Dead silence enveloped the room, except for the moaning of the injured man.
“Bring the families in here,” LeBeck barked at a thug near the door. “It’s time to talk.” The henchman left in haste, eager to leave before his boss received his stitches.
LeBeck lay his head back on the table as the designated medic prepared the wound. He flinched, not from the pain this time, but from the thunder clapping overhead. A new storm front had rolled in, unleashing a fury greater than the one preceding it. Each time thunder boomed and echoed off the cliffs, LeBeck imagined himself back in France, in the trenches, waiting to die from incoming artillery. He found himself pouring sweat, his one good hand quivering in fear.
He’d experienced this problem before, whenever a storm blew in, or fireworks exploded overhead, or sometimes even from the slamming of a heavy door. The doctors had called it shell shock, but could offer no remedy. When it struck, he masked his fear by becoming even more ill tempered than his usual self.
LeBeck turned and pointed his pistol at the man behind him, who was in the middle of threading a newly sterilized sewing needle. The man stopped, needle in one hand, thread in the other, and stared into the muzzle of the still-smoking gun. He looked up into the burning, hate-filled eyes of his employer.
“This better not hurt,” LeBeck commanded, venom seeping into his voice. “Otherwise, I’ll sew up every hole in your body. You can choose which hole goes first.”
The man’s hands began shaking uncontrollably. “Right, boss,” he stammered. “You won’t feel a thing.”
LeBeck lay his head back down, wincing as a tremendous thunder clap exploded in the sky above, shaking the entire house. As work began on his wound, LeBeck found himself back in the trenches, tormented by demons from a war fought long ago.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The force of the explosion knocked Ian and Sally to the bottom of the little dinghy. Ian quickly got to his hands and knees, trying to steady the wildly rocking boat. He glanced up and saw Captain Ben at the stern, bending over and reaching for his green lantern.
“What was that?” shouted Sally, keeping her head down.
“A cannon, I think,” Ian sputtered, finding it hard to believe that anyone would be shooting at them in the middle of the night at the end of McCargoe Cove. He poked his eyes above the rim of the boat, just in time to see another yellow flash burst from shore. They heard the shell whistle overhead, then tear into the water just behind them. The impact sprayed the teenagers with icy water.
Suddenly springing into action, Ian sat up, grabbed the oars and began digging into the water, stroking as hard and fast as his exhausted arms would move.
Another boom, and then a cannon shell smacked into the water twenty feet in front of the dinghy. A moment later, yet another shell hit, closer still.
“Other way!” Sally screamed.
Ian reversed direction, sending the dinghy toward the opposite shore. The boat moved through the water like a herd of turtles. There was no way, Ian knew, that they could get out of range before being blown to bits. He glanced over and saw Ben on his hands and knees, desperately trying to light the lamp. With trembling hands, the old man fumbled with the little lamp, dropping his matches to the bottom of the boat.
A flash from shore signaled another cannon shot. It came ripping through the air like a freight train, then dropped right in front of the dinghy, rocking it violently. Sally screamed as she watched Ian lose his balance, then tumble into the frigid water. He slipped under the surface, leaving only a boiling patch of air bubbles.
Sally instinctively leaned over and reached out, groping desperately for her friend. For a gut-wrenching moment, she felt nothing, only icy water stinging her skin. Then she felt cloth brushing past. She closed her hand around Ian’s coat collar, then gritted her teeth and pulled with all her might.
Ian popped to the surface, sputtering and gasping for breath. His arms flailed wildly in the water. Sally tugged harder, trying not to let the coat slip from her grasp. She leaned back for counterbalance as Ian got both arms up on the side of the boat. He pulled himself halfway up, then threw a leg over the side, and with great effort hauled himself in. He lay on the bottom, gasping like a freshly landed trout. Ian shook and trembled from the cold.
“Ben, do something!” Sally shouted.
“Ahoy!”
The two teenagers glanced up and saw Captain Ben standing at the stern, peering toward the dark shore. His arm waved the now-lit lantern from side to side. The light cast an eerie green arch against the black night. “Ahoy!” Ben repeated. “Hold your fire!”
A man’s voice called out from the far shore. “You in the dinghy! Row over ‘ere or we’ll shoot again!” Ian and Sally squinted toward the end of the cove, trying to find the source of the rough-sounding speaker.
Ian finally called out, “How do we know you won’t shoot anyway?”
“If we’d wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be talk’n to us now!”
Sally turned to Ian and gripped his arm. “What if it’s the gangsters?”
“We have much choice,” Ian replied. “We’ll never get out of range before that cannon hits us.”
Ben finally spoke up as he plopped back down to his seat. “Don’t worry,” he said in an even, soothing voice. “Just do as the man says.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Ian took up the oars and once again started rowing. Sally scanned the shore as the dinghy glided closer and closer toward the marshy area at the end of the cove.
“Just follow my voice, nice and easy,” the hidden man said. “And no funny business.”
Ian kept the boat moving steadily as best he could toward the mysterious voice. He watched Ben make minor course corrections with the rudder. The old sailor seemed strangely unconcerned about their predicament. “Who’s out there, Ben?” Ian said quietly. Ben smiled cryptically, but kept his silence. Ian furrowed his brow, irritated. Ben knew damn well who was shooting at them. Why didn’t he say anything?
At the bow, Sally spoke up, breaking the uneasy silence. “Ian, look.”
The boat had traveled nearly to the end of the cove. Ian stopped rowing and turned to peer forward. Just as they were about to bump on shore, Ian gasped. Both he and Sally ducked down.
What had appeared to be a solid mass of foliage and trees suddenly parted like a giant stage curtain. As the boat glided through, they could see camouflage arranged on a giant net, which was suspended overhead by a sort of rope and pulley system. The curtain reached from the water line to perhaps thirty feet up, anchored on each shore by tall pine trees. At night the disguise was perfect; they never had a clue that the forest they’d seen was merely an illusion. Ian wondered if the curtain was equally impressive during the day.
The dinghy floated past the curtain into a small hidden lagoon, the true end point of McCargoe Cove. What they encountered next was even more astonishing than the camouflaged curtain. Floating in the lagoon, and occupying most of its enclosed space, was a huge ship, a wooden-hulled, sidewheel-paddle steamer.
The dinghy bumped up against the bow of the craft, which loomed over them menacingly. Ian glanced up and saw, painted in decaying letters on the weathered wood, the words, “U.S. Revenue Cutter Chippewa.” A cannon was perched on the deck above them, seemingly unmanned for the moment.
“Move to stern,” boomed the hidden voice.
Ian started rowing, mesmerized as they slid alongside the mysterious ship. It was obviously quite old; moss hung down the hull, and paint was worn away and chipped. The ancient timbers creaked as the ship bobbed gently on the water; the smell of rotting wood filled the air.
Just off the bow, and directly behind the bridge, a single black smokestack projected upward. No soot poured out this night; the engine remained silent. In fact, there was no sound at all, except the lapping of the waves, and the oars dipping into the water as Ian rowed steadily down the length of the ship.
As they moved to midship, the huge starboard paddle wheel towered over them. On deck they could see
part of the diamond-shaped “walking beam” engine sticking up out of the superstructure. The forward end of the beam was connected to the engine’s single gigantic piston. The other end hooked up to a pair of cranks, which turned the paddle wheels. Ian saw no moss growing on the wooden slats of the wheels. He guessed that the ship was taken out on the lake occasionally. But by whom?
Sally tugged at Ian’s wet coat sleeve. He was so enthralled at the sight in front of them that he’d forgotten that he was soaking wet and shivering in the cold night air. He followed Sally’s gaze upward to the deck. A dark form hovered over them, walking to keep pace with the dinghy. It carried a green nautical lantern to light the way.
“Another ghost,” said Ian. He turned back and stared at Captain Ben. “Who are you?”
Ben kept silent as he looked upward toward the deck. Sally sat back, her brow furrowed in thought.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a paddle steamer on the lake before,” she said.
“They’re pretty rare nowadays,” said Ian, reaching out with one hand and touching the ancient hull. The wood felt soft and crumbly as his hand slid across its surface, like it had been sitting in the water for many, many years.
“The Chippewa,” Sally said. “What’s a revenue cutter, anyway?”
Ian shrugged. From the stern of the dinghy, Ben said, without lowering his eyes, “It’s the old Coast Guard.” He sat there, waiting for something to happen.
Sally followed his stare upward. “Who are these guys?”
Ian quit rowing when they reached the ship’s aft. They all looked up in anticipation. The figure on the deck stooped down and lowered the lamp, illuminating the trio with an eerie green glow. After a few moments, the figure stood back up and turned. To unseen companions he blurted out, “I told you it was the Captain.”
“Sorry, Captain,” said another voice. “Come aboard.”
A rope ladder dropped down next to the dinghy. Ben grabbed it and scrambled up with ease, leaving Ian and Sally alone in the boat.
“Come on, kids,” he said from the ship’s deck. “It’s okay.”
Ian looked at Sally, searching her eyes. “Well?”
She shrugged and pointed at the ladder. “You first.”
Ian gripped the ladder steadily, then started climbing. With Sally close behind, they clambered up the hull of the old ship. At the railing, strong hands gripped their arms and hauled them aboard.
With their feet planted firmly on deck, Ian and Sally leaned against the rail, slightly out of breath. They looked up and froze, drawing in their breath in surprise.
Standing in a semi-circle around the two teenagers was the crew of the Chippewa, about two-dozen strong. The men were old, in their seventy’s and eighty’s, some sporting long white beards, others hunched over and supported by canes. Their uniforms were nautical, but of another time, long ago, the fabric now faded and threadbare. Each man held a lantern, all now lit, which cast a bizarre green light that washed over the ancient wooden deck. Silently, the crew parted, letting a man stride through toward Ian and Sally.
“Ben?” Ian said, disbelieving his eyes.
Old Captain Ben stepped up to Ian and Sally as he peeled off his mackintosh. Underneath he wore a crisp navy-blue uniform, with brass buttons that gleamed in the lantern light. He smiled warmly at the pair. “Welcome aboard,” he said.
Ben turned toward his crew, raising his voice for all to hear. “We had an adventure tonight, lads. Got chased by some rumrunners. They’re under the lake now, though.”
A man in back piped up, his voice scratchy with age. “What’s the Lady doing tonight, Cap’n?”
“She gave us a run for our money,” said Ben, grinning from ear to ear as he gestured toward Ian and Sally. “But we made out just the same, didn’t we?”
An old sailor approached Ben, a worried look on his timeworn face. “What if there’s more of them smugglers, Cap’n?”
“Right,” Ben said firmly. “Best keep a watch out, just in case.” He gestured to a man near a stairway on the port side facing shore. The sailor clambered down the gangplank, leapt the short distance to shore, then headed up through the woods, his green lantern guiding his way.
“Hendricks,” Ben snapped. “A blanket.”
Another sailor produced an old wool blanket, which Ben wrapped around Ian. The teenager was soaking wet and shivering. “There you go, lad. Come along, then, we’ll warm you kids up in my cabin.”
Ben led them forward, toward midship. He turned his head to look back at his crew, who were still standing there at the stern of the ship. “It’s alright, lads,” he called out after them. “As you were, then.”
The old mariners murmured quietly, then hobbled off to their posts. One man broke away from the group, struggling to catch up to Ben and the kids, a look of quiet concern on his old face.
“But Captain,” he said under his breath, turning his back on Ian and Sally. “These kids have seen our hidey hole. What’s to become of ‘em?”
“We’ll deal with that later, Hobbs,” said Ben through gritted teeth. “Now back to your post.” For one instant, Ian saw a flash of rage in Ben’s eyes, and was glad not to be the object of his wrath. The worried sailor withered under Ben’s order, then slunk away. The trio continued on, Ben striding down the deck as if nothing had happened.
As they moved toward a hatchway leading down, a band struck up a song. Ian and Sally watched as a playful group of old sailors sang a salty tune about whales, mermaids, and girls left behind in port.
Ian saw movement to his left and watched in amazement as one sailor, as old as the hills, clambered up one of the ship’s two masts like an agile monkey.
“Who are all these guys, Ben?”
“My crew, lad,” the old captain said. “My crew. In we go now.”
Ben gestured toward the open hatchway. Ian and Sally took one last look around at the group of old sailors, then began climbing down a narrow metal ladder into the ship’s dark lower decks.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Clarence groaned in pain as the muzzle of the Tommy gun was shoved brutally into his kidney. He staggered forward, moving across the lawn as best he could on his ruined legs. He wiped blood from his eyes, then felt inside his mouth, his finger pushing past swollen lips to gingerly probe a loose tooth. He winced as a sharp jolt of pain shot up his jaw. Clarence hesitated a moment, but then felt the machine gun jabbing into his back again, forcing him onward. The brutish thug wielding the Tommy gun chuckled to himself, enjoyed the memory of the beating he’d just given the lightkeeper.
As they trudged across the compound, Clarence stole a glance behind him and saw the lighthouse beacon piercing through the storm clouds. The winds blowing off the lake bent the treetops overhead. After a brief respite, the storm had returned with a vengeance, more powerful and vicious than ever. Bursts of lightning lit up the sky. Walking out on the grassy field, wide open to the elements, Clarence was genuinely afraid of being struck and electrocuted. But his greatest concern was for the lighthouse. His brow furrowed with worry. So many things could go wrong. On a night like this, any ship passing in the vicinity could easily find itself crashing up on the craggy cliffs surrounding Wolf Point. Clarence knew the clock mechanism would soon need winding. He’d tried explaining this to the pair of thugs who had come to fetch him, but rather than let him stay they had beat him mercilessly, then dragged him outside.
Clarence grimaced. His captors had smashed his shins with their clubs, not breaking bones but leaving him bruised and battered. Each step was agony. As they approached his house, Clarence saw that all the lights inside were on, with several shadows moving across the windows. Clarence figured that LeBeck must have moved most of his men inside, sheltered from the tempest. As if in answer, a lightning bolt streaked down and jolted the ridge beyond the lighthouse compound, causing a sonic boom that nearly rocked Clarence and the thug off their feet.
After recovering his wits, Clarence staggered onto the front porch. He glanced ove
r at Assistant Keeper Young’s home and saw only dark windows, vacant and lifeless. Clarence paused at the top step to rest a moment, then stole another look back at the lighthouse.
At that moment, Clarence realized with some shock that he wasn’t, after all, worried one bit about the light. What really worried him was his son. Where was Ian now? Had he made it safely to Rock Harbor? Had he obeyed his order not to go out on the stormy lake? Clarence shut his eyes and began to invoke a little prayer, but then he felt cold steel jabbing at his kidney again.
“Inside,” the thug said sharply.
Clarence stepped across the porch, grasped the door handle, and pushed. The warm yellow light of kerosene lamps greeted his eyes. A group of bored thugs milled about, rummaging around the house. They all looked over at Clarence for a moment, who stood in the doorway speechless, then continued their looting unabated, as if the owner of the house hadn’t just walked in.
Clarence was prodded toward the living room, which was a short walk down a hallway to their left. Once there, he saw with great relief Collene on the couch next to the wood-burning stove. She looked terribly alone sitting there, hugging her knees, a blank stare on her face. Sitting next to her were Edward Young and his elderly mother. Edward didn’t look at all well; his face had a kind of pasty quality some might associate with a dead person. Perhaps they were all dead, Clarence mused, then dashed the thought from his mind. He quickly took his place next to his wife and put one arm around her, then looked up expectantly at their captors.
LeBeck was there, limping nervously back and forth in front of the window overlooking the lighthouse grounds. The windowpane rattled violently from the wind battering the house. LeBeck watched Clarence take his seat next to Collene, scowled, then turned to a thug standing near the entranceway. Clarence heard him ask, “How long has MacGlynn been out there?”
The thug checked his watch, a grim look on his face. “Over an hour,” he said quietly.
LeBeck frowned. “Lake probably got them all.”
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