Distant Thunder

2

At lunchtime, the weather was unchanged. Ed Rawls was pressed into staying for some lobster stew, and they all sat down at the dining table.

“I like to brag on the weather to those from away,” Rawls said, “but they’re never going to believe this.”

The doorbell rang, making them all jump. Stone, clutching his napkin, got up and went to answer it. A man in the usual yellow oilskins stood there, identifiable only by his campaign-style, flat-brimmed hat. “Good afternoon, Stone,” said Sergeant Young of the Maine State Police.

“That’s an outright lie,” Stone said. “Come in and get dry.” He pointed at the pegs where the sergeant’s gear should be stowed. “We’ve got a big pot of lobster stew,” he said. “Can I tempt you?”

“You can,” the sergeant said, hanging up his oilskins and sitting down at the table.

“I think you know everybody.”

The sergeant nodded at everyone.

“I’ve heard bad news from the ferry,” Stone said. “Got an ID yet?”

The sergeant reached into his jacket pocket, produced a wallet, laid it on the table, and opened it. Everybody at the table recognized the CIA credentials. Everybody stopped eating.

“Name of John Collins,” the sergeant said. “Anybody know him?”

Heads were shaken.

“Anybody heard of him?”

“Give me a minute.” Holly set down her spoon, picked up the wallet, and went to the concealed office and her computer. Inside, she dialed a number.

“Lance Cabot.”

“It’s Holly.”

“I thought you would have drowned by now.”

“Near enough. Do you know one of your people named John Collins?”

“Perhaps,” Lance said.

“Is he supposed to be in Maine?”

Lance was quiet for a long moment. “How bad?”

“Fatal.”

“Means?”

“Two to the head. Happened on the ferry, which hasn’t run since last night.”

“Perhaps you’d better stay there for a while.”

“Where else am I going to go?”

“I know you’re due back in New York. Don’t go.”

“I can’t swim that far.”

“Has the state police become involved?”

“The island-based Sergeant Young is at Stone’s lunch table as we speak.”

“I don’t want them to have the body.”

“Nobody can move it in the present weather.”

“Ask the sergeant to move it to Stone’s garage at the first opportunity, then to call me on this line. You stay where you are and watch your ass.” Lance hung up.

Holly returned to the table. “That was Lance Cabot on the phone. You’re about to have another guest, Stone; one John Collins, says Lance. Sergeant,” she said, handing him a note. “Please call Lance at this number as soon as you’re able. He asks that you not remove the body from the island but store it in Stone’s garage.”

“So now I’m running a mortuary?” Stone asked.

“Looks like it. They won’t be able to get a chopper in here today.”

“I’ll have to call my captain,” the sergeant said.

“If I know Lance, he’s doing that right now. Call him before you speak to your captain.” The sergeant’s cell phone rang. He walked away from the table and answered it, then returned. “Stone, you have an ice machine, don’t you?”

“Two of them.”

“Can I borrow some plastic garbage bags and all your ice?”

“Leave enough to fill a few whiskey glasses,” Stone replied.

The sergeant nodded. “Somebody from our station told me that we’re going to get more rain here this weekend than we’ve had since the hurricane of ’47. That one was about nineteen inches, as I recall.”

“Stone,” Ed Rawls said, “if we get that much rain, your two boats down at the dock are going to end up on your back lawn.”

“As long as they don’t end up in my living room,” Stone said.

After lunch, everybody had a glass of whiskey, because there wasn’t anything else to do. Around nightfall, the sergeant’s colleagues deposited the remains of John Collins in the garage, next to Stone’s MG TF 1500, with bags of ice around him. Stone and Holly both had a good look at him.

“Know him?” Stone asked.

“No,” she said, snapping the man’s photo with her iPhone. “But Lance might.”