Silent Mercy (43 page)

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Authors: Linda Fairstein

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General

BOOK: Silent Mercy
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“It’s not?”
“Very rarely. There’s a genetic susceptibility.”
“So Zukov’s siblings might be in line?”
“It’s possible. Ninety-five percent of all people are immune to the bacillus. But in the old days, lepers were sent off to live in quarantine.”
“Leper colonies.”
“Isolated from their communities. And islands were the ideal solution. There was one in the East River, another off the coast of San Francisco, and the infamous colony on Molokai. People were shipped off forever, separated from their families, to live the rest of their lives—and to die—among strangers suffering with the same affliction. There was no coming back.”
“Penikese was one of them?”
“In 1905, Massachusetts created the Penikese Island Hospital on this lonely rock in the middle of the bay. Two doctors volunteered to staff it, and five patients—ripped from their homes and their children—were forced to be sent there.”
“How did they live?”
“The patients had to build their own shacks—small, wooden ones. They don’t exist anymore. Fishing boats would drop off fresh food from the mainland, once a week, depositing it at the end of the dock. Letters from home, that sort of thing. One-way service only.”
“And no one ever returned?”
“Not a single soul. The tombstones and crosses are proof of that. Most of the wooden markers have rotted away.”
“What scared you there, Coop?”
“As a kid it was the idea of plague pits. My older brothers would tie up the boat and we’d sneak ashore. I was afraid to go with them, and more afraid to wait alone. Everyone says the island has ghosts. Even a haunted mansion, way back in time.”
“Mansion? In a leper colony.”
“No, no. Before the state took it over. Long gone, but my brothers used to play in the old shafts and tunnels beneath it. That didn’t worry me—I was just too claustrophobic to go down into them—but the sad stories of the lepers really got to me.”
“Sounds like it.”
“The boys used to taunt me—tell me that if I stepped on one of the graves, the ghost of the leper would rise up and, well—kill me. When I was ten, eleven—I believed that.”
“You’ve been to ghost islands before.”
“Not so full of death as Penikese. Not with such a painful past. It’s one of the loneliest little outposts in the world.”
“How long did the hospital last?”
“Only about fifteen years. The government built a leprosarium in Louisiana. This pitiful place went out of business pretty fast after that. Then, about thirty years ago, someone had the idea to use the desolate setting as a school for delinquent boys—really dangerous ones. Kids who needed complete isolation to attempt to resocialize them. The success rate has been less than enviable.”
I could make out fog lights on the road ahead and I braked again, getting over to the right to avoid a pickup truck coming the opposite way. When I reached the traffic light in Falmouth, I could see that no one was approaching the intersection and I ran through the red signal. There was only one more stop sign between where we were and the harbor, then a twelve-mile boat run to Penikese Island.
“It’s biblical, you know,” Mike said. “Leprosy, I mean. Maybe that’s what’s haunting our killer.”
“It was considered a mark of God, wasn’t it? A sign to the priests that the leper was someone who had sinned.”
“Your boy Moses started the whole phobia, Coop.”
“I guess so. I remember in Leviticus, he directed the Israelites to exile lepers, to exile all those who had offended their God.”
Mike knew as much of the Old Testament as the New. “ ‘ Whosoever shall be defiled with the leprosy and is separated by the judgment of the priest ... shall dwell alone without the camp.’ ”
“Father Bernard might smile on you after all.”
The fog swirled around the car as we crested the hill that overlooked the Woods Hole ferry terminal. The sturdy old
Islander
was sheltered in its dock below us, dark and still, out of service until the first run of the morning.
Off to the right, in Quissett Harbor, the red bubble atop a police cruiser was spinning in the haze, setting off an eerie glow.
“There,” Mike said. “Head for that patrol car.”
“I see it,” I said, nosing the car past the row of stores and restaurants, beyond the scattered buildings of the Oceanographic Institute.
A solo officer was pacing the sidewalk at the end of the dock, talking to someone on his radio, when he saw us get out of the Rhode Island trooper’s car.
The device squawked as he waited for a reply. “You the New Yorkers?”
“Yeah,” Mike answered.
I walked beyond them to the shiny white truck that had been backed into a parking space, blocked from the view of traffic by a large RV that stuck out into the street.
“I was just calling this in to my office,” the cop said. “It’s the stolen vehicle from New Jersey. Got the broadcast a couple of hours ago.”
“How long ago was it ditched?”
“It wasn’t here at eleven, when I came on duty. I’m pretty sure of that.”
“Get Crime Scene on it,” Mike said. “Bust it open. We got things to do.”
The cop gave a halfhearted laugh. “I maybe can get you Crime Scene in a day or two.”
“Then make it a locksmith or a safecracker. Break it open. We’re looking for a woman who’s probably been locked inside there for twenty-four hours.”
The cop seemed shell-shocked by the orders Mike was directing at him.
“We can’t take the chance that Zukov has left Chat behind in there,” I said. “He’s always staged his bodies at a far more dramatic setting. I don’t want to wait till they get this open. We can’t afford to do that if she’s still alive.”
Mike pounded his fist on the side of the truck repeatedly. If Chat was inside it, she wasn’t capable of sending a signal back to him.
He walked to the other side of the truck and called Chat’s name, then turned back to the cop. “Seen anyone around the docks this evening? People you don’t know?”
“Just the regulars. A few old guys fishing for squid off the end. Only thing unusual I saw was a big black duffel bag out on the walkway leading to the dock as I drove through. But by the time I cruised the street and turned around, it was gone. Figured someone was picking it up off his boat.”
Mike looked at me. “Didn’t Luther’s friend—what’s his name? . . .”
“Shaquille.”
“Didn’t Shaquille tell us the killer at Mount Neboh had the body in a large sack, like a duffel bag?”
“Sure he did. I’m telling you, Zukov’s on the move with Chat.”
“I think you’re right.”
“How about boats?” I asked the cop. “You know the harbor well enough to tell me if anything is missing?”
“There’s a twenty-two-foot Grady-White sits right over there most of the time,” he said, pointing to an empty space on the dock between two other motor boats. “She belongs to the guy who owns the liquor store, but he’s not usually on the water at this hour. The
Phantom Flyer,
he calls it.”
“Put out an APB for that one,” Mike said. “You got a gun I can borrow for an hour or two?”
The cop shook his head. “We don’t patrol with guns.”
“Then you’d better rouse all the help you can get. We’re going over to Penikese.”
FIFTY
“WHERE’S
the Coast Guard?” I asked the cop. “We were supposed to have lots of backup here, waiting for us.”
“I can’t imagine anyone promised you that. A trawler overturned in Nantucket Sound around midnight. Most of the guys are out on search and rescue. Four crewmen still missing.”
I saw a light in the little shack at the far end of the harbor and started to jog toward it. “C’mon, Mike. I’ll get you there.”
“Let’s just untie a boat. Jump-start it.”
“I’d never be able to find my way. Fog, rips, shallows, the current. Let’s get a pro.”
“At this hour? I thought you said that nothing runs.”
“Nothing commercial. But we’ll make one take a run.”
I reached the shack, barely larger than a phone booth. The startled attendant was awakened from his nap by the sound of my footsteps on the dock.
“We’re from New York. He’s a homicide detective. I’m a prosecutor. We need a ride on the
Patriot
now.
Now
.”
“Everybody’s in a hurry tonight. Are you two with that tall guy who was jumping from boat to boat an hour or so ago? I chased him right out of here.”
“We’re not with him,” Mike said. “We’re after him.”
The man placed his arthritic hands on his thighs and stood up. “Let me see what I can do about that.”
“Is the
Patriot
here?”
“Right over there. Morning papers should be aboard shortly.”
The
Patriot
fleet consisted of half a dozen workhorse boats—forty-five feet long—each more useful than decorative. They were available for private hire all night, often by Vineyarders who missed the last ferry over, or entertainers leaving after an evening gig on the island. The things we counted on to make our lives normal—from daily newspapers to fresh bagels—motored across on one of these boats.
Unlike the Steamship Authority ferries, which halted service in severe weather, there was almost nothing that could stop a
Patriot
from making a trip.
Mike beat me to the boat. There was a light on in the cabin, and I lowered myself over the side and knocked on the window.
The captain was bundled up in a down jacket, with a Red Sox ski cap pulled down over his ears. He was reading a copy of the
Boston Globe,
probably waiting for the
New York Times
delivery before the first three a.m. crossing to Oak Bluffs.
“Captain? I’m Alex Cooper. This is Mike Chapman. What’ll it take to hire you for an emergency run?”
To my surprise, when the captain’s head picked up, I could see she was a young woman.
“Emergency?” she said, dropping the paper and getting to her feet. “To the Vineyard?”
“No, no. To Penikese?”
“At two in the morning?”
Mike took over. His charm might work faster with the attractive boater. “Look, Miss ...”
“Lynch. Maggie Rubey Lynch.”
“Give me that newspaper, Maggie.”
She picked up her copy of the early edition of the
Globe
and handed it to Mike.
“See this bastard?” he said, pointing to the head shot of Zukov that was on top of the fold of the morning news. “We’re thinking he’s over on Penikese, and he’s likely to kill the girl who’s with him unless you can get us there. Just a drop-off. You just put us on the rock and head back to port. That’s all we’re asking.”
She didn’t flinch for a second. “Let’s go. It’s kind of rough out there. I need you to sit down, okay?”
“Whatever you say.”
I guessed Maggie to be about thirty years old. She had platinum hair, from the wisps that had slipped out beneath her cap, bright blue eyes, and an easy smile. But she also had the complete confidence of someone who had probably spent her entire life on the water, as evidenced by each of the steps she took to release the lines, raise the bumpers, and ease the
Patriot
out of its slip.
Mike got on his cell and again called the lieutenant. The reception was patchy, but it would be his last chance to reach out to anyone. The up-island half of the Vineyard had no cell service, so I knew that Penikese would be a dead zone too.
“Where’s the frigging Coast Guard, Loo? I can’t hear you,” Mike said, shouting over the noise of the engines. “I know there was an accident. We’re on our way to this leper colony, you got that? Call the Navy, call the Marines. I don’t give a shit what you have to do, but we need—hello? Hello?”
“You’re talking to the wind out here,” Maggie said.
“You got that right.”
“We’re into the bay now. It’s going to get bumpy.”
The water was practically black. The boat heaved in the waves and tossed us from side to side. Maggie held on to the wheel, keeping an eye on the radar and GPS to guide us toward our destination. I knew the moon was almost full, but fog had blanketed Buzzards Bay and it was impossible to see the heavens.
“What’s your plan?” I asked Mike.
“I’m working on one.”
He was a nervous flier, and I worried that motion sickness might overcome him on this short ride.
“Are you queasy?”
“It’s not like a plane that’s going to fall out of the sky on me, Coop. These are just bumps in the road.” He was trying to convince himself that was true.
The waves came at us hard. “I’m counting on you for a plan. It’ll take your mind off your stomach.”

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