That Good Night

by Richard Probert

  I’m catching up with my notes after having had to run home to see after the wife, who came down with some kind of nasty bug. I hate interrupting an investigation, especially when things get hot. And the insurance company wasn’t happy either. To make matters worse, whatever infected the little woman got me, too. I arrived in Maine on the Wednesday night, July 20th, staying overnight at the Day’s Inn in Portland.

  This Bob Liscome guy lives on Bickles Island in Casco Bay. Finding the place was first on the list. Whenever I asked the locals for the location all I got was another question: “Why?” I tried looking at a chart, but there’s no Bickles Island that I can see. There are so many damn islands in Casco Bay, it’d take a month of Sundays to check them all.

  Next on the agenda was finding a charter to get me to Liscome’s island. Tour boats are all over the place, each loaded with slack-jawed tourists dangling digital devices like they were jewelry. The answer was the same everywhere: “It’s against regulations to disembark passengers on any of the islands.”

  I was directed more than once to visit Sebasco Lodge. “They might be able to help.”

  Now, it’s not like there’s a straight line along this coast; it zigzags around like a cornfield maze. Half my day was spent finding a bridge to cross the Meadow River to get to the damn lodge. When I got there, I was directed me to Sheila’s Lobster Pound, which required me to backtrack about twenty miles on snaky roads. As it turned out it was worth it. Bill Ducksworth, a local lobsterman was willing to take me out to Liscome’s place. “Two hundred fifty dollars should do it,” he said, poker faced as a guy holding a royal flush.

  “A bit much, isn’t it?”

  “You could always swim; tide turns in about three hours. Float you right out there. I’ll even lend you a float if you want.”

  I peeled off two-fifty in bills.

  “Welcome aboard. This here’s Sonny,” he said, directing attention to a scruffy looking lad dressed in yellow slickers. “Sonny’s my first mate.”

  I had never been on a lobster boat before. Truth is the smallest boat I was ever on was a cruise ship for an overnight from Fort Lauderdale to Nassau. I puked most of the way and the seas were calm. “I get a little seasick,” I warned Ducksworth.

  “Pick whatever is leeward and let her go is the best I can do about that.”

  “What the hell is leeward?”

  Ducksworth looked at me like I had the mind of a two year old. “Away from the wind. Got it?”

  My visit to leeward began about a mile from the dock. Ducksworth had the boat’s engine roaring like a jet fighter. Spray came at me like bullets. Yeah, I’ve heard all the tales about the striking beauty of Maine’s coast, but all I got to see was my puke hitting the white foam spraying off the hull. Mate Sonny took pity on me. He came out on deck and handed me a weathered rain slicker. “Might want to put this on,” he suggested, and then helped me into the thing. It felt like I was being wrapped in oil cloth.

  It took a lot longer than I thought it should for us to get to Bickles Island which I understand to be no more than two miles from the mainland. But hell, I was in no shape to judge—heaving your guts out has a way of altering time. Ducksworth landed at a pier that was one good stiff fart away from collapsing. “Hop out,” he commanded. “Don’t have all day.”

  “How about getting back?” I asked, stepping cautiously onto the weathered dock.

  “Bob’s got a boat, ask him. Shouldn’t take much.” With that, Ducksworth backed away from the dock. “Keep the rain gear,” he yelled over the growling engine. “Might need it.”

  I stood on the rickety dock waiting for my knees to stop banging into each other. The dock was more like some sinister catwalk designed for a carnival funhouse. A number of planks were missing and those that were still in place looked like rot had got the best of them. I figured that I was about twenty feet from land. The spot where I was standing was about three feet above the water which, at this point, looked about a foot deep. I took a few steps before the whole damned thing slowly tilted to left, dumping me into clear, cold Maine water. The depth of clear water is deceiving. Cold water was now hugging my waist. I waded ashore or maybe I should say dog-paddled to shore after losing an argument with slippery round rocks that covered the bottom. I was soaked, cold, and mad as a son-of-a-bitch. Adding insult to injury, my favorite Allan Edmond wingtips were ruined. I was beginning to think that this Bob character was some kind of nut case living out here. And I was even crazier looking for him. But as I discovered in due time, Bob didn’t live out here. Nobody did. I’d been had.

  In my heyday, none of this would have happened. First of all, I’d be on the trail of some saboteur or organized crime boss or drug lord, not some old wacko who escaped from a nursing home. I must be getting old myself to be snookered by all this crap. It’s downright disheartening. I took this job from the insurance company not because I needed the money; the government sees to that. What I need is to continue using my skills. Once FBI, always FBI.

  The island has a few bare trees, some scrub brush and raucous rookery of skinny-necked black birds complete with a carpet of their stinking droppings. It took me less than a half hour to slosh around the place. The sun helped keep the shivers in check.

  The place appeared to be solid rock with a dusting of top soil. I made my way up to the highest point to get a view and that’s when I discovered a ramshackle hut that looked even less stable than the dock. Inside, there was a cardboard box with a note attached. It read:

  Investigator From Away, welcome to the rock. Here’s some provisions, water and a nice blanket to keep you warm and some matches for a fire. Some good eats. We won’t let you die out here.

  The note was signed: Maine Welcome Committee.

  I spent three god-awful days and nights on that island before I was able to hail a passing motorboat, folks on vacation from Massachusetts. Nice folks with a furry white dog that barked incessantly. They thought it was cool that I had roughed it on such a demanding campsite. Seasickness came on almost immediately with no warning. Back to hanging over the side.

  I thought about bringing the police into the matter of finding Lambert, but where would that get me? I decided to rent a boat and do it myself. It may seem odd for a seasoned FBI agent that frequently went up against almost impossible odds nailing murderers, bank robbers, and other slime of the world—but the idea of getting on another boat and driving it myself had me as nervous as I’ve ever been.

  I found my car sitting just where I left it. I called AAA to come out and tow me to a nearby garage to replace the two slashed tires, after which I grabbed a motel room, showered and shaved, slept for eight hours, woke with a headache and an empty stomach, had a meal and went shopping. First on the list was buying two cell phones, one of which I secreted in a pouch in the small of my back—a little more comfortable than the Glock I used to carry. My second stop was a Rite Aid for a chat with the pharmacist. When I mentioned seasickness, she smiled and went on to tell me not to be ashamed, that it is quite normal, that it had to do with the inner ear, that I should look at the horizon—yeah, try that when you’re puking overboard—and that she was going to get me all fixed up. I left the store with Dramamine, a wrist thing that’s supposed to stop the madness, some ginger candy, and a quart of Gatorade just in case, as the pharmacist said, I lose too much fluid.

  My next stop was an EMS store where I bought a pair of sturdy boat shoes, two pair of shorts, a sun hat, a compass, a quart water bottle, sunscreen, Deep Woods Off, and after trying on a few backpacks, one that was comfortable and big enough to carry all my stuff. I spent the night back at the Day’s Inn.

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 25

  Portsmouth is a laid-back city with good restaurants and lots of goings-on. I was berthed at the city dock which was directly across from the Navy Yard, a busy place with bustling cranes and enough Homeland Security personnel to ward off even a hint of disturbance. The Piscataqua River rushes through the place with enough current to bury the buoys. T
o protect That Good Night’s hull, I had laid out every fender I had on board. The experience of Boston and Abigail had me renewed, but for the moment, twice as lonely. I talked earlier about building new memories, that old folks rely too much on the past because there isn’t a lot of future. At Sunset, there was really nothing to build memories on; the patchwork quilt was already sewn. Too much used to. Meeting Abigail added another patch to my growing quilt. I had left room for a lot more.

  With just a day away from Bob’s place, Portsmouth put me in position to get to his place with relaxed sailing or motoring if needed. I haven’t heard another word about the insurance investigator. Maybe he gave up. I spent the day onboard reading and listening to music. Just after a great seafood dinner at Jumpin’ Jay’s Fish Café, Bob called.

  “Coast is clear. Where are you?”

  “What do you mean by clear?”

  “Just come. I’ll tell you about it all later. So, where are you?”

  “Portsmouth,” I answered. “I have your place on the plotter.”

  “What’s your ETA?”

  “Can’t say but it looks like maybe five hours or so. I haven’t plotted a course yet. I can’t leave Portsmouth until an hour or so before ebb and I haven’t checked the tables yet.”

  “Well, call me when you get closer. I won’t be leaving the island any time soon.” Bob hung up.

  THURSDAY, JULY 26

  I called Bob at 1512 hours. “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Just past Portland,” I answered. “I should be at your place in an hour or so.”

  Bob said, “Maybe as the crow flies. Better add about a half-hour for the twists and turns. Give these islands some room; lot of outcroppings out there.” He added, “Be waiting. See ya.”

  “Hey, wait.” I yelled into the phone.

  “What?”

  “My boat’s forty-six feet. I draw five feet. You have room?”

  “To spare.” The phone went dead.

  With islands sprinkled like snowflakes on a bare lawn, navigating through Casco Bay requires serious diligence. The chart plotter gave me Bob’s location but I hadn’t entered a route in the electronic wonder. I guess I was too excited to take the time before departing. I had taken the time to prepare for docking which meant attaching the fenders and laying out the docking lines. Anyway, I’m of the old school of following a paper chart. It’s more fun and gives much more perspective on surroundings. I started the engine and dropped the sails. Beating a zigzag course around a bunch of close-knit islands with uncertain wind and a flood tide was not my idea of fun, at least at my age. There was a time when the challenge would have been normal procedure, but not now. Besides, I was pretty anxious to get to Bob’s place, so motoring it was.

  Actually, Bob’s suggestion to add a half-hour to the EPA was only off by ten minutes. As I approached his dock, there he was, waving a welcome like there was no tomorrow. He gave me a circling motion indicating that I should approach the dock starboard to. Once I turned, current grabbed the bow. I backed the throttle to dead ahead. I left the helm, readied the docking lines, kicked over the fenders that I had previously lashed to the guard rails and was back in the cockpit in no time flat. With a few bursts of the thrusters, I eased That Good Night dockside. I handed the breast line to Bob, who quickly chocked it down. As I slid down to his dock, I retrieved the stern line while Bob went forward to grab the bow line which I had coiled along the life line. With a few turns around the chocks, That Good Night was fast and secure. This was all done without a word. Like old times—there is nothing a sailor likes more than to work in sync with a knowing mate.

  “So, you went for the bigger one, huh? Hell of a boat,” he added before walking along her length tapping the hull and caressing the toe rail. “Thirty-amp okay?” he asked.

  “Yup,” I answered, stealing Bob’s answer for nearly everything

  I jumped back on board, killed the engine, went below and flicked off a few electronics and reappeared to see Bob holding a sturdy electrical cord. “This ought to fit. Where’s the onshore hook-up?” I directed him aft. Once plugged in, I went below and flicked a few more switches to tie in the shore power. I poured us two hefty glasses of scotch before going topside. I sat to port, Bob starboard.

  I looked past Bob, my eyes landing on a neat brick path bordered by flowers of various sorts. Grass spread from the flowered edges to wooded land where to my right, a path reached back into a stand of pines. Crowning the path, about twenty yards from the dock, was a sturdy cedar-shake roofed log cabin. This was a slice of heaven. Spruce, fir, some oak and maple covered the island.

  Bob quietly let me take it all in before saying, “Welcome to Maine.”

  “My pleasure,” I said. We sat quietly sipping our scotch. Words would come later. For now, it was enough to enjoy the sweet aroma of fir trees and the soft sounds of lapping water.

  Finished with our scotch, we set our empty glasses in a cup holder attached to the helm. Bob led the way.

  Reaching the cabin we went up three steps to a porch that ran the width of the cabin. Adirondack style furniture sat invitingly on a shiny enameled dark green painted floor. Chairs, rockers, side tables, and a neat coffee table topped with live edged boards. Bob directed me to a rocker, went inside the cabin and reappeared with two cold cans of Miller Genuine Draft.

  “Your favorite, as I recall,” he said, handing me the sweating can.

  “Pretty good memory you got going there,” I said.

  “Yup,” Bob replied as he sat in the rocker next to mine. “Some things are more worth remembering than others.”

  A few gulps of beer later, I asked, “So where’s that wood pile?”

  Bob didn’t answer. Instead, he rose from his chair declaring, “I need to go inside a bit. Enjoy the scenery.”

  I put my can of beer on the coffee table next to Bob’s. I walked around the porch noticing how every board and every rafter was perfectly fitted. His craftsmanship was akin to fine machining. The cabin itself was constructed with untreated cedar logs that had mellowed into a shimmering grey. Bob had told me many times how he had built the place from ground up using timber that he had harvested from the island. I was admiring the view of some of the many islands dotting Casco when he returned carrying two more beers. “Just in case one isn’t enough,” he said, lifting the shiny black-labeled cans in the air as if they were trophies. He set them on the table separating our chairs as we slipped back into the comfortable Adirondacks. I filled him in about buying the boat, some stuff about people I met along the way, briefly mentioned meeting Abigail in Boston, leaving out most of the details. I then asked what ever happened to the investigator.

  “Vacationing on Stone Island,” he replied matter of factly.

  “Stone Island? Sounds like a rather desolate place.”

  “Yup, unless you’re a cormorant.”

  “How did you manage getting him out there?”

  “Made a phone call. Forget about him. He’s a storm gone by.”

  “Any chance that he’ll show up here?”

  “Well, he can’t swim here from there, can he? If he makes it, well, we’ll just deal with that when the time comes.”

  “My guess is that you have things covered?”

  “Charlie, I’ve lived here all my life. My parents and grandparents were Mainers. There are things that people From Away will never understand about what it is to be of real Maine stock. So, yes, things are covered. Now, how about a tour of that boat of yours?”

  Ever the mechanic, he spent a lot of time sticking his head into the engine compartment, looking under access hatches in the cabin sole, examining the futuristic electric panel, studying the generator like he never saw one in his life and marveling at all the comforts akin to a swanky hotel suite. When I invited him to take a voyage Down East, he readily agreed with the comment: “Can’t pass that up, but we’re going to have to do that pretty soon.”

  “We have all summer,” I commented.

  “Maybe you do, but
I have things to do,” he said, getting up and leaving the boat. I followed.

  On our walk back to his house, I again asked to see the woodpile. After all, it was his reason for abandoning me in Annapolis. He took me around to the back of the cabin. A shed stood about fifty feet away, the construction similar to the cabin. The wood pile or where the wood pile should be was next to an access door at the rear of the cabin.

  “Not much to show,” Bob said flatly. Motioning to a few rows of split logs, he added, “That’s it.”

  “So, you’ve decided to head to the Caribbean with me?”

  “Nope. I’m dying.”

  “Jesus, Bob, aren’t we all?”

  I had a sinking feeling. Quite honestly, since arriving, Bob seemed, well, not like himself. I figured that he had lost a bit of weight because of endless physical chores. And there was something lacking in his eyes, maybe a bit of jolly gone out of them. He directed me to the porch where I sat while he went inside for more beer. When he returned, we sat in silence for a good ten minutes before he opened up.

  “Sailor’s disease,” he said calmly. “Skin cancer. Too much sun and not enough brains, I guess. Spread all over the place like spilled stew. They want to put me on chemo, but at best that would buy me maybe a few months and who the hell wants to spend their last few moments puking their guts out? Can you imagine going through that just to buy a little more time? It’s not for me. I’d much prefer to be looking up at my own ceiling, the one I put there, than one in some hospital. I’ll die right here, in my own creation.”

  I struggle to get out a somber, “How long?”

  “Three months, maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t told any of my family and I don’t plan to. It is what it is.” Bob’s voice had a tinge of anger laced to it.

  “Now look,” I said, with as much as I could put behind it, “there’s no way you can tough it out alone. Somebody needs to be here to help.”

  Bob bristled. “Why? I’ve taken care of myself all my life. When the time comes, I prefer to be alone and not slobbered over.”