I have no idea where I’m headed, but for the time being, as long as it’s away from Hunter’s Island, I don’t care. Once I’m certain the Coast Guard will never find me on the vast open ocean, only then will I take a look at the chart to decide where to go.
According to my watch, I’ve been sailing for almost an hour. That’s great because every hour of fast sailing means I’ll be about six miles farther away from Hunter’s Island. On open water, six miles is a lot. I just might escape from the hands of the United States Coast Guard. Screw you, Skinny Pete.
Puffy clouds race across the clear sky as the sun climbs higher. There’ve been no other boats on the sea. At least, there are none around me. Out here, I’m all by myself. It’s just vast blue sea in all directions with only the scattering of islands way to the north.
Much later, I’m still heading in the same direction and sailing just as fast. I look at my watch again and am startled by what I see. Did I see that right? I look again. It’s been three and a half hours since I left my island. I did it. I escaped! I stand up in the cockpit of the heeled boat and shoot both arms into the air. I can hardly contain my excitement. “Take that Pete, you stupid drunk!” I shout. I let out a huge, “WA-HOO!”
It’s time to take a look at the chart and figure out where I am and where I need to go. I lash the tiller and hop down below to the nav table, where the chart’s still laid out.
Knowing the compass heading I’m sailing, I use a straight-edge to pencil in a line on the chart to indicate the direction I’m sailing in. Next, I guess at my speed, then use the dividers to walk off the miles along the line I just drew. I stare at the spot I just circled on the chart. I certainly don’t want to go there. I’m only seven or eight miles offshore, and fast approaching Trent Harbor.
The best thing to do, given my speed and the wind direction, is to alter my course just a little more to the south and sail right on past. If I do that, I’ll still be offshore enough so no one will see me as I go past. I double check everything on the chart. By changing the heading a little I should be safe.
Back in the cockpit, I unlash the tiller and begin to point the sailboat slightly more to the south, paying close attention to the compass. Satisfied I’m on the right course, I gaze out at the horizon to see if I can actually view any land near Trent Harbor. I’m in the clear. But, in the opposite direction, I notice something. On the horizon is a boat.
The boat seems to be approaching fast. My hand hurts from squeezing the tiller so tightly. Chances are good it’s just another lobsterman heading toward his traps, but I can’t take my eyes away from it. I run my hand through my long hair. I remember a pair of binoculars are stowed below the chart table so, grabbing them, I quickly take a look. Damn! There, against the stark white hull, is the unmistakable red stripe; it is without doubt the Coast Guard.
How could they possibly have found me? I must be at least twenty five miles away from Hunter’s Island, and I could’ve sailed off in any direction, making it nearly impossible. I squint through the binoculars again; they’re moving fast. Certainly much faster than the twelve knots I thought they’d be going. At that speed, it’ll only be a matter of minutes before they’ll be right on top of me. There’s no place to hide out here on the open sea. And, with the big white sails against the blue of the ocean, I might as well have a giant red arrow pointing to me; here I am!
Sitting in the cockpit, I close my eyes and try to think. Brains not brawn, brains not brawn . . . but not a single idea comes to me. There’s no place for me to run, and the sailboat’s much too slow to try and get away. Maybe I can make up a great story that the Coast Guard will actually believe. Unlike some of the other kids in school, I’m not very good at making up stories on the spot.
Some kids can make the teachers believe almost anything. Once, Brian Farwell had pulled the fire alarm just before a big test that he hadn’t studied for. It got him out of the test all right, but it also got him a seat right in front of the principal. He looked the principal right in the eye and told him that, yes, he had, in fact, pulled the alarm, but he thought it was the light switch to the boy’s bathroom. It wasn’t much of a story, but he told it in such a way that the principal believed him and simply asked him not to do it again. He got away with it.
I need to think up a story like that, but within minutes, the familiar white hull with the red stripe is almost on my transom. I know the boat well; it’s the U.S. Coast Guard’s 41-foot UTB; UTB stands for Utility Boat. This one has two Cummings diesel engines with a top speed of about 26 knots. That’s why it caught up to me so quickly.
All of us kids at the sailing club know every Coast Guard vessel; I’m not sure why. I suppose it’s like farm kids being able to identify different tractors they see in the fields. But knowing about their boat’s not going to help me at all in this situation. I’m a sitting duck.
A few minutes later they’re following in my wake.
Remembering some of my sailing class, I stand up and make a big circle with my arms; the international signal for O.K. They aren’t buying it.
Through the cabin-top bullhorn, a no-nonsense, monotone voice booms, “Drop your sails and heave to.” I don’t realize it, yet; I’m biting my nails almost to the skin.
This time I try yelling to them, “No! I’m okay. Thanks for checking on me.” There’s no humor in the men in blue uniforms who scrutinize me from the UTB boat. At least they don’t have the deck gun pointed at me.
“Drop your sails and heave to!” The voice booms again.
I kick the side of the cockpit. Nothing will get me out of this mess. I shake my head and lean over to uncleat the jib and mainsail. Both sails drop to the deck, and the boat slows. I’m caught.
I’m in so much trouble that I’m probably going end up in some juvenile jail. This is not how I’d planned things.
When the Coast Guard boat pulls up alongside, it seems huge compared to my little Sticky Wicket. “Come on aboard,” one of the men yells to me.
I feel like someone’s sitting on my lungs and I can hardly breathe. There isn’t much left I can do, so I climb out of the cockpit and hoist myself up over the side of the big white vessel, where two men instantly grab me by the collar and pull me in. Before I can protest they put a huge, orange life jacket on me that makes me look like a pumpkin with arms and legs.
The guy who looks like the first officer stands before me, “Are you Fisher Shoemaker?” His deep voice sounds like a guy in charge.
I nod my head, yes.
His eyes are hidden behind a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses that reveal no emotions; on his face is a cold, hard expression. I notice he has a black gun belt strapped tightly to his waist. He’s probably annoyed that he’s wasted his time chasing down some dumb kid who stole a boat.
“There are a lot of worried people looking for you.”
Down in my little sailboat there are two crew men who are attaching a tow line and securing the tiller.
“Your parents are worried sick about you,” he says, still showing no sympathy. “Whatever made you steal a boat and sail off like that?”
Thinking fast, I say, “Well, school was over for the summer, and I just wanted to get out on the water to explore. An adventure, you know? I didn’t think the people who own the boat would miss it because they never use it.” I’m looking down at the deck to avoid his eyes.
“We’re taking you back to Trent Harbor,” he says, “where we’ll have to turn you over to the authorities.”
My heart skips a beat. I’m about to protest, and tell them about what I saw the mayor and the police chief doing, when he continues, “But first, can you tell me anything about a man by the name of Peter McMillan?”
I peer blankly at him.
“. . . also known as Skinny Pete,” he says.
“Oh,” I say. “Skinny Pete? Sure, what do you want to know?” I’m relieved that we aren’t talking about me stealing sailboats.
“We’ve been getting reports all summer that someo
ne has been poaching lobsters from traps up and down the coast. We suspect it’s him but, honestly, we don’t have the manpower to follow up on it, or to even begin looking for him with 3,500 miles of shore line. That’s an impossible task we don’t have time for.”
He continues on, “We think he was the one who radioed in your location but we can’t prove it. So, if you know where he was last located, we might be able to take care of your little problem.”
I run a hand through my hair thinking about this. It’s perfect. If I tell them about Skinny Pete, maybe they’ll just let me go and forget about everything. Besides, Skinny Pete certainly didn’t do me any favors.
“I don’t know exactly where he is now, but I can tell you the direction I sent him.”
“Sent him?” The first officer raises an eyebrow.
“He’d been taking lobsters out of the traps around Hunter’s Island. I was helping him, but I thought they were his traps. I didn’t know they weren’t his.” As soon as I say it, I realize that part sounds funny because, as far as trouble goes, that’s the least of my worries. “. . . so I was mad at him. One night, when he was passed out, I drove his boat away from the island and towed a dory with me. When I thought it was safe, I hopped in the dory, put his boat into gear, then rowed back to the island.”
I don’t tell him everything because I think it’ll only make matters worse.
The first officer looks like he’s trying hard not to laugh. Then he regains his stern face, and says, “You know you could have put him in a lot of danger doing that.”
“I know.”
“So which way did you send him?” he asks.
“I think it was southeast. I didn’t look too closely at the compass, but I think it was reading about 110 degrees.”
“That’s perfect,” he says. The first officer’s face turns from stone cold to a warm smile. “We know the radio range from when he called in your location so, given that we know the direction you sent him, we should be able to find Peter McMillan without too much problem.”
He immediately picks up the mike of the VHF radio and calls back to Salem Beach Coast Guard station, giving them the last known location of Skinny Pete.
“That’s great work,” he says, giving me a slap on the back. His mood’s certainly improving. “It’s not like this guy is a wanted criminal, in fact, I think he’s sort of a dill weed. But he’s giving the Coast Guard a black eye with a lot of locals who’re pretty upset when they find their traps tampered with or empty.”
There’s a slight lurch as the Coast Guard boat begins to move with my sailboat in tow.
“How would you like to ride up in the pilothouse?” he says in a fatherly way. “Come on, you can sit near the helm and Officer Jones can explain what he does.”
“Jonesy,” he says to the man steering the boat, “show this young man how our boat operates.”
“Yes, sir,” he snaps back.
I climb into the empty seat near Officer Jones and peer out the window as we steer toward Trent Harbor. This is pretty cool.
***
Before I know it, we’re motoring through the Trent Harbor entrance. Off a little to the west, past some small islands, I can see a few of the guys are out for a sail at the sailing club, and beyond that, I can see the location of my hideout. I wonder if it’s still there, or if someone has actually found it. Maybe Sara has turned it into a club for girls; I hope not.
Steering in a big arc, Officer Jones guides the Coast Guard boat in alongside the floating dock at the city pier, then momentarily reverses the twin diesels, bringing us to a neat stop. Two men jump off and quickly secure the bow and stern. We’re back.
Before I leave the seat at the helm, I see through the window that my mom and dad are waiting for me on the dock. They both look nervous and excited. I take a deep breath, and then climb out of the seat.
Standing on the aft deck, I casually wave hello to the two of them, like I was just out for an afternoon ride with a few friends. “Hi, Mom and Dad,” I say, and jump down onto the floating dock.
They both capture me in a big hug and my mom begins to cry.
My dad says, “Look at you, son! I almost didn’t recognize you, you’ve grown so much.” He’s right; I’m almost as tall as he is. My build’s not yet as big as his, but I know I’m now plenty strong.
“Excuse me, folks, I need to take Fisher in for questioning.” The voice has authority, and when I look back, I’m shocked to see Police Chief O’Reilly pushing toward me. His face is etched with a grimace.
I’m about to scream out but, suddenly, his powerful hand grasps my arm, squeezing tightly as he pulls me away from both my parents. I can’t even breathe one word.
“Don’t worry folks, you can see him as soon as we’re done,” O’Reilly says, pulling me away.
My mom begins to protest, but my dad stops her. Before I know what’s happening, I’m sitting in the back of a patrol car, heading away from the dock.
After all this time, the men who I was trying to hide from finally captured me. God only knows what they plan on doing with me next.
Chapter 17
Two Cherries on Top
Fear grips me like a tight, cold hand around my throat. It’s hard to breathe. I’m imprisoned in the back of the black and white Plymouth Gran Fury patrol car with the man who’s probably going to kill me. Certainly the mayor and police chief already have a plan in place; just like they must’ve had for the poor guy who was stuffed into the trunk of the old Buick. I’m shaking uncontrollably and want to scream, want to bang on the windows, want to do anything but just sit here. But with terror suffocating me, I can do nothing.
I’m stuck. There’s no escape from the car because there are no door or window handles on the inside. Across the back of the front seat is a stainless steel cage, like the kind they use for kennels, to keep the bad guys from crawling to the front. This black and white has four doors―two for the good guys, and two for the bad guys-- and two cherries on top. Apparently, I am a bad guy. I’m a trapped animal.
After a minute or two of trembling in the back seat, while the officer talks to my mom and dad, I notice something reeks. I feel faint. At first, when I noticed the odor, I was pretty sure someone had peed on the floor. But now it’s starting to stink more like someone has recently thrown up; the smell that makes you have to throw up too. The car’s starting to get warm in the sun and there’s no fresh air coming through the front window. I have to fight back that gagging sensation or I’m going to add to the stink.
Just at the point where I think everything in my stomach is going to come shooting out, Officer O’Reilly plops his fat butt into the driver’s seat. He then starts the engine, and we drive off, sending fresh air my way. Just in the nick of time.
He doesn’t say anything to me as he drives in silence; occasionally, I can see his eyes in the mirror glancing back at me. They’re bloodshot, like he hasn’t had much sleep. I stare at the back of his head, at the tight military haircut, and wonder how this could be the same man I remember coming to our school to talk. The man who showed up on career day was friendly and passed out Tootsie Rolls to all the kids. This Officer O’Reilly is unemotional, doesn’t say a word, and gives off a sense that sends chills up my spine.
Sitting trapped in the back seat, my head leaning against the window, I’m not paying too much attention as we pass homes and stores. I’ve been away for most of the summer, but everything still looks the same. Trent Harbor never changes. Before I know it, we’re whizzing past a large red brick building―the police station!
I begin to tremble again. “Where are we going?” I ask, banging on the cage that separates the front from the back. My hand hurts from banging and I try to shake off the pain.
In the mirror, Officer O’Reilly’s cold eyes drill through me. “Don’t worry about it.”
But I am worrying about it; I’m worrying about it a lot! He’s going to some deserted place where he can kill me, and no one will ever know. At least if we
had gone to the police station with other people around, I’d have been safe.
Soon we’re out of town and driving along a wooded, windy road that follows the shoreline to the northeast. It’s been a long time since I’ve been on this road, but I think I remember where it goes. After ten minutes, we arrive. He slows the car down at a driveway, almost hidden with brush, where there’s a plain black mailbox that says “Reed” on the side. Mayor Reed.
The house is offset a long way from the main road, surrounded by pine trees that make it invisible to anyone passing by. This is almost as bad as ending up in some deserted place. No one driving along the road will ever see us.
My face is pressed against the window, watching as we drive along the meandering private roadway and stop in front of the house. Abruptly, the car door swings open. Ouff! Dropping like a sandbag, I hit the driveway where fine crushed gravel embeds itself into my knees. Two solid hands grab my shoulders and lift me back to my feet. Just then, I notice crushed gravel is also stuck to my hands but, as I brush it off, it occurs to me my hands are free; Officer O’Reilly hasn’t cuffed them.
Instinct tells me to run; run as fast as I can. To get away from him before he can catch me. Then my brain overrules; out here, the forest is so thick, I won’t get far before they catch me. I stand stock-still and don’t move.
“Come on, follow me,” Officer O’Reilly says, as he gives me a shove forward. For some reason, I follow. Maybe when you’re scared, your brain just locks up and no good ideas come to mind so you simply follow the guy who’s going to kill you. This is not like the movies, where the sheriff mistakenly leaves his gun sitting on the table for the hero to grab.
We don’t go to the front door but, instead, we walk around the side of the house to a wood-chipped path that leads down to a small dock. I can see down at the dock there’s an old, wooden classic runabout powerboat, and on the opposite side, a little sailboat, almost the same size as the ones we use at the sailing club. Someone’s down at the dock, but from where we are it’s hard to tell. I’m guessing it must be Mayor Reed.
Is that their plan? To put me in a boat and take me offshore where they could shove my body overboard? I freeze. I can’t move my feet. Officer O’Reilly stops in front of me, turns around, and orders me to keep moving. I do as I’m told.