River Kill

by Ted Begnoche

  On the other side of the jetty, I could hear Stanley Senior barking out orders at his inept son. I worked furiously at the twine, scraping and sawing. My wrists were on fire.

  Baby Step was standing on top of the jetty now, sweeping the beam of a powerful flashlight in ever-widening arcs that would soon illuminate my unsheltered position. I gave up on the ropes and flattened myself as best I could against the rock-strewn beach.

  I saw light playing on the rocks were I just was, then it moved off a little further down toward the water, then it swept back.

  Seashells glimmered under Baby Step's beam of light, shining like tiny landlocked stars.

  The light moved on and I let my breath out. I crawled to a spot about ten feet in front of me, banging my knee again. I groped around in the sand until my fingers grasped what I thought I'd seen in the dancing beam of light.

  My fingers closed around a broken bottle that still had most of the bottom intact. I fashioned my hands into claws and succeeded in digging a small hole. I jammed the bottle into it and packed sand around the edges. With Baby Step hopping around on the jetty somewhere above me, I began sawing the twine back and forth on a sharp edge of the glass.

  I could feel the twine loosening as the beam of light played across my back. I looked over my shoulder and saw the pistol buck in Baby Step's hand, a tiny orange tongue of flame licking out the business end of the barrel.

  The bullet chipped rock a couple of feet from where I was laying, then whined harmlessly off. I rolled away from the light and jerked my wrists apart. The twine bit into my flesh and then gave way.

  I got to my knees and looked around for Baby Step. He was just climbing down from a huge boulder on my side of the rock pile. My only chance was taking a shot with the Atlantic. I broke out in a limping run toward the ocean, trying to glance over my shoulder at the same time.

  I reached the water's edge and waded in. Instantly, my feet were numb. I heard another pistol shot behind me, but I had no idea where the bullet went.

  I thrashed around until I was waist deep in the frigid ocean. I stumbled on some weed-covered rocks and slipped below the surface. When I came up I was facing the beach. Baby Step was standing on a boulder, holding his pistol with two hands. I saw a sliver of orange burst from the barrel, and then again. The bullets sent tiny plumes of water erupting in front of me.

  I turned my back on him and stroked for the middle of the channel. The tide was going out, and I could already feel its pressure pulling at me. I kicked off my sneakers and swam as hard as I could.

  The cold water and swimming against the current sapped my strength quickly. I turned and floated on my back, trying to locate the Stepkowskis. Baby Step was knee-deep in the ocean; his father was waving his arms and screaming. I couldn't make out any of the words, but I had a feeling it wasn't pleasant. I kicked my feet and then rested, letting the current do the work. I was already past the marker buoy on the opposite shore, heading for Boston Harbor.

  I tried to swim for Peddocks Island, but the current was too strong for me. I let it pull me along, dodging some debris and a thick clump of floating seaweed.

  I could still make out Baby Step and his father standing on the shore, peering into the swirling water of the channel, trying to see if I was still floating. I put my back to Boston Harbor, still riding the vicious current that rips through the Gut, and watched them as they trudged back to the waiting Cadillac.

  In another couple minutes they were gone, apparently satisfied that I was either dead or close enough to it.

  It was, in fact, not far from the truth.

  I was tired of fighting the current and freezing cold. The shoreline was frustratingly close, but I was too weak to take a direct path to it. The current kept pushing me further and further away from Hull Gut, away from solid ground.

  I stroked furiously but succeeded only in exhausting myself. I turned on my back and floated again, trying to clear my head. The stars were like brilliant pinheads of light, and I couldn't remember ever seeing so many at one time.

  My limbs felt like they had anchors attached to them. Off in the distance, I could hear a faint buzzing sound. The closest piece of land was probably five hundred yards away, but it might as well have been the moon.

  I floated for what seemed like hours, with nothing changing except the buzzing sound getting louder. I felt myself slipping lower in the water, and not really caring. I shook my head violently, trying to fight with what little strength I had left. The sound was right on top of me now, and for the first time, I realized what it was. I lifted my head out of the water and saw a dim white light approaching. I flailed my arms desperately, spending most of the energy I had left.

  I don't know which one of us was more scared by our near-miss; me, or the fisherman who had to swerve his boat at the last second to avoid grinding me into chum. He made a wide arc and slowed down to headway speed while I bobbed like a rotted log in his wake.

  He reached down over the bow and grabbed my arms, hauling back while I tried to swing a leaden leg up over the transom. He caught the cuff of one pant leg and fell backwards, and I tumbled into the tiny aluminum boat on top of him.

  "Jesus H. Christ," he said, working his way out from under me.

  "No, sir," I said. "Stuart McCann." My chest heaved as I tried to get my breath back. It felt like I had been bound with frozen duct tape.

  "What the Christ are you doing out here, Stuart McCann?"

  I panted and held up a hand, waving my index finger back and forth. For the first time, I noticed I was sharing the bottom of the boat with a couple of bluefish. One had his jaws locked open and was obviously dead. Its eyes glinted like two possessed yellow marbles. The other one, a big bruiser, was inches away from my nose, so close I could see the rows of tiny black teeth inside his huge mouth. I reached out to push it away, and the jaws snapped closed.

  In the light thrown from a battered propane lantern, I could see the old man throw his head back and laugh. He picked the blue up by its tail and tossed it into the stern with one smooth motion. The big fish thrashed around for a moment and then lay still.

  "Thanks," I said. "And you wouldn't believe me if I told you how I got out here. Where are you headed?"

  "I put in at Pemberton. I was headed back. Got enough bluefish with these two to last a while."

  "That's fine with me. I've had about all I can stand of the ocean tonight."

  The old timer dug a yellow slicker out from under one of the seats and threw it around my shoulders. I sat hunched in the bottom of the boat while the captain swung around in a wide arc and pointed his craft toward Pemberton Marina.

  Over the drone of the ancient engine, the old guy held a one-way conversation, him talking and me nodding my head between tremors. I learned that his name was Henry Gellick, and Henry's wife had died the previous summer, 'the cancer just ate her up'. Henry was certified fishing maniac, and since he retired he had been fishing every time his legs and the weather would allow. He steered the boat with one hand and twirled a fancy cane with the other, tapping the bottom of the boat to punctuate important points.

  He wanted to know if I was a criminal, and I tried to assure him I was not, although I don't know how convincing I was.

  By the time Henry throttled down and the boat began to settle onto its own wake, I knew each one of Henry's seven grandkids, and what their favorite television show and breakfast food were.

  "I can give you a lift," said Henry, "if you give me a few minutes to get my stuff together."

  "No, Henry," I said. "Saving my life is enough. I have a friend that lives right down the street." I helped him haul his gear up onto the dock. Henry carried the bluefish by their tails and deposited them into the back of a rusted Ford pickup. I shook his hand and thanked him again, handing him back his rain jacket.

  My feet felt like blocks of wood as they thumped on the deserted pier. I turned left out of the parking lot and headed for Billy Cardell's. The night was clear, and up above me, a million s
tars winked on and off. Somehow from this vantage point, the sky didn't quite look the same, however, as floating on my back through Hull Gut.

  A soft breeze tugged at the leaves on the trees that lined the road, raising goose bumps on my bare arms. A Dunkin Donuts coffee cup danced in front of me. My whole body hurt, and I just wanted to go to sleep.

  I picked up my pace instead, half jogging now, and in a few minutes, I was standing on Billy's doorstep, peering through the screen door at him in his underwear.

  Chapter 22

  One week later, on a Sunday afternoon that couldn't be described, weather-wise, as anything but perfect, I was flipping hamburgers and hotdogs on Billy Cardell's gas grill. Beside me, Billy himself was sweating over a cauldron that contained epicurean delights from the Atlantic. He dumped a basket of clams into his pot, added a bottle of beer and stirred everything with a small canoe paddle.

  "So you think I'm in the clear?" said Billy.

  "I'm pretty sure, Billy. The Coast Guard did a decent job of convincing LaPierre and his buddy that they were being watched all along, and it wasn't someone who was ratting them out."

  "I appreciate your help, Stu," he said, staring at the pot and slowly stirring.

  I laid a hand on his shoulder and he twisted his head until his eyes were looking into mine. "Billy, any time you need me, I'm there. Just don't wait so long."

  He nodded and smiled, then turned back to his bubbling mixture.

  "Let me do that," said Whitey, prying the spatula out of my hand.

  "Come on, Whitey. It's your day off."

  "No such thing when your married, Stu." He pushed me out of the way and shuffled burgers around the top of the grill with practiced precision. “Go find Heather and a beer, in that order." He slapped me in the middle of the back, one of the few places I wasn't still hurting, and gave me a little shove.

  I found Heather in Billy's kitchen, tossing the salad in an enormous wooden bowl. Billy's wife, Jill, was removing baked potatoes from the microwave. I crept up behind Heather and squeezed her shoulders gently, then pecked her on the back of her neck.

  "Hey, watch it, buster, or I'll call the cops." She poured more dressing over the greens and tossed vigorously.

  "Are they almost ready out there, Stu?" asked Jill. She pulled off an oven mitt and fanned her face with it.

  "Yeah, they're getting close. Can I help you bring anything out?" The women took turns, and too much delight, I think, in sending me back and forth laden with trays of food and paper plates, cups and napkins. Whitey's wife, Doris, joined in the parade, and it wasn't long before we had everything assembled on two picnic tables in the shade of one of Billy's giant oak trees.

  When the main course was ready we all sat down and dug in, passing plates and condiments back and forth, murmuring our pleases and thank you’s, and shooing away some fat yellow jackets who had found our party.

  I was seated next to Heather, and sneaked a hand down to her thigh and gave it a squeeze. She elbowed me in the ribs.

  "Okay you two, save it," said Whitey. He soaked a steamer in melted butter and popped it into his mouth, then pointed two dripping fingers in my direction. "I thought you told me private eye work wasn't exciting, Stu."

  "It's not," I said. "At least ninety-nine percent of the time."

  "Well, I'd say getting kidnapped at gunpoint and then almost drowning in the Gut is pretty exciting."

  "It usually doesn't happen that way," I said, wiping my hands on a napkin. "Thank goodness."

  "So how did they finally catch this creep, Stu?"

  "Well, by the time I got to Billy's and called the Fairshore police, it was too late to catch Stepkowski at his house. Even if he succeeded in killing me, just the fact that I got so close to him and he had no idea who else I told was enough to make him accelerate his plans. So at that point, we got some of Heather's state police friends involved. They caught up with him at Logan Airport, trying to board a private plane with his son."

  "See, I told you," said Whitey, turning to Doris. "Just like on TV."

  "Not quite," I said. "On TV it's pretending, and everyone walks away clean. This bastard is responsible for at least two murders, as well as polluting the Town river pretty badly. And don't forget about all those poor folks at his company. The place is shut down for the foreseeable future, and they're all without jobs."

  "One ass can do a whole lot of damage," said Whitey.

  "Two murders? In Fairshore?" Doris gulped some lemonade and fanned herself with two meaty hands.

  “John Barcom was rolled down some stairs at StanMel Circuits. And the case he originally came to me about, the guy that drowned in the ocean, was really knocked in the head and pushed overboard. Old man Stepkowski is one tough bastard, but his son broke down and spilled his guts."

  "I still don't understand how he was able to make that look like an accident," said Billy. He pulled two dripping beer bottles out of a dented red cooler that was sitting beside the picnic table and passed one over to me.

  "It wasn't easy," I said, cracking the seal, "and if his son hadn't started singing, we may never have found out. Your friend Burton Lawlor inadvertently had a hand in it."

  "Lawlor? How the hell?"

  "Lawlor's been renting out one of his boats to anybody that waves enough money in front of his nose." I sipped some beer and took a bite of burger. "Turns out that back in May, old man Stepkowski rented one for an evening and caught up with his partner, Melvin Addson, out on the high seas."

  "How the hell did he find him?" asked Billy. "It's a big ocean."

  "He must've known where Melvin was headed all along. He found him out by Eagle Rock, trying to catch some early season cod. Stepkowski tied up alongside him and just hopped across."

  "But the boat was found drifting," said Heather.

  "After he threw Addson overboard, Stepkowski must've pulled the anchor," I said. I put my hand on one of Heather's tanned thighs and gave a little squeeze. She laid a hand on top of mine and squeezed back.

  "What a ruthless bastard," said Billy.

  "Money does strange things to people. Pass me an ear of corn, will you, Whitey?"

  "But I don't see how any money was involved," said Doris.

  "Well, a business like StanMel generates a lot of hazardous waste when it manufactures its product. I guess they can recycle some of it, but a large portion needs to be disposed of properly, and that costs big money."

  "So Stepkowski decided it would be cheaper to just dump it in the river than pay to have it trucked away," said Billy.

  "You got it, Billy. When a company like StanMel starts up, it has to register with the EPA and declare what type and how much waste it will be generating. They can only store so much on site, things like that. There's a ton of regulations. When StanMel started, it was classified as a very small generator of waste, and that was okay for probably the first six months to a year. The business was just taking off, and they only had a handful of employees.

  "But as a business grows, it's up to the owner to upgrade the status. I'm sure Melvin Addson knew this and being a stand-up guy, he wanted everything above board no matter what the cost. Stepkowski was probably playing with the company books, too. Most likely he was siphoning money that was supposed to be spent on disposing of waste. Addson must've threatened to expose his partner's game."

  "And that's worth killing somebody over?" said Doris.

  "Apparently there's a load of money involved," I said. "Enough to allow Stepkowski and his son to retire on a Caribbean island without any worries."

  "I don't understand how the EPA could let this happen," said Billy.

  "It's simple," I said. "I don't think they just ignore stuff like this. What I imagine happens is that they rely on the people who own businesses, to be honest, and forthright with them. They're overworked and underpaid just like the rest of us, and in terms of where StanMel fits in the picture, I'm sure they have much bigger fires to fight, and not enough time or people to do it with."

 
"So StanMel slips through the cracks."

  "Right. But I think that eventually, the EPA would've caught up with them. I don't think this is a game you could win forever. Maybe Stepkowski felt the same way, maybe he felt the noose tightening a little bit, and at the end, he got a little desperate."

  "How'd your client get involved?" said Whitey.

  "By being a close friend of Melvin Addson's, I guess. Addson probably needed someone to talk to about what was going on, and he and his wife were beyond the point of talking to each other."

  "I know the feeling," said Whitey, dodging a playful slap from Doris.

  "The notebook I found at StanMel Circuits was in a crazy sort of code. I still don't know why John Barcom felt he needed to keep things encrypted. Maybe he felt he couldn't trust many people, even those around him, or a government agency like EPA."

  I paused and drained my bottle of beer, then handed the empty back to Billy. He promptly supplied me with another full one.

  "I finally figured out what all the pictures and numbers meant while I was riding down to Hull Gut with the Stepkowskis. Maybe the bump on the head did me some good. The pictures were John's way of describing all the damage that was being done by StanMel. I found out later that all the numbers in his little notebook added up to be the phone number of the local EPA office in Boston."

  "If you didn't pursue the investigation," said Heather, "Stepkowski may have gotten away cleanly. What made you keep digging?"

  "I had a feeling something wasn't quite right. I just couldn't put my finger on it, so it was frustrating for a while." I sipped some beer and looked around the table at all my friends. A lump formed in my throat. With great effort, I swallowed, but I couldn't make it go away. "And I thought I owed it to John Barcom to at least give him his money's worth."

  We finished our feast in relative silence, and when we were done with the main course Jill brought out a spectacular watermelon that was carved out and filled with all sorts of fruits. I spooned some into two plastic cups and took Heather by the hand, leading her away from the picnic tables.