by Trace Conger
“Mitch Skinner,” Wallace said as he wrote the name down in his pad.
The woman stapled a thin stack of papers and set them aside. “Yep. Sure as anything you’ll find Mitch at Palmer’s. That’s a restaurant and grocery right there on Route 191.” The woman disappeared from the window and emerged from the small-office doorway. She walked Wallace to the front door and pointed across the parking lot. “You just go that way out of the parking lot, and it’ll be on your left. About three hundred yards. You can’t miss it. If you hit the other boat launch, you’ve done gone too far.”
“Mitch Skinner. At Palmer’s Restaurant.”
“And grocery store,” said the woman.
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
“If you’re going to have lunch there, be sure to try the freshwater clams. They’re delicious. My husband jokes that I’m on a seafood diet. If I see food, I eat it.”
Wallace offered a laugh and edged closer to the door. “Thank you, I’ll be sure to do that.”
“Stay away from the club sandwich, though. They use turkey bacon instead of the real thing on the club, and I don’t know about you, but turkey bacon just isn’t the same. No crunch or anything. And for a club, you gotta have that crunch.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Wallace. “Thanks again for your help.”
“Be sure to tell Mitch I said hello. Don’t let him talk you into playing nine-ball. He’ll take your money. He’s always on the hustle as the kids say ...”
She was still talking when Wallace closed the door and returned to his car.
PALMER’S WAS IN A TWO-STORY building that looked older than the woman in the post office. Gray cedar siding that hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint since the Carter administration covered the outside. There were three large windows with flaky white wood trim on the lower level and a single window with the same white trim on the upper level. Two faded Coca-Cola signs flanked the entrance.
The inside of the building was divided into two sections. The smaller portion offered convenience-store items. Cereals, milk, eggs, bread, beer, soda and bags of charcoal, among other items. The larger section had a long pine bar that looked brand new under several coats of polyurethane. Five booths with tables lined the front wall. A pool table stood in the back. An older man dressed in a red-and-black flannel shirt and blue jeans sat in the front booth, reading the Calais Advertiser.
“You Mitch?” said Wallace.
The man looked up from his newspaper. “Yep,” he said, looking out the window and then back at Wallace. “You ain’t from around here.”
“What, there’s no black people in Maine?”
Mitch turned a white-and-gray page. “Oh, yeah. We got black people here. Don’t have too many sixty-eight Shelby Mustangs, though. Not many Ohio plates neither. That is a sixty-eight, ain’t it?”
“Sure is. You got a good eye, old man.”
“Ain’t that old, son. Now, you act like you know me, but I don’t know you. Wanna remedy that?”
“Name’s Wallace.”
Mitch folded the paper and slid it across the table. “Okay, Wallace. There something I can do for you?”
“I hear you been here awhile. Know the area really well. That right?”
“That’s right. Been here a long time. Helped build half the homes around here.”
“You build any of those island camps?”
“Yeah. Me and my daddy built about a dozen of ‘em.”
“Well, then, you seem like the guy I’m looking for.”
“That so?” Mitch said, sipping his coffee. “What exactly is it you need, Mustang Wallace from Ohio?”
“Does Albert Harding have a place up here?”
“Sure does. He’s got one of those island camps. Didn’t build that one, though.”
A man shouted from the bar. “Mitch, you and your buddy need anything?”
“You want a bite?” said Mitch. “Clams are good.”
“No, thanks.”
Mitch turned toward the bar. “Nah, we’re good. Thanks, Jack.”
“But you know where he lives? Which camp is his?”
“Yeah, I know it. But Albert ain’t there. Would’ve seen him in town if he was. Been a few summers since he’s been back.”
“I’m not looking for him,” said Wallace. “I’m looking for his son, Finn. I think he might be on the island.”
Mitch scratched his chin and took another drink. “Yeah, I remember Finn. Course, been a while since I seen him too. Albert only gets up here ever few years and can’t say I seen his boy in five years or more.”
“You think he might be on the island?”
“Can’t say. I got no reason to get out that way. Guess he could be there.”
Mitch turned back to the bar. “Jack, you remember Albert Harding’s boy? He been in here?”
“Don’t think so,” said Jack. “But wouldn’t recognize him if he had. Been too long.”
Mitch turned back to Wallace. “No phone lines on that side of the lake. I guess I can run you over there if you want.”
“I’m looking to head over at night,” said Wallace. “Can you arrange that?”
“At night? I’ve lived here seventy-some years and even I don’t go out there at night. Ain’t no one goes out on this lake at night.”
“Why’s that?”
“This lake ain’t boat-friendly,” said Mitch. “Rocks as big as Volkswagens all over the place, just below the surface. Everywhere. You can git ‘round in the daytime pretty good, but at night? Hell, no way. Especially near those islands. You’ll send a boat to the bottom faster’n shit.”
“Then, how do you suggest I get over there?”
“You go when the sun’s up, dummy.”
Jack refilled Mitch’s coffee cup and offered a cup to Wallace, who waved him off.
“Mitch, I’m gonna level with you. I got some business with Albert’s boy. And not the good kind of business ...”
“The kind of business that follows you all the way from Ohio?” said Mitch.
“That’s right.”
Mitch tapped the table. “Why don’t you sit down then? Can’t talk business standing up.”
Wallace slid into the booth across from Mitch. “I got two grand in the trunk of that car out there. You take me over to that island come nightfall and that money is yours. Two grand. That’ll buy a lot of Jack’s clams.”
“Yessir, that’ll buy a lot of clams, but it ain’t gonna buy me a new boat. And if I take you out there at night, that’s what I’m gonna need, a new boat. But I’ll make you a counteroffer.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll take you out there in my boat, show you around the lake this afternoon. Show you how to get from the public dock to Albert’s island. I’ll even throw in an aluminum boat, battery and trolling motor. I got two of ‘em. Then, if you wanna risk it, you take that boat out at night. Won’t take more than an hour with that motor. It runs real quiet, too. You can settle your business and be on your way then. And all it’ll cost you is five grand.”
“Five grand?” said Wallace. “Pretty sure I was offering two.”
“You were offering two to take you to Albert’s place. Now that I know you ain’t going over there to play canasta, the cost is five. Figure that’ll keep me real quiet. And from the looks of that car you got there, five grand ain’t gonna break your bank. But you pay up before I take you out on the water. For all I know, Albert’s boy ain’t even there. I get paid whether he’s there or not.”
Wallace thought for a moment.
“You got a deal, old man.”
Mitch sipped from his mug. “Good,” he said. “Meet me at the town dock in an hour. You know where that is?”
“I know where it is.” Wallace paused. “How do I know you’ll keep your mouth shut? You being friends with Albert and all.”
“Said I knew ‘em. Didn’t say we was friends.”
“That right?” said Wallace.
“That’s right.
He’s a prick. Good with the fish, though. Only fisherman I ever seen who’s afraid of boats. Old fart can’t even swim.”
I STOOD ON THE DOCK inside the boathouse and looked into the dark-green water. The water under the boathouse was about six feet deep and except for two rocks the size of Rhode Island capable of mangling the shit out of a boat’s prop, the bottom was flat. On a calm day, the bottom is visible, but today the water was choppy, thanks to the rising wind, so I couldn’t see a thing. I untied my aluminum boat and moved it to the outside dock to clear room to work.
Kneeling at the front of the boathouse, I reached under the dock where Albert indicated and found a rope tied to an eye-hook. I’d probably walked over it a hundred times through the years, never knowing it was there. I severed the rope with a knife from the nearby workbench and pulled, but it didn’t budge. Albert took his time to secure whatever he placed on the bottom. I slipped off my sandals and lowered myself into the water. The chill hit hard, and my teeth clenched and my muscles tightened. The idea of finding twenty grand in cash was the only thing that kept my heart pumping and my blood flowing.
With my feet on the bottom, I pulled the rope again, but it still didn’t give. I didn’t want to yank too hard, given the rope was rotting from being submerged for a decade or more and could easily snap. I inhaled, closed my eyes and went under. I followed the rope with my hands until I found the handle of a plastic case. I eased it across the bottom until I got it out from under the dock and then came up for air. The case was maybe two feet square. Two cinder blocks kept it in place on the bottom. I dragged the cinder blocks up one by one and set them under the workbench next to two rusty boat anchors that had been decomposing for at least twenty years. Then, I pulled up the case.
Water and time do nasty things. Metal corrodes and plastic cracks. It’s a harsh environment and I expected the cash inside Albert’s case to be as soggy as my boxers. I flipped open the two clips and sprung the lid. Albert did it right. The box was watertight. Inside were twenty-eight stacks of bills. Tens and twenties. All bound with rubber bands. Dry as beef jerky.
I secured my boat in the boathouse, grabbed the case and headed to the main cabin to dry off. As I carried the case across the dock, I saw a boat crisscrossing the lake a few hundred yards out. Its throttle was buried and it was obviously in a hurry.
WALLACE MET MITCH AND HIS twenty-two-foot red mahogany boat at the town dock. The boat showed a little age, but a lot of care. Inside were two battleship-gray front seats that had been born blue. The rear of the boat was wide open, an uncommon feature on antique mahogany boats. Two wicker chairs sat in the open section. The middle housed the compartment for the inboard motor. Next to that was a cracked porcelain toilet. On the back of the boat, in large white letters, it read “DOT-E, MEDDYBEMPS, MAINE.” Just above the letters a small American flag swayed in what little breeze blew in from the west.
Wallace placed a foot on the boat, when Mitch grabbed his shoulder.
“Money first,” he said.
Wallace grinned. “All right. No need to get greedy,” he said. Wallace returned to his Mustang, opened the trunk and pulled out a white trash bag. He handed it to Mitch, who glanced inside, and then stashed it under the seat of his pickup.
“We good to go?” said Wallace.
“We are now. Get in.”
Mitch and Wallace stepped into the boat. Mitch took his place behind the wheel, and Wallace sat in one of the white wicker chairs at the rear of the DOT-E. Mitch fired up the ignition and revved the throttle a few times.
“Untie those lines, will ya?”
Wallace untied both ropes securing the boat to the dock and tossed them inside. He pushed the DOT-E away from the dock and Mitch slowly eased forward on the throttle.
“Nice boat,” said Wallace.
Mitch rubbed his hand across the smooth mahogany dashboard. “Thanks. She’s probably older ‘n you. Still runs real good, though. The water’s a little hard on her. Have to strip and refinish her every year.”
“Sounds like a lot of work,” said Wallace.
“Ain’t got much else to do.”
About fifty yards from the dock, Mitch opened up the throttle and a sharp green wake followed the boat out to the widest part of the lake. A few minutes of running and Mitch killed the throttle, and a rush of lake water splashed across the rear of the boat.
“We got to make a quick pit stop and then I’ll show you Albert’s place.” Mitch climbed out of his seat and wrapped his bony arms around the toilet. “Give me a hand, will ya?”
“With what?” said Wallace.
“With the toilet. Help me get it over the side. Don’t scratch the mahogany.”
Wallace helped Mitch lift the toilet over the side. The toilet slammed into the lake, splashing both men in the process, and disappeared into the green depths.
“Told the Holloways I’d get that to the dump for ‘em,” said Mitch.
“The dump?”
“It’s a good forty-five minutes out. This way’s quicker.”
Wallace wiped his wet hands across the front of his pants. “You a garbage man, too?”
“I take care of a lot of camps ‘round here. Check in on things; fix things need fixin’. Sometimes they need to get rid of things. I take care of it for ‘em.”
“Funny,” said Wallace. “I do the same thing.”
“Figured as much,” said Mitch.
With the toilet now a part of the natural habitat, Mitch hit the throttle and made a U-turn across the lake and headed toward the south end. They didn’t travel in a straight line. Mitch banked hard as they approached one island and then steered hard the other way once they passed it. He slowed to a crawl as they drew closer to a wide patch of reeds poking out of the water. He kept a steady eye on the lake surface as they passed through the reeds. Once safely past, Mitch pressed hard again.
About five minutes later, he eased back on the throttle and cut the engine. The wake once again drenched the rear of the boat and after bobbing for a moment, the water and the boat became still.
“We’re not too far from the dock. Just had to take a roundabout way to get here.”
“Because of the rocks?”
“Yep. That and the toilet. You won’t have to worry about that in the aluminum boat. The rocks, not the toilet, but we’ll get to that later. Come on up here.”
Wallace climbed into the front seat next to Mitch. His foot kicked something under the dashboard, and a deer rifle toppled forward onto the floor.
“What’s that for?” said Wallace.
Mitch kicked it back under the dash. “Fishin’,” he said. “No need to bait your hook.”
Mitch unfolded a lake map from his pocket and laid it out in front of Wallace. The map showed an outline of the lake. Numbers indicating lake depths appeared left to right across the sheet. Wallace noted the many changing numbers ranging from two feet to forty feet. Mitch had drawn a red line from the town dock, across the lake, around six small islands, hugging the southern shoreline and ending with a red “X” on the southeast part of the lake.
Wallace pointed to the “X.” “That’s Albert’s camp?”
“Yep.” Mitch pointed over the boat’s windshield. “And there it is in person.”
About three hundred yards in front of them was Albert’s island. Pine trees covered the one-acre island and reached high into the sky. Mitch gestured toward the slices of a green-and-white cabin through the pine gaps. A boathouse sat on the southern tip of the island and a long wooden dock reached out into the lake. An American flag flew from a slightly crooked flagpole carved from a tree trunk.
“If that flag’s out, then Albert’s boy is probably there. Islanders use it to signal if they’re home or not. No flag, no people.”
“What’s the best way to get on the island?” said Wallace.
“Well, all these islands are real rocky. So you’re either gonna have to pull up right to the dock or you’re gonna have to anchor somewhere out here and swim. You can�
�t get that boat too close to land. Not quietly anyway.”
“What about the boathouse?”
“Albert used to keep two boats in there.” Mitch picked up his binoculars. “Can’t tell if they’re both in there or not. You might be able to pull right in, but you won’t know until you get there.”
“Tell me about the camp,” said Wallace. “What’s it like?”
“It’s been awhile since I been there, but I remember there being two cabins. The main one has two floors. The smaller one is just a single bedroom. It might have a bathroom. I don’t remember. There’s a path that leads from the boathouse and dock up through the woods to the front porch. That’s the only way in. No back door. Last time I was there, the path was pretty clear. Just watch your step for low branches. Since Albert hasn’t been back in a while, it’s probably overgrown. All these islands are covered with moss and pine needles, so it’ll be real quiet. The hardest part for you will be docking your boat. It’s real quiet out here at night and aluminum boats can make a lot of noise.”
“Any other structures?”
Mitch shook his head. Nope, just the two cabins and the boathouse.”
“What’s the layout of the main cabin?”
“You walk through the front door and you got a kitchen on the right. The living room is straight ahead.” Mitch scratched his head. “Yeah, that’s right. And beyond the living room is the bathroom. The steps are to the right of the living room. All the bedrooms are upstairs. Can’t remember how many rooms are up there. Maybe two. It’s not a huge place.”
Wallace studied the map and traced the red line with his finger.
“So I just follow this line and I’ll be okay? With the rocks and all?”
“You won’t have to worry about the rocks in that aluminum boat. It don’t sit low in the water. The only thing you’ll have to worry about is the prop. It rides about a foot below the surface. You snap that off and you’re rowing. I’d stay at least fifty feet from the shoreline and you’ll be okay.”
“Will I be able to see out here at night?”
