“You wanna knock?” Wally called out, holding the bottle of rum out to Pete.
Finally, Pete thought as he took the bottle from his father, tilted his head back, and gulped down a mouthful of rum. It burned in his chest like he’d swallowed a smoldering coal. He snorted and shook his head.
“Good for what ails yah,” Wally said with a short laugh.
“So where we dropping off?” Pete asked, trying to make conversation.
“Usual place. Pulpit Rocks,” Wally replied. He snatched the bottle of rum from Pete and tossed down another hefty belt. How he could navigate and drink like that was a conundrum to Pete, and he shuddered to think that, if his father kept it up, he might have to navigate back for him. He’d be able to find The Cove easily enough, but finding Pulpit Rocks in the dark was another matter. If the navigational system was useless, so was he.
Wally notched the speed up a bit and scanned the immediate area. To starboard, the coast was a dark slash against the night, broken only by distant streetlights and the lights in homes. Once or twice, they tracked the headlights of a car moving along the shore road. Pete knew what his father was looking for, but as far as he could tell, there were no other boats in the area. Satisfied, Wally killed the running lights and then goosed the engine. The boat cut across the waves smoothly.
They rode for a long time in silence. Pete was tempted to ask for the rum back, but he decided that one of them had to keep a clear head. Even liquored up, Wally’s reputation was that he could navigate through pea soup fog blindfolded, but Pete didn’t want to put that to the test. He settled back at the stern and watched the shoreline slowly shift perspective. His stomach went suddenly cold when he saw a light moving against the darkness of the distant shore.
“Shit.”
Wally was staring straight ahead, apparently lost in his own thoughts. Pete watched the shore, wishing — praying it had been an optical illusion. He tried to look to one side of what he was trying to see, a trick he’d learned that helped him see better in the dark. At first, there was nothing, but then a boat appeared, heading toward them.
“I think we got company,” he called out, pointing to starboard.
It was all but impossible to see if there really was a boat out there, angling to cut them off, but Pete was certain of it. Something like this would fit in perfectly with the kind of week he’d been having.
“You best put on your running lights on,” Pete said.
Wally looked back, his eyes narrowed with concentration, and then he shook his head and said, “Fuck it,” and left the lights off.
Friggin’ Pops never listens to me … Nobody ever listens to me, Pete thought bitterly. His jaw muscles clenched as tightly as a bear trap when he clearly made out the boat speeding toward them. Minutes stretched out like hours as tension churned inside his gut.
“Definitely a boat,” Pete called out and then muttered, “Fuckin’ Coasties” under his breath as he watched the dark silhouette slide silently across the lighter gray of the ocean. The red port light glowed in the darkness like the baleful eye of a demon. Then, while the boat was still quite a distance away, a powerful searchlight winked on. The beam swept across the water, turning the waves into quicksilver flashes until it landed on them and stopped.
Pete listened to the rising drone of the boat’s engine as the boat approached. One thing he was sure of — this wasn’t the trawler they’d come out to meet.
“This is the United States Coast Guard,” a voice bellowed over an electronic megaphone. The words sent a spike of cold up Pete’s spine.
“We are armed. Please heave-to, Skipper.”
“God-fuckin’-damn it,” Wally said as he cut the engine and let the boat drift to a stop. The backwash of his wake rocked the Abby-Rose. The rolling motion didn’t help Pete’s stomach, but Wally took another swig of rum as he stood there, waiting as the Coast Guard vessel closed with them. At least it wasn’t any DEA assholes.
Pete shielded his eyes with his hand. He felt naked in the harsh glare of the searchlight and didn’t know what else to do but stand there. It took too long for the Coast Guard boat to come alongside. Pete could hear voices, squawking over their radio. The spotlight played across the deck and into the wheelhouse, where Wally stood, squinting, but not bothering to shade his eyes.
“What’re you fellas doing out at night without your running lights on?” the voice over the bullhorn asked. The man’s silhouette stood out starkly against the night sky, like a cutout made with black paper.
Someone else on the Coast Guard vessel threw down a line. Pete knew the drill. This wasn’t the first time — or last, he assumed — the Coast Guard had stopped him. He picked up the rope from the deck and tied it to one of the cleats.
“Just launched ’er this week,” Capt’n Wally said, smiling into the searchlight, squinting like he was facing the sun. “We was takin’ ’er out for a little spin … a little shakedown.”
“You didn’t have your running lights on,” the man with the bullhorn said.
“Yeah, the boat’s new, ’n the Christless electronics are fucked from here to Sunday. They keep switchin’ off and on. Same with the Christless nav systems.”
As if to demonstrate, Wally flipped a switch, but the lights came on.
“There … See? Now the fuckin’ thing works. I oughta —”
“Prepare to be boarded,” the voice from the boat said, and seconds later, two dark figures clambered down a rope ladder to the deck of the Abby-Rose. Pete backed up, wanting to be as far away from them as possible while Wally stood his ground in the wheelhouse, one hand resting on the wheel.
“You the skipper?” a young man said, addressing Wally. He had a flashlight in his hand, but he didn’t need it. The spotlight aimed at them from the deck of the Coast Guard boat lit up the deck as if it were daytime. Their shadows stretched across the deck.
Wally nodded but said nothing. Pete was surprised that his father didn’t have a snappy comeback, but he noticed how his father regarded the young man with an expression of utter contempt. Pete wondered if the Coastie noticed when Wally glanced at his wristwatch as if he was running late for an important date.
“What have we got here?” the other Coastie said as he approached the three bags of salt stacked up in the stern.
The words “ROCK SALT” were printed in bright red on the top bag. The ones below it were identical, but without waiting for an answer, the Coastie took out a utility knife and stuck the blade into the top bag. He grunted softly as he ripped up, making a gash about six inches long. The bag split open from the weight of its contents, and rock salt spilled onto the deck in a rattling rush.
“Like it says.” Wally said with a shrug. “Rock salt.”
Pete groaned, knowing he’d be doing cleanup once they got back into port.
The two Coasties set about searching the boat. When they removed a hatch cover to look down into the hold and engine room, Wally stepped forward.
“Careful you don’t put that cover upside down,” he said.
One of the Coasties looked up at him, his eyebrows raised in silent question.
“’S bad luck to put the hatch covers upside down on deck,” Wally said.
Pete smiled to himself. He had heard that from his father before, but he wasn’t sure if his father actually believed it or if he was messing around with the Coasties. Either way, they appeared unimpressed, and they continued with their search. When they were done, without a word of thanks for their cooperation or apology for making such a mess on the deck, they climbed back up the rope ladder to their boat.
“We’ll escort you back to the harbor,” the voice over the bullhorn said. “Please start up your engine and come back to port with us.”
“Fucking Goddamn,” Wally muttered under his breath, but he smiled and waved at the silhouettes that lined the rail. Then, to make his contempt obvious, he straightened his shoulders and snapped a salute while Pete untied the rope from the cleat.
“How much does th
is suck?” he said as he joined his father in the wheelhouse. He wanted to throw out an I told you so but decided he liked his teeth just fine where they were.
“Tell me about it,” Wally said as he started the engine, revving it more than necessary. Then, without a glance at the Coast Guard vessel, he took off, heading back to The Cove.
Once or twice, for show, he reached down to the running lights switch and flicked them off and on a few times at random, hoping to convince the men on the patrol boat that he really was having trouble with his electronics.
Pete didn’t need to be told how pissed his father was. They’d clear things up with the Coast Guard, no problem. It was a good thing they hadn’t met the trawler because they’d be in a world of hurt if they had a few bales on-board. Still, they were going to have to wait while the Guardsmen went through the Abby-Rose with a fine-toothed comb. No doubt The Crowbar was going to bitch about the turn of events.
Pete glanced at his father’s face, underlit by the flickering glow of the GPS screen and couldn’t help but chuckle.
“You think this is funny?” Wally said, glaring at him and looking ready to take a swing.
Pete raised his hands defensively and shook his head. He stopped laughing and said, “No, I was thinking … When we get back to port and these guys tear through the boat … Maybe they’ll find out what’s wrong with the electronics.”
Wally’s mouth twitched into a half-smile, then his scowl deepened again, and he snorted and spat over the side of the boat.
“These guys? Useless as tits on a bull.”
Someone’s outside, Julia thought.
It was late.
Past midnight.
She was sitting in a chair in her bedroom with the window open as she read. She’d gotten a history of Maine islands from the library, but the book wasn’t holding her attention. A soft, warm wind shifted the curtains back and forth like lacy bellows. The sound of spring peepers in the swampy area behind the house filled the night, ringing like jingle bells.
She put the book down and went to the window. Leaning with both fists on the windowsill, she looked out, but the light on in her bedroom made it impossible to see anything. She considered turning the light off but decided not to. That would only alert the person outside that she knew he was there.
That was the last thing she wanted.
She knew he was there, and she knew who he was. It irked her that for the last several weeks, he had made a habit of creeping around the house like this, like he was a common criminal.
She didn’t find the irony of that idea the least bit amusing.
Her father was in his bedroom down the hall, asleep. Leaving the window, she tip-toed down the hall to his door. She pressed her ear against the cool wood and listened for the faint sawing sound of his breathing. When she heard it, she tried to suppress the feeling of agitation that filled her. She had to be honest with herself and acknowledge the resentment she felt about her situation.
She hadn’t signed on for this.
She hadn’t asked or wanted to move to Maine to take care of him after his first heart attack, but here she was. She had given up everything she knew and loved back in Waterbury, Connecticut, to move to Catawamkeag Cove so she could tend her father.
In the privacy of her own thoughts, she had begun to hope that her father, as much as she loved him, wouldn’t live much longer. It was a cruel, unforgivable thought, but she had to be honest — at least with herself — and admit that she was deeply unhappy with the turn her life had taken.
She had moved to Maine with an open mind and the best of intentions. At first, the beauty of Catawamkeag Cove had enchanted her. The small town values — the close-knit sense of community and family — had come straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. She had wanted to live here and experience it. She had been eager to make friends and be accepted, but so far, that hadn’t happened. The people in town, while friendly enough in public, were closed off to the point of clannishness. She never got past meaningless pleasantries. At first she was puzzled; then hurt; and finally she had come to despise this lovely, unforgiving place.
And that was no way to live.
Over the last few months, once spring came, she had become almost desperate to get out of town. But now Ben Brown had certainly put quite a monkey wrench in the works. Still, she was confident that eventually she would find a way out. She felt in him the same desire to leave that burned so brightly in her.
And then there was the poor fool she was sure was still following her around like a sick puppy.
Her father was the last thing keeping her here. Once he was gone, as sad … as terrible as that would be, the life insurance money and what she could get from selling the house and whatever of the furniture she didn’t want to keep would be more than enough for her to move back home to Waterbury and resume the life that had been wrenched away from her.
Saddened by these thoughts, she made her way slowly back to her bedroom, trying her best not to think about who was waiting for her outside. She stood close to the window and, after making a show of undressing for bed, turned off the light. She hoped her late-night visitor would get the hint and leave, but she feared she was going to have go outside and talk to him face to face and tell him that she didn’t want to see him … not tonight … not tomorrow night … not any night.
Never again.
As far as she was concerned, they were done with. It had been fun … an amusing diversion, perhaps, if not the desperate groping for acceptance and love she feared their relationship might have been. One thing she knew for certain was there wasn’t the slightest possibility he would be in her future.
Not anymore.
Not after meeting and spending time with Ben Brown.
Ben was everything she had ever looked for. A tough guy with a soft heart. Warm, funny, charming. And sexy.
She smiled into the darkness.
And she knew beyond question the feeling was mutual.
With the light out, she moved over to the window again and knelt down to the floor like someone about to pray. Leaning her elbows on the windowsill, she stared out at the night, inhaled deeply, and listened to the night sounds — the spring peepers and the hushed sigh of the wind.
It filled her with peace and contentment, something she hadn’t experienced since …
She couldn’t remember when.
She didn’t see him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still out there. She could feel his desire, crackling like a charge of static electricity in the night air. He was waiting for her to come out to be with him.
Suddenly angry with herself for the mess she was in and the darkness of her own thoughts, she stood up, turned on the lights, and walked downstairs, and went to the front door.
I can do at least one right thing tonight, she thought.
She threw the door open.
Agnes Appleby got out of work at midnight after pulling a double shift at Harbor’s Edge because Jenny Delfonso had called in sick.
Again.
She had never liked driving late at night … especially alone. The older she got, the more fearful she became. She had to wonder if the town really had gotten more dangerous over the years with the steady influx of people “from away,” or if she was getting cranky and paranoid in her old age.
Either way, things weren’t the way they used to be, and Agnes didn’t like it.
She also wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of going home to Amos, her husband. No doubt the “old skunk,” as she called him — even to his face — would be drunk on his ass as usual and waiting up for her so he could complain about something.
The thought made her stomach ache.
That wasn’t at all what she needed after working a sixteen-hour shift. At least the old bastard never raised a hand to her; but after all these years together, she wondered if perhaps physical abuse might be easier to take than the constant harangues. It certainly would be clearer and more direct. The older Agnes got, the more she found that she p
referred clear and direct.
Her sense that something was wrong spiked when she turned the corner onto Steeple Road and a policeman stepped out onto the street from behind the bushes that lined the road near the Capozzas’ house. It took her a moment to recognize Tom Marshall. Like everyone else in town, she had known Tommy since he was a kid, and she had never gotten over the feeling that he was playing cop, not a real one. How could she respect the authority of someone she had seen being pushed around town in a stroller or toddling around with saggy, leaky diapers hanging down the backs of his legs?
As soon as her headlight beams hit him, he froze like a rabbit caught in the sudden light. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he looked like he was winding up to duck back out of sight, but then he squared his shoulders and stood his ground on the side of the road as Agnes slowed to a stop and rolled down the automatic window on the passenger’s side.
“’Evenin’, Mrs. A.,” he said, touching his forehead as if he wore a hat and was saluting.
“Good evening, Tommy.” Mrs. Appleby’s eyes widened as she turned her head, gazing up and down the length of road. “Is something the matter?”
For a second, he looked at her; then he glanced over his shoulder as if looking for someone who should have been standing there behind him.
“The matter? Ahh — No … No. Everything’s fine, Mrs. A.”
There was an odd thinness in his voice that she didn’t like. It told her otherwise. Her mind instantly filled with anxiety about teenagers drugged-up on crack cocaine or oxys, pillaging the neighborhood, looting houses, and raping and killing innocent people.
“Whatever are you doing out here?” she asked. “I don’t see your cruiser.”
She wasn’t at all reassured by what he’d said.
“I’m parked down the road a bit. You didn’t see it?”
“Never did.”
“Hmm … well, I — uh, we had a report of a coyote in the area. I thought I saw something and chased after it.”
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