Black Cat Weekly #19

THE LAST FERRY, by Jason Half-2

“Before night fell, I went out and stood in front of the painted-over shed. Was there enough of a connection there? Maybe if I mentioned the black spray paint and the black flecks and Ryan’s plan to confront Cole, maybe if I bypassed the sheriff’s office and took it to the state police, would they look into it? And how far would they go in a case against Samuel Farraday’s son?”

I didn’t give an answer, and I don’t think he expected one.

“I knew I didn’t have any real power, and I felt so helpless and alone that night in the cabin. It was this strange primal feeling of danger that woke me. My heart jumped into my throat as I saw Cole Farraday standing in the bedroom doorway. He gave me that same dead stare he had used on Ryan.

“I couldn’t speak. I had no words. Eventually, he broke the silence.

“‘You don’t belong here.’ His voice was low, like a growl.

“‘You don’t belong here. Get out.’ But my voice was shaky. He just kept staring at me.

“‘Ryan Tanner’s gone, and he’s not coming back. You’re getting on the morning boat, and you’re never coming back to this island again.’

“‘Oh?’ That’s all I could say.

“‘You leave now, or else you’ll wind up just like your boyfriend.’

“He walked behind me, all the way down to the landing dock. I had all these emotions fighting in me, fear and anger and humiliation, but ultimately I did what he told me. I got on the ferry and I sat in this seat on the upper deck and I cried. That was one week ago.”

My familiarity with the waters told me that the lights of the mainland would come into view in a few minutes. For now, though, the rain had turned into a saturating mist that was as good as any fog at obscuring the view. I poured the last of the coffee into the cup, took a drink to warm me, and handed it to the young man. He turned it slowly in his gloved hands, studying it.

“This last week I’ve had a lot of time to think. And it comes down to this. Without evidence, no one’s going to believe me. The sheriff announced Ryan’s death was an accident, and why would anyone think differently?

“I read the few articles that showed up in the local papers. One report said that the single gash was a sharp, straight line, possibly made by contact with a rock’s edge. None of them mentioned the flecks of paint, by the way. At the same time, I looked up the Maine State Police roster, and there was even a Farraday on the force out of Augusta.

“So. If Ryan had confronted Cole at his house, and if Cole had hit Ryan, then the object might be something long and thin, like a fireplace poker or a piece of rebar.”

The young man winced and looked out at the gray, undefined horizon. “I don’t live in this state. I drove up here every weekend because of Ryan. And I made the trip again on Friday, promising myself one last visit to the island. On Saturday morning, I waited at a distance from the mainland dock, watching the passengers as they came off the ferry. Cole wasn’t among them, not in the morning or afternoon. I stayed there all day.

“I was back again at eight this morning, watching the ferry, studying the passengers. The hours went by. Then, right at two o’clock, I saw a police car pull up and double-park at the dock entrance. I moved and made myself less visible. Ten minutes later, the ferry arrived and Cole stepped off. He went right to the cop car, and a burly, dark-haired man in police uniform got out. The family resemblance was unmistakable. They drove off, and I bought a ticket for a return trip to the island.”

He handed back the empty cup, and I snapped it back onto the top of the thermos. It felt like the last leg of the journey, and I wanted to give him a final chance.

“Look. You don’t have to say anything.”

He sniffed, stared ahead. The mainland lights were just visible through the mist. “I want to. I need to.” One more pause, and then the rest came.

“I brought a penlight and a little piece of plastic, like a credit card but thinner. Instead of turning right to walk up the hill to Ryan’s cabin, I went left instead. I had looked up Cole Farraday’s address days ago. The property is in his father’s name.

“I would have been willing to break a window, but I didn’t need to. I worked the plastic card against the tongue of the cheap lock until it pushed in. I had already slipped gloves on, and I went inside.

“The front room and the kitchen at the side wouldn’t win any housekeeping awards, but I wasn’t here to tidy up. It didn’t take long to search the place as I looked for possible weapons with sharp edges. But I found nothing. The metal canister bottom of an expired fire extinguisher was a possibility, but then what about the black paint? This had a ring of red rust around the base. There was an oil furnace but no fireplace, so a poker was unlikely. Even a fall against a table or countertop was a long shot.

“Of course, the argument might not have happened in the house. Cole’s property is pretty isolated. I moved to the backyard, which looked out onto a cluster of pine trees at the edge of some larger woods. In the front, the walkway to the house was gravel, and there were no large rocks to be used as a weapon. A small pile of rusting auto parts lying in overgrown grass made me pause, but it was such a mess of old carburetors and fuel filters and empty oil cans that I didn’t think anything there would be worth using on another person.

“Doubts were starting to set in. If Cole did hit Ryan with an object—and that was still an if—then he was probably smart enough to get rid of it, throw it in the ocean. According to the map, the overlook where Ryan was found is less than a quarter mile through the woods from Cole’s house. And again I thought: could I find someone who would start an impartial investigation?

“Cole also has a storage shed off to the side of his house, but it’s larger than Ryan’s, about the size of a small garage. I ducked into the side door, turned on the penlight, and glanced around inside.

“It was everything you would expect: a clutter of lawn furniture, a kitchen set, an old push-blade lawn mower, some drums to store fuel oil. In one corner, a bunch of crusted-dry paint cans. At the top of the windowless shed, a bare light bulb with a pull chain hung down from the ceiling. Wanting to take a better look around, I pulled on the light and scanned the room.

“I saw only one strange detail, but it was enough. A pair of parallel streaks was visible on the shed’s concrete floor, tracing two scratch lines from the side of one wall to a wooden kitchen chair about six feet away. It looked like they were made by someone dragging the chair across the floor. But why would someone need to pull a chair over to the wall?

“So I did the same. But I lifted it and set it down carefully. I stepped onto the chair and faced the wall. I was eye level with the space where the partition meets the sloping roof. And there was a gap from the overhang just wide enough to reach into.

“I took a breath and slid a gloved hand inside the space. It helped to have light from the bulb, and I could see insulated white wiring running along a nearby roof beam. After a moment, I felt something that didn’t belong there. Slowly, I tilted it loose and looked at it.”

He paused, as if lost in the moment. Then he continued.

“It was a metal crowbar, coated in black enamel. It looked old, and the paint was starting to come off in flakes.

“My first instinct was to take it, bring it away with me, get it someplace safe. Tests could be done. Justice was possible. And then, just as quickly, I realized that if I took it away from here, it would only be my word that I had found it in Cole’s storage shed. The shed that I had broken into. And after all, I was the one who had been seen with Ryan. It wasn’t a stretch to see that I could be charged with murder even more conveniently than Cole.

“So, I put the crowbar back. I put the chair back, I turned off the light, I shut the door, and I left. Outside, the sun had disappeared, the temperature had dropped, and I was shivering by the time I made it back to Ryan’s cabin.

“My mind was racing. I put on his flannel jacket, and I paced and tried to stay warm and consider my options. Time felt like it was running out. Cole might get wise and throw the thing away, and then there would be no evidence to prove his guilt. And all along, it kept nagging at me: what if he really is innocent?”

A look of concern crossed the man’s face, and was in turn replaced by a grim determination.

“Ryan had an electrician’s toolbox, and he showed it to me on that first incredible night on the island. That weekend, he explained every item, one at a time. He was shy at first, but then he started to enjoy teaching me about something he loved. That was the happiest I remember him. To calm myself, I brought out that toolbox and tried to recall everything he told me. And as I looked at each item, I realized what I could do. What we could do.

“I put a few things in the pockets of Ryan’s jacket, put the box away, and left the cabin. The six o’clock ferry was coming in, and I stayed uphill, watching the passengers arrive. Cole Farraday wasn’t there. So I walked back to his house, this time taking the trail through the woods. For a moment, I considered finding the overlook and stopping there, but I decided that I didn’t need to add that memory to the ones I already carried with me.

“I crossed the backyard and entered the house once more. After a minute, I found the breaker box in a small utility room and turned all the circuits off. Then I moved to the storage shed.

“The bulb didn’t light when I pulled the chain, and that was a good sign. Guided by the penlight, I put the chair once more against the wall and brought up the crowbar, that dark, ugly thing, and rested it on the edge of the partition. Then it was time to use Ryan’s tools.

“It didn’t take long. Strip a small section of the plastic insulation away from the wiring that runs along the beam, then crimp the extra wire I brought with me to the exposed line and wrap it around the curved, forked end of the crowbar. Then drop it back in the hiding spot, tuck the connecting wire behind the partition, turn the house breakers back on, and go.”

He thought for a second, then added, “I also switched out the chairs, the wood one for a wrought iron deck chair. Now the metal one’s closest at hand.”

The ferry gave three sustained, forlorn blasts of its whistle. At the same time, the boat slowed to prepare for docking. For one more minute, we were still the only two people in this world.

I glanced over at him, but he was looking ahead to the lights on the mainland, visible and in focus at last. I had one last question.

“Why did you tell me all this?”

His head bent down, and he considered a moment before answering.

“I think I needed to talk it through, make sure it was something I could live with.”

“You think you can?”

His face clouded. “I guess I’ll see.” Another pause as he worked through an idea. “But I needed to do something. For Ryan. And if I have it wrong—if Cole Farraday never used that crowbar and never needs it again—then nothing will happen.” A moment, then he slowly gestured to me with one gloved hand. “And also, now someone else knows. You know. And I’m ready to take responsibility for what I’ve done, if it comes to that. I think that’s fair and right.”

The engine had dropped to an idle, and sounds of life could be heard coming from the lower deck. The man stood up, tested his legs, and took a few slow steps toward the stairway. Then, about halfway there, something made him stop and turn back around. I looked in his eyes as we faced each other fully for the only time.

I kept my face expressionless, unwilling to show sympathy or scorn, comfort or contempt. I stayed stone-still.

The moment broke and he turned away. I watched his back as he disappeared down the stairs. I stayed sitting, and thought about everything the young man told me.

I thought about Ryan Tanner, a quiet young man who would have made a fine electrician and member of the community if he had had the chance.

I thought about Cole Farraday, who had already brought pain to many people and would surely go on to bring pain to many more.

And finally, I thought about myself, and considered what I should do about it all. The world is a complicated place, I decided, and I didn’t need to make it more so. Besides, I was an islander.

And if there’s one thing we islanders know, it’s how to mind our own business.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jason Half is a playwright and prose writer whose work has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, The Best New True Crime Stories, and the anthologies Noir at the Salad Bar and Terror at the Crossroads. He maintains a tribute site to British mystery author Gladys Mitchell at www.gladysmitchell.com and reviews classic and contemporary crime fiction on his blog at www.jasonhalf.com.

A SHARPER’S DOWNFALL,

by Nicholas Carter