Mace
Lighthouse Security & Investigations
Maryann Jordan
Contents
Chapter 1
2. Fifteen Years Later
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
24. Six Months Later
Mace (Lighthouse Security Investigations) Copyright 2018
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Cover Design by: Becky McGraw
Editor: Shannon Brandee Eversoll
Proofreader: Myckel Anne Phillips
Created with Vellum
1
The lights were low, the room illuminated only by the flicker of the flame from the lantern. The rain outside pounded against the window, and the waves could be heard crashing against the rocks down below. The living room in the old house was small, holding a worn sofa against the front wall near the windows. A rocking chair, with a green padded cushion, was angled next to the unlit fireplace and another chair facing the sofa, its seat cushions sagging from years of use. An end table next to the sofa held a brass lamp, but with the electricity out, it became merely an ornament.
An old man sat in the chair, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees. His bushy white eyebrows lifted and lowered as his blue eyes pierced the only other person in the room.
His voice, like gravel, said, “Even his own men called him a maniac. He was cruel, make no mistake about that. He once made a commander eat his own sliced off ears sprinkled with salt before he killed him. It’s said he once made someone eat the heart of another before killing him as well. They even say he burned a cook alive, saying he was a greasy fellow who would fry well.” Chuckling, “He made the other Edward, Blackbeard, look like a schoolboy.”
His listener sat on a low stool, his eyes large as his heart pounded in his chest, attention focused on the old man. Barely breathing, he was afraid the very sound of inhaling would call forth the ghosts from the past.
“Born in London, he was, to a family mostly of thieves. He eventually crossed the sea to come to the New World, settling in Boston. He raided up and down the New England coast, attacking ships, robbing every vessel he came across. He stole all the way down to the Caribbean. It seemed like nothing could stop him and his terror on the sea. Some say his boat sank in a storm, and that’s what killed him. But others say he died after being set adrift by one of the crews when they mutinied against him. Others say he was rescued by a French ship, but when they found out who he was, they hung him.”
The old man leaned forward and asked, “You scared yet?” His laugh rumbled deep in his chest, “Ned Lowe lived a long time ago, boy. No need to be scared of him now.”
Ten-year-old Mason Hanover sucked in a deep breath before letting it out slowly, willing his heartbeat to slow. “Wasn’t there any good in him at all, Grampa?”
“Well, it appears that when he first got to Boston he married a woman, but she died giving birth to their only child. Even though the child lived, they say the loss of his wife had a profound effect on him. He never forced married men to join his crew and always allowed women to return to port safely if they happened to be on a ship that he was piratin’.”
Mason shivered despite the warmth, the summer storm outside still raging. As scared as he was, he loved sitting in his grandfather’s small house perched on the rocks overlooking the sea. About the only thing he loved more was when Grampa took him out on his boat, and they explored many of the coves up and down the coast where they lived.
“Who are you going to tell about next, Grampa?”
“How about I tell you some tales of lighthouse keepers…some true life heroes?”
Grinning widely, he nodded, his enthusiasm evident on his face.
“Well, Marcus Hanna lived in the mid-1800’s and was a lighthouse keeper famous for his heroism. He’s the only person in history to be honored with both the Medal of Honor and the Gold Lifesaving Medal.”
“His name sounds a lot like mine.”
Nodding, Grampa said, “Yeah, it does.”
“What’d he do?”
“His father was the keeper of the Franklin Island Light, right here in Maine. Marcus spent his young years working with his pops before he went off to sea when he was only ten years old—”
“Ten years old? That’s how old I am! He went off to sea?” he exclaimed, his eyes wide with surprise.
Nodding, Grampa said, “Things were different back then, son. Men became men a lot earlier than now.” Continuing, he said, “He enlisted when the Civil War broke out and served in the Navy for a year and then was mustered out to various regiments. He once volunteered to carry water behind enemy lines to the rest of his company. With the worst fighting taking place all around him, he took care of his fellow soldiers. That’s when he got the Medal of Honor.”
Mason sat up straighter, his gaze stuck to his grandfather, thinking of the brave soldier. “Do you think he was scared?”
“Only a fool isn’t scared, boy,” Grampa answered. “But a hero is one who acts in spite of bein’ scared.”
He nodded silently, thinking that he would like to be a soldier one day. A bolt of lightning slashed through the sky, illuminating the room through the windows. He jumped as the loud thunder cracked and the little house shook. His eyes wide, he looked around, hoping the house would still be standing when the storm passed.
“Don’t you worry,” Grampa said. “This house has stood for a hundred years, right here on this spot. No storm’s gonna bring it down.”
He nodded, believing his grandfather. He watched as the older man took a swig of his coffee from the old enameled cup he always drank from. He liked it here in his grandfather’s house, where everything was the same. Day in and day out, he knew exactly what he would find when he was here. So different from his own home.
“Get to the good stuff, Grampa!”
Chuckling again, a deep cough racked his body, and he had to wait a minute until his breathing eased. Clearing his throat, he said, “After the war, he took after his pops and became a lighthouse keeper. One night, he risked his life saving two sailors who had wrecked on the rocks below. He braved freezing temperatures in a blizzard, throwing a line to the ship. He got both sailors off their ship and got them to safety.”
“Is that when he got the next medal?”
“Yes. He got the Gold Lifesaving Medal then. He’s the only per
son in history to get both of those awards. One military and one civilian for heroism.”
Wide-eyed again, Mason leaned forward listening to every word. He had not realized it, but the worst of the storm outside had passed, leaving only the rain still hitting the windows. Biting his lip nervously, he asked, “It’s still raining mighty hard, Grampa. Do you think it’d be okay if I stayed here tonight?”
His grandfather settled his piercing blue eyes onto him, nodding slowly. They both knew the real reason he wanted to stay was that his parents were either fighting or drinking. Maybe both.
His sister was spending the night with their aunt, and he did not want to be at home alone when his parents were fighting.
“Yeah, boy. I think you’d get too wet if you tried to go outside now. You can bed down with me tonight, and I’ll get you home tomorrow.”
An hour later, he was snuggled under the covers on the cot in his grandfather’s bedroom. His grandmother had passed away two years earlier, but he still remembered the joy he felt when he was able to spend the night with them. Their house on the cliffs overlooking the ocean was small but cozy.
The quilt, pulled up underneath his chin, was soft and one of his favorites. It had been made by his grandmother many, many years before. She had taken old scraps cut from clothing long worn out, and made a quilt covered in boats. The bright colors were now faded, but it provided all the warmth that he needed…along with his memories of her.
The rain against the bedroom window was now just drizzle, comforting, rather than scary. His grandfather, having finished in the bathroom, walked into the bedroom. Placing his glasses on the nightstand, he walked over to the cot, kneeling on the floor.
“You say your prayers yet?”
“I was waiting for you, Grampa.”
His grandfather nodded his head, laid his large, rough, gnarled hand on his, and they bowed together. After a prayer of thanks for the day and safety for all those out on the sea, he got to his feet.
His Grampa started to walk toward the bed, when he turned back and looked down on him. “I didn’t scare you too bad talking about the pirates, did I?”
Mason looked up at the wise, old face he loved so dearly, and shook his head. “Nah, I wasn’t too scared, Grampa. I know pirates lived a long time ago, so even if they were bad people, they’re not here anymore.”
“That’s right. Pirates are long dead, for many years now.”
“They were really bad people, Grampa. I’m glad we don’t have anybody like that anymore.”
His grandfather’s face twisted for a moment, as though struggling with what to say. Sighing heavily, he finally said, “I suppose you’re not too young to know that there are still bad people in the world. They might not be pirates like Ned Lowe, but there are still some really bad people in the world. You gotta watch out for them, and you gotta protect other people you love from them as well. Just like Marcus Hanna…there’re all kinds of rescuers and you can be just like that. A real lighthouse keeper in the truest sense…a rescuer.”
Lying in his cot long after his grandfather began to snore, he thought of what Grampa had said. Bad people in the world, watching out for them, protecting others. He didn’t know what his grandfather meant, but lying in the still of the night, he vowed to do just that…be a Keeper.
Six Years Later
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The small boat rocked upon the waves, but Mason handled the craft expertly. Moving along the rocky shoreline, he kept his eyes peeled for the caves he knew were hidden among the rocks.
His grandfather had shown him where some of the caves lay, a few nothing more than a small indentation in the stone, but as he continued to explore he found at least one that was much bigger. Underneath the old Maker’s Point Lighthouse were caves that had been naturally formed, and possibly dug out even more, many years ago. His grandfather had told him tales of pirates hiding treasure and, as a young boy, he had been excited to look for some.
He accepted that the treasures didn’t exist now, but still loved to explore their depths along the rocky shore.
Checking his watch, he decided that he needed to get back home soon. He had promised his sister he would help with her chores before their mother got home. Their father had finally taken off, no longer wanting the responsibilities of fatherhood or marriage. His mother worked long hours at the grocery store in town to make sure they had what they needed.
Coming around the corner of an edge of rocks, his sharp eyes detected the opening of the cave that had long fascinated him. Easy to miss unless you knew what you were looking for, he always found it. Knowing he did not have time to explore it more today, he turned the boat around, heading back home.
His weekends, during the school year, were filled with sports, homework, and working at the same grocery store as his mother. Grateful it was now summer, he knew he could come back tomorrow.
Once home, he quickly put away the boat and headed up the path to the small house, where his Grampa lived. After their father took off for parts unknown, they were unable to keep the house they had lived in. Grampa said he was happy to have them, so now his mom and his sister shared one of the tiny upstairs rooms, and he had the other to himself.
He did not mind since he had his own place and it was quiet. His clothes hung on pegs along the wall, his bed pushed next to another wall, directly under the window. The only other furniture in the room was a small table with a lamp on top and a shelf underneath that held his books.
He moved to the kitchen, where his sister, Mary, was stirring a pot. “Whatcha got?”
“One of the ladies from the church brought over some stew, so I’m heating it up. Mom said she’d bring home some of that good, thick bread from the grocery store and we can have that with it.”
He sighed, knowing that charity might not often come their way, but it did come. He wished it did not bother him that people looked at his family as something to be pitied. One day, when I’m all grown, I’ll make sure Mom and sis have everything they need.
Mary, with her long brown hair tied with a ribbon at the base of her neck, turned and looked at him. “Are you going to the caves tomorrow?”
He grinned and nodded. “Yeah. Thought I’d do a little more exploring in one of the big ones I found, near the lighthouse.”
She smiled back at him before turning to the stove, continuing her stirring. “Those caves scare me. I bet they’re full of bats and spiders and—”
“No. No. They might have a couple of bats in them, but not many at all. And I’ve never seen a spider. They’re mostly clean, and this one’s big. It goes pretty far back I think, but I haven’t explored it all the way.”
“I swear, I think you’d like to live there,” she said.
He heard their mother driving up in the driveway and pulled down the bowls from the cabinets and set them near the stove. Mary had already moved to the door to greet her, while he stood thinking about her last comment, and the reality hit him. Yeah, I think I would like to live in one of those big caves.
That night, as he slept on the cot in his small room with the moonlight shining through the window over his bed, he dreamed of having his own house by the water before it morphed into the deep, cavernous spaces underneath.
2
Fifteen Years Later
The lone man stood at the top of the lighthouse, his muscular forearms leaning on the rail, his hands clasped together. His head was bowed, giving the appearance that he was at prayer. His dark hair whipped about in the wind and as he lifted his gaze, staring out over the sea, his thoughts were as turbulent as the waves crashing against the rocks below.
After inheriting his grandfather’s small house and land, he’d purchased the lighthouse, which had no longer been in use, along with the land all around it. With the two properties right next to each other, he was assured of his privacy.
Mace loved this time of day, as the sunrise rose over the water, casting the undulating sea in glimmers. Large ships in the distance glided by, mixed wi
th the local fishermen out for their early morning catch. The seagulls called to each other before swooping into the water for their breakfast.
Pulling himself up to his impressive height, he rolled his shoulders back, stretching out the kinks. His night had been restless, but he had no idea why. He dressed in jeans that molded to his muscular form and a thick, thermal, long sleeve shirt helped to ward off the early morning chill. Stooping, he grabbed his coffee mug from the concrete floor, taking a sip.
As he ran his hand through his dark hair, the ends still slightly damp from his shower, he chuckled, realizing the coffee might warm his insides, but his damp hair still caught the cool breeze.
With a last look at the water, he turned and walked inside. Skirting around the old glass lights, he appreciated the angular prisms set in patterns used for many years to warn seafarers of the rocky shores. He descended the circular stairs, first metal and then concrete, curving around to the bottom of the thirty-foot lighthouse, to where the house was connected. He had redesigned the smaller rooms into spacious living quarters that were open and comfortable.
Walking into the large kitchen, three cats swirled about his ankles, and he looked down, careful to not trip over them. “Haven’t they had breakfast yet?”
“You know they have, but with bacon on the stove and biscuits in the oven, cats are just naturally going to want to eat again.”
He walked over to the coffee pot and poured another cup. Turning around, he leaned his hip against the counter while sipping the hot, black brew. He watched as Marge flipped the bacon expertly before forking it onto paper towels to soak up the grease. Marge Tiddle, and her husband, Horace, had been with him for several years, but he had known them for many years before that.
Mace: Lighthouse Security & Investigations Page 1