The Raid
Cleat: a stationary object that allows a line to be secured on a vessel
William was brooding in Fathom’s cockpit, staring out at the tender that waited for him to admit defeat and row back to shore emptyhanded. From the banquette he could see Harley watching him from shore. She finally pushed her bike back up the road.
The Big Dipper and the Little Dipper seemed so much brighter here. Certainly brighter than anything else in his life right now. It had been a long day. The gentle rocking of the boat was putting him to sleep.
-
William woke with McCoy slicing Fathom through dark water. “I don’t know why you got me to sail to Saint-Pierre if we weren’t going to find what you’ve hidden.”
McCoy flashed a smile. “Learned to sail, though, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t come here to learn how to sail,” he snapped. McCoy cranked in a line, heeling the boat further over.
William grabbed a cleat. “Look, I don’t know how to get Grand- dad to sail Fathom. Nothing seems to work. And I’ve been waiting for you to tell me what you’ve hidden for a long time now …”
“What would you know about a long time?”
“My dad’s been dead for a year and it feels like ten —”
McCoy cut him off. “My soul’s been lashed to this boat for sixty-two years” — he let out the jib — “and eight months” — he pulled in the main sheet — “two weeks, four days” — he pulled in the foresail — “twelve hours, eighteen minutes, eleven seconds … and counting.”
Fathom was quiet except for the sound of her hull parting waves, gurgling like a child enjoying a playground while those around her argued.
“Listen, lad, what I’ve hidden is something Daniel needs.”
“What about me?”
“You? You need to stop being angry at your dad for dying.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“By shredding your dad’s sail and burying it?”
William jeered, “Oh, like you’re one to talk. Look at the good job you’ve done with your family. Killing Cavendish really helped you get close to Daniel, didn’t it? “
McCoy was dead, but his emotions weren’t. “You’re ruining my death here, boy. You know it takes two hands to hold onto a grudge — and two to sail a boat. So what do you want to do? Stay angry with your dad or learn to appreciate what he gave you?”
William blurted, “Appreciate? He left us. He was the one who —”
“Jack didn’t have a choice. You do.”
William crossed his arms.
“Life’s gonna skin your shins on a good day without you run- ning around shore rocks in the dark. And all you’re left with in the end is sore shins and regret.”
They sailed in silence. Then McCoy added, “You stay angry you’ll end up like Trenton … or me.” William stared ahead.
McCoy held his left arm aloft. “See that — those silhouetted gravestones sticking up like death’s picket fence?” William saw he was pointing at a coastal cemetery. “Better grab a tombstone ’fore the good ones are all taken. ’Cause a man who won’t help when he can or won’t take help when he needs it is as good as dead.”
William’s face was as stony as the gravestones.
“Right, time to fish or cut bait. Hang on.” A wave of his hand whipped the schooner forward. Fathom moved so fast she whistled. William grabbed a cleat with both hands.
-
Fathom slowed by a dock with a sign: Trenton. Private. Trespassers will be prosecuted.
McCoy lowered his voice. “I want you to sneak up there and bring me the hexagonal box from the old man’s bedroom — that’s a six-sided box. Do that and I’ll tell you what I’ve hidden for Daniel.”
William hesitated. Was this a setup? Was McCoy a murderer and not to be trusted? One thing was sure. He would only get his answer if he got McCoy what he wanted. He remembered what Manny had said about McCoy. He was called a straight man in a crooked world. More importantly, his father hadn’t believed he was a murderer either. His stomach still knotted when he stepped off and Fathom pulled away.
“When you get the box, come back here and I’ll pick you up. But be careful … he has a shotgun.”
William dropped to a crouch. He might have argued, but Fathom was out of sight.
He climbed towards the security lights bathing the sprawl- ing house. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. His throat was dry.
In the distance, a big motorcycle driven at breakneck speed splashed through a puddle. It slowed. Its headlight lit up the steel gate to the property.
The uniformed guard swung it open. The motorcycle pulled in and stopped. “Evening, George,” said Robert Trenton. He draped his leather jacket over the backrest and his helmet on one of the mirrors. The engine click, click, clicked as it cooled.
Hugging the safety of the shadows, William inched closer. Trenton strode inside with the guard. Through the open door William saw the nurse jump to her feet. She flashed what his dad would have called a paid-for smile, a Brad smile. Her pen clattered to the floor. William snuck in through the door and hid behind a medical trolley. When George clumped back outside and the nurse bent down to retrieve her pen, William scurried up the stairs.
On the second floor he saw Trenton take a deep breath before entering an open door. William tiptoed into the room across the way. It was Trenton’s home office and the trophy shrine. He read his grandfather’s name on plaques across the base of the trophy.
He stared into the room across the hall. He saw Nathaniel Trenton, the emaciated patient with the oxygen mask. Trenton spoke to his father. “I wish I could take you out …” His hand gesture implied “away from here,” but he said, “sailing.”
The patient pulled off his oxygen mask. “Never gonna get the gold or win the race with them soft lawyer hands. Go back to painting.” His gaze turned back to the window. He sucked in oxygen through raspy lungs.
Eyes glistening, Trenton dropped back into the shadow of the hallway. He stared at his hands. “I don’t know why you always treat me like … like I’m from away. There isn’t a moment goes by I don’t wish Thomas had walked off the boat instead of me that day.” There was no answer from his father.
As Trenton slunk off, William slipped into the room where the old man lay with his back to him. He saw a schooner model with Trenton’s yellow and gold pennant and the name Mary on its transom. He scanned the room for the six-sided box. He peered under the bed. He checked the armoire. It only contained a few clothes. Then he saw something on top of the armoire.
He climbed on a chair. It was the six-sided box. He opened it. Inside was a piece of brass equipment. He closed the top and latched it. Nathaniel Trenton had been carved into the oak top. He studied the brass straps. One had an embossed sun. The other side had an embossed crescent moon with a star at either end. This was the mark he’d seen in the police photos. This was what made the mark under Cavendish’s cheekbone.
A hand grabbed his ankle. He screamed.
Nathaniel Trenton had rolled over and pulled his oxygen mask down. His eyes were feverish. “You find the gold yet, Jack?” Nathaniel’s yellow teeth looked fiendish. He exhaled. His breath reeked of something long dead, something brushing his teeth wouldn’t cure.
“What makes you so sure there is gold?”
“I seen it,” he hissed. “Those gold bricks, I seen it.” He knocked over a metal tray.
“You saw the gold because you were there, weren’t you? You hit Cavendish with this box and left a mark on his cheekbone, didn’t you? The mark was faint because it was done by you as a boy, not a big man like McCoy.”
Nathaniel lay back on his pillows. He wheezed his reply. “If I hadn’t stopped Cavendish from killing McCoy, I’d’a had my share. Nobody woulda said I was crazy to believe in it all these years. Mine. It shoulda been mine.”
From the stairway a woman’s voice called out. “Mr. Trenton, are you all right? I heard something fall. Why didn’t you ring your buzzer, I would have come right —”
William sprang from the chair. Clutching the box, he whipped past the nurse towards the balcony.
“Hey! Who are you? What are you doing here?” She activated the intercom: “George, we have an intruder.”
From the balcony, William could see the front of the house reflected in the garage windows. Trenton stood beside his motorcycle listening to George’s walkie-talkie.
The nurse’s voice carried in the night air. “Some kid just escaped out the south balcony. He’s stolen a box from Mr. Trenton’s room. I’m calling the police.”
“How the hell did he get in?” growled Trenton.
“No idea, sir,” mumbled George.
“Get the shotgun,” ordered Trenton.