Stuart Woods - Dark Harbor

“I’d like to do it myself,” Caleb said. “It’s the last thing I can do for him.”

“I’ve made arrangements with a funeral parlor in Belfast. I’ll call you when I receive the ashes.”

“Thank you.” Caleb dug into a pocket. “Oh, I expect you’ll want my key to this house. Dick gave it to me when he built it, in case of an emergency, but you’ve got Seth and Mabel Hotchkiss here to deal with any problems.”

Stone took the key. “Thank you, Caleb.” They shook hands, and Stone went back into the house. He looked at the key. There was a tag attached to it, and written on the tag was “Dick’s House, all doors.”

STONE HAD DINNER alone that evening, watched a movie on satellite television and got to bed late. It was after nine when he woke up the following morning.

He was having breakfast when Seth came into the kitchen. “I thought I might take a drive around the island this morning,” Stone said. “You need the station wagon?”

“I’ve got to go over to Camden to pick up some parts for the washing machine,” Seth said, “but Dick’s other car is in the garage, ready to go. The key is in the bunch I gave you.”

“Thanks,” Stone said, pushing back from the table. He got his sunglasses, walked out of the house and opened the garage door. “Wow,” he said, walking up to the little car. A moment’s inspection revealed it to be an MG TF 1500, the last of the classic series, built in 1954. It was silver, with a red leather interior, beautifully restored. Apparently, Dick Stone had not liked newer cars.

Stone got into the car, switched on the ignition, pressed the starter button, and the engine caught. He let it warm up for a moment, then found reverse and backed out of the garage. A moment later he was wending his way down the road toward Dark Harbor, the wind in his hair and a song in his heart.

He stopped in front of the Dark Harbor Shop, went inside and bought a New York Times. The owner, who also was a real estate agent, was working at his desk in the back of the shop and gave him a wave. The young girl working behind the old-fashioned soda fountain smiled at him as he left.

Stone took the little car north until he ran out of road, then turned around and went back by a different route, passing the ferry terminal and the golf course. Soon he was back in the village and on the way home. You could see all of Islesboro in under an hour.

As he approached the house he saw another dirt road forking to the left and, just for the hell of it, turned down it. It immediately began to narrow, but there was no place to turn around, so he continued. After a hundred yards he drove through an open gate, then another fifty yards down the road came to an abrupt halt. A large tree trunk, trimmed of its branches, was stretched across the road.

Stone looked around. He was going to have to reverse for a hundred and fifty yards. He had begun to do so, when the gate behind him swung shut. Now he was trapped on the narrow road between the gate and the fallen tree trunk.

He got out of the car and looked around. He was surrounded by thick woods and underbrush, with nobody and no house in sight. He was about to walk to the gate and try to open it when he saw a tiny red flash, and then he looked down at his chest to find a pinpoint of red light dancing around it. Laser gunsight. He hit the ground and crawled behind the car.

“Stand up and keep your hands where I can see you!” a deep voice shouted.

“Are you going to shoot me?” Stone called back.

“Maybe. We’ll see. Now get up.”

Stone sat up and looked over the car. On the other side stood a large, bearlike man somewhere in his sixties, Stone reckoned, with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair, a large moustache and round, steel-rimmed glasses. He was holding a Sigarms P220 pistol, and the laser sight was still on him.

“I said, ”Stand up,“” the man said.

Stone stood up.

“Now walk to the front of the car and put your hands on the grille.”

Stone did so, and the man walked over and frisked him from his neck to his ankles in a thoroughly professional manner.

The man backed away. “Now stand up straight, turn around and stand still.”

Stone did so.

“Why are you driving Dick Stone’s car?” the man demanded.

“Can I show you some I.D.?”

“Do it carefully.”

Stone produced a wallet with his badge and I.D.

The man snatched it away from him and read it carefully, keeping his aim with the gun. “Your first name is Stone?”

“Dick was my first cousin.”

“And you’re a retired cop?”

“Yes, and you seem to be, too.”

“Not exactly.”

“I’m Dick’s executor. I’m up here to settle his estate.”

The man lowered the gun but didn’t put it away. “Okay,” he said. “You ought to be more careful whose driveway you drive down.”

“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know it was a driveway; there was no sign or mailbox. I was just exploring.”

The man put the gun in his belt and held out a hand. “I’m Ed Rawls,” he said. He took a remote control from his pocket and pressed a button. The log ahead of Stone swung slowly out of his way. “Explore your way down to the end of the drive, and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee,” he said, then he turned and disappeared into the trees.

The gate behind him was still closed, so Stone got into the car and drove another fifty yards before the drive ended at a sharp turn into a clearing. Stone noticed a large convex mirror mounted on a tree at the turn. Ed Rawls was a very careful man.

He got out of the car and approached a small, handsome, shingled cottage. As he stepped onto the porch, Ed Rawls opened the front door.

“Come on in,” Rawls said. “The coffee is already on.”

Stone stepped into a large room paneled in old pine, with a field-stone fireplace to his right. Two walls were covered in pictures, oils and watercolors of Maine and European scenes and landscapes. Rawls disappeared and came back with a coffee pot and two mugs on a tray.

“Have a seat,” he said. “You take cream or milk?”

“Black is fine.” Stone sat down in a leather chair.

“Good. I don’t have any cream or milk.” He poured them both a mug of coffee, handed one to Stone and sat down himself. “So you’re a retired cop? I wouldn’t have thought there was a cop in Dick’s family.”

“I’m from the black sheep branch,” Stone said. “Since I retired I practice law in New York.”

“You look pretty young to be retired.”

“A bullet in the knee retired me.”

Rawls nodded. “So you’re Dick’s executor? Why, is Caleb dead, too?”

“No.”

Rawls stared at him for a moment, then decided not to pursue that line of questioning. “You gonna be on Islesboro long?”

“As long as it takes.”

“As long as it takes to what?”

“To find out who murdered Dick and his family.”

Rawls looked at him carefully. “And why do you think he was murdered?”

Stone shrugged. “I’ve seen a lot of homicides and quite a few suicides, and I know the difference.” Stone sipped his coffee. “And what are you retired from, Mr. Rawls?”

“You call me Ed and I’ll call you Stone, all right?”

“All right.”

“I’m retired from the State Department,” Rawls said. “Dick and I used to work together.”

“Ed,” Stone said, “I know who Dick worked for, and it wasn’t the State Department.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. And why do you have all this security and why are you walking around in this lovely place with a Sig P220 in your hand?”

“Well,” Rawls said, “I reckon the folks who got Dick Stone might be coming for me, too.”