by Boyle, Gerry
He shook it off. Money, he thought. How much?
Going to the stern, he pulled the dinghy in close, then lifted, got the bow on board, then braced his feet against the bulkhead and pulled. When the dinghy was most of the way over the gunwale, he turned it, tied it down at both ends. This trip he might want to make some speed, didn’t want the dinghy towed behind, slowing him down.
He put the boat in gear, eased out of the slip, and idled. He turned to the outer floats, eased up to the fuel dock, and stepped out. Tied up again, ran to the pump locker and unlocked the padlock. He turned the pump on, trotted back, and pulled the hose up to the stern. Unscrewed the cap and filled the tank. Ninety gallons, topping it off.
Trotted back to the pump locker and locked it back up. As he stepped aboard, he saw another cruiser coming out, the skipper, a guy named Alfred, waving to him.
Alfred wanted diesel. He loved to talk boats. Brandon untied, jumped aboard, hurried to the helm and got underway. Bay Witch rumbled away from the dock, and still among the moorings, Brandon hit the throttle.
He didn’t look back.
The wind had eased, the rain turned to a soft drizzle. There were a few lobstermen coming in, a late return after a late start in the morning’s wind and rain. He passed a big yawl heading out under power, the homeport of Perth showing on the stern, the Australian flag flying off the stern.
Bluewater cruisers on the move. Lucky’s kind of sailors. What sort of business had brought Lucky back here? It had to be one with money.
Brandon had the chart folded in front of him at the helm. He’d marked Ocean Swell’s route, waypoints off Seguin Island, fifteen miles up the coast, then among the islands, just off Whaleboat Ledge. The last waypoint was just south of Cousins Island, a mile from the Falmouth house.
Would they come back there? They’d have to anchor offshore and take the dinghy in. Would they come back to Portland? If he found them, would they help? What if they decided to anchor off some island, like Lucky had said? For a day? Two?
The forty-eight hours would be up.
Brandon threaded his way through the first band of islands, through the passage between Peaks and Long. The outer island to the east was Cliff, where a few fishing families lived. Beyond it was Jewell, an outcrop-ping of ledge where seals bred.
He figured he’d get out beyond Jewell and start to call.
The seals were there, on the weed-covered rocks, the tide out. Brandon went a half-mile beyond them, shut off the motor, took out binoculars, and scanned the horizon.
There was a sailboat to the northeast, but it was a catamaran. There were lobster boats pulling traps south of Bailey Island. No other sailboat in sight.
Brandon grabbed the mike, started calling. “Ocean Swell, Ocean Swell, this is Bay Witch.”
Paused. Listened. Heard static. Called again.
The range of the VHF was ten miles, tops. Leaning on his elbows, he scanned the horizon to the east and south. Called again. Called every ten minutes, the boat lifting on the southerly swell, drifting northeast with the current.
He felt the urge to scream, and this time, with only the gulls there to hear him, Brandon did scream. Once. Twice. A harbor seal, trailing the boat, heard the sound and dove. Was this helping Mia? Should he just go to the cops? Had he retreated to the only thing he knew well—boats? Was he making a mistake betting on Lucky and Irina?
Brandon took a deep breath and, putting the microphone to his mouth, called again, “Ocean Swell, Ocean Swell.”
Aboard Ocean Swell they were fighting a bout of seasickness. Lucky had set a direct course for the Maine coast, no northwest leg. He sailed close to the southeast wind, dropped the sails south of Bailey Island, and proceeded under power. It was dusk when he began threading his way through the islands and ledges, glancing at the depth finder.
Irina came up from below, went to the rail, and emptied a bucket of vomit. As she turned back, weary and drained, she heard Brandon on the radio.
“What does he want?” she said.
“I don’t know,” Lucky said.
“How long has he been calling?”
“Every ten minutes for the last half-hour at least.”
She looked out at the bay, the spruce-bristled rock islands, the open water to the south.
“I wonder where he is.”
“If I had to guess, I’d say somewhere to the southwest,” Lucky said.
“You don’t think he’s near the house?”
“Islands would block the radio.”
“So we should be okay,” Irina said.
“Yeah. We’ll unload, give him a call back.”
“It sounds urgent.”
Lucky shrugged. Looked to the depth finder, eased off to port away from buoys marking ledges that would hang the boat up. That would be disaster.
“Things settling down?” he said.
“Yeah,” Irina said, still holding the bucket. “It was the swells.”
“Nice to be presentable when we get there.”
“I’ll do my best,” Irina said.
Brandon gave up on the outer bay, turned west, and put the throttle down. Darkness was falling fast. The big V-8 roared and Bay Witch hoisted herself up and out of the water, the bow slicing the waves, the boat rising and falling with the swells. He hugged the markers and eased through the gut north of Green Island, where the seals bred, did a slalom through Hussey Sound. North through the islands, he cut close to the channel buoys, leaving them rocking in his wake. And then he hit the shallower waters, with darkness closing in, swung in and along the Falmouth shoreline.
He dodged lobster buoys, peered at the shore, watched for the house.
And there it was, big and grand, a dark presence against a backdrop of trees. There were no lights on and Brandon sagged against the wheel as the boat heaved to a stop.
And then there were lights. Headlights coming down the drive.
They could have put in somewhere else. Cut the trip short because of the weather, slipped into Portland ahead of him. Had mechanical trouble and left the boat up the coast.
Brandon eased to within forty yards of the shore, just south of the house. There were ledges in closer, he couldn’t remember where. He leapt from the cockpit, went forward along the deck. Released the anchor and heard the chain rattle out. The line went slack, then taut as the anchor set and the boat swung.
Hurrying back to the cockpit, Brandon went below and took the rifle from the closet, Fuller out there, maybe had found this place. Brandon went to the stern and eased the dinghy over the side. He climbed in, leaned the rifle on the seat. The dinghy drifted off and he turned it quickly, started rowing hard, making for the little pier, grunted as the boat ground into a ledge, nearly threw him off the seat.
He backed off and changed course, making directly for the shore. He’d drag the dinghy up, run over to the house. He didn’t want to miss them if they were just pulling in, dropping stuff, going to dinner.
The hull ground again, this time on the stony beach. Brandon stepped to the bow, out onto the rocks, yanked the dinghy six feet up, and dropped it. He picked up the rifle, trotted along the shore toward the house, looking up and over the seawall for the lights.
It was dark again.
“Damn,” he said.
He ran another fifty feet, decided to climb the wall, slog through the sodden sea roses and get to the lawn. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, put his hands up on the rough timbers, and swung his legs up. Forced his way through the strip of brambles, and looked again.
Darkness. And then a light. A car door opening and then closing, the light going out. He paused, started to walk slowly to where it had been. Saw the glow of a cigarette, like an orange firefly in the darkness.
Lucky and Irina didn’t smoke.
Brandon slowed, veered toward the edge of the trees. Walking, then creeping, he made his way to a point fifty yards from the shadow, turned now so the fire dot of the cigarette didn’t show.
He stopped. Eased along s
o that he was behind the figure. Saw that there were two.
They were standing away from a box truck, the kind that hauls fish or lobster. Brandon stopped. Waited. Listened. Waited some more, hearing a catbird in the dark woods, his own breathing after the catbird was silent.
“Pretty fucking nice, huh?” one man said to the other, an accent like Irina’s. “Quiet. Lotsa trees.”
“Cold in the winter. I don’t do cold anymore,” the second man said, the same accent.
“We should move ’em along this time,” the first man said. “They can rest on the way. Last time, way too long.”
“That was Lucky, the son of a bitch. Hoping to get some.”
“Why doesn’t he just jump Irina?” the first man said.
“She’d cut it off,” the second man said, laughing softly. “Like that lady did, they found it in the road.”
“He can pay for it like everybody else,” the first man said.
“Here they come,” his partner said. “Remember now. Half-hour. No more.”
Brandon looked to the water, saw the shape of a boat form like a pale ghost against the darkness, veiled by mist. It came in from the northeast, no lights showing, the low thunk of the diesel barely audible.
And then the motor shut off, the boat gliding slowly. It was Ocean Swell—Brandon could tell by the shape of the hull. It drifted, there was a muffled anchor-chain rattle and a splash. One of the smoking men walked to the truck, flicked the parking lights on once, and turned them off.
He stepped to the cab, opened the door, and climbed up and in. Brandon could see his face: white, pale skin, a black goatee, thick black hair. He climbed into the cab and took something out. Tucked it into the waist of his jeans and dropped his shirttail over it.
A gun.
Brandon heard the sputter of a small outboard and saw a shadow move out from the sailboat, heading toward shore like the head of some black ocean snake.
The inflatable.
It motored in, idled up to the dock. Brandon crouched; the two men started walking toward the water. A flashlight flicked on from the dinghy. Brandon’s phone buzzed.
Mia.
He fished it from his jeans, flipped it open. Said in a whisper, “Yes?”
“Hi, is this Brandon?” a young woman said.
“Yes,” he said in a softer whisper.
“This is Samantha. From USM?”
“Who?”
“Slavic Studies? I did your translation? It’s kinda weird, but I really think I got it pretty much right. You want to get together and talk about it, we could have coffee or whatever.”
“Sure,” Brandon said. “But what does it say?”
“Okay. It’s kinda like a letter. Like somebody writing home. She says— her name is Eugenia. She says—I’ve got it all written out. We really should get together. It’s kinda complicated over the phone.”
“Just give me a sense of it,” Brandon said. “Please.”
“Okay. It starts out like, ‘Dear mother. I am afraid, fearful, to tell you— to admit to you, something like that—what I have done. They said I could have an occupation, a position. That means a job, I guess. A job as a dancer, in America. For a year, I could make sufficient money for an apartment, a large apartment where we could all live together, Julia, also.’”
She paused.
“You still there?”
“Yes,” Brandon whispered.
“She says, ‘I am on a vessel. A ship. I am very scared. The ship is bouncing, or rocking, something like that. It smells like fishes and makes me sick. I think the boat may descend—I guess that means sink—and we are far out in the ocean. It is cold. I would put this note in a jug and put it out the little window, but the woman is watching. She is very mean. I do not think any dancer would start out—embark, maybe—this method.’
“Then it gets kinda messy and smudged. But I think she says, ‘I love you. I pray to see you again in the future or in heaven.”
As Brandon listened, he saw someone climb up onto the dock from the inflatable.
A woman. Irina?
Then another. And another.
Three women, each carrying a small bag. The man with the gun in his pants said something to them in another language, then in English, “Welcome to America.” They walked down the dock with him bringing up the rear like he was a guard and they were prisoners.
The outboard motor revved and the inflatable turned back to the sailboat. The women walked up the lawn toward the house.
“Are you there?” Samantha said.
Brandon closed the phone and backed into the trees.
CHAPTER 58
Six trips to the boat, eighteen women. On the last trip, Irina, too.
They were young, teenagers or early twenties, slim, in jeans and sweaters or thin jackets, the kind that came with running suits, their shoulders hunched against the drizzle. As they walked, they spoke to each other in their language. Brief bursts, sounding tired and scared.
When they were inside the house, the second man from the truck came out. He went to the truck, unlocked the cab, and climbed up. He climbed back down with brown bags folded at the top. Four of them, big and heavy, one with dappled grease stains.
Takeout.
He locked the cab and started for the house as the first man came out. They crossed in the drive, didn’t speak. The first man went to the truck, again unlocked the cab, and climbed in. He came back out with a backpack, dark-colored and bulging. He slung it over his shoulder, locked the truck again, and started to walk back to the house.
Stopped. Turned to the woods and peered into the gloom.
Brandon remained still. The first man watched. Listened. Put his hand on the gun butt at his waist, but didn’t take it out.
Watched for a few seconds more but saw nothing. Heard the ticking, chirping of the woods. Turned away and walked to the house, opened the door by the garage, and went inside.
Brandon let out a long, silent breath.
Fuller was leaning against a tree at the edge of the woods. He smiled. He’d called it. Not exactly—who would have guessed they were smuggling people?—but close enough. He’d seen on TV in the jail how these poor slobs paid thousands of dollars to get into the U.S., work some shit job nobody else would do. They showed them cleaning in some hotel, up to their elbows in toilet water.
Question was, where was the money? His gut said it was right here, the way that guy carried that backpack. And Fuller figured his gut was on a roll.
He smiled again. Heard a crack in the woods on the other side of the drive. Moved back behind the tree and watched.
Listened.
Rested his finger on the trigger of the Ruger.
Illegals, Brandon thought, crouched in the trees. Women from eastern Europe. So that was the deal. Sail out, rendezvous offshore somewhere with a ship, load them into the cabin of Ocean Swell. Make the run back, figuring the odds of being stopped and boarded were slim. Land them here and truck them to their next stop.
But why all girls? Why so young? The woman with the note had said the promised job was as a dancer. A strip club? Prostitution?
Brandon watched the house, lights on in the first floor, the dining room, the kitchen, the bathrooms upstairs and down. He had no choice. He still had to make his plea to Lucky and Irina, but alone, not with the hard guys from the truck. A half-hour, the guy had said. Ten minutes gone.
The guy without the goatee stood by the bathroom as the women came and went. The water ran, the toilet flushed. The girls avoided his gaze as they passed by him on their way downstairs, their faces pink from scrubbing, leaving a faint aroma of mint as they went by.
Toothpaste.
And then they were done, the last one taking forever, sick or something. He knocked once, said something in their language. After a minute, the woman emerged, her face pale and her long blonde hair brushed and tied back. Some of them did that, toning their looks down as the trip went on until by the end they were trying to look like nuns.
This one glared at him as she walked by, looked like she wanted to spit. An attitude, the man thought. That was okay. They’d break her soon enough.
Back downstairs some of the women were sitting around the dining room table, eating fried chicken and mashed potatoes. The potatoes were in cardboard cartons. They ate with plastic forks.
The women who had finished eating were admiring the house, the gleaming kitchen appliances, the vast rooms, the furniture like something on television. When they started to explore beyond the kitchen and dining room, the man called them back.
Lucky, Irina, and the guy with the goatee were in the living room, behind the closed French doors. The backpack was open on a glass-topped coffee table, money spread out in banded thousand-dollar packs. Lucky was counting, flipping through the packs.
“All there,” the goateed guy said. “Eighteen girls, five grand apiece. Ninety thousand.”
“A pleasure, as always, Nikolai,” Lucky said, stuffing the money into the backpack. “So we’re on for one more?”
“Ship’s off Newfoundland,” Nikolai said. “Four days?”
Lucky looked at Irina.
“Not a problem,” she said.
“You still thinking of South Carolina?” Lucky said.
“October,” Nikolai said.
“Oooh, hurricane season,” Lucky said. “Lost one of my nine lives down there already.”
“You saying no?”
“No, but there may be a weather surcharge. And it may take a little more time to set up the boat. Worked out nicely here because I had a friend in the business.”
“You didn’t—”
“Tell him? Come on, Nikolai.”
“People screw up. Get sloppy,” Nikolai said. “Working with friends.”
Lucky looked at him, smile gone, eyes cold. “I use the word loosely,” he said. “It’s business. Just like you and me.”
He repacked the money, put the bag in a slant-top desk, and closed the cover. They left the room—Nikolai first, then Irina, Lucky last—and returned to the second man and the women. They had finished eating, one small dark-haired girl still using her finger to wipe the last of the gravy from a carton. She looked up at them and licked her finger, like an animal refusing to give up its kill.
