Finley sighed, but he didn’t say no. “Let me think on it, Howard.”
“How’s Calvin doing?” Honeycutt inquired.
Danielle spoke before her husband could. “Good days and bad, but the good days are gaining traction. He’s decided to go to Duke University in the fall, wants to study oceanography.”
“Ha! I met my wife at a mixer at Duke,” Honeycutt said warmly. “Good school, I think he’ll like it there. Durham is a great place to be a college student.”
“Howard, I don’t think you came out here to ask how Calvin is doing,” Frank Finley said mildly.
Honeycutt nodded, his lips curled in a smile. “Well, yeah, there is something you should know about.” He glanced at Danielle. “That is, if you don’t know already.”
Danielle linked arms with her husband. “What is it, Howard?”
Honeycutt pursed his lips. Two days ago, the State Police got a tip about a shooting in progress. They had a man in the area and he rushed to the scene, but he realized immediately that he was outmanned and called for backup. A SWAT team showed up, but by then it was a little late for the victim. The State Police called us.”
Finley frowned. “Howard, who the hell was the victim?”
Honeycutt glanced at Danielle, who raised her eyebrows in question and smiled blandly.
“Frank, Chief of Police Michael Corcoran was tortured and killed at his home. The killers were captured; they’re from one of the Dominican gangs in Massachusetts who distribute drugs in Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont for the Sinaloa Cartel.” Honeycutt smiled sharkishly. “Among the guys we caught was Salvador Garcia, who became the top guy in the gang after Bruno Banderas got killed in the big shoot out.”
“Jesus!” Finley breathed. “But why, exactly, did they go after Corcoran?”
Honeycutt’s face hardened. “Because you were right all along: Corcoran was dirty. But not only was he dirty, he also double-crossed the Dominicans and stole the three bags of drugs from them that Thursday night. As far as we can determine, it was Corcoran and his men who killed the Dominicans on the south shore of the Cove. They swapped out the bags of drugs with bags containing baking powder, then walked out to the road and met the State Police and handed all of it over to them. The real drug bags were taken to Corcoran’s house and buried.”
“The Dominicans tortured him to learn where the drugs were buried?” asked Danielle.
Honeycutt turned to face her. “Yes, but given how brutal they were, they must have been very, very angry. I don’t know how they figured out he killed Banderas and the others, but nobody could have withstood what they did to him. He was in pieces when we found him.” He shuddered at the memory. “Many pieces.”
“Such a shame,” Danielle said sarcastically. “He was such a nice man.”
“Did the State Police find all the drugs?” Finley asked.
Honeycutt frowned. “They found two bags, about one hundred pounds of heroin. One bag was missing, but we’re going to bring in ground-searching radar and go over his entire property. We’ll find it.”
“How about the North Harbor police? Corcoran must have had people working with him,” Finley said.
“Funny you should mention that” the older man replied. “Seems five of the North Harbor police have suddenly left town. Two even left their families behind and just ran for it.” Honeycutt shrugged. “We’ve got a BOLO out for them. Only a matter of time.” He stood up. “Time for me to go,” he said genially. Then, to Frank: “Let’s have lunch next week. I’ve got some projects you might be interested in. Thanks for the coffee.”
Danielle stood with him. “I’ll walk you out, Howard.”
Outside, they paused on the porch.
“Did they really torture him, or are you saying that to make us feel like he got what he deserved?” she asked him.
“Danielle,” he said somberly. “They carved him up like a Sunday turkey. Fingers, toes, ears, nose-” He sighed, not meeting her eyes. “And then a lot worse. When they were finally through with him, they beheaded him. It was…medieval.”
“Good,” Danielle Finley said firmly. “Just in case there’s not a hell.” Then she turned and went back into her house, smiling just a little.
Chapter 76
Healing
July came.
Frank Finley went back to work for the DEA as a Senior Supervisor, with twenty agents reporting to him. Danielle went back to work, carrying her son’s death in her heart like a lump of frozen stone. But she understood grieving, and healing, and every day went through the motions of being caring and compassionate to the patients she worked with, and hoped there would come a time when her grief would lessen to something merely awful and heartrending. Not yet, but someday. She almost believed it.
About Police Chief Michael Corcoran, she had no regrets.
Her father, Luc Dumas, worked with the physical therapist and walked around the house squeezing a tennis ball in his left hand for hours at a time. He went to his studio often, staring at the unfinished statue of the Indian warrior. One day Stanley came in while he was studying it.
“Hi, hi, Mr. Dumas!” he shouted excitedly.
Luc Dumas stood up and formally shook Stanley’s hand. “Stanley, thank God you’re here. There is so much work to be done. But I can’t work until this place is properly cleaned up.”
Stanley laughed and nodded, his whole head bobbing up and down. “Oh, oh, I can help you, Mr. Dumas! Let me get started.” And with that he walked to the little closet in the corner and took out a broom and dustpan and began to meticulously sweep the work area.
And when he was done, Luc looked at him fondly. “Thank you, Stanley. Now, could you please fetch me the chisel and mallet off the work bench?” He stood up, stretching. “I think it’s time I got to work, don’t you?”
Once Stanley brought him his tools, he stretched his shoulders and flexed his fingers, paying particular attention to his left hand, the hand that would position and hold the chisel. He walked around the block of marble, finally stopping at the place he had left off on the day he’d been shot. He’d been working on the warrior’s face and had just another couple of strokes to finish it.
He positioned the chisel carefully, holding it tightly in his injured hand. If it slipped, the entire statue could be ruined.
Then he drew his right arm back and struck the chisel head with one strong, sure blow.
Stanley clapped excitedly.
______________
Céline kept a watchful eye on her daughter and grandson. She had heard the story of how Chief Corcoran had died, nodded once to herself in satisfaction and then moved on. Corcoran was dead, the living needed caring for. She spent a lot of time taking walks along the shore with Danielle. Often, neither one of them said a word. Just walked. The sunsets were glorious and sad. There were meals to be prepared, house projects to consult on. Mother and daughter would sit on the porch and look out over the harbor and sip tea as the lobster boats came and went. And bit by bit, they could talk more about Jacob. The two of them often went to Luc’s studio to see how the sculpture was progressing, teasing him about the many imagined imperfections they saw – the Indian’s nose was too big, the horse’s eyes too flirtatious, the whole statue was leaning to one side. Luc would scowl ferociously and stomp around the statue, pretending to examine it closely, while Stanley would giggle helplessly in the corner, then everyone would sit down and have a glass of wine. It was silly, but therapeutic.
Céline kept an eye on Stanley as well, but he was just Stanley – kind and sweet and forever a child.
Helping Calvin was another story altogether. She tried to talk to him about Jacob and survivor’s guilt. He listened politely, but it was clear she made no headway. Gradually, she came to realize that she could no longer be the source of the healing he needed, that would come from another woman, a much younger woman, and though the realization plucked at her heart, she accepted it. Even grandmothers could not be the healer for everyone, all of the time. And
when she saw Gabrielle and Calvin together, saw the tenderness and the teasing, the affection and the raw heat, she took comfort from the fact that he was in good hands and wished them well.
One evening, as they sat on the porch and Gabrielle and Calvin were getting ready to go out, Gabrielle came and knelt between Céline and Danielle, put her arms around each of them and whispered, “Thank you both for making Calvin such a wonderful man.” And the two older women looked at each other with tears in their eyes.
Later, when the kids had gone, Danielle observed wryly, “I feel like a favorite old horse, put out to pasture.”
Céline patted her hand. “Not to worry. Children go off, make their own families, then gradually come back again. Mine certainly did.”
Chapter 77
Patience and Tenacity
In Mexico, Wallace Charles Moore III studied the report that he’d received from a police officer in Portland, who he bribed to keep abreast of what happened in North Harbor.
It was discouraging reading. There were several newspaper articles attached and even some copies of State Police files, but the short of it was everyone he had counted on in the North Harbor Police Department was gone, either dead or on the run. And the Dominican gang the Cartel had used in Lowell was in shambles, with most of its members arrested or in hiding. He sighed. North Harbor was no longer a viable route for smuggling drugs.
Well, if bringing in the drugs by sea wasn’t viable, he’d simply find another way. If he hadn’t learned anything else from smuggling, it was that there was always another way. Moore sat down at his desk and turned on his computer. He had faced setbacks before and always found a way around them. Patience and tenacity were the key. Old Hannibal said it best: “We will either find a way or make one.”
He thought for a long while, then called up Google and typed in his search: How to start a low-cost airline?
He hit “enter” and smiled when Google told him there were 150,000,000 hits.
Patience and tenacity, that was the ticket. He nodded and got down to work.
Chapter 78
Calvin
July progressed and August beckoned. The Maine coast baked in glorious sunshine that chased away the black flies, but brought in the tourists.
Calvin’s physical therapist released him to lift weights, swim and kayak in order to build up the chest muscles that had been injured when Jean-Philippe LeBlanc shot him. Weather permitting, Gabrielle would show up at the dock at 6 a.m. and they would kayak all through the maze of islands off of North Harbor, stopping at one or another for a mid-morning break of muffins and coffee or tea. They each grew obsessed with the many types of birds they saw, and tried to keep a list of what they identified on each trip: Red Knots, a Stilt Sandpiper, an Artic Tern, and once even a Red-necked Phalarope, which they both thought was pretty neat. And puffins, hundreds and hundreds of puffins, with their brightly colored beaks and funny waddle when they walked. Gabrielle used her father’s camera and created a scrap book of the birds they’d seen.
Once they’d catalogued the birds, or scared them off, they’d push the boats out into the water and paddle further on. They would return to the dock by noon, drag the kayaks up on the bank and go to either Calvin’s house or Gabrielle’s. At that time of day, they usually had the house to themselves, so they would shower off the saltwater, and sometimes take advantage of their privacy. Or, sometimes, just be together and cuddle.
One of those times, Calvin surprised her by suddenly sobbing uncontrollably. She stroked his head and held him to her breast and said, “Shhsssh, shhsssh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” and thought her heart would break.
“I tried,” he said, his voice muffled against her body. “I tried. I swear to God, I tried, but I couldn’t…”
“I know, Calvin,” she whispered to him. “Sometimes our very best isn’t enough. It’s terrible, but it’s true.”
When he was ready, he began swimming again. The first morning he crept down to the kitchen at 5:30 a.m. and made his coffee and oatmeal. He assembled his gear, ate his hot breakfast and carefully put on his bright orange wetsuit. He walked slowly to the end of the dock and lowered himself into the water. There was still a visible notch in his muscle where the bullet had struck him, but it was smaller than it had been and the kayaking had helped to stretch it out and loosen the abused flesh. He kicked his feet and started towards Sheep Island.
The water was flat and golden with the sunrise. He fell into the rhythm of the breaststroke and sank into the swimmer’s trance. And just swam.
When he neared Sheep Island, a pod of juvenile seals came darting around him, swimming alongside him and under him and even brushing up against the length of his body as they swam by. Soon there were six or more, all barking and jostling near him, swimming right up to his face and looking at him curiously, then barking and disappearing with a splash. He stopped for a moment and splashed water at some of them. The seals barked and twirled about, and one of them even managed to splash water back at him. Calvin laughed; the seals barked back. It was hard to tell which of them was enjoying it more.
When he got back to the house, his father was sitting at the kitchen table, wearing his old, worn bathrobe. “Heard you go out,” he said. “Good swim?”
“Yeah,” Calvin grinned. “Yeah, really good.”
“Got some mail here from Duke,” his father said. “Might be setting the date for freshman orientation.”
So the summer went. Swimming, kayaking, lobstering on the She’s Mine, and spending as much time with Gabrielle as he could.
Every few days a storm would sweep in, some large, some small. Calvin would sit on the porch and watch the lightning flashes chase each other in a game of celestial tag. But when the rain and wind came, it often made him feel uneasy and restless. He would retire to his bedroom, read late into the night, and finally go to bed.
And sometimes, just as he was drifting off, there would be the physical sensation of Jacob’s forehead pressed against his, warm skin amidst the howling wind and frigid water, and he could hear his brother’s voice.
“It’s okay. You saved me.”
And with that, came peace.
The End
Acknowledgements
So many people to thank. As some of you know, I write both science fiction and mysteries. One of the learning experiences has been how much more research is required to write a mystery novel set in the real world. In this case, the real world of Maine, lobster boats and the lobster industry, ocean currents, the Coast Guard, and, of course, drug smuggling. There were just so many things I didn’t know, but, fortunately, so many people with expertise that I could call upon. My thanks to Joel Reich for his medical expertise regarding wounds; Craig and Michele Fontaine for tips about wetsuits, cold water swimming and for all things French Canadian; lobstermen David Cassoni and Matt Trundy for their enormous help in teaching me about the Maine and Massachusetts lobstering industries and what life is like aboard a lobster boat; Roy McKinney, Director of the Maine Drug Enforcement Agency, who took a cold call from me when he had much more important things to do and patiently educated me about drug smuggling in Maine (and a big thanks to his very pleasant receptionist, who listened to my story and put my call through to Director McKinney); my brother, Mike Hudner, who rarely reads fiction (and thinks it is sort of silly), but was happy to work through several time and distance issues between Mexico and the Bay of Fundy to help me avoid some glaring mistakes; and Sandy Phoenix and Phil Elkin for their interest in the story long before I began writing it, and their willingness to show me around Stonington, ME (and thanks for the map!). And a special thank you to Marcy and Ron Klattenberg for their enormous help in educating me about the intricacies of the Eastern Maine Coastal Current, which turned out to play a leading role in the story. Thank you for your time and enthusiasm.
There are also my early readers, people who read early drafts and told me what I did wrong so that I could get it right. Thank you to my sister, Nina Beitman, Beth Hillso
n, Bruce Hillson and his wife, Beth (the “other Beth”), Diane O’Brien, Nancy Goodwin, Michele Fontaine, and, in particular, my wife, Jennifer, who patiently read several drafts of key chapters and continues to argue character issues with me to this day. Each of these readers, together and individually, spent many hours reading the manuscript and making suggestions for changes. The resulting changes added polish and depth to the story (and gave Jacob the ending he deserved). I was very fortunate to find so many people willing to help. I can’t thank you enough.
And my thanks to Don Kray, for patiently catching my many, many mistakes.
If I have inadvertently missed anyone, my apologies. But rest assured you are in my heart and your suggestions have made this a better story.
I received a lot of good advice in preparing this book, and any mistakes you might have found are mine and mine alone.
– Kennedy Hudner, June 25, 2019, Glastonbury, CT
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