by Ted Bell
There was even a piper in full regalia standing by the freshly opened wound in the rich earth. A white-bearded fellow wearing tartans, an old friend of Hook’s who’d rowed over from Vinalhaven for the three o’clock service.
At the center of it all, a yawning grave.
Alex Hawke was seated in the very last row beside his old American friend Brick Kelly. Hawke let his eyes wander where they would, taking it all in, the simple beauty of the rainy day and the still and perfect sadness all around him.
Down at the dock, Hook’s black ketch was flying signal flags from stem to masthead to stern, thanks to the young man whom Hawke had just met up at the house. A good-looking college kid Cam Hooker had hired to look after his boat that summer. The boy was sitting a few rows ahead of him with the grandchildren now, trying to keep them still.
Hawke had first seen the boy up at the house, trying to catch his eye all morning. Finally, Hawke had said, “Can I help you?”
“You’re Lord Hawke, is that correct, sir?” the boy had asked him as they stood together. They were both holding plates, everyone inching forward in the buffet line circling through the living and dining rooms. Both rooms were full of musty old furniture, cracked marine paintings, and frayed rugs made all the more beautiful by age and deliberate lack of care.
“I am, indeed,” Hawke said, puzzled. Why should anyone here know who he was? He stood out, he supposed, in his uniform. Royal Navy Blue, No. 1 Dress, no sword. Bit of a spectacle, but nothing for it, it was regulation.
“Ben Sparhawk, sir. I worked for Director Hooker this past summer. Helping out with Maracaya and around the dock. I wonder if we might have a word, sir?”
“Of course. What about?”
The fellow looked around and lowered his voice.
“I’d really rather not discuss it here if you don’t mind, sir.”
Hawke looked at the long line of people slowly snaking toward the buffet tables set up in the dining room. “Let’s go out onto the porch and get some air,” the Englishman said. “I’m not really hungry anyway.”
“Thank you,” Ben Sparhawk replied, somewhat shakily. He followed the older man outside into the damp air, misty rain blowing about under the eaves. “I really appreciate your taking the time.”
“Something’s bothering you, Ben,” Hawke said, his hands on the railing, admiring Camden harbor across the bay and the beautiful Maine coastline visible from the hilltop. “Just relax and tell me what it is.”
“I don’t really know quite where to start and . . .”
It occurred to Hawke that he’d always loved this part of the world. That someday he would very much like to own an old house up here. The late summer air full of white clouds and diving white seabirds, the endlessly waving tops of green forests, the deep rolling swells of the blue sea. Bermuda was lovely; but it wasn’t this. For the first time he understood viscerally what his old friend Hook had known and cherished all his life. Down East Maine was closer to Heaven than most places you could name. And you probably couldn’t even name one.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know the proper form of address I should use. Is it ‘Your lordship’?”
“It’s Alex, Ben. Just plain old Alex.”
The handsome young man smiled. “First of all, I haven’t said a word to anyone. About what I’m going to tell you, I mean. But I know who you are and I figured you’d be someone who’d listen. Mr. Hooker talked about you a lot, all the sailing you two had done up here over the years. Northeast Harbor, Nova Scotia, Trans-Atlantic.”
“We had some good times,” Hawke said, wistful for those fleeting moments, sadly missing his old friend.
“So he often said. Hook always claimed his friend Hawke was the finest blue water sailor he’d ever known, sir. But he was a good sailor, too, wouldn’t you say? I was only aboard with him a couple of times out in the bay. But you can tell, right?”
“Absolutely. Hook was a lifelong salt if ever there was one. Still competitive in the Bermuda Race until a few years ago. Why? What is troubling you?”
”Okay. Here goes. There is just no way on earth I can see what happened out there on the water as accidental. None.”
“Why?”
“Here’s the thing, sir. On the day it happened? Well, it was blowing pretty good out there, all right. Steady at fifteen, gusting to twenty-five, thirty knots. But nothing Cam Hooker couldn’t handle. Had I thought otherwise, I’d have volunteered to go with him. Not that he would have let me, but still.”
“Go on.”
“I know accidents happen at sea all the time, sir. Hell, I’ve had my share. But what I cannot understand, what I do not understand, is why on earth Cam Hooker would gybe that big boat, out there all alone, blowing like stink. I’m sure you’d agree that it’s the last thing he would do!”
“He gybed the boat? Good Lord. Why the hell would he do that?”
“Beats me, sir. A gybe? It’s the dead last thing anyone would do in a blow. Especially someone elderly and sailing single-handed.”
“I agree. But what makes you think that’s what happened?”
“Okay, here’s what I know. I had a few beers down at Nebo’s the other night with Jimmy Brown. He’s the chief of police here on the island. And he told me that when they found Maracaya, she’d drifted awhile and finally run aground on the rocks, out there on Horse Neck Island. The mainsheet, which Cam would have obviously kept cleated, was free. Why? Also, from where Cam was found, the position of the body near the gunwale, it was clear the boom must have knocked him completely out of the cockpit. And he was not a small man, sir.”
Hawke nodded his head, seeing it happen.
“That much force could only have resulted from an accidental gybe.”
“Yes, sir. And it was no glancing blow, either. His skull, sir, it was . . . almost completely disintegrated.”
Ben Sparhawk looked away, his eyes filling up.
“Damn it, sir. I’m sorry. I just . . . I just don’t buy it. Accident, human error, Cam’s old age, dementia, all that police bull crap. What they’re saying in town . . .”
“What do you think really happened, Ben?”
“Maybe I’m crazy, I dunno. But to tell you the truth, murder. I think someone murdered him.”
“Murder’s a strong word.”
“I know, I know. No idea how it happened. No idea why. But you asked me what I think and now you know.”
“Take me through it, Ben. Step by step. I’ll ask a few questions. Any information you think I need to have, give it to me. Can you do that?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“First. He was alone on board when he left the dock? Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And he sailed out of your sight alone?”
“He did.”
“But, once around the point down there, he could have seen a friend on the town docks, or someone on another boat in the harbor could have hailed him over. He could have stopped to let them aboard. A friend along for the ride or something.”
“He could have. But—”
“But what?”
“But he just never would have done it. Sunday was his day. He treasured every second he got to spend alone aboard that old boat. He didn’t go to church, you know. That boat was his church. His place of refuge. You know what he said to me early on in the summer?”
“I don’t.”
“He said, ‘I discovered something about sailing at a very early age, Ben. Something about the doing of it makes people want to keep their eyes and ears open and their goddamn mouths shut. I like that about it.’ ”
Hawke smiled. “He hated idle chitchat, all right. Always said they called it small talk for a very good reason.”
“Yes, sir. He said sailing all alone had been his salvation as he grew older. That’s what I think he believed anyway. I know he
had a wonderful family, too. Hell, everyone on this island loved him. Look at them all.”
“But you think he would never have stopped to take someone else aboard before he headed for open water.”
“Not unless they were drowning”
“Which means the killer, if there was one, had to be hiding aboard when he left the dock last Sunday morning.”
“Had to be. Only way.”
“But you would have seen someone, hiding aboard, I mean.”
“Not really, sir. All I did below that morning was clean up the galley, plug in the espresso machine, check the fuel and water, and turn the battery switches on. Didn’t check the bilges, didn’t check the sail locker forward. No reason to, really. But, still. I wish to God I had.”
“Don’t even think of laying this off on yourself, Ben.”
“Well. I’m just sayin’, is all.”
“When did you last check those two places?”
“The afternoon before. One of the bilge pumps needed rewiring and I climbed down there and did that. And I’d bought some new running rigging from Foy Brown’s. I stowed it forward in the sail locker until I could get around to it. Nothing in either place, no sign of anyone on board.”
“But it had to be a stowaway, Ben. If you’re right about all this.”
“Yes, sir. It did. But where was he?”
Hawke looked away to the horizon for a moment, thinking it through.
“Assume this is premeditated. He’s been watching his victim for some time now. Knows all his habits, his routines.”
“Like his weekly Sunday morning sail.”
“Exactly. So. Saturday night, early Sunday morning. Our stowaway comes aboard in the wee hours, when everyone’s asleep. Finds the boat unlocked, so he goes below. Finds room enough to hide in the sail locker up at the bow. Sleeps up forward on top of the sails and prays no one needs a reason to open that hatch before she next left the dock.”
“That would work.”
“Comes up on deck after she clears the harbor. Confronts his victim. Has a gun or a knife. Words are exchanged. Sees how hard it’s blowing. Sees the opportunity for an ‘accidental’ gybe. No one is around to see. He realizes on the spot that he can make the murder look like an accident.”
Ben nodded in the affirmative. “Maybe Cam knows him. Maybe not afraid of him. The killer stands there talking in the cockpit, making Cam relax, let his guard down. Then he suddenly frees the mainsheet and puts the helm hard over. Wham! She gybes! Cam never saw that boom coming at him.”
“Was there brain tissue found on the boom, Ben?”
“Yes, sir, I think there was. I heard a cop say so, but I couldn’t look.”
“Then what happens?”
“Looks around. Makes sure he hasn’t been seen, I guess. Leaves Cam lying there like that. Maybe dead, maybe still alive. But not for long. He uncleats the mainsheet, the jib sheet, let’s her drift with the currents.”
“How does he get off the boat? Water’s freezing.”
“Has a wet suit stowed up in the sail locker and swims ashore?” Ben said.
“Exactly. Are you thinking a native of North Haven? Cam have any enemies at all on this island, Ben? By that I mean serious enemies.”
“No, sir. He did not. Had a few run-ins with plumbers and caretakers, the usual disagreements over money or the quality of work over the years. But, as I say, most everybody who knew him, loved him. And nobody hated him. I would have known. Everybody knows everything around here, believe me.”
“So he comes over from the mainland by boat the day before. Late Saturday night, let’s say. His own boat, maybe, or a rental, or stolen in Camden harbor. Something to check out with your friends at the local constabulary. Sails over to North Haven from Rockport or Camden. Hides his skiff somewhere along the shore for the night. Hikes out here to Cranberry Point sometime after midnight and climbs aboard the ketch. Tucks in for the night. Main hatch leading below was not locked I’d assume.”
“Never. There’s one other option. He takes the ferry from Rockland the afternoon before. Brings his car aboard. Or, leaves it at the mainland ferry station. Either way.”
“You’re right. We’ve established opportunity. So, all we need is a motive.”
“I reckon you’d know a lot more than me about that kind of thing, sir.”
“I reckon I would, Ben. If I don’t, CIA Director Brick Kelly sure does. Thank you for coming to me. It was the right thing to do. Does Cam’s wife know anything about your suspicions?”
“No, sir, she doesn’t. I would never have said anything about what might still be a whole lot of nothin’. You are the one and only person I’ve talked to about this.”
“I may need your help here on the island, Ben. I’ll talk to the Director after the funeral.”
“Anything at all. I loved the old guy, sir. I’m pretty sure you did, too.”
“Look, Ben, I’m flying back to Bermuda first thing tomorrow morning. But if Brick Kelly and I both conclude that you’re onto something here, I’d like you to stick around here on North Haven as long as you can. Just in case we have any follow-up questions for the police chief or other things we’d like you to look into around here. When do you have to be back at New Haven?”
“I’ve got a few weeks left before fall term starts, sir.”
“Good. I’ll talk to Director Kelly tonight. If he concurs, you’re working for the CIA now, Mr. Sparhawk. Just temporarily, of course.”
“Yes, sir!” Ben Sparhawk said with a smile. For a second Hawke was afraid he was going to salute.
“Don’t get too excited, Ben, you don’t get the secret decoder ring just yet.”
CHAPTER 10
AFTER THE SERVICE, Hawke told Brick Kelly they needed to talk. Something that couldn’t wait until next morning. At first light, Hawke was giving the Director a lift down to Washington in his plane. He would drop him off at Andrews Air Force Base before heading out over the Atlantic to his beloved getaway cottage on Bermuda.
That evening, after the funeral, the two old friends strolled down into town from the Hooker place. Gillian had been kind enough to put them up for the night, in two tiny bedrooms up on the third floor, and they’d enjoyed spending the extra time together.
They were quiet, admiring the lights coming on in the little village of North Haven, and the old boatyards and the casino before climbing the hill to the Nebo Lodge. The inn overlooked the sailboats swinging on their moorings in the tranquil harbor. Nebo was the only restaurant on the island, and it was a damn fine one by Hawke’s lights.
They ate in the bar. It was packed with mourners drowning their sorrows. Hawke had once asked an old islander why folks seemed to drink a lot around here. “Because, boy, there ain’t nothing to do and we spend all our time doing it” was the fellow’s response. Every face Hawke saw there that night he’d seen earlier at Hook’s funeral. No one paid the slightest mind to the two off-islanders talking quietly at a corner table. Hawke had discreetly given the hostess a substantial gratuity to ensure no one was seated near them.
Their drinks came and Brick solemnly raised his glass of amber whiskey.
“To Hook,” the Virginian said. “None finer, and many a damn sight worse.”
“We loved you, Hooker,” Hawke said simply, and downed his rum.
“We sure as hell did,” Brick said, and signaled the waitress for another round.
He looked at Hawke, glad of his company. It had been far too long since they’d been able to spend a quiet evening together in a place like this. Something they used to do all the time. Just bullshit and drink. Small talk would come later, they had business to discuss first.
The tall and lanky Virginian settled back in his chair toward the window, his red hair aflame in the sunset’s last rays, his sea-blue eyes alight. Brick had always had an old-fashioned, almost Jeffersonian air abou
t him; he even looked a good deal like young Tom Jefferson in the prime of his life. He looked at Hawke and smiled.
“Well, old buddy? You said you had something to tell me,” Brick said.
“I do,” Hawke said, “And you said you had something you wanted to tell me. You first.”
Brick Kelly laughed.
“All right, Hawke, that’s how you want to be. There was a message waiting for me up in my dorm room after the funeral. The deputy director at Langley. Are you listening?”
“Fire when ready.”
“Okay. My guy. CIA Chief of Station, Paris? You know him?”
“Nope.”
“Guy named Harding Torrance. A lifer. Old friend of the Houston oil crowd, Bush forty-one appointee.”
“I remember him now, yeah. Big, strapping fellow. Real cowboy, as I recall.”
“Yeah, well, the real cowboy’s real dead.”
Hawke sat forward.
“Another one? Tell me what happened, Brick.”
“Died with his boots on, apparently. In bed in a suite at the Hotel Bristol in Paris. This was . . . what . . . roughly six hours ago now. Harding was with a woman, married, whom he’d just met in the hotel bar. Her room, she was a registered guest. All legit. You should know that this was not unusual behavior on his part. Torrance considered himself quite the swordsman. Neither here nor there, he never let it interfere with his work.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he saved a whole lot of innocent lives in the aftermath of 9/11. That gets him a bit of a pass in my book.”
“Cause of death?”
“Coronary. Big-time. Massive. Happened in the sack. According to his newly acquired inamorata, Mrs. Crystal Saxby of Louisville, Kentucky, they were having sex when the event occurred. She says she immediately called for a house doctor and administered CPR while she was waiting, but it was too late. He was gone by the time anyone got there.”
“So sad when love goes wrong,” Hawke said, sipping his rum.
Brick smiled.
“Yeah. Apparently the husband walked in while she was still nude. Sitting on his chest and attempting mouth-to-mouth, but that’s only hearsay. One of my guys on the scene provided that picturesque grace note.”
