Isle Royale Page 8

  Ian stepped forward and addressed the stranger. “I’m Ian. Thank you.”

  “We help those who need it, Ian boy,” said the fisherman, patting the teenager on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger forward. “Run along now. Your dad and me got business.”

  Looking disappointed, Ian walked off with Sally, up the path on the long climb to the lighthouse.

  Clarence turned to the old fisherman. “You come to trade?”

  “Lake trout,” the man said simply. He handed Clarence a slip of paper with a list of items penned in ink. “I’m look’n for these.”

  Clarence took the paper and scanned the list. “Got most of what you’re looking for in the supply shed here. I’ll help you load up.”

  The fisherman nodded his old head. Just then, a breeze kicked up. He turned and looked out over the lake, frowning as he sniffed the air. “It’s gett’n squally. Another storm’s brewing. Bigger than last night.”

  “Aye,” said Clarence. “I can feel it in me bones. And look there.” The lightkeeper pointed up to a band of high clouds that looked like long fingers pointing east. “Mare’s tails. You best be head’n to a hurricane hole. Superior’s got more tricks up her sleeve.”

  The old fisherman was still a moment, then let loose a blast of laughter. He slapped Clarence on the shoulder. “The lightkeeper’s got some salt in his veins! Good eye.”

  As Clarence went to unlock the storage shed, a wave crashed onto the rocks next to the pier, sending a sheet of cold spray over the shore. The old fisherman put up the collar of his coat and huddled against the breeze. He looked up to the sky, his eyes searching.

  “Who is he?”

  Sally hunched down behind a clump of bushes near the clearing at the dock. Behind her, Ian had his telescope trained on his father and the old fisherman as they transferred supplies between the stranger’s boat and the storehouse at the end of the pier. The ever-present seagulls swirled around the two men, hoping for a handout.

  The teenagers had gone up the hill only partway, then moved off the path as soon as they were out of sight. They quickly doubled back through the woods, hoping to see if any more action would take place down at the dock.

  “His name’s old Captain Ben,” Ian said. “At least that’s what dad calls him.”

  “Captain who?” asked Sally, squinting through the branches.

  Ian lowered his spyglass and looked at her. “You mean you’ve never seen him around? He shows up a couple times a year, trading for supplies.”

  Sally shrugged and said, “So sue me. Where does he live? Rock Harbor?”

  “No.” Ian lowered his voice and talked in a hushed tone. “Some say he’s a ghost living under the lake.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  It was Ian’s turn to shrug. He put the telescope back to his eye, then watched attentively at the activity going on at the pier. “He is kind of creepy.” Ian bit his lower lip, then turned to Sally. “Did you ever hear of the ghost keeper at Sandy Point?”

  “There’s no lighthouse there.”

  “Not any more,” Ian said. “A storm smashed it apart years ago. Wiped the rock clean.”

  Sally thought a moment, then looked behind them, toward the cliffs. High up sat the lighthouse, seemingly impregnable on its rocky perch. “Grandma says a big blow once threw waves all the way up to the light.”

  “Maybe it was the same storm,” Ian said thoughtfully.

  “What happened to the family at Sandy Point?”

  “Dad said they all got washed out to the open lake. Except the lightkeeper. He hanged himself a week later. They say his ghost wanders the shores at night looking for his lost children.”

  Sally felt goose bumps crawling over her skin. She shivered and looked back toward the pier. “You think he’s the ghost?” she asked, watching Captain Ben load a wooden crate into his boat.

  “Maybe.”

  Sally’s eyes narrowed, then she said skeptically, “But why does a ghost need supplies?”

  They watched as Captain Ben lifted another heavy crate. Just then, the old man’s foot slipped on the wet dock. His heavy raincoat fell open, revealing what looked like a blue military uniform and a navy pistol. Ben quickly recovered his balance, covered himself back up, and resumed carrying his load.

  “Did you see that?” Sally whispered excitedly.

  “Come on,” said Ian, rising up. The pair came out from behind the bushes and began moving back down the hill toward the pier.

  They broke out of the woods and entered the clearing at a trot, but saw to their disappointment that Captain Ben was already in his rowboat, paddling away from shore. A large wave suddenly came up, nearly overturning the small craft, but Ben expertly kept it afloat.

  Ian and Sally came to a stop next to Clarence, who stood on shore waving at Captain Ben as he rowed away. “Take care,” he shouted after him.

  “Big blow a commin’,” Ben yelled back in reply. “Batten down the hatches, people. Remember, the Lady eats her young.” With that, the old fisherman put some muscle into the oars, sending the boat skimming across the water toward the open lake.

  Chapter Nine

  A metal hook slammed into the rail of the big black yacht, gouging out a deep scratch in the finely finished wood. Two sets of hands gripped the arm attached to the hook and hauled up the owner.

  Jean LeBeck stood on deck and adjusted his coat. He scowled in the dim light. He didn’t like the way the men had roughly handled him. No, he didn’t like it one bit.

  LeBeck suddenly shoved one of the thugs overboard. He watched with a satisfied smile as the man hit the water with a thunderous splash, then bobbed to the surface, arms flailing, begging for help. LeBeck ignored him and wheeled on the other thug.

  “Where’s MacGlynn?”

  Down in the yacht’s ornately decorated stateroom, LeBeck’s chief assistant sat back in his chair, absentmindedly carving up a photograph of a policeman in a true-crime magazine. Frank MacGlynn’s weapon of choice was an ivory-handled stiletto, which gleamed in the pale light of the cabin. He drew the knife across the throat of the policeman. The heavyset thug grinned, displaying a mouthful of corn-kernelled teeth that betrayed a lifetime of neglect, causing even the most jaded dentist to run screaming. MacGlynn chuckled, then stuck the point of his beloved knife into the eyes of the paper copper.

  Suddenly, the door to the stateroom burst open. MacGlynn fell back in his chair and tumbled to the floor. He looked up and saw his boss glowering in the doorway.

  Jean LeBeck strode into the room, his fist clenched, eyes blazing. “What’s the word from Duluth?”

  “They’ll be here ‘bout midnight,” responded MacGlynn. He replaced the stiletto in his coat pocket. “That is, if they find their way in the storm.”

  “What storm?” LeBeck crossed to a porthole and gazed out at the darkening sky.

  MacGlynn got to his feet and righted the overturned chair. “Skipper says a big one’s brew’n.”

  LeBeck scowled and crossed to a cabinet. He opened the heavy oak door, revealing a rack with several firearms stowed away. LeBeck grabbed a Thompson submachine gun, then quickly jerked back the cocking bolt.

  “Only rain coming down tonight’s gonna be lead.”

  Chapter Ten

  “That’s the last of it, Dad.” Ian lifted a heavy box of supplies and dropped it on the flatbed tramway car. The car, which could handle a three-ton load of supplies, sat on rails next to two wooden sheds near the pier. The first shed held supplies, while inside the second puffed a large steam engine, which powered the system of cables that hoisted the tramcar.

  When the lighthouse at Wolf Point was first constructed, the only practical way to haul up building materials was by way of a stiff-legged derrick perched at the lip of the cliff. The derrick itself took a full month to assemble, each piece slowly dragged up the pathway that extended from the shoreline up behind the cliff to its summit. The huge hoisting engine and boiler, landed from a barge at the cove, was put on skid
s and pulled itself up with lines and tackle attached to trees on the hill above. When the derrick was finished, it was used to hoist materials and supplies from barges on the lake one hundred fifty feet below.

  When construction was finished, the builders found themselves in the enviable position of having excess funds left over. Since the original derrick was deemed too hazardous to operate on a day-to-day basis for the keepers manning the light, they decided to improve Wolf Point Light’s access to the water by building a tram that led up and down from the cove. The next summer, work began on a twin-railed elevated tram system, with tall concrete pillars spaced every twenty feet leading down the hill. When it was finished, boats could moor safely at the cove dock, rather than brave anchor at the base of the cliff, with rough water sometimes swirling and smashing against the granite. After unloading, supplies were lifted with ease up the steep ascent to the lighthouse.

  Clarence looked up and saw Ian putting the final load on the tramcar, which was now stacked high with boxes. The lightkeeper snapped shut a paddle-lock on the supply shed. He eyed the shuttered windows, then tugged at the door to make sure it was secure.

  Ian stood next to the tramcar, now stacked high with supply boxes. He wiped his sweaty brow with his sleeve, waiting impatiently for his father to secure the shed for the night. He watched as the lightkeeper snapped shut a padlock on the door, then tugged to make sure it was secure.

  Ian glanced up at the sky and watched as ominous black clouds began rolling in on a hot, foreboding wind. Sally sauntered over and sat down on top of the supplies on the tramcar. “You sure about tonight?” she asked quietly.

  Ian looked toward the dock. Several of LeBeck’s thugs had made themselves at home on the beach, cooking dinner over open fires.

  “Yeah,” Ian said. “Better bring your mac, though. I think Captain Ben was right about the rain.”

  “Never been a spy before.”

  “It’ll be an adventure. Besides, we won’t be gone long.”

  Sally gestured toward the approaching figure of Clarence, then whispered, “I’ll meet you after Grandma hits the hay.”

  Clarence fired up the steam engine, then threw a switch. With a lurch, the tramcar began its long trek up the slope toward the lighthouse compound. Ian and Clarence watched Sally wave back at them as she rode the bumpy rail upwards.

  Ian remembered something, reached into his pocket, and handed his father his gold watch.

  “Thanks, laddie,” said Clarence. “That was brave of you back there. Stupid, but brave.”

  Clarence opened the watch, wound it, then checked to make sure everything was running in good condition.

  Ian observed the great care his father took in handling the watch—it was almost as if he were holding a baby. “I know how much Grandpa’s watch means to you, Dad,” he said.

  “Someday I’ll pass this watch down to you, Ian. When I think you’re ready. But you’ve got to control that temper of yours first.”

  Surprised, Ian said, “But he was going to...”

  “People like LeBeck are scum,” Clarence interrupted. “You play right into their hands when you fight ‘em. Ride it out, like a storm.”

  A shrill whistle blew from atop the hill. Ian looked up. From their vantage point, he could see black clouds moving fast over the lighthouse.

  “Sally’s up,” said Ian.

  Clarence moved to the engine and shut it down for the night. As he locked the shed door, a gust of wind blasted him in the face. “We best start walking up ourselves,” he said, watching the storm roll in. “Have to fire up the light early tonight.”

  In silence, except for the wind whistling through the trees, they started the long climb up the narrow dirt path that led toward home.

  Alone, with black clouds rolling in overhead, Captain Ben strained his muscles against the oars, struggling to keep his little boat on a straight course. Lake Superior was becoming more and more agitated by the minute. Wind gusts whipped up whitecaps, sending waves pounding against the granite shore of the island.

  Ben, worry painted on his weathered face, finally pointed the boat toward shore and began rowing furiously, his old bones creaking with the strain. The boat groaned in protest as waves smashed into the wooden hull, some high enough to crash over the side, threatening to swamp it.

  But Ben was too salty a seadog for that. He expertly kept the boat high and dry, timing his strokes and keeping the bow as best he could perpendicular to the waves. The worst moments came when the boat was down in the trough between two big waves; it was as if a wall of black water surrounded the boat, ready to collapse at any moment and drag Ben under. But always the little rowboat popped back up on a crest, where Ben could get his bearings and continue steering toward shore.

  Lightning began crackling overhead, adding to the feeling of impending doom. Ben redoubled his efforts, forcing the oars to dig hard into the foaming water. His muscles, which despite his age were wrapped around his arms and shoulders like bands of steel, trembled now in protest.

  The waters rose up, as if sensing prey. Ben miscalculated his timing and nearly swamped when a whitecap broke over the side. Just when it looked like the Lady would swallow Ben’s boat for sure, the vessel rounded a hidden point and disappeared from view, leaving the great inland sea to thrash and boil in frustration.

  Chapter Eleven

  Two shadowy figures crossed the windswept compound. Above them on the cliff, the lighthouse, its Cyclops eye shining bright, stood vigil in the face of the approaching storm.

  Ian and Sally, huddled under heavy raincoats, walked quickly toward the woods at the edge of the clearing.

  “This is crazy,” said Sally, teeth chattering, her body shivering at the cold wind blowing through the loosely fitting mackintosh.

  “Come on,” said Ian, leading the way. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Right. Fun. Spying on bootleggers in the middle of the night, in a storm. Yeah, fun.” As if in response, a clap of thunder echoed against the cliffs.

  At the edge of the dark woods, where the path leading down to the shore began, Ian lit a small kerosene lamp. The ever-increasing wind blew his matches out several times, but once the lamp was lit he moved on, down the trail. Sally hurried to catch up. “This is crazy,” she muttered.

  The pair disappeared into the thick woods, swallowed by the blackness.

  The fishing boat that had earlier shuttled LeBeck and his men from the black yacht now bumped up against the dock once again. Two men jumped out and secured the boat with heavy lines, though it continued knocking against the pier from the force of the churning lake, even in the protected waters of the cove.

  A gang of men poured from the boat and headed for the group of thugs camped out on the beach. When all was secure, another figure stepped onto the dock, then moved swiftly over the dark ground toward the stack of cargo on shore. A Tommy gun dangled down, held by a silver hook.

  At the edge of the clearing that comprised the beach area, a bush rustled. Two hands reached out and parted the foliage, revealing Ian and Sally, peering out at the shoreline. The barrels of liquor, which were stacked high just off the dock, partially obscured their view, but they could see some kind of gathering taking place.

  “Better snuff the light,” said Ian.

  Sally, who now held the lamp, quickly extinguished it. She’d insisted on carrying the light, if only to keep Ian from rushing on too far ahead of her. “What are they doing?” she whispered, leaning forward and squinting in a vain attempt to see through the murky night. All she could make out was the figure of Jean LeBeck gesturing wildly at his men. One of the thugs stood off a bit from the rest. He looked frightened, edging toward the shoreline, his back toward the water.

  “What’s that in LeBeck’s hand?” Sally asked.

  Suddenly, LeBeck opened up with his Tommy gun, its staccato beat exploding over the sand. LeBeck’s target, the man edging away from the group, screamed and did a macabre dance of death before finally sinking to the sand. LeBeck s
trode toward the corpse and aimed downward. Fire spewed from the muzzle of the gun as he shot off another burst at point-blank range.

  “Oh, crap!” said Ian.

  Sally, wide eyed, her hands covering her mouth, got up to flee, but Ian grabbed her arm and pulled her back down.

  On the beach, LeBeck looked up at the rest of his men, who stood there silently. “So,” he said. “Who’s my next bodyguard?” The men looked nervously at each other. There were no volunteers.

  “You there,” LeBeck barked, gesturing toward a large fellow standing close by. The unfortunate hood gestured as if to say, “Who, me?” LeBeck tossed him the Tommy gun.

  “Don’t worry,” LeBeck said. “Just make damn sure that old geezer doesn’t sneak up behind me again.”

  “Yeah, boss,” the thug stuttered. “Sure thing.”

  LeBeck strode off, heading directly toward the barrels.

  Ian and Sally tensed up as LeBeck came closer, then stopped a mere ten feet from their position behind the bush. Ian felt Sally’s fingers digging into his shoulder. She panted, trying hard not to hyperventilate. Ian also felt terror gripping him. Surely the gangster had seen the two teenagers spying on them. What was LeBeck waiting for?

  Ian tensed his muscles, ready to bolt. Sally grabbed his arm, forcing him to stay crouched. “Wait,” she whispered in his ear.

  Partially obscured from his gang by the barrels of bootlegged liquor, LeBeck dug in his pocket for a cigarette. He lit up, put the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag, drawing the nicotine into his bloodstream. He closed his eyes a moment, then exhaled a stream of blue smoke, which blew away with the wind. A sort of calm seemed to wash over him. After a minute, he whistled sharply and gestured with his arm. The thug MacGlynn came running to LeBeck’s side.

  “Yeah,” MacGlynn said, practically panting and drooling in front of his master.

  “Is the yacht all set?” asked LeBeck, disdainful of his assistant’s eagerness to please.