nowhere.
Each trying to find an undetectable spot,
To will themselves invisible…
and let the traps do their work.
In the tumult, I lost Mary Ellen and somehow paired with Crazy Eddie, which was about the biggest mistake anyone could make. But he had an idea for the perfect hiding place, and was bound and determined to make sure I participated. He grabbed a hunk of my “hippie freak hair” as he called it, and literally dragged me along with him as we set out toward the salt works.
“Hurry up!” he grunted in a low whisper, while still dragging me.
“You’re pulling my hair out, dipshit!” I growled, pissed off but still trying to keep quiet. With a bit more cooperation from me, we finally reached our assigned destination, the old salt works.
I had no clue where we would hide there, but Eddie let go of my hair long enough to grab a corner of one roof and gestured for me to grab the opposite corner. I still wasn’t sure of this plan.
“Ed, you dumb-dumb, there’s no way we’re both gonna fit under there; it’s too small, shit-for-brains.” Saying that to Eddie endangered my very existence, but who cared; my life was over anyway.
After punching me hard in the arm, he whispered, “I’ve been under there before, there are ceiling joists two feet on center. There’s plenty of room. Just follow me; we can do this!”
We edged the roof back just far enough for us to slip underneath, then crawled toward the center so we’d have sufficient head room when we each hoisted ourselves up on individual rafters.
Man, if I ever survived this night I’d have scars and bruises for a year.
We heard footsteps and saw the beam of a flashlight sweep under one corner of the sliding roof but there was nothing for anybody to see, since we were perched too high above the bottom of the vat.
The searchers had left us alone with our thoughts—mine primarily focusing on a lifetime imprisonment, permanent family disownership, oh, and potential death. But perfectly silent we remained for what totaled probably twenty minutes, but I swear, it seemed like a lifetime.
That’s when we heard a scream, a loud scream, and a cuss, somebody yelling something about “those fucking kids!” At that point, we heard a rush of voices and a commotion off in the distance. Then one of our crew broke the silence and yelled, “Hey, guys, we caught a live one!! The pirate trap worked!”
But, this was no time to gloat over trapping buccaneers—it was high time to “Get the hell outta Dodge and fast!”
So that’s exactly what we did. We scattered. We ran. We fled the twelve-acre grounds en-mass like a jailbreak and headed for the unmanned front gate, leaving our costumes and bravery behind!
We escaped through a myriad of thick underbrush and backyards, hauling ass out of the park and heading straight for our cars. Within seconds we were peeling out and heading back to the safe haven Mashnee provided. Hooting and hollering as we did!
Thankfully, we were never caught. Albeit word was out that a certain pirate’s ghost would never stop hunting us down to gain his revenge (stop it Stick!)!!
And we spent the next full week, hysterically laughing!!
What a night! What a trip! What fun!!! What a bunch of morons!
Chapter 44
Word
The next day I faked being sick and never left my bedroom. The combination of a furious hangover and debilitating fear left me virtually comatose. I was certain that every household noise was that knock on my door, you know the one from a policeman, to haul me off to jail. Let’s face it, we’d been acting pretty sketchy all summer long and situations requiring police involvement were piling up. But did we learn valuable teenage lessons and straighten up our act?
Hell no. Which is exactly why I hid inside all day!
The morning after, I woke up early, tiptoed out my front door, took a keen look around, and seeing no SWAT teams, declared it safe to venture out.
So I took off running my typical route, this particular morning being thick with well-salted mist, making the roads slick. I was actually wondering if I’d have been better off barefoot. I jogged past the New Yorker’s cottage two streets over on Mashnee Road, a big guy, retrieving a large, metal suitcase from the trunk of his car and heading into the propped-open door of the cottage.
Seeing me, he gave barely a wave with his free hand and grumbled either, hey or hello, as I passed. Being always on the lookout, I did notice there was something slightly unusual about him. Not only were his mannerisms gruff and he seemed fidgety, but every time I saw him he was wearing one white glove on his right hand, with I think, the exception of the first time we met? Weird? Irregular?
Perhaps a clue? Or maybe nothing.
I headed down the dike thinking about our Mashnee caper lost in thought. Just as I was approaching Hog Island, I was startled when a rusty old green and white pickup truck chugged down the road and pulled off onto the gravel road a little too fast, kicking up a few fistfuls of shells and stones as the driver jammed on his brakes and comfortably skidded into a thick cluster of seagrass, where it parked. I could see a bunch of fishing gear in the open flatbed and quickly recognized the three rather scraggly fishermen, regulars I often passed.
The three, accompanied by a little yappy dog of no discernable breed, were climbing out of the truck as I was running past when I heard myself being hailed.
“Hey, youngsta?” The tallest of the three fishermen was calling to me. His pronounced Boston accent sounded like Irish brogue. He was a fairly scruffy looking character who wore a well-seasoned Red Sox cap with what looked to be vintage sweat stains on its brim.
He had taken a well-chewed cigar out of his mouth as he prepared to speak, and he pointed the glowing end toward me as if to confirm his intent to discuss a matter of some importance.
I jogged closer but kept running in place, close enough to confirm that the cigar stench delivered as advertised. “Yes, sir?”
“You’re the kid that’s been hanging ’round watching the fisherman and asking questions about those goings-on over at Mashnee, the murder and all, aren’t ya?”
“Yes, sir. Actually we’ve been trying to figure out what happened with a few episodes on the island.” Then I sheepishly added, “Hi. I’m Jimmyrocket.”
As if he cared.
He puffed on the cigar a few more times, then continued.
“Well there, Rocket, I might just have a piece of information that’s right up your alley, and I’m not sayin’ where I gets it from, but it’s a good source. That I can surely vouch for. It’s a source with an ear to the ground on the island, you know what I’m driving at youngsta?”
He let his words hang in the air for a moment as he puffed some more, me not knowing what to say to fill the sudden void, other than, “Okkkk?”
