Secrets Haunt the Lobsters' Sea

by Charlene D'Avanzo

  “You are family,” he’d said. Funny. Even though my lack of family was a stubborn ache, I never really considered my mother’s sister, Gordy’s mom, a kindred soul. Like many people I’d met who lived in northernmost Maine, Gordy’s parents had been very conservative, extremely independent, and suspicious of outsiders. They’d viewed me as an elitist who studied books but really didn’t know much about the natural world they hunted in, fished on, and cut lumber from day after day. But Gordy was different. Bright and ambitious, he’d moved to Spruce Harbor, became a leader in the fishing community, and was willing to learn about marine science, albeit reluctantly at times.

  That he truly thought of me as family meant more than he could ever know. Next time I saw him.…

  My musing was interrupted by a boat motor’s low rumble drifting up from the beach. It was a sound I rarely heard at the house because passing boats avoided the rocky, shallow waters off my beach, especially at night. Holding my breath, I turned my auditory synapses to high alert.

  Nothing.

  Convinced I hadn’t imaged the hum, I followed the familiar path and walked out onto the beach. The lobster boat was only thirty feet from shore. Someone, I couldn’t make out who, was pushing their way through knee-high water toward me.

  She didn’t seem the least surprised that I was there to greet her.

  “Patty, what are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “Is that any way ta welcome your Macomek neighbah?”

  I repeated my question.

  “Heard ya the firs’ time,” she slurred. She opened her mouth to say more but was interrupted by a deep hacking cough. Leaning over, she spit phlegm on the sand in front of her feet, straightened, and wiped her mouth. “You got me in a whole lotta trouble, bitch, an’  I’m gonna do somethin’  about it.”

  In different circumstances, I would have dismissed the pronouncement as irrational rambling of a sad and very drunk young woman. But a typical drunk wouldn’t travel miles by boat at night, anchor off my beach, and wade through the water in search of my house. Angry and unpredictable, Patty Burgess could do me a lot of harm.

  Bile bubbled up from my stomach and fouled the insides of my mouth. I swallowed to push it back down. “I only told Marine Patrol what happened. That it was an accident.”

  Her cackle ended in another rasping cough. Straightening up again she said, “But what, smart bitch, if it wasn’t?”

  She smelled horribly of alcohol, stale cigarettes, and ripe sweat. Taking a step back I said, “I don’t understand.”

  Pointing a finger, she lunged toward me. “Tha’s ’xactly right. You undahstand nothin’, zero, nada.”

  The woman was drunk, stoned, and maybe crazy. If I kept her talking, I could buy time and think. “So tell me what I don’t know.”

  She patted her chest. “I’m in charge heah. What happenin’ now is we’re goin’ for a boat ride.”

  I answered with more bravado than I felt. “I’m not going anywhere with you. You’re drunk, for one thing.”

  She reached into the breast pocket of a ratty green and black checked jacket. Something flashed in the bit of moonlight.

  “Patty, what…?”

  She waved the gun. “Shut up. Out ta the boat. Like I said, we’re goin’ fer a ride.”

  Extremely aware that a drunkard was pointing a gun at my back, I slogged through the water toward the lobster boat. My knowledge of guns was thin, so I had no idea what kind it was. I did know, however, that an inebriated, unstable woman had her finger near the trigger.

  I climbed up onto the stern deck. Right behind, Patty gave me a shove. “Ovah by the wheel.”

  Glued to the deck, my legs felt like they belonged to someone else.

  The jab in the small of my back sent a jolt of electricity up my spine. I shuffled forward and stopped at the cabin opening. Patty turned the key and the boat came to life.

  “Go pull up the anchor,” she barked. “Jump in the watah, and it’ll be like shootin’ fish in a barrel.

  Believing her, I picked my way up to the bow and mechanically yanked and secured the anchor.

  “Get right back heah,” she yelled.

  Again, I followed her directions.

  My captor revved the engine and slammed it into gear. The boat leapt forward.

  Hands on the wheel, she endured another coughing jag, spit the result into the air, stuffed a cigarette into her mouth, and lit it with a lighter.

  Cigarette wagging between her lips she said, “Into the wheelhouse, bitch, where I can see ya.”

  Inside the cabin, I leaned back against the wall and finally snapped to. In what I could only imagine was deranged copycat behavior, Patty had decided to abduct me in a lobster boat. We were speeding away from shore through the dark in waters this witch didn’t know, drunk or not, and I fully expected her to smash the boat into a rock ledge. That or some other calamity had to be in the offing. I needed a plan and fast.

  Looking around, I suddenly realized I’d been in the same cabin just days ago. Patty had borrowed or—given her drunken state—more likely taken, Calvin Ives’ Lucky Catch.

  I wasn’t sure why, but knowing this made me feel a little better. Probably because everything is so neat and orderly, I thought. Clean and ready for him to step into, Calvin’s orange bib overalls hung on a hook. At my feet was Calvin’s cabinet with all his charts and manuals. Above the cabinet, his red waterproof box labeled “Marine Emergency Kit” was secured to the wall. Hah, I thought. Streaking thought the night in a boat captained by a drunk crazy lady was an emergency for sure.

  I slid down onto my butt. Legs outstretched and feeling totally helpless, I tried to come up with an escape plan. Tackling Patty was a lousy idea. The woman looked like she lifted weights. She also had a gun and was drunk. I could dash out onto the stern and jump off, but then I’d be in cold water with no life jacket and no way to contact anyone. Besides that, Patty could easily turn around and run me over.

  I looked around the cabin in the hope that something would spark an idea and landed on the emergency kit. The flash in my brain was as bright as the contents of that red box. Marine emergency kits held flares mariners shoot into the sky to signal that they’re in trouble. Anyone seeing the flare would report the sighting to authorities such as local police, the Coast Guard, or Marine Patrol. A key responsibility for Maine’s Marine Patrol officers was following up on such sightings along the coast.

  From the wheel, Patty couldn’t see much in the dimly lit cabin. I slowly slid my butt across the deck to a position where I’d block any view she might have of the emergency kit. In slow motion, I reached for the box, opened it, slid out three flares, and pressed the kit closed. The lid shut with a resounding snap.

  I froze. Surely Patty must have heard what sounded to me like a gunshot. But she stayed put. The boat’s engine had masked the sound.

  Flares behind my back, I slid back to my corner and faced Patty again. She lit another cigarette. In profile, the flame tinted orange a spiky-haired freak that Maine thriller writer Stephen King would have loved.

  Patty threw the lighter on a shelf in front of her. Isolated in her own crazed world, it seemed like she was hardly aware I was on the boat.

  My next move—shooting the flares off the stern into the night sky—was problematic, to say the least. I’d have to get up, walk out onto the aft deck, and discharge the flares. All without her stopping me.

  Patty solved the problem for me. Once more, she doubled over with that dreadful rasping cough. But this time she gagged on her own vomit.

  Between groans and “oh my gods,” the woman upchucked onto the deck beside the wheel. She slammed the boat into neutral, clamped a hand over her mouth, threw her torso over the gunwale, and emptied her guts out.

  It was now or never.

  I sprang to my feet, grabbed the flares, and sprinted into the pitch black of the stern. Standing still, I was rewarded by another of Patty’s groans. The woman was in no state to wonder where I was. Even if she r
ecovered quickly, the unlit stern offered me cover.

  There was downside to that blackness. Boating regulations specified bright white lights fore and aft for a reason. Patty had been running dark—a foolish, dangerous thing to do.

  I shivered, a mixture of fear and cold. At night, the open deck of a boat off Maine’s coast was uncomfortably cold even in the fall. Without a jacket and still wet from the knees down, I had to ignore the bitter wind and focus on my task.

  After securing two of the flares between my feet, I cradled the third one. It had been a couple of years since I’d done a marine safety course. Now I had to remember how to set the damn thing off.

  “Come on,” I whispered. “What’s the first thing?”

  From somewhere in the computer that was my brain, “Firmly hold the ribbed handle” came to me. In the cabin, I’d fingered both the bumpy handle and the cap below it.

  I wrapped my right hand around the handle, stretched out my arm, and froze. I couldn’t remember what to do next.

  “Picture the flare right before it’s lit.” I whispered. “What does it look like?”

  I slowed my breathing like we did in yoga class and waited for the image to come to me. It did. There was a short cord with little ball at the end that dangled from the bottom of the flare. To set the flare off, you pulled the ball.

  But where in hell was that cord?

  My outstretched arm was cramping. I dropped it and fingered the device with my left hand. On the bottom was a cap.

  “Duh. The cord’s under the cap.”

  I unscrewed the cap and released the firing cord and its little ball. Really ready to go this time, I stretched my arm out and up in the direction the wind was blowing. With one quick snap of my wrist, I pulled the cord.

  There was a sharp recoil as the flare hissed. Then the projectile took off, well, like a rocket. A single bright red star, it climbed higher and higher into the black sky. Mesmerized, I watched it rise to an astounding height, arc, and drop gracefully down into the ocean.

  I pumped a fist in the air. One down, two to go. Reaching down, I grabbed the second flare and repeated the maneuver exactly. Pulling the cord, I looked up to watch the show. But nothing happened.

  I hissed, “Goddamn piece of crap.”

  I took the third, final flare from between my feet and held it out. “Come on baby, come on.” Slower this time, I unscrewed the cap, aimed the flare as before, and pulled the cord.

  The rocket took off and leapt into the black sky. I watched until the glow blinked out. Done, I closed my eyes for a moment and also sent aloft a quiet thank you.

  I suddenly wanted to run, jump, do anything but stand still on the boat deck. Adrenaline, I knew, was racing through my body. But all I could do was bounce on my heels. Anything more vigorous would attract Patty’s attention.

  Patty. I froze and listened. No gagging or groans. Fixed on the flares, I had no idea when she’d stopped.

  My abductor flicked on a flashlight, waved the beam around the stern, and found my face. I covered my eyes.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I, ah, had to take a leak.”

  She mimicked what I’d said in a little girl’s voice. “She had to take a leak.”

  Fussing with my pants like they needed to be fastened, I walked past her and returned to the wheelhouse.

  Patty took her position again and started the motor. We resumed speed, but slower than before.

  Back in my corner, I waited and worried. There’d been no VHF distress call before or after the flares. Such calls weren’t required since someone needing help might not have a radio, but it troubled me anyway. Were two flares enough? That depended on whether Marine Patrol or a savvy citizen was watching the night sky. Might they wonder if somebody playing Fourth of July sent up the flares? Such behavior was illegal and a definite no-no among mariners. Those who played by the rules, anyway.

  Minutes went by—how many I didn’t know because my watch was sitting on my bedroom bureau. As more minutes passed, worry set in. Where the hell was the Marine Patrol? If Patty was steering for Macomek, we couldn’t be that far from the mainland. Someone should have seen the distress signals. Even if we were farther than I imagined, other boats were bound to be out. They’d see the flares and notify someone, wouldn’t they?

  I wasn’t sure when I first noticed, but soon it became obvious that we were losing speed. Patty also wasn’t consumed by that dreadful hacking cough. Legs spread and hands tight on the wheel, she stared straight ahead like a manikin.

  The ill-lit lobster boat motored on, thick gloom the only witness to its journey.

  20

  I stood in the cabin rubbing my arms to warm up when something bright in the distance flickered. Blinking, I tried to focus. Nothing. I stared, moved over a bit, stared some more. Tears filled my eyes.

  No way was Patty going to see me cry.

  Looking down, I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my turtleneck and raised my head with a sniff. That’s when I really did see them. Distant flashing blue lights.

  Suddenly, they were on us. Lights still going, the Marine Patrol’s vessel circled Lucky Catch. Patty didn’t even try to give chase. The whole thing took minutes, and I’d barely processed what was happening when it was all over.

  Sergeant LeClair escorted Patty to his patrol boat while Officer Bernadette DelBarco attended to me. After I’d finally convinced Bernie that I was cold but otherwise fine, she leaned over the gunwale and asked someone on the patrol boat for a jacket.

  Inside Calvin’s cabin, snug in the singular green jacket, I gave Bernie the Cliffs Notes version of what happened. When LeClair came back, I would answer his questions in more detail.

  “Where are we?” I asked Bernie.

  “About two miles northeast of Spruce Harbor, less than a mile off shore,” she said.

  “You’re kidding. We hardly went anywhere.”

  Shaking her head, Bernie said, “Good thing. Wherever she took you in the dark, she was only running with light from the cabin.” She pointed at the starboard side of the boat. “Your beach, from where you describe it, is right there.”

  I’d let go of all the tension, fear, and worry. Now, exhaustion overtook me. “How ’bout a ride home?” I asked.

  She grinned. “Maybe we can manage that. ’Course we’ll wait for what Sergeant LeClair has to say.”

  I didn’t have to wait long. After LeClair told Bernie that the Marine Patrol medic was taking care of Patty, he turned to me, clasped my hand, and said he was sorry to see me again under such circumstances. The man repeated many of Bernie’s questions about my wellbeing and asked me to describe what had happened from beginning to end. He was especially interested in Patty’s behavior and what she’d said.

  “Besides being drunk, the woman must be high on something,” I said.

  LeClair didn’t disagree or provide any details. I assumed they’d take her to a psychiatric hospital.

  “She’s angry because you reported what happened with Buddy Crawford,” LeClair said. “I get that. But why take someone else’s lobster boat, motor to the mainland, force you onto the boat, and ride around in circles?”

  “Who knows,” I said. “She heard what happened after Calvin found me on his boat, so in her screwed-up mind she wanted to finish the job?”

  He closed his notebook. “Dr. Tusconi, it seems like this Macomek business is holding you in its web. I’ve certainly never had a case where someone was taken captive on a lobster boat twice in one week.”

  “Have to say, it’s nothing I want to experience again.”

  His cobalt-blue eyes tightened as if my pain had stung him. “You’ll need to drive up to the Rockland office again. We’ll probably have more questions, and you can go over your statement.”

  Since the Marine Patrol vessel would transport Patty to wherever they were taking her, LeClair decided that Bernie and a fourth officer could give me a ride home in Lucky Catch. They would secure Calvin’s boat in Spruce Harbo
r, and my beach was right on the way. Bernie insisted on walking me up to my house and waiting until I gave her the okay. From the deck, I watched her flashlight dance along the path before she dropped down onto the beach.

  ***

  Preoccupied with a spreadsheet, I kept my eyes on the numbers and said, “Come on in, Alise” to the knock.

  Ted’s said, “Sorry, not Alise.”

  I looked up to see him standing in front of my half-open office door. Surprise and angst had turned me into a babbling idiot. “Oh. I thought, I mean. What time is it?”

  “Around nine. In the morning.”

  “Oh. Alise is due at ten. Sorry.”

  “Okay if I come in?”

  I flipped down the computer screen. “Yeah. That’d be great.”

  He rolled back the chair next to mine and sat down. I told my heart to slow down and tried to look nonchalant.

  “I’ve heard bits and pieces of what happened out on Macomek Island but would like to get the story from you,” he said.

  Months earlier, Ted had complained that trouble followed me around. His desire to learn about my most recent escapade was a sea change.

  Warily at first, I laid out “the Macomek story,” emphasizing for Ted’s sake my duty to Gordy and reason for searching Calvin’s cabin. I didn’t mention the previous night’s boat trip. There was more than enough to say without adding that bit of mischief.

  Between shakes of the head and “exclamations of “unbelievable!” Ted asked lots of questions. “So Calvin hid his anger toward Lester for how long?”

  “Since 1995.”

  “Wow. Long, long time. You said Calvin was a highliner. Why would a smart guy like that sympathize with someone like Patty?”

  I nodded. “Good question. I’m guessing he didn’t know how unstable she was. When I first met her, I never would have thought Patty was hooked on alcohol and drugs. It’s possible nobody, not even her mother, knew. Gordy sure didn’t. So Calvin must’ve seen her as a teacher worried about her former students and outraged that Buddy could be so uncaring and greedy. People view Calvin as a leader in the community. Patty probably told him what Buddy was up to and asked for his help.”