EQMM, July 2012 Read online

  At the Milton town hall, he went up the granite steps and into the cool interior, to the town clerk's window. The town clerk was an older woman, Sandy Sanborn, who wore cat-framed eyeglasses with a chain about her neck, and who always had two or three pens stuck in the back of her graying hair, which she wore in a thick bun.

  Zach said, “Afternoon, Sandy.”

  She smiled. “Hey, Zach. What can I do for you today? Too early to pay your property taxes, isn't it?”

  “There's never a good time for that,” Zach said, as he placed his hands on the cool counter. “I was hoping you could give me a copy of the town laws.”

  “Town ordinances? Is that what you're looking for? Civil or criminal?”

  “Both, if you can.”

  “Sure, hold on.”

  She slid off her stool, went into the rear of her cluttered office, and came back with two thick photocopied pamphlets. She slid them over. “Usually cost five bucks apiece . . . but it's on the town this time, okay?”

  He picked them up. “Thanks, Sandy.”

  “Sure . . . and Zach?”

  “Yes?”

  “Still sorry to hear what happened to your little girl . . .”

  He nodded, couldn't say a word, and left.

  * * * *

  At Ford Financial Planning, Zach closed the door to his office and slowly went through the ordinances, taking notes here and there. Along the way he also made two phone calls. He knew it sounded odd for those who didn't know his kind of work, but he loved being an accountant, a tax preparer, because it all made sense. Oh, there were challenges, but when you came right down to it, it was all just numbers. And numbers always made sense. Two plus two always equaled four, no matter if the person doing the counting was rich, poor, smart, or semiliterate.

  He looked down at the ordinances. Here, in the laws of his town and his state, there was always room for deceit, for lies, for coverups.

  * * * *

  At five o'clock, there was a gentle tapping at his door, and his sole employee, Beth Guthrie, came in. She was a single mother of two children, attractive with long brown hair, and she was sharp in keeping Zach on schedule. She wore a simple light yellow dress, belted at the waist.

  “Zach?” she said. “Closing time . . . and you should head out too.”

  “Good idea,” he said, opening up the center desk drawer. “But can you give me a minute first?”

  She looked puzzled, sitting down across from him. “What's up, Zach?”

  He handed over a business card. “Peter Rogan runs a tax and financial firm over in Townsend. He's agreed to take over all my clients for the rest of the year.”

  “Zach . . .”

  He opened his checkbook, quickly scribbled her name and a series of numbers, signed it, and passed the check over. “There. Your pay for the rest of the year. Ford Financial Planning is taking the rest of the year off, Beth. I may or may not reopen next January. I'd love to have you come back . . . but feel free to seek other employment in the meantime. And I'd be happy to give you a great recommendation.”

  Beth stared at the check for a moment, lifted her head. Her eyes were moist. “What are you going to do?”

  “What I have to do,” Zach said.

  * * * *

  The next day was a long slog of going to various stores in the area, from small hardware stores to a Walmart superstore. He had made a list and followed it to the letter, and at the end of the long day, at dusk, he drove down a bumpy dirt road to an isolated cottage on the lake. It was small, with four rooms and a roof with some missing shingles, and there was a note on the door.

  * * * *

  Zach—

  As promised, my cousin's cottage for the summer. Not sure what you're up

  to, but call if you need anything else.

  —Rafer

  P.S. Please try not to sink her. She's my best girl.

  * * * *

  Zach looked over at the small dock, and at the pontoon boat moored there that belonged to his best friend.

  “I'll see what I can do,” he said.

  * * * *

  It was one more day of work before he was ready, early on the Saturday morning of the Fourth of July weekend, the busiest weekend of the summer. He undid the lines to the pontoon boat, gently shoved her out onto the lake, and started the engine, keeping the throttle low. The air was cool and the lake water was smooth as he motored to the south, heading for the island. In the far coves the morning mist still drifted, and he eyed the mansion as he approached the island. It was 5:30 a.m. He couldn't see anyone moving about. Funny thing, for himself and Rafer and others in town, the lake had always been here. A place to fish and swim every now and then, but nothing like it was to the rich folks who could afford to spend the whole summer here, playing day after day. What a life.

  He slowed the motor, then placed it in neutral, and went to the stern, where he tossed over the anchor. The boat drifted some and then came to a halt, slowly circled about on the anchor line.

  Zach's heart pounded. Now was the time. It had been one thing to plan, to prepare, to imagine what to do . . . but now it was go time. Two choices. Either do it . . . or motor back to the cottage, unload the boat, and skulk away, and let Malcolm Preston and his absent son get away with it.

  That was no choice at all.

  Forward there were zippered black duffel bags and cardboard boxes. He unpacked the necessary equipment, set it up, and held it secure with bungee cords.

  On the island, the large house brooded, seemingly staring at him. He stared right back. Reached down, flipped a couple of switches.

  In a matter of seconds, ear-splitting music boomed across the water to the mansion, a recording of Jimi Hendrix's “Star Spangled Banner,” from the 1969 Woodstock music festival. Zach took out some foam earplugs, inserted them into his ears, and sat in the comfortable helmsman's chair of the boat and waited.

  He didn't have to wait long. Doors flew open up at the mansion and people streamed out, some barely dressed, others with hastily thrown on robes or towels wrapped around them. They pointed, they seemed to shout at him, and they extended their hands to him, middle fingers raised up.

  Zack turned the volume up louder.

  Segued into Gilbert and Sullivan's H.M.S. Pinafore.

  * * * *

  About fifteen minutes later, an aluminum skiff motored out, with two men inside, the same security guards from the other day. They got up to the side of the pontoon boat and as a courtesy, he turned off the music.

  There were threats, there were demands, there were more threats, and when they had finished, he offered them a smile. He handed over a sheaf of papers, with portions highlighted in bright yellow.

  “Gentlemen, if you read these papers, or have your boss read them, you'll note that I'm breaking no laws,” Zach explained. “I'm moored more than fifty feet away from shore, I'm not trespassing, and I'm not damaging Mr. Preston's property. And all relevant noise ordinances—both local and state—reference one property owner disturbing another property owner. As you can plainly see, I'm not a property owner. I'm on a boat. So feel free to contact the police. They can't charge me with a damn thing.”

  More threats, more demands; as they kept on yelling at him, he turned the music back on.

  The sweet music of “I Am the Captain of the Pinafore” boomed against the mansion and the beach.

  * * * *

  As the day went on, he juggled his music offerings. Barry Manilow. Judas Priest. Ozzy Osbourne. The opera Carmen. Tibetan prayer chants. Australian aboriginal music. Bagpipe music from the 42nd Black Watch Highlanders. And in a deeply sadistic move that almost made him hesitate, the complete works of Yoko Ono.

  As the day progressed, he ate two chocolate doughnuts and drank coffee from a Thermos bottle. With the foam earplugs in, and with the large speakers aimed at the island and mansion, he found the noise tolerable. The day got warmer and he stretched out his legs and reached into a cardboard box where he had stored a number of books, i
ncluding Samuel Eliot Morison's fifteen-volume History of U.S. Naval Operations in World War II.

  * * * *

  He had lunch—a ham and cheese sandwich—and for dinner, he set up a barbecue grill on the bow of the boat, grilled up a nice New York strip steak and a baked potato. There was a portable chemical toilet at the stern that he used twice, and a couple of times—just to jazz things up—he switched off the music, once for ten minutes, and another time, for about an hour. And then he started blasting again.

  People would come out on the lawn, or the wraparound porch, and stare and point and make threatening gestures. And once—using a pair of binoculars—he saw the man himself, Malcolm Preston, staring at him. A woman standing next to him seemed to be yelling at him, but Preston just continued looking Zach's way.

  And just for that, he played Yoko Ono again.

  * * * *

  Night fell. The music continued. He yawned a few times, decided it was time to add to the mix. At the stern and bow, he set up metal tripods and large portable batteries, and with two more flicks of switches, two powerful spotlights—each shooting out 10,000 candlepower of light—spread across the lawn and the windows of the mansion.

  He yawned again. It had been a fair day, and he had made good progress in volume one of Morison's famed history.

  * * * *

  They came for him at about two in the morning, in a canoe, paddling softly. The two guys from the morning, and Zach was fortunate that they came when they did. Earlier he had set the spotlights on a random timer, so they would switch on and off at different times—ensuring a wonderful and unexpected light show for the mansion's residents—and during one of the “on” times, the canoe was there.

  Zach got up and from one of the black duffel bags, brought up a Remington 12-gauge pump-action shotgun. He worked the pump-action once to make an impressive sound, and looked over the boat's railing at his visitors.

  They gazed up at him, paddles in midair, dripping water. Zach said, “You come any closer, you come back again, you do anything I think is threatening, I'll shoot you both. And don't think I'm joking. I'm sure your boss has told you why I'm here. And think about this. If I do shoot you both, I don't think your boss has the means to bribe twelve jurors. Most people around here would be on my side. So I would walk free, while you'd be taking up space at some Massachusetts cemetery. So get the hell out.”

  The paddles lowered, went back in the water, and the canoe went back to the island.

  Zach escorted them out with some Ron Zombie.

  * * * *

  At midmorning the next day, as the church bells and cannon fire of the “1812 Overture” roared across the tiny cove, Zach spotted some men coming down one of the gravel walkways, heading to one of the three boathouses. They quickly disappeared from view and he waited, and the sliding door at the end of the boathouse rolled up. There was a small burst of blue smoke, and a motorboat idled its way out, swiveled, and then started coming his way. It moved slowly and gracefully, and Zach noted the polished woodwork and smooth hull that marked a very old Chris-Craft motorboat, probably from the 1930s or ‘40s.

  At the stern of the craft, sitting by himself, was Malcolm Preston.

  Zach switched off the sound system, and in the sudden silence, he said to himself, “The emperor approaches. . . .”

  The boat came up on the port side of the pontoon boat, beside the small entry gate. The engine of the Chris-Craft burbled down its power and three white fenders were placed over the side. Malcolm Preston stood up and called out, “Permission to come aboard?”

  “Certainly,” Zach said, and he opened up the gate as the other driver expertly nudged the Chris-Craft up against the pontoon boat. With one firm leap, Preston came aboard and stood in front of Zach. He was lean, muscled, and tanned. He wore designer jeans, a tight light green polo shirt, and topsider shoes with no socks. His brown hair—flecked with gray—was cut short and well, and his pale blue eyes were sharp.

  “Looks like we have a situation here,” he said.

  “Guess you could say that.”

  Preston said, “This is a special time of year. Each Fourth of July, I invite my family, friends, and some coworkers to spend the long weekend here. I promise them barbecues, breakfasts, boating, fishing, and a chance to relax. But you know what kind of weekend they're having, don't you?”

  “Each Fourth of July, my daughter Carol and I would go to the volunteer fire department chicken bake, then catch the fireworks at the town common. Bet you know what kind of weekend I'm having too.”

  “I know,” Preston said. “So how can I make you leave?”

  Zach said sharply, “You can't make me do a damn thing.”

  Preston paused, and said, “Good point. What could I do to encourage you to depart?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “I do.”

  “Bring your son Thomas back from Europe. Go before the police chief and the district attorney. Have him confess what he did to my daughter.”

  “What happened to your daughter was an accident,” Preston said.

  “Two of Carol's best friends were there. They told me what happened. They told me that Thomas got her drunk. One saw him slip her a pill, wrapped in a bit of cheese, like she was some animal at the vet's. It wasn't an accident.”

  Preston said carefully, “That's not what the girls told the police.”

  “You're absolutely right,” Zach said. “And I'm sure they changed their stories for a price.”

  Preston folded his arms. “Thomas isn't coming back. So that's off the table, Mr. Ford. Is there anything else I can offer you?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  Preston said, “You know who I am. You know what kind of monetary resources are available to me. I can make it simple or complex. Simple would be to provide you with a lifetime annuity, completely legal and guaranteed, for an amount that we both find is appropriate.”

  “And what would complex be?”

  “Complex would be for some of my companies in this state to hire your firm for their financial needs. You could become very well-off in a very short amount of time.”

  The pontoon boat gently rocked. The engine of the Chris-Craft still gurgled along. The two bodyguards looked over, their faces expressionless. Zach said, “You really are a piece of work, aren't you? More money than the entire population of the town of Milton combined. Never have to worry about bills, about doctors, about having enough money to buy Christmas gifts, or pay to have your driveway plowed, or to keep the heat on in January. A man so wealthy you should be going to church every day to give thanks for being one of the fortunate few . . . and what are you? A slug, with the morals of a slug, who thinks anything and everything is for sale, has a price tag.”

  Preston's face colored. “I'd like to reach an arrangement. I'm not here to be insulted.”

  “You heard what I want. Nothing else will do. And if you think you can sue me, go ahead. I'll be out here on this boat and knowing how slow the law works, this lake will be frozen over before anything gets to court. Think you can get the state laws changed? That'll take months. And to get the local laws amended . . . good luck with that. The town council takes the summer off.”

  Preston said, “Then it's going to be a long summer, isn't it?”

  “Only thing you've said that makes any sense at all,” Zach said.

  With a brief nod, Preston got back on the Chris-Craft, and as they motored back toward the house, he blasted them with the Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil.”

  * * * *

  And a long summer it was. The music continued and sometimes, to break up the monotony, he would play books on tape—though they were actually books on CDs. He broadcasted a lot of Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, and Arthur Conan Doyle to his captive audience. Other days or nights, when the radio signals were strong enough, he played talk radio, making it a point to find the most off-the-wall, argumentative, and ignorant talk show hosts on air to share with Malcolm Preston
and his friends and family.

  Some days it was hot and steamy, and he would go for swims around the pontoon boat. Other days it would rain—and a few times, there were huge thunderstorms that roared through—drenching everything out in the open. But he kept going.

  Occasionally, boats would come by to look at him, and most often, the occupants yelled at him, or gave him the finger, or, if they traveled close enough, tossed beer bottles. A few times, though, the occupants asked him why he was doing what he was doing, and when he explained it, they expressed sympathy and motored away.

  Only once—during a Friday in late July—was he overly concerned, and that was when a white Boston Whaler operated by a Maine Warden motored by. He switched off the music and politely showed the armed officer his boat registration, his fire extinguisher, and the required number of flotation devices. As the officer left, he smiled and said, “I never said this, but good luck, Mr. Ford. Good luck.”

  Every now and then, Rafer would show up, bringing fresh fruits or vegetables and sometimes steamed lobster and corn on the cob. Occasionally, Zach motored into the Lake Piscassic Marina to fuel up the boat and stock up on supplies, or went back to Rafer's cousin's cottage for a shower and long snooze, and at those times, Rafer would help clean up the boat and keep watch, so the boat wouldn't have an “accident” while moored. One Tuesday in August, the music was off and they were both drinking cold bottles of Sam Adams, when Rafer said, “You holding up okay?”

  “So far so good,” Zach said. “Not sure if my ears are ever going to be the same . . . and when I'm through here, I swear I'm going for a hike in the middle of the White Mountains and hear nothing but the birds and bees.”

  “Fair enough,” Rafer said.

  Zach pointed at the mansion with his beer bottle. “You hear anything from the enemy camp?”

  “More than you can imagine,” Rafer said. “Word is that Mr. Preston is holding tight, but his lovely wife isn't. She loves this island, and hates you and what you're doing. So she wants hubby to bring back the son and do what you want.”

  “For real? She wants to give up her son?”