Isle Royale Part 15

Clarence watched for a brief moment as fire licked at the image of LeBeck, Collene, and himself. Soon, the photo was consumed to ashes, a memory scorched from his mind.

Clarence opened the access door to the balcony. He donned a heavy work glove, then gripped the handle of the bucket. With a deep breath, Clarence swung it with all his might, and then whipped it into the air.

The bucket, its cargo still aflame, made a blazing arc through the darkness. It tumbled through s.p.a.ce until, finally, it shattered on the great granite rocks far below. A wave reached in, snuffing out the fire as it dragged the bucket under, leaving no evidence that it had ever existed.

Clarence watched from on high, a grim smile planted on his lips. He'd freed himself. Live or die, the rest would be easy. Clarence slammed the door shut.

On the deck of the Chippewa, a crewman tried wrapping a wool blanket around Ben Sellers' shoulders. The captain angrily brushed it aside. He rose to his feet, a scowl planted firmly on his face.

"You should all be ashamed of yourselves!" Ben shouted.

The sailors on deck looked confused and hurt. After all, hadn't they acted to protect their captain? One man stepped forward, his gaze questioning. "But, Cap'n..."

"There's people out there need our help!" Ben snapped. "This is our chance to redeem ourselves! Can't you see that, lads?"

"But your heart..."

"d.a.m.n my old heart! You've all seen me have spells before. I'm not dead yet, after all these years." Ben leapt onto a deck rail, gripping a line for support as his wide-eyed crew gathered around him. "Smitty was right! Better dead than living in the shadows!" Fire seemed to spring from his eyes.

Another old sailor hobbled to the front of the crowd. "But we're old men, Cap'n. What can we do?"

"What can we do?" Ben repeated incredulously. "I'll tell you what we can do..."

Just then, a commotion erupted from belowdecks. All the gray heads on deck turned toward the hatch and saw the gangster MacGlynn emerge, his face bloodied, teeth displayed in a feral snarl, a wooden baton gripped tightly in his hand.

"He's loose!" shouted a crewman. "Get him!"

"Wait!" Ben leapt down, holding his men back and rushing forward himself. "Watch what 'old men' can do, lads." Ben advanced toward MacGlynn.

The gangster crouched low, gesturing for Ben to come forward. "That's right, old geezer," MacGlynn sneered. "Come here! I'm gonna rip your head off and p.i.s.s down your throat!"

With a scream, MacGlynn raised his club and rushed forward. Ben easily stepped aside, knocking the club out of MacGlynn's hand with a well-aimed kick.

The two stood facing each other, exchanging punches and feints, sizing up their opponent. Then, quick as a cat, Ben darted in, brushing against MacGlynn's side. He gripped the gangster's neck from behind, then started whamming on his face with the other hand. After a brief battering, MacGlynn recovered, elbowed Ben, then turned and landed a vicious blow to the old sailor's throat.

The pair grappled once more, this time struggling to throw each other to the deck. Instead, they found themselves moving toward the side rail, each trying to kick the legs out from under the other. Finally, Ben gave a powerful shove. MacGlynn gripped Ben's coat, and with a cry both men both fell overboard, landing in the icy water far below.

The crew rushed excitedly to the rail, peering down, searching; they saw nothing except the rippling water where the pair had gone under.

Suddenly, Ben and MacGlynn exploded to the surface. They were close to the beach now, still locked in mortal combat. They exchanged blow after blow. By now, MacGlynn's face was a b.l.o.o.d.y mess.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n you old fart!" the gangster sputtered, spitting out a tooth at Ben. "I'm gonna kill you!"

"Not tonight," Ben said evenly. The old sailor wound up and smashed MacGlynn in the face, sending him to his knees. Ben hit the gangster again. And again.

Finally, MacGlynn teetered and fell to the rocky sh.o.r.e, where he remained motionless. Ben stood over him, his chest heaving. He looked up toward the Chippewa, a triumphant smile on his face. The crew lining the deck looked down on their captain, silent. Ben straightened up and planted his feet firmly in the sand. Remembering his Shakespeare, he exhorted his men to action, shouting up to them, "The blast of battle calls us out of our deep slumber, my friends. Innocent people await our help!"

The men roared their approval.

"Cast your doubts aside! Show me the fire in your eyes, lads, for tonight we sail victorious, or line the sea with our n.o.ble dead!"

The crew went berserk, shouting for Ben and banging on the rail. They scrambled on deck, readying the ship to set sail.

Chapter Thirty-Two.

A shadow flitted over the lighthouse compound. It moved noiselessly from tree to tree, from bush to bush, each dash for cover timed with the pa.s.sing of the lighthouse beam, which arched across the storm-laden sky.

One of LeBeck's hired goons stood guard at the front entrance of the MacDougal house. Leaning with half-closed eyes against the wood frame of the pillar at the top of the steps, he stared out at the darkness spread in front of him, never noticing the inky shape moving inexorably closer.

Finally, the man snapped out of his glazed-eyed stupor. He'd heard something close by, near the bushes just off the porch. At first, he thought it was the wind. But then he heard the noise again. It was definitely the sound of something rustling in those bushes. He squinted, trying to peer into the dark thicket to see if he could discern the source of the mystery. Probably another fox, he thought. A sour look washed over his face. A fox had stolen the man's ham sandwich earlier that evening. Brazenly waltzing in from the nearby woods, the animal had waited until the thug's back was turned, then darted in to take its pick of the gourmet food (for a fox) so deliciously laid out on the table, which LeBeck's men were using as a sort of lunch counter on the yard. The thug had nearly caused a riot when he emptied his pistol at the retreating animal. His guard duty that night was punishment for the transgression.

Now, in the dead of night, the thug carefully unholstered his gun, the chamber freshly reloaded with six bullets, and tip-toed down the stairs and onto the lawn, intent on exacting revenge upon the fox. He carefully, slowly, crept forward, alert for any sudden movement that might signal his quarry fleeing back to the safety of the woods. His trigger finger twitched as he drew near the dark ma.s.s of foliage. This time, he thought, the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d won't be so lucky.

Suddenly, a pair of strong hands thrust themselves out from the bushes, grabbing the thug by the throat. The surprised man dropped his gun, then gurgled as his windpipe collapsed. He felt himself being tugged into the bushes, where he struggled briefly against the iron grip crushing his larynx. Just before he pa.s.sed out, the thug looked up and saw, through a hazy curtain of black, the devil himself, flaming red hair waving past eyes that burned with hate and revenge.

Collene sat on the living room couch alongside Edward Young and his mother. The a.s.sistant lightkeeper was having a hard time of it; the flu virus simply refused to let go. With each cough his whole body went into spasm. His dark, sunken eyes registered misery, not only from his illness but also with the knowledge that his only daughter was somewhere out in the storm, and there wasn't a d.a.m.n thing he could do about it. His mother patted him gently on the back as another coughing fit seized him.

Collene turned away, trying to clear her mind, to think of a way out of their situation. She'd driven herself nearly mad trying to come up with a plan that might work. Yet each time she reasoned out a course of action, it kept boiling down to one thing: she had to wait, at least until dawn, when the storm would hopefully blow over. Upstairs, her suitcase was packed, much to LeBeck's delight. She'd done it as a subterfuge; there was no way on G.o.d's green Earth she was going away with LeBeck now. She'd have to find a way to escape. And if escape proved impossible, Collene vowed she'd leap off the cliffs, if it came to that.

Outside, the wind howled, rattling the house. An occasional lightning strike cast harsh yellow bursts of light into the living room. The sharp smell of ozone hung heavily in the air. Though the storm seemed to be winding down, it still packed enough wallop, in steady gusts of fury, to send shivers down Collene's spine. She noticed LeBeck peering out the front window, the curtain drawn away by his metallic hook. With each blast of house-rattling wind, a look of fear came over the smuggler's face. Coward. Collene sneered and looked away.

Suddenly, the front door burst open, letting in an explosion of noise. All heads turned toward the entrance. At first, Collene thought the wind had knocked the door loose from its hinges, but then she saw a shadow fill the hallway as something moved rapidly toward the living room. She heard shouting and heavy footsteps. Then, the shape emerged into the light. Collene gasped.

It was Clarence, wild-eyed, his chest heaving. He held a large pistol in one hand, which was pointed directly at LeBeck. The smuggler stood frozen near the window, not saying a word.

"Come on, Collene," Clarence gasped in between breaths. "Let's go. Edward, you and your mother come over here too."

The three captives rose from the couch and moved cautiously toward Clarence. As Collene stepped toward her husband, she stole a glance back. An amused expression slowly spread across LeBeck's face. When he finally spoke, his voice was laced with sweet venom.

"You're a clever man, Clarence," he said. He took a few tentative steps toward the lightkeeper.

"Stop right there," Clarence warned, stiffening his gun arm.

LeBeck halted his advance, but the smile remained. "You don't really think you're getting off this rock, do you? Let's talk this over."

Clarence spoke sharply, his Scottish accent laid on thick. "One more word and I swear I'll shoot!" Then, a look of revulsion swept across his face. "You make me sick." His trigger finger twitched.

Edward Young, silent until now, stepped quickly past Collene toward the lightkeeper. "For G.o.d's sake, Clarence!"

Clarence held up a hand, motioning Young to stop. The gun still leveled, he lashed out at LeBeck, the pitch of his voice rising as he spoke. "I was your friend, Jean. Now you come and terrorize me family. My boy's out there, in the storm!"

Collene saw fear in LeBeck's eyes just then, and for a moment she thought Clarence really would shoot the smuggler. But then she saw a flash of confidence return to LeBeck's face, and she couldn't understand why. She looked back at her husband and saw beads of sweat dripping off his brow. His gun hand trembled.

Clarence made up his mind then. He shouted at LeBeck, "And you tried to steal Collene!" He stiffened his gun arm to shoot.

"No!" Collene screamed.

Suddenly, a thug appeared from the shadows directly behind the lightkeeper. Just as Clarence squeezed the trigger, the man leapt, knocking the gun to one side. The muzzle flash was impressive in the small room, but the bullet fired harmlessly into the wooden floorboards. The thug followed up with a fist to Clarence's face. The lightkeeper grunted, released his grip on the gun, then collapsed to the floor.

Collene's made a grab for the gun, but she found herself pushed to the side by Edward Young, who hustled her and his mother off to one side, away from the immediate danger. Collene saw the thug scoop up the pistol from the floor. At the same time, Clarence rolled to the side and got into a crouch. Then, much to Collene's amazement, he whipped out a switchblade knife and began waving it back and forth in the thug's direction. Lightning flashed, yellow light glinting off the sharp blade.

The thug, ready to put an end to the altercation right then and there, stood up straight and stiffened his arm, pointing the gun directly at Clarence's head. Collene gasped and felt her whole body stiffen. "Don't shoot!"

Everybody froze. Collene turned her head and saw LeBeck at the back of the room. The gangster stood there, an evil grin spreading like a tumor across his face. "Afraid of losing her, are you, MacDougal?" LeBeck stepped closer to the lightkeeper, his chest thrust outward, head held high. "Come on." LeBeck whipped his prosthetic hand through the air. The deadly hook whistled past Clarence's face. "You and me. For her. Right now."

Collene stepped forward. "Jean, stop it!"

"You have to choose," LeBeck snapped back at her, his voice rising above the thunder crashing outside. "Tonight. Now." He turned his full attention back to the lightkeeper. "Did you know she kept all my letters, Clarence?"

"Jean, shut up!" She saw Clarence freeze, his eyes widening with shock.

"After all these years," LeBeck said, the words spewing out with malicious glee, "she kept every love letter I ever wrote. They're upstairs, right now, at the foot of your bed. Why would she do that, Clarence? Who does she really love?"

Collene watched in horror as Clarence went into a crouch, a snarl curling on his lips. He's taken the bait, she realized. "Stop this!" she cried out. "Clarence! Jean!"

"Out of the way, Collene!" Clarence shouted, keeping his eyes on his adversary. The center of the room cleared as the two men circled, making tentative jabs and sizing each other up.

Instinctively, Collene made a move forward, trying to protect her husband, but she was stopped once again by Edward Young, who stood behind her, tightly gripping her arms. "No, Collene," he rasped, "You'll get yourself killed. Let Clarence do what he must."

Collene tugged against the a.s.sistant lightkeeper's grasp, but it was no use. She could only stand there, wide-eyed and filled with terror, waiting for her husband to die.

Down on the wind-swept sh.o.r.eline, a monstrous breaker collided with solid granite, sending a jet of icy water up like a sheet. The wind and rain outside the protection of McCargoe Cove was fierce, beating relentlessly on the landscape. The spray from the breaker landed directly onto Ian and Sally, who were busy scrambling as best they could over the slippery sh.o.r.eline.

Thirty minutes earlier, they had found the relative protection of the Minong Ridge trail, which wound its way through a canopy of pine and aspen. Now, however, the narrow dirt path hugged close to sh.o.r.e, exposing them to the full force of the storm. The two teenagers, soaked to the skin and shivering uncontrollably, trudged onward in silence, concentrating on finding a firm foothold in the darkness. Ian knew that if they didn't find shelter soon, they were in serious danger of shivering to death.

Ian, who had taken the lead for the moment, was beginning to wonder if, somehow, they hadn't taken a wrong turn somewhere in the thick woods and wound up south of Wolf Point, bypa.s.sing the lighthouse altogether. He slipped on a wet stone, cursed, then regained his footing. What on Earth were they thinking, coming out here in the dark, in the storm, trudging through dangerous woods with no real plan of action except to somehow save their parents from a group of gun-wielding mobsters? What could they realistically hope to do, anyway?

It suddenly struck Ian that he knew precisely why he was out there: it was his duty, simple as that. Ian realized with some shock that, for the moment, anyway, he'd become his father, duty-bound and ready to sacrifice everything for the greater good. There were lives at stake, lives that were depending on him. And the lighthouse had to stay lit; there might be ships adrift in the storm. Somehow, Ian vowed, he had to get the job done, come h.e.l.l or high water.

Just then, he saw it. Ian froze in his tracks, staring up the path in front of them, which rose upward following behind a towering cliff that kissed the water. He felt Sally b.u.mp into him.

"What is it?" she asked, trying to peer around him.

"There!" Ian grabbed her arm and pointed forward, up the hill. In the distance, the lighthouse beacon shone through the storm clouds, a ray of hope at the end of their journey. They'd finally reached Wolf Point.

Ian reached in his pocket and pulled out his mother's locket, then opened it. He stared at the picture inside for a moment, pursing his lips with determination. He snapped the locket shut. "Come on," he said crisply.

The teenagers moved up the path with renewed vigor, heading toward the light.

Collene gasped as LeBeck's hook hand swept in, slashing at Clarence's chest and drawing a ragged line of blood. The lightkeeper countered with a thrust of his own, but LeBeck easily dodged away, punching Clarence hard in the gut as he moved to the side. Collene struggled to move in to help, but was held firm by Edward Young. "Wait, Collene," he rasped in her ear. "Wait for the right moment."

LeBeck mocked Clarence as the lightkeeper touched a hand to his freshly opened wound. "You're weak, MacDougal. You always were."

Clarence lashed out again with the switchblade. With a wolfish grin, LeBeck sidestepped again, then brought the blunt edge of his hook down on Clarence's arm, stopping the attack. In the blink of an eye, the hook swept upward, slashing viciously across Clarence's face. Blood spurted as Clarence cried out in pain.

Collene felt Edward Young release his grip, then in a blur saw him step in front of her, raising his arms over his head and shouting, evidently trying to distract LeBeck enough for Clarence to regain his senses. The ploy worked, but a thug standing behind Young smashed the b.u.t.t of his pistol down on the a.s.sistant lightkeeper's head, crumpling him to the ground, unconscious. Collene snarled and lashed out at the thug, but another man, a large brute with two missing front teeth, snared her and held her arms tight behind her back. She stopped struggling long enough to watch Clarence, blinded with pain and gushing blood from his facial wound, step back, slashing wildly into s.p.a.ce with his knife.

Collene turned her head toward the sound of laughter. She saw LeBeck standing at the other end of the small room, his lips curled in a smile. "That scar'll remind you of me, Clarence," he shouted across the room, eyes blazing murderously. "When you're sitting up in your little lighthouse, you'll think of me and Collene drinking wine in Paris."

Collene jerked madly against the arms restraining her. "Jean, G.o.dd.a.m.n it!" she said in ragged bursts. "Stop!"

Clarence staggered forward, knife waving left and right as he slashed at his tormentor. But once again, LeBeck dodged the attack, then quickly slashed at Clarence's arm with his hook, tearing open yet another wound. This time Clarence dropped the knife, his hand recoiling in pain.

LeBeck saw his chance now and rushed in. To Collene, he seemed like a wolf moving in for the kill, anxious to put down its prey once and for all. She imagined the same feral snarl on his face the day he leapt into that foxhole in France, thrusting his knife into the chest of the German boy. In a frozen moment of time, Collene knew in her heart that she despised her old lover. He wasn't Jean LeBeck anymore; he was an animal.

LeBeck jabbed his fist into Clarence's throat, then swept him off his feet with a well-aimed kick. Clarence landed hard on his back, the wind knocked out of him, unable to defend himself. LeBeck straddled the lightkeeper's body and pinned his shoulder to the floor with his hook hand. Amid a flurry of curses and shouts, he viciously smashed at Clarence's face, his own knuckles cut open by teeth and skull, until the lightkeeper was knocked nearly unconscious.

Finally, the blood l.u.s.t lifted from LeBeck's face. He slowly rose, appearing dazed, like he'd just walked out of a thick fog. He glanced down at his fist, which dripped with blood, examining it with an uncomprehending stare.

Collene broke free of the thug behind her and rushed to her husband. She dropped to her hands and knees and cradled his head in her arms. Clarence was a mess. As his eyes rolled back in their sockets, he gurgled once and spat up blood. Collene saw that his nose was almost certainly broken, several teeth were chipped, and one eye was swollen nearly shut.

Out of the corner of her eye, Collene sensed LeBeck staring down at her. The smuggler stood there, a broad grin spreading across his stupid-looking face. He began giggling madly. "I won," he stuttered in between bursts of laughter. "I won, Collene. You're mine now. You're mine!"

Collene whipped her head around, baring her teeth and snarling. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d! I hate you!" In the blink of an eye, LeBeck's grin vanished clean off his face.

"I hate you!" Collene shrieked. "Rot in h.e.l.l!"

Chapter Thirty-Three.

Under cover of darkness, Ian and Sally made their way stealthily across the lighthouse compound, creeping toward Ian's home. It was the only structure that showed any signs of life; bright yellow light filled the windows, a warm contrast to the windy cold that wrapped itself around everything else. Ian noticed several dark shapes moving back and forth across the lights. The compound seemed abandoned. If guards were still watching the perimeter, they remained hidden, probably sheltered from the storm.

The pair made it to the house, then crouched down below the living room window. They heard shouting and screaming from inside. "Can you tell who it is?" Sally whispered above the whistling wind. Ian shrugged his shoulders and slowly shook his head. After chewing on his lower lip a moment, he pointed his thumb upwards. Together they slowly rose and peeked their heads over the windowsill, peering inside.

Ian felt his chest tighten. He saw his father on his hands and knees, spitting blood from a face that was ravaged and swollen. At first, Ian didn't even recognize Clarence, but then he saw the lightkeeper's uniform, and the shock of red hair. Ian's mother stood next to her husband, defiant, shouting at LeBeck and pointing her finger at him. Ian couldn't make out her exact words, but he'd never seen her so angry. LeBeck was stood a distance away at the other side of the room, seemingly dumfounded, with a glazed-over look to his eyes.

Ian and Sally dropped back down below the windowsill and leaned their backs to the wall, shoulder to shoulder. Ian's breath came in ragged gasps.

"Now what?" asked Sally. She put a hand on Ian's shoulder, trying to settle him down.

Ian forced himself to concentrate, to calm his breathing. "We need a diversion," he said finally.

The wind howled through the lighthouse compound as the two teenagers crouched there, thinking. Finally, they turned their heads simultaneously and looked at each other. "The oil house," they said in unison.

A single sentry, his coat collar pulled up high to protect himself against the unrelenting cold wind, leaned against a tree growing near the center of the lighthouse compound. He held his Tommy gun gingerly, as if it was an unexploded mortar about to go off in his hands. By hunching down and keeping the tree trunk between himself and the cliffs, the gangster was able to keep a match going just long enough to light a much-needed cigarette. The man was smallish, and had a timid air about him, not at all a hulking brute like the rest of LeBeck's thugs. He did share their stupidity, however. When lightning crackled overhead, he looked up with frightened eyes. It never occurred to him that standing under a lone tree in the middle of a clearing might not be the best of spots to ride out an electrical storm.

Ian and Sally watched the man from behind a clump of sheltering bushes at the edge of the compound. They sized up their situation. The sentry was positioned with his back to the oil house, which stood about twenty yards away, between the tree and the lighthouse. The small, round brick building stood just off the path, and from their vantage point the teenagers could see no other sentries.