Bunker 01 - Slipknot

by Linda Greenlaw

  “Okay, cowboy.” Audrey was firm yet cheerful, considering this late stage of what must have been a double or even triple shift. “It’s time for you to saddle up and head for the barn.”

  “You fixin’ to close the saloon, Miss Audrey?” Clyde

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  played along in character. He ceremoniously donned his Stetson, stood sort of bowlegged, and hitched his pants up a notch with his wrists, his hands extended as if ready to draw six-shooters.

  “This ol’ gal has done rustled up enough grub for one night. I need some shut-eye. Now, get along, little doggie!”

  Slapping a hand on the counter and removing it slowly, Clyde revealed a fifty-cent tip. “That’s for your trouble, little lady,” he said, and backed the entire width of the dining area toward the door.

  As the cowbells clanged, Audrey called, “Watch your top-knot, partner.” Then, under her breath, “Which, in your case, is a slipknot.” A table of four exited with Clyde, leaving Audrey’s parting shot on the safe side of the door. “Your ten-gallon hat’s running on empty.” The sponge of perpetual motion came to an abrupt halt. Rocking her head from side to side, then around in circles orbiting her shoulders, Audrey danced slowly to some inner music. “ ‘I think we’re alone now,’ ” she sang. I would have thought she was too young to know it.

  “What is: Tommy James and the Shondells?” I asked in true Alex Trebek fashion.

  “I’m not sure who performed it originally. But Uncle William, who has since become my stepfather, did a great rendition back in 1991. It was his stage entrance number every time he came to visit. He’d always bring me a bag of Oreo cookies, and I’d be allowed to watch cartoons in the living room while Mommy and Uncle Willy watched grown-up television in the bedroom.”

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  “Ninety-one? You must have been all of five. And yet you were aware of what was going on in the bedroom?”

  “I was quite precocious. Even cleaned up my own Oreo puke.” I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I didn’t. After a short pause and a clatter of dishes behind the swinging doors, Audrey was back on topic—me. “So what gives, girlfriend? Why were you a no-show tonight?”

  Although I liked Audrey a great deal and had the desire to confide, I couldn’t burden this young girl, even if she was as precocious as she claimed, with the fact that someone had just tried to kill me. And I realized that, given her addiction to gossip, it would be unfair to expect her to keep a secret.

  “Well, it was a simple misunderstanding,” I said. “I waited for him at Spruce Hill Clearing until after dark. I thought he stood me up. I guess we got our wires crossed, and now I’ll never be asked out again.” I looked sadly upon my hands as I picked at a cracked cuticle.

  “Oh, Jane! You poor thing.” My explanation had elicited some much needed sympathy. “This is like Romeo and Juliet! You have to go find Lincoln and explain!”

  “There’s no sense. His fragile male ego has been destroyed.” Audrey, who loved the drama and romance of it all, was riveted as I told her of the mysterious delivery of roses and wine and quoted the poetry from the card. Against my better judgment, I even told her about dessert. Lincoln had gone so far out on his sentimental limb; I explained to the less experienced Audrey that this meant he would almost certainly avoid me to save face. “And,” I continued, “it might be some time before he finds the courage to pursue another

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  woman.” I knew this last was too hopeful and for my own benefit.

  I continued to pick my cuticle in a most forlorn state of mind. How pathetic, I thought, to be lamenting outwardly and so confused inwardly about what had actually transpired tonight. Was Lincoln a villain? Had he set me up? Was he the victim of an honest misunderstanding or a bad memory?

  None of that would explain the gunshots. Or perhaps the gifts had been sent by an imposter in attempt to frame Lincoln for my murder. The thought raised my spirits consider-ably, because I felt in the core of my soul that Lincoln must be innocent.

  “Some people recover from total devastation more quickly than others,” Audrey said as she stared absently out the windows behind me. Or maybe not so absently, I realized as her eyes followed some motion outside. Spinning the stool 180

  degrees, I looked out in time to see Lincoln and Ariel Cogan passing arm in arm on the opposite sidewalk. “There goes your chicken dinner, girlfriend.” Lincoln didn’t appear to be as broken up as Audrey had described. In fact, he looked quite content.

  I thought briefly about running onto the street and screaming, “Bastard!” Instead, I laughed and said, “I’ll be damned. Poor crushed Lincoln couldn’t bear to be alone.

  He’s getting some much needed consoling from that older woman. Men’s psyches are so fragile! There’s a sort of mothering thing going on there, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. Right on. Look at his fake smile. He’s hiding his pain really well. If I didn’t know that his heart had s l i p k n o t

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  been ripped out, I’d swear he was rather happy. He’s very convincing. Look! They’re almost skipping!”

  Pivoting my stool back around to face the counter, I said,

  “I’ve seen enough. I feel bad enough about ruining his evening without watching him suffer so.”

  “So much for dessert,” Audrey said with an expression I interpreted as genuine concern for me.

  I nodded and said, “Don’t waste any time worrying about me. I’m a tough lady. And I have a bag of Oreos at home.” I left my young friend stacking chairs onto tables in preparation for sweeping.

  The short walk to the Duster was dark and cool. I caught myself looking nervously over my shoulder and preparing to dart behind or dive under a parked car at any unexpected sound. My heart was racing when I reached the car door with the missing window. I took a deep breath and looked up and down Main Street. All was quiet. When my pulse had resumed a normal rate, I opened the car door and moved quickly behind the wheel. The dome light flickered on and off in its usual half-functioning way. Before I pulled the door closed, I sensed something moving in the passenger seat. I gasped in fear and sprang from the car. Crouching behind the open door, I prepared to sprint back to the coffee shop.

  But then the dome light came wholeheartedly to life, illuminating big, fat Sir Bunny of Wheat Island up on her hind legs and enjoying the crab she had managed to fish from the plastic bag. I wiped cold sweat from my forehead and again consciously managed my heart rate down from a near-boil. I’m a nervous wreck, I thought as I shooed the evidence-eating Sir

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  Bunny from the Duster and vowed to put Mr. Vickerson on window repair first thing tomorrow. Henry would surely have a sheet of plastic and some duct tape that would suffice until I could get to Ellsworth for a permanent replacement.

  Green Haveners certainly go to bed early, I thought as I drove the narrow stretch of Main Street that separated private properties into waterfront and not. I noted that an amazingly large percentage of residents fully utilized their right to bear arms as I counted trucks with gun racks and NRA stickers. A far cry from Miami, where firearms were primarily concealed handguns; the only body without a hunting rifle in this town was me. Stopping at the intersection where I would normally turn left up the hill toward home, I turned right instead, into Turners’ Fish Plant.

  No cars, no boat truck, no lights: Here, finally, I thought, was my opportunity to sneak aboard the Sea Hunter and conduct a thorough search. As I completed the turn through the gate, the Duster’s engine began surging. Great, I’m out of gas, I thought as I coasted to a stop between two loading ramps. I could deal with the gas problem later. I grabbed my messenger bag and hustled down the pier. The moon, partially obscured by cumulus clouds, cast just enough light to allow visual per-ception of shapes at a distance. When I was abreast of
the Sea Hunter, the moon moved out from under the clouds enough for me to see that the pier was not totally vacant. Four young children slept wrapped in blankets lined side by side like sacks of potatoes. Eddie Quinby was perched behind his telescope at the far end of the dock. The distinct smell of pot smoke lingered. He had his back to me and seemed engrossed in some s l i p k n o t

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  astrological event. I knew he wouldn’t see me climb aboard the Sea Hunter. I assumed the babysitting charges were his much younger siblings; they had apparently fallen asleep during the meteor show. No witnesses.

  Aboard the boat, the first order of business was to retrieve my cell phone. I opened the door to the head and was surprised not to find the phone. I knew I had hidden it from view of the casual glance, but perhaps Alex or George had swept it out of hiding in a cleaning spree. Down a phone and a camera. This hobby was getting a bit expensive. I should give up the gumshoe for ceramics or knitting, I thought.

  Well, I could report the phone lost and cancel the service.

  Fortunately, I had downloaded the photos into my laptop for the real job. So all was not lost.

  I moved quickly through a short gangway and entered the galley. Dow had been the Sea Hunter’s cook, so this seemed the logical place to begin my search. Not quite daring to turn on the overhead lights, I used my penlight. Climbing onto the galley table and across a counter, I pushed ceiling tiles up and aside and back into place one at a time until I had disturbed years of accumulated dust and spiderwebs over the galley area. Next I opened, emptied, and refilled every cupboard. I disassembled and reassembled the stovetop and thoroughly scoured the oven, freezer, and refrigerator. The bench seats fore and aft of the galley table functioned as storage lockers where canned goods were stowed. Just as I removed the cushioned cover from the aft bench, I heard voices. Listening closely, I determined that they were adult and getting closer. In any other compartment of a boat, there

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  would have been a number of places to hide. But in the galley, my choices were few.

  Suddenly, the deck lights came on, sending a beam through the fo’c’sle doorway and directly at me. Someone was aboard!

  Diving in with Dinty Moore and Campbell’s, I pulled the seat cushion over the top, leaving a small crack to peek through.

  Two sets of legs entered the galley, walking along the ribbon of light streaming from outside. The overhead lights came on, fully illuminating George and Alex. George tossed a duffel bag into the bottom bunk. “Besides,” George said,

  “it’ll only be two or three days. Stay home. I can handle the deck alone.” He sat on the bench opposite my cramped quarters.

  “I need the cash for basketball camp next week,” Alex replied as he stuffed a canvas bag into a forepeak locker and kicked the door closed with what looked like a size-twelve Nike Air. George brushed some crumbs off the galley table and watched his disgruntled nephew stomp and slam in disgust from under his faded Red Sox cap. “Two or three days of gutting fish, eating out of a can, and sleeping in a dead man’s bunk.” With an attitude as black as his pin-straight hair, Alex unzipped a duffel bag with strength enough to have torn it open. He yanked a handle on a drawer beneath a bunk; it opened partway and caught. The drawer resisted a healthy shove and a sharp nudge with Alex’s knee. It refused to budge either in or out—it appeared the drawer was off its track. After struggling unsuccessfully, Alex finally gave up with a heartfelt “Fuck” and began stowing socks and underwear in another drawer.

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  George inhaled deeply and audibly. His bushy reddish eyebrows peaked into arches above large blue eyes. “Well, la-tee-da! Is that spring-fresh Tide with bleach alternative I smell?” he asked, playfully teasing Alex.

  His nephew shot George a look of impatience and quickly covered a filthy mattress with a crisp white sheet. “Fuck you.”

  “Hey! Watch your language. We don’t talk like that aboard the Sea Hunter. ” George scowled. I was barely breathing with anticipation of a chance to be alone with the jammed drawer.

  “Oh, yeah. I can see that. Only gentlemen aboard this fine craft,” Alex remarked snidely as he drew a bony index finger across a cupboard door over the stove, leaving a furrow in the grease. “This piece of shit ought to be burned.”

  “Hey! Come on. Lighten up.” George removed his cap, exposing a totally bald head above his thick fringe of hair, which now looked like a blond wreath. “Where’s the happy-go-lucky kid I used to know?”

  Alex smirked. “I’m seventeen. I’m supposed to be miserable.” Brushing by his uncle toward the fo’c’sle door, he stopped to slap the top of George’s head with two sharp smacks. “No wonder I’m depressed! I hope this isn’t what’s meant by a bright future.” Alex gave the shiny skull another tap. “Put your fuckin’ hat on. The glare is killing me!” He disappeared with another warning from George about his language.

  The canned beef stew began to feel quite uncomfortable under the weight of my upper body. If I shifted at all, I stood the risk of being detected. So I waited patiently, curled on my right side and looking directly at George through the slit of

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  light between the bench and the seat top. When he finally stood and put on his hat, I held my breath. He opened the top of the bench where he had been sitting and shuffled through the contents, which sounded to me like more cans.

  As he replaced the cushion and turned toward my hiding spot, I imagined my predicament couldn’t get any worse. My stomach turned, and I broke into a sweat as he reached for the seat cushion above me. “Hey, George,” Alex called from the deck. “Dad wants you to start the generator.”

  “Coming right up!” George replied and pulled his hand from the edge of the cushion. As soon as he was gone, I pushed the cover off the bench and climbed out. Ignoring the cramp in my calf, I hustled to work on the stubborn drawer.

  This had to be it, I thought as I wiggled and jiggled the drawer back and forth, up and down, a fraction of an inch.

  This was the logical place for Dow’s stash. Men, as a rule, don’t touch other men’s underwear.

  The generator engine started, and the lights went out and then back on. I knew I was running out of time, but I couldn’t leave the boat without whatever was keeping this drawer from cooperating. Kneeling down, I forced my right hand into the narrow opening beneath the drawer. Yes! There was a bulge secured to the underside of the wooden panel. I picked at the edge of what felt like duct tape until I pulled a ten-inch strip from the opening. Reaching in again and feeling my way to another edge, I pulled and released a second strip. The bulge dropped, allowing me to remove the drawer completely.

  There on the deck, within the cavity, was a package wrapped in plastic and sealed with clear tape. I thrust the package into s l i p k n o t

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  my messenger bag and quickly replaced the drawer, making sure to jam it off its metal track. Now all I needed to do was escape before the lines were cast off the dock.

  Poking my head around the corner, I saw Alex and George on deck. With all the engine noise, I couldn’t hear what they were talking about. As I contemplated my options, black boots appeared at the top of the wheelhouse ladder. Lincoln!

  Without a second’s deliberation, I slid down the ladder to the engine room fireman-style. I needed time to think. As I ducked out of sight behind the massive diesel engine, a black boot stepped down onto the top rung of the ladder and was followed by another on the rung below it. Shit! I flipped an extremely heavy deck plate on edge, which gave me access to a bilge compartment. I stepped down into it, trying to disappear. I slipped on the greasy steel hull and fell into the hole, and the deck plate came crashing down onto my head. Out cold.

  When I came to, it didn’t take me long to collect myself. I knew exactly where I was and how I had gotten there. The only thing I didn’t know was how lo
ng I had been unconscious. There was not a single ray of light to be seen through the gaps in the deck plates above me, so I assumed Lincoln had turned off the lights and returned to the wheelhouse. A slow, rolling motion confirmed that my situation had indeed gotten worse. I was now an unintentional stowaway aboard a vessel heading offshore that was captained by a man who might well be a murderer.

  I fumbled through my bag for a light and realized that I must have left it in the galley. Of course, I owned the cheapest

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  possible wristwatch on the market, so it did not have an illumination feature. I did recall from the galley conversation that the voyage would last only two or three days. Hell, that was nothing, I thought. I’d spent longer durations in worse places.

  I had completed a two-month tour of duty in the Everglades, sleeping in a tent. Bugs, alligators . . . now, that was torture.

  Then there was the failed drug bust when I barricaded myself inside a dog kennel to keep from being eaten by angry pit bulls. I was so hungry by the time my partner showed up, I was ready to eat the Purina.

  But this wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind for my first all-nighter with Lincoln. I would have to be more careful about what I wished for. I had what I came for, so I could afford to be patient. The pounding in my head indicated a sure concussion. Stretching out along the turn of the bilge above the keel, I lay uncomfortably against the cold, damp steel hull and didn’t have to worry about falling asleep.

  My resolve to remain entombed in this greasy steel box for what could be forty-eight hours was being steadily sapped by hunger, headache, and shivering muscle spasms. I measured the first six hours in two-hour intervals between routine checks by captain and crew. Like clockwork, the lights came on every two hours for approximately one minute, just time enough for me to stare at my wrist and for whoever was on watch to ensure that all was well in the engine compartment.