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Most weekday mornings found Evelyn Haskell swimming Long Pond. The pond was a mile long and narrow, like a needle on a compass pointing due north. Situated in the southern portion of Isle au Haut, it lay parallel to and just inland of the loop road and the island’s eastern shore. The northern part of the pond was within the national park, forming its easternmost border but the southern half was on town land, its tip not far from a small cluster of homes including Evelyn’s.
Evelyn was a strong and lithe woman in her mid-50s, dressed in a bright pink swim cap, goggles and a thin black farmer john wet suit. She had started swimming the pond to train for the Lobsterman Olympic Triathlon held in Freeport earlier in the month. At twice the distance, that race had been the natural progression from her first triathlon, the sprint-distance Tri for a Cure, which she’d done as a sort of victory lap after surviving breast cancer four years prior. Never one to quit while ahead, it was inevitable that the milestone of completing the Olympic distance became the stepping-stone to her next challenge. Now, with her eye on a half Ironman in Virginia next spring, she planned to continue her exercise routine outdoors as long as the weather would allow. Between the rhythm of her strokes and steady exertion, she had discovered swimming to be meditative and a favorite part of her day.
Today, however, after just half a mile of her intended three, she noticed a commotion on the western shore. She paused with annoyance to identify the source. It appeared to be a couple of lost tourists. Evelyn kept her distance, treading water, waiting and watching. Maybe they just wanted her to take their picture, in which case, surely they’d take the hint and leave her be. When they didn’t, she swam swiftly toward them, resolved to deal with the interruption quickly and get back to her swim. Once close enough to shore to stand waist deep, she felt the prospect of completing her morning ritual as planned diminish as surely as candy from a bowl.
The woman on shore, a child clamped to her side, announced they needed her help. Evelyn removed her goggles leaving a mark around her eyes like a raccoon and studied the strangers before her in silence. It was obvious to her that they did, in fact, need help, but they seemed a little dangerous to her, feral almost with their dirty clothes and tangled hair. The woman was clearly injured and covered in welts. But it was the little girl who was most arresting – pale skin, wide eyes and a bright red slash around her mouth, sharply defined, a perfect rectangle. Definitely not the typical lost tourists. This early in the morning, how did they even get here?
“Where’d you folks come from?” asked Evelyn.
The woman looked back at her blankly, seemingly confounded by the question. After a moment’s awkward silence, she responded. “We’re just visiting. We’re from Maine. I mean, from Portland. You know, the other Maine.”
Evelyn stared.
“I just moved here, to Portland that is. We’re just visiting, here, on the island.” The woman’s voice trailed off as the color rose in her cheeks.
Evelyn continued to stare.
“Look. Do you think you could go get help? You know, call the police or something. There was a man. In the woods. He’s dangerous,” said the woman.
Evelyn remained silent.
“Please. We’ve been hiding. All night. We need to get the police right away.”
Evelyn scanned the woods behind them, looking for any sign of a man, dangerous or otherwise, but didn’t see anyone. She felt it slip away, her last hope that she’d be able to resume her swim. Evelyn finally responded.
“We don’t have any police on the island. There’s the park ranger, of course, although he may be out on the trails. Better yet, I’ll call Nick Timmons. He’s a retired cop. He’ll know what to do.”
“You have a phone?” asked the woman.
Evelyn wondered, not for the first time, at the stupidity of tourists. Where would she carry a phone? Under her swim cap? But she realized she was being both unkind and unfair. Obviously the two had been through some sort of ordeal. Still, she’d rather be swimming in peace than playing good Samaritan.
“I live close by. My truck, it’s parked down at the end of the pond. It’ll probably be fastest if I swim to the other side and jog down the road.”
“How long will that take?” asked the woman.
Evelyn responded with a frown and then looked past her into the woods as if daring a dangerous man to emerge and prove these two were worth the bother.
“I mean. Sorry. I’m just wondering what we should do? Stay here or keep making for the end of the pond?”
“You can stay here. I have a dinghy in the back of the truck. I’ll run down, zip home, make the call, come back, and pick you up. Forty-five minutes all said and done, maybe less. It’ll probably take a little longer for Nick to get here – he’s on the other side of the island.” Looking back and forth between woman and child she asked, “You’re going to be okay?”
“Yes, thank you. We’ll stay right here. But please, hurry.”
“What are your names?”
“Kate, Kate Brown. And this is…,” said Kate, pausing for a long moment before continuing. “Sheera,” she said, locking eyes with the little girl and smiling. “This is Sheera.”
“Okay Kate, Sheera. My name’s Evelyn. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
~~~~
Nick received the call from Evelyn around 7:30am. She’d been flagged down by a disheveled and injured woman, going by the name of Kate, the missing hiker who’d beat up his son. Now the hiker was in the company of a young girl and asking for the police. From the calls Nick had made and received last night he knew the identity of the hiker. According to county patrol, the lone car remaining in the ferry’s daytime lot was registered to a Katherine Grace Brown, had Pennsylvania plates and a lot of liberal minded bumper stickers. According to the boat operator, she’d travelled to the island alone and carried almost nothing with her.
The child, however, was a mystery. Sheera was an unusual name. He’d guessed African American, but Evelyn said white when he’d asked her directly about it. Evelyn didn’t recognize her which, given the small and tight knit island community, meant the child was ‘from away’, neither resident nor regular visitor. By Matt’s account, the woman and child must have already been together by the time he came along even though he didn’t see her. The hiker had yelled ‘run’ to someone. Which meant that for at least 18 hours an unknown child had been in the company of an injured woman convinced there was enough of a threat to resort to violence. Who was the child? What was the threat?
Nick warned Evelyn to be careful, that the woman was capable of violence and may be unstable. He asked her to wait for him or the ranger before rowing out to pick them up but, knowing her, she would do whatever she wanted. Mainers were an independent breed, Islanders especially so, and Evelyn Haskell militantly so. He could no more tell her what to do than turn the tide.
As soon as he hung up with Evelyn, he called the park ranger, a solid and good-natured man by the name of Tom Bollis. It was always a crap shoot from one year to the next as to who would be assigned to Acadia National Park’s island outpost for the summer tourist season. Rarely were they wet behind the ears; the park was too prized within the service and the post too isolated for an inexperienced ranger. But in a small interdependent island community where every person had a role to play, personality mattered. This year they’d been especially lucky.
In his mid-thirties Tom was on track to be a career ranger, seasonal only because he preferred it over permanent placement for the diversity of experience and the flexibility it afforded. He was a quiet, capable and measured man who listened more than he talked. When he’d first arrived on the island in early May, well before the official start of the season, he’d spent as much time in town, at the boat landing, camped out with coffee at the nearby Island Store, and visiting the school, firehouse, library and town hall, as he did roaming his new territory. Rumor had it he’d even perched himself in a back pew on a Sunday, albeit just the one time. Present but unobtrusive, he’d blended into the island community as easily as the summer residents who’d been coming for years; that is, recognized by all, welcomed by most, but apart, like a moon to its planet.
Nick had taken an instant liking to him even before he learned he was a law enforcement ranger, a background that drew them together just as surely as shared language connected travelers abroad. Early in Tom’s tenure, and before Matt had re-inserted himself into their household, Nick and Jeff had invited the ranger to dinner as much out of island courtesy as curiosity. He proved a companionable dinner guest, as interested in Jeff’s recipe for fish chowder, or the relative aesthetic merits between New England Colonial or Georgian design as he was in the politics and ethics of the criminal justice system.
Tom’s visits quickly evolved from cordial to casual to counted on as the older couples’ weary stories turned lively, tired jokes funny, and stale debates fresh in the presence of attentive ears. Nick figured Tom kept coming back for the warmth of family and the wisdom of mentorship, as he teased and commiserated and occasionally taught him something new. Jeff swore the reliably hungry man was seduced by pie crust alone. Regardless, Tom became a weekly guest, sometimes more often, until Matt’s arrival coincided with the frantic pace of peak tourist season. Lately they’d seen him mostly in passing, coming and going between the park and town landing, although that was about to change.
Nick had called him last night about Matt’s misadventure and Tom promised to keep him apprised should he find the hiker. Nick knew Tom would have been on the lookout well into the night, walking the trails, checking in at the island’s only campground, asking hikers about any sightings they may have had. Failing that he would have broadened the search to the town and tourist accommodations. Nick considered making some calls himself since, as a rule, island residents’ responses to questions tended toward the monosyllabic, particularly if coming from an outside authority. Nick decided against it. Lost tourists were bad press and bad for business. Folks would be forthcoming as long as nothing criminal was suspected which his own involvement would surely suggest. Besides, Nick felt it was good for Tom to stand on his own.
Nick had last spoken to Tom when he’d called around midnight. He still hadn’t located the hiker, but he had found her backpack, including her keys and wallet with identification, cash and credit cards in a trailhead dumpster. At the time Nick had found that odd; more likely someone would steal the cash or turn the pack in, usually both. Still, people were lazy and stranger things have happened. But now, with news of the hiker, a child in tow, anything unexpected turned suspicious and potentially pertinent. This was how it always happened; one mystery spawned a hundred more, niggling until proven relevant or not.
After speaking with Evelyn, Nick called Tom at the ranger station.
“Tom. Glad I caught you,” said Nick.
“Nick. Hey. I’m just in off the trails. Still haven’t found that hiker. MDI’s SAR team is en route now – some of them anyway. When it rains, it pours.”
“Let me guess. There’s a missing child? Female? Around 5?”
“What? No,” said Tom. “Seventy-two-year-old male missing off Sargent Mountain. That and a college co-ed but she turned up late last night at a bar in town. What’s up?”
“Evelyn found our hiker, Kate Brown, on the park side of Long Pond. She’s got a young girl with her. Name’s Sheera, no surname. Have there been any reports of a missing girl?”
“Not to me,” said Tom.
Nick remained quiet, giving Tom a moment to absorb the news.
“Are they hurt?” asked Tom.
“The woman is just as Matt described: bunged up, twisted ankle. Evelyn says the girl looks physically fine, except for an odd rash on her face. She’s quiet though. Too quiet according to Evelyn.”
“Quiet… Scared quiet? Like she’s in danger? From the woman?”
Tom was quick, thought Nick, and asked the right questions. People dismissed children’s behavior. People assumed women protect children. Plenty of officers would have failed to consider whether Kate posed a threat to Sheera despite her prior attack on Matt.
“Maybe,” said Nick. “Maybe not. Kate’s asking for the police, talking about a dangerous man in the woods.”
“She must mean Matt,” said Tom.
“Agreed. She means Matt.”
There was no need to voice the implication; both knew the accusation against Matt would have to be investigated. Nick waited while Tom organized his thoughts.
“Listen, Nick, I’m going to put you on hold, radio dispatch, call off the search team, and ask about the girl.” Two minutes later, Tom was back on the line. “Nick?”
“Yeah. Here.”
“Right, so, the SAR team’s been recalled back to MDI. Dispatch confirmed that aside from the Sargent Mountain hiker, there’ve been no other missing person reports from anywhere within the park or in the surrounding area. I’m wondering, maybe she’s not missing. I mean, obviously, she’s not where she belongs, but maybe there’s been some sort of miscommunication. It happens, right? Parents don’t know their child is missing or in trouble for hours, even days, because they think the kid is in the care of someone else.”
“You’re thinking, someone here, on the island?” asked Nick.
“The girl’s too young to have come here on her own; she’s either visiting locals or came as a tourist.”
There were other possibilities, but Tom was right, a benign scenario put someone responsible for Sheera on the island. “Kate came alone. She had to have met up with Sheera here.”
“Maybe that was the plan all along,” said Tom. “Kate came to visit Sheera and the parents or whoever think Sheera’s safely with Kate.”
“Maybe,” said Nick. “But why take Sheera alone into the park?”
Tom didn’t have an answer; young kids and strenuous hikes usually resulted in misery all around. More likely they would have gone as a group or done something else entirely.
Nick continued. “Regardless, Kate was traveling light, didn’t plan to stay. Whoever’s responsible for Sheera would have known she was missing by the time the last ferry departed.”
“Unless,” said Tom, “the plan was for Kate to take Sheera with her back to the mainland. Something went wrong, they never made the ferry, but no-one realized. Although… I’d expect family to see her off at the landing… hand off her things…”
It was a stretch, the idea that Sheera’s caregivers were here on the island, blissfully unaware of her plight. Still, it was easy enough to rule out and, if family were here, they should be reunited with Sheera right away. They agreed, Nick would make some calls around town and Tom would doublecheck at the Duck Harbor campground before heading over to Long Pond.
Other scenarios to consider escalated from accidental to negligent to criminal. Negligence, and after 18 hours it would have been criminal negligence, was rare and didn’t fit the profile of visitors to Isle au Haut. Disorganized and irresponsible people might pitch a tent on a roadside, but not here; it took months of advance planning to secure one of the few, remote and highly coveted spots within the national park or a room in town. Which left the more disturbing possibility of a major crime; kidnapping, assault, human trafficking, murder. Such crimes were hard to imagine but, at least in the case of an unreported missing child, potentially more likely.
Nick’s final call was to 911. It was the prudent and responsible thing to do and it was what his training and experience dictated, but he knew exactly the hornet’s nest he was stirring up and that his son would be one of the first to feel the sting. Before he left for the pond, Nick woke up Matt.
“That lady friend of yours has turned up and she wants the police. As soon as they get here, they’re going to want to talk to you,” said Nick grimly. “Best make a good impression.”
“I’m the victim here. You know that, right?” said Matt, looking up at his father from his bed.
“Yes, I do. But I don’t think you’re the only victim, or the most vulnerable.”
“You can’t mean the woman who beat the shit out of me? Come on.”
Nick instantly regretted the comment. He couldn’t tell Matt about the child until after he’d been questioned and removed from suspicion. Anything Matt didn’t see for himself would affect his recall and understanding of what had transpired and make his version of events, his innocence, more difficult to corroborate. It could also be considered priming the suspect on Nick’s part and call his loyalties into question. They didn’t have time for that, not if he was right and a serious crime had been committed. Matt needed to be cleared of any wrong doing as quickly as possible so they could focus on the true culprit.
“Listen, son, a man attacks a woman, it’s usually his fault. A woman attacks a man, same thing, it’s usually his fault. She must have had a reason, right? You need to make it easy for them to look beyond the assumption and find the truth. Just stay calm, answer their questions, all of them, no matter how offensive they are or how many times they ask. I know these guys, they’re a good bunch. Sooner or later, they’ll get it right.”
“Later than what?”
“Sooner. They’ll get it sooner. It’s going to be okay. Pops is coming over on the 10am run. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He turned and headed for the door, and then remembered the question he’d meant to ask.
“Hey, did you notice, did the woman have a pack with her?”
“No. Why?”
“Tom found it in the trash. Might explain what happened, why she felt threatened.”
“Oh. Shit. No. Nothing like that. It was me. I threw it away.”
Nick looked at his son, dumbfounded.
“Christ, how was I supposed to know he’d go through the trash? I mean, do all rangers do that? Is it, like, part of the job description? Or is he just trying to impress?” Matt smirked, as if he’d said something funny.
Nick didn’t laugh. He didn’t respond at all.
“Oh, come on, look, it’s just as well, right? Now nobody has to go looking for it. The ranger can swap it for mine and we’ll call it even,” said Matt.
Nick closed his eyes and shook his head unable to believe his son was trying to shrug off, what, the act or the lie? Nick knew people told lies, all the time and for all kinds of reasons. It had been his job to spot them no matter how they presented: blatant, subtle or by omission, and to ferret out why they were told: to implicate, distract, or protect, even to be kind. He’d learned that lying no more meant guilt than truthfulness meant innocence. There had to be an explanation. He crouched by his bedside.
“You lied.”
“No. I didn’t. You asked if she had her pack with her. She didn’t. I only found it later, after she was gone.”
Nick slammed his fist on the nightstand, knocking the clock to the floor. It had been years, decades, since Nick had been this angry with his son. Only when Matt had done something stupid enough to get himself hurt, like playing with the neighbor’s rifle or driving home from a party drunk. It was like that now.
“What? I was mad. She took my pack, so I took hers,” said Matt.
“What are you, twelve? Did you take anything?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Answer the question. Did you take anything from the pack?”
“No, Dad, I did not take anything from the pack. Satisfied?” said Matt.
“No, Son, I’m not. Do you have any idea what this looks like?”
“Let me guess what it looks like to you. Like I mugged a hiker in the woods and then tossed the evidence?”
“For starters,” replied Nick.
“Nice, Dad, really nice. Look at me. I’m the one who got beat up. I’m the one who had his pack stolen. She ditched hers long before I came along. All I did was pick it up and throw it away.”
Nick knew his son had his faults: prone to exaggeration, sensitive to slights, and generally self-absorbed. But in essence a good man: moral, upright, kind, and well-meaning. Still, any lie, no matter how benign, invited suspicion. Attacked, now accused, this was not the time for Matt to lie. Gathering his thoughts, he straightened to his full height, crossed his arms across his chest, and stared down at his son with the authority of father and police chief combined.
“You’re going to have to do a lot better than that because right now there’s a hole in your story big enough to drive a police cruiser through.”
“My story? I don’t have a story. I’m not some perp you’re interrogating,” yelled Matt.
“No. Your father won’t be asking the questions, the Knox County Sherriff’s Department will. Leave something out, tell a half truth and they’ll spot it like a slap in the face. And sure as hell,” said Nick, shaking his finger at his grown son, “don’t argue over semantics as if you didn’t understand the question. “Tell it all, tell it straight. It’s the only way.”
“Look, Dad. I was mad. I just wanted to, you know, yell at her. Tell her she had no right to treat me like that. Find out why the hell she did it. I never found her. I swear, I never saw her again.”
Nick waited in stony silence.
Matt looked at the rumpled covers in front of him instead of his father. “I found her pack a little way downstream, a bunch of snacks on the ground. I went through her stuff, but I swear, I didn’t take anything. I just put everything in the pack and took it with me like she took mine. By the time I got to the trailhead I felt, I don’t know, guilty, or something. So, I threw it away.” Matt looked back up at Nick. “It was stupid. I should have given it to Tom, or never taken it in the first place. But that’s it. That’s all it was. You, you can’t possibly think it was anything more than that?”
“No son, I don’t. But you can’t give the deputies any reason to doubt you. Tell it all, tell it straight and they’ll get it right.” Nick stooped and picked up the clock he’d knocked to the floor. “Shit, I’ve got to go. Evelyn found the hiker. I told her to wait for me, but you know how she is. Tom’s heading over too. I’ll have to tell him about the pack.”
“Christ.”
“It’s the only way, Matt. Go on, get up, eat some breakfast and meet them at the landing.”