O’Brien recalled the image of the teen, ghost white except for a tinge of blue around his lips, and completely unresponsive. “I don’t know, Mr. Honeycutt. I just don’t know.”
There was a long pause, then Honeycutt sighed once more. “Crap, I’ve got to tell Frank’s wife.”
“Mr. Honeycutt, please keep me informed,” Captain O’Brien said, then cut the connection without even asking the outcome of the raid on shore.
It would take them an hour to get back to port. O’Brien went to her little cabin and called to have Ensign Dunbar meet her there. He arrived in a blood-stained shirt, expecting to be chewed out for making a hash of his mission to board the lobster boat. Instead, he found her sitting at a small table with a bottle of Scotch and two glasses.
“Sit down, Chris,” she said, pouring them both a finger of Scotch. She pushed one of the glasses across to him. He picked it up. She studied him carefully.
“This can be a wonderful job, or a dirty fucking job, sometimes both at once,” she said. “But it is a very necessary job, and we need good people to do it.” She reached across the table and clinked glasses with him. “Tonight, I welcome you to the Coast Guard, Ensign Christopher Dunbar. Drink up.”
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When Honeycutt told Paul Dumas about Calvin, Dumas shook his head. Danielle was going to be devastated, to say nothing of his parents. Then he looked at Honeycutt’s face, and realized there was something more.
“What aren’t you telling me?” he demanded.
Honeycutt grimaced, then sucked in a deep breath. “When they found Calvin, he was tied to a hazard buoy to keep his head out of the water.”
Dumas stared at him.
“Paul, the way he was tied,” he paused. “The thing is, Calvin had to have been with a second person, someone who tied him to the buoy, someone trying to take care of him.”
Dumas visibly sagged, looking like he was going to collapse at any moment. “Jacob?”
Honeycutt nodded. “I think so, but Calvin was alone when the Coast Guard found him. They didn’t see anyone else.”
Now Dumas did collapse, half sitting, half crashing into a chair. “God help him,” he said, weary to his soul. “No sign of him?”
“No,” Honeycutt replied. “I’m sorry.” He put his hand on Dumas’ shoulder. “I’m sorry, Paul.”
Dumas looked up, his eyes wet with tears. “How do I tell my sister? And my mother?”
“He saved his brother’s life. The Coast Guard guys said that the storm was whipping the buoy back and forth like a pendulum. If Calvin hadn’t been tied in, he would have been washed off the buoy into the water.”
Dumas covered his face with his hands. “Oh, God, this is awful.”
Chapter 67
Shell Game
The State Police were nonplussed to find Police Chief Corcoran and several of his men standing in the middle of Rte. 15, guarding three large, water-stained bags. The State Police cautiously lowered their weapons.
“Evening,” Corcoran drawled. “‘Bout time you fellas got here.” He gestured to the woods that led to the south shore of Elm Tree Cove. “You’ll find a bunch of bodies in there, drug cartel guys, I figure. We watched them take delivery of these packages from three lobster boats. They were shootin’ at the DEA guys, and then resisted arrest, so we had to kill ‘em.” He nudged one of the packages with the toe of his boot. “Got these packages from them, and if you don’t mind, I would be a lot more comfortable if you took possession of them. Haven’t opened ‘em yet, but I would guess that there’s a shitload of drugs in there.”
The State Police exchanged bewildered glances with each other. They all knew that the North Harbor police were under a cloud, so this was not what they had been expecting. One of the troopers stepped forward and touched the bags. They were still damp from the salt water.
“We can take these off your hands for you,” he said politely.
Corcoran nodded, then gestured to the north shore of the Cove. “Quite a fight. Anybody hurt over there?”
Chapter 68
Friday. Hospital Visit
Danielle stood in the hospital corridor. In the room nearest her, her father was recovering from the bullet wounds he got during the Cartel’s raid on her house. In the next room down the corridor, her husband was sedated and still attached to a ventilator, recovering from two punctured lungs and numerous broken ribs.
On the floor above them, her son, Calvin, was in the Intensive Care Unit, fighting for his life.
And Jacob. Jacob was gone. The Coast Guard was still searching, but there was no hope that he had survived all this time in the frigid water.
Jacob, her precious firstborn, was gone.
Weeping without a sound, she stood in the corridor, unable to take another step.
Céline Dumas put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders, inwardly gritting her teeth and willing herself to be strong. Her family needed her. “Cry your tears, honey,” she whispered to Danielle. “Then dry them. They’re alive and they need us, especially you. And so long as they need us, we’ve got work to do. C’mon now, I can’t do this without you.”
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Calvin swam to the surface of consciousness like a man rising from a great depth, slowly and deliberately, mindful that there was an up and a down and it was important to know the difference, but when he surfaced, he had no idea of where he was. First, he was aware of the discordant background noise. Beeps, hisses, the sound of fluids moving, of air breathing with a steady, mechanical regularity, and the delicate clatter of computer keys.
Then he was aware of what he saw. His eyes fluttered open, then closed, then opened again. The room was dimly lit and at the foot of his bed was a large window that looked out on a small room. Three people sat there, two women and a big burly man with a large, white beard in a wheelchair. His eyes tracked left and right. Something was missing. Something…
One of the women looked up then and saw him. Her face lit up with delight, then closed down with concern. Then his mother stood up and walked into the ICU.
“Well hey there, sleepyhead,” she said, brushing his hair back with a warm palm. “Welcome back to the land of the living.” There were dark fatigue smudges under her eyes, which were bloodshot from crying. Calvin digested all of this slowly, his mind mired in molasses.
“I’m very glad to see you awake and doing well,” his mother said softly. “Gabrielle was here for a while, but I sent her home so she could get some rest. She’s a lovely girl, Calvin, you should count yourself lucky.” She looked more closely at him. “Do you want some water?” He nodded silently and she fetched a plastic cup of ice water and held the straw to his mouth. The water was icy cold and he slurped it greedily.
The water was icy cold.
The wind howled and the waves washed over them.
Calvin’s eyes widened in alarm as the memories crashed back into his consciousness. He struggled to sit up and pain lanced through his side. For the first time he was aware of a thick bandage wrapped around his left side, high up near his armpit.
“Stay still!” Danielle told him, putting one hand on his chest to keep him flat.
“Mom!” he cried. “Jacob? Jacob? He was with me. In the water. We got off the boat. Is he okay? Mom?”
“Shusssh,” she said softly. “Hush now, it’s okay.” But the tears running down her face gave lie to her words.
Calvin felt his heart sink. “Did they find him?” He paused, not wanting to say the words. “Is he alive, Mom?” Is Jacob alive?” he asked imploringly, his eyes flooded with hot tears.
Mémè Céline came into the room, taking everything in at a glance. She took Calvin’s hand, rubbing the back of it with the pad of her thumb. “Calvin, the State Police captured Jacques LeBlanc. He told them you somehow got on board the Celeste and freed Jacob from the equipment shed. He told them how you fought with him and threw him into the water as you and Jacob were escaping.”
Calvin nodded. He was surprised t
hat Jacques was alive. “But, Mémè, what about Jacob?”
Céline nodded. “I’m getting there, Calvin. Be patient. The Coast Guard said they found you tied to Buoy No. 6, down near Toothacher Ledge.”
“The bell!” Calvin cried. “I heard the bell in the storm. I think I told Jacob, but I kept going in and out, I can’t really remember.”
“You must have heard it,” Céline agreed. “The Coast Guard said that Jacob probably lifted you onto the platform of the buoy, then tied you to the bell tower so you wouldn’t fall off.” She frowned. “I certainly don’t know where he would have found the rope, though.”
“I had rope tied around my waist,” he said. “Stanley suggested it.”
Céline looked surprised. “Stanley?”
Calvin nodded weakly. “I was getting gear together to go find Jacob when Stanley came by on Big Moose. He told me to be sure to take a knife and some rope.” His eyes widened. “Geez, I forgot. I used the knife to break us out of the shed, then I hit Jacques LeBlanc with the pommel to keep him from calling for help. But then—” He glanced at the bandage on his chest. “Then someone on the Celeste shot me. When I woke up, we were in the water and Jacob was holding my head up so I wouldn’t drown.”
Céline looked at Danielle, who had both hands over her face and was quietly sobbing. She stroked the back of her daughter’s head. “Calvin, the Coast Guard thinks that Jacob tied you to the buoy, but that he must have fallen back into the water at some point.”
Fresh tears pricked his eyes. “Did they find him, Mémè?”
She shook her head, face contorting with grief. “No, Calvin, I’m sorry. They couldn’t find him anywhere. They think the storm tide swept him out to sea.”
Calvin covered his face with his hands, sobbing unconsolably. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Mom, I’m sorry. I tried, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t…”
Danielle came back to the bedside and put her arms around him, and Céline embraced them both. A young nurse started into the room to see what all the fuss was about, then backed out hurriedly when she saw the family clutching each other in their grief and torment.
Chapter 69
Sunday Afternoon. Hospital Visit
Howard Honeycutt handed Frank Finley a Starbuck’s coffee and a turkey club sandwich, then eased himself into the chair next to Finley’s hospital bed. Finley was swathed in bandages all around his chest. His skin was grey, but a nurse’s aide had shaved him, removing the three-day stubble from his cheeks.
“Last time I saw you, you were covered in blood and barely breathing,” Honeycutt said. “Sort of gave you a macho look. Now you look like a newborn babe, all clean-shaven and pink faced. I’m not sure if that’s a look I want on my tough, hardened agents.”
“That’s why you decided to poison me with this coffee?” Finley griped. “Enough acid in this to eat through a metal floor.”
“What did the doctors tell you, Frank?” Honeycutt asked.
Finley shrugged. “The vest saved me. I got hit five times in the chest. Nothing got through the vest, but the impact broke three ribs and they punctured both my lungs.” He smiled grimly. “Thought I was going to die, Howard. Couldn’t breathe right, then felt myself losing consciousness and thought, ‘Oh well, this is it.’” He shook his head. “I still don’t know who kept me alive until the helicopter arrived. They told me the helicopter EMT, or whatever the hell they call them in the Coast Guard, cut me open in three places, packed the wounds and reflated my left lung. Kept me going until I got here.”
“They patched your lungs and put you on a ventilator,” Honeycutt told him. “Gave your lungs a chance to rest a little while they healed. Your wife called to let me know that they took you off the ventilator yesterday. You’ve got the luck of the devil,” Honeycutt added dryly. “Next time you get shot five times, you might not be so lucky.”
“No next time,” Finley said, shaking his head. “Not for me. Can’t put my family through this again.” He looked at his boss. “You understand?”
“How’s your boy doing?” Honeycutt asked, and winced inwardly. He should have specified Calvin.
Finley grimaced. “Physically okay, but he’s pretty broken up about Jacob.”
Honeycutt sighed heavily. “Yeah. Christ, what a world. Frank, I want you to know that there is no evidence linking Jacob to any of the drug stuff. Jacques LeBlanc says that when Jacob went on board that day, Jean-Philippe LeBlanc and a guy named Bruno Banderas grabbed him right away and locked him in the equipment shed. Jean-Philippe wanted to use him as a hostage in case we cornered him, a bargaining chip to give them time to get out into open water.”
Finley nodded. “I sorta guessed that, but it’s nice to hear it. What about Police Chief Corcoran?”
Honeycutt’s face darkened. “Well, it seems that after you got shot, Corcoran and his crew tried to arrest the Dominican team the Cartel was using. When they resisted, Corcoran’s men killed them all and seized three fifty-pound parcels they found on the beach. They met the State Police at the road and asked them to take possession of the parcels, which the State Police did. Corcoran and his men then helped the State Police do the initial forensic work-up of the firefight between the Dominicans and all of us on the north shore of the Cove.”
Finley looked alarmed. “Wait, you mean Corcoran hasn’t been arrested?”
Honeycutt shrugged. “No evidence against him. He and his crew were there because Corcoran got a tip there was going to be a drug delivery at the Cove. When they arrived, the firefight between us and the drug guys was underway, and they killed the drug guys. Might have saved our lives, for all I know.”
“Jesus Christ,” Finley muttered.
“It gets worse,” Honeycutt said. “The State Police lab sampled the drugs from the three packages.”
Finley stared at him uncomprehendingly, then blanched. “Oh, shit!”
Honeycutt nodded. “Each package contained fifty pounds of baking powder. No drugs, just baking powder.”
“Ah, Christ,” Finley seemed to sag right in front of him. “My son got killed over baking powder?”
Honeycutt grimaced. “It appears that way, yes. I’m sorry, Frank. I truly am.”
There was a tentative knock at the door and Stanley Curtis stood there, smiling nervously. “Hi, hi, Mr. Finley.”
“Stanley,” Finley said slowly. He had only been off the ventilator for a day and was still getting used to talking again. “Come in, Stanley. Come in.” He introduced Stanley and Honeycutt to each other.
Stanley shuffled his feet, uneasy in the presence of a stranger. “Mr. Finley, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about Jacob, that’s all.” He hesitated. “And I wanted to ask if you ever found poor Mr. Mitchell. I know he went missing out there a couple of weeks ago.”
Finley looked at Stanley curiously. “Henry Mitchell? You knew him, Stanley?”
Stanley smiled. “He was nice to me. He helped fix Big Moose when the chain got broke once. Made it good as new!”
Frank Finley thought about Henry Mitchell, whose clumsy lobster poaching started a chain of events that led to all of this, and realized with a start that there was one more thing he had to do. A very important thing.
After Stanley and Honeycutt left, Finley propped himself up on his pillows and, wincing with the effort, used his cell phone to dial the telephone number of Mrs. Henry Mitchell. As he had hoped, one of her children answered.
Finley explained who he was. “Would Chris Mitchell or one of his brothers happen to be there?” he asked.
There was a pause, then the man said, “This is Chris Mitchell, Officer Finley. What can I do for you?”
“Chris, are any of your brothers with you? I’d like them all to hear this, if possible.”
Finley could hear an intake of breath over the line. “Well,” Chris Mitchell said, “some of them are here. Hold on, we’ve got a speaker phone connection in the living room, I’ll use that.”
There were several crackles and bumps, then Mitchell’s v
oice came back on, sounding a little distant. “Can you hear me, Officer Finley? I’ve got Billy, Peter and Hank on the line with me.”
“Thank you, Chris.” Finley took a breath. “I wanted to be the one to tell you that we recovered your father’s body. It will be released to you after the coroner has examined it.” From the other end of the line he heard muted crying. People always held out hope that somehow the lost person would miraculously appear, alive and well. Now he’d killed that hope.
“Also, I wanted to tell you that our investigation showed your father was not involved at all with any drug smuggling. He was– ” Finley had been about to say ‘just a poacher,’ but caught himself – “just in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’ve probably all read about the big drug bust we made a couple of days ago. Your dad was not involved in any of that, but it was the investigation of his death that led to the smugglers.”
For a moment none of the sons spoke. There was another muffled sob, then murmuring as the sons of Henry Mitchell comforted one another. Finally, Chris Mitchell came back on the line.
“Officer Finley, thank you for telling us,” Mitchell said, his voice husky with emotion. “From all of my brothers, thank you. It…it makes a difference, you know. He’s still gone, but it makes a difference.”
Finley hung up and thought about Jacob, lost at sea, but only after he made sure his brother survived. Yes, he reflected, it made a difference.
Chapter 70
Monday Morning. Hospital Visit
Gabrielle skipped school and went back to the hospital. Calvin was sound asleep when she first got there, so she took a seat and read The Guns of August for her history class.
Or tried to. Calvin groaned in his sleep and called out. “Bell! The bell!” Once, still asleep, he started sobbing uncontrollably. Gabrielle sat on the edge of his hospital bed and put her arms gingerly around him, talking soothingly and stroking his face. This seemed to quiet him. When he began to shiver, murmuring, “Cold! Cold!” she went into the bathroom and ran the water until it was hot, then soaked a washcloth and wrung it out, then folded it and gently touched it to his forehead, cheeks and wrists. Then she put away the washcloth, returned to the bed and just sat beside him, holding his hand in both of hers.
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