The Cove Read online

  THE COVE

  By Rick Hautala

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition Copyright 2014 by The Estate of Rick Hautala

  Cover artwork courtesy of:

  Glenn Chadbourne

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Under his own name, Rick Hautala wrote close to thirty novels, including the million-copy best seller Night Stone, as well as Winter Wake, The Mountain King, and Little Brothers. He published three short story collections: Bedbugs, Occasional Demons, and Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala. He had over sixty short stories published in a variety of national and international anthologies and magazines.

  Writing as A. J. Matthews, his novels include the bestsellers The White Room, Looking Glass, Follow, and Unbroken.

  His recent and forthcoming books include Indian Summer, a new "Little Brothers" novella, as well as two novels, Chills and Waiting. He recently sold The Star Road, a science fiction novel co-written with Matthew Costello, to Brendan Deneen at Thomas Dunne/St. Martin's.

  With Mark Steensland, he wrote several short films, including the multiple award-winning Peekers, based on the short story by Kealan Patrick Burke; The Ugly File, based on the short story by Ed Gorman; and Lovecraft's Pillow, inspired by a suggestion from Stephen King.

  Born and raised in Rockport, Massachusetts, Rick was a graduate of the University of Maine in Orono with a Master of Arts in English Literature. He lived in southern Maine and is survived by his wife, author Holly Newstein.

  In 2012, he was awarded the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Horror Writers Association.

  For more information, check out his website www.rickhautala.com.

  Book List

  Novels and Novellas

  Beyond the Shroud

  Cold River

  Cold Whisper

  Dark Silence

  Dead Voices

  Follow

  Four Octobers

  Ghost Light

  Impulse

  Little Brothers

  Looking Glass

  Moon Death

  Moonbog

  Moonwalker

  Night Stone

  Reunion

  Shades of Night

  The Cove

  The Mountain King

  The White Room

  The Wildman

  Twilight Time

  Unbroken

  Winter Wake

  The Body of Evidence Series (co-written with Christopher Golden)

  Brain Trust

  Burning Bones

  Last Breath

  Skin Deep

  Throat Culture

  Story Collections

  Bedbugs

  Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala

  Occasional Demons

  Untcigahunk: The Complete Little Brothers

  DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS

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  “Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

  And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.”

  —William Shakespeare

  “This is life’s sorrow:

  That one can be happy only where two are;

  And that our hearts are drawn to stars

  Which want us not.”

  —Edgar Lee Masters

  Spoon River Anthology

  Dedication

  With love and respect to our five sons …

  Aaron, Andrew, Colin, Jesse, and Matti.

  And a special “Thank you” to Holly … for everything.

  THE COVE

  Acknowledgments

  I grew up in Rockport, Massachusetts, a small coastal New England town. In fact, until I went off to college at the University of Maine in Orono, I lived in the “rural” part of Rockport, a little place called “Pigeon Cove.” I was—and will always remain—a “Cove-ah” at heart even though I now live in Maine and have since the mid-Sixties.

  I suppose I should state right off that none of the characters or incidents in this book are based on anyone I knew while growing up or know now. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is entirely coincidental. While my story may not always show coastal people in the best light, I have written this book with love and sincere admiration for all Mainers (“Maine-ahs”), the most “real” people I have ever met.

  That being said, however, I have obviously used memories of my own childhood and suggestions from other friends as inspiration. Two very close friends—Glenn Chadbourne and Teresa Osgood—provided me with plenty of stories about living in fishing villages along the coast and on the islands of Maine. I can’t thank them enough for helping me “create” some of the “characters” in this book. I know it’s a cliché to say that truth is “stranger than fiction,” but my genuine concern here is that I’ve diluted the truly unique stories and personalities I knew growing up and which Glenn and Teresa shared with me. If I screwed it up, it’s certainly not their fault.

  I also want to thank the numerous friends who read early drafts and talked out this book with me at various stages in the long process of writing it. Mi amigos Christopher Fahy, Mike Feeney, Chris Golden, Dana Ellis, Matt Costello, Adrian Alexander, Bill Thorne, Mark Steensland, and—of course—Teresa and Glenn all gave valuable feedback and much-needed encouragement.

  Most of all, I want to thank Holly Newstein for running a finer than fine-toothed comb through several drafts of the manuscript. I couldn’t have done it without you, Holly. And if there are still any bruises or soft spots, they’re all mine, not Holly’s.

  Last but certainly not least, I want to thank my three sons—Aaron, Jesse, and Matti—who provide on a daily basis love and inspiration to me simply because of the wonderful people they have grown to become.

  My only regret is that my parents are not alive to read this book. I know they would have found some parts of it amusing just as I’m sure my mother would have objected to some of the “strong language.” Sorry, Mum … Most people really do talk that way sometimes … Of course, I never do.

  People often say: “If it was easy, everyone would do it.” This is especially true about writing a novel. This was never easy to write, but it was also a pure joy to see what was happening down at the wharf. I hope you—the readers—enjoy this little jaunt to “The Cove.” I know I did.

  Enjoy!

  —Rick Hautala

  Chapter One

  Welcome Home

  Gotta face ’em all, sooner or later, Ben Brown thought as he stood by the kitchen sink, clutching his coffee cup and staring out the window. His gaze was drawn to the launch ramp on the south side of Catawamkeag Cove — known to everyone, locals and summer tourists alike, simply as “The Cove.”

  Already, cars and trucks were pulling into the rutted, unpaved parking lot, and people were arriving from all directions — some on foot, a few on bicycles and motorcycles. Even at this distance, Ben could hear the heavy rumble of Harleys.

  “This is definitely not what I need today,” he muttered as he took a gulp of coffee. It was bitter and burnt-tasting. A sheen of sweat sprinkled his forehead. It wasn’t just from the early mor
ning sun pouring in through the window. He was nervous about having to face so many townsfolk so soon after returning from Iraq.

  He’d been home on leave before, but today felt totally different. His enlistment had finally ended after he’d been caught twice in old Donny Rumsfeld’s stop-loss orders, and he had no desire to go back into the Army. It used to be that coming home to stay for a while — even for a few weeks or months at a time — had always been comfortable … relaxing.

  Now, so much had changed it felt … weird.

  For starters, his sister, Louise, had gotten married and moved out. So for the first time in this house, he had his own room. Pete, his younger brother who was still living at home, didn’t have to share the same bedroom they’d had growing up.

  But there were other, more complicated things facing him.

  Right now, though, he had more immediate concerns. His father had suggested — quite strongly — that he wear his uniform to the launch, but Ben most definitely was not going to do that.

  Looking out to sea, he could tell there wasn’t much wind. The ocean, especially further out, was a ruffled, deep blue. Sunlight glittered on the water like an explosion of diamond chips. Down by the launch, yellow dust raised by vehicles pulling over to park by the side of the road or in the parking lot rose like sulfurous smoke and hung heavily in the air.

  Sand and dust, Ben thought with a grim shake of the head. Not a goddamned one of them knows what real sand and dust are all about!

  His throat went suddenly dry, and even another gulp of bad coffee didn’t help. A taste — more like the memory of a taste — clung to the back of his throat like thick mucus. It was a dry, pungent taste — a curious mix of diesel and sun-baked clay and dusty palm trees whose dead fronds clacked like old bones in the hot wind, but it was mixed with something else … something indefinable. Whatever it was, Ben knew that no amount of coffee or beer or whiskey would wash it away completely.

  He heaved a sigh and dumped what was left of his coffee into the sink and continued to stare down the hill. When he was a kid, boat launches had been so much fun. He had fond memories of his friends and family and neighbors gathering to celebrate each launch of a new lobster boat.

  It was always an event.

  The promise and hope the launch of a new boat brought to the entire town was like the birth of a child. Just as any new baby could grow up to be the one to cure cancer or become president, a new boat could be the one to revive lobstering in Catawamkeag Cove and bring the fortunes of everyone up along with it.

  Anyone who was born and lived here was a “Cover” — pronounced “Cove-ah” — and no matter what you did, no matter how hard you struggled to free yourself from those invisible chains that bound you here, if you were born a “Cover,” you would live and die a “Cover.” And if you weren’t born a “Cover,” you would never be one, no matter what.

  It had taken four years of duty in Iraq for Ben to recognize that. As much as he hated the Army, he was beginning to think reenlistment might be preferable to this. Maybe dying in Iraq or Afghanistan was the only thing that would get him out of the Cove permanently.

  What an option.

  Today, though, his father, Walter Brown — “Capt’n Wally” to everyone in town — was launching the Abby-Rose, named after his dead brother’s granddaughter. If —

  No. Not if … There was no way out of it … When

  — he showed up, he would have to make nice with everyone — relatives, neighbors, friends, and people he didn’t like but had to pretend he did.

  Ben was so lost in his reveries he jumped when the telephone suddenly rang. The old-fashioned bell-ring made him smile as he placed his empty coffee cup down carefully on the counter and walked over to the wall phone. As always, the spiral cord was a tangled mess that stretched to the floor. Ben added another few kinks to it when, after two more rings, he picked up the receiver and pressed it to his ear.

  “When you getting your sorry ass down here?” his father said before Ben could even say hello.

  “Yeah — umm, sorry ’bout that,” Ben replied. “I was heading out the door when you called. You’re slowing me down, Old Man.”

  “Don’t you ‘Old Man’ me,” Wally said with a snarl. Then, after taking a quick breath, he added, “So, you wearin’ your uniform?”

  “No, Pops,” Ben said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

  At twenty-six years old, Ben didn’t like being bullied or bossed around by this father like he was still a kid. When was he going to start treating him like an adult? The answer was never, but then again, Wally treated pretty much everyone in town the same way. As far as Wally was concerned, he was the “Capt’n,” and everyone in town — local or vacationer — was obliged to treat him as such.

  “You know your mother would want you to wear your uniform,” Wally said. “You don’t want to disappoint her, now, do yah?”

  “Yeah, well, she’s not gonna to be there, now, is she? And even if she was, she’d have no clue what was going on, would sh-”

  “Don’t you be talking ’bout your mother like that,” Wally said, cutting Ben off before he could finish. “We’re all praying for her, and — besides, she’ll be there in spirit.”

  Ben sniffed at the tone of righteous indignation in his father’s voice. He couldn’t remember the last time his father had gone to church. Maybe last year, when Ben was still in Iraq … Wally would have gone to church when Louise married Tom Marshall, a “townie” cop. The truth was, his father probably wouldn’t go to church again until six friends were carrying him in a polished wooden box.

  “I asked your sister to take some pictures so’s we can show ’em to Ma later.”

  “You think she’ll even know what they’re of?”

  “I said don’t be talking ’bout your mother like that. And you get the fuck down here so’s we can get the festivities rollin’.”

  “I’m on my way,” Ben said. He hung up the phone without even trying to untangle the cord. This house wouldn’t be home if the cord wasn’t all knotted up.

  Ben considered brewing a fresh cup of coffee and taking his sweet old time walking down the hill, if only to grind his father a little more, but he decided against that. Besides, his younger brother, Pete, would already be down at the launch, getting things started. Pete, the homebody son, had no options other than to stay home and follow in his father’s footsteps in the family lobstering business. Someone had to keep the family home in the family.

  Might as well go face them all. Gotta do it sometime.

  He already knew what they would say. They would declare how proud they were of his service to his country, even if they thought the war was a colossal cluster fuck. Several people would ask what he planned to do with his life now, implying that, if he was a “good son,” he would take up lobstering full-time so the eldest son could take over for Capt’n Wally, who wasn’t getting any younger. Many people would ask about his mother, Lilly, and how she and the family were doing now that, for the last month or so, she had been in Harbor’s Edge, the local nursing home.

  The twisting apprehension in Ben’s gut was almost as bad as the wound-up, nervous feelings he got every goddamned time he and his platoon were out patrolling in Anbar. Maybe it was worse …

  Yeah …

  Except for that one time, this was much worse.

  “Jesus! Will you stop your goddamned bawling?”

  Tom Marshall stood in the bathroom doorway, leaning with one arm against the jamb as he stared at his wife. He was wearing his police uniform. His eyes were wide, and his face was flushed with barely repressed fury. His skin looked like it was on too tight. “You sound like a friggin’ baby. Here. Use this.”

  Before Louise could react, he threw something at her. It felt like a bee sting when it bounced off the back of her head and landed on the bathroom floor between the sink and the toilet. She looked down and saw a bottle of Visine. She would have bent down to pick it up, but she was afraid of what he might do w
hen she had her back to him and was even more vulnerable.

  Wincing with pain, Louise rubbed the back of her head and stared at Tom’s reflection over her shoulder in the bathroom mirror. It wasn’t the first time she wondered why she didn’t work up the nerve to grab his service revolver and use it on him. He so fucking deserved it. But she stuffed such thoughts down deep as she raised her hand and gingerly touched the swollen bruise under her left eye. It was bright red, fading to purple on the edges.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do about this?” she asked in a broken voice. Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision, but she blinked them back. She wasn’t going to let him see her cry.

  “What the fuck do I care?” Tom snapped. “Put some goddamned makeup on it. Anyone who knows you expects you to look like a friggin’ whore, anyways.” He pronounced the word as two syllables — who-ah.

  He shifted his stance and clamped his arms over his chest like he was trying to contain an explosion. His leather gun belt made a loud creaking sound, like an old saddle. The light hit his blue eyes just right, making them glow with a near-insane gleam.

  Up yours, Louise thought but didn’t say. She knew what would happen if she did. When Tom was “in a mood,” it didn’t matter what she said or did. All she had to do was open her mouth or even look like she was going to say something — it didn’t matter what — and he’d backhand her another good one … or worse.

  Her eyes started stinging, and she couldn’t stop the tears that rolled down her cheeks. Fear twisted her guts as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her light, brown hair hung in loose waves down past her shoulders, covering the sides of her face, but there was no way she could wear her hair to hide the bruise under her eye without people noticing.