Dangling by a Thread

by Lea Wait

  “Protection,” Jesse explained. “And to scare anyone off who tries to land.”

  “Not a gun?” I asked.

  “Not after Iraq,” said Jesse, quietly. “No guns. Never. And no explosions. No fireworks. Don’t want to disturb the birds. Arrows are silent.”

  “So they are,” Dave said. “And accurate. That was some shooting—to hit a man in a rocking boat at that distance.”

  “It’s a compound bow. And I’ve practiced.”

  “So I see. But why you’d have to hit my bad leg?”

  The two friends managed to grin at each other.

  “Have you any bandages? Dave’s bleeding,” I pointed out, obviously. “And the arrow’s still sticking in his leg.”

  “Don’t touch the arrow!” said Dave, quickly, although his voice was fading.

  “No bandages. Take off his shirt,” Jesse said.

  “Looks worse than it is,” Jesse pronounced, although I was pretty sure the wound was serious. Dave was bleeding too much for it to be a minor injury. Jesse handed me Dave’s shirt. “Soak it in the water.”

  Gram must have been right. Or Jesse’s grandfather had given him the same instructions. I soaked the shirt in the cleanest water I could find—this far from land the waves didn’t carry in much rubbish—and wrung it out.

  For the next few minutes Jesse and I took turns pressing the wet shirt against the wound. I rinsed the shirt out a couple of times. Gradually Dave’s bleeding slowed and then stopped.

  “I’ll feel better after we get you to an emergency room and you’ve had a tetanus shot and stitches,” I said. “Plus, you hit your head hard.”

  “My head hurts,” Dave admitted, softly. “But don’t worry, Angie. My tetanus shots are up-to-date.”

  “Why are you here?” asked Jesse. “I saw you yesterday.”

  Dave forced himself to talk. “I’d stay around and make polite conversation, but I suspect Angie’s right. I should have someone look at this leg. We came out here because we needed to talk to you. Did you go to see that lawyer like I told you to?”

  “After I left you yesterday. Aaron Irving. I made a new will. The way it was set up before, if either of us died the other one inherited the whole place.”

  A new will wouldn’t solve Jesse’s current problem. “Simon’s coming to Haven Harbor,” I put in. “Today.”

  “What?” said Jesse, turning toward me. “He hasn’t been here for years. Since we were kids.”

  “He’s coming now. Bentley’s paying for his airfare, and he’ll be staying at Aurora, the Wests’ estate. They’re friends of the Bentleys.” I didn’t take the time to explain they were relatives. “He’ll be close to people trying to convince him to sell.”

  “He can’t sell my island without me,” said Jesse.

  “The Bentleys have a lot of money. I don’t know what pressures they could put on him. Or you.” I was tempted to tell him about the possibility of Simon getting him declared incompetent, but he looked upset enough now.

  Jesse shrugged. “That Realtor guy, he said I couldn’t say ‘no.’ He said he had alternatives. I don’t know what he was hinting. My lawyer said the papers looked in order. The will was simple. I signed it. Might make a difference someday. But I feel pretty healthy right now.”

  “I felt pretty healthy until a few minutes ago,” Dave put in.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Jesse’s eyes filled. “Buddy, believe me. I didn’t.”

  Dave’s skin was getting more ashen. We were a long way from the Haven Harbor Hospital emergency room.

  I decided to add one more piece of information before we got Dave back in the Sweet Life. “You met Ruth Hopkins the other night,” I said.

  Jesse turned from Dave to focus on me. “The old lady who talked a lot?”

  “Right. Well, she called another friend of ours, who’s a birder, and she called the state Audubon Society. They’d like to get involved. Publicize your situation. They want to save the great cormorants, too.”

  “I don’t need more people,” said Jesse, pacing as I held the compress on Dave’s calf. He was bleeding again. “I’m settled now. I have to say ‘no.’ That’s all. I don’t need old ladies involved.” He shook his head. “Me and the birds just want to be left alone.”

  “No one’s going to bother you,” said Dave. “At least I hope not. But that Bentley guy has me worried. If money can change anyone’s mind, he can do it.”

  “I don’t need money,” said Jesse. “My disability checks and the interest from my share of selling my grandfather’s house take care of me fine. Got enough to pay the taxes and feed myself. What more do I need?”

  “Taxes,” I said, thinking. “Haven Harbor taxes?”

  “Five hundred dollars a year, due every November first.”

  Five hundred dollars a year wasn’t much. How hard would it be for the town to raise those taxes? This wasn’t the moment to find out.

  “I have to get Dave back to Haven Harbor,” I said. “He needs to see a doctor. Help me get him back into the boat.”

  Jesse nodded. “Sorry, man. This is going to hurt.” He got on one side of Dave and I got on the other, and we lifted Dave back toward, and into, the Sweet Life. We stretched him out on the floorboards as best we could. I tried to bail, but it was taking too long. Instead, I put both life jackets under Dave’s head.

  As I started the motor Jesse cocked his head. “Listen,” he said.

  The sound of another, louder, motor was clear over the water.

  “Who else would be out here?” Dave asked.

  “No one’s supposed to be here during nesting season,” Jesse said bitterly. “But they are.”

  We looked out past the Sweet Life. The boat we’d heard was a lobster boat. We watched as it headed around the island. Four people were on board. None of them looked as though they were lobstering. A fishing boat was silhouetted on the horizon beyond it.

  “Do many lobster boats come out this way?” I asked Jesse.

  He shook his head. “In winter, after lobsters move to colder waters, a few people drop traps nearby. Waters are getting warmer. Every year there are a few more traps. But not in August.”

  “Does anyone ever come ashore?” I asked.

  “Coast guard and marine patrol check on me every so often, especially when storms are heavy. They bring food and water and try to convince me to come into town for the winter. I do fine here.”

  The wind was picking up. We’d had a stiff breeze coming over. I’d been glad of my two sweatshirts, but now I pulled one off and tried to cover Dave’s leg.

  King’s Island would be frigid in winter.

  “Go. Take care of Dave. I can take care of my island. Know how to use the outboard?” asked Jesse.

  “Sure. Been a few years, but it works the way it always did.”

  “Sorry, friend,” he said, as he and I pushed the boat toward the water. I hoped Dave’s weight wouldn’t force the hull onto the sharper small stones on the beach. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  Dave nodded. “I know.”

  “Fair winds,” Jesse added.

  Dave needed to get to the hospital. And we had a bumpy ride ahead of us.

  It wouldn’t be a pleasant journey.

  Chapter 18

  “May I govern my passions with absolute sway,

  And grow wiser and better as strength wears away,

  Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.”

  —Verse taken from an old English poem and stitched on a sampler by thirteen-year-old Ann Tottington Rudd in Alexandria, Virginia, in 1817. Ann was a patriot. She also stitched, “George Washington was born February 11th A.D. 1732 appointed General of the American Armies A.D. 1775. Resigned A.D. 1783. Elected President of the United States A.D. 1789. Resigned A.D. 1796. Appointed General of the American Armies A.D. 1798 and died universally lamented December 14th A.D. 1799.”

  The trip back to Haven Harbor seemed to take forever. Dave pushed the life jackets aside and sat up a little, pressing
his hand on his calf to keep the blood from flowing. But after a few minutes he passed out, falling back on the jackets.

  I couldn’t help. The Sweet Life was a little boat, and the deep water currents tossed it from one side to another. I had to keep my hand on the tiller, directing our helm into the swells. Dave groaned as we hit each wave.

  Would he bleed out? Had he passed out because he’d lost so much blood, or because he’d hit his head on the boat as he fell?

  I kept focusing on that arrow. I hadn’t used a gun before I moved to Arizona, but most of my friends in Maine had hunted. A few dads had used crossbows. I’d never heard of what Jesse called a compound bow, but it had done the job.

  Hunting accidents were covered in Maine school first aid courses. We were taught never to remove a bullet or arrow. You didn’t know what you might damage in the process. Some students argued about that. After all, in movies the hero or heroine pulled the arrow out, or dug out the bullet, and went on to save the day.

  That was fiction, we were told. Get the victim to a hospital as quickly as possible had been drilled into us.

  I remembered that. But I hadn’t counted on being in a small boat three miles out with a badly wounded man.

  The sea water under the floorboards was now crimson.

  We only had a sixty-five horsepower motor. We were going as fast as we could.

  How long did it take Jesse to row to land? If he ever injured himself on the island, how could he get help?

  But that wasn’t my problem today.

  Two dark double-crested cormorants flew past us, low above the water.

  A week ago I hadn’t even noticed there were different kinds of cormorants.

  Right now I cussed all of them.

  If it weren’t for the damn cormorants Jesse might not be living on an isolated island, afraid for their, and his, future.

  And I wouldn’t be bumping through waves with Dave unconscious on the floor of this boat.

  About halfway back to the harbor I started trying to get my cell phone to work. Every couple of minutes I dialed 911.

  Finally, with the Three Sisters islands in clear sight, I reached an operator.

  Quickly I explained where I was, where I was headed, and why I needed help.

  The dispatcher promised an ambulance would meet us at the town wharf.

  That was all I could do.

  I hoped Dave hadn’t lost too much blood.

  Chapter 19

  “I have no Mother for she died

  When I was very young.

  But still her memory round my heart

  Like morning mists has hung.

  I know she is in heaven now

  That holy place of rest

  For she was always good to me

  The good alone are blest.

  Oh, mother, mother in my heart

  Thy image still shall be

  That I may hope in heaven at last

  That I may meet with thee.”

  —From unusual, anonymous sampler stitched in red and blue threads on white linen, including simple flowers, trees, and a house and fenced-in yard. Colors and simplicity typical of Pennsylvania German samplers; probably stitched about 1820.

  True to the dispatcher’s promise, Haven Harbor’s ambulance was parked near the dock.

  Summer guests and year-round residents were milling about on Water Street, watching. Expecting excitement. Ambulances don’t usually park and wait for those who need them.

  Memories of past marine skills came back to me. I managed to bring the Sweet Life in smoothly, with only a small shudder as we docked. Four EMTs were waiting for us with a stretcher. I tossed the rope to another man who’d docked his outboard. He tied us up as two of the medical teams climbed into the boat.

  “When was he shot? How long ago?” asked a young woman not much older than me.

  I glanced at my phone. “About forty-five minutes.”

  “Do you have another arrow?” she asked, as two of her companions carefully slid a board down into the boat and strapped Dave onto it.

  “Another arrow?” I asked, confused. “He was only shot once.”

  “Another arrow of the same kind. So the doctors can see what the tip is like,” she explained.

  I shook my head. I hadn’t thought about asking Jesse for another arrow. “Dave was in the boat when he was shot,” I added. “He hit his head when he fell.”

  “How long has he been unconscious?”

  “Maybe twenty minutes.” It had seemed forever.

  “Okay,” she said, holding out a hand to help me onto the dock. “We’re going to take him to Haven Harbor Emergency. What’s his name again?”

  “Dave—David—Percy.”

  “I know Mr. Percy,” called down the youngest of the team carrying Dave’s body up the ramp and toward the ambulance. “He was my high school biology teacher.”

  The woman in charge made a note and followed the others.

  I stood, not sure what to do next. My mind pulsed with relief and fragmented thoughts. The boat needed swabbing. Dave was in good hands. I should go to the hospital. I’d left my car at home.

  The ambulance took off. The hospital was several miles away. I’d have to go home to get my car.

  “Can I help, Angie?” Haven Harbor Police Sergeant Pete Lambert was at the top of the ramp. He and I had become, if not friends, then at least close acquaintances, in the past months.

  “Dave Percy was shot. With an arrow. They’re taking him to the hospital.”

  “Shot? Where?”

  “King’s Island,” I said, without thinking. “We were pulling into the beach there.”

  “Did you see who shot him?”

  “Jesse Lockhart.” Pete was taking notes. “It was an accident! He’s a friend of Dave’s.”

  Pete ran his hand through his thin brown hair. “Need a ride to the hospital?”

  “Please,” I said.

  The crowd at the dock was dispersing. Pete herded me through the few curious people who were left.

  “What happened, Pete?”

  “Was he really shot with a bow and arrow?”

  Pete ignored their questions and opened the door of his police car.

  He saved his questions for the ride to the hospital. “Dave Percy’s one of your needlepointers, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you two were just out for a pleasant boat trip this morning?”

  “We were going to see Jesse.”

  I noted that Pete hadn’t questioned who Jesse was, or called him The Solitary. He knew who he was.

  “Angie, I’m going into the hospital with you to see how Dave is. See if he can talk to me.”

  “He was unconscious when the ambulance took him.”

  “Let’s hope he’ll be all right. But I’ll have to put together a report.”

  “A report?”

  “Shootings, accidental or otherwise, need to be written up.” Pete didn’t look at me directly. “I’ll admit I’ve never had a situation like this one. We don’t have a lot of shootings in Haven Harbor. But when we do, they involve guns, not bows and arrows.”

  “It was an accident,” I repeated again as we pulled into the emergency room parking lot. “Dave and Jesse are friends.”

  Pete put his hand on my arm. “I don’t know if Jesse Lockhart had a license for a crossbow. But it’s not hunting season. And he sure shouldn’t have been shooting at anyone.”

  “I think he said it was a compound bow.” Did that make a difference? I knew a little about guns. All I knew about bows or arrows was what I’d seen in movies.

  Pete made a note. “I’ll check regulations. But no matter what he used, he shot someone. I’m going to have to call in Ethan Trask.”

  “Ethan?” That wasn’t good. Ethan was a Maine state homicide detective.

  “We’re going to have to question Jesse Lockhart, Angie.”

  “Question him?”

  “I hope Dave’ll recover. But even if he does, right now it sounds lik
e attempted murder to me.”

  Chapter 20

  “He shall defend and guide thy course,

  Through life’s uncertain sea,

  Till thou art landed on the shore

  Of blefs’d Eternity.”

  —Words stitched (along with birds, butterflies, flowers, and a bowl of fruit) by Mary Ann Coppen “in the thirteenth year of her age, 1826.” Mary Ann lived in Nova Scotia. Sampler-stitching was not as common in Canada as it was in the United States, so Mary Ann may have been a descendant of one of the Tory families who moved to Canada after the American Revolution.

  Attempted murder?

  All the way back to Haven Harbor I’d been hoping—praying—Dave would be all right. I’d been angry at Jesse for shooting him.

  It was an accident. It had to be. But legally . . .

  Jesse’d said he hadn’t meant to hurt Dave. But he’d aimed and shot him. “Will you or Ethan have to go to King’s Island to talk with Jesse?” I asked.

  “Unless he comes to us,” Dave said. “Under the circumstances, it would be smart of him to come in for questioning.”

  Jesse would never turn himself in. He chose to live on King’s Island so he could be apart from the rest of the world.

  He knew local coast guard people, and the marine patrol. But state troopers? Jesse had already proved what he’d do if someone he didn’t know came out to King’s Island. He’d shot his best friend because he was confused; because I was in the boat, too. What would he do if police showed up?

  Pete and I went into the emergency room together.

  Luckily, hospitals in small towns weren’t as picky as those in cities about sharing information. Especially if you were accompanied by a local police sergeant.

  “You’re the one who brought Mr. Percy in, on a boat,” said Dr. Karen Mercer after Pete and I had convinced the receptionist we had a legitimate interest in Dave’s well-being. “Does he have any close relatives?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “He’s never mentioned anyone.” I knew less than I thought about my friend. “He teaches at the high school.”