Bunker 01 - Slipknot

by Linda Greenlaw

  The steady drone of an outboard motor grew near. A skiff carrying three men, one of whom was Lincoln Aldridge, pulled alongside the Sea Hunter, which was tied where we had left her a few hours ago. Lincoln climbed aboard his boat, and the skiff continued on to the next boat. The engines of the boats soon started, and deck lights came on. Here was my ride to safety, I thought. I could easily dive back into the water and swim to the beach, but that could be considered another unnecessary risk. Turning my back to the fire, I walked the pier to the Sea Hunter’s berth and called hello to George, who was standing on deck, watching the plant burn.

  My voice startled him from what appeared to be a pensive mourning of what was sure to be the total loss of the corner-stone of this community.

  “Ms. Bunker! You turn up in the strangest places! What are you doing? You’re soaked!”

  “I came down to see what was on fire and realized that I’d

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  left my purse aboard the Sea Hunter. My whole life is in that bag. The only way to get around the fire was to swim to a ladder, so I did.”

  “You had your bag when you went home earlier, but come aboard. We’re moving to another dock in case the fire travels the length of the pier. You need a ride, don’t you? I noticed you left your car here. Is it broken down?”

  “Just out of gas,” I said. Happy to have been invited aboard, I felt safe. If Lincoln had been aboard alone, I probably would have chosen to swim ashore. Lincoln appeared at the controls behind the wheelhouse above us. Before he could question my presence, George called, “The lady from Atlantis thought she’d help us move the boat. I’ll give her a ride home after.” I suspected Lincoln was as confused and exhausted as I was. He shrugged and gave us the command to release the lines from the pilings. He didn’t look pleased to see me, confirming now more than ever that he had indeed known I was in the plant when he set it on fire. Like a bad penny, I thought, I kept coming back.

  George and I worked quickly to let the lines go and coiled them into readiness to resecure to the pier we were headed toward. As Lincoln turned the boat sharply around the end of the pier, she listed away from the turn, sending everything on deck in motion. Tools that I guessed had been used during the night to get the generator going cascaded off the hatch cover. The Orkin Man–type spray bottle that Cal had explained was used for bleaching and disinfecting rolled onto its side and stopped against the bulkhead. Before we could begin to pick things up, we were against the dock and tossing s l i p k n o t

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  lines to a very stoned-looking Eddie, who had his telescope set up adjacent to where the Sea Hunter now rested.

  Blue lights from a number of police cars raced down the hill and into the plant’s parking lot. “I guess they didn’t want to miss the fireworks,” said Eddie as he lethargically looped eye splices over pilings. Moving quickly from wrapping the spring line around a cleat to the stern to do the same, I stepped over the spray bottle; the nozzle was in a puddle in a divot on the steel deck. Drippings from the nozzle sent rainbows across the top of the puddle. Bleach didn’t do that. Tossing the stern line onto the dock, I waited for Eddie, who was at the bow catching a line from George.

  Lincoln climbed down the ladder and sat on the starboard rail. He looked like a thoroughly defeated man. He hung his head in what appeared to be shame as George returned from the bow. Lincoln couldn’t bring himself to look at either of us. If my developing theory were accurate, Lincoln had just failed in his second attempt on my life. In this case, he had been paid to commit arson, so my death would have been a great bonus in a “two birds with one stone” way. The closer I got to pounding the final nails into the coffin of his conviction, the more careless Lincoln would become in trying to stop me. I stayed close to George and was careful to keep an eye on Lincoln, who had gotten up to pace the deck nervously.

  He was distraught, I thought. There was no longer any doubt that I was on to him.

  Lincoln drew a deep breath through flared nostrils, held it in an extra-long time, then exhaled loudly through puckered lips. “I should move the truck out of the way. I’ll be back in

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  fifteen minutes,” he said as he pulled on the spring line, drawing the Sea Hunter’s rail closer to the ladder on the dock. Oh, sure, I thought. He’s probably going to get a ring-side seat to view his handiwork.

  “I’ll get it, bro. I wanted to drive Ms. Bunker home anyway,” George replied quickly.

  “I’d appreciate it if you would pick up the deck and secure the boat before you leave. I am happy to drive Ms. Bunker up the hill,” Lincoln said. He held tension on the line and motioned toward the ladder, offering to let me go up first.

  What? Is he out of his mind? Like I’m about to give him another shot at me? Third time’s a charm . . . I said, “Oh, thanks. But I’ll wait for George. I think I lost my penlight aboard and would like to look for it. You go ahead. I’ll stay here.”

  “If we find your light, we’ll gladly return it to you. Come on, now. Let’s go,” Lincoln insisted.

  “I’m not ready to go yet. I can help George tidy things up.

  And I prefer to walk home. Thanks anyway.” I began picking up tools from the deck and placing them on the hatch cover from which they had fallen. Lincoln hesitated, then climbed the ladder and disappeared. I knew he would come back, and I planned to be gone when he did. Now that the pieces were falling into place, I would once again place a call to the chief detective. Maybe he’d listen this time. I had done all the work for him. He could take the credit for solving both the murder and the arson. But until Lincoln was arrested, I was in danger.

  “I’ll walk you home as soon as I’m done here, Ms. Bunker,” George said softly. He hustled around the deck, stowing s l i p k n o t

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  tools and tying things in their proper places. When he broke out in a sweat, he pulled his hooded jacket off over his head, exposing the Boston Red Sox jersey he wore underneath. The consummate fan, I thought. Grabbing the spray bottle from the deck next to my feet, he turned toward the forward bulkhead to secure it with one of the many lines that appeared to have been cut and spliced for hanging up gear. When George wasn’t looking, I stuck an index finger into the sheen on the puddle. Holding it to my nose, I confirmed the undeniable smell of gasoline. No wonder the fire had caught so quickly.

  When I called the detective, I’d insist that he hurry to get this bottle for evidence. I made sure to keep a sharp eye on George so I knew exactly where he was securing it.

  I nearly fainted when I saw the back of George’s Red Sox team jersey: ortiz 34. Shocked, I couldn’t move. George was 34! I watched as he nervously tucked the bitter end of the line through the bottle’s handle and tied a double-sheet bend.

  Through the loop he passed the bitter end and went around the standing part twice, clockwise. How awkward, I thought.

  He’s left-handed. Right-handers would go counterclockwise.

  Where had I seen that before? I flashed back to Dow’s body on the beach. His makeshift belt had been knotted in the same backward fashion—clockwise. Another flash took me back to Dow’s house. I had swung his pitching wedge—righty.

  George must have killed Dow and tied the line around his waist to assist in moving the deadweight overboard. In his haste, he ignored belt loops. I am alone with a murderer, I thought. But does he know that I know? Forcing myself to remain calm, I went to the stern of the boat and looked up the

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  pier for Eddie. The telescope stood unmanned. The six-hundred-dollar tripod, now missing, could have been the murder weapon. Henry Vickerson’s “relic” was probably the part of the tripod that the telescope had screwed into. I knew I needed to get off this boat.

  “I guess I’ll walk home now,” I said as nonchalantly as I could. I began leaning in to the spring line.

  “Wa
it. I’ll go with you,” George said. He picked up the steering bar from the deck.

  “I’m all set. See you later.” I stretched for the ladder but couldn’t quite reach it. I pulled as hard as I could on the line and hopped up on the rail, waiting for the Sea Hunter to move another inch or two closer to the pier. Deck lights cast the shadow of my figure, stretched from boat to ladder, onto the glassy black surface below me. Another shadow joined mine and outlined my death. I didn’t even have the energy to scream. I could only watch as the shadow raised the weapon.

  I closed my eyes and waited.

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  “george! stop!” lincoln yelled urgently from the deck. I opened my eyes and watched the water below as George tentatively lowered the steering bar from over his head to rest it on his shoulder. Releasing my grip on the ladder, I stepped back aboard and slowly turned to face the murderer. George twisted his hands on the steel bar like a batter concentrating on the pitcher from the on-deck circle. A fine dusting of rust, like rosin, fell on the front of George’s jersey. Our eyes met, his frozen in hostility and mine blazing in rage that slowly faded as the clues began to line up into a plausible scenario.

  Enlightenment eased what terror had produced, and my mind juggled puzzle pieces, some falling into place and others not quite snapping together.

  Locked in a stare, neither of us flinched until Lincoln hurried down the ladder and positioned himself between us, interrupting cognitive warfare. George’s blue eyes darted back and forth between the ladder and the opposite side of the boat, as if he was planning an escape. Like cornered prey, he was now driven by fear, and desperate actions were often the result of fear unleashed.

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  Lincoln looked up to the top of the dock and motioned the police officers to holster guns that had been aimed at his brother. “Put the bar down, George.” The sound of Lincoln’s voice seemed to penetrate. “This trip is over, bro,” Lincoln went on. The iron rod hit the deck with a thud that melted my fear and nerves. George took three steps back and sat on the hatch cover among the scattered tools. Holding his head in his enormous hands, he cried. Placing an arm across George’s shoulders, Lincoln silently consoled his brother. After a long and sob-filled pause, George removed his ball cap and used it to mop tears from his cheeks. “Come on, bro. If we survived that storm yesterday, we can survive anything, right?” Lincoln said.

  “That storm was nothing compared to what I have been living.” With this vague admission, George seemed to pull himself together. The police officers shuffled their feet impatiently on the dock above us.

  “This storm has passed. Come on, bro. Let’s go.”

  “Passed? No, we’re in the eye, Captain. Hold on. The worst is ahead.” I took these words of George’s as a warning to Lincoln to be prepared for what would soon be revealed. I wondered how much Lincoln already knew.

  Finally, Lincoln urged George to join the state police officers on the dock. “They are going to place you under arrest and take you to the Hancock County jail,” he explained, as if speaking to a child. “I’ll hire the best attorney and meet you in court at your arraignment.”

  “Don’t waste your money on an attorney. Ms. Bunker has the evidence to put me away for a long, long time.” George s l i p k n o t

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  took a minute to compose himself. Taking a deep breath, he smiled and said to me, “Weird. This feels nothing like what I imagined it would. You should have turned me in sooner.”

  Although I was certain that George had not meant to humiliate his brother, Lincoln looked as though he had received a punch in the gut. I had witnessed reactions similar to George’s on a number of occasions in the past. When basically good people get caught in the maelstrom of bad actions, incarceration actually liberates them from their inner moral conflicts. Stating publicly that they are getting what they know they deserve seems to cheer even the most distraught of criminals, somehow making them feel less guilty. The brothers embraced in a short and awkward hug, making me think they had never exchanged anything more physical than a handshake. George climbed the ladder and was met with handcuffs and an apology for having to use them. The men in blue surrounded the large, distraught man, and all five moved along the pier as a single unit.

  Lincoln and I stood together on the Sea Hunter’s deck.

  But other than our relative proximity, I felt that we couldn’t have been further apart. Naturally, he appeared to be regretting what had transpired, while I was relieved and silently re-joicing. Lincoln had saved my life and, at the same time, may have ended George’s life as a free man.

  A pale yellow crease on the eastern horizon trumpeted the arrival of a new day while noisy gasoline engines drove the pumps that jetted salt water from the shore to the now-smoldering plant. Two police cars climbed and crested the hill, leaving Green Haven to its usual lawless devices. The

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  crowd of emotional townspeople began to disperse as Lincoln and I approached the parking area. Some muttered in disbelief and shock at what they had seen by the blue flashing lights. Their friend and neighbor George Aldridge, handcuffed and escorted by the state police, would be fuel for many rounds of coffee shop discussions.

  “Ride home?” Lincoln asked as we passed through the gate and onto Main Street.

  “No, thanks. I’d like to walk,” I said.

  “Mind if I join you? It would be good to stretch my legs a bit.”

  “Not at all. Come on,” I replied, thinking that the leg stretching would be accompanied by a just-as-needed head clearing. We walked side by side slowly up the hill, until the hissing of water upon embers could no longer be heard and the smells from the fire had dissipated into the darkness.

  Standing with our backs to the Lobster Trappe, we had a bird’s-eye view of all we had left below. This section of Green Haven’s working waterfront that had for so long resisted new-wave development now lay in repose. I wondered if Blaine Hamilton’s dream of wind-generated power would rise from the ashes of the plant, or if insurance fraud would negate the funding: tradition bowing to progress, to no avail. “What will happen to the fishing fleet now that the plant is gone?” I asked.

  “We’ll sell our fish in Rockland. We’ll get more money for our catch and pay less for fuel. We all stayed with Turners’ out of loyalty and nothing more. My father did business with Ginny’s father, and our grandfathers and great-grandfathers . . . as far back as anyone can remember.”

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  “But what about the plant employees? Don’t many Green Haven families depend on those jobs?” I asked.

  “Same thing. The cutters and packers can find better-paying jobs in Rockland. It’s only a forty-minute commute.

  Everyone sacrificed for the good of the whole community.

  Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Ginny doesn’t appear to share your feelings of community and loyalty,” I said.

  “That’s the ironic part. She was desperate and took the only course she saw as the way out. I assume that her financial selfishness led to what will be best for Green Haven in the long run. Inexpensive, renewable, environmentally friendly power and the breaking of the shackles of time-honored family tradition that had outlived its usefulness. I deeply regret my brother’s involvement, but I didn’t know until it was too late.”

  “How much do you know?” I asked, hoping that Lincoln could clarify some of what remained fuzzy in my theories.

  “I had no idea that George was in as deep as he was with Dow. I mean, I knew about his gambling debts because I was the first to see Dow’s little record book, but I thought I had that all figured out. By sinking the Sea Hunter, I would have money for Alex’s college tuition, George would be free of Dow’s ghost, and Quin would put some money into Fearless and employ all of us until I could buy another boat. I even hid Dow’s book aboard the Sea Hunter to be lost forever and protect Geor
ge from future problems,” Lincoln confessed, as if thinking out loud.

  That explained the presence of the letter from Boston

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  University among the things Lincoln wished to be lost. “Was the other day a failed scuttle attempt? Did you have to abort because Quin left the scene without us?” I asked.

  “No. I backed out of the whole deal before we left the dock. Second thoughts and the changed situation—Dow’s death and Alex’s being aboard to replace him for the trip—I chickened out. We really were sinking, as you know. But it was accidental and purely coincidental. I’ll never know if Quin left us for dead to collect all three shares for himself, or if he was trying to save himself, his boat, and his son.”

  I wondered if Lincoln was being honest, but I realized it was of no consequence now. “That is something we’ll never know. Will Alex go to school?” I asked.

  “He’ll get there somehow. I was offered money to torch the plant, but I refused, knowing that would be the end of the bit of fishing heritage left here. That old, dilapidated building meant the world to a lot of families, including mine. Not in employment, as I explained, but in what it represented. I should have known that Lucy would approach my brother with the same offer. I’m pretty sure she sucked him into the invasive-crab ploy, too. Do you know about that?”

  “I saw the crabs at Dow’s place the night I thought you caught me there, but as it turns out, it must have been George.