Deathbed (Dovetail Cove, 1971) (Dovetail Cove Series)

by Jason McIntyre

  She’d overheard Nurse Anne talking with ol' Doc Sawbones on the phone a few evenings ago. She’d heard phrases like “organs in shutdown” and “jaundiced skin.” She’d heard one that stuck her heart like a hat pin. “Not long now.”

  That’s the one that had hurt. Not long now.

  Farrah knew how dire those three words were.

  Sure, she was selfish and sad that her Mommy wasn’t here. But that her gran had reached a spot where the doctor and the nurse agreed on the use of those three words, that was, as Doug Birkhead would say, “Downright shitty.” It was the worst.

  So now, as Farrah perched back upon the edge of Gran’s wadded bed, she gave a thin smile and took Gran’s long, bony fingers in her warm little hand. “Gran,” she said earnestly, noticing the thinness of the woman’s hair and her colourless lips. “Can I read this to you? It looks interesting.”

  “Oh,” Gran said, smiling so much that her eyes involuntarily closed, tilting up and making her look briefly like her old self. “Deary, I’d love that more than I can tell you. Let Gran lay back and you just read until your little voice goes out. If I sleep, you give me a nudge. I don’t want to miss a beat.”

  And then Gran laid back. She didn’t close her good eye. And her smile didn’t entirely disappear. As Farrah opened the leatherback book to the first page of writing, she thought she heard Gran muttering something. She wasn’t sure, but she thought it was “Grand tapestry...grand tapestry...grand tapestry...”

  Part II

  The Tin Man and the Apprentice

  Thursday, August 9., 1956

  1.

  Police Chief Sorenson asked that I write down everything that I remembered from the day that everyone around here refers to as ‘the incident.’ I did that, on Seven longhand pages using a yellow legal pad he gave me—well after my hand cramped and my wrist started aching. Hadn’t written that much since school. I got in trouble a lot and that meant writing lines on the chalkboard. Chalk was cheaper than ink back then. Nowadays, the kids have so much. Too much, if you ask me. But I don’t think there’s any point in getting married and having a family. That sort of life would be more trouble than it’s worth.

  So, yeah, I wrote those Seven longhand pages for the chief. But the real story is much longer than Seven longhand pages. The real story tells it all. I was there on August 9., 1956. The beginning of the end, I’d say, at least for the kingdom of Dovetail Cove, as it was following the war.

  Chief Sorenson is old and nearing retirement. My hope is that he’s completely washed out to sea—maybe retired and living with his wife down in Florida—long before anything more comes of this. When there’s a regime change, it takes sometimes years for the new administration to get up to speed. That’s why four-year terms of office for the White House is a damned joke. It takes two and a half just to get the stock room re-ordered and the names on the checks reprinted.

  No reason why a swap-out for a new police chief would be any different. And that would mean any official investigation they open would stall out pretty quick. Most of the people involved might have left the island by then. Or they’d have new jobs. Or they’d have cloudy memories. Or bought memories.

  Oh sure, the plant might limp along—but it won’t be the same. It’ll have a skeleton crew compared to the heyday when I was Facilities Manager there. It might even make enough power to sell back on the mainland. They laid those cables down at the bottom of the ocean, built up the short-run rail lines and integrated the cartage system for overseas. They kept this under wraps and had the thing float a while longer.

  But it wouldn’t be near as good without me. Nope. Dennis H. Munn had things running like a well-oiled machine.

  Does it matter to me? Not really anymore.

  But I’m going to put every detail down here in this book. For my own peace of mind, and to ensure that nothing gets clouded by time, distance, or the almighty dollar. I intend to lock it up and keep the key with me, so no one gets any ideas.

  I have a feeling this book will come in handy.

  2.

  August First began as a cloudless Thursday. I left my place a’quarter past nine. I was pretty keen to get in before the electrician arrived. I supposed I’d gotten into the habit of coming in late and leaving early. But when you have the place as well organized as I did, it didn’t much matter. My guys knew who buttered their bread and covered for me, if it was ever needed. It rarely was. That’s the good thing about having a boss that’s elected and has most of his constituents off-island.

  My other supervisor—the one who was in-house—he was the problem. Technically, we were at the same level, though he was in charge. I hated him. And that’s putting it mildly.

  But as long as he left me be, I never looked for him and he didn’t bother to seek me out. I just didn’t want the gate guys calling him to let the electrician in if I wasn’t there yet. Pain in the ass for him to come all the way out of the dungeon, as we called it, just to let the electrician in and show him where he needed to be.

  I’d surely hear about it later. And I wanted to avoid that.

  So that’s why I was bushy-tailed and sipping my coffee a little after nine as I walked briskly out across the main lot. I had a pretty cushy deal, I admit. Government contract, right? So, nine a.m. was early for me. I was usually out of there by three in the afternoon, too. I was one of the smart ones, though. I knew how good off I was.

  So I get there and Jimmy—he’s one of the good guys at the gate—I stand around with him and there comes the electrician in his truck, cruising in a cloud of his own dust.

  “I got this, Jimmy,” I told him. “Pop the gate, kay?” Jimmy did. I was his senior by quite a bit and he knew to finish up the shit-talk about his weekend when it was time for work.

  The metal gates swung open and the van pulled up to me. The electrician rolled down his window. “Morning,” he said. He took a swig of coffee from his mug. “You in Facilities?”

  “I am,” I told him. I didn’t bother with my name. I figured a guy like him should know the name of a guy like me. Without me, there is no him. “And who’s this?” I said it leaning forward and making a show of noticing his passenger.

  The boy in the passenger’s chair of the electrician’s van leaned forward and gave a casual wave. He looked like he might be about nine or ten. I was bad with guessing ages though. Add to that, I hated kids and didn’t pay them much mind. “Sean’s my boy,” the electrician said. “He’s starting his apprenticeship with me.”

  From over in his jump seat, the kid piped up. “Learning all Dad’s tricks of the trade,” he said. His voice hadn’t cracked yet. It had a bit of a girlish lilt. With longer hair, he might pass for one.

  “Don’t care whether he’s learning to whistle Dixie,” I told the electrician. “He’s not coming into my facility. He’s not on the list and he ain’t cleared.”

  Without missing a beat, the electrician took another swig of his coffee. It looked hot and black and strong. Steam poured out into his face. “Make room, okay?” he said and started putting his vehicle into gear after handing his mug to the boy.

  “For what?” I said, taking a step back.

  “For me to turn around. There’s no space unless I go in through the gate and come back out—”

  “Turn around?” I said. I was getting irritated. It was too early in the morning for shit show shenanigans. Usually it was Drumheller giving me this kind of guff.

  “Yuh,” the electrician said. He was so casual. It was pissing me off.

  “Well, where in Sam Hell you going?”

  He looked at me—glared at me. “You don’t want Sean here, then you don’t want me. I got plenty of work, Mister. I’m going home. I’ll have another job lined up by noon.”

  I laid into him. I think in my other report, I left a lot of this out. But I want to remember it right. This guy was being a real prick. I said, “Now you listen here—”

  But he cut me off. He said, “No, you listen here. I don’t have time
for this. My son is learning the business. So I need to do my business. If you have me hired, then you have him hired. Otherwise, I’m gone.”

  He started ahead, letting his foot off the brake. “Watch your toes,” he said, snide-like. “I’d hate to crush ‘em.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I said. Drumheller needed the panel upgraded. He’d been after me for two weeks and, finally, he’d relinquished and let me get an electrician not on the approved list. We needed to follow government rules for this kind of stuff. But I had my budget, and if I could get things done under that budget, I could spend the money on...other things, if you catch my drift. I had a million creative account numbers.

  But anyway, I made sure we didn’t have anyone on the approved list available for this job. I waited just long enough so’s Drumheller’s need for the panel was dire enough that he cleared me to get a local. I got this electrician on the list. But I needed the work done. There was, quite literally, no one else that wouldn’t need a ferry ride and another forty-eight hours for a criminal record check.

  “You letting Sean in with me?” he said.

  “I am,” I told him. “But I’m pissed about this. You never said anything on the phone about bringing a minor in here. We haven’t had time to clear him—”

  “He’s a kid,” the electrician said with that well, duh tone that people get when they think they know better.

  “I know, I know,” but if he so much as lifts a staple-puller from someone’s desk, it’s my ass in a sling. And then it’s yours. You’re vouching for him.”

  “Fine,” the electrician said.

  “Pull ahead, park up there,” I said, motioning to the place where a few stalls were filled with cars and trucks. “We walk from there. We’ll need to go to the security office and get him a badge. You’ll both be signing waivers and non-disclosure agreements.”

  He pulled ahead. I didn’t know if he was carrying his air of knowing better with him. But I felt like I’d been bettered. I didn’t like it.

  He got out. The kid, Sean, he got out of his side and started unloading tool kits and boxes from the back of the van. He unfolded a nice-sized hand-cart and started stacking things up. It was chilly. The boy only had a jean jacket but he was working quick for his Dad who took more sips of his coffee and then tossed the last mouthful into a patch of weeds.

  They made no effort to come over to me. That pissed me off too. Finally, I caught the senior electrician’s eye and gave him a stiff wave. He started over to then.

  “Name’s Ketwood,” he said. “Island Electrical. You met Sean.” The boy nodded. He was pushing the hand cart and was a couple paces behind.

  “Well, Sam,” I said, turning. “I’m D.H. Munn. You can call me, Mr. Munn. Office is this way—”

  “Well then,” he said. “You can call me Ketwood,” he shouldered a drill kit and a length of cabling to lighten his kid’s load considerably. “My friends call me Sam. And we ain’t friends.”

  3.

  I got them processed. Jimmy’s boss, a guy name of Edmond, did it pretty quick. Ketwood had his boy sign a copy of everything. He looked up at me as he watched the kid put his sloppy John Hancock on that last one and said, “You know none of this is legal, right? He’s nine, ten in a month. He’s not allowed to sign any kind of legal document.”

  “Gotta make sure he doesn’t tell any of his kiddy friends about anything he might happen to glance at while he’s on the premises,” I told Ketwood.

  Ketwood just rolled his eyes. I looked at Edmond, who shrugged as if to say, Bastard’s got a point here.

  “Where’s this panel?” Ketwood asked. “Let’s get to it.”

  “In the dungeon,” I said. “Down in the tunnels.” I said it for effect. But Ketwood and his boy didn’t flinch. Neither cared. I guess this was just a job. They didn’t bow before me or my mighty power plant. That pissed me off too.

  4.

  I got the Ketwoods settled at the panel after we took the elevator down to level Seven.

  At the station, every level from the ground floor up was named by a military alphabet. Alpha, Beta, Charlie, and so on. Going down in the elevator took you on a numerical trip. I’d been down as far as ten but I knew there were more levels. It bugged me that the facilities manager didn’t have security clearance for the whole shebang. One day, I’d figure out a way to see it all. I’d figure out a way to go all the way to the bottom.

  Since I was down as far as Seven, I thought I’d get started on another little project. I needed something to make me feel better after the piss poor meet-up with this Ketwood feller. Usually, the guys I got on out here were forever grateful. Usually, they kissed the ground I pissed on. Not this guy. He had no intention of being hired back. He knew I needed him for this bit of work and he knew I wasn’t about to send him packing until it was done.

  So the Ketwood feller and his boy had brought the new electrical panel down with us to Seven.

  I stood at the doorway of the utility closet—one of fifteen or sixteen in the whole facility. The letter sections above ground were pretty small next to the rest. One reactor, one cooling tower, plus all the stuff that went with them. I was the facilities manager, but the reactor was mainly looked after by a crew that reported over my head. I could throw my weight around but, for the most part, I didn’t. I was no engineer, no scientist. I trusted that they wouldn’t blow us up. And I cashed my pay checks every second week.

  I kept them in hot water. I kept the halls clean and the exits clear. I made sure the bulbs were changed and I had a staff to do it.

  Thing was, the below-ground levels of the facility were the most interesting part.

  The power station on the island was built for a bunch of reasons. One, to test out the viability of a small, cheap design. I think the cooks in the kitchen wanted to see if they could plop these cookie-cutter reactors down all over the mainland and bring power wherever they could truck or rail in the raw material. The island was a microcosm experiment for a lot of things. And nicely contained should anything ever go south. We even had our model train set up to bring in our raw uranium from the south mine, a place by the name of Caterwaul. I’d never been down that far but a guy name of Frank Moort had his crew ran the rail line out of there. It either came our way to drop off the yellow cake (we processed it downstairs before use in the reactor, but I’ll get to that) or they rode it out of town to the old terminal where it went off island. I suspect our government agency was selling it overseas at quite the profit. I have wondered how much of it was going to come back our way—through the skies, bolted inside missile heads.

  Two, the station was built because there was already a much bigger project going on under the island. It had started some time after the First World War but really got cooking after Korea and the Second World War. There were bunkers all over the island. And this station was built directly over the biggest one. In fact, when the reactor was built up to what it was at its pinnacle, it had been integrated with the underground workstations and a whole new layer of modern modules had been constructed down there. I didn’t know the half of what was there. But I knew that the experiments down there needed a heck of a lot of power. And we were generating it upstairs.

  Ketwood let out a sigh as he surveyed the other two panels in the big utility room. He held a small flashlight in one hand and used a current tester to trace the lines. “What is it?” his boy, Sean, asked him, blowing his curly red hair out of his eyes and trying to look as serious as his dad.

  “Well,” Ketwood Senior said. “Let’s use this as our first lesson for the day. When you look at this, what do you see?”

  Sean thought for a second as he surveyed the mishmash of electrical lines then at me over in the doorway. “Looks like a total mess to me,” the boy said to his pop. Not like he was scared he’d see the back of his father’s hand, but that his pop wouldn’t like to hear it.

  Ketwood ruffled the boy’s bright curls. He seemed like the type of man who was, surprisingly, patient to the ends of
the earth with his kid. That bugged me. Kids should be hidden away until they’re at least old enough to warm a coochie.

  “Right, Son,” Ketwood said. I could see the little tilt of his smile, even from a few feet away. He bent down and opened the lid on one of the tool kits they’d brought. He was hunting for something.

  “Dad?” the boy said.

  “Uh-huh?” Ketwood said.

  “Who would have done this so...so...ass-backwards?”

  Ketwood fought a laugh. Clearly, that was a term the boy had gleaned from him. Then Ketwood looked over at me. “Government workers,” he said. “Contractors paid twice an honest wage for shit work. That’s who.”

  He got back up from his crouch with a crack of one knee and an audible creak of his overused hinges.

  “Are we gonna be able to...work with it?” the kid asked.

  Ketwood started his screwdriver on one of the breakers. “Sure will, Son. Munn?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “This is gonna take more time than I said it would. Now that I see it for the rat’s nest it is. Do I have your approval for three more hours?”

  I stood silent for a moment. Truth was, we had all the budget in the world for this. When Drumheller made a request, it usually didn’t matter what it cost. Drumheller, he was above me. I hated it, but Drumheller had clearance to go all the way to the bottom. “Sure thing,” I said of the extra three hours. “But you’ll still be done today? You brought everything you need?” I didn’t feel like getting into it with this pissant and his kid. I just wanted the job done and Drumheller off of me about it.

  “For sure,” Ketwood said. “Finish up later today. Tickidee-boo.”

  I remember thinking how that phrase, tickidee-boo, it didn’t suit a man like Ketwood. He was a black-and-white kind of guy. He didn’t make small talk. Any mention of the weather was incidental with a man like Sam Ketwood. He was patronizing me. I remember thinking that if he pushed it further, I would have to flag it for him. He would do well to pay me my due—after he finished with the panel.