by Russell Fee
Amanda waited until Callahan raised his arm again. “Let’s get this over fast,” he said. She pushed the throttle forward, and the boat flew toward the bay with Callahan desperately hanging on.
As they rounded the point, the deck barge came into view; and Amanda dropped the engines’ rpms to almost zero and coasted the boat to the barge’s side. Its steel hull was massive with a deck that rested high above the waterline. Amanda had to crane her head back to see the large man in a hard hat, a soiled t-shirt, and ripped jeans looking down at her.
“Is there a problem, Sheriff?” he yelled.
Amanda turned to Callahan who was retching over the rail and thought it best that she answer his question.
“No problem,” said Amanda. “We were on patrol and saw your barge. We’re just curious. What are you doing here?”
“Just delivering some equipment to the island. We’re almost finished. We’ll be out of here before noon. Our towboat is on the way from the mainland.”
“What kind of equipment is it, and what’s it for?” asked Amanda.
“Can’t answer either question, because I don’t know. We weren’t told.” The large man looked over his shoulder and nodded. “If all’s good, I’ve got to get back to work,” he said.
“Wait,” said Callahan rallying enough to speak. “Where’s that stuff going to on the island?”
The large man looked over his shoulder again and appeared to be listening to someone. Then he turned back to Callahan. “If you have more questions, call the owner of the barge. Maybe he can help you. We work for Superior Tow and Salvage,” he said and then vanished as a helicopter appeared over the trees along the shore and headed toward the barge. It was yellow with the letters STS stenciled along the fuselage.
* * *
Callahan and Amanda made it back to the marina in time for Callahan to drive home, shower, change clothes, and meet Jackson at the cottage rented by Susan Gibbons. He still felt a bit unsteady, but the shower and solid ground had diminished the worst of his symptoms. Although Susan’s death hadn’t been declared a homicide and the cottage wasn’t a crime scene, Callahan had prevailed upon the cottage’s owner to delay advertising it for rent and allow him and Jackson to go through it. The owner was to meet Callahan there. Callahan and Jackson arrived separately but at almost the same time. The owner sat in a neon-blue plastic Adirondack chair on the cottage’s deck and stood when they got out of their vehicles.
“Hi, Sheriff,” he said. “You’re right on time.”
“Hi, Ben. This is good of you. Thanks, I appreciate it,” said Callahan and then turned to introduce Jackson. “Ben, this is Miles Jackson, he is—”
“—here representing the family,” said Jackson, completing the sentence before Callahan could.
Callahan smiled to himself as he noted that Jackson wasn’t being entirely dishonest. “Miles, this is Ben McIntyre. He owns this property,” he said, finishing the introduction.
McIntyre glanced quizzically at Callahan as he shook hands with Jackson. “I was wondering when the family was going to collect the belongings,” he said to Jackson. “I called the number she provided on the rental form and was told that the family would be contacted.”
“They have been, and arrangements are being made to remove Miss Gibbons’ property,” said Jackson. “You’ll be notified soon of a date.”
“Great,” said the owner. He opened the front door and started to enter.
Callahan laid a hand on the owner’s shoulder. “Do you mind waiting outside, Ben?” The way Callahan asked and the weight of his hand on the owner’s shoulder made only one answer appropriate.
The owner stepped back and watched Jackson closely as he entered the cottage. Then he looked at Callahan for assurance. Callahan’s face remained impassive. “Okay, sure, no problem. I’ll be here on the deck,” he said.
* * *
Callahan shut the door and surveyed the interior of the cottage. It was tiny: two rooms with an open loft under a peaked ceiling. Below the loft was the bedroom with the rest of the first floor serving as the kitchen, living room, dining room, and a small bathroom with shower. Yet, somehow Susan had decorated the interior to make it look spacious. A creative placement of a few items of furniture and accessories divided the lower level into inviting and cozy spaces. Susan had transformed the loft with its skylight into an art studio and spare bedroom containing an easel and futon. A curtain of hanging beads gave a touch of privacy.
“This doesn’t look like it will take long,” said Jackson. “Where should we work first?”
“Let’s start with the bedroom,” said Callahan.
Both he and Jackson put on latex gloves, and Jackson opened the bedroom door. He didn’t enter but just stood in the doorway. Callahan peered over Jackson’s shoulder. The miniscule bedroom was barely big enough for the bed, night stand, built-out closet, and dresser that it contained. It was not big enough for two large men.
“I’ll take the loft,” said Callahan.
“Good idea,” said Jackson.
The first thing Callahan noticed about the loft was the feel of it, its atmosphere. Unlike the downstairs of the cottage, which had a comfortable and welcoming lure, this space felt intimate to the point of exclusion. It seemed unmistakably an extension of Susan herself, not meant for anyone else. Callahan sensed that it was here that Susan lived. She merely occupied the rest of the cottage, and he felt like an intruder invading a sanctuary.
The loft served as a studio, and paintings of different island wild flowers festooned the room. All were remarkable in color and composition; all initially compelling. But framed painting of trilliums that leaned against the wall on the floor especially intrigued Callahan, and he picked it up and inspected it carefully. Susan had signed it, and it was as beautiful as all the others but disturbing in a way Callahan couldn’t quite pin down. The flowers clustered and formed a spill of muted white against the profusion of greens that almost overwhelmed them. The cluster occupied only a small segment of the painting yet was dominant. Callahan tried to discern why. Then he saw what he had only casually observed before. One trillium at the edge of the floral spill stretched from the sandy soil, its stem tilted toward the sunlit far corner of the painting. Two of its petals were raised while one seemed to droop as if shrinking from the light. Where the petals joined was a small orb of yellow so bright that it served to dull the sunlight and irresistibly draw the eye of the observer to the flower. As he studied the flower, faint images came into view.
The two raised petals formed hands, their fingers coiled as if clutching at something; and below them, in the sand at the base of the stem swirled the unmistakable curls of vanished snakes. Before he put the picture down, he instinctively turned it around to inspect the back. In one corner, a thin folded rectangle of paper was taped to the side of the frame. The paper was the same color as the frame and barely visible. Callahan peeled back the tape and removed the rectangle. He set the picture on the futon and gently unfolded the paper. Then he carefully inspected the canvases and frames of all the other paintings in the room.
“Miles, I think I’ve found something,” he called.
Jackson stood outside the bedroom below the loft, looking up at Callahan. “Me too,” he said.
Chapter 14
“What have you got?” said Jackson when he reached the top of the loft stairs.
“Not sure, but I found this taped to the back of that painting.” Callahan nodded at the painting on the futon and handed the paper to Jackson.
Jackson took the paper and examined it. He shrugged and handed it back to Callahan. “Could be a name,” said Jackson. “Rahu. It doesn’t mean anything to me. Maybe she taped it to the painting to identify who she wanted to receive the painting or who commissioned or bought it. Did you check to see if any of the other paintings had names taped to them?”
“Yes,” said Callahan. “None of the others had anything taped to them or any markings of any kind on the back. This was the only one.”
“Wait,” said Callahan. “You said you found something. What is it?”
“It’s a receipt,” said Jackson continuing down the stairs. Callahan followed. “I took a picture of it and left it on her night stand. Found it under her bed. It probably fell out of her purse and wound up there. It’s from some business in Grand Rapids. Can’t tell what kind from the name,” said Jackson.
Callahan waited for Jackson to continue, but he didn’t. Instead, Jackson stood at the foot of the stairs lost in thought. “And is it somehow significant?” asked Callahan.
Jackson snapped back into the present. “Could be. She wasn’t supposed to travel any distance without telling us where she was going, why, and for how long. If she did go to Grand Rapids, we didn’t know about it.”
“How much is the receipt for?” asked Callahan.
“Three hundred and fifty dollars,” answered Jackson.
“What’s the name of the business?”
“The Grotto.”
“Get your phone out and Google it for Grand Rapids,” said Callahan.
“Sometimes I wonder if I belong in the modern age,” said Jackson and looked chagrined as he pulled his phone from his pocket and began tapping in the name on its browser. He peered at the screen for a moment and then said, “It’s an art gallery and coffee house.”
“Well, if she bought a painting there, it isn’t here. All the paintings are in the loft, and all are signed by her,” said Callahan.
“Maybe she sold one there,” mused Jackson.
“Do you think it’s worth following up?” said Callahan.
“This art thing was a part of her life she didn’t tell us about. For that reason alone, it’s probably worth a trip to Grand Rapids,” said Jackson.
“Let’s finish up here,” said Callahan as he reaffixed the note to the back of the picture frame with the tape.
As they split up to search the first floor, Jackson said, “There’s no computer in the bedroom, and I didn’t find her cell phone in there either.”
Chapter 15
Finn Gallagher leaned over his desk and read the article again with relish. The Ledger had just published its first scoop in years. Although calling the article a scoop was a bit of a stretch since there were no other newspapers on the island. But that’s how he chose to view it. The article was big news, and big news was a scoop. Especially since the Ledger had beaten social media to the punch—a rarity. Plus, the facts were critical to the islanders and tantalizing enough to generate public and media notice beyond the island. He had already gotten a call from The Detroit Free Press about the article. That meant an increase in circulation and more advertising sales for the financially strapped newspaper. As editor of the Ledger, he was a happy man.
Gallagher had uncovered the drilling himself. In retrospect, it had all been rather simple. He’d heard from Franklin Hollander about the barge in Pebble Bay. He’d gone there, taken pictures of the barge and its freight, emailed them each to a construction company, a bridge company, an oil company, and a crane-building company in Wisconsin. The responses were timely. The freight wasn’t made up of parts for a bridge, scaffold, or crane, but component parts for a drilling rig. The next step he thought would be pro forma, merely calling Michigan’s Department of Environmental Quality, the agency that issues permits for drilling, and asking who was drilling in Nicolet County and for what. It was all a matter of public record, or so he thought. But the Department’s answer to his inquiry was a curt but emphatic, No comment. That’s when he discovered that a little-known provision of Michigan’s Natural Resources and Environmental Protection Act allowed for all information and data on certain types of drilling to be held confidential for ten years. And such information and data were even exempt from disclosure under the Freedom of Information Act. In short, Michigan permitted oil and mining companies to drill in secret. And it was happening on the island.
Per Hollander, a company was constructing the rig on Tom Egan’s land, and Gallagher had called Egan to confirm the story. Egan had hung up on him and promptly taken an unseasonal trip to his winter condo in Florida where he became incommunicado. So, without any hard facts about the drilling, the article produced speculation, which quickly became rumor, which ramped up to fear mongering, until uttering the word fracking generated panic among the islanders. Concerned islanders planned a huge protest at Egan’s property, and a network affiliated TV station from Traverse City was flying in a crew by helicopter to cover it. Life was good, thought Gallagher.
Chapter 16
Amanda arrived at Egan’s property well before the announced start of the protest, and already pickup trucks and SUVs lined both sides of the dirt road that paralleled the property’s frontage. Two of the island’s cafés had set up makeshift concession stands and were doing a brisk business in coffee, donuts, and bottled water. It wasn’t long before the lines of vehicles stretched so far down the road in each direction that Amanda couldn’t see the end of them. The crowd steadily swelled until it kicked up enough dust to generate a permanent haze over the area. Yet, the atmosphere felt more jovial than angry, and she enjoyed reading the placards people held aloft as they passed the TV camera: Keep the holes off our island and with the asses where they belong; Don’t frack with us; If there’s nothing to hide then DON’T. She particularly liked the poster depicting Nicolet Island as a hornet’s nest with a swarm of furious hornets diving toward an oil rig being erected on the island.
“Are you here to quell the revolt?”
The question surprised Amanda, and she was startled to see Tony Bland standing next to her. He smiled, and she smiled back. “No, just keeping an eye on things. What about you? Why are you here?”
“Just came to add my small voice to the general din,” he said.
“You’re anti-drilling then?” said Amanda. She had not thought of Bland as being against drilling and was afraid the surprise had registered in her voice.
“Let’s say that I’m willing to support any fracas that keeps the sheriff away from my property.” Bland smiled again and added, “Does anyone know what’s really happening here?”
Amanda shrugged.
“That’s what I thought. Perhaps it’s good you’re here then.”
“What do you mean?” asked Amanda.
Bland swept his hand across the crowd in front of them. “This free-floating mass antagonism can attach itself to the wrong appeal and become dangerous,” he answered.
“Things look pretty tame to me,” said Amanda.
“For now,” said Bland.
“That sounds ominous,” said Amanda.
“Then let’s move on to a more pleasant matter. My friend was very taken with you the other day. He would like to see you again. My yacht will be here this weekend with some friends aboard, and I’m throwing a party for them. He’ll be among them. I’d like you to join us.”
“Thanks for the invitation, but tell your friend I’m in a relationship,” said Amanda.
Bland didn’t blink. “Not a problem. Bring him,” he hesitated a second, “or her along. Be at the pier Saturday evening at 9:00 and a boat will be there to take the two of you to the yacht. My parties are not to be missed.”
“That’s nice, but my answer is still no.”
“It’s an open invitation. If you change your mind, I’ll see you then.”
Bland spread his arms, and Amanda, thinking he was inviting a hug, recoiled as he stepped past her, pretending to embrace the crowd before he waded into it.
Chapter 17
Callahan and Julie sat next to each other, sunk low in their beach chairs, and watched as Max searched for the right stones among the rocks jumbled along the beach. The dog, intent upon its own interests, darted from one shrub to the next but always just behind Max. This part of the island was not popular because of its muddy beach and shallow water, but they came often because they b
oth loved it. The low vegetation over the wide stretch of the flats from the woods to the water reminded them of a Scottish moor, and the stones here were like no others on the island, flat, scoured by the wind and sand, and perfect for stacking. So perfect that visitors constructed cairns along the water’s edge. Although man-made, the small precarious towers seemed an innate part of the landscape and gave it a numinous aura and its name—Mystic Point.
“What do you make of our island becoming the home of federally protected witnesses?” Callahan asked Julie. His question interrupted the comfortable silence between them.
“You mean the one we know of?” she said after a moment.
Callahan nodded.
“Well, I hadn’t really thought about it, but I take it from your question that you’re against it or at least have doubts about it,” said Julie.
“I do have my doubts.”
“Why?” asked Julie
As Callahan spoke, he stared out across the water as if thinking aloud. “I just don’t like the possibilities. If Susan Gibbons’ death wasn’t an accident, then that could mean that someone on the island discovered her true identity and revealed it to whoever wanted her dead. And that could mean that someone on the island has a connection to the criminal syndicate she was a part of. Maybe even that person was ordered to kill her.” Callahan turned to face Julie. “See what I mean?”
“Those are weighty speculations. No wonder you’ve been so quiet,” said Julie.
“I’m only dealing with the possibilities,” said Callahan.
Julie thought for a moment. “If that’s the case, there’s another possibility,” she said.
“What is it?” asked Callahan.
“What if it wasn’t someone on the island who revealed her identity?” Julie posited.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, who in the Witness Security Program had access to her file, and what do you really know about Jackson?”