An Evil Trust

By Alfred Boote

Harvey Williams, a prominent marine biologist, comes to Pulpit Rock on a summer sabbatical, enticed by a hefty grant and the promise of directing an important research project. He soon discovers the project is a hoax apparently contrived to involve him in a cover-up of a deadly disease attacking local aquaculture fisheries. Angered and disgusted, his sabbatical now ruined, he is determined to find the culprits responsible for the ruse and to learn why they had chosen him to be their shill.

Ultimately his investigation entangles him and his wife in the web of a sinister conspiracy that is slowly strangling this isolated coastal village. It has also placed their lives in jeopardy.

This is the terrifying story of a courageous man's struggle against evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 11, 2001
• ISBN: 9781475971972

Alfred Boote

Alfred Boote has taught on the faculties of Hunter College (CUNY) and Clark University. He is currently a research fellow at the Robert Fischer Cultural and Policy Institute in Dudley, Massachusetts. He lives with is wife, Heath, in rural northeast Connecticut. This is his first novel.

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Prologue

June 30, 1991

Dan Logan peered through the windshield at the pavement ahead, trying to stretch his vision beyond the high beams. The white no-passing line that seemed to coil and uncoil like an endless snake was beginning to lull him into sleep. He jerked his head up and took in a deep breath, struggling to stay awake in the darkened interior of his old Chevy van. Country-and-western blaring from the van’s radio was not much help. His eyes felt like they had been through a clothes dryer, scorched and dry, and scratchy when he blinked. He reached for the thermos, gulped down a shot of tepid black coffee and turned up the radio’s volume.

He was on his early-morning run up U.S. Route 1, carting Sunday editions of the Bangor News and Boston Globe to small-town merchants and distributors along the sparsely populated down east coast of Maine. One hundred lonely and occasionally dangerous miles. An hour ago the monotony had been broken by a massive bull moose standing dead center in his lane, paralyzed by the headlights’ glare. Dan reacted with a quick twist of the steering wheel that sent the van onto the shoulder. It missed the huge animal by inches. He exhaled a long, audible sigh. His heart was pounding as if it were trying to escape from his chest. Badly shaken, the scare stayed with him a few miles. But soon, ennui crept over him again.

He slid his right foot onto the brake pedal, and prepared to take a right at state route 179. It was a winding twelve-mile spur that traversed a hilly peninsula, the only road serving the town of Pulpit Rock. Above him, stars still glimmered dimly in the indigo pre-dawn sky. In the distance, toward the horizon, darkness was melting into a brightening glow of pink and coral, the portent of a sunny day. Pulpit Rock was where light of day first touched the nation each morning. He would see the sunrise before anyone else in the entire country. Now that’s somethin’ special. He sat up straight and stretched as best he could in the cramped space.

After passing over the last ridge, the road took a tortuous downhill course toward the town, now visible a couple miles ahead. What first caught Dan’s eye gave his heart a tumble: a pillar of dark smoke suspended in the still morning air above a cluster of buildings. No flames, just thick smoke. But he knew instantly that a house or building was on fire, and he had to get down there fast. He remembered how an out-of-control fire had stormed through Banyonville up in Aroostoock County. Whole thing took less than two hours. A total loss. He floored the accelerator, praying the wind wouldn’t kick up.

Squealing tires carried him around sharp corners, up and down stubby hills. It took him only a few minutes to traverse most of the village’s streets. Houses still in the shadows of the retreating night looked abandoned. Not a soul in sight. It was like a ghost town, this weathered and weary coastal village.

Now, for the first time, he saw tendrils of smoke drifting between houses. The fire was close, but where? Then he swung onto Graff Street. Even before he reached number 14, he saw the flames. He pressed down on the horn button, sending forth a blast of decibels he hoped would awaken anyone who might still be asleep inside the burning house, a turreted Queen Anne Victorian. Swerving to the curb, Dan jumped from the van. He did not turn off the ignition, didn’t even bother to shut the door. He ran to the front door of number 14, shouting: Fire! Fire! Get out! There was no response.

He rushed to the next house, number 16, and pounded on the front door. Wake up! Fire! Wake up! The sleepy-eyed face of a man leaned out from a second-story window. Fire? Where? he said. Dan yelled, Next door, number 14. Call in the alarm! The man nodded and disappeared.

*      *      *

By now a small gaggle of neighborhood people had formed on the sidewalk in front of number 14. Most of them were wearing bathrobes or coats hastily thrown over pajamas and nightgowns. They stood in silence, their eyes stared straight ahead, expressions of shocked disbelief on their faces.

Is anyone in there? Dan said. The faces turned toward him. Is anyone in that house? he asked again. A middle-aged woman, wearing a scarf around her head, probably to conceal hair rollers, volunteered to be spokesperson. The Roots are away, she said in a monotone, guess nobody’s inside. The others nodded their heads in agreement. Dan let out a deep sigh.

Just then, he was startled by what sounded like a muffled explosion, something like the sound a sail on a boat makes when filled by a sudden gust of wind. Simultaneously, the entire roof erupted in flames, creating a mini windstorm as air was pulled into the fire. The onlookers moved back, away from the flaming mass. A second later, a man in a stained raincoat yelled: Hey, look there, somebody’s at the window over the door. Oh, my gawd, someone’s in there! A groan arose from the crowd as all eyes focused on that window.

The figure at the window shimmered through a curtain of flames. Dan couldn’t make out whether it was a man or woman. Its arms were stretched upward as if trying to raise or lower the top sash of the large double-hung window. The sash didn’t budge. The figure flailed pitifully at the window frame and the glass without effect.

I thought nobody was in there,a man yelled. I gotta git in—. A woman’s voice cut him off: Don’t go, Tom…please don't. You'll die in there! The rapidly growing crowd screamed and shouted hysterically. Dan couldn’t make out what any of them was saying.

A momentary flare-up burst through the front door, dissolving the image at the window in a rush of flames. The crowd was shocked into silence. Over the crackling, popping and sputtering of the fire and the wrenching of timbers and tinkling of shattered glass, a harrowing sound emerged from the pyre. It wasn’t a scream; perhaps more like a howl. Well, not exactly a howl, either. It started as a low, tremulous wail. Then, gathering intensity, it reached a high-pitched crescendo after what seemed like several minutes. The crowd, almost in unison, gasped.

The horror of the creature’s agony brought tears to Dan’s eyes. He turned away, took a few tentative steps, then stumbled and fell to his knees. Sounds from the fire swirled inside his head. Sickening sounds. He felt his stomach contract; knew he was about to be sick. He curled forward, head down, hands clutching strands of grass, and waited for the dizziness and nausea to pass.

CHAPTER 1

Harvey Williams shifted gears and drove the Volvo sedan down the driveway toward the Northpoint Road. Not a car in sight. Seldom was, particularly on a Sunday morning. He drove onto the road without even slowing. He hummed desultory notes of an unrecognizable tune, as if he were alone, oblivious of his wife Betty seated next to him. His mind was mired in thoughts of the social event that lay just ahead of them.

She sighed and said, Hey, what’s got you all knotted up?

It’s just—

Just you can’t abide small talk. Right? Her tone was sympathetic, but Harvey could tell she was annoyed.

Seems like you’ve been reading my mind again, he said.

But there’s something more, isn’t there? You’ve been moping around for a couple days now.

He gave her a sideways glance and saw worry lines.

It’s just that we’ve been here over a week, he said, and I haven’t seen Wil Stratton once. Don’t know where the hell the man’s at. Can’t get any background data or specs for the project. Nobody out at the research station wants to talk about it. Can’t even find out who’s in charge out there while Stratton’s away. I just wish somebody would tell me what the hell’s going on around here before my summer sabbatical’s done.

Maybe Stratton will be at the reception, she said. Kind of think that’s why we were invited, don’t you?

Yeah. I suppose so. We’re just summer folks and…

Hey, for God’s sake, watch where you’re going. We almost clipped that old mail box back there.

Um…right, he said, not really listening, distracted by the scenery.

Here the road traversed a serpentine route that skirted the hilly peninsula’s jagged shoreline. This was the stretch he liked most: vistas alternating between long views of the entire bay and small coves where fishing boats tugged at their moorings. Lupines lined both sides of the road; their tall stalks of small brightly colored blossoms swaying gently in the morning breeze. On the side away from the water, narrow fields of tall grass and wild roses gave way to a wall of mighty spruces, stretching skyward to catch the precious summer sunshine. Before he and Betty decided to rent the shorefront cottage, sight unseen, he remembered the realtor telling them it was in the Northpoint section of Pulpit Rock. He promised we’d like the upright old frame houses of the neighborhood, austere yet elegant in their stark simplicity. An aesthetic shaped by the rock-ribbed values of 19th century Maine.

Sure, some lawns needed mowing. Colorful wildflowers sprouted through the roughly textured grass, what some of his friends back in New York might call weeds. No manicured landscaping around here. It was the casual beauty of the place that Harvey loved. He smiled, delighted by what he saw.

A few minutes later they drove into Pulpit Rock’s business district, and the scenery turned ugly. No place better demonstrated the economic woes of the community than this tawdry area of boarded up store-fronts and decaying hulks of long-ago abandoned commercial buildings. Several of these structures tilted menacingly over the sidewalk. Main Street was a shambles of ditches and potholes. Rough pavement on one side of the street, just dirt and rocks on the other, left that way when a sewer-line project had run out of money.

The scene here was unsettling. It conjured up images of inner-city slums. Harvey had grown up in Harlem. His old neighborhood, Sugar Hill, was an island of affluence that sharply contrasted with the surrounding decay and poverty of the ghetto. His was a solidly upper middle-class background: a father who was a physician, a mother who was an attorney, an education that had prepared him for a life of achievement.

Just the thought of his impoverished brothers and sisters living in the ghetto slums while he had enjoyed a sybaritic life in Sugar Hill revived a sense of guilt that had never left him.

Harvey turned off Main onto Graff Street, the only street in the village with grand old Victorians, still beautifully maintained. Huge maples lined both sides of the street. Reminded him of pictures he had seen of small New England towns when he was a child. Maybe on the Saturday Evening Post covers by Norman Rockwell. He couldn’t be sure.

Hey, what’s with the crowd up ahead? Betty said. Harvey slowed the Volvo.

A breeze blowing through the car’s open windows carried the rank odor of smoke and the acrid stench of burned construction materials— plastics, paint, plaster board, insulation. Then he saw it: the remains of a once proud house, now a tangle of still smoking charred debris crumpled into its cellar hole. Only two darkened chimneys left standing.

Betty gasped. Oh my God! How horrible.

Yeah, Harvey said softly. Hope nobody was hurt.

He eased the car past the cluster of onlookers that had spilled onto the street. Some people were standing, motionless with dazed expressions, like zombies. Others were engaged in animated conversation.

They drove the remaining distance in silence.

*      *      *

Hill’s Restaurant was an ordinary one-story building that resembled an over-sized suburban ranch house. It overlooked the town’s small harbor and its nearby Canadian neighbor, Isle de Beauchamps, a fishing outpost of New Brunswick Province. An arched bridge that spanned the narrow shipping channel between them assured close ties. A border unfettered by immigration and customs checkpoints. The Stars and Stripes and The Maple Leaf fluttered together from flagpoles on both sides of the channel.

Inside was the usual banal decor—lobster traps and fish nets hanging from the ceiling, drab barn-board paneling on the walls, and yet Harvey thought it struck the right chord for the mood of the assembled guests. They spoke in muted voices. The subdued murmuring reminded him of the hushed conversation in a church just before the start of the service. He looked around at these people, studying their faces and demeanor. There were no children in the crowd. Nor was there laughter, except for an occasional muffled cackle.

Something else about these ordinary people seemed odd. Then it struck Harvey. It was their clothes. Most of them wore styles that were popular twenty, thirty, or even forty years ago. The women wore flouncy dresses that looked like museum pieces next to Betty’s sleek chambray dress from Liz Claiborne. And most of the men wore sport jackets with wide lapels and big shoulder pads. Well, that was okay with him. Made him feel right at home in his rumpled cord jacket and khakis, stuff he’d been banging around in for at least ten years.

Harvey’s eyes searched the crowd for Wil Stratton. He wasn’t there. Not surprising. Then he noticed a tall, dapper middle-aged man approaching them, incongruously dressed in an expensively tailored suit. Harvey couldn’t be sure, but he thought it was pure silk. The man’s smile seemed as if it were pasted to his well-proportioned face. Might be an insurance salesman. He was rather handsome with sharp features that looked as though they could have been chiseled from the smooth granite of Maine’s rocky coastline. But it was not the face of a typical downeast Mainer. An aquiline nose, black hair slicked straight back, and a slightly dusky hue to the smooth skin of his face all suggested a touch of Mediterranean ethnicity. But it was his eyes that intrigued Harvey.

The darkest cobalt-blue eyes he had ever seen, so dark that the iris and pupil seemed as one.

Dr. and Mrs. Williams, he said, greeting them with an extended hand. I’m Isham Wood, First Selectman of Pulpit Rock. So glad you could join us today. Harvey took his hand and gave it a tentative shake. He wondered how the man knew who they were. Prossibly because they were the only blacks within a fifty-mile radius. Was that it? He felt a tug on the knot in his stomach. God, how he hated these social events.

Yes, well we’re pleased to…ah…to be here. Mighty hospitable of you…ah, I mean the selectmen…to invite us, Harvey said. He winced inwardly at the awkwardness of the situation, and he could sense Betty’s discomfort.

Unfortunately, Wil Stratton couldn’t be here, Isham Wood said. He had wanted to introduce you to our community, but now I’ll have the pleasure of doing that. He spoke with the well-modulated, mellifluous voice of a TV anchorman. A bit too polished for Pulpit Rock, Harvey thought.

Isham’s face suddenly took on a serious mien. Regrettably, today’s reception has been marred by a tragedy that occurred early this morning, he said. There was a fire over on Graff Street. Have you heard about it? Now Isham’s voice took on a hushed tone, like an undertaker discussing the details of a funeral with the deceased’s survivors.

Well, no, but we saw what was left of the house on our way over here. I hope nobody was hurt. Harvey’s tone was somber, in deference to the first selectman’s funereal demeanor.

I’m afraid it was much worse, Isham said. His voice grew softer. A man was inside, trapped. He burned to death.

Betty Gasped. Oh, Lord, how horrible. She laid a hand on Harvey’s sleeve.

Then, a big smile spread across Isham’s face, and his voice regained its vigor. Ah…I see Jim Donner over there, a fellow I'd like you to meet, Dr. Williams. Harvey was shocked by the swing in Isham Wood’s mood, from somber to ebullient. He wondered if this guy was some kind of actor, or maybe a manic-depressive? Hey, over here, Jim! Isham shouted, gesturing by waving his hand wildly.

A big bear of a man strode toward them. His flinty features were more in line with what Harvey expected a Maine Yankee to look like. He guessed him to be older than the First Selectman because of his gray hair, maybe in his middle fifties. But he had the build of a wrestler gone a little soft. He was dressed for the occasion. The suit that might have fit him well ten years ago.

Jim, I’d like to introduce Dr. and Mrs. Williams.

Please, we’re Harvey and Betty, Harvey said. In truth, he had always felt uncomfortable with the doctor label. Too pompous. He liked the sound of Professor Williams. Just Mr. Williams was okay, too. Socially, he preferred things to be on a first name basis.

Jim’s one of Pulpit Rock’s leading businessmen, Isham said, actually an entrepreneur. Owns the local IGA supermarket and an aquaculture operation. Likes to work at both ends of the food chain. He smiled at his trite witticism.

Good to meet you folks, Jim said. I’ve heard about your work from Wil Stratton, Dr. Williams, I mean Harvey, and I sure would like a chance to talk with you about that research you’re doin’ with isolating algal toxins.

Well, ah, sure, Jim, Harvey said. No reason we can’t get together. Is this what it’s all about? Toxins or a disease affecting local fish pens? He scribbled the local telephone number on his card and handed it to him.

Give me a call.

Sure thing. Well, nice to meet you folks. Jim Donner drifted back into the crowd.

I see they’ve started serving the brunch, Isham said. It’s a buffet so we’d better join the line. Then, addressing Harvey, If it’s all right with you, I’d like you and Betty to sit with us at the head table. Give you and the senator a chance to chat.

Harvey looked at Betty. She gave him a little shrug. He wondered if Wood’s wife was here. Wil Stratton had mentioned that she was much younger than her husband and really good looking. Sure as hell nobody like that in this dowdy crowd. He felt a twinge of disappointment.

Why yes, we’d be delighted to join you, Harvey said. He flashed a broad smile to conceal his discomfort. Then, without missing a beat, he said, Oh, about that fire on Graff Street, was it the owner of the house who was killed? He hoped the non sequitur didn’t have the ring of morbid curiosity.

No, not the owner, he said. Fact is we haven’t been able to identify him. No one was supposed to be in the house, I mean the owners were away. We just don’t know who he was. His voice was low, little more than a whisper.

CHAPTER 2

A mile from Hill’s Restaurant, deputy fire chief Jake Lamont was just returning home after eight hours at the fire scene on Graff Street. He was exhausted, disgusted, too tired to eat, too tired to talk with his wife Darcy. He wanted only to go to bed. At 42 he thought he might already be too old for this volunteer job with Pulpit Rock’s Fire Brigade.

Honey, what happened? she asked. Johnny Bishop said somebody got burned real bad. Who was it?

Yeah, it was horrible, Jake said absently, his thoughts elsewhere as he threw off his fire-fighting garb. God, this stuff is too damned hot for July. Must’ve sweat off twenty pounds.

Oh, honey, you look awful. Come on, sit down. She patted the backrest of his big lounger. I’ll get you a cold glass of OJ.

Worst thing I ever saw, Jake said, speaking as much to himself as to Darcy. He ran a hand through his hair. It came away covered with an amalgam of sweat and ash. He was sure his beard was just as filthy.

Don’t stop talkin’, she shouted over her shoulder, half way to the kitchen. Be right back.

Ordinarily, Jake enjoyed his wife’s company. She was a sweet woman, always trying to please. He liked her rugged, Nordic good looks—round face, ruddy complexion, blonde hair cut short, and a rather buxom figure. But Jake didn’t want to talk about the fire anymore. The thought of it depressed him. He couldn’t forget that poor slob trapped in the house. Awful way to go out. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.

Darcy was back at his side. She handed him a big glass of orange juice.

Without a word, Jake put the glass to his lips and chugged the contents.

That’s mighty satisfyin’. Thanks, Darcy. I gotta go back there later, help Dan and Mac with the investigation. Meantime, I’m goin’ to bed. He yawned for emphasis.

Sure, honey. I’ll give you a hand.

*      *      *

Jake, Darcy and their sixteen year-old son Johnny lived in a small Cape Cod-style box just a mile from Pulpit Rock’s business center. Their part of town was known unofficially as Southport. It was the antithesis of Northpoint. Here, the old frame houses squatted on small, scruffy lots. Some hadn’t seen a coat of paint in fifteen years. Mixed in with the older houses were rusting derelict mobile homes.

A walk around the neighborhood would give an astute observer a pretty good idea of its socio-economic demography. Many of the door-yards were littered with the detritus from living at the margin. Relics like sagging automotive skeletons, dented and rusting refrigerators with their doors torn off or left dangling on one hinge, old plastic yard toys their kids had broken and abandoned years ago. It all told the story of families living on the edge of poverty—unemployment, deprivation, and despondency. There was one striking exception: Jake and Darcy Lamont’s house.

Most Southporters were either unemployed or worked seasonally at blueberry raking, clam digging, or any other kind of unskilled work that might pop up. That’s the way it had been for Jake and Darcy, too.

A little over three years ago, Jake’s lot took a turn for the better. He was able to swing a deal to buy a lobster boat. Ever since then, Jake’s and Darcy’s standard of living steadily improved. Compared with their neighbors’ homes, the Lamonts’ Cape was nicely painted, the front lawn tidy and well kept. Inside, most of the furnishings were new. Interior walls had been carefully painted, and one room was even wallpapered. The Lamonts had become the envy of the neighborhood. There were a few lobstermen in Southport who wondered how Jake was able to extract so much income from an occupation that yielded so little for them.

*      *      *

Honey, wake up.

Jake heard a distant, muffled voice through the dense curtain of sleep. The dream was fading. Someone was trying to push him through the window of a burning house. The voice became louder, more distinct. He forced himself back to consciousness.

Jake, wake up! You have a call.

He felt her hands shaking him. He rolled over, opened his eyes, blinked, and saw Darcy’s tense face floating above him.

Whaa…what? he said, still groggy.

Hate to wake you, honey, but there’s a call for you. Could be important.

Sure, s’okay. Prob’ly one of the guys callin’ to get me outta the sack, he said, his voice still numbed by sleep. Jake struggled to his feet, stumbled downstairs to the little entry hall where the phone sat atop a small stand.

Hello, this’s Jake.

I’m really pissed about what happened this morning, the deep, resonant male voice said from the other end of the line.

I know, I know, Jake said, his voice cracking. But I did everything you told me to do. God, I’m sorry for the