The island’s military history was the weirdest part of the entire story.
During WWII, Apocalypse Island had served as a fueling depot for the U.S. Navy. A five thousand foot runway was constructed along with supply stations and army buildings to add to Casco Bay’s defenses in the event of an enemy attack. No reason was given as to why the military had stayed on so long after the war. But the article had said that, although the military was gone, the site remained classified. Many of the facility’s buildings still stood today. The military had finally pulled up stakes and left the island in the mid nineteen-eighties. Just about the time the orphanage burned.
And although the military was gone, the site remained classified and the airstrip was off limits to civilian traffic. This intrigued Laura. Why had they stayed so long after the end of the war, she wondered? Why had they left almost immediately after the destruction of the orphanage? And if they were gone then why did the site remain classified? Being a person with a strong investigative intuition, Laura thought this was all too strange to be ignored.
The ferry left the Commercial Street terminal at 5:05 and returned at 9:15. She figured that would give her enough time to at least do a cursory inspection of the area. Recent laws had limited the use of cars on the island as was the case with most small Maine islands. Although there were quite a few roads, their use was limited to small electric vehicles such as golf carts, and bicycles. Either mode of transportation was available for rent at the general store just above the dock.
The dawn was amazing, the sunrise over the ocean spectacular. Although the air was cool she stood outside the cabin leaning against the railing sipping on a cup of hot coffee she’d purchased in the snack bar. The ocean was calm and there was some low fog lying still over the surface of the water, lending a ghostly atmosphere to the distant islands.
There were only a handful of other passengers on the trip across, fewer than a dozen, and some appeared to be crew. Laura carefully scrutinized each and every one of them, attempting to make sense of their place in the scheme of things. A bent old man with scraggly hair and a gray beard wearing a tattered trench coat kept to himself; he sat at a corner table inside the cabin furtively sipping on a cup of coffee; two stunningly handsome teenage boys who appeared to be brothers, both with dark complexions, hung out inside as well. Two men who looked to be business types, both wearing suits, sat at a table in the snack bar talking and drinking coffee. There was an older woman with gray hair who stood outside at the railing not far from where Laura stood. She was gazing longingly out to sea as though waiting for a ship to appear on the horizon. On the other side of the ferry stood a woman in her mid thirties. She was well dressed and very pretty, quite tall with longish black hair. Her coat had a fur collar. She pulled it up around her against the cold north Atlantic chill but never took her eyes off the approaching island. For some reason Laura was intrigued by her. She seemed so familiar. Laura was almost certain she’d seen her before but could not place her. She had a strong impulse to walk over and strike up a conversation with her, drawn to her as she was. She curbed the impulse, knowing that she could blow the whole case by being too forward. What she needed to do was look around, see what she could see, and if circumstances allowed, then take further action.
It was full light when the ferry docked at the island pier. Laura embarked and casually watched as travelers went their separate ways, paying particular attention to the attractive young woman. Again she wondered why she was so intrigued by her. The fog was lifting rapidly and fluffy fair-weather clouds hung suspended in a resplendently blue sky. Laura breathed in the pungent aroma of the salty sea and was reminded of her childhood in Portland. She continued to watch the woman as she walked in a casual gait, ascending the inclined road that led away from the pier.
Her attention was momentarily drawn back to the hustle and bustle of activity along the working waterfront. Fishing boats were pulling away and heading out to sea, stacks of lobster traps heaped along their gunwales. Workers were milling around going about their morning business in a not-too-hurried way that Laura suspected was a normal part of island life.
When she looked back toward the road, the woman was gone.
Curious, Laura traced her steps hoping to catch another glimpse of her. She came to a stop in front of a dilapidated brick institutional-style building halfway up the hill, surrounded by a tattered wrought iron fence. There were signs everywhere warning of danger and cautioning people to stay away. Laura suspected that this was the orphanage and wondered why it hadn’t been torn down long ago. The entire back end of the building was in ruin. Soot-soiled bricks lay in piles. Grass grew tall all around, lending the remains a lonely and forlorn atmosphere. Most of the building’s remaining windows were broken out. Around them there were licks of soot where fire had left its mark.
On the front of the building a giant red cross had been emblazoned. She stood outside the fence, gazing up at the structure in awe as emotions she could not adequately articulate seized her.
“My God,” Laura breathed. She was frozen in place, totally mesmerized by what she was seeing, by what she was feeling.
“You’re not alone,” a voice behind her said. “Everybody feels it.”
Laura whirled. The decrepit white-haired old man she’d seen on the ferry had come to a halt just behind her. He watched her with circumspect eyes.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked.
“Those emotions you’re feeling right now,” he said. “Don’t be fooled by them.”
“I still don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do. I know you feel it.”
Laura shivered. Much as she wanted to deny it the old man was right. She was strangely drawn to this place, and with the attraction she felt a terrible and unaccountable sadness.
“I wonder if you could tell me what this building was used for,” Laura asked.
“You shouldn’t be asking questions,” the old man said.
“Oh? Why not?”
The man’s gaze was riveting. “You’re a pretty one, and young,” he said. “You have your whole life ahead of you. I think you should leave.”
“What happened here,” Laura persisted.
“Bad things,” the old man replied.
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’s where the children died.”
“I see,” Laura said, her heart rate accelerating. She swept her arm as if to take in the entire building. “So this was the orphanage?”
The old man stood motionless.
“What happened here?” Laura persisted.
“Murder,” the man said with bitterness and Laura recoiled.
“Excuse me?”
“Murder I said. Children.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because two of them were mine.”
“Oh my.” Laura was totally floored. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Would you be willing to talk to me about it?”
The man shook his head.
“My name’s Laura,” she said, holding out her hand. “I care very much about what happened here.”
The old man eyed her outstretched hand but did not take it. “If you really care you’ll go away and forget about this place.”
“I can’t do that.”
“I didn’t think so,” the old man said holding her gaze.
“You think someone murdered these children?”
“I know.”
“Who did it? You could come forward.”
The man grunted out an ironic laugh and shook his head. “Never happen.”
“What would be the harm?”
“Plenty,” the old man said. “I think you should go away now.”
“But you’re the one who mentioned it. Why did you do that?”
“You’re not like all the rest. Most can’t handle what they feel here. It frightens them so they just go away.”
“I’m not like everyone else,” Laura said.
“I can see that,
” the old man said. “But I can’t help you.”
“The young woman on the boat with us,” Laura said. “Did you see where she went?”
“You’re the only young woman I saw on the boat,” the old man replied as he moved up the hill away from Laura.
“Really?” Laura said. “You didn’t see her? She was tall with long dark hair, wearing a coat with a fur collar.”
“What you saw was a ghost,” the old man said as he went. “And if you know what’s good for you you’ll leave this place and never come back.”
A Ghost? Laura frowned. “Damn,” she whispered, and as an afterthought she hollered out to the old man. “What’s your name, sir?”
He said something that Laura could barely make out but the nuances in the words had sounded a lot like Tanis Richey.
Chapter 55
Laura pulled out her cell phone and began snapping photos of the building from every conceivable angle, careful to make sure she wasn’t being observed.
Afterward, and with a good deal of reluctance, she decided to continue her walk up along the winding road past the ruined orphanage. She could not curb the impulse to glance back, however, perversely drawn as she was to that old building and its mysterious aura.
She passed by a church that had a decided outpost feel to it. A parish priest stood outside the building and nodded as she went by. “Nice day,” she said. The priest did not reply.
Someone long ago had carefully constructed the building from fieldstones which had more than likely been gathered right here on the island. Unlike the orphanage the church appeared to be well kept. Laura imagined congregations gathering here on Sunday mornings. The view of the bay and the mainland beyond was spectacular, inspiring.
A half mile or so beyond the church she came to a long, flat plain surrounded by a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Every ten feet or so there were government installation signs warning people to keep out. Inside the fence she saw a long concrete runway and several outbuildings, some large enough to house aircraft. She saw no planes and there didn’t appear to be any way to get inside the compound. She wondered what she’d do if she did manage to get inside.
But Laura could not stop thinking about the woman on the ferry. Who was she and why had Laura felt such a strong connection to her? Laura was nearly certain that she’d never met the young woman before, yet there had been something both familiar and unsettling about her. Laura went back in her mind and tried to put the threads of connection together, but only drew a blank. And the man with whom she’d had a conversation. Why did he deny seeing the woman? He’d called her a ghost. What did he mean by that? Was this Tanis Richey the legendary king of Apocalypse Island? He said he’d lost children in the fire and that all the kids had been murdered. She’d been unable to find any reference to murder on the internet. Only that no children had survived the fire, which Laura was seriously beginning to doubt. Had the government somehow been involved? And if so then had they covered something up?
Laura spent the next hour or so walking the picturesque trails along the island’s shoreline but saw nothing else that made her suspicious. When she looked at her watch she realized that the time had literally flown by, so she made tracks back to the dock and took the nearly empty ferry back to the mainland. As she crossed back over to the city she felt Apocalypse Island calling to her.
Chapter 56
Wolf woke with the nightmare close in his senses. He lay in bed breathing in vast spasms, every nerve in his body jangling. One thing was certain almost immediately; he was no longer cuffed to the bedpost. The handcuffs dangled freely, the key lay on his bedside stand and his left wrist was free. Jesus, no, he thought.
He looked at the clock and could not believe it was 10:00 a.m.
He got out of bed, standing on weak and trembling legs, pulling ragged breaths into his aching lungs. His body felt stressed and wrung out, as if he had run a marathon. His heart almost stopped when he saw the patches of soil on his bare feet mixed with blood and dirt all the way up to his knees. He inspected his hands and found more soil and blood. He checked the bed and confirmed that the blood and soil had been transferred to the sheets. He quickly stripped the sheets from the bed, balled them up and threw them in the corner of the room.
Good God, had he actually been out of the house? Had the dream been some twisted semblance of reality? Is that what this was about? His body seemed on fire, itching and burning and sore. His hair hung in sweaty strands around his face. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” he whispered as the entire memory came back to him with vengeance. “What the fuck is going on with me?”
He walked sullenly to the window. His apartment was at the back of the building on the second floor. It was an old wood-frame structure that had seen better days, built during the Victorian era. It sat on a side street with an alley behind it that led out onto a vacant lot which, in turn came back around to Sparrow Street. Across Sparrow Street another alley led between two other antiquated wood frame tenements, and behind those buildings a chain-link fence separated the residential properties from a long abandoned athletic field. These days the vacant park was used mostly by drunks and indigents, a hobo haven littered with empty wine bottles, beer cans and cigarette butts. The surface was mostly sand with sparse patches of grass growing out of it looking like errant tufts of green hair. Beyond the park a forest of litter-strewn scrub hardwoods made its way down a hill toward Commercial Street and the harbor beyond.
Trying to ignore the soil-smudges on the paint-chipped windowsill he tried the window. It lifted easily. Impossible because he always kept it locked. Outside was a fire escape constructed of pressure-treated lumber that led down into the back alley. Wolf craned his neck and saw the soiled footprints on the stairs. The feet that made them had not been wearing shoes, and they were so large they didn’t even look human. They were not his footprints. He stared at the landing then down at his own soiled feet.
He pulled his head swiftly back in, closed the window with trembling hands, walked trance-like to the shower and stepped into its needles of heat. His mind was a jumble of white noise, all mixed up and filled with conflicting emotions.
Was he a killer?
Is that what the dreams were trying to tell him?
He stood in the shower for a long time feeling the weight of the dead woman in his arms. The flood came as if from a fountain, mixing with the pounding water and running into the drain, washing his life away like a river from his soul. In prison he’d been a tough and bitter candidate and could not remember shedding a tear. It was as though he had lost the capacity to feel. Now, in a single moment of unchecked self absorption all his natural defenses deserted him; pride, ego, self-respect. In doing so a reservoir of memories opened up within him and he remembered the fire and the screaming children and terrible men who would be the architects of his future, and he wondered, not for the first time, if hell was a place that burned with a strange blue fire.
By the time he stumbled from the shower he knew what he had to do. He staggered back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of his bed pressing the heels of his hands against his wet eyes. Reaching beneath the mattress he extracted the Glock, chambered a round and placed the muzzle in his mouth. Inconceivably the words to an old song came to mind. Hello darkness my old friend. He closed his eyes and began applying pressure to the trigger.
There came a sudden and insistent knocking on his door. His heart rate accelerated and he nearly pulled the trigger. He took the barrel from his mouth and quickly tucked the gun back under the mattress. The knocking persisted and he was sure who it was. He nearly laughed at the absurdity of the interruption. Raymond Tripp, the bearer of admonitions, had just unwittingly saved his pathetic life. He slipped into jeans, wiped wetness from his face with the back of his hand and went to answer the door shirtless. He drew back the bolt, opened the door a crack, peered out and his breath caught in his throat. Standing on the other side was the woman he’d met in the bar the night before. Both relief and a deep suspic
ion washed through him. Who was she? What did she want? Why didn’t she just leave him the hell alone?
“Oh, it’s you,” he said in an accusatory voice. “How did you get my address?”
“Whoa,” she said, backing up a step. “Did I come at a bad time?”
He frowned and tried to close the door. Laura stepped forward and put her foot in it, blocking his attempt.
“So, I gather you’re not glad to see me?”
“Did Mike and the guys tell you where I lived?”
“Maybe,” she said, sizing him up. She saw his wet eyes, sensed his anguish.
“Christ, those idiots!”
“Listen, you look like you could use a friend. How about stepping aside. I want to talk to you.”
“Don’t you listen? I told you, I’m not what you think I am—”
She put a finger to his lips silencing him as he backed into the room. “Shhh,” she said. “Whatever you are you’re not a murderer.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m pretty sure,” she said, running her eyes up and down his body. He appeared to be quite a specimen with his beautiful skin and lean body, toned without being overly muscular. “I have good instincts. It’s all in the eyes. They belong to a troubled soul, true, but not to a murderer.”
He gave his head a baffled shake. “But I’m not even sure—”
She silenced him again, this time with a soft kiss on the mouth.
He took an involuntary step backwards, shocked. “Listen to me,” he said. “You’re putting yourself in danger coming here. Two women I’ve had relationships with have been brutally murdered.”
“I know all that, Danny, and I don’t care. I can take care of myself.”
He was still shaking his head obstinately. “You don’t know what you’re saying—”
“Shut up,” she said unbuttoning her blouse. Her braless breasts fell out. They were full and white and perfect.
“I don’t get it,” he said.
Apocalypse Island Page 19
