The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer (35 page)

"Let's go on through," I said. "Even
if the photos won't stand up in court, we can use them to pressure
the OEI boys." Roantis nodded and soon I heard the crink, crink
of John Smith's wire cutters. Then he held the wire clear for us to
enter. We went through the breach and crawled up the ridge just above
the spot where the base of the structure was. We made no noise.
Gazing upward, I could see the pale, linear shapes of the propeller
blades sixty feet above. Seeing the whole thing from that distance, I
was pretty sure the propeller was fake. It was clever, there was no
denying that, because wind machines are now common in coastal New
England. But clearly, this was not one of them. For starters, the
tower was too massive.

I crept over the ridge and went down to the tower's
base, with Roantis and Smith waiting behind me in the bush. I took
out my waterproof flashlight and swept the ground around the place.
There it was: mud. Gray-brown drilling mud, caked on the tower frame,
spattered on the corrugated tin housing of the drilling motors, set
hard in pools and frozen rivers at my feet. Mud everywhere, even a
big reservoir of it dug into the ground. And it looked old, as if the
drilling had stopped weeks ago. At the tower's base was the turntable
which drove the "kelly" and turned the pipe and the bit at
its terminus. Above it was the caked end of the mud hose, and the
traveling block, which raised and lowered the sections of pipe. I
shined the light beam straight up and saw the crown block way up
there, right underneath the bogus propeller. As I watched, the blades
turned lazily in the breeze. They would turn easily, I thought since
they were free floating, unconnected to anything.

It was all there. Every bit of the evidence we
needed.

I took shots of the apparatus and the muddy
surroundings, including stacks of pipe and worn-out bits. None of
this was visible from the air, the sea, or even the beach; all of it
was hidden by the trees and the hill. And people couldn't get over
the hill because of the fence. I took the pictures using a small
tripod, taking exposures at four, six, eight, ten, and twelve
seconds. Roantis was up on the hill behind me, shooting with a Leica
loaded with infrared film. He was no stranger to this kind of work.

Everything I saw gave the strong impression that the
drilling operation had been abandoned for some time. Why? Easy: OEI
had run out of money. Unless Hunter Whitesides was willing to
mortgage his fine mansion and hock his big Mercedes, there wasn't
enough cash on hand to continue. And that's why they so desperately
needed the cores: to attract outside help.

It was when I was getting a closer shot of the
drilling machinery and the small shack in the clearing that we saw
the lights go on inside the house. Seconds later, two floodlights
snapped on outside. I heard a door open and shut. Then Roantis
scurried down the slope to me.

"The wires, Doc," he said in a hoarse
whisper. "They must have been carrying a charge. When the
circuit's broken an alarm goes off inside.

"
Give me another second; I've got to get a shot
of the pipe under the tarps—"

I didn't care how much noise I was making now.
Circling around to the end of the long bundle, I saw the four-inch
circles of exposed pipe ends visible underneath the canvas cover.
Three more shots and I was finished.

"Doc!" Roantis shouted. No whispers now,
and I wondered why. Then I heard the rapid patter of feet, and a
rising growl. I doused the light and headed up the slope as the big
dog spun to a stop at the clearing's edge. I heard him down there,
woofing and turning in tight circles, trying to catch a scent. Then
there was a commotion at the edge of the clearing, a clump of bushes
swishing back and forth. The dog made for the bushes, snarling and
raising a ruckus. Somebody at the house yelled, and then there was a
gunshot.

It seemed to me it was time to depart.

The dog leaped at the waving bush and was met with
some thing that made him sit down in a hurry. I heard a flat crack
and then saw the dog stretched out as if asleep. By this time I was
back at the wire, hanging onto the camera bag with one hand and
trying to find the hole in the fence with the other. While I was
groping, an arm reached out and grabbed me by the elbow, yanking me
through the fence. Then John Smith came barreling through behind me,
sheathing his giant black knife. Gunshots were coming faster now.
Twice I heard the slugs strike tree trunks above us. We made for the
beach and sprinted along the sand, staying close up against the
covering trees. We heard buzzing over our heads, which meant whoever
was shooting at us was using a pistol, not a high-powered rifle. And
we doubted he could see us, but that was scant comfort.

Roantis huddled us together under a low, spreading
pine bough about two hundred yards from the boat. We crouched
together on the cold sand, looking up the pale stretch of beach into
the darkness beyond. And damned if I didn't think back to that time
at Crystal Lake, Michigan, with good old Patty Froelich peeling off
her swimsuit. Cold sand does it every time. Damn!

Roantis took out his pistol and covered the beach
behind us. I knew exactly what he was thinking: if we were caught in
the open carrying the boat back into the sea, or in open water, we
were fish in a barrel.

So we waited for about ten minutes. When nobody came
up the beach after us, we went to the boat, slinking low and slow at
the edge of the trees.

Hauling the heavy Zode and its motor back down the
beach took under five seconds. It's amazing what you can do when
you're pumped up. We waded into the ocean, shoving the rubber boat
along, ready to duck under at the slightest noise from behind. But
there was none, and soon we were all aboard, with Mr. Smith starting
the big Mercury, and the boat jumping forward, thumping against the
incoming breakers, heading back out to where
Whimsea
was waiting for us.

Jim had the anchors up and the engines running by the
time we bumped up alongside
Whimsea's
hull.

"Everything go okay?" he asked, reaching
down to help us aboard.

"Didn't you hear the shots?"

"Yeah, right, Doc," he said, laughing,
"you're a born bullshitter."

Exhausted and elated, I let it pass. As soon as the
boat and motor were hauled aboard, Jim gunned the engines and we were
off. John Smith stowed the motor while Roantis and I opened the
valves to deflate the rubber boat, then stretched its wet skin out on
the foredeck to dry off in the breeze. We all changed into warm, dry
clothes, and then I filled four plastic mugs with Scotch and water.
Mostly Scotch. We sat in the wheel house sipping the whiskey in the
dark, absorbing the cozy hum and vibration of the big engines going
full bore as we shot homeward.

I felt a warm glow growing in me. It wasn't just the
booze, but the afterglow of the adrenalin rush and the knowledge of a
job well done. There is no better feeling. Roantis lighted a
cigarette and let it dangle from his mouth, the end glowing red in
the darkened cabin. He blew the smoke out of his nostrils like a
dragon. He was looking very fit these days, having abandoned his
suicidal lifestyle for one that was merely horrendous. I saw before
me a lean, whipcord-hard man, with short grayish hair and crinkles
around his Mongol eyes. Roantis is over fifty, maybe five feet seven
or eight, and a hundred sixty-some pounds. Not very big or impressive
looking. But then, neither is a wad of plastique. Jim sipped his
drink and minded the helm, wearing a huge grin. He couldn't hide it
if he tried.

"Feeling better about all this?" I asked
him.

"Feeling great, Doc. Feeling just great. I'll
never forget tonight. Can't wait until we do it again . . ."

"We'll see if you say that when the time comes,
sport."

"
Did Mary buy the story?"

"That I was going fishing with you? Seemed to.
If she didn't, you can bet I'll hear about it."

An hour later we purred into Lewis Bay and slipped
into the marina and up to the dock. The Zode was folded and bundled
and whisked over to the van along with the special outboard. We all
stood at the van while Roantis and his mysterious comrade prepared to
take off.

"Who owns that stuff, anyway?" I asked.

"
The Tenth Group, if you really must know. If
this van and boat aren't back tomorrow, Mr. Smith here goes to the
stockade. I go to the guillotine."

"
So who is this guy, really?" I asked,
nodding in John Smith's direction.

"Timo Pekkalla. Finnish national training with
the Tenth Group out at Fort Devens. But that's very confidential,
Doc, if you haven't already guessed."

The big man laughed and nodded. "Sssank yeeew,
so much."

"Yah, sheeuuuurre," I said. Finns. They
make the world's finest knives and rifles, live in places no sane
person would even consider, and are not people you want as enemies.
If you don't believe me, ask the Russians. I've met some Finns in my
time, mostly in northern Minnesota. I love every one I've ever met.
just don't get them mad. We all shook hands goodbye, but not before I
laid several large bills into Laitis's hand.

Jim and I went back to the boat. I looked at my
watch. Five-thirty; dawn was breaking. I went below into the bow
bunk. The day would be busy, busy. Go to Cambridge to the small photo
lab in Kendall Square and have the film done. Pray to God some of it
came out. Go to the Hsh pier in Boston and buy a couple whole
bluefish so Mary and Janice would believe our little white lie about
the fishing trip.

Thinking back on our little escapade, I was glad Timo
didn't kill that dog. I'd thought he had, but Roantis explained he'd
smacked it on the noggin with the flat of the blade and stunned it.

I had the inescapable feeling that Timo Pekkalla,
a.k.a. John Smith, had been in tough scrapes before.

The afterglow wouldn't go away; I felt warm and
tingly all over. I lay in the bunk, watching the dawn come through
the fore hatch skylight. This is why we're alive, I thought, feeling
the boat rocking under me. Country clubs, bank accounts, and fancy
cars don't cut it. Falling in love, having kids, looking out for one
another, and having adventures do. Especially the adventures . . .
The cabin cruiser swayed and sighed in the current. Her hull squeaked
and whined against the dock fenders. And I slept.
 

TWENTY-EIGHT

JACK'S TRIAL DATE was set for October tenth. It was
hanging over all of us like the sword of Damocles.

Within four days of our little nighttime jaunt to
Tuckernuck Island, Joe and Paul Keegan had sprung the trap. Armed
with the necessary evidence, including my photos, they collared Bill
Henderson and Michael Chisholm as they emerged from OEI headquarters
on the docks of New Bedford. At the same time, both Henderson kids
were detained in Woods Hole and Falmouth, while Hunter Whitesides was
intercepted on Nantucket as he went to his post office box.

They were all advised of their rights and taken
separately to Boston, where each was interviewed by Joe and Paul.
They all refused to talk, which slowed things down for a few days
until the state attorneys met with counsels for the defense and waved
the evidence in their faces, whereupon the defense attorneys returned
to their clients and huddled, long and silent. Joe had a hunch they
were advising their clients to cooperate in hopes of a deal being
struck, suggesting they might be packing their toothbrushes for
Walpole or Deer Island if they didn't.

I felt sorry for the Henderson kids, who, according
to Joe and Paul, were plainly scared to death. Olivia Henderson,
their mother, stayed close to them and spent much of her time cursing
her husband and urging them to tell all. So much for Bill Henderson's
standing with his family. I've noticed that many "successful"
men have this problem.

Paul told me the kids broke down first. Alice swore
she knew nothing of the operation. Her brother Terry backed her up,
admitting that he was the one who sneaked Jack's room key during a
party and had it copied, on his father's orders.

"When was this?" I asked Keegan.

"Shortly before the first burglary," he
said, looking through his notebook.

"And Terry helped ransack the place?"

"Not according to him. We assume it was his
father, maybe with help from his partners. But the older guys aren't
talking yet."

"And who did the break-in at the cottage?"

"Oh, we got that one in the bag. The Isaacsons
made a positive on Chisholm's kid. Didn't Joe tell you?"

"No. They identified Chisholm's son as the one
who pawned the radio? jeez, I bet he's steamed at the kid."

"I would assume so. But he's not talking. All
three partners are still silent. But just you wait: with a murder one
rap out on them, they'll get scared and start pointing at one
another. It won't be long."

The break came early the next day. Joe called me from
Ten Ten Comm. Ave., where they were interviewing Hunter Whitesides,
who was out on bail, thanks to a good lawyer and a hefty bank
account. Joe said Whitesides wanted to talk and requested my presence
also, since I was pressing charges for B and E.