Wreckage: An Addictive Psychological Thriller Packed with Twists, page 23
The fishermen and their friends gathered at The Rusty Anchor to commiserate. Bo Baines, the guy who ran the Seafood Exchange, stood up on a chair, drunk, and shouted a bitter toast: “Fish Pier’s dead! Long live the Mall of Musqasset!”
Saul Guptill chimed in, “Aye, there’s nothin’ can be done about it now.”
Or was there? I was sitting alone in a corner of the bar, stewing. About Miles, to be specific. Did I fully trust him? During the whole proposal period, he alone had served as representative for his mainland partners. All information going back and forth between the island and the development group had traveled through him. Whenever I spoke to him, he would assure me he was fighting tooth and nail against his partners to preserve Fish Pier. But...
But what if that weren’t true? Maybe it was the Tullamore Dew talking, but I started to think maybe Miles wasn’t fighting quite as hard for Fish Pier as he claimed to be. Maybe he wasn’t presenting the full picture to his partners, or to us.
I didn’t want to voice my doubts to the fishermen; they were already mad enough at me for bringing Miles to the island. But I did stand up and say, “Listen to me for a minute, folks.” The place went quiet. “These people—Miles Sutcliffe’s partners—are human beings. Right?”
“Citation needed,” slurred Billy Staves.
“Maybe we need to put a human face on the pier,” I said. “Maybe if the developers knew a bit more about what Fish Pier meant to each of you—not just money-wise but in your lives, in your blood...” Okay, the Dew was definitely weighing in. “Maybe if they knew what it stood for, to you and your families, living and dead... Maybe if they heard your personal stories, they might revive the plan that preserves the pier instead of scrapping it. So why don’t we tell them? Why don’t we write to them? All of us. Tell ‘em our stories.”
No one spoke for several seconds. “What you’re talking about sounds like begging,” said Emmet DuPry, one of the old-timers.
“Aye,” echoed Saul Guptill.
Drinking recommenced.
But over the next few weeks, I hammered away at the fishermen. I worked with each of them to get their memories down on paper. Billy Staves, Matt Bourbon, and others rounded up old photos of their parents and grandparents on Fish Pier and wrote down the old folks’ stories as well. Dorna Caskie dug up a children’s book she had written about Fish Pier. I even saw a tear on the face of old Gawk Larson, the hardest and proudest of the lobstermen, when he scratched down his tale of seeing his father on the pier’s end one night, singing “The Bells of Aberdovy” to the mermaids.
The letter-writing project took on a life of its own and became bigger than a tactic. It became an almost museum-worthy testimonial not only to a beloved physical landmark but also to a fading way of life and set of values. People were invested in it. Maybe overly so.
I didn’t claim any role in the letter “campaign,” and I didn’t want any credit for it. I didn’t even tell Jeannie I was doing it (our communication had gone down the curved pipe by that time anyway). But I did promise that when the collection of letters was ready to be delivered, I would handle it.
One fog-shrouded evening, I asked Miles to join me for a drink at Pete’s. “There’s no easy way to say this,” I told him, “so I’ll just spit it out. Some of us—myself mainly, but others too—are starting to have questions about the way you’re presenting this development deal. On both sides of the water. We feel there are... aspects of the situation that maybe your partners aren’t aware of. Because you’re not telling them. The fishermen have written some personal letters about the pier, and we’d like to get them to your partners. We need you to deliver them.”
Miles glowered as if I’d slapped him.
“If this is the last thing I ever ask of you, Miles, so be it. But I am asking this.”
His face turned steamed-lobster red. “How DARE you question my word and try to do an end run around me,” he said. “What gives you the RIGHT?”
“What gives you the right to deceive these fishermen, Miles? These people are my neighbors and friends.”
“Is that so, Mr. Local Hero, savior of the ancient ways no one gives a crap about?”
“You don’t give a crap, that’s for sure. You never intended to preserve Fish Pier, did you? You’ve been posturing about it since the get-go. Your plan since day one has been to—”
“Oh, and what suddenly qualifies Finnian Carroll to analyze high-level real estate deals? Who promoted you from part-time bartender to grownup?”
“Gee, skip the foreplay and go right for the power tools.”
“You like that, don’t you? You love playing the poor martyr who gets screwed by The Man.”
“And you love playing the pied piper who leads the happy lemmings off a cliff. You’re so arrogant it doesn’t even cross your mind that the ‘lemmings’ can see right through your lies.”
“Oh yeah? Well, here’s one for you, Finn: I really respect your opinion on this matter.”
I rose from my seat and almost punched him. Things went downhill from there, each of us trying to wound the other with words—and very nearly with more than words.
Finally, after we both calmed a bit, he said, “If you absolutely insist on my doing this, Finnian, I will do it, I will deliver the letters. And I will suffer the blowback. But know one thing: if you ask this of me, you are putting our friendship on the waiver wire.”
“You already put our friendship on the waiver wire. So many times, I’ve lost count.” I stood up from the table, handed him the folder bulging with papers, and said, “Deliver the package, Miles,” then walked out. It was the last time Miles and I spoke before I left the island a few days later.
.....
And now as I face my accusers from the deck of Cliff’s fishing boat, an inkling begins to arise as to the source of their anger. “So, tell me what happened,” I say. “Give me the benefit of the doubt and pretend I don’t know. Because I don’t. I really don’t.”
“The next town meeting,” says Jean-Claude, “when the vote was due, a bunch of your buddy-pal’s golf-shirt-wearin’ partners and lawyers showed up. Guess they wanted to be there when the deal went down. They started barreling ahead with the vote like nothing had changed, and Billy here stood up and asked the head one, the president guy, ‘Sir, did you give our letters any thought?’ Guy was like, ‘What letters?’”
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“The worst part,” says Jean-Claude, “was the guy turned out to be a decent fella. Said he wished he’d-a seen the letters, that he woulda took ‘em into consideration.”
“Bottom line,” says Billy, “it was too late to make changes to the development plan by that time. The vote was held, and it passed. And now there’s a freakin’ cheese boutique where my boat used to dock. Bo Baines went out of business, and the hub fell out of our operation. Now we’re all fending for ourselves, those that are still left. Anchoring out in the harbor, selling our catch on the mainland, working till dark every night, scraping by.”
“I’m sorry, Billy,” I say. “I never meant for this to happen.” And now my voice does crack, and there’s nothing I can do about it. “I cared about you. All of you guys. That’s the only reason I got involved in the whole thing in the first place. I had nothing to gain from it.”
“So say you,” says Billy.
“Don’t!” I snap at him, feeling my face burn. “Don’t you dare suggest I got some kind of payback from this. If anyone wants to accuse me of that, you step up here on this deck and say it right to my face.”
None of the men move, except with the rolling of the waves. For the first time, uncertainty registers on some of their faces.
“Here’s the truth about Fish Pier that no one wants to remember,” I say. “I loved the thing—painted it a dozen times—but it was a catastrophe. It was falling apart and sinking into the seabed. And all you guys used to do was bitch about it. Walk into Pete’s or Mary’s any time of the day and that’s all you’d hear. People bitching about the pier—fighting over it, taking sides—but no one doing a damn thing. Yes, I put the bug in Miles Sutcliffe’s ear about it. And when he came out with his first plan, the one that included money to rehab Fish Pier, I was all in. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was going to help you guys, and that’s all I wanted. And that’s the honest truth.”
It is the honest truth, so I’m pretty sure it rings that way to the men. But still they stare at me as if they’ve brought a noose along.
“I’m not a born islander,” I go on. “I know that will always make me suspect in some of your eyes. But I actually chose this place. You know why? Because it’s a working island, not some tourist trap from the cover of Yankee magazine. People just muck in together and get things done. I loved that, and I wanted to be part of it. Who was it that helped you put up your traps every winter, Billy? Who was it that sanded down your boat with you, Gerry, and helped you get your paintings in a gallery, Mike? Every time there was a trail that needed clearing or a fundraiser for the school, who was in there working elbow to elbow with you guys?”
“He did muck in a lot, give him that,” says Billy to his peers.
“And no one questioned my loyalty then. But the first time something goes a little wonky, you’re all ready to walk me from the nearest plank.” Shame flashes in some of their eyes. “Someone lied to you about those letters, that’s for sure. Maybe it was the president of the development group, maybe it was Miles Sutcliffe—or yeah, maybe it was me, but why would you assume that? Why wouldn’t you give me the benefit of the doubt?”
“We got our reasons,” tied-up Cliff replies.
“I busted my nuts to get you guys off your apathetic asses and write those letters. Why would I do that just to sell you out?”
“Payola,” says Jean-Claude, but he says it at half-volume.
“Oh, right. Who believes that? Who really believes that? Come on, raise your hands.” No hands go up. “The bunch of you make me sick.”
Suddenly it’s as if I’ve become Fishermen’s Court and the fishermen have become the accused. The shift is palpable. It’s Mike Bourbon who finally speaks to the others. “He’s got a point. We should have talked to him first. Heard him out. We owed him that. We shouldn’t have jumped to... this. I’m out.”
No one says a word. Guilty silence reigns.
I untie Cliff and his two buddies, no longer fearing they will harm me—at least not here and now. “Which one of you has my phone?” I ask. Gym Bob hands it to me.
I climb over the deck rail and down the ladder into the metal boat that brought me here. Facing my accusers one last time, I say, “I find you all guilty of treason.”
I start the engine. “I’m taking this boat. I’ll leave it at the Greyhook launch.”
I motor off toward the island. No one follows me.
The seas have calmed a bit. The storm is finally moving away.
.....
I haven’t checked my phone since before my carnival-o’-laughs in the boat hold. Miles must be wondering what the hell happened to me. I’m so anxious to see my messages, the phone feels physically warm in my pocket, but right now my hands are full, operating this vessel. I’ll check my phone as soon as I’m on terra firma.
I’m able to do some thinking as the boat putters along, though. It’s only now that I start to untangle the Cliff-Goslin situation. I still find it mind-boggling that Cliff and Goslin aren’t connected to each other. The idea that there have indeed been two separate parties trailing me is a preposterous notion I rejected early on. And yet Cliff seems to have been telling the truth. He had nothing to do with the forced suicide attempt at my parents’ house. And he didn’t follow me out to Musqasset. Those things were all Goslin.
The dead fish and the nighttime stalkings, those were Cliff and his buddies from Fishermen’s Court. They had their own reason for pursuing me, which had nothing to do with some ancient highway accident. Cliff didn’t care about that accident either, except to use it as ammo to keep me away from Musqasset. And from Jeannie.
Then what has Goslin been up to since he came to the island? Why hasn’t he made any moves? Why has he been so quiet?
I wonder if Miles has taken any action on the Goslin front in my absence.
As soon as I’ve hauled the boat aground at the Greyhook landing, I dig out my warm phone. There are voicemails and missed calls from Miles, and texts from Preston Davis and Jeannie. I pull up Jeannie’s message first. Considering what Cliff told me about her—and the warning she herself tried to give me—I open it with a dose of wariness.
Her text: There’s something I should have told you. About Cliff. He fell for me pretty hard back when he and I were... you know. “Screwing on our Barcalounger,” I mentally fill in. It wasn’t a casual thing for him. He was in love with me. Big-time. Still is. Won’t let it go. Anyway, he’s a pretty scary and super-insecure guy. (He must have asked me ten times how big your equipment was.)
I have the urge to text her back, How big was his?
Just kidding.
Sort of.
After you left the island, her text goes on, I got into badmouthing you with him. One night he filled me with my favorite truth serum. Patron Silver. And - I’m so sorry about this, Finn - I told him the whole story. About you, the bottle, the accident. Anyway, I think you ought to watch out for Cliff. He knows you’re here and he might be trouble for you.
Thanks, Jeannie. This information might have come in handy about three hours—or three days—ago. Our timing has always stunk. I am heartened to know, though, that she felt compelled to be honest with me and try to warn me.
Or maybe just she’s covering her ass because she knows Cliff and I have already had our little tete a tete. Hmm.
There’s one final chunk of text from her. It causes a hot flutter in my abdomen. Last night was amazing, you jerk. Wish I could stop thinking about it.
What Jeannie and I had last night was real. Right? I have to believe that, or truth no longer has a handhold.
The voicemails from Miles are of the worried type I was expecting: Where are you? Are you okay? What are we doing about Goslin? Call me, call me, call me.
I’ll call him in a minute.
The text from Preston Davis is the one that sends my mind careening into crazyland for the ninetieth time this weekend: Called the mainland office, asked about those passenger records. Edgar Goslin took one ferry trip to Musqasset, a little over two weeks ago. Stayed one night, then went back the next day. He’s not on the island now. Hope that helps!
Goslin, not on the island. What? So Goslin is not Trooper Dan or Chokehold—those guys definitely followed me out here; I recorded their voices. But Goslin’s tied up in this thing for sure. My conversation with Priscilla Begley proves it. His trip to Musqasset proves it.
So where is Goslin now? Why has he gone below radar?
I’m about to call Miles, to share Preston’s news with him, when my phone-finger freezes. Maybe it’s because I’ve been revisiting all that Fish Pier drama—all the doubts I had about Miles back then, our confrontation—or maybe it’s because I’ve learned those fishermen’s letters never reached their intended recipients, but my trust in Miles is not at a high-water mark.
I’m wondering, in fact, if it’s time to acknowledge the great blue whale that’s been doing pushups in the middle of the room since this whole thing started: maybe Miles knows more about everything than he’s been letting on.
My phone rings. Miles. I hesitate before picking up.
“Finn! Where the hell have you been? Are you okay? What happened?”
“There’s a lot to tell.”
“I want to hear all about it. But listen: Jim just dropped by. He learned something new about Edgar Goslin. You need to get over here.”
“What about Beth? Won’t she—”
“She’s out. Having lunch with friends and doing some last-minute shopping. Her folks are coming in today.”
“Today? But the ferry isn’t running yet.”
“They don’t use the ferry,” says Miles, a scoff in his voice. “Just get over here. Hurry.”
.....
“Goslin’s dead,” says Miles, meeting me at the door.
He turns and walks back inside, not commenting on my stained clothing, now air-dried.
Dazed, I follow him to his study, where he has two online newspaper articles open on his computer: “Missing Local Man Found Dead in Car” and “Police Find Week-Old Body in Car.” Both articles were written yesterday.
The two articles report essentially the same facts. A car was found off Route 495 near the Wentworth-Bridgefield border in a densely wooded area. The driver, dead, was Edgar Goslin. His live-in girlfriend, Priscilla Begley, confirmed he went missing on August 22, nine days earlier, and had not been seen since. The vehicle evidently veered off the highway and remained hidden by foliage in a gully for over a week. Goslin, who was on blood-thinning medication, died of blood loss from a traumatic wound, the result of an apparent accident in his home workshop. Police believe he may have been driving himself to the hospital when he lost consciousness due to bleeding.
Miles stares at me wordlessly. I look at the date again. My stomach sours.
Goslin died on August 22. The home invaders came to my house on August 23.
Goslin was dead before any of my troubles began.
35
All my previous conceptions about how and why I was targeted for extinction by a group of unknown killers have flown out the window.
“Did Jim have any inside information?” I ask Miles. “On Goslin’s death?”
“As a matter of fact, he did. There were some details the cops didn’t release because they’re still investigating.”
“And...?”
“Well, like the papers said, they think Goslin injured himself in the workshop behind his house. Priscilla Begley never looked in there, but when the cops checked it out, they found blood all over a worktable and an electric hedge cutter he was apparently trying to fix. They think the machine turned on unexpectedly.”
