by Russell Fee
Callahan steered the cruiser back onto the road. “What’s going on Sully?” he asked.
“Not sure, but it’s trouble of some kind, and it looks like someone’s going to get hurt.” Sullivan hunched forward. “Turn here,” he said, and then pointed over Callahan’s shoulder through the windshield. “There. Right there,” he said.
Ahead, the county water truck was stopped; and around it was a crowd of people. Even from a distance Callahan could tell the crowd had not assembled out of curiosity or for welcome or assistance. It was angry. He could hear the muffled bursts of shouts and see the agitated gesticulations of individuals. Callahan drove the cruiser nearer the assembled mass of people and then stopped and got out. Several members of the crowd turned and walked towards him. He recognized a couple of them. They had homes along McCauley’s Way. He also saw the driver of the water truck lean out the window towards him and raise his arms in a gesture of helplessness.
“What’s going on here?” said Callahan.
Everyone started to talk at once until a tall man at the front raised his hand to silence the group. “Good morning, Sheriff. What this is is a protest. And a serious one. The poisoning of our well water has got to stop.”
“That’s right,” said a woman just behind the tall man. “I’ve got kids, and I’m going to make damn sure they’re safe.”
“That truck doesn’t move another inch forward unless it’s over my dead body,” said another woman in the group.
“I don’t get it,” said Callahan. “What’s a water truck got to do with poisoning your well water?”
The tall man spoke again. “These water trucks spray road brine, which is waste water from oil extraction wells on the mainland. The county gets it free from the oil companies. It’s contaminated, poison actually, and it’s seeping into our drinking water.”
More people from the crowd began to gather around Callahan and started shouting at him.
“You’ve got to help us, Sheriff.”
“Yeah, arrest these bastards.”
“This is assault. They’re killing us.”
Callahan shouldered his way past the group and then pushed through the crowd to the driver’s side of the truck. He stepped on the running board and pulled himself toward the window where the driver stared down at him. “If I move this crowd back, will you turn this thing around and head back into town?” he said.
“Sure thing, Sheriff. I just want to get out of here.”
Callahan stepped down and turned toward the crowd. “Okay, everyone. You’ve had your say and made your point. This truck is leaving. Go home and take this up with the county commissioner.”
“We tried that, and it didn’t work,” someone yelled.
“This truck is done for the day. No more spraying. It’s leaving. Now move back,” said Callanan. He signaled for the driver to start backing up.
As the truck began to move, Callahan walked behind it, separating the crowd. When the truck passed through the crowd, Callahan ran to the cruiser, jumped behind the wheel, and escorted the truck to the intersection where it backed onto the road and sped away. So did Callahan.
Chapter 9
“How valid is everyone’s concern over the water trucks?” Callahan stood at the window of Collin O’Donnell’s office, looking out over the bay and drinking a cup of coffee. The office had a much different feel—open and inviting—now that O’Donnell had taken it over from Tom Breslin along with Breslin’s job as head of the board of commissioners. Thanks to dogged detective work by Callahan and Amanda, Breslin was spending the rest of his life in prison for murder.
O’Donnell sat at his desk and began typing on his computer as he spoke. “First of all, not everyone is concerned about the water trucks. It’s just a few rabid summer residents and the usual local trouble makers. Second, they’re technically not water trucks. They spray road brine or waste water from oil wells on the mainland. The oil companies give it to us. It saves them money because they can dispose of it at little or no cost, and it saves this county tens of thousands of dollars a year. Do you have any idea how many miles of dirt road we have on this island?”
Callahan shrugged, and O’Donnell stopped typing.
“A hell of a lot,” continued O’Donnell. “Plus, road brine works much better in tamping down dust on dirt roads than pure water, which doesn’t work at all, or even water mixed with rock salt.”
“Then why the riot yesterday?” asked Callahan.
O’Donnell turned to Callahan with an expression that said, Give me a break.
“Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a riot. Then what’s going on?” asked Callahan.
O’Donnell pointed to the screen of his laptop. “Take a look. Apparently, the demonstration was staged. According to today’s online edition of the Nicolet Ledger, whose reporter was there, residents intend to stop all spraying on the island and have planned human roadblocks of the water trucks in the future.”
Callahan leaned over O’Donnell’s shoulder and peered at the article. When he straightened up, O’Donnell slammed shut the laptop’s screen and spun his chair around to face Callahan. “A few of the summer residents have been spreading the rumor that the spray is toxic and seeping into their well water. We’ve had some of the wells tested and there’s no problem,” he said.
“Is the spray toxic?” asked Callahan.
O’Donnell hesitated a moment before answering. “It does contain contaminants. Yes.”
“How bad are they?” pressed Callahan.
The question was not welcome. O’Donnell’s cherubic face slackened and lost its ruddiness. “It depends on whose report you read,” he said.
Callahan suspected O’Donnell had read all the reports and knew the consensus. “Collin, people bike and walk on those roads and breathe in the dust,” said Callahan.
“I know,” said O’Donnell.
Chapter 10
Amanda watched as the man wended his way between the sprawled mats of bearberry that covered the interdunes along Pebble Bay. He progressed slowly with the flatfooted stumble of all who traversed the soft sands of the island’s western dunes. Amanda called and waved, and the man looked up and waved back. He turned and headed her way. Franklin Hollander had called Julie at the station and insisted that she dispatch Amanda to the bay immediately as there’d be something there that would interest her professionally. Something important, he’d said. Amanda assumed it had to do with protecting the ecology of the bay. Hollander had appointed himself a one-man guardian of the flora and fauna, patrolling the shore and reporting every transgression to the sanctity of the protected species on the bay. He wanted access to the bay restricted because he was convinced that the Piping Plover was nesting there again and that the Pitcher’s Thistle was being trampled into extinction.
When Hollander reached her, he was slightly winded and paused a moment to catch his breath. “You’ve seen it then, have you?” he said in an exhaled breath.
“I don’t think so, Frank. What do you mean?” said Amanda.
“There,” he said, sweeping his arm around behind him and pointing north inside the bay. “How could you miss it?”
Amanda followed the direction of his arm until she saw it. He was right. The barge was huge and stacked high with pipes and unassembled scaffolding. Its closeness to the shore made it blend in with the trees of the back dunes. Amanda guessed that this was why she hadn’t noticed it at first.
“Listen,” Hollander said and held a finger to his lips.
Amanda concentrated, but all she could hear was the wash of the waves and the shrill gulping of distant gulls. Then she felt it more than heard it. A dull throbbing that quickly became a violent slapping as a helicopter rounded the point of the bay and hovered over the barge. As if drawn by a pencil, a line lowered from the belly of the copter. When it reached the scaffolding, the barge’s deck began to quiver with activity, and Amanda could hear muffled shouts and the clank of metal from across the water.
“This has been going on for a
couple of days now. Don’t know for sure, but my guess is the stuff on the barge is being dropped onto Tom Egan’s property. Tom won’t say, but, even before the barge arrived, the talk around the bar at O’Malley’s was that he’s going to be rich—very rich.”
Chapter 11
The Beechcraft Queen Air floated down from the sky until it touched the runway like a feather settling on a pillow and then taxied to the terminal. The rotations of its twin props slowed and then simultaneously jolted to a halt as the airstair passenger door was lowered. Nick Randolph was the first to deplane. Amanda ran out on the tarmac to meet him. They gave each other a quick kiss as they walked back to the terminal.
She and Nick had been dating for a year, but their days together totaled only a few weeks, a sum that for her seemed like a string of just a few short hours. It wasn’t enough. Nick was finishing his PhD at the university in Ann Arbor and working in the university’s Center for the Study of Domestic Terrorism. She was now entrenched in the job she had always yearned for since starting high school, deputy sheriff of Nicolet County. Their relationship strained under the pull of distance, and she worried.
“It seems like forever since I’ve seen you,” said Amanda.
“It’s only been a week,” said Nick.
“That’s forever,” said Amanda.
Nick laughed and then looked serious. “There’s no good time to tell you this so I might as well do it now,” he said.
“What?” asked Amanda, getting serious herself.
“We’re going to have to stop meeting like this,” he said.
Amanda stopped walking and pulled on his arm to stop him too. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Flying here and then back to the mainland almost every weekend is getting very expensive. Frankly, I can’t afford it,” Nick answered. “And you can’t leave the island most weekends because of your job.”
As the other passengers swept around them to get to their luggage, Amanda stared at Nick with an unmistakable look of panic on her face. “Are you saying we can’t see each other as much?” she stammered.
Nick lowered his head and stared at the ground. “No, that’s not what I’m saying,” he answered.
“Then are you saying we can’t see each other at all?” she nearly screamed.
Nick looked back up and then reached out and gently held Amanda’s face in his hands. Amanda’s body stiffened. She knew that this relationship was too good to be true, that it wouldn’t last. His gesture wasn’t of affection but was a prelude to a big fat letdown, a signal she should not freak out with the bad news. She just knew it.
“What I’m trying to say is that it’s time I moved to the island.”
Amanda stood in front of Nick, stunned. Then she jumped and threw her arms around his neck, squeezing him until he almost choked.
When she stepped back, her elation instantly turned to apprehension again, and the questions came tumbling over one another. “When? Are you sure about this? What about your job? What about finishing your PhD? Are you really sure this is what you want?”
“Yes, I’m sure, and I’ve worked everything out. The University of Michigan’s biological and environmental station on the island is expanding and needs a computer expert to handle its data. I applied for a transfer from the university’s Center for the Study of Domestic Terrorism and was accepted. I didn’t want to tell you until it was a done deal. Apparently, the competition was stiff. I start next week. And I’ve finished all the coursework for my doctorate. All I have to do now is write my dissertation. I can do that here on the island with an occasional trip to the mainland.”
Amanda took Nick’s hand and escorted him into the terminal. She didn’t say anything until he’d gotten his bag and backpack. Then she said, not to him, but more to herself, “This is a surprise.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you’d be happy about it.”
“I am. Beyond happy even, ecstatic. It’s just that . . .”
“What?”
“Where will you live?”
“I thought that maybe you and I could . . . you know . . .”
“This is a small island. People talk, and my parents live here.” Amanda’s words sounded more like a plea than a statement.
Nick nodded. “Fair enough,” he said.
* * *
Amanda and Nick arrived at the ferry dock in time to watch a nervous sales representative accompany two forklifts as they wheeled the brand new twenty-seven-foot Boston Whaler Vigilant on its pallet to the boat crane at the end of the pier. Callahan and O’Donnell were at the front of a small group of curious locals and ferry workers following the progress.
“She’s a real beauty,” said Callahan when Amanda and Nick had made their way to the group. Callahan nodded to Nick in greeting. The boat was beautiful, featuring a forward pilot house with a Whelen light bar and siren and a gleaming white hull emblazoned with the county crest trailed by the designation Sheriff sandwiched between bold trim markings. Her mission was unmistakable. Then he said to Amanda, “When they get her in the water, we’re to take her to her berth in the marina the long way ‘round. That will be her shakedown cruise and our introduction to the operation of her many features, all customized to her law enforcement duties. Her sales representative will be our instructor.”
“She and her customized features, including those two twin Yamaha engines, didn’t come cheap. She cost the county a pretty penny, so don’t break her,” said O’Donnell.
“No worries. According to the sales rep she’s supposed to have an unsinkable hull,” said Callahan. O’Donnell didn’t look convinced.
Neither did Amanda. “Do you think that’s true?” she whispered to Callahan.
“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out,” he said as the crane settled the boat onto the water. Bobbing gently next to the pier, she looked very proud to be there, he thought.
Chapter 12
Callahan, Julie, and Max sat on a bluff above the beach and watched the sun set over the lake. No two sunsets were ever the same, and tonight a band of robin’s egg blue stretched across the horizon and flared into a scarlet flame that turned the clouds crimson. It lasted only seconds before it disappeared. Since buying the house, this had become their tradition before settling in for the evening. Even the dog participated and somehow knew to be still and quiet until the show was over. Then it made a mad dash up the path to the house and spun in frantic circles at the door until Julie let it in for its nightly peanut butter dog biscuit.
As Max set up the checkerboard on the living room coffee table, Julie and Callahan began cleaning up the after-dinner clutter in the kitchen.
“Have you heard about anything unusual happening over at Tom Egan’s place?” asked Callahan.
“I don’t think so. What do you mean?” said Julie.
“Amanda told me she saw a helicopter offloading equipment from a barge in Pebble Bay. Frank Hollander told her that he thought the load was being delivered to Egan’s property. She said that was all he knew about it.”
“Hmm. I haven’t heard anything about Egan, but I did pick up chatter on the station’s radio scanner over the past couple of days. It sounded like the air to ground communications from the pilots of Island Air we sometimes pick up so I didn’t think much of it, except that the pilot identified himself with a callsign that I didn’t recognize. Also, the pilot gave his distance and direction from Pebble Bay. Oh, and he said something about delivering a passenger from Beacon or Beaumont or something like that. That’s why I thought it might be a flight from Island Air. Could that have been the helicopter?”
“Don’t know and not sure if I should even look into it. Doesn’t appear any laws were broken, and no one’s complained. It just seems curious that nobody knows anything about it, including O’Donnell who constantly has his ear to the ground for anything that’s happening in the county. If you hear any more of that chatter though, let me know.”
Max appeared at the kitchen door and stood there expectan
tly. “Okay, buddy. Is the checkerboard all ready to go?” said Callahan.
Max nodded.
“Can you wait to start the game for one more minute?” asked Julie.
Max shook his head.
“Then let the game begin. I guess your mother will have to finish in here by her lonesome,” said Callahan, tossing a dishtowel on the sink counter and smiling at Julie. “I do love checkers,” he added as he left the kitchen with Max.
Chapter 13
The boat skipped over the light chop at thirty-five knots, the prow rising just inches above crests of small waves before dipping and smacking the water to rise again. This was all it took for Callahan.
“Can’t you go any faster?” Callahan shouted back to Amanda over the roar of the engines as he held tight to the starboard bow rail with both hands.
Amanda nudged the throttle forward an inch, and the boat sped ahead. Callahan leaned slightly over the rail and raised one arm, and Amanda eased back the throttle until the boat slowed to a sturdy glide. “Is it time to chum for carp again?” she said.
“Not funny,” he said and promptly threw up over the side of the boat.
It had started with a slight headache. Then came the clammy feeling to his skin, followed by a cold sweat and nausea, and ending with a sudden bout of projectile vomiting.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” said Callahan. “I never get seasick.”
“That’s a myth. Everyone gets seasick sooner or later,” said Amanda.
“Not comforting,” said Callahan.
“Do you want to turn back?”
“No. We’ve come too far. We’re almost to the bay. Just give me a second.”