Isle Royale Read online

  I hunched down and waited. If the Canadians could make it through the barbed wire obstacle course in the dark, not get mowed down by snipers and machine-gun fire, avoid the traps and bombs and unexploded artillery shells littering the field, then shoot their way into the enemy trenches, then I was saved. I crouched down further, trying to make myself into a little ball.

  All I could see of the battle was the round piece of sky above the shell hole. Stars twinkled up above me in the clear, cool night. Occasional bomb bursts, or the harsh light of star shells, lit up the crater now and then, making me wince and duck. The two corpses with which I shared the crater unnerved me. The German, whose eyes were still open, stared up at me, accusingly. I kicked his head to one side with my boot. I noticed a rat beginning to gnaw on Campion’s dead hand. I stabbed the vermin with my bayonet, then flung it over the edge onto the battlefield.

  The noise up above the crater was terrifying. All around me men screamed, fell to earth, and died. I heard the sound of boots running past. Twice, I heard loud voices approaching, shouting in German. I readied my rifle, aiming at the lip of the crater, but the only targets presented to me were twinkling stars.

  The battle subsided. There was no way to tell who had won, or even if it was safe for me to leave the awful confines of the crater. Just when I was determined to poke my head over the lip to have a look, I heard a thunk in the dirt behind me. I turned and to my horror saw a grenade lying there, still rolling in the dirt, pin out, about to explode.

  I knew I’d never have enough time to scramble out of the crater. Worse, I’d be exposing myself to enemy fire. My only hope was to get rid of the thing before it went off. I had mere seconds. I flung myself toward the grenade and in one fluid motion scooped it up and hurled it skyward.

  The lethal bomb passed just a few feet from my outstretched hand when it exploded. I saw a bright flash and felt a pressure in my head, like someone pounding my temples with sledgehammers. There was a terrible tugging and ripping sensation in my hand as I was blown backward against the far slope of the bomb crater.

  I lay there a moment, dazed and smoking. Part of my uniform was on fire. I tried patting it out with my hand, but there was no hand there, just a tangled, bloody mess of muscles and tendons and bones jutting out. Even though I felt no pain, I began screaming. I struggled to raise myself up.

  Just then, a dark figure swooped in from above. I saw a man’s face, teeth gritted in hate and determination. A silver blade slashed through the air, and I felt a terrible burning near my heart. I looked down and saw a bayonet sticking out of my chest, a dark patch of red quickly spreading over my uniform. I glanced up and saw the man standing over me, struggling to pull the blade out. He was one of ours, a Canadian.

  “Wait,” I croaked out. “It’s me. It’s me.”

  The soldier froze. The last thing I remember was the horrible look of stunned comprehension on his face. “It’s me,” I whispered once more, and then a black curtain fell before my eyes.

  JL

  April 28, 1918, Dunkirk, France

  Collene,

  The men in my ward are given up as dead, but of course they don’t know it yet. The doctors and nurses hover around us, talking in hushed tones, afraid even to make eye contact with the condemned, as if death itself might rub off on them. The smell of death here is overpowering—antiseptic mixed with vomit and pus and the metallic scent of blood.

  My left hand is a stump now, wrapped tight in padded bandages. Strange that I can still feel my fingers, though when I raise my hand to scratch my nose, there’s nothing there but air. My entire chest and most of my face are also swathed in cloth, most of which is soaked in sweat and blood.

  The doctors say I’ll be fitted with an artificial hand soon. They’re waiting to see if I die first, I think. I won’t give them the pleasure. I know this is not my time, though in the middle of the night, when the medication wears off and the pain is at its worst, I dearly wish for a gun to place against my head.

  The moans of the dying fill me with loathing. Why can’t they all just shut up? I’ve obtained a secret stash of morphia I keep under the mattress. (Even in my wounded state, I still have good connections to the smugglers’ world. It’s a skill for which I seem well suited.) I give the most vocal of the wounded extra doses of the medicine. That usually quiets them for the night.

  One man, his face half blown off, defied all medical science and refused to die. Instead, he emitted a constant wheezing, moaning noise with each labored breath. This went on for quite some time until, late one night, I gave the poor bastard an overdose of the morphia and sent him quietly on his way.

  JL

  May 16, 1918, Dunkirk, France

  Collene,

  The doctors say I’ll be shipped home next week. They tried to fit me with an artificial hand. I refuse this grotesque masquerade. Instead I have had fitted upon my stump a hook, a sharp hand of gleaming steel to remind me of the war and what it did to me, and what I have done to other men.

  I do not wish to go home now. I think instead I will stay in France for a time. They say the war will be over soon. I want to see for myself this new Europe for which we have all spilled so much blood. So many men here prepare to return home, convinced their country owes them for their sacrifice. They’re fools to think they’ll receive anything other than heartache.

  I cannot go back to the domestic routine you people are so comfortable with. It is unthinkable for me board my little fishing boat and go about a day-to-day existence catching herring and lake trout. Not because I’m above such work. (God, what I would give to be content again!) No, Collene, I loath myself and what the war has created within me. Something has snapped inside. I find myself afflicted with moods and foul tempers. I’m restless. I cannot go home. Not now. You will hate me for this, but it is for the best.

  I loved you once, Collene. Perhaps I still do. But we will never wed, for who would marry a man like me, who is lower than the mud upon which you walk? Forget about me, Collene. Live your life and be happy.

  I’m sorry.

  Jean

  Chapter Eight

  Ian wiped wet hair from his eyes. He sat at the bow of the little dinghy, happy to feel the fresh lake breeze blowing past. It was warm for late autumn—sunlight beat down from partly cloudy skies, shimmering off the lake and reflecting into Ian’s face. Off to their right, to starboard, the shoreline and steep hills beyond shone like melted gold as a stand of aspen and birch swayed in the breeze. Yellow leaves fluttered off the branches. They tossed and turned in midair, like fairies dancing in ether, until settling to earth for the winter.

  Ian glanced back and smiled at Sally, who was perched at the stern, expertly guiding the sailboat across the water. She wrinkled her brow, deep in concentration, trying to keep the dinghy parallel to shore, which was difficult in the constantly shifting winds. The sun hid briefly behind a cloud, and without its warming rays the two teenagers began shivering as their wet clothes clung to their skin.

  Ian took the spyglass from his pocket and expanded it. He examined the exterior, then the front lens element, trying to see if his fall from the cliffs had damaged it. He frowned as he heard a sloshing noise come from inside and saw water dripping from the eyepiece. Ian held the telescope over the side of the boat and shook out what seemed like a pint of lake water. He examined it again, shrugged, and placed it to his eye.

  The dinghy rounded the point to Stone Harbor. The granite cliffs of Wolf Point towered overhead, the lighthouse perched on top. The sun emerged, lighting up the shoreline. Ian trained the glass toward the dock at the base of the cliffs. Moored next to the family rowboat was a fishing vessel he didn’t recognize. Several burly men were busy unloading wooden barrels from the boat onto the dock. Ian’s muscles tensed. He gripped the telescope harder, his fingertips putting dents in the cheap metal tube.

  “Uh oh,” he muttered, lowering the spyglass.

  Sally squinted and held her hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun an
d glare. “I think I see your dad. I thought you said he was asleep.”

  Ian raised the telescope again. He saw his father and Jean LeBeck on shore, apparently in some sort of heated argument.

  Ian lowered the glass, his face twisted with worry. “He’s back,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “His name’s LeBeck. He was at the lighthouse last night.”

  “In the storm? For real?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What does he want?”

  Ian shrugged his shoulders. “Trouble, I guess.”

  As the dinghy made its way farther around the point, they saw an enormous black yacht lying at anchor in the middle of the protected waters of Stone Harbor. Men with Tommy guns were plainly visible patrolling the deck.

  “That must be his yacht,” Ian said. “Jeez, it’s huge.”

  “Looks like your dad could use some help,” said Sally. “Prepare to come about!” She trimmed the sail, then yelled, “Hard alee!” Ian ducked as the boom swung across the boat. The sail filled with wind, sending the dinghy skidding across the waves toward shore.

  “You cannae stay,” stammered Clarence. He faced LeBeck on the beach. The Scotsman’s face was growing redder by the minute. If only he’d stood his ground the night before and thrown the money back in LeBeck’s face. Now, as LeBeck’s men swarmed over the beach unloading cargo, the situation had grown totally out of control. Clarence needed the money, but what Pandora’s box had he opened this time? And how could he keep it from Collene?

  LeBeck appeared disinterested in Clarence’s protests. He reached up with his hook hand and absentmindedly scratched the dark stubble on his chin. Clarence sighed and tried again.

  “You and your crew can’t stay here,” the lightkeeper repeated, trying to keep his voice even. “It’s strictly against regulations.”

  “The cargo is my concern,” said LeBeck, his eyes narrowing to slits. “It makes no difference to you. Turn a blind eye, Clarence—that’s what you’re paid for.”

  “But I don’t want your…” Clarence was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Ian and Sally, emerging from the woods farther down the beach. How the bloody hell had those two snuck down here?

  The teenagers drew close. Clarence winced as he saw Ian get a good look at the barrels being stacked on the dock. The boy’s eyes grew wide. “Bootleggers!” Ian blurted out, then clamped his hand over his mouth.

  LeBeck whirled around like a surprised wolf. Everyone froze. After a brief pause, LeBeck relaxed when he saw the pair. His eyes wandered over Sally. He grinned and gave her a salute with his hook hand.

  “Morning,” he said curtly. “Jean LeBeck’s the name. Who might you be?”

  Clarence could practically see Sally’s skin crawling. “Leave the girl alone, LeBeck,” he said. Clarence glanced at Ian and scowled. “How’d you get drenched, boy?” Ian tried to speak, but Clarence abruptly cut him off. “Later.”

  LeBeck would have none of it. He draped an arm over Ian’s shoulder. “I was just telling your old dad that some of my boys are camping on your beach tonight, guarding my cargo. But only until my customers arrive.”

  To his astonishment, Clarence felt his face turn a shade of red he didn’t think existed in nature. He was sure he’d burst a blood vessel at any moment. “I told you it’s against regulations,” the lightkeeper sputtered. “You never said a thing about using my lighthouse as a base to run your hooch. I’ll lose my job, for God’s sake.”

  LeBeck released Ian and took a step toward Clarence. He raised a clenched fist in front of him. “You can’t back out now, MacDougal. You’ve got my money.”

  Ian stepped next to Clarence and stood shoulder to shoulder with his father. “We don’t want your money anymore,” the teenager said. “You should leave.”

  LeBeck snarled at Ian. “Stand down, boy. This is man’s business.” He turned to Clarence, his voice laced with menace. “The deal’s made, MacDougal. There’s no backing out. I’ve got people meeting me here tonight.”

  A faint, involuntary smile curled up on Clarence’s lips, and he was shocked to hear himself say, as he stared LeBeck directly in the eye, “Then you’ll disappoint them. That’s what you do best, isn’t it?” Clarence held the stare a moment longer, then winced and cast his gaze to the ground.

  When he finally looked up again, he saw LeBeck standing there motionless, staring at the lightkeeper, as if he couldn’t believe the words he had just heard. Finally, LeBeck said, “I must not have made myself clear.” He pulled back the right side of his coat, revealing a black metal .45-caliber Colt tucked into his belt. A huge thug stepped up next to LeBeck, scowling down on Clarence and the two teenagers.

  “Understand now?” LeBeck growled.

  Clarence paused a moment, sizing up the situation. He slowly, deliberately, pulled out his gold watch and opened it with slightly trembling hands, then checked the time. “I understand perfectly, LeBeck,” Clarence said, keeping his gaze on the watch. “I always knew you were the kind of scum to use a man’s family as blackmail.”

  With a quick, cat-like movement, LeBeck grappled the watch chain with his hook, snatching it from the lightkeeper’s grasp. He held the watch high in the air. The sun glinted off its gold surface.

  “Fine watch,” LeBeck said, examining the timepiece with reptilian eyes. “Not very affordable on a lightkeeper’s salary.”

  Ian took a step forward, his hands bunched into fists. “Give that back!” the boy demanded.

  “Ian!” Clarence grabbed his son by the arm and yanked him back.

  LeBeck flicked the watch into his good hand, the gold chain dangling from his closed fist. “If your father cooperates, he’ll be able to afford a lot more of these, little boy.”

  Behind the group, a small rowboat came around the point unnoticed, heading straight for the dock. Navigating the small craft was a grizzled-haired old fisherman. He rowed steadily, quietly, until his ancient boat bumped gently against the wooden dock.

  Clarence, having finally gotten Ian under control, took a step forward. “All right. Do your work. But after tonight, you leave this island for good.”

  LeBeck smiled. “Our deal is long term, Clarence.”

  Clarence took another step toward LeBeck, blustering. “The hell it is!”

  LeBeck shoved hard against Clarence’s chest. The lightkeeper tumbled to the ground. Ian, his face flushed, rushed forward. He kicked LeBeck hard in the shin, then grabbed the watch.

  “You little merde!” screamed LeBeck, towering over Ian. “I’ll tear you apart!” LeBeck raised his hook high to strike the boy.

  Suddenly, a fishing net whipped through the air from behind, snaring LeBeck’s hook and jerking his arm backward. Before he knew what hit him, LeBeck found himself lying flat on his back with a dagger to his throat.

  Sputtering as he tried to regain his breath, LeBeck looked up and froze. Pinning him to the ground was an ancient mariner, eyes gleaming, white hair flaming in the sun, sinuous muscles wrapped tight around old bones. A single gold ring dangled from his right ear.

  “Lookee what I caught, Clarence,” the old man said. “A flounder stinking up your dock.”

  LeBeck stared up at the fisherman. Clarence could see hatred burning in his eyes. Several of LeBeck’s men came out of their surprised stupor and rushed forward, pointing various firearms at the stranger’s head.

  The fisherman looked up and grinned with a set of perfect white teeth. His eyes twinkled as he spoke. “Think you can pull those triggers faster than I can slit his throat?” He twitched his hand slightly, forcing the dagger point deeper into LeBeck’s flesh.

  Nobody moved. Beads of sweat popped up on LeBeck’s forehead. The thugs kept their guns trained on the fisherman’s smiling face. Finally, one of the goons shifted his weight nervously, then spoke. “I can shoot pretty damn fast,” he declared.

  LeBeck made a slight gurgling sound.

  “Should we plug him, boss?” asked another thug.

  LeBeck’s eyes g
lanced away, toward the cliffs. His expression grew suddenly calm. He exhaled a deep breath. “No,” he said quietly. “Put your guns away.”

  Like well-trained attack dogs, the thugs did as they were told and holstered their weapons. The fisherman released his grip and rose. LeBeck got to his feet and stood there, staring upward.

  Clarence followed LeBecks’s gaze. High above, at the edge of the cliff, Collene looked down on the men. She lingered there a moment, the breeze fluttering her white dress. Clarence thought she looked like an angel standing there, watching over them. Then she turned and ran away, out of view.

  “No killing today,” whispered LeBeck.

  Ian and Sally pulled Clarence to his feet. Ignoring the teenagers, the lightkeeper stared at LeBeck, then back up to the now-empty cliff ledge. He felt his shoulders sag. He hated the thought that his son was seeing the life drain out of him like this. Perhaps now he would realize that bootlegging was the least of their worries. Clarence tried to stand up straight.

  LeBeck strode away, snarling at the old fisherman as he passed. He walked briskly onto the dock, stiff boots clacking on the wooden slats, then hopped into the fishing boat. As his crew finished securing the barrels of liquor on shore, LeBeck gave an order and the boat slipped away from the dock, shuttling him back to his yacht. He shouted over the engine roar, “I’ll see you again tonight, lightkeeper!”

  They watched as the craft sped away. The old fisherman finally turned to face Clarence. “Nice company you keep,” he said, his voice low so as not to be overheard by the thugs milling about.

  “They won’t be ’ere long,” said Clarence.

  “The sooner they leave the better.”

  Clarence brushed the dirt off his coat. “Aye. I expect you’re right.” He paused, then said, “I owe you a debt.”