Isle Royale Part 5

"You little merde!" screamed LeBeck, towering over Ian. "I'll tear you apart!" LeBeck raised his hook high to strike the boy.

Suddenly, a fishing net whipped through the air from behind, snaring LeBeck's hook and jerking his arm backward. Before he knew what hit him, LeBeck found himself lying flat on his back with a dagger to his throat.

Sputtering as he tried to regain his breath, LeBeck looked up and froze. Pinning him to the ground was an ancient mariner, eyes gleaming, white hair flaming in the sun, sinuous muscles wrapped tight around old bones. A single gold ring dangled from his right ear.

"Lookee what I caught, Clarence," the old man said. "A flounder stinking up your dock."

LeBeck stared up at the fisherman. Clarence could see hatred burning in his eyes. Several of LeBeck's men came out of their surprised stupor and rushed forward, pointing various firearms at the stranger's head.

The fisherman looked up and grinned with a set of perfect white teeth. His eyes twinkled as he spoke. "Think you can pull those triggers faster than I can slit his throat?" He twitched his hand slightly, forcing the dagger point deeper into LeBeck's flesh.

n.o.body moved. Beads of sweat popped up on LeBeck's forehead. The thugs kept their guns trained on the fisherman's smiling face. Finally, one of the goons shifted his weight nervously, then spoke. "I can shoot pretty d.a.m.n fast," he declared.

LeBeck made a slight gurgling sound.

"Should we plug him, boss?" asked another thug.

LeBeck's eyes glanced away, toward the cliffs. His expression grew suddenly calm. He exhaled a deep breath. "No," he said quietly. "Put your guns away."

Like well-trained attack dogs, the thugs did as they were told and holstered their weapons. The fisherman released his grip and rose. LeBeck got to his feet and stood there, staring upward.

Clarence followed LeBecks's gaze. High above, at the edge of the cliff, Collene looked down on the men. She lingered there a moment, the breeze fluttering her white dress. Clarence thought she looked like an angel standing there, watching over them. Then she turned and ran away, out of view.

"No killing today," whispered LeBeck.

Ian and Sally pulled Clarence to his feet. Ignoring the teenagers, the lightkeeper stared at LeBeck, then back up to the now-empty cliff ledge. He felt his shoulders sag. He hated the thought that his son was seeing the life drain out of him like this. Perhaps now he would realize that bootlegging was the least of their worries. Clarence tried to stand up straight.

LeBeck strode away, snarling at the old fisherman as he pa.s.sed. He walked briskly onto the dock, stiff boots clacking on the wooden slats, then hopped into the fishing boat. As his crew finished securing the barrels of liquor on sh.o.r.e, LeBeck gave an order and the boat slipped away from the dock, shuttling him back to his yacht. He shouted over the engine roar, "I'll see you again tonight, lightkeeper!"

They watched as the craft sped away. The old fisherman finally turned to face Clarence. "Nice company you keep," he said, his voice low so as not to be overheard by the thugs milling about.

"They won't be 'ere long," said Clarence.

"The sooner they leave the better."

Clarence brushed the dirt off his coat. "Aye. I expect you're right." He paused, then said, "I owe you a debt."

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 sh.o.r.e. 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 spygla.s.s 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 sh.o.r.es at night looking for his lost children."

Sally felt goose b.u.mps 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 sh.o.r.e. 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 sh.o.r.e 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 a.s.sistant 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 c.o.c.king 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 a.s.semble, each piece slowly dragged up the pathway that extended from the sh.o.r.eline up behind the cliff to its summit. The huge hoisting engine and boiler, landed from a barge at the cove, was put on skids 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 s.p.a.ced 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 b.u.mpy 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 pa.s.s 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 sc.u.m," 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 sh.o.r.e of the island.

Ben, worry painted on his weathered face, finally pointed the boat toward sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e.