“He can’t stop us from continuing the search.”
“Noooo…” Jamieson drew out the word. “But I can’t be part of it.”
“I think you are, whether you like it or not. You’re a villager now.” Hy gave Jamieson a cheeky grin, and Jamieson nearly smiled back.
“Look, if you’re going to continue the search, I’ll give you what unofficial help I can. But here’s what I think. I think we’ve searched everywhere. I also think Abel doesn’t exist.” Even so, she was following up Seamus’s email to Abel. And wondering what business it was that Ferguson had with the old man. Was it all just a fish story?
“You mean he’s dead?”
How to put it diplomatically? “Well, yes, but not recently.”
The thought silenced Hy. Jamieson was suggesting that Gus was out of her mind. That wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. She refused to believe it.
“You think the whole village has amnesia?”
That’s exactly what Jamieson thought at times. The Shores was not just a village the world had forgotten, but also a village that couldn’t remember itself.
“Doesn’t that punch a hole in your argument?” Hy said smartly.
“I don’t know. I think something’s missing.” She paused and rephrased it. “We’re missing something.”
“Abel,” said Hy.
“No. Something more. Something that could take us to him.”
“Not if we don’t go looking. You’ll see,” Hy said, with a confidence she didn’t have. “I’ll find him. This search has not been called off.”
***
The ER nurse, Ed, and emergency doctor, Dr. Diamante, had seen it before. An old guy, dressed in his long johns and a bright yellow raincoat, brought in on a stretcher. Who dressed these old men, Ed always wondered. He himself had great fashion sense, even when it came to his scrubs.
Dr. Diamante – he of the big brown eyes, soft and warm as a cow’s, arched by a single thick eyebrow that made him exotic – pronounced the old man “unconscious,” and said he thought it might soon be “time to call the family.”
Ed nodded. That’s what Diamante always said. Until they could find out who this man was, and who the family was that should be called, the wise doctor gave his usual prescription. No drugs.
“Rest. Plenty of rest,” he nodded, eyebrow diving in concern. “Then perhaps we will know who he is.”
The man lying there was no longer unconscious, and, had they known that, he would still not have told them his name. He had no plans to get plenty of rest. His brain had come newly alive. He wanted to get out of town. He was clear on why. If not how.
He knew now that it had been a mistake to come here in the first place, although he was proud of having cycled himself all the way to Winterside. He’d forgotten that Seamus had driven him. There were still gaps in his memory.
The small figure in long johns peered out of the emergency room privacy curtains.
***
Nathan had driven Germaine and Estelle to the hospital. She was clinging to her husband as if he could save her from some horrible threat. He could. Just by living. Estelle couldn’t imagine life without Germaine, even though he never did a thing for her, never lifted a hand around the house, never showed in any way that he cared for her.
She didn’t need any of that. He was there. That’s all she needed. For him to be there. She thought he made her less lonely. She didn’t know that the empty feeling inside her came from him.
Estelle was going to stay with Germaine that night. Doctors had found nothing wrong with him but were keeping him overnight for observation. Estelle would be doing most of the observing, sitting in a hard hospital chair, doing the crossword, while he slept, as he always did. Soundly. Noisily. Grunting and snoring, peppered with sounds of deep satisfaction. Once they were settled, Nathan prepared to leave. He went to the bathroom and then stocked up on chocolate bars and soft drinks to keep him awake on the way back.
Dr. Diamante and Ed the nurse stood beside him, buying coffee from the machine.
“We should check on that old man again,” said Ed. “Someone’s bound to be looking for him.”
Nathan whipped around. “An old man?”
“Yes, came in tonight. Nothing much wrong with him, except age,” Ed said. “We don’t know who he is.”
“Maybe I know,” said Nathan, eager. “Can you take me to him?”
When they got to the curtained-off area where the old man had been, the bed was empty. They began a fruitless search around the hospital, until they finally gave up. A couple of people thought they might have seen him, but couldn’t be sure. They said he was there one minute, gone the next.
Nathan phoned Jamieson.
“Have we any idea…any idea at all…that it was him?” There was hope in Jamieson’s tone.
“Only that he’s an old man, suddenly appeared, suddenly disappeared, like Abel does.”
“So he could be alive?” Jamieson brightened. There might yet be a good result.
“Could be. But where is he?”
“And what’s he doing in Winterside?”
“I could prowl around the streets, if you’d like.”
“I’d appreciate that, Nathan.”
“No worries. Happy to do it.”
Outside in the parking lot, the back door of Nathan’s van opened and closed. Five minutes later, Nathan strode out of the hospital, hopped in the van and began a long, slow drive through the city with the man he was looking for in the back of his van.
***
A lobster supper. Ferguson smiled at his plan. It was the answer to a lot of things. Among them, the snickering and strange curiosity over the sluice gate. It would put a better face on things.
He boasted to Letitia at breakfast about how well it had been received.
“Good neighbourly relations,” his voice striking a tone she always recognized as insincere.
But she agreed.
“I suppose it is a good way to get to know the neighbours.”
“It’ll build some good will. They weren’t that happy about us bringing all these cats here. I think I turned that around rather nicely.”
“Yes,” she said, with a big sigh. “This might keep you out of mischief.”
“Yes, dear.” His tone was sugared with insincerity. It would sidetrack the cod hunt. It might also help expedite it. Goodwill could be a powerful tool.
Ferguson was stalled on the “cod initiative,” as he had termed it. He needed a boat, equipment, and a fisherman who knew what he was doing. Seamus kept screwing up. Ferguson had become stuck on the idea that he needed Abel Mack. Probably because he couldn’t have Abel Mack. Where was he? Ferguson had become fixated on the man as the one who could solve his problems. If he could be found. If he could get more money out of Letitia. Money. It would take more than Letitia would be willing to give for something she didn’t believe in: the captivity of a wild creature.
***
Seamus had been parked outside the hospital, prepared to wait, if necessary, until morning to see if the Hat Man emerged. He didn’t have to wait long. He saw the old man climb up into the back of a van and was about to go round him up when Nathan came out of the hospital and climbed into the driver’s seat. Seamus decided to follow him. He wasn’t prepared for the convoluted route, as Nathan drove up and down streets and lanes in search of the man who was in the back of his van. So intent had Nathan been on scouring the streets for a sign of Abel that he’d didn’t notice the black PT Cruiser following him, like a Nazi in the night.
Winterside wasn’t a big town, and the area around the hospital where a person could walk wasn’t large. The town was bordered on two sides by water and two by highway. After an hour, Nathan had turned up nothing. Discouraged, he headed home, still completely unaware of his passenger.
Seamus in the black ca
r behind him shot through the night, as Nathan picked up speed on the Island Way, headed for the only place it led to: The Shores.
***
The one advantage of being over ninety years old is it doesn’t matter where you sleep, on an orthopedic mattress or the floor. When you wake up, everything hurts. Nathan’s van had the advantage of being set up as an ambulance and therefore had two stretcher cots. Even so, the old man woke up on the floor, after finding it impossible to sleep on either cot. Everything hurt.
He peeked out the window of the van. His warm breath created fog on the glass, chilled by the overnight air. The sun was just coming up.
He’d slept for hours, before waking, confused about where he was.
The van was parked in Nathan’s driveway. The old man eased open the back door and looked out. It took a few moments to register. Then he knew.
Home.
He was home.
Up and over the hill and down again.
Home.
But home wasn’t where he was going. Not yet.
No one was up. He stretched a few times, and jumped out of the van with the vigour of a man half his age. He swung into the cab of the vehicle, not slamming the door, but easing it carefully to a close. It didn’t quite catch, but he’d close it properly when he was on the road.
The keys were right where they should be. In the ignition. He popped into neutral and let the van roll back on the slight slope of the driveway, out onto the road, far from the house or any house. He turned on the motor and took off.
The sky grumbled behind him, bringing on a bank of big black clouds. The gulls had already disappeared from the shore, flocking inland to be out of the path of a storm threatening. It was the edge of a hurricane that might, or might not, hit Red Island. Hard to say. The cows weren’t helping. They were doing what they do, defying local lore. Some were lying down. Some were standing up.
***
The information that there had been an old man checked in at the hospital in Winterside gave Jamieson a new perspective – and possibly a new area for the search. They’d been looking around the neighbourhood, but what if Abel had not been in the neighbourhood at all?
It turned out that whether the search was on or off was immaterial. The villagers’ interest in finding him had waned.
“What’s the point?” said hardhearted Gladys Fraser, appearing more like a bulldog than usual. “He’s probly dead anyway, and would we know him to see him?”
Jamieson and Hy considered Gladys and her attitude largely responsible for the dwindling number of volunteers on the search. They had gone over and over the same ground and come up with nothing. Fewer were showing up. Even the Macks – Ben, Annabelle, and Nathan – had stopped their search, sad but certain Abel would be found – dead. Meantime, there was a hay harvest to bring in, and theirs was an increasingly rare thing on Red Island – a real family farm. Everyone had to pitch in at the busy times. Finally, it was left to only Jamieson, Finn, Hy, and Ian. The Winterside police had come up with nothing after a quick sweep around the city. That didn’t surprise Jamieson. Their concern for The Shores was nonexistent, their ability to find a missing villager equally absent, even if he had walked up and introduced himself.
It couldn’t go on. Jamieson reluctantly announced she was bringing even the unofficial search to an end.
“Someone better tell Gus.” Hy didn’t want to be the one.
“Of course I will.” Jamieson looked grim. “It’s my duty.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Hy, regretting her initial cowardice. She knew she should be there to support her friend. Both her friends. Jamieson and Gus.
Jamieson and Hy dragged their feet across the field to Gus’s. Gus saw them coming through the big picture window that was like her village television channel. She guessed their news. Not good, she thought. Not the worst though, she decided, interpreting their gait with the knowledge accumulated through decades of observation through that window. “Through the looking glass,” she thought of it.
She was ready when they came in.
After a few uncomfortable pleasantries, Jamieson cleared her throat. It was the smoke getting to her, she told herself.
“We’re stopping the search.”
Gus looked down at her knitting.
“Thought you’d have done that by now.”
Jamieson and Hy exchanged a look.
“Maybe…if some evidence…” She shouldn’t make promises she couldn’t keep, hold out straws…
Gus just nodded. Neither Jamieson nor Hy could make out how she felt.
Jamieson turned to leave. When she reached the door, Gus spoke.
“Course, there’s always the cove.”
Jamieson spun around.
“The cove?”
Jamieson looked at Hy.
Hy shrugged and shook her head.
“Bloodsucker Cove. He kept a dory there.” Gus continued plain, purl, plain, purl, not looking up. “’Spect there’s nothing to it.” Why hadn’t she mentioned it before, thought of it before? Was she getting the old timers, too? Like Abel?
“Why didn’t you mention it before?” Jamieson tried to keep the frustration out of her voice.
“Din’t think of it. Forgot, I guess. No one’s been there in a long time.”
Someone had. Was, in fact, right now.
Chapter 24
He looked down from the cape.
His head bent forward, shoulders slumped in disappointment. No Dory. Or too many bloodsuckers. Jellyfish. He thought he could see the bump where the boat was, but he would never dig it out.
Bloodsucker Cove was a great place to hide a dory. Hide anything, in fact. No one went there because the waters were choking full of bloodsuckers, jellyfish long dead and rotting in the ocean and on the shore. The smell and sight of them was disgusting. They piled up on the shore in late July every year, year after year, until there were mountains of them. Winter would wash some away, but still they remained in the thousands.
There probably was a dory in there somewhere, if you knew where to look. He hadn’t been down in years, he remembered. He had expected to see his dory with its beautiful yellow-and-red striping. The dory he had almost caught that fish with. He turned, disheartened, and returned to Nathan’s truck.
He’d go to Big Bay.
They were there.
They were waiting.
He had to get to them.
With a spring in his step, he climbed into the cab of the van and took off for the harbour.
Plenty of boats there.
***
Jamieson stood at the top of the cape, staring down in despair. Bloodsucker Cove was inaccessible. If she couldn’t face going down there, neither could a ninety-year-old man, however remarkable he was. But there was something. Fresh vehicle tracks in the clay lane, beside her own. Footprints, too. New. Maybe this wasn’t another wild goose chase. Perhaps she was finally on Abel’s trail. Where was it leading her?
Before she was able to find out, she had other fish to fry.
***
Word had spread quickly through the village and guaranteed a big crowd for Ferguson’s lobster supper. The villagers held their own community lobster feed every year. Gladys had to warn that the lobster would be “from away.” From the south shore of Red Island, not the north. So, of course, they wouldn’t be as good.
Several of the Women’s Institute members had shown up to help prepare the supper.
“Leave it to us.” Ferguson put a hand on Olive’s shoulder and turned her away. She flushed red with pleasure at being touched by a man not her husband, and such a handsome one. With such a voice. He smiled, knowing the effect he, and especially his voice, had on women. Since he’d arrived, several of the local women had phoned him, just to hear him say “hello” in his basso profundo. Then they’d either hang u
p or claim they’d dialed a wrong number.
Letitia was used to it.
“Now come.” Ferguson dropped his voice down even lower, sending a thrill through Olive of a kind she’d never experienced. “You go set up the tables and let us take care of the dinner. Take it as our thank you for welcoming us into the community.”
The W.I. ladies backed off, and Ferguson closed the kitchen door.
***
Everyone in the village turned out, including Gus, even though she didn’t like lobster. No one missed Abel, because he had never attended community events, except, sometimes, on the sidelines.
Jamieson came, not for the social event, but so she could ask more questions about Abel and Bloodsucker Cove. Finn arrived at the same time and stayed at her side.
Jamieson had put Murdo on duty. Even so, he was at the hall with April Dewey and her brood, because, as he had pointed out to Jamieson, everyone in the village was in the hall, so if there was going to be trouble, that’s where it was going to be.
He turned out to be right about that.
Ferguson had arrived at the hall before Letitia, saying he wanted to get things started. When she arrived, big pots were on the burners of the two stoves and steam was fogging the room.
“I see you’ve got them cooking.”
“Yup. On the go.”
She hugged him.
“You’re so good to me.”
She began to wheeze. To cough. To fight for breath. She pulled out her puffer. It didn’t help. She went down on her knees, hand on her chest, gasping, then fell to the floor. When she fell, Letitia dropped her puffer, and, with one arm outstretched, groped for it.
Her chest felt as if someone were sitting on it. Her lungs gummed up in a cloud of thick mucus. Nothing she hadn’t experienced before, but worse, worse this time. Her airway swelled and closed. She struggled for a breath, one breath, but it wouldn’t come. She tried to speak, but couldn’t make a sound. Her eyes appealed to Ferguson to help her. He stood there, looking at her, paralyzed by what was happening.
The kitchen was full of steam and the smell of the sea. The steam escaped through the cracks in the door and laid a film over the copper-coloured tin ceiling in the main hall. It became warm and the villagers began to disrobe – jackets and sweaters pulled off, some of the women rolling down their support hose into bulky lumps around their ankles.
Cod Only Knows Page 16