Harsens Island (2 page)

“What about my car? I had a Camaro. A fast one. Or do they expect me to walk to Michigan?”

“No,” Hunter said. “I suppose not.”

She reached into her case one more time, removing a metal ring with two car keys and two keys to the house in Harsens Island.

“I had it tuned, washed, and the gas tank filled. It bears Michigan plates and tags.”

Sam smiled.

“No offense, Lynn,” she said, reaching for the pen, “but I hope to never see you again.”

“Sam,” the lawyer said, “I don’t blame you one bit.”

**********

On Friday, May 2
nd
, the New York State Corrections Office released a brief statement declaring Samantha Moretti had committed suicide by hanging. The terse release stated her body had been claimed, and subsequently buried in an undisclosed location, by out-of-state relatives.

There was no further comment.

Jennifer Melillo’s black hair was cut in a short, modern style. Her facial features were elegant and lean. Her eyes were dark-brown orbs. Her lips were a brighter pink than her general tone; her upper lip was thinner than her lower lip, creating a pouty, sensual appeal. Her smooth, unblemished skin reflected an Italian heritage. Her beauty was natural and undeniable.

Her history was simple to tell and virtually impossible to confirm.

Her father had been a barber, her mother a homemaker. They had died years earlier.

The Michigan village she was raised in had withered and died: its downtown windows were now plywood, its post office closed. The hospital she was born in and the public schools she attended had been reduced to foundations, weeds, and earth. Nature consumed abandoned houses and vacant streets, transforming it into a modern day ghost town.

Public records did not display any loan or credit activity; she had never owned property, voted, or, until recently, possessed a driver’s license.

She had an uncle and aunt who had been prudent in their investments, and on their passing she inherited their monies and assets for a lifetime, including a cottage home on the shoreline of Harsens Island, Michigan.

On Saturday, May 3
rd
, she drove her white Camaro onto the ferry in Algonac, Michigan, which transported her to Harsens.

Her cottage was a short drive from the ferry landing. It was situated on an unmarked road off South Channel Drive; it had an unobstructed view of the Saint Clair River, and, as the crow flies, was a short distance to Canada and Walpole Island, a sovereign Indian Reservation.

**********

When she arrived at the cottage, she stretched and twisted, pausing to consider the exterior condition of the house and the garage. For several minutes she watched and listened to the river.

She wore a black tee shirt, deep-blue Levi’s and ankle-high black boots. She seldom varied from this uniform; the style provided an anonymity suited to her nature and habits; women found little to comment on and men could seldom find a way to use her clothing as a gambit to bed her.

The cottage consisted of three bedrooms, one bathroom, a living room, a kitchen with the usual appliances, and a screened-in porch. A barn-style garage sat at the end of a weatherworn, macadam driveway. That building was older than the cottage, having once served as a carriage house for one of the gentry; the cottage had come along decades later as part of a larger development.

For the last decade the house had been a summer rental; its upkeep and general maintenance had been managed by a local real estate broker. The garage was locked and had been strictly off-limits to any renter. The keys provided to her opened both; the alarm service for both had been disabled.

After passing through the porch screen door, she stopped and assessed the space: spider webs, dust, and warped floorboards; a wood ceiling haphazardly stained by rain, snow, and melting ice that had leaked through a failing roof; the general malaise and decay of a fifty-year old house.

Inside, she discovered the remainder of the cottage to be of a similar condition. The furniture was covered with plastic sheets, bedspreads and bed sheets. The stale air was punctuated by the sweet-sickly odor of a dead mouse. The dusty bathtub bore the wear spots of a thousand feet; the windows were gray and dirty; the wood floors were scuffed and worn. She thought it was in places like this that people conjured ghosts, sad spirits locked in time and space. She did not believe in ghosts. It was difficult enough to believe in the living.

She unloaded her few personal belongings from the Camaro and set them in the bedroom that had once been hers. She had not visited the cottage in ten years or more, and, as a child, had visited Harsens perhaps a half-dozen times. Her parents room contained only a few mementos and artifacts, faint echoes of past, vibrant lives.

She returned to her car. She started it, powered the driver’s window down, put the transmission in reverse, floored the gas pedal, and barreled backwards into the river.

The current tugged the rear of the car south before its wheels caught bottom; its front bobbed for a few seconds before the engine compartment flooded. She escaped through the window, and slogged onto the beach, certain Samantha Moretti was truly dead and gone.

**********

She dialed 411, information, asked for, and was routed to, a local tow company. A truck was dispatched, and the tow operator, the owner, a man named Elon Adams, arrived in an old truck, its exhaust puffing gray smoke.

Adams was lanky, almost anorexic, and of obvious African origin: he had sharp, dark brown eyes, caterpillar eyebrows, a broad, triangle nose, and thin lips. His blue, long sleeve work shirt was slightly frayed at the elbows, his black Dickies pants were smoother at the knees than the thighs, and his black, thick-soled work boots made him appear taller than he actually was. His skin was moist with sweat; he flashed generous, slightly disjointed teeth.

“Goodness!” he exclaimed when he saw the car resting on the shoreline. “What is this story? Was anyone hurt? Are you injured?”

She explained she’d lost control, mistaking the gas for the brake, a common enough error. She reacted indifferently when he said he was required to treat the wreck like an accident; she was uncaring about his subsequent call to the local constable, a man he referred to as Sheriff Rowland. 

Before Rowland’s arrival, Adams asked if she was certain of her claim, adding there wasn’t much about the island or its inhabitants the sheriff didn’t know or catch wind of.

“…and the sheriff by his very nature is a curious man…”

“I look forward to meeting him,” she said.

“I think you will like Sheriff Rowland very much. Very, very much.”

“I look forward to meeting him,” she repeated.

While they waited, he wrote an invoice.

“Eighty dollars,” Sam said, signing the paper. “Not a bad business, eh?”

“It is not very profitable but I do work independently. I accept major credit cards, check, and cash.”

She excused herself, went in the house, and returned a few moments later with a hundred dollar bill.

“Keep the change.”

He held the bill to sunlight, examining the watermarks.

“Brand new,” he said. “Crisp.”

**********

Sheriff Mark Rowland arrived. As he exited his black and white cruiser, he donned a wide-brim hat and removed his sunglasses. His khaki colored uniform was pressed and neat. He was an inch or two over six feet and appeared physically fit. His face was lean and tanned, his eyes pale blue. His hair was a gray-streaked brown and came to rest a fraction above his collar. He appeared to be no older than forty-five.

He paused to look at the car, swiveled his head toward the beach, saw the tire tracks from the tow truck and the Camaro, and whistled two short notes.

“Mercy,” he said.

He formally introduced himself, asked her name, and said, “What happened exactly?”

She told him, using essentially the same words and inflection she used with Adams.

Rowland’s eyes shifted from the dripping car to her eyes, watching her expressions and listening to her voice, trying to read the tealeaves in both.

His eyes narrowed, causing his forehead to wrinkle. The distance between the road and the water was approximately forty feet; even the most panicked driver should’ve been able to stop.

“Can I see your license and registration, ma’am?”

“The registration is in the car and probably ruined, but I have my license.”

“I’ll get it,” Adams said.

She imagined Adams was bored and needed a story to share; towing American sports cars from the Saint Clair River was probably not an everyday occurrence. 

From her purse, she produced her newly minted Michigan license. Rowland examined it, nodded, and said, “Happy birthday.”

Adams, shaking water from the glove box papers, joined the exchange.

“Is today your birthday?” he said.

“No,” she said. “I was born yesterday.”

“You’ll have a hell of an insurance claim,” Rowland said.

“A hell of a claim,” she said.

Rowland reacted the way Sam anticipated.

“Would you mind reciting the alphabet for me, ma’am?”

She did this, and at his request walked a straight line; she also agreed to a Breathalyzer.

Rowland, making conversation, asked what brought her to Harsens.

“I live here.”

“Really? This house?”

“Yes.”

“Last I heard this was owned by an Italian family, the Moretti’s?”

“Yeah, it was. Now I own it.”

“Really? How’d you stumble on it? I wasn’t aware they were selling.”

“Word of mouth.”

Rowland smiled.

“How are they doing?”

“They’re deceased.”

It was best to be blunt, to appear unattached.

“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I imagine they are, too.”

“It is too, too bad,” Adams agreed.

A moment passed.

Rowland said, “I don’t want to hold you up, Snake. You can skedaddle and I’ll finish up.”

“Ah, yes, certainly! What am I thinking?”

“Thanks for your help,” Sam said.

“It was my pleasure.”

He extended a hand; his grip was flaccid and his palm cool. He proffered a business card from his shirt pocket.

“If you are interested in selling this vehicle, I would be most grateful if you contacted me. I am most capable of having it restored to better than new.”

“Okay,” she said, confirming nothing in either language or manner. “I’ll sleep on it.”

As Adams pulled away, Rowland spoke.

“I’ll be candid, Ms. Melillo. At the very least, I should cite you for reckless driving. However, I won’t as no one was harmed. You’ve been cooperative to a fault and I appreciate it. It’s a positive sign for you and the community. We depend on each other, especially in lean times.”

He extended his hand, his thumb and finger holding her license.

“Consider it a birthday present.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Sincerely.”

“And you might want to consider getting something more practical for this neck of the woods. This isn’t Grand Rapids.”

“Grand Rapids?” she said.

Rowland frowned. “Where you lived?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry, I misunderstood. I wasn’t planning on keeping the car anyway.”

“Alright,” he said. “You take care, now.”

She waited for him to exit her driveway before she reentered the house.

Her first thought was to shower and change clothes. But then, in the hallway, she spotted a black wire, capped with an aspirin-size black bud, resting on the floor. With a brief examination, she confirmed it was an audio bug. It had either had been clipped too short or was defective. She rolled it between her fingers and slid it into her front pocket.

She plucked her iPhone from her purse, activated an app, leaned it against one of the living room windows, and raised its volume to its maximum level. A low, throbbing pulse spread through the cottage.

Next, she pushed the kitchen sink faucet handle back; a loud stream of cold water echoed off the pale white walls and cabinets.

She repeated the process in the bathroom, opening the sink faucets and the bathtub spout, creating two more sources of white noise.

Next, she began an unhurried inspection in the rear corner bedroom and worked her way through the entire house:  each bedroom, the bathroom, hallway, living room, kitchen, and, finally, the front porch.

She opened and removed light switch covers, outlet covers, and cut the TV cable.

She removed and crushed each light bulb.

She inspected lamp bases and spires, inspected cabinets, flipped over chairs, and rifled cushions.

She peered in drains, checked the back of the toilet tank, and ran her fingers over doorframes.

She searched for reflections of virtually invisible lenses of impossibly tiny video cameras, paying particular attention to ceiling corners, floor vents, and light fixtures.

She found eighteen eyes and ears: six video transmitters and twelve audio bugs. She collected the instruments and arranged them in neat rows on the kitchen’s laminate counter, separating them by function. Then she placed everything in a plastic storage bag, and stuffed the bag in an aging but working tabletop microwave.

She wiped the sweat from her face with the bottom of her tee, pausing to consider where the recorder and main transmitter hid. The device would be in an opportunistic but not obvious location. 

After a few minutes, she snapped her fingers, saying, “Got it” to the empty living room. She retrieved a knife from the kitchen, and cut the wires leading to the main box of the house alarm.

She pulled the box from the wall with one hard tug. She methodically removed each window and door sensor. She placed these sensors in the microwave, settling them in with the other devices. Satisfied she had been thorough; she shut off her iPhone and placed it in the microwave.

She cradled the alarm box and the microwave together, took them outside, and sat them in center of her backyard.

Next, she took the alarm box to the garage. She placed it on the nearest bench, flicked on an overhead light, and hammer-bashed its lock. Inside were the components of a miniature DVR and transmitter.

She pried out the pieces and shoved them into her front pockets. She threw the empty box into a metal garbage can.

She discovered and removed two more devices in the garage – one audio and one video.

She took several orange-colored extension cords from the garage. She married two of the cords and plugged the lead cord into a garage outlet. She ran the cords to the microwave.

She emptied her pockets, placing the remaining devices in the microwave. She connected the microwave to the cord, set its timer on high, pressed “Start”, and went to the front of the cottage.

In less than sixty seconds, her phone and thousands of dollars of taxpayer surveillance equipment became acrid goo.

**********

The microwave released a spiral of smoke as it erupted into a Halloween-orange fire. A sharp bang and billowing smoke alerted a neighbor who called 911.

She unplugged the cords, retracted them to the garage, removed the microwave’s contents with a flat nose shovel, and tossed the smoldering mess into the metal garbage can. She sprayed the inside of the can with an old but fully charged fire extinguisher.

As she did this, she heard fire truck sirens. A few moments later, she heard the roar and rumble of a large engine accompanied by the whooping siren of a police car.

When she exited the garage, a half-dozen firefighters and the sheriff greeted her. They had gathered around the charred microwave.

“Hello, sheriff,” she said to Rowland.

“Long time, no see. Now what do we have?”

“Poor engineering,” she said, and without warning released a sharp spray from the extinguisher into the microwave. Two of the firefighters moved back, several made comments, and Rowland didn’t budge.

“What happened?”

“It blew up.”

“Alright. How’d it blow up?”

“I turned it on and blew it up.”

Rowland frowned.

“
You
blew it up or
it
blew up?”

“Sorry. I mean
it
blew up…”

“Why’s it outside?”

“I didn’t want the house to burn.”

“The microwave was in the kitchen?” One of the firefighters interjected, a man she correctly assumed was their captain.

“Yeah,” she said.

He motioned to two of his men.

“Abe, Mac. Check the house and outlets, especially the ones in the kitchen.” He addressed Sam. “There might be a short crawling through the walls. These old places can go up like matchsticks.”

“What were you cooking?” Rowland asked.

She smiled as if admitting to a foolishness.

“Nothing. I forgot to put food in.” 

“How are your hands?”

She displayed her dirty palms.

“The oven was hot but it wasn’t burning. The interior ignited. Not the outside.”

He frowned, his lips twisted back and up; his forehead wrinkled.

“Not even a blister, eh?”

Abe and Mac came from the cottage. The man named Mac motioned to the captain.

“Ed. A second?”

The men huddled before they spoke to her and the sheriff.

“Ma’am,” Ed said. “My men say the electrical outlets have been tampered with. And did you know your water faucets were on full?”

“I like the noise,” she said. “It helps me concentrate.”

Ed blinked rapidly and his eyebrows arched up.

“And the outlet covers and light switches? They’ve been removed and the light bulbs are missing. Were you tinkering with the electrical system?” 

“It’s an old house and I was checking for problems like this.” She gave the microwave a soft bump with her foot.

The man named Mac glanced at the machine.

“What was in it?”

“She says she forgot to put food in it,” Ed said.

“Sounds like my wife,” Abe said.

The men laughed. Sam laughed with them. Rowland smiled and shook his head.

“She’s a new resident,” Rowland explained. “This is her place. I imagine she can burn it down if she wants.”

“Okay,” Ed said. “I guess it’s all over ‘cept for the shouting. You might consider rewiring the whole place, brought up to the latest codes, etcetera. Might want to get the pipes checked while you’re at it. Winters and so on.”

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks, that’s good advice.” She extended her right hand. “And thanks for the quick response.”

Each of the firefighters shook her hand, welcomed her to the island, and introduced themselves by name.

The youngest said his name was “Jagger, Mick Jagger.” His grip was firm, and his shake lasted longer, giving his eyes a chance to grope her.

As the men boarded their machine, Rowland smiled and spoke somewhat playfully.

“Are we done for the day?”

The firefighter named Jagger was driving the truck. He blared its horn as he backed down the driveway and onto the road. He blared it again as they drove away.

“Let’s hope so,” she said. She extended her hand to the sheriff. “I’ll let you go, sheriff. I’m sure your plate is full.”

Rowland shook her hand, touched the brim of his hat, and gave her a genial salute.

“You’ll handle the garage, then?”

She followed his eyes: gray smoke was leaking from the bottom edge of the wooden garage door; the garbage can contents were smoldering.

She sprinted to it, extinguisher in hand, and blasted it with white powder. By the time the fire was finally extinguished the sheriff was gone.