Isle Royale (16 page)

LeBeck turned back toward her and instantly changed personality, comforting her with a soothing, sickly sweet voice. “Now, Collene,” he said, taking a step forward. “We’ll find the kids. It was all a big misunderstanding. You know that.”

He tried to hold her hand, but she jerked back, a leery, terrified look in her eyes. LeBeck could see that she was shivering.

“You’ve got to do something,” she pleaded with him. “They’re out in this storm. I’m worried sick.”

He reached out and snared her hand. Then, without a word, his arm snaked its way up to her shoulder, like a python constricting around its prey, wrapping her in his grasp. He moved, gently leading her back toward the house. “By tomorrow morning,” he murmured in her ear as they strode away, “everything will be fine.”

High up on the lighthouse, Clarence looked down from the narrow catwalk. He grimaced as he watched LeBeck and Collene fade into the shadows. The lightkeeper gritted his teeth in a feral snarl, then banged his fists on the rail. The storm gusted fiercely, whipping his coat back and threatening to hurl him from the tower. Gripping the railing with white knuckles, he shouted curses at the storm, at God, and his own weakness, only to have his screams drowned out by the howling wind.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“O
ver there,” said Sally. Ian glanced up from his rowing and saw her pointing toward shore, on the starboard side of the dinghy. The storm had blown past, leaving the cove in eerie silence; even the treetops on the ridges were at rest. The air, however, remained heavy with impending violence. Across the sky, swiftly moving clouds flashed a brilliant gold every few seconds, lit by the distant lightning of another storm front.

Ian hoisted the oars and looked off to his right. A small mining village, decrepit and long deserted, appeared out the mist that now cloaked the shoreline. Decaying wooden shacks wearing carpets of green moss loomed out of the darkness, like skeletons from some long-forgotten graveyard. The dinghy slid noiselessly past the village, plying the black waters of the cove. The effect on the trio was somber, almost hypnotizing.

Suddenly, Ian jumped at the sound of a loud, deep grunting noise echoing off the water. He looked past Sally and was shocked to see a marshy area dead ahead. He’d been so intent on rowing that he’d lost all track of time. He realized that they’d finally reached the end of McCargoe Cove, having traveled down the entire two-mile length of the fjord-like inlet. In the marsh, which was fed by a stream emptying into the cove, Ian sensed a huge animal moving on the shoreline. He squinted, trying to make out the mysterious shape. Finally, in the strobe light of the approaching storm, he could see a bull moose, foraging through the rushes.

“We’re here,” Captain Ben said from the stern. The sudden arrival of his voice caused both teenagers to jump; the old mariner had remained silent for much of the journey, having told them only in cryptic terms that they would find some sort of assistance up ahead. “End of the cove,” he said, smiling now. “Home.”

“What do you mean, ‘home’?” asked Ian.

Ian felt Sally grip his arm hard. He turned and saw her pointing silently at the shoreline, her face ashen.

“What, Sal?” Ian said, squinting. “What’s out there?”

Following Sally’s gaze, Ian looked toward the misty far shore, the area between the marsh and the abandoned mining village. As the mist parted, what he saw next made his jaw drop nearly to the deck.

Gaseous green lights, dozens of them, moved silently up the shore through the woods. “Oh, my God,” said Sally. “The place is crawling with ghosts!”

Ian raised his hand. “Listen,” he whispered. They all heard it then, faint music coming from somewhere nearby. A fiddle, an accordion, and a chorus of men’s voices wafted over the water.

“This… it’s too creepy,” Sally stuttered. “There’s nothing over there.”

Ian squinted, trying to probe the darkness to find the source of the ghostly orchestra. Then, the green orbs suddenly winked out in rapid succession. At the same time, the music came to a sudden halt, enveloping the cove in a terrible silence.

“Time to leave,” urged Sally.

Ian locked eyes with Captain Ben, who had once more lapsed into silence. Ian stared at the old man’s weathered face, searching. A faint smile crept onto Ben’s lips. Ian nodded, then dipped the oars in the water and started paddling with strong, swift strokes,
closer
to shore.

“What are you doing?” Sally said, panic rising in her voice.

“Let’s go take a look, Sal,” he said. She glared at him. Ian grinned back, his eyes full of mischief. He looked back at Captain Ben. “What’s the worst that can happen? Ghosts can’t swim. Right, Ben?”

At that moment a flash of yellow light erupted from someplace on shore. They heard a thunderous, ear-splitting boom, and then Sally and Ian both screamed as a geyser of water exploded in their faces.

Chapter Twenty-Three

L
eBeck’s silver hook slammed down on a beautifully finished oak table. The metal talon scraped back and forth, gouging and scratching the fine wood. LeBeck groaned in pain, then gritted his teeth and let loose a low growl that crescendoed to a raging howl.

The smuggler was lying face down on the MacDougal’s dining room table, his pants pulled down, displaying a full moon. A deep gash ran along his left buttock A thug with an alcohol swab clumsily poked at LeBeck’s knife wound.

“Blast it!” LeBeck jerked his head back and snarled at the man. “Careful back there!”

“Sure, boss,” said the thug, trying to be tender. “Sorry, boss.”

One of the other henchmen, a guard standing near the doorway, broke out into a sweat. He watched LeBeck lying there, his butt sticking up for all the world to see. To his horror, he felt a smile creep onto his face. Suddenly, a titter of laughter burbled up from his throat and escaped his lips. Wide eyed, he clamped his hands to his mouth.

LeBeck reached into his vest pocket, pulled out his .45, and promptly shot the man in the leg. The wounded thug howled in agony and collapsed to the floor.

LeBeck scanned the other faces in the room as smoke rose from the muzzle of his pistol. “Anyone
else
think this is funny?”

Dead silence enveloped the room, except for the moaning of the injured man.

“Bring the families in here,” LeBeck barked at a thug near the door. “It’s time to talk.” The henchman left in haste, eager to leave before his boss received his stitches.

LeBeck lay his head back on the table as the designated medic prepared the wound. He flinched, not from the pain this time, but from the thunder clapping overhead. A new storm front had rolled in, unleashing a fury greater than the one preceding it. Each time thunder boomed and echoed off the cliffs, LeBeck imagined himself back in France, in the trenches, waiting to die from incoming artillery. He found himself pouring sweat, his one good hand quivering in fear.

He’d experienced this problem before, whenever a storm blew in, or fireworks exploded overhead, or sometimes even from the slamming of a heavy door. The doctors had called it
shell shock
, but could offer no remedy. When it struck, he masked his fear by becoming even more ill tempered than his usual self.

LeBeck turned and pointed his pistol at the man behind him, who was in the middle of threading a newly sterilized sewing needle. The man stopped, needle in one hand, thread in the other, and stared into the muzzle of the still-smoking gun. He looked up into the burning, hate-filled eyes of his employer.

“This better not hurt,” LeBeck commanded, venom seeping into his voice. “Otherwise, I’ll sew up every hole in your body. You can choose which hole goes first.”

The man’s hands began shaking uncontrollably. “Right, boss,” he stammered. “You won’t feel a thing.”

LeBeck lay his head back down, wincing as a tremendous thunder clap exploded in the sky above, shaking the entire house. As work began on his wound, LeBeck found himself back in the trenches, tormented by demons from a war fought long ago.

Chapter Twenty-Four

T
he force of the explosion knocked Ian and Sally to the bottom of the little dinghy. Ian quickly got to his hands and knees, trying to steady the wildly rocking boat. He glanced up and saw Captain Ben at the stern, bending over and reaching for his green lantern.

“What was that?” shouted Sally, keeping her head down.

“A cannon, I think,” Ian sputtered, finding it hard to believe that anyone would be shooting at them in the middle of the night at the end of McCargoe Cove. He poked his eyes above the rim of the boat, just in time to see another yellow flash burst from shore. They heard the shell whistle overhead, then tear into the water just behind them. The impact sprayed the teenagers with icy water.

Suddenly springing into action, Ian sat up, grabbed the oars and began digging into the water, stroking as hard and fast as his exhausted arms would move.

Another boom, and then a cannon shell smacked into the water twenty feet in front of the dinghy. A moment later, yet another shell hit, closer still.

“Other way!” Sally screamed.

Ian reversed direction, sending the dinghy toward the opposite shore. The boat moved through the water like a herd of turtles. There was no way, Ian knew, that they could get out of range before being blown to bits. He glanced over and saw Ben on his hands and knees, desperately trying to light the lamp. With trembling hands, the old man fumbled with the little lamp, dropping his matches to the bottom of the boat.

A flash from shore signaled another cannon shot. It came ripping through the air like a freight train, then dropped right in front of the dinghy, rocking it violently. Sally screamed as she watched Ian lose his balance, then tumble into the frigid water. He slipped under the surface, leaving only a boiling patch of air bubbles.

Sally instinctively leaned over and reached out, groping desperately for her friend. For a gut-wrenching moment, she felt nothing, only icy water stinging her skin. Then she felt cloth brushing past. She closed her hand around Ian’s coat collar, then gritted her teeth and pulled with all her might.

Ian popped to the surface, sputtering and gasping for breath. His arms flailed wildly in the water. Sally tugged harder, trying not to let the coat slip from her grasp. She leaned back for counterbalance as Ian got both arms up on the side of the boat. He pulled himself halfway up, then threw a leg over the side, and with great effort hauled himself in. He lay on the bottom, gasping like a freshly landed trout. Ian shook and trembled from the cold.

“Ben, do something!” Sally shouted.

“Ahoy!”

The two teenagers glanced up and saw Captain Ben standing at the stern, peering toward the dark shore. His arm waved the now-lit lantern from side to side. The light cast an eerie green arch against the black night. “Ahoy!” Ben repeated. “Hold your fire!”

A man’s voice called out from the far shore. “You in the dinghy! Row over ‘ere or we’ll shoot again!” Ian and Sally squinted toward the end of the cove, trying to find the source of the rough-sounding speaker.

Ian finally called out, “How do we know you won’t shoot anyway?”

“If we’d wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be talk’n to us now!”

Sally turned to Ian and gripped his arm. “What if it’s the gangsters?”

“We have much choice,” Ian replied. “We’ll never get out of range before that cannon hits us.”

Ben finally spoke up as he plopped back down to his seat. “Don’t worry,” he said in an even, soothing voice. “Just do as the man says.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Ian took up the oars and once again started rowing. Sally scanned the shore as the dinghy glided closer and closer toward the marshy area at the end of the cove.

“Just follow my voice, nice and easy,” the hidden man said. “And no funny business.”

Ian kept the boat moving steadily as best he could toward the mysterious voice. He watched Ben make minor course corrections with the rudder. The old sailor seemed strangely unconcerned about their predicament. “Who’s out there, Ben?” Ian said quietly. Ben smiled cryptically, but kept his silence. Ian furrowed his brow, irritated. Ben knew damn well who was shooting at them. Why didn’t he say anything?

At the bow, Sally spoke up, breaking the uneasy silence. “Ian, look.”

The boat had traveled nearly to the end of the cove. Ian stopped rowing and turned to peer forward. Just as they were about to bump on shore, Ian gasped. Both he and Sally ducked down.

What had appeared to be a solid mass of foliage and trees suddenly parted like a giant stage curtain. As the boat glided through, they could see camouflage arranged on a giant net, which was suspended overhead by a sort of rope and pulley system. The curtain reached from the water line to perhaps thirty feet up, anchored on each shore by tall pine trees. At night the disguise was perfect; they never had a clue that the forest they’d seen was merely an illusion. Ian wondered if the curtain was equally impressive during the day.

The dinghy floated past the curtain into a small hidden lagoon, the true end point of McCargoe Cove. What they encountered next was even more astonishing than the camouflaged curtain. Floating in the lagoon, and occupying most of its enclosed space, was a huge ship, a wooden-hulled, sidewheel-paddle steamer.

The dinghy bumped up against the bow of the craft, which loomed over them menacingly. Ian glanced up and saw, painted in decaying letters on the weathered wood, the words, “U.S. Revenue Cutter Chippewa.” A cannon was perched on the deck above them, seemingly unmanned for the moment.

“Move to stern,” boomed the hidden voice.

Ian started rowing, mesmerized as they slid alongside the mysterious ship. It was obviously quite old; moss hung down the hull, and paint was worn away and chipped. The ancient timbers creaked as the ship bobbed gently on the water; the smell of rotting wood filled the air.

Just off the bow, and directly behind the bridge, a single black smokestack projected upward. No soot poured out this night; the engine remained silent. In fact, there was no sound at all, except the lapping of the waves, and the oars dipping into the water as Ian rowed steadily down the length of the ship.