From the cover
A secret memory . . .
What happened next that spring afternoon is something I know Jeddy remembers. I can see us standing there, two raw-boned boys beside the bootleg crate, seagulls wheeling overhead, making dives on a tidal pool up the beach from us. Almost as an afterthought we wandered toward this pool, not expecting to see anything. It came into view with no more drama than if it had been a sodden piece of driftwood lying on the sand: a naked human leg.
JANET TAYLOR LISLE
For Richard Lisle, with love.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events, locales, or living persons is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Newport Daily Journal, December 30, 1929
COAST GUARDS KILL THREE SUSPECTED RUM RUNNERS
FIRE ON UNARMED SPEEDBOAT BLACK DUCK WITH LARGE CARGO OF LIQUOR
NEWPORT, DEC. 30—Three alleged rum runners were killed by machine gun fire and another man was wounded near Newport shortly before 3 o’clock Sunday morning, according to the Coast Guard. The men were in a 50-foot speedboat well-known locally as the Black Duck.
The boat, carrying a cargo of 300 cases of smuggled liquor, was stumbled on in dense fog by Coast Guard Patrol Boat 290. A burst of machine gun fire killed all three men instantly in the pilot house. A fourth crew member was shot through the hand. No arms were found on board.
“The shooting is unfortunate but clearly justified by U.S. Prohibition law forbidding the trade or consumption of liquor anywhere in the United States,” a Coast Guard spokesman said in a statement to reporters last night. “These rogue smugglers threaten our communities and must be stopped.”
Other details were not available as authorities kept them guarded.
The Interview
A RUMRUNNER HAD LIVED IN TOWN, ONE OF the notorious outlaws who smuggled liquor during the days of Prohibition, that was the rumor. David Peterson heard he might still be around.
Where?
No one knew exactly. It was all so long ago.
Well, who was he?
This was equally vague. Someone said to ask at the general store across from the church.
It would be a miracle if the man was still alive, David thought. He’d be over eighty. If he were anywhere, he’d probably be in a nursing home by now.
But it turned out he wasn’t. He still lived in town. Ruben Hart was his name.
The number listed in the telephone book doesn’t answer. There is an address, though. David has his mother drop him off at the end of the driveway. It’s June. School is over. He tells her not to wait.
The house is gray shingle, hidden behind a mass of bushes that have grown up in front of the windows. David isn’t surprised. It’s what happens with old people’s homes. Plantings meant to be low hedges or decorative bushes sprout up. Over time, if no one pays attention, they get out of control. David’s family is in the landscaping business and he knows about the power of vegetation. He’s seen whole trees growing through the floor of a porch, and climbing vines with their fingers in the attic. Left to its own devices, nature runs amok.
David knocks on the front door. After a long pause, an old fellow in a baggy gray sweater opens up. David tells him straight out why he’s come: he’s looking for a story to get in the local paper.
They won’t hire me, but the editor says if I come up with a good story, he’ll...