Misery Bay: A Mystery (4 page)

“Everybody knows Roland. That’s his house set back from the wharf. Of course, you know that, having grown up around here.”

“I ran into him on my way into town.”

“Lucky you. He mention our Ar-teest problem?”

He raised an eyebrow. “It came up.”

“It always does with Roland. They’re really quite nice, you know. From Wolfville. An ex-university teacher at Acadia, his wife and a woman friend—all artists. They pooled their money and bought the big house in the bay that circles in behind Roland’s place.”

“Next door to Roland.” He shook his head. “Talk about your poor real estate locations.”

“Well, they’re not exactly next door … across the narrow inlet there, though Roland’s back porch looks right over their home.” She nodded out the window. “That would be too close for me. Some days I’m very glad I have a hundred-yard buffer. The artists have created something quite elegant. You passed the house on your way in. It’s completely modern and about as out of place as you could get in a little fishing cove like this. Three stories high, round like an early Shaker barn, with circular redwood decks all the way up. High-end furnishings, fancy art, a studio work space. It’s way beyond Roland’s comprehension. He was hostile to them from the start. It’s been very hard on them to have him as a close neighbor, and I gather the whole thing has escalated. Ingrid claims Roland dumps his fish carcasses in the sea behind their house. It causes an awful stench. They had a trench dug at the edge of their property for drainage that unexpectedly blocked Roland’s ability to pull his scallop boat onshore to winter behind his house. So Roland built a barn and used it to store his bait in an old cooler. He placed it at the edge of his property line, twenty yards from Ingrid’s house. The motor faces their bedroom window. He runs it day and night and it’s so loud they can’t sleep.”

“I’ll talk to him. That will stop.”

“Would you do that, really? That would be a very good thing.”

“Roland’s always been something of a bully—even when he was a kid. He’s skinny but wiry and stronger than he looks. It’s all toothless, though. He’s about as powerless an individual as there is—no money, fewer friends, poor health and precious little backbone. He backs down if anyone at all confronts him. You might want to tell your friends that. Fact is, if they got a solicitor to issue a threatening letter or two, that would probably put an end to it.”

Her eyes appraised him. “Maybe you really did grow up here,” she said. “I sort of suggested the same thing to Ingrid, but they don’t want to make waves, you know? They just want to be left alone. Her husband still works part-time at Acadia and he’s gone a lot, leaving it to Ingrid and Grace to deal with all this. The last thing they need is a reputation as unpleasant city people who go to the police for every little problem.”

“Roland’s not a little problem. Especially if he happens to be your neighbor. I can’t imagine having him right next door. Half a mile from my home was always way too close.”

“You actually lived here in the cove, then?”

“Up the overgrown lane where the road circles the bay. The old family home’s been closed up for years. I haven’t even seen it yet. Came straight to see you first.”

“Of course! I know the house. Used to belong to Jim and Beatrice Barkhouse.”

“My parents.”

Her face lit up. “My God, I’m finally starting to make the connection. Beatrice was a good friend. She had the most wonderful flower gardens. Many of my own came from her. She always talked about you, but she called you … Gar.”

“Lot of my friends in high school called me Gar. She picked it up.”

“I remember you at her funeral. You were the boy who stayed beside Jim the whole time.”

“Hardly a boy. I was well into my thirties.”

“And Jim died so soon after.”

“Six months. He just couldn’t imagine life without her. I tried to get him to come live with me in Halifax but he didn’t want to leave her grave. He went there every day.”

“I remember—it was so sad.” She gazed pensively into the bay. “So you’re alone, then.”

“Only child. They wanted more but couldn’t. I’m hardly alone, though. They both came from big families. I’ve got elderly aunts and uncles and hordes of cousins scattered all over the province. I was spoiled rotten when I was growing up. Even more so after I was injured.” He swore under his breath at the slip.

She spoke the familiar words. “Injured how?”

Even after a dozen years, he hated telling the story. “It was a long time ago. I was serving in the war in Afghanistan. Pretty mundane, really. Roadside bomb killed three in my platoon and neatly took off my right foot above the ankle. I was the lucky one.”

As everyone did upon hearing the story, she glanced quickly at the foot and then carefully avoided looking at it again. Fact was, one of the few—very few—things he actually liked about Roland was that he never failed to mention the foot. No
pussyfooting
around with Roland. She surprised him, though, by not changing the subject.

“I didn’t notice it at all. I suppose you have a prosthesis?”

He looked at her for a moment, then reached down and lifted his pant leg, exposing the metal shaft. “They call it an “intelligent” prosthesis. Closest thing to a real foot on the market. Microprocessors, a gyroscope, actuators, software to replace muscle function. My dad used to say I had more brains in my foot than my head.”

She laughed delightedly, her entire face lighting up. “That sounds like something Jim would say, all right.” She put one hand on his arm. “I’d like to come up and see the old place some time, if you wouldn’t mind. I spent many hours there. I’ve missed their company.”

Before he could reply, a boat appeared around the headland, moving fast. It clearly had a powerful engine, and as it throttled down and angled into the wharf, Garrett recognized the man waving from behind the wheel: Tom Whitman, Coast Guard patrol for this part of the Eastern shore. He expertly maneuvered the craft in and jumped onto the dock, holding a line, the engine still sputtering.

“Hi Gar—Mr. Marshed at the grocery said you might be over this way. I could use a hand. Got a report of a possible smuggler coming into Ecum Secum harbor.”

“Sure, Tom. Tom Whitman—Sarah Pye.”

“An old high school friend, I suppose,” Sarah said.

“How’d you know that?” asked Tom, holding the boat easily as it rocked in its own wake.

“I was just telling her how the guys sometimes called me Gar,” said Garrett.

“Did you give her the whole nickname?”

“That’s all right, Tom.” He jumped onto the boat’s deck. “I’ll take a rain check on showing you the house, okay?”

“Not so fast,” she said, those lips firmly set. “What’s the whole nickname, Tom?”

He grinned. “It was Gar-goyle—because he had so many goyl friends.”

Her eyes washed over him, and he looked away.

“Really?” she said.

“It was a long time ago,” he said. “Thanks a lot, Tom. I’ve a mind to let you handle this by yourself.”

Tom threw the rope on the boat and jumped aboard. “Better get going before my crew jumps ship.”

5

T
HEY MOVED QUICKLY OUT ONTO
the bay, passed Dougal’s Island, then turned southwest toward the Eastern Shore Islands Wildlife Management Area. Their destination was no surprise. The maze of islands gave perfect cover for smugglers. There were a thousand coves to hide in. Ten thousand.

“How far out?” Garrett asked.

“About ten miles according to the source. It’s a small fishing boat, but they’re apparently fully equipped—EPIR, WSR, GPS, pulse Doppler—heading southwest, probably planning to turn into one of the bays and unload whatever their cargo is for transport to Halifax.”

“Where’d the tip come from?”

“You kidding?” Tom stood at the wheel, spray from the bow flying past him. Garrett wore the yellow slicker Tom had given him. Most tips proved to be bogus—and always anonymous—but they all had to be followed up.

“Anyway,” Tom said, “Not too many fishing boats sport all that hardware these days. Not enough legit business to pay for it. That alone’s a sign it could be for real.”

It was four in the afternoon and the spruce-covered islands were beginning to thrust their shadows across the ocean, like accusatory fingers, though the sun wouldn’t set till after eight. There was plenty of time to check things out—provided they could locate the craft in the surrounding archipelago.

Tom pored over the map as he steered. “I bet they’re heading for Rupert’s Island. It’s got a deep-water channel between two rocky ridges. Perfect cover for a cargo transfer.”

Garrett nodded, though it all seemed like a long shot.

It took thirty minutes to reach the island. Tom angled the cutter along the sliding rock ledges that plunged straight down into the depths and past a small spit attached to a tiny peninsula.

Garrett scanned the horizon with high-powered binoculars. There was something barely visible in the distance. “What’s that?” he said.

Tom followed his finger. “It’s an oil rig, past Lighthouse Point. Went in about two years ago. Part of the Sable Island group that discovered oil in the ’90s.”

“I didn’t know there were any in this close.”

“That’s the closest one to the mainland, and it’s probably seven or eight miles from here. Outside territorial limits. It raised something of a stink, I can tell you, being so close to the wildlife area and all. But it was included in the original contract and no one could stop it.”

He throttled down until they were almost silent as the cutter rounded the point and they saw the boat. She was at anchor, a forty-footer crammed, as Tom had said, with radar and antennas. They could make out what looked like a much smaller craft tied up to one side.

“They’ll see us any second,” said Tom, “if they haven’t already picked us up on radar. Might as well announce ourselves.”

He pressed the throttle and the engine roared to life as they bore down on the boat. Thirty yards off her port side, Tom cut the engine back and turned on his loudspeaker.

“Attention fishing craft. This is the Coast Guard. We are coming aboard to inspect you.”

Suddenly, the engine on the smaller boat sputtered. They heard a series of sharp popping sounds, and a few moments later, the sleek-looking speedboat tore past them, angling away into the islands at very high speed.

“Son of a bitch!” Tom thrust his own throttle to maximum, and they raced after the other craft, but it took only a minute to realize that even the powerful cutter was no match for the incredible engines of the speedboat. He cut power with a muttered curse and turned sharply back to the fishing boat.

“Holy Christ!” Garrett stared at the speedboat that was now just a speck in the distance. “They must be doing seventy miles an hour in that thing.”

“We’re always outspent in that department,” Tom said flatly. “Those SOBs have more money than we do and they spend it on power. It’s their escape hatch—that boat is top of the line. Hell, they’re probably ten miles away already.” He picked up his radio phone. “I’ll call it in, but no one’s going to find them.”

They angled in to the larger craft; Garrett jumped aboard and tied the cutter fast. Despite all the expensive equipment, the boat itself was nondescript, stripped down, practically devoid of any attempt to provide comfort or décor. The owners clearly didn’t want to attract attention and were prepared to abandon the craft if need be—so why waste money on niceties?

“Think they already offloaded their cargo?” Garrett asked.

“Possible. Though there wasn’t much time between the tip and our arrival. That speedboat couldn’t hold more than two or three people. There’s got to be something here to justify abandoning the larger boat.”

They quickly searched the wheelhouse. It had been stripped of papers, permits, everything. Garrett went below and came back shaking his head. “Nothing.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” said Tom, exasperated.

“Perhaps …” suggested Garrett, “they planned to pick something up instead of dropping off. Maybe we got here too soon. But if that was the case, why run off?” He raised his hand. “You hear something?”

Above the pounding of the surf against the side of the ship, there was a faint sound, like a low murmur.

“It’s coming from over there.” Tom pointed to the far end of the front deck, where there appeared to be a large white tarp. They hadn’t noticed it at first because it was the same color as the deck.

Cautiously, they approached the tarp. The heavy canvas seemed to be moving slightly, sort of twitching. Tom pulled his revolver out. He nodded to Garrett, who reached down and threw the covering to one side.

Tom took a step back. “Mother of God!”

Garrett just stared, unable to move. Lying facedown on the cold decking were the bodies of four young girls. They had each been hastily shot once in the back. They wore shorts and simple shifts on top. They all had long, black hair and olive skin.

One of the bodies quivered.

“This one’s still alive!” Garrett dropped to the deck and turned the girl over, cradling her in his arms. She was clearly Asian, not more than thirteen years old. Her eyes flickered open and stared at him blankly, then the light went out of them forever. He felt for a pulse, knowing it was a waste of time. Gently, he lowered her body next to her companions.

“Sick bastards.” Tom leaned on the railing, looking like he was going to throw up. “Why’d they have to do that?”

“No loose ends. The girls might have been able to finger them or at least give information about their pipeline. These kids were probably destined for the escort services in Halifax. From what we’ve seen lately, Asians have been increasing in popularity.”

Garrett stared out at the evening sunset. It was beautiful and peaceful and made a mockery of the scene on the deck. “I can’t stomach this,” he said bitterly. “If we hadn’t shown up, these poor girls might still be alive.”

“Maybe,” said Tom. “But after a few weeks of what life had in store for them, they might have preferred to be dead.”

He knelt, put one hand on the head of one of the children for a moment, then pulled the tarp back over the tiny bodies.