Lincoln grasped my wrist firmly and pointed the flashlight I held to a panel of gauges. I focused the beam on the amme-ter, and we watched the needle climb slowly into the green zone, indicating that the alternator was indeed functioning and charging the tired batteries. Lincoln gave my wrist a couple of victory squeezes before letting go. The water in which we had been standing was now below the deck plates. The necktie was working! I had nothing to squeeze, so I pumped a fist in the air. Lincoln pulled a string that hung above the engine, illuminating a single bare bulb. It was the first time we had seen one another’s faces, although we’d been working side by side, for what I guessed was better than ten hours.
Overwhelming stress and physical exhaustion had deepened the lines around Lincoln’s eyes, and his usual ruddy complexion had paled to geriatric tallow. I couldn’t begin to imagine my own appearance and didn’t much care.
[ 2 2 0 ]
L i n d a G r e e n l a w
“I’ll check things topside and head her for the barn,” Lincoln said loudly. “Open that valve, and drain water from the hold as long as the necktie hangs in. Don’t let the water get above the deck plates.” He pointed out the gate valve low on the bulkhead between the engine and fish hold. “If the engine sounds worse than it does now, pump that primer until she clears.” Up the ladder he went, leaving George and me to monitor the bilge and nurse the engine along if need be.
Whether thanks to my state of mental exhaustion, my enfee-bled mental capacity and emotional fatigue, or just the human tendency to bury painful experience, things blurred. I didn’t know how many times I opened the valve, allowing water to gush in and up to the deck plates, before the makeshift belt disintegrated. I didn’t count the number of times George brought the engine out of epileptic seizure by jamming the pump in and out like a piston. But the occasions of knowing that the end was near were numerous. Every time the Sea Hunter climbed willfully up the face of a charging sea and raced down its back, I believed we were close to the safety of Green Haven. Each time the Sea Hunter failed to reach the summit before being pummeled by a crest that must have caused structural damage above, I thought we were losing ground. But it was the shuddering that I found most disheartening. The quaking of solid steel, like a profound shiver running the length of the boat, shook my core in a way that was unequalled by either entrap-ment in a bilge filling with water, or being shot at in an open field. The shuddering jolted me out of dazed lassitude to an outright cold sweat. With each deepening tremor, enduring became the remotest of all possibilities.
s l i p k n o t
[ 2 2 1 ]
Eventually the roaring shudders dissipated to a swaying clacking that I associated with the railroad. The pounding and crashing and thrashing and wallowing gradually came to an end, too. We were either in the lee of land, or the wind had blown itself into extinction. Eager to learn the truth of our situation, and not daring to hope for too much, I followed George up the ladder when he beckoned me to do so. Walking out onto the main deck just as Alex came out of hiding, I realized the weather system had fought to the bitter end. We were indeed entering the channel leading to Green Haven Harbor. The air, as languid as a stalking predator before attack, held a fresh quality that opposed the staleness of the engine room’s fumes. Wisps of cloud obscured and dulled the edges of the moon setting on the western horizon, the orblike fuzziness reminding me of an old black-and-white close-up of a Hollywood starlet looming on the big screen. “We made it,” I said softly and to no one in particular.
As we approached the dock, I was surprised to see a crowd of people ready to catch our lines. Although it was rather late for Green Haveners, I reminded myself of the speed at which news travels in a small town. Cal caught and secured the aft spring line over a piling when Alex enthusiastically threw it at him hard enough to nearly knock the old man over. Clydie was there and was the first to yell an excited greeting: “I knowed you was fine! I been watching for you out my window for hours. When I seen you coming, I rung the church bell. Quin said you was sunk, but his boy said you was still afloat.” Someone stepped out of the shadows and hushed Clyde. It was Lucy Hamilton, looking and acting like
[ 2 2 2 ]
L i n d a G r e e n l a w
her usual highbrow-socialite self. She calmly dispersed the crowd, thanking them for their concern and sending them home to bed.
When the Sea Hunter was fully secured at her berth, Cal caught my eye with an expression that silently asked if I was okay. I smiled. He shook his head and said, “Good night,”
then headed up the pier behind the small group, leaving only Lucy on the dock above us. I assumed that the condition of the boat and the appearance of her crew spoke volumes. Words were not needed. There would be plenty of talk tomorrow at the coffee shop, I was sure. Alex was up the ladder and into a hug from his mother as soon as Lincoln joined us on deck from the wheelhouse.
I handed George his jacket and boots and promised to launder the socks he had lent me. He left quickly, anxious, I was sure, to walk on solid ground, promising his brother to reappear first thing in the morning and begin what looked like endless repairs. As I dragged my legs out of the oilskins I’d borrowed from Lincoln, I was amused by Alex’s account of his own bravery to his mother, who was quite impressed.
Mother and son had an uncanny resemblance—not just their physical but also their emotional makeup. Lucy called down to Lincoln that she would take Alex home with her and get him to basketball camp the next day. Lincoln agreed and bade them good night. I folded the orange rubber overalls and returned them to Lincoln with a “thanks.”
Lucy laughed above. “Some women will do anything to get into a man’s pants!” She left before my tired brain could fully register the insult.
s l i p k n o t
[ 2 2 3 ]
Ready to get some sleep before facing my landlords’ interrogation, I said, “See you around,” and pulled my aching body up the ladder.
“Wait!” Lincoln said as he hurried up behind me. “I don’t know how or why you ended up aboard my boat this trip, but I’m glad you did.”
Was this a come-on? “I wish I could say the same.”
“I guess you’ve decided that you made the right decision about standing me up on our first date.”
Was he fishing? “Well, long story, as it turns out.”
“Will I get another chance?”
Another chance for what? To kill me? I walked away, clutching my messenger bag to my broken ribs, and said over my shoulder, “Not tonight, Captain.”
15
my eyes and brain were clouded in exhaustion and darkness. The neighboring boats appeared thick and motionless against pilings and distant buildings, as though some artist had spread them with a palette knife from a tube of black oil to gray canvas. After the riot of sound and motion I had experienced in the past forty-eight hours, I found the stillness nearly as overwhelming. The clapping of the sole of my sandal with its torn strap against the bottom of my left heel was the only break in the silence. Parked between the loading ramps precisely where I had abandoned it (was it only two nights ago?), the Duster was a most welcome sight in my otherwise greetingless homecoming. Although it would have been nice to have worried somebody—anybody—to the point of sleeplessness and wringing of nervous hands, the fact that I owed no explanations for my short sabbatical was oddly comforting. The Duster, like a loyal Labrador retriever, sat and waited and would ask no questions.
The thought that perhaps my only unconditional emotional attachment was directed toward an automobile was disturbing and mildly depressing. As I dug in my bag for the s l i p k n o t
[ 2 2 5 ]
keys, I absentmindedly began humming Simon & Garfunkel’s
“I Am a Rock.” Positioning myself behind the steering wheel, I was surprised to find a note taped over the horn: “Miss Bunker, I took it upon myself to have your window replaced before the storm struck. Hope that’s OK. Lee (my nephew) at Sunrise Glass has a bill for you to sign and send to
your insurance company. Cal.” With all that had happened since, I had forgotten about the broken window. How thoughtful of Cal!
Maybe my feelings of friendlessness and disconnection in Green Haven were false or the product of fatigue and the af-termath of trauma. I wiped a single tear from my eyelashes before it escaped down my cheek. Some island I am, I thought.
Glad to have no witnesses to my emotional weakness, I stomped the accelerator to the floor three times and turned the ignition switch. The engine refused to start. The recollection of running out of gas sent a fresh flood of tears. God, I was so tired.
I wondered when was the last time I’d cried. Before I could figure that out, I was hiking up the hill toward home.
Feeling my way through the gift shop and up the stairs, I didn’t turn on a light until I was safely inside the apartment.
Another note, this one from Alice and Henry, was mostly lighthearted teasing about the schedule I had been keeping and an invitation to dinner on Thursday. Unless I had missed an entire day along the line, Thursday was the following night, so I vowed to accept the invitation and found myself actually looking forward to seeing the landlords. As for the rest of this evening, I needed food, a hot shower, and sleep.
Strawberries did the trick for my hunger, and fifteen minutes under a steaming showerhead washed away salt, grease, and
[ 2 2 6 ]
L i n d a G r e e n l a w
the chill. Somewhat revived, I was now considering things other than my bed.
As much as I squirmed to dance around the spending side of one of my Scottish dilemmas, I caved in and plugged my cell phone charger into a socket behind the table. Wondering how many messages I had missed from my employer, I turned on my laptop and ran the phone line over to the bottom of the wall-mounted unit that Henry had so expertly repaired after the popcorn disaster. As long as I was splurging on high-end electricity, I might as well go for a little long-distance dial-up, too. While waiting for my somewhat antiquated computer to come to life, I casually drew the window shade. Then I locked my apartment door with the deadbolt, took a deep breath, and willed myself to relax. I’m alone, I told myself. I’m safe.
Lunging for my soggy messenger bag, I opened its Velcro closure with such exuberance that my ribs sang a painful reminder. My patience had been stretched to a tautness that had until now been unknown. Fear of either discovery or disappointment fed a palpitation in my chest that surged the length of my arms and dead-ended in my trembling hands.
The package was meticulously wrapped in plastic and taped to a fare-thee-well. As I began picking tape from a corner, I suspected I held in my hands evidence to convict. This was the sought-after item that had sent Green Haven residents combing the shoreline, and also the catalyst for someone to visit Dow’s house. Anything worth hiding must be worth finding, I hoped as I ripped a length of tape, exposing the package’s contents.
s l i p k n o t
[ 2 2 7 ]
Dow’s black book was, in actuality, dark green and just the right size to tuck into a back pocket. The vinyl cover was worn and shaped in a way that indicated the book had spent a great deal of time being sat upon. Inside the front cover was an envelope containing cash, mostly tens and twenties, that added up to just three hundred dollars. Not exactly high stakes, I thought. I pulled a loose sheet of paper, folded letter-style, from between pages in the middle of the notebook. It was a rather formal letter addressed to Lincoln Aldridge from the dean of the admissions office at Boston University, politely denying Alex Aldridge any financial aid in the way of athletic scholarship and encouraging Mr.
Aldridge to apply for need-based aid, which would make Alex eligible for a campus job. A surreal image of Little Lord Fauntleroy serving up scoops of pasty mashed potatoes vanished with the growing mystery. Why, I wondered, would this letter be in Nick Dow’s possession?
Dow’s book was pretty much what I’d imagined it would be, given all that I had heard about his activity as the local low-level bookie. Entries were dated and clearly printed. No names were used; numbers represented gamblers and buyers into various pools. As far as I could tell, there was no meth-odology in the numbering system. Some players were represented by single digits, others up to five digits, as if they had chosen their own codes to be easily remembered.
Nowhere in the book did I find a key that matched names with the secret gambling codes. I was not surprised. This could be Dow’s assurance to his flock of gamers that if the authorities ever leaned on him, nobody but Dow would be in
[ 2 2 8 ]
L i n d a G r e e n l a w
any legal trouble. Speeding through the entries page after page, I couldn’t imagine what all the fuss had been, with so many folks discussing the book and the wad of cash they’d surmised would accompany it. Most bets were in the ten-to-twenty-dollar range.
Then, two-thirds of my way through the book, I noticed a large increase in the individual bets placed by gambler 34.
The first sizable bet was listed on a page headed with “MLB
American League East”: 34 had bet $2,000 on the New York Yankees and had lost. Following that loss, 34 had wagered increasingly large amounts, apparently drowning in the typical gaming spiral: circling the drain and hoping that a huge win against all odds would pull him or her out. But luck was not on his or her side. IOUs were taped to many of the pages and signed with 34. By the time I reached the page where the last bets had been placed, a rough calculation showed that 34 was in debt to Nick Dow for over $50,000. This was not petty cash. People have killed for less.
Several unused pages led to the back of the book. The very last page had some notes scribbled on it, including what looked like a toll-free telephone number and a series of digits and letters that I associated with an order or shipping confirmation. Curiosity got the best of me. My cell phone now had enough charge to place a call while remaining plugged in. I let my fingers do the walking. “Thank you for calling Saltwater Exotics. All associates are busy with other customers. Please stay on the line for the next available associate. Your call is important to us.” Interesting, I thought. But not incriminating.
Dow had a hobby and had placed an order for his aquarium.
s l i p k n o t
[ 2 2 9 ]
This I already knew. Before I could hang up, a pleasant man thanked me for holding and asked how he could assist me.
“Oh, hi. I’d like to check on an order, please.”
“Do you have your order number?”
“Yes. GN337DC.”
“Okay, let’s see.” A short pause was followed by: “Hemigrapsus sanguineus, ten male and ten female, right?”
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t place the order with the Latin name. What was ordered?” I asked.
“Hemigrapsus sanguineus is the Asian shore crab, or Japanese crab. And I show them delivered. Mrs. Hamilton, right?”
“Yes, Lucy Hamilton,” I lied. “I purchased them as a gift and never received a thank-you, so I wanted to see that they had actually been delivered. Some people have no manners!
Thanks for your trouble.”
“No trouble at all. Anything else I can do for you, Mrs.
Hamilton?”
“I would like to know more about these crabs. I know it’s strange that I purchased them without knowing exactly what I was buying, but like I said, they were a gift. How do you spell the Latin name? Maybe I can research them on the Internet.”
“You should have received a fact sheet with your invoice.
We always send a fact sheet.”
“I’m not sure I remember seeing the invoice, but I suppose it could be here somewhere,” I stalled, hoping for something more that might help.
“The envelopes we use stand out. They have a red border along the left edge.”
[ 2 3 0 ]
L i n d a G r e e n l a w
“Oh, yes. That sounds familiar. Where did I see that envelope?” My mind immediately flashed to the envelope Lucy Hamilton had grabbed from the urn wrec
kage. “My memory isn’t what it used to be. Have I placed any other orders with you?”
A long sigh indicated that the salesman was getting annoyed with me. “Let’s have a look here. No. My computer indicates this was your first and only order.”
I thanked him again and hung up. If Dow hadn’t been bringing home crabs from sea, then how could the travel buckets and aeration pumps be explained? To what extent was Lucy Hamilton involved? And for what purpose? Lucy had gone to such lengths to conceal the evidence of her crab purchase that I knew she and Dow must have had evil intentions. But what? So far Dow’s book had done nothing but add to my confusion.
Launching my Internet browser, I waited impatiently through the clicks and electronic sounds that accompanied the dial-up service. When I finally connected, I Googled
“Asian crab.” Pages listing websites and articles on or including Hemigrapsus sanguineus appeared on the screen. Select-ing the site topping the list, I scrolled down through the information, then skipped around and through a number of articles, mostly excerpts from science publications, and learned more than the average person would care to know about Asian shore crabs. The physical description of the Asian crab was identical to what I remembered seeing in Dow’s overflowing aquarium. I cursed the Old Maids’ cat for eating what could have confirmed the match.
s l i p k n o t
[ 2 3 1 ]
Asian crabs, I read, were highly reproductive, with a breeding season twice the length of native crabs. Females were capable of producing fifty thousand eggs per clutch, and they produced three or four clutches per breeding season.
This would account for a shipment of twenty crabs growing quickly to tens of thousands, I reasoned. More interesting to me was the fact that Asian crabs were touted to be versatile and able to thrive in a range of habitats. They were “opportunistic omnivores,” feeding on larvae and juvenile fish. Pro-lific reproduction, broad diet, and hardiness gave these crabs the potential to disrupt food chains and devastate indigenous populations of crabs and fish.
Bunker 01 - Slipknot Page 20
