Calamity (Captain Grande Angil Mysteries)

by Robert G. Bernstein

  He shook his head, leaned back in his chair and turned-on the TV again. He started flipping through the channels.

  “I wanted to find something. I really did. I was sure the little prick set the fire.”

  “Little prick?”

  “Yeah, the kid, the one who survived.”

  “You never suspected the mother or anyone else in the family?”

  He shot me kind of an annoyed look as the TV settled on the Home Shopping Network.

  “We tend not to suspect dead people or women who have second degree burns all over their body.”

  “Right,” I said. “Except, you never really know. Best laid plans and all.”

  “No,” he said. “That kid was weird. We interviewed him repeatedly. We had the access because she was out of it, in a coma, you know, for the pain.” He flipped the channels with the remote until he found a fishing show, two guys in a ninety mile per hour bass boat, both of them standing and flipping spinner baits into a glassy lake.

  “Her?” he said loudly. “No freakin’ way. Come on. Look what she did to save her family. No. Not her. But him. Yeah. He was only nine or ten. We had a social worker with us during the interviews. She was good. She let us run a little loose. I’m telling you. He was hiding something. I know it.”

  I watched silently as the two guys on TV hauled in a few bass. Sonksin had his eyes glued to the show but I could tell he was somewhere else. Maybe he was wondering if there were people out there who planned evil acts on others only to have those acts get turned around on themselves.

  “How does a nine-year old kid start a fatal fire that leaves no evidence for a highly trained professional arson investigator?”

  Sonksin shut off the TV just as I was starting to get into the show. He turned in his chair and looked me square in the eyes.

  “What are you suggesting, fella?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m thinking out loud. I’m just finding it hard to believe a nine year old child can outsmart a seasoned fire marshal.”

  “Listen up,” he said, clearly a little peeved. “Nobody outsmarted me. I didn’t miss anything or shirk my responsibilities. I took my job damn seriously. I couldn’t find anything and that’s what went into the report. No arson. No fault. No cause that could be found. It happens sometimes. You want the official report. That’s it. It’s in your gosh damn hand just as I wrote it. But you didn’t come here for the official report. I’m thinking you want more than that.”

  “Off the record,” I said.

  “Fine. You want my opinion? The kid is weird. He’s smart, not just smart for a kid but smart for anybody. Think about it. His father was one of the sharpest legal minds in the country. Top notch firm. Highest profile criminal cases. Bowers and Hollyoake. You know which Hollyoake I’m talking about?”

  “The honorable Senator from Massachusetts?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “Maybe, someday, President of the United States. He would have run in the primary the year of the fire but I guess he needed time to put the tragedy behind him.”

  “Thirteen years is a lot of time to put off plans, even for a friend’s death. They must have been close.”

  “He’s a democrat, y’ know, but it’s not like he’s a crazy liberal. Man’s got some balls. If I remember he did some soldierin’ in Vietnam. Or was it C.I.A.? I’m not sure. Anyway, it was both of them. I guess that’s where they met. The point I’m trying to make here is the kid’s father was a genius. Mother, too. By jeezum, she’s even smarter. Magna Cum Laude from Harvard. Doctorates in Science and Math. This kid has pedigree. If you’d met him, you would know what the hell I’m talking about.”

  “A little late for that. Kid’s dead,” I said.

  Mr. Sonksin stared at me for a second, scowled, then turned away and triggered the remote for the TV. The two bass fishermen were working the bend in a river this time. With the TV volume turned way down we could hear Mrs. Sonskin in the kitchen, pots and pans clanging and water running from a faucet.

  “That’s too bad, sad, for the mother’s sake.” He scowled again and shook his head. “I still think the kid was a prick. I woulda had him if the Feds hadn’t shown up and taken over. They cleared the kid, told me and my guys to lay off him and the mother. As far as we were concerned, the investigation was over. We figured Hollyoake pulled some strings for the mother.”

  “F.B.I.?”

  “Sure. Big shot like Bowers. Former partner of a hot shot Senator. We were big and important ourselves. Boston F.D. Didn’t matter. We didn’t have a chance in hell with the Feds in there. I said I liked the kid for it and they said, so what?”

  We sat quietly watching TV, and then the clanging and running water stopped. Mrs. Sonksin walked into the den wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Will you stay for dinner, Mr. Angil?” she said.

  I opened my mouth to answer “No” but Mr. Sonksin beat me to the punch.

  “Stay for dinner, asshole. I could use the company. You like to fish and hunt?”

  I was cornered.

  “I own a charter boat up in Maine,” I said.

  “No shit,” he said. “You’re staying. That’s all there is to it. I got a deer tenderloin in there make your mouth water. My wife can cook like you won’t believe. She may be a neatness freak but she can sure goddamn cook.”

  Mrs. Sonksin smiled proudly in the doorway. I slid out of my jacket and hung it on the back of my chair.

  “You ever been tuna fishing, Irvin? “I said.

  7

  After a fabulous meal of slow-roasted deer meat, baked beans, scalloped potatoes and marinated fiddleheads jarred fresh the previous spring I drove forty or so miles North on Route-101, picked up Route-93, and continued to Concord.

  It had been one year, eleven months and four days since I had to place my mother in a Residential Care Facility, a family experience through which nobody should have to endure. The entire ride down from Maine she kept asking me where we were going. Every five minutes, same question. She and I had been there a month earlier to make the arrangements, so she knew I wasn’t pawning her off; we had both agreed on the course of action and she seemed to understand where and why she was going. Despite the time she spent with her friends and neighbors, she knew she wasn’t happy. Why? I don’t know, not exactly, except to say that when a person’s memory lasts fifteen minutes, sometimes only five minutes, and their environment doesn’t keep a similar pace or rhythm, it’s as if they exist in a different dimension, one filled with fear and anxiety.

  It wasn’t just her safety at risk, nor had I arrived at the decision simply to make my life easier. My mother had gotten very paranoid and lonely. She could not stand to be by herself even for the shortest time. The last four months I had to be with her day and night, except when she slept. Even then, when she awakened to go to the bathroom, she would get anxious and scared. Her worst fears were her own thoughts of loneliness and suicide.

  It took me about six weeks of searching for a place before I found one that I liked, or, I should say, I thought met my standards for staffing, privacy and dignity. Many of the facilities didn’t have rooms with showers. They had toilets and sinks, but when it was time for a resident to bathe, the resident would be escorted through the kitchen, dining or recreation area to a windowless room where they would be washed in a stainless steel tub. From that one perspective, I was looking for a place that had rooms with private, walk in showers and what I thought would be a little more dignity.

  I pulled into Hillview Manor about nine o’clock that night, parked close to the main entrance, and walked into the main lobby. There were two places to sign in, one at the front desk and a second place at the secure door to the lock-down section. I signed in at both locations and buzzed the doorbell. A few seconds later Sarah, one of the aides, opened the door and greeted me. She told me my mother had just finished watching a movie with the group and was in her room getting ready for bed. I walked around the ingeniously disguised nurse’s station and entered
my mother’s room. Gary, one of the most caring individuals I have ever met, had just finished dressing my mother in her nightclothes. He saw me come in and said in a loud voice. “Oh, look who’s here.”

  My mother turned her head and stared at me for a second or two, confused, then looked at Gary and said in a whisper. “My son.”

  Gary said he’d leave us alone and handed my mother off as if he were passing a delicate vase. He gave me her hands, and I took them and guided her to the bed. Gary watched from the door as I helped her onto her back and covered her up. She was so fragile and uncertain about her movements, getting her to step one inch or turn her body was a slow and deliberate process.

  I nodded to Gary and he smiled and left, closing the door behind him. Mom’s walker was a few feet away and I reached out and rolled it next to the bed. It had a cushioned seat and I sat in it. She lay there with her head sideways on the pillow, looking up at me with moist eyes. She seemed confused again, as if she didn’t recognize me, or hated not being able to remember more about me. I smiled and stroked her hair, wondering what kind of fucked-up universe we lived in or what kind of God presided over it. This woman had escaped the Nazis over the mountains with a group of half-starved school children, fought in three wars to help a people with whom she had no blood ties, and single-handedly raised a kid who’s father had passed away the day he was born. She never complained about life or let her faith and love waiver. She worked a meager job to supplement what little veteran’s pay was left after the war. She put me through college. She did volunteer work at hospitals and nursing homes. She never remarried and never even dated. She spent almost every day of her life missing a father I never knew. A God or universe that would do this to someone of her accomplishments and selflessness didn’t make much sense.

  A quiet half-hour passed, and then she fell into a coma-like sleep in which her breaths came and went with an automated rattle, as if they were her last. I kissed her head and walked into the recreation room to see Gary. Most of the residents had been put to bed, or as the staff usually said, “Put Down.”

  “She’s been having a tough time these past few days,” Gary said. He was filling out pages of reports and time sheets in a large loose-leaf folder. “I don’t know what it is. She wakes up bright and cheery but by ten she’s almost catatonic. She won’t talk and it’s been very hard to get her to move around. She’s seems to have forgotten how to hold a fork or spoon and sometimes she won’t chew or swallow.”

  “So, she’s not eating?” I said.

  “Well, she eats a good breakfast,” Gary said. “For lunch and dinner it’s a struggle to get her to eat. If I put the fork in her hand, and get her motor going, she’ll play along.”

  I nodded and sat down next to Gary at the table. I had nothing to say.

  Gary looked at me for a second or two.

  “It’s hard,” he said. “I know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ll take good care of her,” he said.

  “I know you will, Gary.”

  “You know,” he said. “We think she’s starting to speak Hebrew to us.”

  “She hasn’t spoken that in thirty years,” I said. “Does anybody here speak Hebrew?”

  “Not a word,” Gary said. “That doesn’t stop some of the other residents from speaking it back to her.”

  We laughed.

  “You know,” I said. “In her day, she spoke about eight or nine languages.”

  “No way,” Gary said. “That could makes things very interesting around here.”

  I said goodbye to Gary and the other attendee, Sarah, at around ten. I signed out at both stations and shuffled back to the lot and the rental car. The northerly had waned and released its icy hold on New England. Instead of the biting wind I felt the beginnings of a mild Southerly and fog. Heavy air in winter would mean black ice on the valley roads, where the cold would linger. I made a note to pay attention to my driving, a tall order, as I was already deep in thought about the price of motherhood.

  A lifetime of sacrifice and devotion ends for one as an empty vase that once held the dearest and most treasured memories; For another, a singular act of desperate and selfless heroism is rewarded with a life of mental and physical anguish.

  And a kid who ignores her.

  8

  I drove to Rockland the following morning, turned in the rental, picked up the Rover and got in line to catch the first ferry to Vinalhaven, the largest island in the middle of Penobscot Bay and home to some three hundred fishermen and their families and four to five hundred visiting summer folk. A tandem axle oil truck sat in front of me in the parking line. I could see the back of the driver’s head and hat leaning against the side window. A portion of his face and hand reflected in the mirror. Outside the entrance to the harbor the Southwester that started last night was blowing a full gale and scratching up seas of eight to ten feet. At the same time, inside my Land Rover, Mrs. Sonksin’s deer roast was back for an encore performance as a permeating and not so pleasant intestinal gas. If I didn’t open a window soon the state ticket taker would be in for a lot more than his usual dose of early morning customer surliness.

  We started onto the Captain Charles Philbrook a few minutes before our scheduled departure. Because of the expectation of heavy seas, the crew took load binders and anchored the axles of the oil truck and another heavy vehicle to the deck. I was guided onto what would be the weather side of the vessel. Salt spray and ocean water did not treat my Land Rover kindly, and as I was sure to get a good dousing on the way over, I said a little prayer to the Carburetor and Alternator God. I asked that he or she bless my tender vehicle and make it start back up on the other side of the bay. The last thing I needed was a breakdown on the ferry.

  It was too cold to sit in my vehicle with the engine off and windblown sea spray forcing its way through my passenger-side window and door so I went into the cabin. I had on my usual going out on the ferry duds for this time of year, heavy leather boots, wool socks, jeans, two layers of shirts, a Scottish wool sweater and my Grunden’s jacket. I still felt the chill.

  It got a little warmer once we made the turn through Larry’s Narrows and fetched Hurricane Sound. We were more in the lee and the wind couldn’t kick-up such a fuss. Twenty minutes later the captain spun the Philbrook around and reversed into the pen at Carver’s Harbor. I walked back to the Rover and turned the key. To my surprise and utter delight the engine started with a quick pop. All I had to do now was wait my turn to drive onto the ramp.

  Pete Tanner lived about two miles from the ferry terminal. I could have called him on the phone and arranged to meet him but I had no reason to think he would want to see me. More than likely, over the phone, he would have told me to screw off. You don’t usually tell someone to screw off in person, or so I thought.

  I found his house at the end of a long dirt driveway deep in the woods. He had no view of the water. The site consisted of a small cedar shingled cape with a quaint porch in need of attention. There was a raggedy barn that could fit a thirty foot boat, with two outbuildings and an assortment of broken toys, tools, traps, rope and lawn machines. There were snow blowers, mowers, dirt bikes, four wheelers, lobster traps, all thrown about or stacked haphazardly. None looked to be in working order. I noticed a small clearing for a vehicle cut into the woods and I pulled into it and shut off the Rover. It coughed and sputtered a little from post ignition sickness. Probably a little waterlogged.

  Tanner’s front door had a broken lock and jam, as if it had been kicked in. The end of a heavy bungee cord had been stuffed through a hole where a doorknob should have been and a sixteen-penny nail was holding it in place. I knocked hard on the door. There was no answer. I knocked harder.

  “Hold on,” someone yelled from inside. “I heard you the first time.”

  I waited a few minutes and then the bungee cord released with a snap. The guy who opened the door was in his late thirties, big, taller than I, and heavier, which put him at six foot three or taller a
nd more than two-hundred and fifty pounds. He looked like I had just woken him up from a nap or a coma. I wasn’t sure which. He had jet-black hair that needed a wash or at least a comb, thick black eyebrows, a heavy black mustache and a week’s worth of facial stubble. He wore faded sweat pants with holes in them, sneakers with no socks, and a sweatshirt that had what I assumed was the name of his boat over his left breast. I could smell the aroma of rum and body odor on him and sensed he was a man of short temper and ill repute. To be on the safe side, I took a step back as he filled the doorway.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  “You Pete Tanner?” I said.

  “Who wants to know? You ain’t with the Jehovahs.”

  “Not quite,” I said and introduced myself. “I’m a private detective. I’d like to talk to you about Aaron Bowers.”

  Tanner cocked his head back an inch when he heard the name. It was as if the sound of Aaron’s name had punched him in the lower jaw.

  “Bowers?” he said. “That was a long time ago. What do you want to know about Aaron for? The Coast Guard and police already did everything needed to be done.”

  “May I come in?”

  He laughed. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I don’t know you from shit. I don’t have to let you in my house.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s true. You don’t have to answer my questions, either. I just figured you might want to help.”

  He scratched his beard with the fingers of his right hand. I could see he was missing the end of a thumb and most of a forefinger. He was sizing me up.

  “You carry a piece?” he said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Got nerve to come here without some backup, asking about Aaron.”