Port Starbird (Storm Ketchum Adventures) (15 page)

"Nah, I'll make sure you work it off," she said
. "Who were you talkin' to out there?" He told her about meeting Henry on the fishing charter, and what the boy was up to now.

"Huh, sounds like a good kid.
It's nice of you to help him out," she said. "So what are you doin' today?"

"Oh, you don't want to know. Chores and errands. I have some things to do on the computer."

"That reminds me!" she exclaimed with a mouthful. She swallowed and said, "I wasn't snoopin', honest, but I saw some papers on your desk and I couldn't help but notice. Are you writin' a book or somethin'?"

"Well,"
he said, looking away in embarrassment. "It's just some short stories I started fiddling with when I moved here, and now maybe it's turning into a novel, I don't know."

"A novel? No kiddin'! What's it about?" Before he could answer, she continued, "And you've been workin' on it for what, three years? It must be good!"

"It's a piece of crap," he said. "But it might be good someday, and meanwhile it's something I can relax with. I don't watch a lot of TV, as you might have noticed. I'll let you read it sometime, if you'd really like to."

"
I would! But no pressure, I'll wait 'til you're ready," she said.

They ate in comfortable silence for a
while. Even the dog, who sat on the floor between them, was silent as he patiently waited for the occasional scrap. That was when it occurred to Ketch that he might be in deep. He'd known this woman on a casual basis since shortly after he'd moved here, and now... As the Captain might put it, when two people were comfortable enough with each other to just shut the hell up, that was serious. To sit in silence once in a while without one or the other feeling the need to manufacture conversation, that meant something.

Toward the end of the meal she announced, "Well, I've got some paperwork at the shop this mornin
'. It's almost dang tax time again! Every three months, I swear... But I'll clean up here before I go." He started to protest, but she cut him off. "I have time, and besides you have a dishwasher, silly! Anyway, if you can stop by the shop later, I'll have your tanks ready for you. Or I can just bring 'em with me tonight."

Ketch considered for a moment. "Thanks, but I should be able to drop by later this afternoon."

It sounded like she might be hoping to stay here again tonight, which would make the fourth night in a row. He wondered what she'd say if he inquired about that likely mythical exterminator, then thought better of it for the time being. Whether it was a deliberate strategy or just her nature, she wasn't demanding a lot or interfering much with his activities, and he didn't want her to go home yet.

In fact, he
was tempted to ask her right now if he could help her move in here for good, or at least for the foreseeable future. No longer having to pay rent for an apartment would be a financial boon for her, and she didn't seem to mind cooking - not to mention the other fringe benefits. But then he thought of what could still be lying in wait in his and this house's future, thanks to that damned Ingram; he shouldn't be counting his chickens just yet. And who knew, maybe he'd change his mind after a while and regret what he'd set in motion. Remember what B.B. King advised, he told himself, and don't make your move too soon.

So for now he just bided his time and helped her with the dishes instead
- and after he'd walked her out to her car, he went straight for his laptop.

He settled in at his desk in the extra bedroom, where the printer was, and transferred the pictures from his phone and his underwater camera to the computer.
Genuine photographs might arguably make more of an impression, but he didn't have a photo printer and he didn't want to waste time taking the files somewhere to have prints made or ordering prints online - and in any case he didn't want anyone else to see them just yet anyway. Color printouts should serve the purpose for now.

It would take a while for them all to print. While he waited, he backed up the files to his external drive and to disk, then attached them to e-mails and sent them to himself. If something happened to his printouts or his equipment, the photos would still at least be floating out in the ether somewhere where he could retrieve them.
The ones on the phone were automatically backed up to a phone company server as well.

Then he visited the home page of the New York Yankees. Yes,
Saturday's game would indeed be televised. Since he'd be diving that day, he went to the living room and set up the DVR to record the game.

What next? The printer was still chugging away, so he considered trying to
make a dent in his accumulating stack of newspapers - but no, another time for that. He decided to instead return to the laptop and his good friend Google. He started with ILLEGAL OCEAN DUMPING. It wouldn't hurt if he was a little better informed later.

Well, this was interesting
... It looked like the kind of dumping he'd witnessed could be considered a felony under the Clean Water Act or the Ocean Dumping Act; he wasn't sure which. A federal crime, and perhaps with multiple counts, each carrying a fair-sized fine and possible imprisonment. And his criminals were U.S. citizens and hadn't dumped in international waters, which made things simpler.

It looked like they'd finally started getting serious about this
issue back in the Seventies, and had ramped up the enforcement and the penalties beginning in the Nineties. It appeared the EPA was responsible for regulating ocean disposal of everything other than dredged spoils, which were handled by the Corps of Engineers; and the Coast Guard was responsible for surveillance of ocean dumping.

So he guessed he could report his crime to either the EPA or the Coast Guard - or easier yet, here was a
link to something called the National Response Center where he could file a report online, or he could call their 800 number. The state also had similar laws and programs, but whether his concerns were founded or unfounded he was too paranoid now about Ingram's political reach to go to the state; and for a similar reason, the Dare County Sheriff's office, which covered all of the unincorporated settlements on Roanoke and Hatteras Islands, was also out of the question.

He read that during the past ten years,
a federal initiative called the Vessel Pollution Program had generated over $200,000,000 in fines and a total of seventeen years in prison for ship officers and executives. Executives? Good, but had they themselves been imprisoned? That wasn't clear in most cases, and they definitely hadn't been in some. Also, that had mostly to do with ships discharging used oil and oily bilge water, and disposing of such wastes in violation of or without permits; but still, it was encouraging.

Permits -
now that was disturbing. Apparently it was still possible to obtain permits for a limited range of ocean disposal activities. Could Tibbleson Construction have a permit allowing Mick and Mario to do what they'd done? Ketch decided that was unlikely, since they'd loaded the boat at an isolated location away from any working waterfront, and at night; or if they did have one, their methods would again indicate that they were probably violating its terms. Plus he remembered reading that dumping hazardous waste in shallow waters was no longer allowed.

He
glanced at the printer's output tray and checked the time. The pictures would be done soon, and if he took a quick shower right now, he could easily make it to the offices of HatterasMann Realty before lunch hour. Not that Ingram would necessarily be there, or would be available if he was since Ketch didn't have an appointment. But he figured Ingram would agree to see him if he thought Ketch had decided to sell; and if it turned out Ingram wasn't there, maybe he'd find out where he was and track him down.

He thought he
might have a shot now, and he wanted to take it without further delay, partly because of the suspense and partly because his conscience was bothering him. He should have immediately reported the illegal act he'd witnessed, and under ordinary circumstances he thought he would have done just that, the potential reactions of those involved be damned. But those drums weren't going anywhere, and he didn't think they were leaking, so they could wait a bit longer. The main reason he felt guilty about putting off reporting them was that he was about to try to leverage the sordid situation for personal gain. However, he didn't feel at all guilty about how he intended to do that, nor about whom he intended to do it to.

And why should he? He was certain things like this happened all the time in Ingram's world, and probably usually
to Ingram's personal advantage. So Ketch figured there was no harm in his dabbling in that game as well. It was just business, right? That was undoubtedly Ingram's take on what he was trying to do to Ketch. Maybe he wouldn't be needing those foam blocks after all; could he sell them on eBay? He'd seen pontoons for sale there.

When he got out of the shower, he quickly dressed and gathered his printouts into a manila envelope. He let the dog out
, apologized to him yet again, gave him another bone, and hit the road.

HatterasMann Realty was at the south end of town,
so he was parking the truck there in just a few minutes. Another reason the north end was better, he thought, though he hadn't known of this particular reason when he'd bought the house. It was an attractive building in its way, he noted, a tastefully sided and appointed example of modern sterile beach architecture; and it had a club associated with it for the vacation rentals the realty managed, with tennis courts, a playground, and an outdoor swimming pool for the rentals that didn't have private pools. But he wasn't impressed by any of this today, and he marched into the reception area without giving the club a second look.

He stopped at the long bar-like reception counter and waited for someone to become available to help him. To his surprise, it turned out to be one of his dinner guests from
Monday night. He tried to remember their names - Barb, Diana, Joette... Yes, this one was Joette, the one who'd been hanging on the Captain.

"Well hey there Ketch, what can I do for y'all?" she inquired with a genuine smile.

"Hello, Joette," Ketch said. Dispensing with further pleasantries, he pressed on. "If Mister Ingram is in, would you please tell him Mister Ketchum would like to see him?"

"I could," she said, lowering her voice. "But I gotta tell ya, he's in
some kinda mood this mornin'. He's been yellin' on the phone, and he told us no interruptions."

"Really?
Well, I'd appreciate it if you'd try. Or just point me in the right direction, if you'd rather, and I'll go knock on his door. I really need to see him, and I think he needs to see me." Having been lucky enough to find the man in, and feeling the adrenalin now, he was anxious to complete his business.

"Well, I don't know..." she said.

"I'm afraid I must insist," he said, determined now to not leave here empty-handed, not when he was this close. He clutched his envelope more tightly and waved it at her. "He has to see this today."

Joette shrugged. "Okay
, it's your funeral." She leaned across the counter and jerked her head toward the back hallway. "Take a right, last door on the left. Don't say I sent you."

Ketch thanked her and hurried off in the indicated direction. It was time to
get this over with.

~  ~  ~

He drew his weapon, held it straight out in front of him, and zigzagged toward the office in a semi-crouch, quickly verifying that each intervening room was clear along the way and taking care to avoid tripping on his trench coat. Procedure be damned - there'd once been a time for talk, but it had expired. When he reached the closed office door, he lowered his shoulder and rammed it without preamble, executed a forward roll through the splintered doorway while simultaneously sweeping the room with staccato bursts from his semi-automatic, and came to rest on one knee with the barrel of the gun pointing straight at the chest of the lone man left standing behind the desk. He still had his hat on, and he was in charge now.

Ketch briefly wondered if he could use this daydream somewhere in his
gestating (or would 'festering' be a better word choice?) novel. His parents might have enjoyed reading a hunk of cheese like that, he supposed, but he doubted anyone else would nowadays. He refocused and knocked politely but firmly on the door.

"I said no interruptions!" came an angry voice from within.
Then shortly, "Oh, never mind, come on in." Ketch turned the knob and opened the door.

"Sorry, didn't mean to bite your head off
, it's been a hell of a mornin'..." Ingram started to explain, then stopped when he looked up and saw who his visitor was.

"
You!" he exclaimed. "What are
you
doin' here?" He exhaled loudly and sat back in his oversized leather desk chair. "Who let you in here? You don't have an appointment, that I can recall." His eyes bored straight into Ketch's and the impatience in them was obvious. "Well?"

Ketch's mouth suddenly went dry again, and he
was afraid he wouldn't be able to speak. But wait - wasn't it just yesterday he'd been congratulating himself on his newfound composure under duress? He could do this, he told himself; he
had
to do this.

He
looked away from Ingram's stare and tried to generate some saliva by thinking of something appetizing - the crab puffs at the Froggy Dog, the gourmet pizza at Gidget's, a sundae at the DQ, Kari earlier this morning... Whatever it was that finally did the trick, it worked. He swallowed once, resumed eye contact, and started talking.

"No,
I don't have an appointment, and I apologize for that," he enunciated clearly, managing to keep his voice even in the bargain. "But we have some urgent business to attend to."

"
Do we now? Well, I guess I might could humor you, since you're here anyway." Ketch silently closed the door and took a seat in front of the desk. "So, what's so damn urgent? I'm busy here. Did you finally decide to sell? Is that your big news?"

Ketch skidded his manila envelope across the desk. "
Please take a look at these pictures."

"Pictures? Of what?"
Ingram snatched the envelope, dumped its contents onto the desk, and quickly fanned through the printed photographs. "What the hell is all this?" he demanded.

"I'll summarize for you," Ketch said.
Now that he'd gotten some traction, it seemed to be getting easier. "Those are pictures of hazardous waste from Tibbleson Construction being illegally dumped at sea. The ones on your left were taken on Roanoke on Tuesday night. The ones on your right were taken at the bottom of the ocean yesterday afternoon."

Ingram stared at Ketch, then looked more closely at the pictures. "What the hell..." he mumbled. "
Where'd you get these? What's this got to do with me? These don't even look real. What are you tryin' to pull here?" he asked, his voice rising again.

Ketch remained calm, outwardly at least; so far so good. "
I took them, and they're real. These are just computer printouts, but I have the originals. I can have a nice set of glossies made up for you if you like, I'll be making a set for the Coast Guard and the EPA anyway. And what they have to do with you is this - since you're running Tibbleson Construction now, you're liable for numerous felony violations of the federal Clean Water Act and Ocean Dumping Act, and some state laws as well. From what I've heard, the fines could be hefty, and someone might go to jail."

"
You don't say? Well, they might have to stand in line if they want it to be me." Ingram ran a hand through his hair and rubbed at his eyes. Ketch wanted to ask what he meant by that, but he didn't get the chance. "Assumin' you're tellin' the truth, what do you want me to do about it? Why are you here?"

"I'll tell you
-" Ketch began.

"Forget it, this is bullshit," Ingram
suddenly interrupted, waving Ketch off. "I need this right about now like a hole in the head. I know nothin' about any of this, it isn't my concern. I'm too busy for this."

Ketch cleared his throat
and leaned forward in his chair. "It will be your concern, if I report this."

Ingram's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'if'?"

"Well," Ketch began again. Here goes nothing, he thought. This is it, the big kahuna. Though his heart rate was elevated now and he had to work at it, he continued to keep his cool. Just a few more minutes, that was all it would take - and then everything would be right with his world again. "Here's the deal. I won't report this if you do two things. First, you see to it these drums get salvaged and disposed of properly, according to the law. Second, you promise to stop trying to take my house. In writing."

Ingram
's eyes widened and then he let out a great bark of a laugh, startling Ketch back into his seat. "Are you kiddin' me? You tryin' to blackmail me?
Me
? Jesus H. Christ!" He stopped laughing and swept the pictures from his desk onto the floor. "Who the hell do you think you are?" He rose from his chair and pointed a finger at Ketch. "Blackmail is illegal, sir! Get out of my office before I call the sheriff!"

Ketch felt his face redden
. This wasn't turning out to be quite as easy as he'd hoped. "It isn't blackmail, it's a business deal. You do something for me, I do something for you. Weasels like you must make backroom deals like this all the time."

"
What? You're callin' me names now?" Ingram exploded. "Damn you! I should call the sheriff on you right now!"

"Go ahead," Ketch said. "
It'll be your word against mine. And I'll call the Coast Guard, and then maybe you'll get fined and run out of money and I won't have to worry about my house anyway." He stood and pointed a finger of his own, surprising himself again with his audacity. "You have one hour to decide, and then I'm calling the Coast Guard." He started to turn toward the door.

"God damn it!" Ingram was shouting now. "I will
not
be ordered around by the likes of
you
! Get out!"

Ingram was bluffing
; he'd see reason, he'd call. He had to - didn't he? "You can keep the pictures for your scrapbook, along with the ones of your murdered wives," Ketch tossed back over his shoulder, in what he thought was a nice noir touch.

A second later something
whizzed past said shoulder, ricocheted loudly off the far wall, and bounced across a table. It looked like a paperweight. Ketch spun around in surprise. "You son of a bitch, I said
get the hell out
!" Ingram bellowed, groping this time for a rather large stapler.

Ketch fumbled with the knob for a moment
that seemed to last forever, then got the door open and himself out of the room before anything else could come flying at him. He took a few shaky steps down the hall toward a rest room he'd noticed earlier. He went in, locked himself in a stall, and leaned against the wall. He was dizzy and having trouble catching his breath.

When he felt he could walk again, he
cautiously exited the rest room into the fortunately empty hallway, then stood as straight as he could and marched back outside to his truck, ignoring the curious stares of the employees in the reception area. Joette started to follow him out and tried to say something to him, but he didn't know nor care what and didn't acknowledge her. He climbed into his truck, quickly put it in gear, and spun out of the parking lot.

He made it back to the house safely, though he'd driven on autopilot and wouldn't remember anything about
the drive later. He stormed in and went immediately to his bathroom, paying no attention to the dog's initially excited attempts to greet him. Seeing that his face in the mirror was alarmingly red, he ran the water as cold as possible and splashed copious amounts of it over his head, then held both of his wrists under the faucet for a while. Though it was but a dim and vague memory now, the dog had seen behavior like this before and quietly held back, watching Ketch closely.

When Ketch abruptly
stomped out to the kitchen without bothering to towel off, the dog followed but kept his distance. Ketch grabbed a couple of bottles of beer from the refrigerator and went out to the front porch. The dog made it through behind him before the screen door slammed shut. While Ketch ensconced himself in a chair and worked at twisting open one of the bottles, the dog discreetly went down to the yard, did what he had to do, and returned to the porch. He again took up a position near Ketch, but not too near, and lay down and continued to observe.

Ketch
essentially chugged the first bottle, then immediately popped the second one. He was calmer now and would sip this one more slowly. He put his feet up on a table and finally noticed the freshly and neatly trimmed lawn. It looked better than when he did it himself.

"Well, that's something," he said aloud.
"Might not matter much now, though." He'd have to remember to put the mower away later. The dog, encouraged, crept a little closer to test the waters. Though Ketch had never hit him, he wasn't quite sure what to expect next.

"Jack," he said. The dog's ears pricked up. "Come here, boy." The dog got up and went to Ketch and rested his head in Ketch's lap. Ketch softly stroked his head and neck, and the dog relaxed.

"I'm sorry, boy. You're a good boy," he said. He continued to pet the dog for a while and sipped at his beer. "So, what do we do now?" he unproductively inquired of the dog. Things certainly hadn't worked out the way he'd hoped. He hadn't thought much about what the ramifications would be if his little ploy tanked, as it apparently had. There was probably no way in hell Ingram would let him sell now - he'd just seize the house, to save time and maybe out of spite as well. But still, even if Ingram ignored Ketch's ultimatum and failed to call, wasn't there a chance that turning him in to the feds might have some effect on the bastard's immediate plans? Doubtful, but possible.

He found himself wondering why
life had to be so hard for him, then mentally reprimanded himself. Granted some parts of his life had gotten messed up along the way - okay, some major parts - but it was generally he who'd messed them up, truth be told; and he knew life was a lot harder than this for an awful lot of other people in the world. At least he didn't have to eat bugs for lunch. Closer to home, he thought of his father, who'd grown up during the Depression and had been a fighter pilot in World War II. Everyone else from his flight class had died in that war, but he'd gotten lucky. Not so much afterward, though; there hadn't been money for college and though they hadn't technically been poor, there were not a lot of extras when Ketch was growing up. The only truly useful thing he'd inherited from his father was a stack of durable work bandanas, most of which he still used.

Ketch had never had to serve
his country. Viet Nam had lurked in the background when he'd gone off to college, but he'd had a student deferment and the draft had ended before he graduated. So he didn't have any post-traumatic stress disorder to use as a crutch or an excuse for his troubles, nor substance abuse problems, physical infirmities, or unusual personal tragedies, no more so than most middle-class Americans normally had to deal with; he only had his own defective self to blame.

He started to nod off in his chair after he finished the second beer; he tried to sit up a little straighter to forestall it, but then thought, what the he
ll, why not? Every day was Saturday now, right, since he was retired? Though more often than not, he'd found it to be like a Saturday with all the Saturday chores. But sleeping had always been his best defense against unpleasantness, so he let it happen.

A single bark from the dog woke him some time later.
He winced when he sat up; his head felt like someone had put a bucket over it and was banging on it with a wooden spoon. Squinting, he panned his eyes around the yard to see what was bothering the dog, which turned out to be Kari's car pulling into the driveway.

It looked like she was in a hurry. She
barely gave the car time to come to a stop before hopping out and bounding up the front steps. "Are you okay?" she asked Ketch. She gave him a quick hug, then sat in a nearby chair and gave the dog a pat. "Hey, Jack, good boy. So?"

"I guess
I'm okay," he said, a bit puzzled. Why was she here? "I fell asleep."

"Joette stopped by the shop on her lunch break. She told me what happened
with you at the realtor's. I stuck a note on the door, locked up, and came right over. She was worried about you."