Death at Devil's Bridge

by Cynthia DeFelice

  “Everybody flaps their mouths about how terrible things are getting,” Donny said, “but nobody does anything. Well, I’m doing something.” His words sounded kind of mushy, as if he had his mouth full of mashed potatoes or something. “And you know what? It feels great. The guy who owns that boat I robbed is rolling in dough. I say, share the wealth. We share the island with him, right? He owes us. And I for one don’t mind getting some of my own back.”

  Jeff said, “Right on, Donny.”

  “So I can trust you two to keep your mouths shut, right?”

  “Right,” said Jeff.

  “Right, Daggett?” Donny repeated, his eyes in the rearview mirror locked on mine.

  “Right,” I muttered, feeling really weird and confused. One part of my mind kept repeating things my parents had taught me my whole life, all of which added up to: what Donny had done was wrong. Period. End of story.

  But, at the same time, something about what Donny was saying felt true. Was it really such a big deal, after all, to steal from a rich guy who could go right out and buy a new rod and reel any time he felt like it?

  And even if Donny was wrong, what was I supposed to do about it? Was I supposed to tell on somebody I’d known all my life? For stealing something from a stranger who probably wouldn’t even thank me?

  As I was wondering about this, Donny straightened up in the seat, thrust the bottle at Jeff, and fired up the Tomahawk’s engine. “I’d better get you kiddies home before your mommies freak, huh?” he asked, flashing his mocking grin.

  With a squeal of tires, we pulled onto the highway. The bottle fell from Jeff’s hands, and the potent, sweet-sour smell of alcohol filled the car. Jeff hurriedly fumbled for the cap and screwed it on, then passed all the bottles over to me. “Stick ’em back under the seat,” he said.

  I stuffed the bottles as far out of sight as I could. In my mind I heard Mom saying, Ben, if you ever get into a situation where you’re in a car and the driver has been drinking, just get out. Wherever you are, get out. Call me, and I’ll come get you, you understand?

  Sure, I understood. It had all sounded simple when Mom and I talked about it, but now that I was in the actual situation, it wasn’t as easy as she had made it sound. For one thing, I didn’t know Donny was going to be drinking, and, for another, I didn’t have time to get out of the car.

  What was I supposed to do now, say, “Hey, Donny, stop and let me out. I feel like walking”? Did Mom understand how hard that would be?

  “What’s the matter, Daggett?” Donny would say. “Scared? You think I’m going to do something stupid like crack up the Tomahawk? No way, man. Don’t worry about it.”

  I looked at the speedometer and saw that Donny was going close to sixty miles an hour. The highest speed allowed anywhere on the island was forty; the limit in most places was around thirty, sometimes even lower. Donny was asking for trouble by going sixty. If we didn’t get into an accident first, we’d get pulled over for speeding, especially since it was the biggest weekend of the summer. And there we’d be, two underage kids with a driver who’d been drinking, in a car that reeked of stolen booze. Great.

  Carefully, trying to sound cool, I said, “Hey, Donny, slow down, man. The cops’ll be out tonight for sure. You don’t want to get busted, do you?”

  To my relief, Donny said, “Good thinking, Daggett. Trouble with the Tomahawk is, she wants to go. I really gotta watch this baby.”

  I kept an eye on the speedometer as it dropped to fifty, then forty, then thirty-five. Keep it there, Donny, I urged silently. Let’s just get home without anything happening.

  We did get home eventually, but not before I’d nearly had about seven heart attacks. Donny wasn’t too good at handling the curves, and a couple of times when he was talking, he didn’t even notice that he was driving on the wrong side of the road. Twice I couldn’t help shouting, “Watch out!” and once Jeff reached over, grabbed the wheel, and steered us out of the path of an oncoming car.

  At least Donny laughed about it instead of getting mad. I was grateful for the lack of other cars on the road once we got up-island, and relieved when Donny pulled over on the stretch of road where we’d left our bikes.

  “Thanks, man,” Jeff said, getting out. “That was great.”

  “Yeah, thanks, Donny,” I said, practically leaping out of the car.

  “No problem,” Donny replied. He smiled his lazy smile, seeming to have recovered his good mood. “What can I say? I got lucky, I shared the wealth. That’s what friends are for, right?”

  “Right!” Jeff agreed.

  I was too nervous and jumpy to smile back. I just wanted Donny to leave.

  “Adios, amigos,” he said, and pulled away.

  “Wow,” said Jeff, turning to me with an excited grin on his face. “Can you believe it?”

  “What?” I asked. “That we got home alive?”

  “Well, yeah,” Jeff said with a sheepish smile. “But I wasn’t too worried about that. Donny wouldn’t crack up his car.”

  Of course he wouldn’t crack it up on purpose, I wanted to say but didn’t. Lately I seemed to be doing a lot of keeping my mouth shut.

  “I can’t believe what he did,” Jeff went on. “And the way he, like, really trusts us.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, without enthusiasm.

  “What’s the matter? You seem kind of bummed out.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “When Donny explains it, it sounds okay, I guess. I see what he means, you know? But…”

  “What?” Jeff urged.

  Right at that minute, I was really missing Pop. I’d been able to talk to him about almost anything. But now things were happening that I’d never had to discuss when he was alive.

  Jeff was looking at me, waiting. When I didn’t answer, he said slowly, “Look, your mom and my parents would say what Donny did was really terrible. But, like Donny says, they just don’t get it.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said.

  “At least Donny’s doing something,” Jeff went on.

  I almost told Jeff he was starting to sound like a parrot, repeating everything Donny said, but I didn’t.

  “I was freaked when he brought out the booze,” I said instead.

  “Donny said we were going to party,” Jeff answered nonchalantly. He laughed, and punched my arm. “What did you expect? Cake and ice cream?”

  I looked at him, feeling like a dumb little kid again. I’d been sure Jeff had been as surprised and nervous about drinking as I was, but maybe I’d been wrong. “Come on, Manning,” I said. “You were surprised, too. Weren’t you?”

  “Well, yeah, sort of,” he admitted.

  Curious, I asked, “Did you like the taste?”

  I was hoping he would make a gagging sound and say, “Are you kidding? That stuff was awful!” and we could laugh about how gross it was, the way we once would have.

  But instead Jeff said, “It grows on you.”

  Like Donny says, I thought. “Look, I gotta go,” I said.

  Riding the rest of the way home on my bike, I practiced different conversations with Mom, who I knew would be waiting up for me. Part of me wanted to walk into the house and tell her everything, but another part of me wasn’t sure.

  Most grown-ups, Mom included, would think I ought to tell someone “in authority” about what Donny did.

  But sometimes even grown-ups said it was bad to “tattle.” I could still hear my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Wolnick, saying, “Nobody likes a tattletale, Ben. I’ll take care of Charles. You take care of Ben.”

  My cheeks burned just remembering it. Charles had been shooting big, gross, germy spitballs into the fish tank, and I was the one who got yelled at.

  The more I thought about it, the more confusing the whole thing became. For one thing, Jeff was my best friend, and he didn’t seem to think what Donny had done was so bad.

  For another, if I told on Donny, wouldn’t he go to jail? How would that make me feel? How would I like being called a squeal, a r
at, a snitch, a narc, a fink?

  If telling was the right thing to do, why were the words for it so ugly?

  Nobody likes a tattletale.

  When Mom asked, I said the fireworks were great and went to bed.

  Eleven

  The next morning, Chick and I headed out of the harbor with our charter for the day: a man named Thad, who was pretty old, and his son, Jay, who looked around Chick’s age. As Chick steered the boat out beyond the rocks at Devil’s Bridge and around the clay cliffs of Aquinnah, his face seemed even ruddier and more weathered than usual. Pop’s face had had that same warm, outdoors look. Chick’s hands on the wheel were brown and tough, too, and strong, like Pop’s. Thad and Jay had pale white faces and hands, and their skin was smooth and soft looking.

  It was a chilly morning for early July, and Chick and I both wore hooded sweatshirts, lobstermen’s rubber overalls and parkas, and rubber boots to protect us from the wind off the water and the sea spray. By afternoon we’d probably strip down to jeans and T-shirts, if the day remained sunny.

  Thad and Jay could have just stepped out of one of the expensive shops down in Edgartown. They had on brand-new skid-proof boat shoes, neatly ironed khaki pants, and sweaters with anchors and other nautical designs woven into them.

  Chick and I; Thad and Jay. Us and them, I thought.

  They were huddled miserably in the stern, trying to avoid the spray that showered into the boat every time Chick hit a wave. And there were plenty of waves, big ones, too, coming in from the northeast. Against the incoming tide, the wind caused a wicked chop.

  In my head I could hear Donny laughing at Thad and Jay in their fancy clothes, saying, Serves ’em right. And part of me agreed. I mean, you just don’t go out on the ocean, even in July, without being prepared for weather. Everyone around here knew that.

  Still, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the two shivering men. Reaching into the storage area in the bow, I took out two spare orange parkas and handed them to Thad and Jay. “It won’t be nearly as rough once we get around these cliffs!” I shouted over the noise of the engine. “Where we’re going to fish, off Squibnocket beach, it should be pretty calm.”

  They put on the jackets eagerly, Jay smiling with relief and Thad giving me the “thumbs-up” sign. Chick gave me a wink.

  When we got around what everyone called the head, the big point of land formed by the clay cliffs of Aquinnah, the seas settled into a light, even chop, and Thad and Jay began to look a lot happier. I began handing out rods and baiting them up, while Chick positioned the boat off Squibnocket point.

  We planned to drift the shoreline for stripers. That meant we’d be continually watching out for rocks and starting the engine from time to time to keep us the right distance away from them.

  Thad was using a sinking lure, trying to coax the fish up, and I was relieved to see that he was a decent caster. Jay was pretty clueless, so I showed him how to cast a chunk of bait with a smooth, even motion, let it sink, raise it up a bit off the bottom, and wait for the strike.

  I was untangling a big snarl from Jay’s line when Thad shouted excitedly, “I got one!”

  After that, the day went quickly. Jay soon got the hang of casting, and we all relaxed. The only trouble was as soon as my mind wasn’t occupied with working, I began to think about Donny.

  Here it was, summer vacation, which was usually the best time of the whole year. Working with Chick and making money was cool, and when I wasn’t doing that, I was supposed to be messing around with my friends, carefree and happy. Instead, I felt weighted down by what I knew about Donny, almost as though I had an anchor tied around my neck.

  I tried to concentrate on work, though, and I must have done all right because when we pulled into Menemsha at the end of the day, Thad and Jay thanked Chick and me over and over, and told everybody on the docks what a great time they’d had. They each gave me a ten-dollar tip, which just went to show that Donny wasn’t right about all tourists. Why was it, I wondered, that the bad ones seemed to stick in everyone’s minds, including mine, so much more than the ones who were nice?

  Chick and I were cleaning up the boat when Pete came over to talk. As usual, he wore his battered hat, the word Harbormaster so faded you couldn’t tell what it said unless you already knew. After hearing our report on the day’s fishing, he said, “Well, the police were around today, asking questions. Apparently, the kid who was driving that car—Cameron Maddox—is still missing.”

  “It’s been what—almost three days now?” Chick asked.

  I thought back to Friday morning, when I’d discovered the car. “Yes,” I answered.

  “His parents were here, too,” Pete said. “They’ve had posters made up and are hanging them all over the island.” He gestured toward one of the tarsoaked poles that held up the dock, and I saw a photocopy of a young man’s face, with the words HAVE YOU SEEN OUR SON? across the top in bold black letters.

  Curious, I leaned closer to read the small print below the picture: Cameron Maddox, age 16, 5 feet, 10 inches, with green eyes, sandy blond hair. Missing since Thursday evening, July 2. Last seen in West Basin/Lobsterville Beach area, driving a red Porsche with Connecticut license plates. Anyone with any information, please call Mr. and Mrs. Maddox, c/o The Rosehip Inn, Edgartown.

  This was followed by a phone number and the word REWARD in the same big, black lettering.

  I peered more closely at the photo of Cameron Maddox. It was your basic school picture, the kind everyone got taken every year. Maddox was smiling into the camera, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Now he was missing. It was kind of creepy.

  “The police were asking Marshall and all the young kids if they’d heard anything about this Maddox kid dealing dope,” Pete said. “The parents are fit to be tied, saying the police are trying to ruin their son’s reputation instead of finding out what happened to him. It got pretty ugly, I can tell you.”

  “Why would they say a thing like that?” Chick asked.

  “Beats me,” Pete said.

  “Sounds as though they don’t want to face facts about their kid,” Chick mused. “That’s got to be a tough one, having your son missing and finding out he might have been breaking the law.”

  I checked out Cameron Maddox’s smiling face in the photo again. “He doesn’t look like a drug dealer,” I said.

  “You never can tell,” Chick answered.

  Which was true. Donny didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d rob a boat, either.

  We crossed the channel to tie up at West Basin harbor, and I was happy to see Jeff there, waiting for us to come in. We all shot the breeze for a while. Jeff was excited because he had finished putting his plane together, and wanted to fly it.

  After Chick drove off in his pickup, I was surprised to see Donny back out of a space in the parking lot and head over to us.

  “Just the two gentlemen I was looking for,” Donny said, pulling up alongside Jeff and me. “Hop in. I’ve got a proposition for you.” He grinned enticingly. “This is your lucky day.”

  Twelve

  I hesitated, remembering the night before and how eager I’d been to get out of the Tomahawk. But Donny was acting as though nothing unusual had happened, and Jeff reached right down to lock his bike to mine, then jumped in the front seat. Reluctantly, I took what was starting to feel like my place in the back. Donny pulled into an empty parking space in the lot, and we sat facing the water. Cameron Maddox’s face stared at us from a poster stapled to one of the town signs.

  Donny shut off the engine, put his arm over the seat, and turned so he could look right at me. “So, how was the fishing today, Daggett?” he asked.

  “Pretty good,” I answered carefully. I was wondering what was up. I’d figured that after last night, he wouldn’t want to hang out with Jeff and me again. And I’d thought that was fine with me. But now, face to face with Donny’s magnetic personality and his contagious grin, it was hard to stay mad.

  “How much
money did you make?” he asked.

  “Chick pays me thirty dollars a day, and today I got twenty in tips,” I said proudly.

  “That’s pretty good,” Donny said approvingly. “So, you got up at six A.M. and just got through, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Why?”

  Donny didn’t answer, but instead asked Jeff, “Did you work today?”

  Jeff made a face. “I spent half the day cleaning screens and washing windows for my mom.”

  “Did you get paid?”

  “Twenty dollars.”

  Donny smiled. “How would you guys like to make almost that much for five minutes’ work? Actually, it’s not even work. For five minutes of your valuable time?”

  “Get outta here,” I said.

  “No way,” Jeff said at the same time.

  “I’m serious,” Donny answered. “I’m in on a really good business deal, and I’m giving you guys first dibs on a piece of the action.”

  “What do we have to do?” I asked cautiously.

  “Just listen, for now. I had this great idea. It’s so simple, I can’t believe nobody’s thought of it before. Okay, you ready? You know how there’s basically no stores or anything up at this end of the island?”

  “How about anywhere on the island,” Jeff said, moaning. “No malls, not even a McDonald’s! I mean, there are McDonald’s in Russia, for crying out loud, probably even in Siberia.”

  It was one of Jeff’s constant complaints. Personally, I couldn’t have cared less. I wasn’t crazy about McDonald’s food, and I’d rather be fishing any day than hanging out at a mall. I thought it was cool that the Vineyard was different from other places.

  “Yeah, well, I’m setting up a little supply service for people who don’t want to drive all the way down-island every time they need something,” Donny said. “See, I’ll get the orders together and make all the arrangements. All you guys have to do is make the deliveries on your bikes. I’ll pay you fifteen dollars for every delivery. You’ll make about ten deliveries a week each. That’s a hundred and fifty bucks. What do you say?”