Easter Sunday (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 7)

by Thomas Hollyday

  Then, like a tonic, the noises of the island came from ahead of them. Shouts, chainsaws, and generator engines sounded, dim at first, but then loud even over the roaring of the outboard and the rough background of wind gusts and waves. The echoes drifted across the swamp wasteland like wails of swamp animals signaling the coming storm

  Chapter Three

  Bob Johnny called out from on shore, his voice shrill, “I can hear you out there in the barge but I can’t see the rig.”

  Hank could not see forward. The tractor bulk blocked him.

  Pete hollered against the noise of the wind. “You people on the island. Get ready to help us land.”

  The barge was close to the shoreline of the island. A light went on at the far side of the mound and Hank could spot Charlie getting ready to insert a pole into one of the muskrat holes in the mound face.

  “Charlie,” he yelled.

  Charlie, a short round-faced man about thirty years of age, his yellow coat stained, turned toward Hank. Charlie still held the pole, a small cube of metal and wires attached to the end. He shielded his eyes.

  Hank cupped his hands around his mouth and called louder. “Have you found him yet?”

  Charlie shook his head and shouted back, “Can’t get any sounds except the damn muskrats scurrying around.”

  Some of the larger lights were aimed out into the swamp making an orb of white on the water. Pete’s flashlight worked toward them. Spots of light moved back and forth. The glare now touched the deck of Sammy’s boat, and then moved towards the barge.

  Sammy pulled his boat to the side. The barge kept forward and hit the flat of the beach. It threw a great wash of marsh water from the impact. The craft stopped only a short distance from the sandbag wall and raised a foot or more of slop in front.

  Pete shook his head. “It’s not going any further.”

  “Let’s do it,” said Sammy.

  Hank thought about how his father would have handled this. He could almost see him in his fire coat, his dark hair blowing over to one side in the rain, shouting to him with authority. “My God, boy,” he’d have said, “there’s just no way we aren’t going to get that tractor to work. We got to push and pull some and she’s there.”

  “You’ll need the key to that tractor,” said Will Allingham. He had finally arrived, his soft, almost whimpering voice sounding strange among the harsh orders echoing along the shoreline. Will was dressed well, a tie correctly knotted at his neck. True to his cautious nature, even though he was now ashore and safe, he still had strapped to his chest a large orange life jacket lettered River Sunday Fire Department.

  Will had inherited and ran the small and exclusive private school begun by his father, a school Bobby as well as Richard and Cathy, attended. The school demanded a high tuition, which Melissa paid. From the school, Will undertook his one big civic project, well known to years of graduates. All the school children, from kindergarten to eighth grade helped him each year. Each had a specific job aimed at repairing or repainting the plywood and cardboard full size model of his aunt’s P47 warplane. It would be pulled through the town on a lowboy on Heritage Day. Being Will’s daughter, Cathy rode on the float in her figure skating costume. Will liked to say the float represented the past, his aunt’s long lost plane, as well as the future, his beautiful skating daughter.

  Will added, “You guys should have waited for me. How many fences did you tear down?”

  Hank called from the barge, “I’ll pay for the damage.”

  Will laughed. “Hank, your rundown garden shop isn’t worth enough to pay for my fences.”

  “I don’t need your help searching for my boy,” Hank shouted, clenching his fists.

  Will stepped back, his grin fading.

  Sammy interrupted, “Will, you want to drive your tractor?”

  Will said, “You go ahead, Sammy. No need for both of us to get wet.”

  Pete said, turning to Sammy, “So I guess it’s all yours.”

  Sammy said, sarcastically imitating Will’s voice, “Guess so. No need for Will to get wet. ” Sammy climbed on the tractor and reached for the controls.

  Aside from the small engines for the generators and chain saws, the noise on the island consisted of the shouting of the men and the wind gusts and occasional thunder. The first rumbles of tractor diesel were like a wash of freshness over the dig site. Men heard the cylinders roar and the smoke from the exhaust rise. A cheer went up matching the smile on Sammy’s face.

  Sammy ordered sandbags moved back to provide room for the tractor. He’d reset these barriers after the machine was in place ashore. The men assembled boards to make ramps and a working platform. When they were all set, Sammy gave the word and throttled up the engine. The tractor inched ahead and then stopped, its wheels spinning on the barge deck.

  “All right, let’s get some lines on her,” ordered Sammy. The men began to pull on a block and tackle as Sammy let go on the tractor clutch. Suddenly a line pulled loose and hit one of the firemen as it flew forward and splashed into the marsh. The tractor lost its traction on the deck and began to slide backward. As Sammy tried to accelerate to compensate, its large rear wheels began to flip the nose of the tractor upward. Sammy shifted to neutral and the tractor idled and stopped sliding.

  Pete rushed to the side of the fireman who had been hit by the rope and thrown face down into muck. “Let’s get him on the higher ground!”

  Two of the firemen had refastened the block and were bringing up the line again.

  “One man stay with him,” ordered Pete. “He looks to be all right. Come one, we got to keep at this.”

  “You better get that line taut,” yelled Sammy. “She’s sliding again.” The tractor, gaining traction, inched ahead but slipped to the side.

  Will climbed down to work beside Hank and the others. “We almost got her. A bit more.” He took off his life preserver, which had become black from the muck being thrown out by the spinning tractor tires. “One more time and we have her in place.”

  With the last pull, the tractor lurched forward and came down on the ramp. Sammy kept it moving forward well away from the barge. Behind him men came with sandbags, quickly filling in the wall. The barge, without the weight of the tractor, slipped backward. As it reached deep water, the heavy barge engine pulled its stern underwater and the barge, with seams of its rusted steel hull opening, quickly disappeared beneath the waves.

  Pete shouted, “Let’s get her in action!”

  Sammy maneuvered the tractor into the trench. In a few more moments he was cutting his first pass into the mound. A white muskrat skittered by the men, his pink eyes and nose almost glowing against the dark mud. Albino muskrats were rare and the animal drew a murmur. One of the firemen tried to scare the muskrat away with his shovel, missed, and slapped the marsh wetting the men near him.

  Pete said, “I must have saved that muskrat a dozen times during last trapping season.” Trappers got their permits from Bob Johnny for a short trapping season but were not allowed to trap near the mound.

  “Ask Jimmy Swift,” said Cathy. “Sachem is likely his grandfather.”

  Pete smiled at the girl, “I call him Cochise. Maybe it should be Sachem.”

  Will looked down at his daughter. “Sachem doesn’t exist,” he said. “I’ve told you over and over, Cathy. Jimmy is ignorant.”

  Sammy was running the tractor well into the trench. The diggers climbed out and stood to the side as the blade was lowered. Sammy took his cut into the higher part of the mound and pulled up some of the sandbags as well as earth. The muck splashed down on the men as he backed the tractor on the platform, turned it and dumped the refuse into the swamp outside the sandbag wall. After the tractor was pulled back, Hank and the others went in with shovels to take out the fallen material.

  Sammy brought the tractor up again and idled while they hurried to clear the trench for his next cut. “Put some more boards down there. We need something under her tires.”

  Pete examined the sc
ene. “Sandbags with boards on top ought to do it.”

  Hank turned to Pete. “The whole mound might come down on Bobby.”

  “That’s the problem with the weight of the tractor,” said Pete. “It’s a chance we have to take.”

  “If we don’t get him pretty soon, he’s a goner anyway,” said Bob Johnny.

  Sammy gunned the tractor engine and pulled ahead for another bite. The wind gusted flecks of spray up from the marsh surface and they stung Hank’s face.

  Bob Johnny pointed to the running lights of several boats hovering in the expanse between the island and his ranger station. “More boat lights out there.”

  Pete shielded his eyes with his right hand as he observed, “Some of them just come around to see.”

  Bob Johnny shook his head. “No, it’s the animal lovers from town, rescuing the wildlife from the storm. They saw that tractor.”

  “They’ll have to understand this is life or death.”

  “Johnny Swift is out there and old lady Pond, too.” Hank knew the ranger was worried local supporters of the muskrat protection program would complain about the destruction of the mound.

  Pete chuckled. “Mrs. Robin Pond. Better not let her hear you calling her an old lady.” He added, “She might write a letter to that boss of yours in Washington.”

  “She’ll be worried about her muskrats.”

  “Water rising like this, she’s out there picking up stranded animals in her boat.”

  A new voice came through the tumult. Betty Allingham, Will’s sister, called to Hank as she approached along the wet path by the mound. “I saw your daffodils coming up around town, Greenie.”

  Hank turned. “Bobby is trapped.”

  “I know. I came to help. Those daffodils are a good omen, Greenie. I’m sure nothing will hurt Bobby.”

  His father had planted trees. Hank had taken up the call by planting daffodil bulbs in dozens of small gardens for the public to enjoy. He’d done this since childhood earning the nickname “Greenie.” He remembered the annual discussions with his father about the daffodils. His father argued Hank should plant trees - that they would last longer, make traditions over many generations. Hank had chosen the shortness of spring as something of his own. He corresponded with daffodil growers all over the country, an expert in his own right.

  Betty was a plain appearing woman, the same age as Hank’s former wife, but with a warmer personality. Because of that, everyone saw her as beautiful. She stood on the side of the hill smiling at him.

  For a moment, Hank almost forgot the horror of his child locked under the mound as he smiled back at her. The worry for his boy, though, was too great. He went back into his work, shoveling the tractor trench more quickly, as if speed might conquer the unknown danger and slow the ebbing slime in front of him.

  “I’d like to help,” said Betty, coming closer, speaking in an easy going voice. She was clever too, capable of cracking jokes with the guys or sympathizing softly with a hurt swamp animal. The white muskrat scampered by her feet.

  Sammy hollered, “You best look out, there, Betty,” referring to his ongoing tractor and perhaps, in fun, making a reference to the animal.

  “Don’t you worry about Cochise,” she snapped back. “He and I will get along. Isn’t that right, Hank?”

  Hank nodded. They had all been kids here in this swamp, kids in the same way as Bobby and Cathy and Richard were. Pet muskrats had been around in those days, too. Betty had always been the best with the animals. His father had liked her, too, because she listened to his stories about flowers. His mother wasn’t too impressed with her. She advised Betty was a land-poor aristocrat, meaning she didn’t have any money.

  “Cochise doesn’t mind the storm, do you, Cochise?” The white muskrat sniffed at her black rubber boots. She reached down to pet him.

  Cathy had walked along with Betty and said, “Aunt Betty, we’re digging up his home, scaring his family.”

  “The muskrats don’t mind. They want to help us find Bobby,” Betty said, putting her arm around the girl’s shoulder.

  Betty had brought coffee. The men gathered around, taking the hot coffee in cups neatly arranged on a tray she held.

  She turned to Pete. “You weren’t around when I visited the Wilderness a few weeks ago.”

  “No,” he smiled. “Last I heard you were in Africa.”

  “I came back. I felt like being home again.”

  Hank knew she had been at the swamp several times during the month, consulting with Bob Johnny on the Federal budget for the wetland. When she came back to Maryland from an African job, she had gone to work for a state wildlife agency in Annapolis. She lived at Will’s house.

  She smiled at Hank. “I came as soon as I heard it was Bobby.” She pointed to the boats with the lights. “Bob Johnny, they are going to be angry as usual. I thought you might need some political help, too.”

  Bob Johnny nodded. “I’m waiting for ‘em to come in here and tell me I’m not doing my job.”

  Hank had his head down again. He knelt in the trench, loading his shovel by hand to get more material on the blade.

  She handed the last coffee to Hank. “I remember you liked black.”

  “Like ‘Nam, Betty,” he said, sensing she was there by the smell of her perfume mixed with the fumes of the coffee.

  “How is that?” she asked.

  “Filling the sandbags reminds me,” he said. “He’s down there like I was caught in ‘Nam, unable to get out. Only I was rescued by a big shining jet airplane that carried me back to the world.” He turned his face up at her. “He might not be so lucky.”

  “You ought to rest for a little while.”

  “I am all right. I can do this.”

  “Like your father.”

  Betty reminded Hank of his mother. The two women had not liked each other, but they shared solid values of nurturing, the ability to love, and respect for others. On the other hand, Betty did not have the one characteristic of his mother that Hank did not admire, the intense religious fervor that looked down on all those who were not as saved as she was. Betty was more inclusive in her group of friends and would have welcomed a Buddhist from Vietnam if Hank had brought home a Vietnamese wife. Hank had no doubt that except for Melissa, Betty had always been his best woman friend, not his lover but his friend. While he had married Melissa, he still treasured his long talks with Betty talking about flowers and trees.

  “This isn’t your fight,” he said.

  “Bobby is my friend, too. Everybody loves him as much as you do.”

  “Maybe more.” He kept thinking he should have cared more about Bobby and should have read the letter first. If he had kept it from Bobby, he was sure none of this would have happened. He reached up, took the paper cup, and sipped the coffee. “Thanks.”

  A fireman called from the shoreline, holding a large carton with wires handing from it. Behind in the boat were long rods, tripods, and a portable generator. “Sammy, where do you want these lights installed?”

  Sammy hollered, “Come on, you men. Let’s get these floods up so we can see what we are doing.”

  Hank surveyed the area as he helped to carry the lights. At the beach the boats continued to come and go bringing more supplies and personnel and taking back those who were worn out. The sandbags were double and triple stacked. Yet, it was the trees that continued to worry Hank. The wind and rain made them waver back and forth in the darkness.

  In a short time the beams were installed and high up on their skeletal platforms. These lights had been used for many rescues in similar situations and the men felt more comfortable once they were switched on. The generator revved higher. The darkness fled and smiles crossed the men’s faces. The lights gave a sense of security, as though the night was under control and the rescue was moving toward success.

  On his way back from the final light installation, Hank lifted another sandbag to his shoulder to carry to the trench. His mind roamed to a recurring image of his little son, tra
pped below, clawing at the earth which constantly fell back upon his young body. The lights, instead of security, gave Hank only more thoughts about Bobby’s closed in place, a horror he feared himself, the horror of the spots where the lights did not reach, the darkness.

  “God let him see this light soon,” Hank thought. In his mind he remembered the plaintive song of Fleetwood Mac’s landslides.

  Chapter Four

  The sandbag wall was approaching waist height along most of the lowest shoreline near the mound. Meanwhile, Bob Johnny grumbled to anyone who would listen that it was slow work. The walls of the excavation were constantly caving back into the cleared area. The workspace was cramped with about twenty people actively digging. The rest waited to spell them on shifts, meanwhile filling and piling the sandbags. The job had been well organized by Sammy. As many were working as could be accommodated and the others, probably fifty more volunteers in heavy raincoats and with assorted rescue gear, were ready to do their part if asked. The chief himself drove the tractor forward and backward, scooping and dumping. Unfortunately, much of what the machine pulled out simply oozed back around the sandbags.

  The wind blew ripples in the plastic of Pete’s thin slicker. As he pulled it tight around his shoulders, he said to Hank, “We got some yachts breaking their moorings in the harbor. The roads are getting blocked with fallen trees.”

  So far not much had been seen of tunnel or cave but small holes were uncovered where muskrats had been hiding. Once in a while a muskrat would pop out of the mud, look, and then scurry away from the tractor blade. The men with their own small shovels would endlessly dig, cleaning up after the tractor, and, as they became exhausted, fall out of line and immediately give their shovels to rested volunteers.

  The trench had been widened to about ten feet, which allowed the bucket to load and retrieve its fill. This meant that as the trench lengthened, the walls were also longer and reached as high as ten feet. The men tried to reinforce them to keep them from collapsing by using two by four eight foot studs and plywood sheets jammed into the earth, with sandbags shoved against them.