figured me and Pee Wee were the only two who knew about it. But when I got back from Korea, there was all this talk about an accidental jet crash. Wasn’t no accident.”
“Explain.”
“They crashed that sucker on purpose in order to bring in a hundred people and comb the ground to erase any trace of the Japanese.”
“Seems to me, Harvey, a couple dozen Japanese troops on Fox Island for a few hours one night wouldn’t leave enough impact on the place to spot a single thing ten years later.”
“Tony, I like your way of thinking. See, that’s the kind of observation a woman would never consider. I’ll bet you know the answer.”
“I’d like to hear yours first.”
“Well, what if … that Japanese patrol’s purpose was to cache some weapons or supplies for a land invasion in the works?”
“Land invasion?”
“Sure. What if the battle of Midway had gone the other way? There wouldn’t have been anyone in the Pacific to stop them. A hard hit to the American mainland might have caused the American people to want a peaceful settlement in the Pacific. Maybe they cached supplies all up and down the coast. Who knows? I met a man in Oregon one time that saw over five hundred Japs land on the beach below Seaside.”
“But since there was no invasion, and since we did win the war, why do you think the government still wanted to cover this up?”
“Perhaps because during the early fifties everyone was so paranoid about a Soviet war, some of them figured the public would panic if they were told the truth how close we came to an invasion.”
“How about now? It’s fifty years later. The Cold War has eased. Why would they hide things now?”
“Because the government is riddled with cover-ups. If they admit this, it might open up a can of worms about other incidents. They surely don’t want you to know the real reason General Patton got killed. Or how many Communist missiles were positioned in Mexico. Or the Soviets’ chemical warfare. Or the space program that backfired and blasted a hole in the ozone layer. Or the United Nations’ secret plan for dividing up America after it falls under the control of a One World Government. You can quote me on those, if you want.”
“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stick to events on Fox Island. I’ll leave these other themes for you to develop in your own writings.”
“Right on, partner. Now, let me show you around the bookstore. Then, I’ll drive you down to where we saw the Japs. How much time do you have?”
“I’ve got to meet my wife at noon.”
“Not much time, but we’ll hustle. I’ll get the Jeep. Meet you out front.”
Tony walked to the front door and slipped it closed behind him.
Where did a guy like Peterson get such ideas? He should write fiction. Tony wasn’t sure he could use any of the material, but a kernel of truth could be buried in the manure. He’d sure like to know what it was and whether it was worth digging out.
After thirty minutes of rapid-fire
shouting from Harvey above the roar of the engine, and the constant jarring of the Jeep careening off potholes and boulders, Tony was ready for the smooth, quiet ride of the Oldsmobile. When he arrived home, Price and Melody relaxed at the table adorned with bright yellow linen napkins and whole wheat tuna sandwiches.
“How’d your interview go?” Price asked.
“Interesting. How about yours?”
“So-so.”
“Give me the scoop. What did you learn about Fox Island’s notorious Longhouse?”
“Anita Schaff worked there for two years and never once saw anyone she thought was a mobster stay there. But then, she wasn’t sure what a mobster looked like. A number of working girls came over for R&R.”
“I never thought of that before,” Melody said. “What does a woman who works in a brothel do for vacation?”
Tony loaded a plate with several sandwiches and chips. “Was Anita Schaff working there at the time of the Tacoma gangland massacre?”
“No, that was before her time, but she did hear rumors. There were also stories that the longshoreman’s union officials held high-level discussions at the place. But no confirming evidence.”
“So what do we end up with?” Tony pressed.
“Some very colorful rumors.” Price circled the table refilling each glass of ice tea. “That ought to make your fiction-writing brain buzz. How about Mr. I-Don’t-Do-Interviews-With- Women Peterson? What did you learn there?”
“He’s quite a character.”
“He’s a fixture on the Island,” Melody added, “but sometimes he can be an embarrassment. Did he talk about what he thinks of environmentalists?”
Tony shook his head. “We didn’t get to that subject, but I can imagine.”
He spent a good twenty minutes filling them in on Harvey Peterson’s theories while munching an entire bag of red jalapeno com chips.
Price cleared the table as Melody used the phone in the hall.
“So, what, if anything, can we use from good old Harvey?” Price quizzed.
“I’d like to get some other opinions first. So far as I can tell, Harvey is the only one who believes his story. I was right about this Chainsaw Militia thing. Harvey’s the only member.”
“What about that boyhood friend, Pee Wee? Is he still around? He could confirm that wartime story.”
“Nope. Harvey said Pee Wee moved to Alaska and drowned soon after that big event.”
“So, do we just forget Harvey?”
“Probably. But I think I’ll check around. Wade Miller’s father was a career man in the navy and stationed at Farragut during the war.”
“Farragut?”
“In Idaho. He knows submarines. I think I’ll talk to him.”
“What does Idaho have to do with submarines? Last I looked it wasn’t close to an ocean.”
“They had a huge submarine training base on Pend Oreille Lake. They were afraid to set it up on the West Coast. Figured the Japanese might try to bomb it or something.”
“Now, that sounds a little like Harvey Peterson.”
“That’s my premise. Behind every crackpot theory is a…”
“Crackpot?” She flashed a dimpled smile.
“… is a nugget of truth. Perhaps totally misunderstood or distorted, but it’s there. I’ll check it out.”
“It’s all set,” Melody called from the hall. “Mom’s expecting us this afternoon.”
Price scooted toward the bedroom to comb her hair, while Melody ran to her loft for her purse. Tony wandered to the front room window and stared at the Sound while he sipped Chuckwagon Blend Cowboy Coffee from his blue tin enamel cup. White foam ruffled the inlet waters and the apple tree branches swayed in the stiff wind.
“Well, Tony,” Price greeted as she strolled back, “What are you contemplating? A new fiction series on how the U.S. was almost invaded during the war? Or a tome on what soiled doves do on their days off?”
“Neither. I was contemplating a nap on that chaise lounge.”
“You’re showing your age, Shadowbrook.”
He detected a feisty sparkle in her blue eyes. “And you aren’t. Come on, doctor, our research assistant awaits.”
After they crossed the bridge, twenty-five minutes later they reached Barbara Mason’s home, north of Gig Harbor. A stucco house built in the 1940s, clear glass blocks wrapped around the southwest corner. A porthole window adorned each side of the front door. Overgrown rosebushes, junipers, ivy and ferns hadn’t been pruned in years.
“Remember, Mom’s either really happy or really depressed. There’s never an in between,” Melody cautioned.
“How long has she been that way?” Price asked.
“Ever since my father left.”
“When was that?”
“1979.”
“Do your mother and your grandmother get along very well?”
“Horrible. It’s like they blame each other for their own misery. I pray for them every night.”
Barbara had Melody’s dark hair, only blacker, as though it had been sponged with shoe polish. Shorter, it hung limply to her sagging shoulders. Heavy makeup emphasized puffiness around the tired, worn eyes. “You must be the writers.” She held out both hands to them, large rings on every fleshy finger.
Price took on her English professor manners. “Thanks for giving us some time, Mrs. Mason.”
“Melody’s told me all about you.” She turned to Tony. “I hear you think Melody’s book stinks.”
“Mother!”
“Your daughter has great enthusiasm for writing. I’m sure she’ll find her true niche someday. Frankly, a stream of consciousness series of short stories about handicapped people in dying American vocations would be difficult for any writer to pull off.”
“On the other hand, Melody has been a great help to us on our book, Mrs. Mason,” Price inserted.
“Call me Barbara. Come in and excuse the mess. I just can’t seem to find a good, steady housekeeper these days. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Mother!”
“Lemonade. Would you like some lemonade?”
“That would be nice,” Price said.
“Melody, honey, go out there and make us some. There’s concentrate in the freezer.”
“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” Price insisted.
“Nonsense. It will only take her a few minutes. Do you like tropical fish?”
Tony trailed behind the ladies as they entered a large dining room. Here and there pieces of gold-and-white striped wallpaper peeled away to reveal an undercoating of green paint. A mahogany Duncan Phyfe table piled with stacks of unopened mail and catalogues. “You have fish?”
“I’ll show you my babies.” Barbara pulled open a tattered Hawaiian print curtain doorway into the living room.
A six-foot-tall tank filled with milky water, a filter, pump, lights, thermostat and dozens of darting shapes and colors dominated one wall. A dusty bookcase filled the other. For the next hour Tony and Price sipped lukewarm lemonade and learned the habits of silver-and-black angelfish, emerald Emperors, long-snouted yellow butterflies, Siamese fighting fish and kissing gourami. With drapes drawn, the only light in the room shone from the aquarium and one brass floor lamp with a three-way bulb turned to the first setting.
“Tell me,” Tony said during a brief lull, “what was it like growing up on Fox Island in the forties and early fifties, before the bridge was built?”
And for the next hour, she told them.
Price was relieved to see Tony also taking notes because her mind kept wandering. Barbara seemed to stop living. Her body trudged around, but with no purpose. No joy. No goals. Price wanted to shake her and scream, Wake up! She didn’t think she’d ever seen many women more miserable.
By the time they left, Melody washed and dried the dishes, mopped the kitchen floor, vacuumed every room but the living room, took out the trash, and finished a load of laundry. When they reached the supermarket parking lot on their way home, Melody managed to
say, “You’ll have to forgive my mom. She didn’t used to be so sloppy. She’s had a tough life.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” Price quickly assured her.
“No, really. My mom’s had lots of disappointments. Grandpa was lost at sea when she was only eight.”
“I think I read about that,” Tony said.
“Mom once said Grandpa sat her down the night before he disappeared. He told her he was going away and wouldn’t see her again, but that someday maybe she would understand.”
“You mean, he committed suicide?”
“Or just left. Grandma Jessie always insisted he was lost at sea. I confronted her with Mom’s account one time, but she claimed it was a lie. Mom figured the war must have changed Grandpa, because after he came back he and Grandma argued a lot.”
“And your grandmother never remarried?”
“No. She taught school for a while. After she retired she would just sit out on the deck and read. Great-grandfather left a good inheritance. Anyway, she read and read and read. That’s why there are so many boxes of books piled in the garage. I guess that’s why I grew up wanting to be a writer. I spent a lot of time over there. In fact, Mom and I lived with Grandma Jessie for five years.”
Price led the trio into the supermarket and shoved a grocery cart ahead of her as they swung over toward the vegetables. “So your mother felt deserted by her father?”
“Yeah, well, dear old Dad didn’t help much either. Did I ever tell you about him?”
“You mentioned you hadn’t seen him in years.”
“When I was thirteen, he packed a suitcase and shoved off to Alaska with papers to recover great-grandfather’s gold mine.”
“What happened?” Price asked.
“We haven’t seen him since. Oh, I get a package every once in a while from him, but it’s always from a different address, and he never writes back when I send him a letter.”
“Did your mother divorce him for desertion?”