Scone Island

by Frederick Ramsay

  She wanted some answers. If she flew to Maine, she’d be following Garland’s advice to hide, wouldn’t she? Nobody knew about that remote place. And if Ike knew anything, she’d get answers. He was connected, and he owed her that much. Besides, Maine might be very nice this time of year; chilly, but nice. She’d make a quick run to the Magnificent Mile and shop for a nice ski jacket and some slacks, something in taupe with a fur trim. No, probably not fur. Too not-PC.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  A fire crackled in the living room—the front parlor in earlier times. It snapped and shot sparks like tiny missiles into the fire screen as the soft pine Ike used to create the heat needed to set the hardwoods to burning did its job. The Coleman lantern sat unlit in the corner, its white light absent and the room cozier for it. Ike put his feet up on the coffee table in front of the sofa on which he and Ruth were now seated. They had come in to the comfort of fire and hearth after they’d finished their meager dinner and after Ruth, as promised, had demonstrated her skill with a hand gun. Shooting “the eye out of a gnat” grossly overstated Ruth’s abilities, but she did manage to hit one of the four Spam cans he’s set up and two other shots came near enough, judging by the damage done to the piece of drift wood on which the cans had been placed. It would do. In a gun battle, he’d explained to a chagrined Ruth, if there was to be one, the best you could hope for was an intense field of fire—lots of bullets flying in the general area of the enemy. It seemed counterintuitive to Ruth and she said so, to which Ike had replied that obviously she watched too much television.

  “I rarely watch the tube except with you when you stream old movies and English mysteries with that Internet streaming thingy.”

  “The obvious source of your misinformation in either case.”

  “Okay, I give up. You are the expert in mayhem.”

  “I am. At least in the present company, I am. Not saying much, though.”

  They had settled into silence, each studying the dancing pattern the flames made as the logs hissed and popped.

  Ruth shivered. “Woo,” she said.

  “Woo? Sorry not following you.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Woo, as in nothing? Come on what’s with woo?”

  “Okay, it’s silly. When I was growing up and in a jam, or trouble, or more often about to do something my parents would surely disapprove, I’d get this shivery feeling before my mother popped around the corner and caught me red-handed, that’s all.”

  “You’re expecting the newly lithesome Eden Saint Clare to pop in on us now?”

  “No, of course not, I had a feeling like that is all. Enough for a small woo.”

  “Right. Shivery feeling and a ‘woo.’ Have I got it?”

  “Don’t get smart. You told me yourself you get hunches and premonitions and they kept you out of trouble in the past.”

  “I did indeed.” Ike’s expression slipped into something resembling a trance.

  “So, what are you thinking? Having a ‘woo’ yourself?”

  “No wooing here. I was wondering more than thinking. There are a few things I need to work through, that’s all.”

  “What kind of things? Besides the rest of the demonstration I promised you. I haven’t forgotten, so you don’t have to make your usual unseemly fuss.”

  “I wasn’t planning to. I trust you to keep your word, now or eventually. No, several things have been crawling around in my cerebral cortex. For instance, how likely is it Archie Whitlock came to the island without the agency knowing? And as a corollary, and assuming they did, isn’t it equally likely that they have placed someone on the island whose job it is, or was, to keep track of him?”

  “On that score, I confess cluelessness. I think the world of spies is a sea of lies. Did I make that up or am I quoting someone else and I’ve forgotten who? It sounds like Ogden Nash. Anyway, why is that important?”

  “It is important because if I am right, it means there is either help nearby or it creates another problem for us.”

  “I’m going with help. Of course, I do not know what I’m talking about, but I like help better than another problem.”

  “As do I. We will have to see what turns up. The next thing I would like to know is that little walkway on the roof—”

  “The widow’s walk?”

  “Exactly. Is it merely decorative, or is there access to it and can one actually walk on it?”

  “I am not sure.”

  “You never went up there?”

  “The few times I visited my great-aunt Margaret, the attic door was kept locked and I had strict instructions not to try to open it.”

  “And you, being the perfect angel you were back then, did not try.”

  “I did not, but it had nothing to do with being angelic. My great-uncle Oscar had mysteriously disappeared some years before and I got it in my head that he was locked up in the attic, doubtless dead and moldering.”

  “Vivid imagination?”

  “More like the only explanation I could dream up for a missing Uncle Oscar. The grown-ups were not going to say anything. I think old Oscar ran off with a chambermaid. They still had them back then, and no one wanted to try to explain what that involved to a nine-year old.”

  “Ah, the age of innocence. Nowadays kids are exposed to so much sex and violence on television, a missing uncle and chambermaid would seem pretty small potatoes. So, anyway, the widow’s walk, is it a functioning walk or an architectural frew-fraw?”

  “We’ll have to go see. I really don’t know. Not tonight, though. It’s cold and dark, and I’ll have to find the key to the attic door if it’s locked.”

  “Tomorrow morning would be fine.”

  “Do I want to know why you need to use the walkway?”

  “If it’s accessible, I imagine it has a view of the west shoreline all the way to The Bite. I’m also guessing it has a line of sight to the watch tower on the other side of the island as well. If that is the case, we can watch both and have a means of signaling to each other if we see anyone coming ashore.”

  “Signaling? How?”

  “Flash light.”

  “One if by land, two if by sea?”

  “Several quick blinks which will mean ‘here they come, get a move on.’”

  “I see. Yes, we could. I have an ancillary question. When the bugle blows and all this craziness begins, when do we sleep?”

  “In the absence of any help from the outside, we don’t.”

  “Then I’m going to bed right now and get in some serious REMs while I still can. Sorry about the second part of the promise, but I need sleep more than you need that. You can have your fun later, if we survive.”

  “Good thinking. Only you will not mind if, after we have buried ourselves in the duvet, I try to change your mind?”

  “There is no mercy with you is there, Schwartz?”

  “Who ever heard of a merciful cop?”

  ***

  The next morning Ike stood on the widow’s walk with the wind whipping at his parka. The air held the tang of salt and sea and on any other occasion he’d have noticed and remarked on it, but not now, not under the circumstances.

  He’d been correct. From the top of Ruth’s roof he could see north to the cliff that bounded Cliffside on the west, and south as far as the old Coast Guard building and The Bite. With Archie’s night vision goggles they could easily monitor this stretch of coast. To the east he could make out the top of the watch tower peeking over the treetops. If he was stationed there and Ruth here on the top of her house, they would not be surprised by anyone coming ashore. But, as Ruth had reminded him, how were they going to stay awake for the hours that could elapse before his attackers decided to move? They would need some help. He directed his gaze southward again and caught sight of a launch headed toward the island. He trained his binoculars on the boat and made out the logo of the Sheriff’s office on the side. Stone?

  He climbed down from his aerie and told Ruth of their good luck. He then set her to
sorting the remainder of their supplies, the items not to be squirreled away in one of the lurks.

  “I am off to tackle Deputy Stone and Henry Potter. When I get back, we will finish the preparations on the various escape routes and then…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

  “While you are at the store, buy out Potter’s stock of booze. I have a sinking feeling we will need it pretty soon.”

  “Last thing we need, but I will empty his bandages and first aid supplies.”

  Ruth covered her ears. “Not listening…la, la, la, la, la…”

  “Right. As long as you understand and remember, it is not too late to leave the island.”

  “La, la, la, la.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Charlie didn’t get a good read on the director’s reaction when he reported Neil Bernstein’s death and the response to it by the Barratt police. The director did make it clear that the penalty for abusing the system, particularly as it affected one of his agents, would be quick and uncompromising. That said, Charlie was to stand down until the FBI arrived and then tell them what he knew. Charlie said he would. He returned to his official motel long enough to ruin the housekeeping crew’s hard work once again, this time adding trash to the wastepaper baskets and a supply of fast food paper bags and empty Starbucks cups to the general disorder. Then he retreated to his unofficial residence to relax and think. He wondered if, by booking the double rooms, he wasn’t being overly cautious, paranoid even. He dismissed the thought. After all, he drew his paycheck from the CIA. Of course he was paranoid. It was in his job description.

  With little else to do, he began to call around the country for volunteers to provide backup for Ike. He had made less than a half dozen when his phone chirped and the director’s aide, Mark, informed him that under no circumstances was he to drag anyone else in on the Archie Whitlock business, and his access to his draw-down agents had been blocked. Bingo. As the old joke goes, you’re not paranoid if they really are after you. Archie, Ike, Neil, Al, and a younger director in Bosnia…connected? And if so, how?

  Now he had nothing to do but wait until he heard from Ike and to deal with the Feds sent to clean up Barratt’s dirty cops when they arrived. If they didn’t come in the next few days, he’d miss that show, too. Either way, since the agency had cut off all other avenues of support for Ike, he would need to move in himself. To do that, he’d have to be in two places at once and that meant, in turn, he would need to dust off his doppelganger routine— a ploy he’d managed a few times in the past. It was a tricky move under the best of conditions, and the current ones were a long way from the best of anything. But, no way would he leave Ike hanging out to dry. Besides, he liked Ruth Harris and owed her something for saving Ike from himself back when his life seemed dark indeed. The thought of the two of them knocking heads with the kind of people who could access the kind of resources that allowed them to drop a CIA operative from a helicopter in the middle of a federal park clinched his determination to proceed with his plans even if it could be construed as an attempt to flip off the boss who, the more he thought about it, genuinely deserved a flipping at a minimum.

  The double switch required that he find someone who shared his stature and was willing to do something off the wall, but not, strictly speaking, illegal for money. He decided to drive to Aspen. He would have no difficulty finding a suitable double among what he guessed would be a more than ample supply of financially strapped ski bums stuck in town as the tourist season melted away with the snow. With tourists bailing, their chances to cadge meals and lodging with compliant, would-be celebrities and snow bunnies would have shrunk significantly. He felt certain he could find someone near enough to his size who’d jump at a chance to exchange some small inconvenience for cash and a plane ticket to the next free lunch venue. And if his man was not in Aspen, he’d try Vail and, if necessary, the whole string of ski resorts and tourist towns that dotted the general area. He’d have his man, or woman for that matter, in a day—two at the latest. What broke drifter wouldn’t be happy to spend a short week in a motel with room service and three fifths of double-malt scotch for an opportunity to move on to greener pastures for free?

  ***

  Ike arrived at Potter’s store a few minutes after the police launch discharged its occupants. He recognized the broad back of Deputy Tom Stone entering the store lugging an official-looking satchel and an armful of packages. Apparently the launch skipper had been persuaded to serve as the mail boat as well. He hoped to corral both Stone and Potter. Explaining what he needed from them would require a carefully crafted and creative story. That is to say he’d have to lie convincingly while making the improbable plausible to two men who, he had no doubts, were no fools. But, before he did that, he needed to pump them both for more information.

  During his first minutes with Henry Potter, he caught sight of a woman making a quick exit from the side door. It had been out of the corner of his eye, to be sure, but it triggered something—another one of those moments, not unlike the one he’d experienced when he’d seen Archie’s weather tower go up. Only later did he figure that one out. Archie had one like it when he lived in Louisiana with his third or his fourth wife. Difficult at the remove of nearly ten years to keep Archie’s wives straight, or his weather stations, for that matter. He remembered thinking at the time that her name sounded phony, like she’d made it up somewhere along the way. Cora something…Cora Sharpe she called herself. He had toyed with the idea of tapping into the agency’s system and tracing her, but by the time he’d gotten around to it, Archie had moved on, this time to a stewardess—that’s what they were called back then, not flight attendants. So what was it about the fleeting figure in the door that made him miss a beat?

  “What say?” Potter leaned in to study Ike.

  “Sorry. Something distracted me for a moment. Can you tell me who that woman was who ducked out the door?”

  “Miz Smithwick, I reckon.” He lowered his glasses which were perched on the top of his head and peered in the direction Ike had indicated. “Yep, she’s one of the island’s regulars. Been coming to the island since she were a kid back in the fifties, maybe earlier. Before my time, for sure.”

  “It’s a little early for the summer people to arrive isn’t it?”

  “Well, it is that. They mostly show up here after Memorial Day, which is next week, of course. I reckon they’ll start turning up in the days after that. It’ll mostly be residents to clean up their properties, stock the larder and such, but yep, they’re on the way, you could say.”

  “Does Mrs. Smithwick usually arrive this early?”

  “Well, no sir, she told me she heard it were going to be a soft spring up here and she up and decided to come a month early this year.”

  “People do, you know. There was this lady come up about that time too. Writer or something. She said she needed to find her muse, whatever that is. Ain’t seen much of her since though. Now, that there Miz Smithwick, she were married to some fella in Washington, D.C. ’Course, he went and died some years back. There was talk then but…”

  “What kind of talk?”

  “Didn’t amount to much. You probably remember when the Congress was on a witch hunt back then about them Savings and Loans. I think he had to testify or something. It didn’t help none that he came to the country after World War II as some kind of refugee. Had that thick accent.”

  “Accent? With a name like Smithwick? What kind of accent?”

  “Couldn’t say. Somebody allowed as how he was from Africa, somewhere, but that don’t seem likely, unless it were South Africa. The man was as white as you and me.”

  “You said they came a month ago?” Potter waggled his bushy eyebrows and shrugged. “Tell me, the man who fell off the cliff, he was on the island then, too?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, Mister Staley did come the same time them two did.”

  Ike grilled him for another fifteen minutes and then told him “the story.” Pot
ter’s eyes widened, squinted tight, and then he gave Ike a knowing wink. One down. One to go.

  Stone turned out to be a harder sell. The tricky part involved distancing the deputy from his boss. He needed Stone on the ground but he definitely did not want to have to explain to the county sheriff why he, Ike, had been sent “on special assignment” to investigate the alleged murder of an anonymous old man. Ike implied, but was careful not to say so directly, that he was a federal agent, undercover, and the dead man had connections to organized crime. Fortunately Stone was still young and green and not conscious of the fact that cops sometimes lied. Most of the time they did so in the pursuit of the greater good, but occasionally they did it to cover their rear ends, and, once in a great while because they were dirty. The kid would learn in time. Ike felt a momentary pang of guilt for using the kid, but his choices were limited and the twinge did not last very long. When he felt sure Stone understood what he needed from him and Potter had assured him he understood the key words needed from strangers who arrived pretending to be renters, he set off for the cottage. He had to pass the Coast Guard Station on the way. He had paid little or no attention to it the several times he’d passed it before, but at this particular moment he felt drawn to its padlocked door. As much as he wanted to get back to Ruth, he veered away from the road and made his way down the slight incline that led to the building.

  The door’s lock hung from a rusty hasp and matched the two he’d seen on Pine Tree Island when he’d discovered the concrete construction. He guessed this lock would succumb to a rock as well. It would be interesting to know what Captain Gustave Staehle had left behind when he and his charges had vacated the island. It seemed odd that no one had broken in to the building after all this time. World War II ended before most of the people on the island were born. You’d have thought curiosity would have piqued someone enough to have a quick look inside at least. He walked north along the length of the building and turned the corner. At this point, he figured he would be out of sight. He found another door, this one secured not with the presumed standard Coast Guard issue padlock but a brand new combination lock, the twin of the one securing the Watch Tower door.