Fisherman's Bend

by Linda Greenlaw

  The second message was from the Knox County Sheriff’s Department and was another assignment requiring me to go to Cobble Harbor as soon as possible. There had been a report of a planned protest in the form of fishing boats blockading the only entrance to and exit from the harbor. The Sheriff’s Department was responsible for keeping the protest peaceful, and as this was my territory I was expected to go. “A presence is all that’s needed. We don’t expect any problems.” The tone suggested that the person leaving the message anticipated resistance on my part; like going all the way to Cobble Harbor was an enormous inconvenience. I wondered whether the fishermen were blockading in protest of new regulation or aquaculture. It didn’t matter. I had just been given a second excuse to poke around and ask questions. So it was definitely no skin off my back.

  I picked up the receiver to call Cal, then remembered the weather. We’d be bucking against easterly wind all the way if we took the Sea Pigeon. It might just be faster to drive. I hung the receiver back in its cradle. But I would need to buy gas in Ellsworth and gas is expensive. The phone was again against my ear. Of course, I would be reimbursed for travel expenses. I hesitated, the phone resting on my shoulder. A boat might come in handy to break up the blockade. But it would be an awfully damp, rough ride. Cal might appreciate another day’s pay. If I went alone, I wouldn’t have concerns about Cal’s getting home in time for dinner. One if by land, two if by sea … I dialed Cal’s number. No answer and no machine on the other end put my indecision into remission. I gathered a few things, including my badge, department-issued handgun (Glock model 22.40 S&W semiautomatic), and rain gear, threw them into my tote bag, and bolted back down the stairs and into the Duster.

  I hadn’t had much windshield time lately, I thought as I drove through town. Everything in Green Haven was so accessible on foot that I rarely used my old, faithful car. That would change with the weather. I flipped on the windshield wipers. The mooing sound from under the hood was a reminder that the wiper motor was on its last leg, and the smear directly at eye level indicated a need for new blades. This could be a long ride, I thought. Yesterday, when I had looked at a road map, I estimated the drive between Green Haven and Cobble Harbor to be two hours, while a boat ride was a mere seventeen miles. By land, the trip was the equivalent of driving the outer limits of a giant horseshoe rather than cutting across from tip to tip. When the mooing cow morphed to a rooster crowing at dawn I turned on the fan to help defog the windows and to drown out the barnyard noises made by the decrepit wiper motor; this resulted in a face full of dust and tiny particles that I imagined must have been bits of dead flying insects.

  Before long I was driving the causeway leaving Green Haven proper and so entranced in fleshing out the shreds of information left on my answering machine that I was no longer annoyed by the noise or poor visibility. Pondering the notion of a boat blockade, I recalled hearing about many such protests in recent years; mainly fishing boats making last-ditch attempts to derail government regulations. It was never a victory dance, but more of a surrender ritual, and I doubted that the Cobble Harbor blockade would be an exception. It wouldn’t amount to much, I was certain. This wasn’t at all like Greenpeace versus France in 1985. The Rainbow Warrior was blown up and sunk by the French government as a permanent solution to the environmentalists’ use of it to blockade shipping channels as a protest against nuclear testing. You would have thought that would have discouraged Greenpeace. But they built Rainbow Warrior II and she has been showing up in environmental pressure cookers ever since she first splashed water at her launching. Then I remembered a news story about surfers in Hawaii forming a human chain to stop the entrance into their harbor of a Superferry. Their gripe was that the speed of the ferry would endanger whales. So they put themselves in its path in protest. That didn’t do much for the public’s opinion of the surfers’ sanity. Given the water temperature in Maine, I figured the Cobble Harbor fishermen would remain aboard their boats.

  Deep in thought, I glanced at the fuel gauge and then at my surroundings. I was already in the middle of Ellsworth. Ellsworth, being the only gas-selling town along the way, was quite busy this morning. I decided to wait until the return trip to fill my tank, since the rain was coming down harder now. Peaceful protest wasn’t a bad thing, I supposed. And trying to stop it might be seen as censorship on the high seas. Even a motley group of fishermen has the right to protest. I recalled recently hearing Green Haven lobstermen complaining of pending gear restrictions and modifications meant to protect whales. Whales, it seemed to me, find themselves at the heart of a lot of discord—counter to their nature. To protest any regulation that even remotely helps whales is foolhardy, I thought. The only good that comes from such activity is a bit of solidarity among the sure-to-fail protestors. And it seemed to me that Cobble Harbor could use a little kumbaya in the midst of the sadness that I was sure shrouded them after the loss of a son and father so tragically and unexpectedly.

  Until the body of Parker Alley was recovered and put to rest, though, there might be some degree of unrest in Cobble Harbor. In a small town, closure is needed for everyone, not just the next of kin. Following today’s funeral for his son, the community of Cobble Harbor would be embroiled in the search for Parker. But I wouldn’t be surprised, I thought, as the road parted acres of spruce grown so thick individual trees were indistinguishable, if Parker Alley’s body had been found by the time I arrived.

  I eased up on the gas pedal as the road transformed from a route with an official number to “secondary.” No doubt the Coast Guard helicopters were back on the scene with their infrared ability. Infrared cameras could detect temperature differences of less than one degree. Of course, the gradient between a body and the ocean would become imperceptible once the body assumed the temperature of the water in which it was submerged. The best chance of success with that method had passed, I knew. And temperature would truly be irrelevant once the body sank. Still, after a body goes under, decomposition creates gases that will refloat the corpse, except when the water is extremely cold. In spite of all the evidence obtained through years of collecting, the activity of corpses in water is not an exact science. Although people always comb beaches looking for what the tide may have left, in this case I doubted Parker Alley’s body would travel that far. Drowning victims were usually found very close to where they drowned. You don’t work coastal crime scenes for as long as I had and not know these things. People disappear; corpses do not. Parker’s body would show up. And the Coast Guard would probably find it.

  A sign indicated twelve more miles to Cobble Harbor. I could become public enemy number one, I realized, if word got out that I was being compensated to investigate Parker Alley’s death with the hope of foiling payout of his life insurance benefits to the grieving widow. Although that would never be my prime motive, convincing emotionally stressed strangers that my purposes were noble would be tricky. I would be wise to wear my deputy hat and downplay the insurance gig. If my experience in Green Haven held true up the coast, law enforcement would not be welcomed with open arms in what I assumed was another self-sufficient, self-sustaining “we take care of our own problems” kind of town. If I was there to help organize the search for Parker Alley and gained trust and access from and to certain key people, I was confident that I could avenge the death of Jason by bringing real justice. I wasn’t really concerned with whether Parker had killed himself or not. My feelings after this morning’s conversation with Audrey resurfaced. Cauterizing the artery that carried heroin to the extremities was not what I had in mind. Stopping the heart from pumping was.

  The road wound around and up and down through cleared acres, the centers of which were marked with farmhouses—Cape Cod–architectured, clapboarded homes with brick chimneys. Nearly all of the inhabited properties were dotted with small outbuildings. Barns, outhouses, woodsheds, and lean-tos displayed an array of roofing material and pitches. Between homesteads were forests of evergreens and clusters of hardwoods whose wet leaves clung t
o branches that swayed in the gusty wind. The only anomaly in the picturesque vista was the yellow road sign with a black deer symbol cautioning drivers to beware. The sign was riddled with bullet holes. I hoped the shots came from a frustrated hunter and were not indicative of a violent citizenry.

  Farther along was an open field strewn with boulders; erratic rocks stranded by the melting of the last glacial period. Patches of low scrubby growth I knew were blueberry bushes lay in black charcoal, freshly burned. Doused in the rain, the scorched ground wafted a stale Cuban cigar smell, which was blown into my car by the fan. A sharp bend in the road led to another farm with its own fragrance. Split-rail fences surrounded muddy-looking pastures from which black-and-white cows barely noticed me as they chewed. These were livestock farms; there was an absence of cropland. Too many rocks and ledges, I thought as I crested the long gradual hill I’d been climbing for miles.

  The view from the top of the hill, even in the miserable weather, was so incredible that I stopped in the middle of the road to gaze out into Cobscook Bay. The line connecting gray sky and water was made distinguishable only by the whitecaps on the bay. From this distance, it looked like someone had shaken a paint brush out on a drop cloth. Miami’s shore, all skyline and sandy beaches, could never be seen from anything natural higher than sea level. South Florida and eastern Maine elicited such different feels, different weaves of fabric altogether, that it was dumbfounding to think that they were bookends harnessing the Atlantic Seaboard. The town of Cobble Harbor must be on the eastern side of the next hill below me, I thought. Never had the differences in my old and new home states been as poignant as they were right here and now, with farms tucked into hillsides behind me and the ocean sprawling below. Sad to think that heroin was a link in common. I had my work cut out for me, I knew. Treading on brand-new turf would require new techniques and rules. Cobble Harbor would have no crack houses to storm or corner coke whores to shake for information.

  On the horizon, from my vantage point, rose an island out of the ocean. All round and smooth like a polished stone, Acadia Island appeared more inviting than it did when seen from Green Haven. I’d get there before the snow flies, I vowed as I looked in my rearview mirror to ensure that I was not holding up traffic. With no one in sight in either direction, I could have stayed. But I had duties to perform.

  Continuing down the road that twisted around hills like a vine on a trellis, I forced myself out of the passive meandering I had been enjoying for nearly two hours into a more alert consciousness. The road I drove dead-ended at a stop sign marking a T intersection. Although there was no sign, my sense of direction and trip to Cobble Harbor by water yesterday pointed to the left. Soon I was on what I would call Main Street. The faded yellow paint line separating two lanes of traffic disappeared as the road narrowed between large stately-looking houses on either side. Nearly all of the houses were white with black trim and shutters. Many homes were crowned with a widow’s walk, the small perch on top of the roof from which wives of sea captains could look out over the bay when husbands were expected home from voyages. This was the Maine you read about.

  After a long row of pristine houses with picket fences, there were a number of small businesses, indicating that I was getting close to the waterfront. Restaurants, shops, antiques, a dentist … all advertised with tastefully designed and neatly painted wooden signs. I now understood the expression “hanging out a shingle.” It dawned on me that I hadn’t seen a single human. Hell, I hadn’t even seen a dog. The businesses had lights on inside, so they were open. Perhaps everyone was at Jason Alley’s funeral. It was gloomy. The weather and the funeral would probably limit the number of protesters, I thought. There would always be a few diehards who lived and preached principles while everyone else went about their business, believing but not acting. Between buildings on the right side of the road, I could see glimpses of water. But I couldn’t find a road to get to it. Finally, just when I was searching for a good place to turn around and try the other direction, I saw a road marked with a sign that read PUBLIC LANDING—FISH PIER. I couldn’t imagine anyplace else where Cobble Harbor dyed-in-the-wools could stage a protest or launch a boat blockade. I made the turn and hoped to find someone on the pier I could ask. I took a deep breath and realized that I was about to raise the curtain for Act I of a remake of an old show starring me.

  The gate that protected the pier was connected to huge metal buildings for boat storage. As I entered the gate and passed the buildings, I saw that the menfolk of Cobble Harbor were all present and accounted for. I had it wrong. Blue lights flashed on top of state police cars and uniformed officers with megaphones paced the aisle squished between two agitated swarms of men. The curtain was up. Did I make my entrance, or wait in the wings?

  6

  OKAY, MAYBE THAT WAS a little dramatic. But in the spirit of “everything is relative,” I must admit that I was taken aback by the scene as it was so different from what I had expected to find at a peaceful demonstration in Cobble Harbor, Maine, on a dismal day. Measured against other civil unrest I had witnessed, the place was not exactly crawling with cops. There were two cruisers, both with lights flashing as stated, and four officers—one of whom had a megaphone. The crowd was not an angry mob—more like an upset group. From what I could see, there were two sides engaged in what, even from my sealed car, sounded like a heated discussion. There wasn’t a chance I would sit this one out. With so many people assembled in one place who might be on the verge of emotional outbursts and the disclosure of information they would otherwise have kept private, this might provide a real break. Discourse fueled by the heat of the moment might include useful information. Maybe I would gain a clue or two toward my investigations into vandalism, Parker Alley, and (if I was really lucky) Cobble Harbor’s drug connection. I found a place to park, secured my holster, donned my rain gear, pocketed my badge, and headed for the center of the fray.

  I approached the group slowly, intending to blend into the outskirts and listen until I had learned enough to make my presence known. I again looked over the crowd. Strangely, a few of the men were dressed in suits and long raincoats and wore Dick Tracy hats. They didn’t look like cops but they sure weren’t dressed like fishermen. Perhaps there was more going on here than the small ruckus I had been promised. Before I got close enough to blend, one of the state police officers saw me coming and slipped away from his post. Positioning himself directly in my path, he planted his feet and crossed his arms at his chest. “May I help you?” he asked.

  “Actually, I’m here to help you,” I said as I took a step to the side so that I could see the other men. He shifted over in front of me, forcing my attention to his face, which clearly depicted his attitude. It wasn’t at all threatening. But he was giving me the look I had come to think of as a Maine thing. Not all, but most of the Mainers I had met were so suspicious of me upon first sight that I came to feel, in their eyes, as if I were a snake-oil salesman. I could almost see new acquaintances squeezing tight their wallets in protection. Maine would not be fertile ground for scam artists, I thought.

  “You brought muffins and coffee?” he asked with a smile. His uniform pants were so wet they clung to his shins. The circle of men behind him was loosening. The party was breaking up. I had arrived too late.

  I dragged my badge from my back pocket, held it up briefly, and shoved it back in. “No muffins. Sorry.” I stuck out my hand to offer a shake. He accepted politely and his expression bore an apology for what could have been considered a chauvinistic remark. My skin had grown so thick over the years that nothing fazed me. Confidence and competence speak much louder than screams of discrimination. “Jane Bunker. I’m with the Knox County Sheriff’s Department. I got a call about a blockade protest and came to see that everyone behaves. I’m really surprised to see state police here,” I said, hoping for a reply that might answer my real question: What the hell are you doing here?

  “Everyone is surprised. No one more than us. We never tread on count
ies’ territory. It takes an act of Congress to get staties to respond to namby-pamby stuff like this. No offense. My guess is that a senator called the department. When deep pockets get worried, heads turn, and we get the nod. Know what I mean?” I really didn’t have any idea what the officer was talking about, although I enjoyed the fact that he seemed to feel the need to justify his presence to me in what he assumed to be my turf. The guys behind him were dispersing. I recognized one of the dark-suit-and-trench-coat men, but couldn’t quite place him. “Looks like we’ll be out of your hair soon.” The officer gave a glum nod to the man I thought I recognized as he passed. “All these guys want is to scatter a few ashes on the water; at-sea burial, I guess you’d call it. Now that we’ve discouraged the blockade, I think it’s safe for them to go about their memorial service for that kid.” A sudden gust of wind sent a chill through me as I realized that the familiar face was that of Parker Alley’s brother, whom I had met yesterday.