When the Cornish sailors settled in the Chesapeake Bay, they brought along their ancient attitude toward home waters. Proprietary, and predatory. During the American Revolution, King George III offered letters of marque to any Smith or Tangier Island captain willing to privateer, harass, take, burn or destroy the shipping of the fractious colonies. Sporadic raiding, kidnapping, and even enslavement continued long after the Revolution ended. For a good while, Ben’s people were Smith and Tangier Islanders first, Americans second. Some never forgot this more insular loyalty, especially when income taxes were due and owing.
Ben wondered if this sense of drowning in a riptide of intrigue might be nothing more than sheer exhaustion working on him. No wiser, Ben dragged himself inside.
CHAPTER 17
Neither the young brawler nor the gimpy old coot noticed Maynard Chalk watching with his men a hundred yards up the path to the little town of Ewell. Chalk’s eels were taking a post-havoc constitutional around the island, studying the lay of the place. That lady cop seemed so upset that she’d also missed the interlopers before she shoved off. But Chalk had seen her. Now she was definitely on his screen.
Chalk was riveted in place there on the path. That tall guy in his thirties. The build was the same. The Paul Bunyan shoulders. The clean-and-jerk power-lifter thighs. This one even had the same striding gait as the traitorous Richard Willem Blackshaw. Chalk felt like the ornithologist who gets the GISS, or General Impression Size and Shape, of a tiny bird, and can identify it on the wing from a hundred yards away. He just knew. Like father, like son. That guy had to be Dick Blackshaw’s brat. And that lady cop might prove useful in getting the brat’s attention.
Chalk’s cell phone rang. The funky bounce of the King Tut ringtone. Chalk answered, and heard puffing on the other end of the line. It sounded like an obscene phone caller who measured his freak in breaths per minute. Or like someone running.
“Maynard. They know!” It was Yusef, of course. Not at his best.
“How do you mean, Yoos?”
“They know. They know!” There was a series of rapid popping sounds in the background. Then the line, rather like Yusef himself, Chalk imagined, went dead.
The hod of bricks descended toward Chalk’s head. He stashed his phone, hissed his orders. He detailed a squad made up of Simon Clynch, Dar Gavin, and Tug Parnell to double-time back to the Harrises’. They were to verify that Hiram’s thirty-foot deadrise, the Palestrina, was seaworthy. If the damn thing would stay afloat for at least a couple of hours, those boys had to get back on the water fast to run a very special errand.
Bill Slagget and The Kid accompanied Chalk down the path toward Ben’s saltbox. Chalk’s shoulders rounded and tensed with anger. His fists balled and flexed. He was ready to throw down.
CHAPTER 18
Ben tossed the mail onto the little table in his cramped vestibule. A few of the slick catalogues slid over the edge, slapped onto the floor. Ginger rose and padded over to Ben. Nuzzled the fallen mail. Ben assumed Ginger was seduced by a paper perfume sample. He believed the smellum-goodums tantalized her with an exotic break from the hot-dead-fish-at-low-tide aromas she was used to snuffling up around the island.
Ginger picked up an aromatic free-standing insert, and was about to retreat to her cedar-chip cushion. Ben noticed the envelope sticking out. Handwritten address. The dog gave up the tug-of-war with her master when she realized the fragrant ads were hers to keep if she would only turn the unscented envelope loose.
Ben read the postmark through Ginger’s slobber. St. Mary’s City, Maryland. It was dated four days ago, right before the hurricane blew through. Ben tore it open, and removed a page ripped from a legal tablet.
Dear Ben,
It’s been awhile. I hope you will let me make it up to you. It had to be. Maybe my coming back home won’t be so bad for you and our neighbors on Smith and Tangier/.
Truth to tell it’s been hard just staying alive all these years. I had to bide my time. Watch for the right chance. The right moment. It’s here now. It is definitely here. Future’s bright. It’ll put a smile on your face.
There’s been at least one big surprise along the way. He’s a necessary evil, I guess. Has a keen eye, and that’s very important to get things started. I’ll put up with him for now. If somebody gives you a funny look, pay attention, especially if you’re reading this and we haven’t met up yet.
Give my best to Knocker Ellis. The weather’s trying to shit the bed. Got to get a move on. See you soon.
Pap
Ben reread it to confirm his first stark impressions. One, this was no real apology. Two, it was a lame-ass rationalization for abandoning his kid. The classic A-Man’s-Gotta-Do defense. Three: a vague announcement he was coming back, but not when. Not much good now. A few lungfuls of water too late. Four: there was a hinted promise of better times ahead woven in among the business about the bright future with the smile. Obviously meant to be the gold. The end that justified the means. Five: the unexpected person involved. Probably Knocker Ellis. A partner Dick Blackshaw needed, but was reluctant to entangle in this business.
How had Lorton Dyze known about this letter? Had the postmistress tipped him? More than likely. Dyze had taken pains to bring the letter to him.
All in all, Ben judged the letter useless. Not the least bit informative. No solace whatsoever. Soon after the letter went in the mail, Pap went into the drink. This single page was more like the last will and testament of a grand larcenist, who was also a paternal wash-out.
Someone pounded on the front door. Five times hard like there was an Amber Alert and Ben was the closest registered pedophile. Now what?
Ben stashed the letter under the couch cushion with the gold bar. Quick glance out the window. Three guys. Strangers from off. Fit, tense, and amped. Ben knew that look. Killers. But how bold? Only one way to find out. Ben opened the door.
CHAPTER 19
Chalk knew in an instant he hated this guy with a passion. The young man at the door reminded Chalk too much of Tom Chase/Dick Blackshaw. It was a limbic, animal response. The same way a person would want to toss gasoline on a hornet’s nest after a savage stinging, Chalk wanted to gun this punk down where he stood. Eradicate the ilk of Dick Blackshaw from the face of the earth. He was becoming less and less surprised at losing his cool this way. Too long since his last round of meds. Despite Chalk’s outward calm, this shit-heel twerp managed to bring out the young pistolero in him.
Chalk appraised him further. Tried to look beyond his initial reaction. There was definitely a wild look about this cuss.
He said, “Hi. I’m Maynard Chalk.” Chalk put out his hand to press the flesh.
The guy at the door did likewise, and gripped. To Chalk, it felt like he’d jammed his mitt into a Peterbilt crankcase running flat out. The hick owned Chalk’s hand for a moment too long, but not as though he was trying to macho it up. It was as if their clasped hands made a serial port. The redneck was docking, downloading, and processing critical information through palm and phalanges. In a word, Chalk felt scanned.
The other folks on this island ghetto looked like the Joads, only cleaned up, slightly better fed, well-meaning, and used to doing without. This cracker seemed plain fierce, with a killer’s lean build. Suddenly, Chalk wished he’d let Black Widow run a deep background check on Dick Blackshaw’s son. Too late for that.