North Harbor

by Kennedy Hudner

  He swallowed the wine and poured some more. Then he walked forward, placing the palm of his hand on the block of marble.

  “Are you in there?” he pleaded with the figure hidden deep in the marble.

  But nothing happened.

  ______________

  Frank Finley decided to leave a little early with the prisoner and stop at the Coast Guard Station on his way down to Portland. He went to see Sergeant Leroux. “What’s the status on Ralph Harkins?”

  Sergeant Leroux eyed him balefully. “Status? He’s in jail.”

  Finley suppressed a sigh. Leroux was one of Chief Corcoran’s “loyalists.” Corcoran didn’t like Finley, so Leroux didn’t either. “Sergeant, I’m to transport Harkins to Portland this afternoon. The Chief asked me to stop along the way to make a missing person inquiry, so I’d like to get Harkins now and head out.”

  Leroux smirked. “Chief told me to turn him over to you at four o’clock.”

  “Is there any reason to wait until then?” Ralph Harkins was the only person being held in the North Harbor jail, so it was clear Leroux was just jerking him around.

  Leroux frowned and looked at his desk, as if the answer might be there. “Well, the prisoner hasn’t had lunch yet.”

  Finley nodded. The wall clock showed 1:30 p.m., so it was unlikely that Leroux had ever intended to get him lunch. That was one of Leroux’s little quirks; he liked to keep his prisoners hungry.

  “I’d be happy to arrange lunch on the way to Portland, Sergeant,” Finley assured him.

  Leroux set his jaw. “Chief said four o’clock.”

  “I understand, Sergeant, but that was before he asked me to look into this missing persons thing.” Finley paused. “He said the missing persons matter is urgent, but I’ll tell him I’ll have to reschedule the meeting with the Coast Guard today if you want.” He waited to see if the hook had sunk.

  Leroux considered this, a sour expression creasing his face. “Tell Remy to release Harkins to you.” Then he opened a file and began to read it.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Finley said. He went right to the holding cells, where Martin Remy sat at his desk.

  “Frank!” Remy greeted him warmly. “You here for our boy?” Remy was the oldest serving officer in the North Harbor Police Department.

  “Yeah, I’m taking him a little early.”

  Remy glanced around. “You taking him alone?” he asked, a touch of concern in his voice.

  Finley shrugged.

  Remy frowned. “Well, that ain’t right. Harkins is mean as a rabid dog.”

  “Chief’s orders.” This confirmed it as far as Finley was concerned. Corcoran was setting him up to get hurt. Interesting.

  “Well, I’ll shackle him tight and proper,” Remy assured him, “but you have a care. Ralph Harkins is trouble and he likes to hurt people, especially cops.”

  “Thanks, Marty, I will.” He considered his options. “Listen, give me a minute to get my gear and I’ll come back to help you get him into the shackles.”

  Remy waved him away. “Sure, sure, take your time.”

  At his locker, Finley considered his options, then checked to make sure his taser was fully charged and his pepper spray was on his belt. Then he took a second pair of handcuffs and, looking around to make sure he was unobserved, slipped a pair of brass knuckles into his pocket.

  Back at holding, Remy looked at him worriedly. “Sure you don’t want to wait to see if anybody is available to help you?” he asked in a low tone.

  “I’m okay, Marty, but I appreciate it,” Finley assured him.

  Remy nodded. “Okay, but one thing – Harkins likes to head-butt. You can see the scars on his forehead. Always work him from the side or behind. Don’t stand directly in front of him. And don’t take any crap from him. He’ll test you, try to feel you out. Shut him down hard and he’ll think twice about giving you trouble.”

  “Thanks, Marty.”

  But Harkins gave them no trouble at all during the shackling process. He stuck his arms out to be cuffed and didn’t move a muscle when they shackled his legs and put a waist chain around him, then connected the wrist cuffs to the waist chain.

  “Hey, what about some lunch?” he demanded. “I’m fucking hungry. No dinner last night, no breakfast and now no lunch. What kind of shithole is this?”

  “Shut your trap,” Remy told him, and walked with Finley all the way to the squad car in the back of the building. “You be careful with this guy,” he whispered to Finley, then went back inside.

  Finley ran the holding chain through the metal loop and locked it. Now Harkins was unable to move more than three inches off the back of the seat, but that didn’t prevent him from angrily kicking at the front seat like a little kid. “I’m hungry, goddammit! I got low blood sugar and I need some fuckin’ food!”

  “Why didn’t they feed you this morning?” Finley asked him mildly.

  “Ah, shit, you know Corcoran, that prick.” Harkins looked away, suddenly quiet. Finley nodded to himself in understanding. Take a violent prisoner, then don’t feed him to make him edgy and uncomfortable and pissed off, then aim him at your target.

  They drove in silence for a time, Harkins strangely silent. Finley glanced over his shoulder once to see that the huge man was pale and sweating. Maybe he really did have hypoglycemia after all. He thought about that for a moment, then in the Town of Orland pulled over into a McDonald’s. Harkins looked up, confused.

  “I’m guessing you’re a cheeseburger guy, right? Everything on it?” Finley asked.

  Harkins nodded warily, as if waiting for the joke to be sprung on him.

  “Okay, Ralph, you just sit tight. You make a lot of noise or try to smash the windows or pull any crap, I will come back and cheerfully beat the shit out of you, got it?” When the prisoner nodded, Finley got out of the car and carefully locked it. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  It took fifteen minutes, but he didn’t think Harkins would really mind. He opened the back door, unlocked the chain that kept the handcuffs locked to a ring and dropped a large white bag on Harkin’s lap. Harkins looked at him incredulously.

  “There’s three Big Macs with cheese, two bags of fries and two shakes,” Finley told him. “I didn’t know what kind you like, so I got one vanilla and one chocolate. The cuffs stay on, but you’ll be able to eat fine.”

  Harkins stared at him, then tore into the bag. Finley got into the front seat and ate a chicken sandwich and a cup of coffee, tossed the empty bag onto the seat and resumed the drive to the Coast Guard Station. Harkins finished his food – all of it – in less than ten minutes, then promptly fell asleep as the sugar poured into his blood.

  “Never underestimate the power of a Big Mac,” Finley mused, smiling.

  An hour later they pulled into the Coast Guard Station in Rockland. Finley showed his badge and drove to the Commander’s office, where Ensign Kauders was waiting for him.

  “Commander Mello is waiting for you inside, sir” Kauders told him, then glanced at the slumbering form of Ralph Harkins in the back seat. “This is your prisoner, I presume.” He grinned. “Doesn’t look too dangerous, I must say.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Finley warned.

  “Oh, I don’t,” Ensign Kauders assured him, then called over his shoulder. “Gentlemen, I need you.”

  The door opened again and two thick-necked, barrel-chested Coast Guard petty officers stepped out. “Gentlemen, this is Officer Finley of the North Harbor Police Department. Officer, these fine specimens are Petty Officer First Class Josephs and Petty Officer First Class Santana. Although they are gentle creatures at heart and loathe violence in any form, I can assure you that they will secure your prisoner and that, try as he may, he will not harm them.” Kauders grinned again. Josephs and Santana rolled their eyes, but they were apparently familiar with the Ensign’s baroque humor and pulled Harkins from the car without comment.

  “Don’t worry, sir, we’ll take good care of your boy,” Petty Officer First
Class Josephs promised. Only half awake after gorging on his lunch, Harkins meekly allowed himself to be taken to a holding room.

  “Follow me, please,” Ensign Kauders said and took Finley inside to the Commander’s office.

  ______________

  Commander John Mello was tall, weathered and had squint lines from years of looking into the sun. He looked frankly at Finley, then exchanged a glance with the severe looking woman who sat in a chair beside his desk. Mello stood and offered his hand.

  “Officer Finley, I rather hope we can help each other out on this. I understand you have a missing lobsterman.”

  Finley nodded. “Henry Mitchell, age sixty-two, a long-time resident of North Harbor and a local lobsterman since he was a kid. He went out as usual Monday and didn’t come back. He owns a Duffy 42 named High Stakes, built by the Atlantic Boat Company in Brooklin.”

  “Please, have a seat,” Commander Mello said. “Forgive my manners.” The office door opened again and Ensign Kauders brought in a tray of coffee and pastries. Finley suppressed a smile; this didn’t quite fit in with the spartan ambience of the Coast Guard Station. Commander Mello caught the look and chuckled.

  “Yes, well,” he said. “My very efficient Ensign here knows that I get a little sleepy in the afternoon and he is kind enough to prop me up with caffeine and sugar. Quite embarrassing, but I find comfort in the fact that I am doing my bit to delay the aging process.”

  Finley looked at the plate, heaped tall with buttery croissants, cream-filled éclairs and something else he didn’t recognize, but which made his mouth water just looking at it. “It certainly looks medicinal to me,” he offered diplomatically.

  The Coast Guard Commander’s face crinkled in amusement. “Exactly!”

  Then the humor vanished and he was all business again. “This is Lieutenant Gloria Larsen, of the Criminal Investigations Division. She’s an attorney in our JAG Corps and will be sitting in on this meeting because one of our cases may have overlapped with your missing lobsterman.”

  Lieutenant Larsen was an attractive looking woman, in a severe, Nordic sort of way, with dark blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, light blue eyes and a distinctly no-nonsense air about her. Probably a terror in the court room, Finley thought.

  “Usually Captain Mitchell would fish the local waters inshore” Finley told them. “But if he ran into trouble there, he almost certainly would have been seen by somebody. The inshore waters are crawling with boats of all kinds. Lots of eyes out there. The other possibility is that he went out to deep waters. About twenty miles due east of North Harbor, near the edge of the continental shelf, there is an area on the migration path of lobsters that some lobstermen like. We know Mitchell had some traps out there.” He looked from Larsen to Mello and back again. “I understand from Ensign Kauders that you found some burnt wreckage near there.”

  Commander Mello abruptly stood up. “Come with me, please, Officer Finley. I have something to show you.”

  They walked across the parking area to a large shed immediately off the dock. Commander Mello nodded to the guard, who opened the door and let them inside. On the floor in the middle of the shed there was a partially intact hull, approximately forty feet long. Much of it had been burned to the waterline, but there were large portions of the superstructure that were intact, including the very top arch of the cockpit. Finley studied it in silence a moment, then glanced at Mello and Larsen. If the Criminal Investigation Division was here, this was more than a burnt boat.

  “Okay,” Finley said. “Show me.”

  Commander Mello walked along the starboard side of the boat, or what was left of it. “When we found the wreckage, one of my men noticed two holes in the cockpit area, here and here,” he said, pointing. “This area was singed, but not burnt through. Indeed, you can still see a part of the wheel and several of the cockpit controls.”

  Finley leaned over to study the holes more closely. He straightened. “Bullet holes?”

  “Yes, Officer Finley, two bullet holes, very close to where the captain would have been standing,” Mello confirmed. Behind him, Lieutenant Larsen nodded somberly.

  “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Commander Mello asked.

  “Wonder what?” Finley asked back.

  “Makes you wonder if you find Henry Mitchell, will he have some bullets holes in him, too?”

  ______________

  Calvin opened the door to the main house. “Mémè? Mémè, I’ve got some supper for you from Uncle Paul.”

  Céline Dumas called from the back of the house. “In here, Calvin!” Calvin walked to the kitchen, which overlooked the harbor. He held up the bag of seafood. “Put it in the refrigerator, honey,” she told him. “Does this mean that your Oncle Paul is coming to dinner?”

  “That’s what he said, Mémè.”

  Céline Dumas sniffed. “He’d better or I’ll have his hide. He hasn’t called or visited in a week, that scoundrel.” She went to the window and craned her neck to see the studio. “Has he started the sculpture yet, Calvin?”

  Calvin hesitated. Céline Dumas stood five feet one inch and weighed no more than one hundred pounds. Placed side-by-side with her oversized husband, they looked like exemplars from radically different species. But she was as fierce as a wolverine and was to be treated with respect…and caution.

  “Not yet, Mémè, but he’s working on it.”

  Céline made a rude noise. “I told him not to take the job on a fixed deadline, the old fool. It spooks him, stifles his imagination, and at his age, you can’t count on having much left.” She wheeled on Calvin. “He’s just staring at it, isn’t he? Waiting for the Indian war chief to ‘show himself’ so he can start chipping it out of the rock.” She shook her head. “Fool! I told him, ‘no more deadlines!’”

  Then, abruptly, she smiled and touched his cheek. “I can’t believe you’re a senior now, about to go to college. And Duke! Goodness! You should be proud, Calvin, a very good school. Your mother must be thrilled!”

  Calvin squirmed. “Mémè I don’t know yet. There’s a chance I might not go this year. I thought maybe I’ll take some time off, maybe try lobstering for a year…”

  Mémè frowned at him. “Don’t talk foolishness, Calvin. Duke University! Of course you’ll go. One grandson not using his God-given talents is more than enough.” She peered at him anxiously. “There’s nothing wrong, is there? You don’t have some dreadful disease or something?”

  Calvin laughed. “I’m fine, Mémè. I’m just not sure I’m ready to go yet.”

  She put her palms on his chest. “You look so much like a man, I forget you are still a boy. It’s okay, Calvin, we all get nervous when we face something so new and different. It’s a big change. Ask your mother how she felt when she left for college.” The old woman laughed. “She called us twice a day, every day for the first month! God have mercy, the phone bills! But then she settled in and loved it. You will, too. Trust your Mémè on this.” She patted him again, then turned to the window.

  “Where is that old fool? It’s almost dinner time.”

  Chapter 5

  Straining to be Free

  In the Atlantic, twenty miles off North Harbor and one hundred feet down, the body of Henry Mitchell slowly filled with decomposition gases, making him stand upright and strain at the chain that was draped across his foot. Attracted by the blood and the odor, small fish swarmed around the body, enjoying an unexpected feast.

  Every once in a while, a vagrant current would rock the body. The chain over his foot would slip just a tiny, tiny fraction of an inch.

  The body pulled at the chain, straining to be free.

  Chapter 6

  Pinching the Supply Line

  Finley had almost reached Portland when he heard Ralph Harkins stir in the back seat. He didn’t say anything, just looked at him through the rearview mirror. Harkins rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands like a young child, an incongruous gesture which made Finley smile.

  “Where
are we?” Harkins rasped.

  “About five minutes to the Portland PD,” Finley replied. Harkins grunted and lapsed back into silence. When the Police Department was finally in view, Harkins shifted in his seat.

  “The food helped. I was feelin’ poorly.” It was grudging thanks, but it was a thanks nonetheless.

  “No problem,” Finley replied, astonished that Harkins had thanked him. “If it’s any consolation, I hear the food at the Portland PD is pretty good.”

  “Hope so,” Harkins grunted.

  Finley got him out of the car and into the police station without incident. Harkins seemed subdued and preoccupied, almost docile. Then, as they walked down a long corridor to the Transfer Desk, Harkins lowered his head and spoke softly so no one else could hear.

  “The food thing, I sorta owe you for that.” He paused, then plunged on. “So, I’m tellin’ you, watch the fuck out. You got people gunnin’ for you.” Then he fell silent. Finley glanced at him questioningly, but Harkins shook his head and refused to say anything more.

  The paperwork took about forty minutes. When he was finished, Finley slipped into the Men’s Room, locked himself in a stall and changed from his uniform into civilian clothes. As he walked down the steps to the parking lot, he glanced at his watch: 5:10 p.m. He took out his personal cell phone, dialed a number and waited for it to be answered.

  “Yeah?” said the voice on the other end of the line.

  “Where?” Finley asked.

  “The Dock Side, in Falmouth. Maybe fifteen minutes from where you are.”

  Finley knew it. A very nice little restaurant nestled into a marsh, near the ocean. Finley hung up, carefully deleted the call from his phone and started out. Fifteen minutes later he was there, parking well in back so his car was not visible from the street. It may be an unmarked cruiser, but it still looked like a cop car.

  Inside, he walked past the maître d’ to the back and slid into a booth.

  “Good to see you, Frank.” The man across the table looked like a retired librarian gone slightly to seed. In his early seventies, a little stooped, with gray hair and tortoise-rimmed glasses, there was nothing to suggest that he was one of the Drug Enforcement Agency’s most ruthless Division heads.