We followed a trail along the ridge. The ground was strewn with pebbles that crunched underfoot. There was just a thin layer of sand for plants to spread their roots. The higher ground, thick with bayberry, raspberry, and poison ivy, was where the laughing gulls chose to nest. We spooked dozens of them into the air. They cackled madly at us before beginning their strafing runs. We increased our jog to a sprint.
Ahead I saw another blind, outlined against the deep blue ocean. The plywood structure was about the size of a box in which you might receive a new refrigerator. It alone among the blinds I’d seen had received a fresh coat of paint. Taupe with a lemon-yellow trim.
A husky man emerged from the shadows of the blind as we approached. I felt embarrassed at my surprise to discover that Garrett Meadows was Black.
“Hello?” he said, looking shy and confused. “I didn’t hear we were having guests today.”
His skin was tawny with a mask of reddish freckles around his eyes. His hair was cut very short but still wanted to curl, and there were hints of auburn in his beard. He wore glasses with serious lenses. Among the Baker crew, he was the only one dressed in clean clothes: a khaki field shirt, canvas work pants, and neoprene-topped Muck boots. A floppy, wide-brimmed hat hung from a cord down his neck. He clutched his Motorola Talkabout as if afraid to drop it.
“This is Stacey Stevens,” said Kendra. “She was an intern with me my first summer. And this is Mike Bowditch. He’s an investigator with the Maine Warden Service.”
“Garrett Meadows. Pleased to meet you.” He had a deep voice that rolled up from the diaphragm. “Listen, I hope it’s not bad manners, Warden, but since you’re here, maybe you can help us with this creep.”
He gestured out to sea. My focus shifted to a motorboat idling seventy yards off the western tip of the island. It was a Chris-Craft 25 GT launch: one of the new models with all the bells and whistles.
“He refuses to answer my hails,” Garrett said.
“Maybe he’s not receiving them.”
“Oh, he’s receiving them just fine.” He lifted the microphone to his mouth and clicked the button. “What’s going on, Spindrift? Anything wrong out there?”
The breeze was light enough that we could hear Garrett’s words coming through the stranger’s VHF and floating back to us across the sea.
There was no response from the Spindrift.
“Is he harassing the birds?” I asked.
“He’s harassing us,” said Kendra, raising her walking stick.
“He’s just taking pictures,” added Garrett.
I pushed my cap back from my forehead. “Doesn’t a puffin cruise come here every afternoon to do the same thing?”
Garrett Meadows studied me. “Everyone else who comes out to Baker focuses mostly on the birds, but our friend ignores the birds like they’re not even here. The man is our own personal paparazzo.”
“He’s our own personal stalker,” added Kendra.
I reached out my hand. “Let me have a few words with him.”
Smiling broadly, Garrett passed me the walkie-talkie.
“Spindrift, Spindrift, come in, Spindrift. This is Mike Bowditch with the Maine Warden Service calling from Baker Island. Are you in need of assistance, Spindrift?”
My voice returned from across the waves like a false echo.
There was no reply from the boat—although the silhouette seemed to shrink farther beneath the sunshade that covered the helm.
“All right, Spindrift, I’m going to assume you can’t answer because your radio isn’t working. I’ll put in a call to the Coast Guard to send out one of their response boats. I’ll also hail the Marine Patrol. They may have an officer who’s closer.”
I’d barely finished the last sentence when the launch’s engine roared to life.
I had forgotten my binoculars in my kayak, but I have better than average vision, and I could read the name Spindrift painted on the transom.
The Chris-Craft had a hardtop sunshade that cast a shadow on the boat’s console. A lone man stood at the wheel. He was slender, possibly tall but maybe just lanky, and wearing a cap with an unusually long bill. It might have been a swordfisherman’s hat like the one Hemingway favored in Cuba. The stranger’s face, unfortunately, remained in darkness beneath the overhead screen.
I handed Garrett back his walkie-talkie. “There you go.”
“Thank you, but he’ll be back later, I’m afraid.”
Kendra waved away a wasp circling her head. “Tell him what you saw last week, Garrett.”
“I was out here early, before sunrise,” he said, stroking his beard. “I wanted to record the Leach’s storm petrels returning to their burrows. They’re nocturnal, unlike the other species that nest here. The moon was up and three-quarters full, casting a lot of light on the water, and I saw that man rowing his dinghy away from the island.”
I glanced at the vanishing boat. “Do you think he’d come ashore somewhere?”
“If he didn’t, he was looking for a place to land.”
“But you didn’t see him actually set foot on the island?”
“Does that matter?”
“We need proof that he was trespassing.”
Kendra began growing red beneath her tan. “The fact that the asshole is taking pictures of us isn’t a form of criminal harassment?”
“The problem,” I said, “is that there’s no law against making someone uncomfortable by taking their photograph in a public place. His behavior has to escalate before we can legitimately intervene.”
“What are you saying?” said Kendra. “That I have to wake up some night to find the creep outside my tent before the cops will do anything?”
“Maybe you should all get shotguns?” Stacey said.
I knew she was joking, but her humor was lost on the others.
“Absolutely not!” said Garrett. “I can’t believe we’re even discussing this subject. I already get nervous the way Hillary handles that thing.”
Kendra extended her twisted black stick. “I’d offer you my shillelagh, Garrett, but I’m still dealing with this ankle sprain.”
“I never expected I’d need a weapon on a puffin island off the coast of Maine,” said Garrett. “Frankly, I find the whole situation absurd and troubling.”
“He won’t be back tonight at least,” said Kendra. “The latest forecast says we’re getting two inches of rain and gusts up to twenty miles per hour. You guys are welcome to camp on one of our platforms.”
I had the feeling she wanted me (and my firearm) to stick around, but I’d been looking forward to having a private night with Stacey. On the other hand, it felt callous to abandon these frightened, vulnerable people.
“You’re talking like you still haven’t heard from Maeve,” said Garrett perceptively.
“No, but our friends here saw the Selkie on the way out. Maeve nearly swamped their kayaks.”
“Where did she seem to be headed?”
“Northeast,” I said. “We lost sight of her in the fog.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do about our stalker, Mike?” asked Kendra, putting her weight on her walking stick again. “We need some relief from this shit.”
“When I get a signal, I’ll make a call to the Coast Guard to find out who owns the boat,” I offered. “I can’t pinch him for harassment unless he’s been warned to stay away from you and defies the order. And I can’t pinch him for trespassing if there’s no evidence he’s landed on the island. But I can send him a message that I’ll be closely monitoring the situation and he’d better not test my patience.”
“Pinch him?” said Garrett, pushing his glasses up his nose. “That’s a colorful turn of phrase.”
“It’s old police lingo.”
“Is it Maine lingo?”
“I don’t honestly know.”
“I’m curious, because, in case you haven’t guessed, I’m not originally from around these parts. I need to learn the local patois if I’m going to blend in with you Mainers.”
I had only known Garrett Meadows for five minutes, and I already liked him.