by J K Ellem
Did you just call me "Boy?" Shaw thought. The guard was in his late fifties, bald and overweight. He huffed and puffed as he struggled out of the compact sedan, damp patches of sweat under the arms of his uniform. He wore a utility belt with the usual things a mall-cop or local security guard carried. No weapon Shaw noticed, nothing more serious than maybe an extendable baton in one of the pouches on the man's belt.
"It was you who was driving too fast," Shaw countered. "And you were hogging the middle of the road." Shaw didn't take kindly to being told his driving was reckless. The Secret Service had trained him. He could do things with a vehicle that would make Jason Bourne look like a learner-driver.
Annie emerged from the passenger seat. "Are you crazy?!"
The guard put his hands up to calm Annie down. "Now, look here, Miss." The guard made a show of straightening his utility belt as though wearing one gave him a certain level of authority. "You guys aren't even supposed to be up here on this road."
Shaw knew the drill and played along. The guy was obviously full of his own self-importance. A name badge on the uniform said "Ricard". He wasn't a police officer, just a guard who worked for a security company, who spent his days and nights driving around checking on doors and windows. Shaw decided to indulge him. "Look, I apologize."
The guard glanced at Shaw, taken aback slightly by the sudden apology. He pulled out a small hand towel and dabbed his sweaty brow.
Shaw continued, trying to appease the situation. "We were just up at the look out, taking a few pictures. Nothing more."
The guard’s eyes shifted to the woman who was still giving him a hostile glare. "It's private property up here, you know."
Shaw frowned. "I thought this was a public road, you know, to get to the lookout?"
The guard said nothing.
"Technically, this is a public road because it grants access to the public look out up at the point on the cliffs that’s owned by the National Park Service,” Shaw explained.
The guard’s eyes narrowed, his ruse discovered.
Shaw could almost see the cogs in the man's head seize up. No one had ever challenged him before. He wore a uniform and drove a car with security company decals on it so why would they? But that approach didn't wash with Shaw. "So we are entitled to drive on this road. The Ballard’s don’t own it.”
"The Ballards!" the guard exclaimed, puffing his chest out. "What do you know about them?"
Annie cut in. "Their caretaker said it was okay as well, to park up there and walk to the lookout."
The guard gave a scowl. "What caretaker?"
Now it was Shaw’s turn to feel played. "The one who is looking after their house,” Shaw replied. "While they're away for the summer.”
The guard looked at Shaw like he’d just grown a second head. "There is no caretaker!" he spluttered. "They don't have one."
"Are you sure?" Annie demanded.
"Of course I'm sure! I've been patrolling the Ballard property near on 5 years now. Three patrols a day."
Shaw and Annie exchanged looks.
"There ain't no caretaker, that's for damn sure," the guard huffed.
27
This time when they drove up to the mansion, they parked in the driveway. Shaw and Annie waited outside while Ricard entered the code in the keypad and walked in through the gates.
Ten minutes later he reappeared. "Everything looks fine. I didn't see anyone." He wiped his face again with the towel as if the mere effort of getting out of his car and walking around the house had exhausted him. "Couldn’t see any forced entry. All the windows and doors look secure."
Annie looked at him in disbelief. "You didn't go inside? Maybe the caretaker is inside."
Ricard let out a sigh. "Can't do that. Don't have the keys. I just check the perimeter and like I said, everything looks secure."
Shaw and Annie didn't mention the padlock on the side gate, it would only make Ricard suspicious. Then he would ask all sorts of questions.
"So what did this man look like?" Ricard asked.
Shaw noticed that the security guard was now regarding them both with a suspicious stare. "Can't really remember," Shaw lied. He had memorized the caretakers face in great detail. "Didn't pay much attention to him."
Ricard nodded and switched his questioning to Annie. "And this person said that they were the caretaker here? Looking after the property?"
“That’s right,” Annie replied. The man posing as the caretaker had been very convincing. Annie had thought it had settled the matter for good until Ricard had nearly run into her car.
"You folks not pulling my leg, are you?" Ricard looked at Shaw and Annie skeptically.
Annie stepped towards Ricard as her anger flared. "There was a man here. Standing right where you are standing right now, not more than 10 minutes ago."
Shaw stepped in, seeing an opportunity. "Look, Sir."
Ricard 's face softened slightly as Shaw addressed him. He liked being called “sir". After all, he was important, had an important role even if most folks didn't think so.
"You're in charge. You tell us what you think should be done."
Ricard was now smiling, his ego being stroked. Yes, he was in charge.
Shaw played ignorant. "Maybe he left by another road?" Shaw knew the answer already but played along, allowing Ricard the chance to correct him.
Ricard rocked back and forward on his heels, taking the bait. "Now, that's where you're wrong. There's only one road in and out of here. He would have passed me and you on the same road going back down."
Shaw made a show of thinking. Then he said slowly, "Well, I guess we need to call the police, tell them what has happened. You need to call your supervisor, report this incident."
Ricard's eyes flared with genuine fear.
Shaw continued, enjoying making the man squirm. "Someone will need to call the Ballard’s, tell them to cut short their vacation and come home."
"No, no, no…" Ricard spluttered. "There’s no need for that, please." In all his years as a security guard, Ricard had never filed an incident report. He had an unblemished record and he wanted to keep it that way.
What Shaw was suggesting—that the client be called while on their holiday—was overreacting. He could lose his job if it turned out just to be a wild goose chase. After all, the place was locked tight. Why bother the client?
"Look," Shaw stepped forward. "I'm Ben. And you are?"
After a moment, Ricard relented. "Malcolm, but people call me Mal."
"Well Mal….is it okay if I call you Mal?" Asking permission first was important. Shaw had conducted enough interrogations to know how to manipulate the situation.
Ricard nodded.
"Look Mal," Shaw continued, "I don't want you to get into any trouble."
Ricard 's eyes went wide. Now he was really worried.
Shaw nodded at Annie. ”We won’t report what we saw. You decide if you want to. You're in charge, after all.”
Ricard’s shoulders visibly slumped, all his pervious bravado had evaporated.
Shaw knew Ricard wouldn’t call it in. But he would investigate it himself just to be sure. Shaw suspected Ricard had a pretty cushy job, not much strain or stress, almost insanely boring in Shaw's mind.
Ricard just nodded, relieved, his mood now defeatist. "I don't get paid enough for this crap."
Shaw nodded. "But maybe keep an eye on the place a bit more, see if the man returns." Shaw was keen to leave. "Do you have a card or anything?” Shaw asked with no intention of using it. "In case I see the guy around town or something. I'll give you a call. Report it to you.”
Ricard’s head bobbed up and down, glad that his importance had been reinstated. He gave Shaw a company card with a toll-free number. But wrote his cell number on the reverse, telling Shaw to call him directly. Ricard just wanted to keep it between themselves.
Shaw understood, and they climbed back into the car, Annie behind the wheel this time.
As they drove away Shaw looked in
his side mirror, watching the Ballard mansion in the reflection slowly shrink behind them. At first, Shaw had only mild interest in the place. Now he’d changed his mind. He suddenly wanted to know a lot more about the property, but more importantly he wanted to know a lot more about the Ballard family themselves and Moors Island that they owned.
"So, who do you think the guy was?" Annie said as she drove. "The one posing as the caretaker."
"No idea," he replied. "But I want to know more about the Ballard’s, what they do, the family history, the history of the estate. And Moors Island.”
“Ralph Jacobson,” Annie said.
“Who?”
“We need to talk to Ralph Jacobson. He’s lived in Erin’s Bay longer than anyone else. Plus he also saw some strange lights in the sky at night. He mentioned it to someone I know a few days ago. I thought nothing of it at the time. It could be related to what I also saw.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Not exactly, but I know someone who does.”
28
Some say Ralph Jacobson used to be one of the richest men in Erin’s Bay, back in the heyday before movie stars, political families and New York bankers discovered the place. Others say that he was just an old recluse, a bitter old man who lived down on the coastal marsh; a confusing maze of waterways and shallow channels thick with rushes, sweet flag, wool grass, bur reed and cord grass.
They parked Annie’s car where the road ended then went on foot. They passed through tall forested wetlands thick with Swamp White Oak, Red Maple and Green Ash surrounded with dense thickets of Sweet Pepperbush and Witch-hazel.
The forest thinned then sloped downwards to the lowlands of the coastal marsh, an area of wet meadows and shallow marsh teeming with insects and other creatures that bit and nibbled at exposed skin. As they trekked, Shaw wondered how anyone could live down here, on the salt marsh.
Annie had called in on Edith Plover before they set out. Edith had provided her with a detailed hand drawn map of where to find the old fishing hut where Ralph Jacobson lived for close to twenty years. The map also came with some sage advice: “The man at times can be quite senile, Annie. Just be careful and make sure you don’t get stranded in the marsh at dusk or you may never get out until dawn.”
Shaw’s boots squelched with each step he took, his feet sinking a little further in to the soft, boggy terrain, the bottom of his jeans soaked through.
Then, in the distance, the shape of a wooden hut appeared. It was a rough timber construct, sturdy enough, built out over the deep marsh water on thick poles. A wooden walkway led from the bank out to the hut and there was a small dock to which an aluminum boat with an outboard motor was tied.
They pushed through waist-high bulrush and pickerelweed towards the hut, Shaw contemplating if Ralph Jacobson owned a gun. Maybe he was watching them right now. Maybe he shot unwelcome visitors.
The walkway creaked underfoot and Shaw pulled Annie to a stop. He then yelled out to see if anyone was home. There was silence. A light breeze rustled across the tips of the grasses. The door of the hut opened a fraction, just enough for both barrels of a shotgun to emerge and take aim directly at where Annie and Shaw stood.
Shaw raised his hands. “We mean you no harm Mr. Jacobson. Edith Plover told us where we could find you. We just want to talk, get some advice from a local who has been here for a while.”
The bugs circled and buzzed, but the barrel of the shotgun didn’t move.
“I brought something for you,” Shaw said slowly reaching into his back pocket, producing a half-quart of whisky, another piece of sage advice from Edith Plover.
The shotgun lowered a fraction, the door opened a fraction. “You armed?” came a rough, wheezing voice.
“No, sir.”
The door opened some more and Jacobson emerged and looked around unconvinced. He was slight of frame, all bone and gristle with short cropped white hair and a weathered face of bristle. He wore a fisherman’s bib over grubby overalls and battered worn boots. He looked wiry, resilient and strong for a man bordering on seventy years of age. He beckoned to Annie and Shaw and they edged along the walkway.
Jacobson cradled the shotgun in the crook of his arm and snatched the bottle from Shaw. “You’re that man who flogged those college kids,” Jacobson said, cracking the seal on the bottle and taking a mouthful, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down thankfully. He was a seasoned drinker.
“How do you know that?” Shaw asked. It had happened less than twelve hours ago and yet the news had reached this old man out on the coastal salt marsh in the middle of nowhere.
Jacobson wiped his mouth and gasped, looking at the bottle appreciatively. “You have been talking to Edith. Only she knows my favorite drop.” The whisky was the key and Jacobson opened the door wide and let them inside.
Unlike the order and neatness of Edward Brenner’s boat shed, the inside of Jacobson’s hut was a study in mayhem, and guiltless hoarding. Shelves sagged under the weight of fishing books and old magazines. Tidal charts and coastal maps adorned the walls. There were framed photos, blemished with age, of fishing trawlers pulling in their nets or tied up at the dock. There was a small unlit wood burner stove in the corner and a spread of spartan but functional furniture. A collection of old fishing rods were threaded through the rafter space overhead and an old fish net was draped over one grimy window as a curtain. The air smelt of salt, diesel and crustaceans.
Jacobson eased into an old recliner while Shaw and Annie sat down across from him on a sofa with its innards bursting out at the seams.
“You’re that librarian, too. Seen you around.”
Annie smiled, and nodded. “Mrs. Plover said that you saw some strange lights in the sky Mr. Jacobson,” Annie asked. “Out near Moors Island. We won’t take up much of your time. We just would like to know what you saw exactly.”
Jacobson’s eyes narrowed, “You mean those flying saucers I keep seeing, with those aliens inside. They keep flying out over that lighthouse. See them around here sometimes too, at night.”
“When did you see last them, Mr. Jacobson…” Shaw paused, feeling foolish, but when in Rome,“…the flying saucers?”
Jacobson gave a toothy grin. “You really whip those rich college kids like I heard?” The old man indicated to the old radio receiver that sat on a table in corner, the dials glowing yellow in the gloom of the hut. The soft, distant voice of a police dispatcher could be clearly heard between the crackle of static. Jacobson had been listening to the police scanner last night, had picked up on the commotion at the Hanson Estate.
Shaw gave a smile.
Jacobson slapped his thigh and gave a hoot. “Well, hats off to you, son!” he cackled. “Those spoiled little rich pricks think they can run this town. Their parents are worse.” He took another swig of the whisky before breaking out into a wrenching cough. “Got some blues in the boiler out the back,” he gasped, the cough finally settling down. “Should be done soon. Best crab around here. Caught them fresh last night in my traps.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jacobson, that would be great,” Shaw replied, trying to steer the conversation back on what he wanted to know. “So, about these flying saucers, where exactly did you see them and when was it?”
Jacobson rubbed his whiskers. “Let me see, maybe a week ago.” Between swigs of whisky and bouts of coughing Ralph Jacobson explained what he had seen. He was out at night in his boat, past the salt marsh and nearer the open water of the channel. It was close to midnight and he was setting the last of his crab traps when he looked up and saw lights hovering close to the lighthouse on Moors Island.
“It wasn’t a plane or helicopter?” Annie asked.
“Made no sound. Just hovered there, above the lighthouse. Then the lights started heading towards the shore, towards the cliffs.”
“Near the Ballard Mansion?” Shaw asked. “Did you see where the lights went?”
Jacobson thought for a moment. “I guess you’re right,” he replied after much
consternation. “Yep, I did see them head up there towards that place before the lights vanished. But other times I’ve seen them floating out over the marsh around here at night. High in the sky. Damn aliens must be! Wanting to abduct me, ya know. Do those sexual experiments and the like.” Jacobson gave another toothy grin and his eyes twinkled. “Mind you, I wouldn’t mind conducting a few sexual experiments on old Edith myself, if you catch my drift.” Jacobson gave Shaw a wink. Jacobson wheezed and coughed then drained the rest of the bottle of whisky. He got to his feet, rubbing his hands. “You both are in for a treat.”
He scuttled outside only to return moments later carrying a large tin plate piled high with steaming blue crabs. He placed the tin plate on an old steamer trunk in the middle and passed around a pair of pliers.
The crab was sweet and fresh unlike anything Shaw and Annie had ever tasted before. Reaching down, Jacobson found a latch in the floor and pulled up a small hatch to reveal the marsh water below. He chewed and threw the shells and dregs into the water. “Gotta feed the fish and do my bit for the environment,” he said.
Annie wasn’t fond of seafood but Shaw tossed a crab leg he had picked clean into the hole in the floor. It plonked in the water below. “So what can you tell us about the Ballards themselves?”
“What do you want to know, son? I’ve lived in Erin’s Bay all my life. They keep to themselves. Go away for the summer. Very private family. Used to see Henry Ballard, the father, a lot once. We used to go fishing together, but that was maybe ten years ago. That was the last time I saw him. I keep to myself these days.”
Annie wiped her hands on a rag Jacobson had given her. She didn’t want to mention about the person they’d seen up at the mansion posing as the caretaker. “What about the children? Do you remember what they looked like?”
Jacobson turned to Annie. “Pretty lady, that was years ago when I may have seen them, and my memory isn’t what it used to be. They’re probably all grown up by now.”
Shaw finished eating, he wasn’t really hungry but didn’t want to offend. Plus, the crab did taste good. “Mr. Jacobson, what can you tell us about Edward Brenner and his disappearance?” Shaw finally got around to the only question he was chasing.
