Harsens Island

by T. K. Madrid

  This time when she boarded, a man of Asian descent collected her fare. He stank of cigarette smoke. He had short, blade-one black hair. He harshly told her to not wander between the cars once the boat was in motion; he told her to stay in place with the other pedestrians.

  “Why’s that?” she asked.

  “I like everybody in one spot where I can see ‘em and keep a count on ‘em. We ain’t lost anyone on my watch and that’s why.”

  “Fair enough,” she said.

  “Even if it wasn’t,” he said, “it’s what it is.”

  From her vantage below the pilothouse, Sam noted Mule didn’t fill its window frames; she guessed he possessed a slight build. His head swiveled from the cabin, to the deck, and to the water, catching sight of her once, not giving her any particular regard.

  When they were thirty yards from shore his voice reverberated from the speakers pointed fore and aft.

  “Good afternoon and good evening, folks. This is Skipper Dan Mule, and on behalf of Mule’s Ferry and the beautiful souls of Harsens Island, I want to welcome you home and welcome you back. If, by the best of your good fortune, this is your first visit, I want to extend the warmest of welcomes and give you my personal guarantee that you’ll never really leave, as we will always be with you! Come to our island paradise as a stranger, and leave as a friend. Again, I’m Skipper Dan Mule. Have a spectacular evening!”

  The boat rocked to a stop and as the cars and pedestrians exited, Sam purposely held back, wanting to coordinate her exit with Mule.

  The Asian man wanted none of it.

  “Listen, lady,” he said. “I’ve been a happily married man nearly three months now. If you wanted a piece of me, you should’ve made a play long before then. We ain’t running no taxi, either! You need to get it in gear and get going now!”

  Mule came up directly behind him, grinning, obviously amused.

  “Ricky K.?”

  “Yes, sir, Skipper.”

  “This lady giving you a hard time?”

  “I’m trying to get her off the boat, Skip. We got payin’ customers wantin’ our services and I don’t think we want any lollygagging, do we, sir?”

  “Can’t have that, no, Ricky K., not at all. But I suspect she was getting ready to disembark, don’t you?”

  Now she was in stride with Mule, who placed a friendly hand on her lower back, guiding her off the boat.

  “Sir, can you let Sandra know I didn’t talk to her?”

  “I will abide, Ricky K. Keep up the good work!”

  “Aye-aye, Skipper!”

  Mule stood about five-seven, had spindly arms and legs, and carried a ponderous belly that sagged over a too-tight belt and pants two sizes too small. He had bright green eyes, coffee stained teeth, and Coppertone skin.

  A few steps further, Sam spoke, eyeing the shack with the Come On In sign.

  “Sandra?”

  “She’s in the monkey cage,” Mule said. “She’s got a mean streak wide as her ass which is why I keep her locked up. She likes the power it gives her, keeping the drunks in line and so on. Those two, you know, you never see a couple like them on TV do you? It’s always the exact opposite. The hubby’s big as house, got a belly with its own name, and the wifey is skinny and cute.”

  “Seems so,” Sam said.

  “Anybody back there in Hollywood ever wants to do it true, they’ll fix it so the wife’s built like a pin cushion and the husband like a pin. Hell, those two back there are the real modern family, know what I’m saying? A fat, ugly white woman married to an angry Japanese fella, and she’s got a black baby boy name of Raul from a one-night stand, all of ‘em poor as muskrats in winter, and there’s not a funny thing about it. Angry, dumb people will inherit the Earth. You did a little bargain hunting, I see. Get any deals?”

  “I think I did, yeah.”

  “You visiting us? Staying at The Rich Man’s Club with the other hoity-toity?”

  “Actually, I bought a cottage on South Channel.”

  Mule came to a full stop.

  “For heaven’s sake! You’re the new girl? You’re the one that got herself mashed up with the drowned girl?”

  “Yeah, my name is Sam.”

  The man didn’t hesitate. He embraced her, hugged her so completely she released her package to the ground. A trace of cigar smoke scented his collar.

  “My dear woman,” he said. “I am truly sorry for your loss. That was a real tragedy,” he said, releasing her but maintaining a grip on her hands.

  “She was a good friend,” Sam said.

  “Did she know how to swim?”

  “Uh, I don’t know, Skipper.”

  “A crying shame,” he said, releasing her hands. “First thought, I wondered, did she know how to swim or at least dog paddle?”

  “Boy, I tell you, Skipper, I’m really not sure. But I was wondering if she came across with you?”

  “Me? Personally? No, she came across late, once we were on the night cycle. And she didn’t fall overboard when she was with us. We got it on the DVR. In the dark, after nine, as I recall. Came over in one of those ugly Detroit cars. You’d think that as we practically invented cars that we could make prettier ones. Can’t tell a Buick from a Lexus, a Chevy from a goddamn Hyundai. Or maybe it’s old age. How old do you think I am?”

  They were by the main building now. He stopped shy of the entry door, an obvious gesture their conversation was ending.

  “Thirty-nine,” she said, smiling.

  He winked.

  “Sam, I don’t know you, but you’re A-Okay with me. It has been a pleasure under difficult circumstances, but I need to get Albert in the saddle and keep the wheels of commerce rolling.”

  He extended his hand this time and she clasped it.

  “Thanks, Skipper,” she said, giving him a firm shake. “I appreciate the time.”

  “And I tell you this, whoever was with her – if he’s alive – has some splainin’ to do once Rowland catches him.”

  Sam was plain in her surprise.

  “She was with someone?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We got it on the machine, time-stamp and everything. It’s what bothers me most about the whole business. She wasn’t alone, but nobody knows who it was. Male, woman, blow-up doll – it was too dark to see what exactly. I’ve got the fear whoever it was is gone too, and may be the one who offed your friend. Besides, it’s what? Seven days? Friday night she comes over and by Saturday night, she’s chum. It’s a sad and crazy business.”

  “I hadn’t heard that, either. You’re sure she was here Friday night?”

  “Yup. She was here Friday night, twenty-four hours before she bobbed up, and where she was and who she was with is a mystery. I suspect Sheriff Rowland’s the only man has a clue. Have you had the pleasure?”

  “Yeah, I have.”

  “He is a fine, judicious man. He’ll give you the unvarnished skinny. And listen, next time you ride with us it’s on the house. I’ll spread the word.”

  (11) Chief Lauren Redsky

  A pearl-white Cadillac Escalade was parked in Sam’s driveway. It was new and bore no plates. A woman sat on Sam’s front steps; she stood as Sam pulled in.

  She was lean. She had shoulder length hair, a blend of gray and white. Her skin was pale brown. She wore black leather boots, dark blue denim pants, a black leather belt, and a long sleeve blouse, rolled to the elbows, with a distinctive pattern of muted, dark colors. She removed her sunglasses and revealed brown eyes; her teeth were bleached white. Sam guessed she was in her late fifties to early sixties.

  “Ms. Melillo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jennifer Melillo? Am I pronouncing it correctly?

  “Yes, but please call me Sam.”

  The woman extended a hand. Her grip was firm but not overwhelming, her fingernails manicured but unpolished. A silver bracelet jangled on her right wrist; an expensive looking watch gripped her left wrist.

  “I’m Chief Lauren Redsky. I was hoping we could talk
for a few minutes. If you can spare the time, of course.”

  “I suppose we can,” Sam said. “You live on Walpole, right?”

  “Yes, exactly! How long have you been on Harsens? Almost two months, I hear?”

  “Pretty close to it, yeah,” Sam said.

  Redsky lifted her purse from the stoop and followed Sam onto the porch.

  “Have a seat,” Sam said, gesturing, setting her own purse between a chair and the radio table.

  As they sat, Redsky complimented her on the cottage’s restoration and the porch furniture; they discussed her new dress.

  “A very smart purchase, indeed,” Redsky said. “Yesteryear acquires the best clothes, you know. When the yacht set leaves at summer’s end they place some of their clothes on consignment. I’ve purchased three-hundred dollar blouses for twenty, brand new, still with the original price tag.”

  Sam moved the conversation forward.

  “So you’re the chief of your – what do you call it? Your people? Your tribe?”

  “I think of them as my family.”

  Sam shifted in her chair, leaning closer.

  “Huh. How about that? So what’s on your mind, Chief? How can I help you?”

  “Let’s talk about Lynn Hunter,” Redsky said. “What about her?” Sam said with mild disbelief.

  “I was wondering if you had contact with her before she died.”

  “Why?”

  “She was our lawyer, or, I should say she represented the firm that handles our legal issues. I’ve come to understand she was your representative, too. Or am I incorrect?”

  Sam couldn’t imagine the odds.

  “How did you hear that?”

  “We share mutual contacts through her firm, Houle and Kelly. One of their associates suggested I contact you.”

  “Her firm is based in Manhattan. How did you get involved with them?”

  “They handle the most difficult clients for those who can afford them. They possess connections to the Justice Department and a number of international corporations. They are, to a man and a woman, as vicious as starving, tortured dogs, which makes them the perfect firm for us. I came to see you in the hope you could provide insight about Ms. Hunter’s activities before her murder.”

  The hair on the back of Sam’s neck stirred.

  “You think she was murdered?”

  “Most definitely. Don’t you? Can you think of another scenario?”

  “I heard she drowned.”

  “But you were there, and in fact pulled her from the depths?”

  “Sorry, Chief,” Sam bristled, “but I don’t know what you’re driving at.”

  Redsky displayed her teeth with pleasant force.

  “Do you know who killed her?”

  “Who said she was murdered?” Sam snarled.

  “No one. At least not yet and not officially.”

  “Then why do you keep saying it?”

  “Because I think she was,” Redsky said. “I’m uncertain why anyone would think otherwise. Also, as you’ve employed her firm, chances are it wasn’t to clear up a parking ticket. I imagine you’ve been naughty at some point or know some naughty people.”

  Sam’s emotions flat lined.

  “She drowned.”

  Redsky again exposed her bright, white teeth.

  “There’s a passage in the bible about all rivers flowing to the sea. The sea refuses no river? That was the point of the river, of her being in the river. She wasn’t meant to be found. The river betrayed her killer, sending her closer to land than intended, and by a miracle you did what you did.”

  “It wasn’t a miracle,” Sam said. “It was a coincidence.”

  “Miracles,” Redsky said, “aren’t uncommon if you believe in them.”

  “Thanks, Chief, but I’m not buying whatever you’re selling.”

  Redsky was persistent.

  “How did you know it was Hunter?”

  “I didn’t. People thought it was this refugee, this girl they call Moon.”

  “Moon would’ve made matters far worse,” Redsky said.

  Sam ignored the bait, stood, and gestured to the screen door.

  “Have a good night, Chief.”

  “Aren’t you curious about what happened to her?”

  Sam went to the door and opened it.

  “Not in the slightest. You might want to share your theory with Sheriff Rowland.”

  “We’ve already spoken. We’ve known each longer than you’ve been alive.”

  “Then I’m sure it’s all in good hands.”

  Redsky slid by Sam, thanking her for her time.

  Sam responded with a neutral, “Good night,” thinking that despite her appearances and demeanor, Redsky was a nut.

  She went to her radio, and turned it on with a sharp click.

  It emitted a shriek of interference.

  She swore softly, turned it off, turned it back on, adjusted the frequency, and got a similar result.

  When she shut it off a second time, she was startled by Redsky’s voice on the steps behind her.

  “That was very loud,” Redsky said.

  “It’s nothing,” Sam said irritably. “It’s old and temperamental.”

  “As am I,” Redsky said, and reentered the porch.

  Sam was startled by Redsky’s nerve.

  “I know this music,” Redsky added, and with a smooth gesture picked up Sam’s purse and tossed it to the daybed.

  “You’re crazy.”

  Redsky smiled wolfishly.

  “Let’s see if I am. Try it now. Turn it on.”

  Sam complied, thinking it the easiest way to dismiss her unwanted guest. The radio caught a Spanish language broadcast. She immediately understood the implication.

  “It’s my phone,” she said.

  “That’s a very pretty purse,” Redsky said. “A Jenna Kator, if I’m not mistaken?”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. “Jenna Kator.”

  “They make the loveliest things.”

  Redsky retrieved the purse and the radio again erupted with static. When she waved the purse over the radio the interference climaxed – and when she held the purse at arm’s length away, the interference diminished.

  She handed the purse to Sam.

  “Take out the change. Get every coin. Empty it. Check the corners, deep in, the pockets, rips in the lining. You’ll want to locate the quarters, especially the quarters.”

  Sam’s eyes flitted between her purse and Redsky. She found and displayed a mixture of pennies, dimes, and nickels. There were two quarters. The radio static remained steady.

  Redsky gestured with her left palm.

  “Take the quarters and step away. Give me the rest.”

  Sam ignored her instruction, put the quarters in her left hand, and with her right placed the remaining change in her pants pocket. She shook the quarters in her left hand.

  “This one,” Sam said, handing one of the quarters to Redsky. “It’s heavier.”

  Redsky examined the coin, moving it over her fingertips, her eyelids narrowing, her brow wrinkling.

  “There is a dissimilarity, a hairline break or crack on the edge, the circumference.”

  “Cute trick,” Sam whispered. “Do you think it’s GPS or audio?”

  “I imagine both,” Redsky said. “You’ve met Elon, haven’t you? Or should I say, ‘Snake’?”

  Sam replayed the night of the drowning and the cheerful rescue of her purse. It was the last time she had seen him.

  “You know him?” Sam asked.

  “He’s done peripheral favors for us, but we ran afoul of another last December. He claims to be an undercover Homeland Security agent, but I think he’s merely an incredible liar. This,” Redsky said, examining the quarter, “is one of his calling cards. The little prick thinks he’s James Bond.”

  Redsky flipped the coin.

  Sam caught it mid-air, placed it on the radio and adjusted the volume to a low buzz. The radio’s ancient tubes, its electromagnetic fi
eld, would eventually cripple the device.

  “Okay,” Sam said. “You’ve got my attention.”

  “I’d like to have dinner,” Redsky said. “And to get away from this, whatever this is. I’d like you to be my guest. Nothing fancy.”

  Sam pressed her lips together.

  “Schoolhouse Grille?”

  “No, no,” Redsky said. “We need someplace noisy.”

  “Sans Souci?”

  “Exactly. I’ll drive,” Redsky said.

  “Works for me,” Sam said.

  (12) The Good, Green Earth

  Sans Souci was French for “no worries”. The lifeblood of the restaurant and bar comes between Memorial Day and Labor Day when the summer guests, day tourists, and boating enthusiasts inundate the island. It’s during that time, on alternating Friday nights, Van Halen wannabes set up amplifiers, plug in hockshop Fenders, and play poorly and loudly as the singer’s forget the words to Runnin’ With the Devil. The ‘Saturday Night Fights’ are another long standing tradition. Shortly after closing, the parking lot sometimes becomes an impromptu boxing ring where lingering disputes, perceived injustices, and old scores are settled. During her first week on the island, Sam had lived off their menu. They catered the standards – hamburgers, fries, pizza and the like – and served the best perch and cod west of Bangor.

  They arrived as the sun was setting.

  Inside, a long bank of windows faced the river; an equally lengthy bar was anchored by televisions. As Redsky passed through the bar, she stopped several times to shake hands and exchange hellos.

  Outside again, she led Sam to a small, white, circular plastic table that rested close to a gazebo spilling over with smoking revelers.

  Globe-shaped lights, strung over the tables, cast a pale, yellowish glow. On each table a battery powered candle flickered.

  “Looks like we’re in luck,” Sam said.

  “There’s no luck involved,” Redsky said. “This is my table.”

  “Your table?” Sam asked.

  “Rank has its privilege,” Redsky said.

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Sam said.