Fox Island (9 page)

He cleared his throat. “Now, what do I know
about good old Harvey Peterson?” He again reviewed each line on the
notepad.

Born Fox Island, Washington, 1934. Graduated
from high school in Tacoma in 1951. Served two years in Korea.
University of Washington degree in engineering, 1959. Worked for
Boeing, 1960 to 1990. Retired to pursue political causes. Island’s
leading reactionary. He was against building the bridge, or the
acoustic range, and closing the school. Ran for Pierce County
Commissioner four times. Never received more than 269 votes. Wrote
a book in 1992. Never married.

Tony tugged on his black felt cowboy hat,
rolled up the windows, and took one last look at Mount Rainier.
“Well... here goes.”

The big poster in Harvey Peterson’s front
window read “Insured by Smith & Wesson: Policy 357.” A crudely
painted sign in the yard boasted “Book Store In Garage.” Tony
glanced in that direction but saw a “Closed” sign in the window. He
hiked up the concrete and rock steps and rang the doorbell.

Peterson came to the door dressed in faded
camouflage fatigues and worn combat boots. He stood a few inches
shorter than Tony. He was stocky, but with no flab.

“Come in, Shadowbrook. Been lookin’ forward
to meetin’ ya.”

The bachelor’s neat and orderly large living
room included a variegated leaf pattern rug that coordinated with
upholstered furniture. Fish decor hung from the walls and adorned
throw pillows.

“Pull off your hat and sit a spell. Tony, I
got to tell you the scene when Houston was reloadin’ those .44-.40
shells as he was ridin’ to Fort Laramie with the entire Cheyenne
nation on his tail was almost as tense as being there. Keep up the
good work.”

“So, you like the River Breaks series?”

“It’s your best yet. In fact, nobody
describes the guns and gunfights of the Old West like Tony
Shadowbrook. That’s a fact. Anyone who’s got an ounce of brains
knows it. Can I get you a Coke? I’d offer you a beer, but I don’t
drink alcohol.”

“Coke is fine.”

While Peterson stepped to the kitchen,
Tony glanced at rows and rows of bookshelves and browsed the
titles.
The Butane Lighter Hand Grenade.
Home-Built Claymore Mines. Survival Poaching.

“You find any good books?” Harvey returned
with two cans of Coke.

“Pretty rough stuff here.”

“That’s my research. Mostly published by big
companies who are interested only in making money. Most of it is
useless. We might as well sit down.” He motioned Tony toward a
leather chair. “Sure do appreciate you comin’. Hope the little
woman didn’t get offended when I told her I didn’t do interviews
with females.”

“She was delighted to send me.”

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with women
interviewers. They don’t know the right questions to ask. I had a
gal sit right there from the
Times
and ask me, ‘Why do you always look angry?’ Can you imagine
that? Why do I look angry? Who gives a squat how I look? Then she
wrote an article about how I was advocating the overthrow of the
U.S. government. I advocate the recapture of the U.S. government by
democratic means. It belonged to the people and it’s been stolen by
politicians and bureaucrats. But that’s not why you came. Go ahead,
ask your questions.”

“I’m interested in your theory about a
Japanese invasion of Fox Island during World War II.”

“Theory? The Japs were here. That’s no
theory. I saw them with my own eyes. I was eight at the time.”

“What exactly did you see?”

“I was up island about a mile from here
trying to hunt coons.”

“Doing what?”

“Huntin’ raccoons. Me and Pee Wee Mack used
to hunt about every night. I had a 06 Winchester .22, and Pee Wee
had a miner’s lamp he borrowed from his grandpa. We set off to be
the big hunters. Only had one bullet that night, so we were
determined not to waste it. Well, down there where they claim a
F-94 crashed in ’53, we spotted some men snoopin’ around in the
woods. Pee Wee blew out the lamp and we crawled on our bellies
until we got real close. They were Japs, all right. We counted two
dozen of them.”

“What were they doing?”

“Either they were lost and thought they were
on a different island, or they were practicin’ night maneuvers. We
lay there in the weeds and watched them. We were near enough to see
the Japanese army insignia on their uniforms when the moon
reflected right.”

“They did this all night?”

“Nope. After about an hour, they hiked to
Big Rock and got in a rubber raft. Then they rowed out to Carr
Inlet. That’s when we saw a submarine surface. A Jap sub. Even at
night I could tell. And that’s the last I saw of them.

“Me and Pee Wee stood guard at Big Rock with
our one bullet the rest of the night. Nothin’ happened, except we
got whipped the next momin’ by our folks. Never read one word of it
in the paper. Not one word.”

“And you never heard anything more about a
Japanese invasion of the Northwest?”

“Nope, even though me and Pee Wee searched
the ground and discovered several Japanese items. In fact, for
years I figured me and Pee Wee were the only two who knew about it.
But when I got back from Korea, there was all this talk about an
accidental jet crash. Wasn’t no accident.”

“Explain.”

“They crashed that sucker on purpose in
order to bring in a hundred people and comb the ground to erase any
trace of the Japanese.”

“Seems to me, Harvey, a couple dozen
Japanese troops on Fox Island for a few hours one night wouldn’t
leave enough impact on the place to spot a single thing ten years
later.”

“Tony, I like your way of thinking. See,
that’s the kind of observation a woman would never consider. I’ll
bet you know the answer.”

“I’d like to hear yours first.”

“Well, what if ... that Japanese patrol’s
purpose was to cache some weapons or supplies for a land invasion
in the works?”

“Land invasion?”

“Sure. What if the battle of Midway had gone
the other way? There wouldn’t have been anyone in the Pacific to
stop them. A hard hit to the American mainland might have caused
the American people to want a peaceful settlement in the Pacific.
Maybe they cached supplies all up and down the coast. Who knows? I
met a man in Oregon one time that saw over five hundred Japs land
on the beach below Seaside.”

“But since there was no invasion, and since
we did win the war, why do you think the government still wanted to
cover this up?”

“Perhaps because during the early fifties
everyone was so paranoid about a Soviet war, some of them figured
the public would panic if they were told the truth how close we
came to an invasion.”

“How about now? It’s fifty years later. The
Cold War has eased. Why would they hide things now?”

“Because the government is riddled with
cover-ups. If they admit this, it might open up a can of worms
about other incidents. They surely don’t want you to know the real
reason General Patton got killed. Or how many Communist missiles
were positioned in Mexico. Or the Soviets’ chemical warfare. Or the
space program that backfired and blasted a hole in the ozone layer.
Or the United Nations’ secret plan for dividing up America after it
falls under the control of a One World Government. You can quote me
on those, if you want.”

“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stick to
events on Fox Island. I’ll leave these other themes for you to
develop in your own writings.”

“Right on, partner. Now, let me show you
around the bookstore. Then, I’ll drive you down to where we saw the
Japs. How much time do you have?”

“I’ve got to meet my wife at noon.”

“Not much time, but we’ll hustle. I’ll get
the Jeep. Meet you out front.”

Tony walked to the front door and slipped it
closed behind him.

Where did a guy like Peterson get such
ideas? He should write fiction. Tony wasn’t sure he could use any
of the material, but a kernel of truth could be buried in the
manure. He’d sure like to know what it was and whether it was worth
digging out.

After thirty minutes of rapid-fire shouting
from Harvey above the roar of the engine, and the constant jarring
of the Jeep careening off potholes and boulders, Tony was ready for
the smooth, quiet ride of the Oldsmobile. When he arrived home,
Price and Melody relaxed at the table adorned with bright yellow
linen napkins and whole wheat tuna sandwiches.

“How’d your interview go?” Price asked.

“Interesting. How about yours?”

“So-so.”

“Give me the scoop. What did you learn about
Fox Island’s notorious Longhouse?”

“Anita Schaff worked there for two years and
never once saw anyone she thought was a mobster stay there. But
then, she wasn’t sure what a mobster looked like. A number of
working girls came over for R&R.”

“I never thought of that before,” Melody
said. “What does a woman who works in a brothel do for
vacation?”

Tony loaded a plate with several sandwiches
and chips. “Was Anita Schaff working there at the time of the
Tacoma gangland massacre?”

“No, that was before her time, but she did
hear rumors. There were also stories that the longshoreman’s union
officials held high-level discussions at the place. But no
confirming evidence.”

“So what do we end up with?” Tony
pressed.

“Some very colorful rumors.” Price circled
the table refilling each glass of ice tea. “That ought to make your
fiction-writing brain buzz. How about Mr.
I-Don’t-Do-Interviews-With- Women Peterson? What did you learn
there?”

“He’s quite a character.”

“He’s a fixture on the Island,” Melody
added, “but some-times he can be an embarrassment. Did he talk
about what he thinks of environmentalists?”

Tony shook his head. “We didn’t get to that
subject, but I can imagine.”

He spent a good twenty minutes filling them
in on Harvey Peterson’s theories while munching an entire bag of
red jalapeno com chips.

Price cleared the table as Melody used the
phone in the hall.

“So, what, if anything, can we use from good
old Harvey?” Price quizzed.

“I’d like to get some other opinions first.
So far as I can tell, Harvey is the only one who believes his
story. I was right about this Chainsaw Militia thing. Harvey’s the
only member.”

“What about that boyhood friend, Pee Wee? Is
he still around? He could confirm that wartime story.”

“Nope. Harvey said Pee Wee moved to Alaska
and drowned soon after that big event.”

“So, do we just forget Harvey?”

“Probably. But I think I’ll check around.
Wade Miller’s father was a career man in the navy and stationed at
Farragut during the war.”

“Farragut?”

“In Idaho. He knows submarines. I think I’ll
talk to him.”

“What does Idaho have to do with submarines?
Last I looked it wasn’t close to an ocean.”

“They had a huge submarine training base on
Pend Oreille Lake. They were afraid to set it up on the West Coast.
Figured the Japanese might try to bomb it or something.”

“Now, that sounds a little like Harvey
Peterson.”

“That’s my premise. Behind every crackpot
theory is a...”

“Crackpot?” She flashed a dimpled smile.

“... is a nugget of truth. Perhaps totally
misunderstood or distorted, but it’s there. I’ll check it out.”

“It’s all set,” Melody called from the hall.
“Mom’s expecting us this afternoon.”

Price scooted toward the bedroom to comb her
hair, while Melody ran to her loft for her purse. Tony wandered to
the front room window and stared at the Sound while he sipped
Chuckwagon Blend Cowboy Coffee from his blue tin enamel cup. White
foam ruffled the inlet waters and the apple tree branches swayed in
the stiff wind.

“Well, Tony,” Price greeted as she strolled
back, “What are you contemplating? A new fiction series on how the
U.S. was almost invaded during the war? Or a tome on what soiled
doves do on their days off?”

“Neither. I was contemplating a nap on that
chaise lounge.”

“You’re showing your age, Shadowbrook.”

He detected a feisty sparkle in her blue
eyes. “And you aren’t. Come on, doctor, our research assistant
awaits.”

After they crossed the bridge, twenty-five
minutes later they reached Barbara Mason’s home, north of Gig
Harbor. A stucco house built in the 1940s, clear glass blocks
wrapped around the southwest corner. A porthole window adorned each
side of the front door. Overgrown rosebushes, junipers, ivy and
ferns hadn’t been pruned in years.

“Remember, Mom’s either really happy or
really depressed. There’s never an in between,” Melody
cautioned.

“How long has she been that way?” Price
asked.

“Ever since my father left.”

“When was that?”

“1979.”

“Do your mother and your grandmother get
along very well?”

“Horrible. It’s like they blame each other
for their own misery. I pray for them every night.”

Barbara had Melody’s dark hair, only
blacker, as though it had been sponged with shoe polish. Shorter,
it hung limply to her sagging shoulders. Heavy makeup emphasized
puffiness around the tired, worn eyes. “You must be the writers.”
She held out both hands to them, large rings on every fleshy
finger.

Price took on her English professor manners.
“Thanks for giving us some time, Mrs. Mason.”

“Melody’s told me all about you.” She turned
to Tony. “I hear you think Melody’s book stinks.”

“Mother!”

“Your daughter has great enthusiasm for
writing. I’m sure she’ll find her true niche someday. Frankly, a
stream of consciousness series of short stories about handicapped
people in dying American vocations would be difficult for any
writer to pull off.”

“On the other hand, Melody has been a great
help to us on our book, Mrs. Mason,” Price inserted.