Valhalla (25 page)

6 December
Monhegan
Island Maine

Macaulay stared up at the dark, windswept bluff above the Monhegan wharf.

After dropping them ashore, Chris had called out, “The museum is at the top of Lighthouse Hill. Turn left on Main Street.”

An unpaved rock-strewn path rose steeply from the wharf. It led past a phalanx of boarded-up summer cottages. At the crest of the bluff, they passed a three-story building with wraparound porches facing the sea. It was closed for the winter. A sign next to it read
ISLAND INN, C. 1816.

A hundred yards farther along the road, they came to Main Street. It had to be Main Street because the road ended there, but there were no sidewalks or lights. It was another fifteen-foot-wide dirt path studded with a buried rock ledge that wound up toward another hill.

“We have to hurry, Steve,” said Lexy as they passed a succession of cedar-shake cottages and stacks of neatly piled lobster traps. “Dawn is almost here.”

An even steeper hill pointed the way to the lighthouse and a fog light that swept over them every fifteen seconds. They were nearly exhausted by the time they hiked up the final yards of the ice-covered path.

From the summit, Macaulay looked back down and saw a fenced graveyard dotted with ancient markers on a small plateau. Below it, the island settlement led to the harbor. He could see Chris's boat chugging slowly toward a protected anchorage, but it was too far away to hear the engine.

The houses in the settlement were all dark. Wood smoke was rising lazily into the snowy sky from a few of the chimneys. Macaulay envied the islanders sleeping snug in their beds on such a raw night.

Two clapboard buildings flanked the gray stone lighthouse at the summit. In the beam of his flashlight, Macaulay read the sign identifying the first one as the Monhegan museum.

Its stout entrance door was locked with a dead bolt, and he walked over to one of the side windows, hoping the museum didn't have an alarm system to protect its valuable exhibits. Using the base of the flashlight, he broke a small windowpane, the opening giving him access to the latch.

Inside, he found himself standing in a narrow corridor that connected the museum to the base of the lighthouse. After blundering into a brass binnacle mounted on a pedestal along the wall, he walked back to the entrance and let Lexy inside.

Together, they went through the building, room by room. There were more than a dozen of them on the two floors, each containing relics, photographs, paintings, and exhibits related to different aspects of the island's four-hundred-year-old history.

In one room, the faces of long-dead students who had once attended the island school peered out from black-and-white photographs. Another room was devoted to the lighthouse keepers and another to Captain John Smith of Pocahontas fame. The largest room was filled with early-American fishing and lobster gear, and also included relics of the ships that had been wrecked on its rocky shores.

On the second floor, Lexy found the tiny room dedicated to Ray Phillips.

With his long white hair and flowing beard, the man was strikingly photogenic. In one of the photographs on the walls, he was smoking a pipe while holding a baby lamb in front of the complex of driftwood shacks he had built on Manana. The next one showed a view of his sleeping room, with a straw-filled mattress and beside it a handmade table, which held an old battery-powered radio and a kerosene lamp. The last photograph showed the charred ruins of the shacks after the fire swept through them, long after his death.

“But where are your papers, Mr. Phillips?” demanded Lexy loudly as she searched unsuccessfully through the drawers of a pine washstand.

In the next twenty minutes, they went through the rest of the rooms in the museum, methodically hunting for the papers Chris had told them were there and finally coming up empty.

“He must have been wrong,” said Macaulay. “Maybe they've moved them.”

It was Lexy who found the museum's archives in a set of oak drawers that had been cleverly built into the stairwell leading up to the second floor. The folders in the drawers were alphabetized and she quickly found the Ray Phillips material. The folder was disappointingly thin and largely made up of press clippings reporting his death.

Among the handful of original documents was a letter from the Veterans Administration informing him of an increase in the monthly pension from his active service in World War I. There was also a bill of sale for the purchase of his property on Manana Island for the sum of seventy-five dollars.

“Listen to this account of his death,” said Lexy, reading one of the clippings aloud. “‘According to Kole Gannon, an island resident, the night he died was bitterly cold. He reported looking out of his cottage window to see that the lantern in Phillips's shack had gone out, which was unusual. The following morning, Donald, the hermit's pet gander, was observed swimming across the harbor to Monhegan, apparently seeking help. When Gannon rowed across to Manana, he found Phillips dead on the bed in his shack.'”

“I don't see how any of this helps us,” said Macaulay.

“It doesn't,” agreed Lexy.

Macaulay checked his wristwatch.

“Chris said that dawn arrives this morning at seven fourteen,” he said. “That's four minutes from now. Where do we need to be?”

“There was no lighthouse here a thousand years ago, and we are already at the highest point on the island,” said Lexy. “We can watch it from these front windows.”

As the minutes passed, they both gazed toward the smaller island, expectantly waiting for the first shards of light to illuminate its surface. Manana slowly emerged out of the gloom, but there was no perceptible shadow cast over its dark mass.

“It's no good,” said Lexy as she prepared to leave. “We'll have to wait until tomorrow.”

Feeble dawn light had slowly crept through the room near the front entrance, which held an assemblage of exhibits and relics that offered a broad overview of the island's history and its people.

“Maybe not,” said Macaulay, leading her to an oil painting on the far wall.

The work was hanging above a glass case displaying an array of arrowheads from the Native American tribes that had lived on the island a millennium ago. Painted by an artist named Alison Hill, it was a contemporary landscape.

“Oh my Lord,” said Lexy, taking in its title,
Sunrise
.

The painter had been standing on Lighthouse Hill when she captured a burst of glorious sunlight breaking over Monhegan. The settlement still remained in shadow, as did the harbor beyond it. The top two-thirds of Manana was bathed in sunlight.

“Look there,” said Lexy, pointing to the area in shadow.

Her voice was tinged with disappointment. The shadowed section filled the entire lower end of the slope from north to south, and virtually all of it was blanketed with dense scrub growth.

“We're going to need a little divine assistance,” said Macaulay.

6 December
RV
Leitstern
North Atlantic Ocean
Off Maine

Standing on the open wing of the bridge, Captain Peter Bjorklund ordered his ship turned into the wind before giving permission for the AgustaWestland AW139 helicopter revving its engines on the rear landing pad to take off.

Thirty seconds later, a second helicopter was launched from the forward pad. Hovering high above the
Leitstern
, two more Agustas waited to land after their arrival. Their mission was to pick up the remaining phase one team members and deliver them to the mainland.

Bjorklund was grateful that the capricious North Atlantic weather had cooperated for the launch. The nor'easter would reach its peak intensity in a few hours. According to the radio accounts, it was going to be a bear.

Out of the wind's fury, in the shelter of the covered bridge, the Marquess Antoinette Celeste de Villiers said a silent prayer of thanksgiving for the first successful stage of phase one.

In spite of the black leather coat she was wearing and the multiple layers of clothing underneath, she couldn't stop shivering. She envied the heartiness of Bjorklund, who had gone out to the open section of the bridge dressed only in his uniform jacket and a light woolen sweater.

“Congratulations, Captain. You and your crew have done superbly once again,” she said upon his return. “They are on their way.”

“Where are they going, if I might ask?” said Bjorklund.

“To do God's work,” replied de Villiers.

Bjorklund knew better than to press her further.

A steward carrying mugs of hot cocoa arrived on the bridge, and de Villiers sipped hers while gazing out at the dark horizon. Her seventy-two exemplars were heading to every continent, from China to the Middle East, Europe to the United States. As soon as they completed the first phase, the teams would reassemble in Oslo to prepare for phase two.

She had taken the time to meet each of the two-man teams for a few minutes in her private cabin, telling them they should feel honored and humbled to have been chosen for the sacred mission.

“The serum you are carrying in these canisters will forever change the world. Guard it with your lives, and follow your orders to the letter when you arrive at your destination,” she told them, her voice almost choked with passion.

Standing on the lower deck near the landing pad, Per Larsen watched the last helicopter disappear into the gloom before stepping back inside and following the passageway to the maintenance section and the compartment of the supervisor.

He found him sitting in his office chair, massaging his swollen ankles. Petty Officer Van Loon was in his fifties and had come out of retirement from the Dutch navy to join the crew. Seeing Dr. Larsen, he immediately stood to attention.

“Please sit,” said Larsen, forcing a smile. “Attend to your ankles.”

“What can I do for you, Doctor?” he asked.

“I need to do a few personal chores,” said Larsen.

“We would be honored to help you,” he said.

“I would simply ask for the loan of one of your toolboxes.”

“A toolbox?” he asked, confused.

“The ones your men carry,” said Larsen, “equipped with basic tools.”

“Allow me to send one of my technicians to assist you,” said Van Loon. “Any one of them would be grateful for the opportunity.”

“My own work has been accomplished for the time being, and I would enjoy the chance to putter with my hands on a small project,” said Larsen. “Do you understand?”

“I think so,” said Van Loon.

Putting his shoes back on, he led the scientist into the supply section and pulled out one of the red stainless steel toolboxes from a storage cabinet. He placed it on the countertop and opened it.

“Is this everything you need?” he asked.

The top two trays held screwdrivers, pliers, spanners, and assorted screws and nails. The remaining space contained a cordless drill motor, pipe wrenches, sealers, glues, glazing compound, and lubricants.

“It will do perfectly,” said Larsen, replacing the trays and fastening the top.

When he had left, Van Loon went back to his office, still pondering the visit. The scientists he had met aboard the ship all struck him as peculiar to say the least, but if Dr. Larsen needed a repair in the lab complex, he was supposed to request it through him.

Every action aboard the
Leitstern
was undertaken within a strict set of procedures. Orders were orders. He pulled out his hand transceiver and punched in the number for the third officer.

6 December
Monhegan Island
Maine

From the grimy windows of Chris's fish shack, Macaulay and Lexy looked out at the raging surf hammering the tip of Manana. Although it was well past dawn, the sky was still murky. The air temperature had risen above the freezing point as the storm drew nearer, and the snow had turned back to driving rain.

“At least we'll be able to see what's on the ground over there,” said Lexy.

“Yeah, but if the wind grows much stronger, it will be impossible to row over,” he said.

Chris had pointed his fish shack out to them before dropping them at the wharf. Located along a shingle of beach, it was the size of a large garden shed and had a peaked roof and cedar-shake siding. Inside, it was furnished with a bed, an eating table, and two chairs. There was no bathroom and the shack was unheated. It was very cold.

A few photographs were pinned to the walls, one showing Chris in early boyhood, standing with a woman who might have been his mother. Otherwise, the space was crammed with fishing gear and landscaping tools.

To get warm, Lexy had removed her boots, gotten into the bed, and pulled his two quilts over her. Looking up at the decaying wood under the shingled roof, she counted a dozen separate leaks. Under the larger ones, Chris had arranged pots and bowls to collect the rainwater.

A brindle cat emerged from the piles of gear and jumped up on the bed.

“Do you think he actually lives here, Steve?”

“If he does, he must really love this island,” said Macaulay, removing his boots and joining her under the quilts.

“Why wouldn't he allow us to pay him?”

“Money obviously isn't important to him.”

He slid his arm around her back and pulled her close to him. The cat slowly curled up in the hollow between their legs.

“In the summer, this place probably rents for a thousand dollars a week,” he said as the cat lifted its head and began cleaning its front paws.

When Chris came in a few minutes later, the booming wind slammed the door shut behind him. Taking them in, he grinned apologetically and said, “Sorry, but we have to go. The wind has swung around to the north.”

They put their foul-weather gear back on and joined him outside. Chris had hauled his skiff up to the edge of the beach and waves were crashing into it. He told Lexy to sit in the bow and Macaulay to take the stern. Grabbing the oars, he launched the skiff and climbed into the center seat.

On the bottom of the boat lay a coiled rope ladder, a pick, shovel, coils of rope, and two long iron bars, along with several waterproof lanterns. Chris handed Macaulay a zipped watertight satchel that contained the Sten gun and extra magazines.

“I'm going to need you both to bail,” he shouted. “It's going to be wicked out there.”

Once past the stone breakwater, the skiff began bobbing like a cork. The sea rose to less than six inches below the gunwales, and it sloshed in from both sides as the skiff pitched and rolled.

Lexy and Macaulay kept filling their bailing buckets and heaving the water over the side, but the sea appeared to be winning the contest. As the icy water reached her ankles, Lexy kept her head down, not wanting to look ahead at what still awaited them.

Staring forward from the stern, Macaulay doubted they would make it across without capsizing. It was testament to the big man's strength and rowing prowess that he was maintaining any headway at all against the wind and waves, literally dragging them through the water.

A small wooden pier at the northern tip of Manana slowly materialized out of the shadows as Chris pulled closer. With the roiling sea lashing the shoreline, the pier jetty was barely out of the water.

As the bow of the skiff drew near the first pilings, Macaulay saw they were dangerously close to being driven straight into the seaweed-covered rock precipice that surrounded it.

At the last moment, Chris reversed direction with one of the oars and turned the skiff broadside to the end of the pier. With amazing agility for a big man, he leaped onto the pier and hauled the skiff out of the sea with them still inside.

After tying off the painter to one of the wooden stanchions, Chris began unloading. Dividing the tools and equipment between the three of them, he began climbing the cross members of a narrow-gauge cable car track that he said had once connected the dock with the abandoned coast guard station at the southern end of the island.

A hundred yards up the steep slope, they came to a utility shed that housed an old rotating drum of rusty cable once used to power the car. The shed door was missing, but they were able to gain temporary shelter from the driving rain by kneeling inside.

“We're almost directly above the remains of Ray's shacks,” said Chris. “There's nothing left down there but a few piles of debris.”

“What we're searching for is probably covered by all this undergrowth,” said Lexy, looking at the low-growing scrub.

“It's trailing yew,” said Chris. “Very tough . . . Grows everywhere on the island.”

Remembering the shaded area in the sunrise painting up at the museum, Macaulay proposed that they start at the bottom of the slope near the southern tip of the island and work their way back across the slope to the north end.

He and Chris would stand four feet apart and use the iron bars as probes to penetrate the undergrowth along the search line. Lexy would go ahead of them, looking for any hint in the oncoming terrain of a horizontal slab of rock.

“If the slab is about five feet square, we should hit it with one of the pole ends,” said Macaulay.

They moved out across the slope on the first search pattern, driving the poles into the earth at five-foot intervals and moving on. There was bedrock just below the surface almost everywhere. In some places it was two feet down; in others less than a foot. At no point did they find any bedrock that was horizontal.

They finished the first pass.

After moving higher up the slope, they headed back along the next pattern. At one point, Macaulay looked down at the pewter sea. It was now crashing into the north face of Manana with ten-foot-high waves. There would be no chance to row back now. They were stuck there for the duration of the storm.

The craggy ridge of the slope was steep and forbidding. It was also treacherous, with small fissures in the rock ledge from which thickets of gorse grew out of the dirt-filled crevasses and hid the sharp edges underneath.

Lexy fell more than once as she led the way. Macaulay found it tough going even in his hiking boots, and he wondered how Chris was able to manage barefoot, but the Finn navigated the uneven terrain like a mountain goat.

An hour later, they halted the search and took shelter again inside the abandoned utility shed. Chris had brought along a pint of Southern Comfort and they each downed a restorative.

“I think we've covered about half the shaded area,” said Macaulay.

“It could be anywhere,” said a discouraged Lexy. “Maybe it isn't even here.”

The rain and wind came harder as they resumed the search higher up the slope. Halfway across the fourth search line, they came to three large mounds of debris, the ruins of Ray Phillips's small complex. One of the mounds was considerably larger than the other two.

“That was the one he lived in,” said Chris.

Evidence of the fire that destroyed them could be seen in several charred roofing timbers. All of it had been exposed to the elements ever since. Sheets of corrugated tin lay alongside the timbers, along with a rusting woodstove and various bits of furniture.

They continued on until they reached the southern end of the search sector, and then climbed the slope to begin working their way back again.

“Only two more passes,” Macaulay called out to Lexy as she scanned the ground ahead of her.

They were halfway across the seventh and final pass, when Lexy glanced down the slope and again noticed the rubble piles from the hermit's shacks. She suddenly remembered the photograph she had seen up in the museum of its interior, with the straw mattress, the side table, the radio, and the kerosene lamp.

“The hermit's bed,” she called out, as if experiencing a revelation.

“What about it?” asked Chris.

“I saw a photograph of it in the museum,” she said, striding back to him. “It was a straw mattress. What did it rest on?”

He shared the same revelation.

“It was on a pedestal,” he said as the rain ran in rivulets down his smiling face. “A flat stone pedestal.”