Mystery of the Black Moriah
by David Crossman
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 David Crossman
Chapter One
“What Trouble Can They Possibly Get Into?”
Spooky always looked as if he were standing in a pretty stiff breeze. As he burst into Bean’s house, he might have just stepped out of a hurricane. His wispy red hair shot out in all directions like exclamation points, and his pale blue eyes danced with the excitement of the discovery he was bursting to make known.
“You’ll never guess what I found washed up on the shore of Indian Creek!” he exclaimed as the screen door slammed behind him. “Sorry,
Mrs. C.”
“Oh, please,” said Mrs. Carver, putting down the newspaper with the account of Bean and Ab’s latest experience. “No more adventures. We’re all exhausted.”
Bean and Ab, however, having had a few days’ rest, were ready for a little excitement.
“But you ain’t gonna believe this!” said Spooky.
“We aren’t going to believe this,” Mrs. Carver corrected.
“You sure ain’t,” Spooky agreed, the grammar lesson whizzing over his head. “I was walkin’ home ’round the east side of Armbrust Hill when I saw this big yellow thing floatin’ under the bridge.”
“What was it?” said Ab, her excitement rising.
Spooky’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I ain’t tellin’, ’cause you wouldn’t believe me anyway. You an’ Bean gotta come see for yourselves. An’ we’re gonna need a wrench.”
“A wrench? What for?” Bean wanted to know.
Spooky just smiled. “For the thing,” he said cryptically.
Bean cast a quick look of appeal at his mother. It was almost suppertime, and he knew she wouldn’t be thrilled with the idea of his missing the family meal. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes,” he said.
Mrs. Carver looked at her husband, her eyebrows arched skeptically. “What do you think?”
Captain Carver shrugged. “I guess it won’t hurt to hold dinner for half an hour.”
“I suppose,” his wife replied, a little hesitant. “We can find something to do in the meantime.” She winked at her husband, who had just returned from three months of sea duty with the Coast Guard, in a way that Bean didn’t understand. Besides, Spooky’s announcement had Bean too wound up to think about it.
“So, we can go?”
“I doubt he could eat anyway, with another mystery hanging over his head,” Captain Carver decided, tousling his son’s hair. “There’s an adjustable wrench in my toolbox out in the shed. But one thing—”
“We’ll be careful!” the trio chimed as they ran out the door.
Mrs. Carver reflexively held up her hand. “And don’t slam the—” Slam. “Door.”
“Sorry!” Ab called behind her. In seconds they had grabbed the pipe wrench from the shed and thundered down the wooden walkway and up the sidewalk. The echo of their footsteps followed them toward Fog Hollow, the narrow dirt lane that led to Indian Creek.
“Thirty minutes,” Mrs. Carver whispered, snuggling herself against her husband’s shoulder.
“As far as Bean’s concerned, thirty minutes might as well be an hour.” He squeezed her around the waist. “Let’s hope.”
Mrs. Carver was silent for a moment. “You don’t think they’re in any danger, do you?”
“I wouldn’t worry,” said her husband. “What kind of trouble can they possibly get into in thirty minutes?”
Fog Hollow was named for the thick tendrils of mist that drift down the ragged slopes of Armbrust Hill like arms of a ghostly octopus whenever the southeast wind pushes the fog in from Penobscot Bay, as it was doing now. The fog collects in a thick blanket in the hollow between the hill and the shores of the creek.
As they raced through the narrow canyon formed by the Moses
Webster House—the B and B where Ab and her folks were staying for the summer—and the brooding Winthrop mansion, Ab couldn’t suppress a tingling shudder of fear. Only days before, she and Bean had nearly lost their lives in the secret tunnel they had found between the houses. Even though Bean always claimed that Ab didn’t have any imagination, what little she had was having no trouble picturing dark, malevolent eyes watching them from the gaunt, gaping windows of the empty old house.
The same thought must have occurred to Bean, because he picked up his pace. Ab had all she could do to catch up.
“You know what this place makes me think of?” said Spooky, as if he’d been reading their thoughts.
“We know,” said his companions in unison as they sped even faster from the scene of images that would haunt them forever.
Once they had put a safe distance between themselves and the mansion, they slowed to a trot. “So, what’s this great secret?” said Ab. “What did you find?”
“You’ll never guess,” Spooky replied, lowering his voice to a mysterious moan. “Not in a million years.”
For the next few minutes, Bean and Ab tried every trick they could think of to make Spooky divulge his secret. Ab even knocked him down and tickled him mercilessly. But for once the usually talkative Spooky was silent as the tomb.
The long, low wail of the ferry whistle wound its way through the fog.
“The last boat’s comin’ in,” Spooky observed, standing up and brushing himself off.
For several seconds the lonely moan echoed from the trees and granite cliffs, weakening a little with each retelling. It was a melancholy sound, but one that Abby found oddly comforting. Despite the fact she had been born and raised in New York City, and spent most of her life amid the constant clamor of traffic, the wail of sirens, and the traipsing of countless thousands of feet, she was an island girl at heart. This was where her spirit was at home: swimming in the fresh, cold water of bottomless quarries, wading through fields of feathery golden grass, climbing heaped-up piles of granite slag, picking blueberries and blackberries on Lane’s Island, spending idyllic hours on the shore digging for clams or searching the seaweed for crabs, or finding bits of colored glass that the ocean had worn to polished gems.
The last boat of the day meant Penobscot Island was sealed off from the rest of the world, like a castle with the drawbridge raised for the night.
Bean picked a piece of grass and, holding it between his thumbs in that special way Ab had yet to master, blew a shrill squeal in reply to the ferry horn.
It aggravated Abby no end that Bean could do things like that—
skipping stones, making a musical instrument of a blade of grass or a tender shoot of alder. He tried to teach her, but she just couldn’t get the hang of it. “You can’t help it,” he’d tease. “You’re just a city girl.”
Next to being called a “summer jerk,” it was the worst thing he could say. She didn’t like being reminded that, no matter how much time she spent on the island, she would probably never know what it was like in the fall, or winter, or spring. Only summer. She would always be an outsider.
No doubt about it, Bean knew how to get under her skin. But, truth
be known—which it never would if she could help it—her summers on the island wouldn’t be the same without him. He had a curious way of finding magic and mystery in ordinary things she wouldn’t even notice under normal circumstances. For Bean, life was one big adventure. When she was with him, she felt part of all those possibilities, and she never knew what might happen next.
“Your turn,” said Bean, handing her the soggy piece of grass he’d just blown spit all over.
“You’re so immature,” Ab retorted, tossing her hair back in a way that seemed to annoy him.
It worked. “If you keep shakin’ your head like that, it’s gonna pop right off the sprocket,” he said flatly. Fact was, that particular gesture was one of many things about Ab that had changed since last summer, all of which made it hard to overlook the fact she was a girl—from head to foot—and it bothered him in ways he hadn’t figured out yet.
Just a few days ago, when they’d found Minerva’s grave, Ab had grabbed him and kissed him right on the lips, in front of everybody in town. He’d never been kissed before, except by his folks, or his grandmothers, and those kisses were different. Ab’s kiss had shot through him as if she’d been hooked up to a twelve-volt battery. Then she’d just gone on as if nothing had happened, and he stood there gaping like a fish out of water, with his insides all twisted up. He didn’t understand why. Not at all.
Not that it was a bad thing.
Failing in their efforts to get Spooky to share his secret, Bean and Ab had tried Twenty Questions. That didn’t work either. By the time the trio arrived at the soggy little path that wound along the shore of Indian Creek, Spooky declared that neither of them had come within a “billion light years” of guessing what he’d found.
“So,” said Bean, stopping on a little spit of mud and seaweed that poked into the creek. “Where’s this big yellow whatever it is?”
Spooky pushed by Ab on the path. “Over this way, in Skoog’s Cove.”
Skoog’s Cove was no more than a dent in the shoreline where, years ago, a man named Gus Skoog had built and launched sailing dinghies. Nothing remained of the boat shed but a rectangle of square-cut granite stones that had formed the foundation. Over time, the cove had become hidden from view by thick vegetation.
“When it floated in under the bridge, I followed it—runnin’ along the shore—an’ this is where it washed up,” Spooky announced as they stumbled through the undergrowth.
Bean saw it first, and he stopped in his tracks so fast that Abby ran into him, nearly knocking him over. But he didn’t notice. All of his attention was fixed on the object floating in the water, its nose gently poking the seaweed, prodded by the persistent legion of little waves that assaulted the shore.
Abby had been just about to scold Bean for stopping so abruptly—and had inhaled a good lungful of air for the purpose—when she saw it, and the complaint died on her lips.
Spooky was right. They’d never have guessed in a million years.
“Told ya!” said Spooky, almost dancing with glee.
Chapter Two
Where’s Captain Nemo?
“It’s a submarine!” said Bean breathlessly, his heart suddenly racing with excitement.
“A yellow submarine!” Spooky announced proudly. “Just like the song.”
“It’s not real, is it?” said Abby, quickly jumping a series of stones to the head of the cove. “It’s so small.”
The awkward-looking vessel was about fifteen feet long and had a tower that stood about four feet above the waterline. “It’s a one-man sub,” proclaimed Spooky. “They use ’em for research. I read about ’em in
Popular Science.”
By this time all three kids were standing at the bow of the little vessel, and Bean ran his hand over the cold steel hull. “Who was in it? Did you see ’em get out?”
“There wasn’t nobody. I stood right here and waited after it come ashore,” Spooky explained. “But no one got out. It just laid there, thumpin’ the rocks. So after a couple minutes I come down an’ banged on it.” He
illustrated his point with a loud rap on the hull, which responded with a hollow, bell-like note. “Nothin’ happened, so I looked in the windows on the conning tower—”
“Conning tower?” said Ab.
Bean explained. “That’s the part that sticks up.” He pointed to the cylindrical tower that rose from the hull.
“It’s got windows on three sides,” said Spooky. Climbing onto the hull, he pressed his face against the round Plexiglas porthole. “Can’t see much, but it don’t look like nobody’s to home.” He knocked on the conning tower for emphasis.
“That’s like a quadruple negative,” Ab said, thinking it was in Spooky’s best interest to know how to speak properly.
Spooky didn’t notice. Bean was too awestruck to care. “Did you open it?” he asked, crawling up beside his friend. He peered into the porthole, but due to the darkness within and the gathering gloom of the fog, he couldn’t make out much more than the other portholes.
“I couldn’t turn this wing nut,” said Spooky, indicating the sealing latch that clamped the hatch shut. “That’s why I wanted the wrench.” He took the instrument from his back pocket and applied it to the nut.
Abby stood on the shore and held the bow of the sub with both hands to keep it from drifting off. The waves were no longer lapping at the mud. That meant the tide was turning and soon the saltwater fingers that pushed the sub ashore would be trying to pull it back out to sea. “What if somebody’s in trouble?”
Bean looked up, his hair hanging in his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what if whoever was in this fell overboard or something?”
“How do you fall overboard from a submarine?” said Spooky. He gave Bean a look that said, leave it to a girl to think of something like that.
Bean considered Ab’s concern. He studied the conning tower. “It was sealed from the outside.”
“So?”
“So,” Bean explained patiently, and a little condescendingly, “he was outside the sub when he closed the hatch.”
“Then he could have fallen off,” said Ab, with just a trace of I told you so in her voice. Then she thought of another explanation, one that sent chills up her spine. “What if somebody outside wanted to lock somebody inside?”
Bean hadn’t thought of that. “Then why don’t he knock back to let us know he’s in there?”
That’s the part Ab especially didn’t like. “What if he can’t? What if he’s tied up, or unconscious, or—”
“Dead?” said Bean.
Spooky suddenly stopped wrestling with the wrench. “Dead? You mean you think there might be a dead body in here?” All at once he wasn’t so eager to loosen the bolt.
Bean collected his thoughts. “Well, we still have to open it an’ find out. If there’s somebody in there, he might need our help.”
“If he’s alive,” Spooky reminded. “Here. You do it.” He handed the wrench to Bean.
Bean looked at Ab in the hope she would be annoyingly practical, as always, and tell him to go get Constable Wruggles. That would give him an excuse not to open the sub. But all she said was, “If somebody needs us . . .”
He felt like saying, Big help you are, but he didn’t.
Marshaling his resolve, Bean clamped the teeth of the wrench on the nut and gave it a sharp, downward tug. The nut held fast for a second or two—long enough to give Bean hope that he wouldn’t be able to loosen it. Then, with a loud snap, it turned freely on the thread.
Spooky backed carefully off the sub and planted his feet on the shore. “I’m goin’ to help Ab hold it still.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Bean sarcastically. He took a deep, steadying breath, unscrewed the nut until the bolt swung free of the latch, and stood up so he’d have leverage as he opened the hatch. He clamped his fingers around the lip of the cover and pulled.
The hatch squeaked open with unexpected ease. Bean, who had overbalanced against the expected resistance, nearly fell off the sub deck.
Reflexively, he dropped to his knees to steady himself. He looked at the hatch and realized why it had opened so easily: a heavy-duty spring was wound around the hinge bolt.
“What’s inside?” Ab asked, just above a whisper.
Bean didn’t really want to look. They’d already found one body that summer, and he didn’t relish the thought of finding another. But, as his dad always said, there are some things you just have to do, whether you want to or not. He decided this was one of those things. Closing one eye and squinting with the other, as if that would somehow minimize the impact of whatever he was about to see, he bent over the open tower and looked inside.
“Hello?” he said.
No reply.
He opened both eyes. No body. He exhaled a long sigh of relief.
“Any dead bodies?” Spooky asked expectantly.
Bean didn’t reply. He placed one hand on either side of the tower, then swung himself over the opening and down into the belly of the sub, feet first.
“No bodies, I guess,” said Spooky with the slightest trace of disappointment. Reassured, he abandoned Ab to her chore and scrambled over the deck to the conning tower for a look inside.
Bean had already dropped to his bottom on the little iron and wood bench that spanned the hull.
“How cool is this!” said Spooky.
It was better than cool, Bean thought. This was no Disney World ride. It was real. He took a quick verbal inventory of the various controls, most of which were toggle switches. “Battery on/off. Forward and rear ballast tanks. Port and starboard thrusters.” For the latter there was a little joystick, which he moved as he read the markers: “Forward, reverse, left, and right.” His feet came to rest on metal pedals suspended on a bar just above the floor. “I bet this is the rudder.” He pushed the pedals back and forth, and the sub’s stern wiggled subtly in response. “Yup.”
“What are you doing?” Ab called, her voice nearly muffled by the thick steel hull. Bean ignored her. All of his senses were focused on studying the controls.
“What’s this, I wonder,” he said, gently pulling a lever that rose from the floor on his right. There was a slight motion of the sub, as if something were tugging it from below.
“Do it again,” said Spooky. He extracted himself from the hatch, then knelt on the deck and, with one hand on the conning tower for support, leaned over the side.
Bean repeated the process, and Spooky saw a narrow metal plate tilt up and down. The plate was affixed to the hull by a shiny stainless steel rod. “Stabilizers,” he said, poking his head into the tower. “Push ’er forward and she goes down, pull ’er back and she’ll come up.”
In the bow, just in front of Bean’s feet, was a large underwater porthole made of Plexiglas that would give the driver a clear view of the ocean floor. There was also a radio, tuned to a frequency that Bean didn’t recognize.
“You got room in there for me?” said Spooky. Not waiting for a reply, he swung his legs through the opening. Bean squeezed himself as far forward and to the left as possible. In an instant, Spooky was wedged so tightly into the seat beside Bean that neither of them could move. “This ain’t gonna work,” Spooky decided.
“There’s nowhere to go forward,” said Bean. “What’s aft?”
Spooky folded his skinny frame as tightly as possible and leaned back farther and farther until, suddenly unwedged, he tumbled into the aft compartment with a thud. “Ow!”
Once more free to move, Bean turned to see what had happened. Spooky was sprawled amidst a tangle of wires, tubes, and hoses. “You okay?”
Spooky rubbed his head, which had banged sharply against the cast-iron bracket holding a bank of batteries in place.
“What are you guys doing down there?” said Ab. In all the commotion they hadn’t heard her crawling across the deck to the tower. Her hair was hanging down in Bean’s eyes. He tried to brush it out of the way.
“Hey, this is a one-man sub!”
“Yeah, but you’re just boys,” Abby replied, then she shimmied through the narrow hatch and dropped down beside Bean on the seat formerly
occupied by Spooky. “See? Perfect fit.”
Abby was smaller than Spooky, so she didn’t take up quite as much room. Besides, Bean didn’t necessarily mind having her so close. “Who’s holding us ashore?” he said.
“Nobody,” said Ab. “The bow’s in the mud. It’s not going anywhere. What’s this?”
Taped to the inside of the conning tower, just below eye level, was a piece of lined yellow paper. Bean lifted it up by the bottom edge, revealing a rough diagram in blue ink. “Looks like a map,” he said.
“Of what?”
Bean lifted the edge a little farther, until the faint light from the starboard porthole made it somewhat more legible. “Here’s Indian Creek,” he said, tracing the outline with his finger. “There’s Armbrust Hill and the bridge.”
Ab shifted in her seat. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing at a small X that had been marked in red.
“It’s the Reach,” said Bean, tilting the map slightly for a better
perspective.
“Where’s that?”
Spooky, who had twisted himself around so he was on his knees in the cramped compartment, stuck his freckled face between his companions’ shoulders and studied the map. “It’s out on the southwest end of Pogus Point. They call it Hurricane Reach ’cause it takes the worst of the weather. Some of the highest cliffs on the island are out there.”
“Why would somebody mark it with an X?” Ab wondered aloud.
The answer was obvious to Spooky. “Treasure!” he said. “What else?”
“You’ve got treasure on the brain,” said Bean. “Besides, you don’t go lookin’ for treasure in a submarine. I bet it has something to do with scientific research. That’s what they use these subs for.”
Abby fidgeted in the seat. “What kind of scientific research?”
Bean shrugged. “Marine biology an’ stuff.”
“But that doesn’t explain how it got here,” said Ab.
Bean theorized. “Most likely it was tied up somewhere an’ just pulled free. Let’s get out an’ see if there’s a line on the bow.” He nudged Ab in the ribs. “You go first.”
Abby reached up, grabbed the rim of the conning tower, and pulled herself halfway out, then stopped suddenly. “Uh-oh.”
“What’s the matter?” said Bean. “Climb out, will ya?”
Abby’s legs disappeared up the tower, and her feet thudded to the deck. Bean was right behind her and immediately saw the problem.
Apparently the weight of all three of them moving about in the sub had rocked the bow free of the shore, and they had drifted out into the creek. At the same time, the fog—cold and clammy—had swept in with a vengeance, cutting visibility to no more than six or eight feet. “I thought you said the bow was in the mud!”
“Well, it was,” Ab snapped. “If you hadn’t been fiddling with the rudder . . .” It was a weak defense, and she knew it. “What are we going to do?”
“Hey!” Spooky complained from below. “Move, will ya? I can’t get out.”
“Not much point,” said Bean, climbing out onto the deck. He stood opposite Ab, his hands holding the hatch door.
Spooky’s head poked out of the tower. It didn’t take him long to grasp the situation. “Uh-oh. Looks like we’re in trouble again.”
“Help!” Abby cried, but the fog sopped up her voice like a huge sponge.
“That won’t do any good,” said Bean. He knew how the fog played tricks with sound, making it seem to come from all directions at once. Anyone who heard the cry would never be able to tell where it was coming from.
“Well, we’ve got to do something!” Ab protested, desperation rising in her voice.
“Let me think,” said Bean. “We can’t be far from shore . . .”
“But which way is shore?” Ab wanted to know.
Bean had an idea. “Spook, get down below and find the compass.”
Spooky’s head popped out of sight. “Got it!” he said seconds later.
“Which way is east?” said Bean.
Spooky studied the gauge and reemerged. “That way,” he said, pointing to the right.
“Then all we gotta do is find a paddle or something,” said Bean, “and we can row ashore.”
Once again Spooky disappeared from sight, but this time his search was fruitless. “There’s nothin’ that ain’t screwed down.”
There wasn’t anything on deck either.
“Well, what now?” said Abby.
“We could swim ’er in,” Bean replied, though it was clear from his tone of voice that he didn’t hold much hope for that option.
“I’m not getting in that water!” said Ab. “Not when we can’t even see where we’re going. Besides, this thing’s too heavy for me to paddle. I’m just a girl, you know.”
“How convenient,” said Bean. “Two of us could do it.” He looked
at Spooky.
“That’d be you and who else?”
“You,” said Bean.
Spooky shook his head emphatically. “Your name must be José, ’cause there ain’t no way.”
Bean was a little relieved. Fact was, he didn’t think it was a great idea. But Ab was right, they had to do something. “We’ll have to crank ’er up,” he said after a little thought.
Ab didn’t think that was a good idea either. “You don’t know how to drive a submarine.”
“How hard can it be? Everything’s marked,” said Bean. With a quick warning to Spooky to get out of the way, he swung himself back down
the hatch. “You get on the bow,” he commanded Abby. “Watch for rocks and ledges.”
Abby started to complain, but Bean cut her off. “The tide’s goin’ to take us back toward the bridge. If we get caught in that current . . .” He didn’t know what might happen, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be good. “Anyway, we gotta try to drive ’er ashore before we get there.”
As Bean sank out of sight, Abby crawled toward the bow on her hands and knees. Despite her protests, she felt it was her fault they were in this mess, and if anyone could get them out of it, Bean could. She hoped.
Once back in the seat, with Spooky tucked out of the way in the aft compartment, Bean studied the instrumentation in earnest. “Okay,” he said at last. “All we have to do is figure out how to turn these thrusters on.”
“How ’bout that button by your left knee?” Spooky suggested.
“Which one?”
“The one that says Thrusters On.”
Bean inhaled slowly, not sure what might happen, and flipped the switch. Nothing.“Maybe the batteries are dead,” said Spooky.
That reminded Bean of another label he’d read. “Batteries,” he said to himself. “Batteries. Here! Battery Power.” He flipped the designated switch and instantly a faint crackling hiss surged through the wires.
“Now try it,” Spooky urged.
Bean pinched the Thrusters On toggle between his fingers and, closing his eyes, flipped the switch. A deep electrical hum made the hull vibrate slightly, and the vessel surged forward.
“That’s it!” Spooky proclaimed loudly. “You got it! She’s movin’.”
“Now all we need to do is figure out how to steer,” said Bean under his breath. He pressed lightly on the right pedal, and the sub obediently turned in that direction. When he applied counterpressure to the left, it straightened out of the turn. “Hey, this is easy!”
“Let’s dive!” Spooky suggested enthusiastically.
“I don’t think Ab would like that much.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Spooky. “I forgot.”
“Besides,” said Bean, “the creek’s only six to ten feet deep and the bottom’s all mud. We’d get stuck.”
“If we could get ’er out through the Race, we’d be in deep water. We could take ’er under there,” he said, using the local word for a narrow opening where the tide flows swiftly from one body of water to another.
“All I care ’bout right now is gettin’ ’er ashore,” said Bean. He glanced at his watch. “I’m supposed to be home ten minutes ago.”
“Watch out!”
Chapter Three
Swept to Sea
Abby had been staring holes in the fog, but by the time she saw the rock it was too late. Half a second after her warning cry died away, the sub struck the ledge. She was nearly knocked overboard by the shock of the impact, but at the last possible moment she grabbed the rounded dome of one of the sub’s lights and held on for dear life.
Bean and Spooky felt the shock, too. Suddenly, as the sub bounced off the rock, it began to shudder. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, it began to spin to the left. “We hit one of the thrusters!” said Bean, struggling with the pedals to regain control. He pressed the right-hand pedal to counteract the spin, and for a second it seemed to be working. Then the rudder dragged over the submerged part of the same ledge with a long, loud scrape and crunch. “Uh-oh.”
All at once the pedals moved freely. Much too freely. The connection between the pedals and the rudder had snapped, a realization that made Bean feel sick to his stomach. Thinking quickly, he cut the power to the thrusters. Immediately the spinning stopped, as did the shuddering of the hull, and the sub bobbed silently in the water. “Ab!” he called. He jumped onto the seat and lifted himself up through the tower. Ab was flat on the deck, still clinging to the light. “You okay?”
For a moment, Ab didn’t answer. Then, with careful effort, she pulled herself to a sitting position on deck. “What happened?”
“The port thruster hit the ledge. Why didn’t you yell sooner?”
“I shouted as soon as I saw it,” Ab protested angrily. “Why didn’t you stop?”
“It was too late.”
“Well, what are we going to do now?”
“We’ve still got the main motor,” said Bean. “If I can get that goin’, it’ll push us ahead. Then all I need to do is use the starboard thruster to steer.”
“Then do it,” Abby snapped, her voice tinged with genuine fear.
“Trouble is, I don’t know which way we’re headed anymore.” He bobbed out of sight to consult the compass.
Abby, meanwhile, heard a rushing, rumbling sound straight ahead in the distance. It made her heart sink. “Bean?” she said weakly. The sound was growing steadily louder, and all of a sudden, she knew what it was. “Bean!” she screamed.
Bean popped out of the hatch. “Did you say something?”
“Listen!”
He listened, his eyes widening and his pulse quickening as the realization dawned that they were just about to be sucked into the roiling
vortex of the Race, where the waters of the tidal inlet called Indian Creek thundered under the bridge into the Reach.
“I’m goin’ to try to get ’er to come about, Ab. I might be able to slow down enough so you can grab the bridge as we go under.” He called down below. “Spooky! Get up here, quick!” Bean climbed out of the tower to make room as Spooky pulled himself onto the deck.
“What’s up?” he said, but the words weren’t out of his mouth before he heard the rush of the water. Despite the fog, he could tell they were being siphoned rapidly toward the Race. “Abandon ship?” he suggested unsurely.
Bean knew that Ab could probably outswim the current. There was a chance he could, too, as long as he stayed underwater. Just a chance. But Spooky was no swimmer. “No. It’s too risky,” he said. Quickly he outlined his plan.
“If you can get a good grip on the bridge, you can hand-over-hand yourselves to shore.”
“What about you?” said Ab.
“I’m goin’ to ride ’er through,” said Bean. Before his companions could protest, he swung back down into the tower and stood on the seat with his head and shoulders above the rim. “You got one chance. Don’t fart around. When you see the bridge, grab it.”
Without another word, Bean grabbed the hatch lid and pulled it shut after him. Ab and Spooky heard the bolt twist.
“This stinks,” said Spooky. “Big-time.”
Abby agreed, but she didn’t say so. There was no time. Often, she and Bean had sat on the little wooden bridge that straddled the Race and played Pooh Sticks in the rushing tide, tossing in branches or tin cans or anything that would float to see whose would be first through the Race. She’d seen logs and wooden lobster traps smashed to pieces on the rocks on the far side—a fate she and Spooky would share if they failed to get a good grip on the bridge as it passed overhead. She held even less hope for Bean, trapped in the submarine as the rushing waves threw it against the jagged boulders.
There was nothing she could do. She braced herself and waited, the roar of the water rising in her ears. Spooky did likewise.
Despite the growing darkness, Bean was able to find the battery that powered the main motor. He turned it on, and it crackled to life. “At least we’ve got power,” he said to himself. A lever near his right shoulder indicated that the motor could run in either forward or reverse. Given his experience with outboards, he doubted that reverse would generate enough thrust to slow them down in the Race. Before he engaged the main propeller, he’d have to see if the starboard thruster was strong enough to turn the sub around.
Acting quickly, he engaged the thruster and applied full throttle. At first, the sub didn’t seem to respond. Then, ever so slowly, she began to come about.
Soon the sub was broadside to the current, with the waters of the creek piling up to push it through the Race. The little thruster whined and trembled, but it was no match for that much pressure. Leaving the throttle wide open, Bean unsnapped the hatch and threw the lid back. “Spooky, reach over the stern and grab the rudder, if it’s still there. When I bang on the hull, hold it over to starboard.”
On all fours, Spooky crept to the rear of the sub, where a large horizontal fin that he hadn’t noticed before projected over the propeller just below the waterline. He stuck his feet into the frigid water and, bracing them on the fin, seized the broken rudder with both hands. “Got it!” he cried. “Go!”
“As soon as she’s headed into the current, straighten ’er out as much as you can. Then you guys jump for the bridge,” Bean commanded. Once again, with a quick, meaningful glance at Ab—who was clutching the tower and looking terrified, tears flowing freely from her eyes—Bean disappeared into the sub. He slammed the hatch and sealed it shut.
Bean had no more alighted on the seat than he banged on the hull with his pocketknife. As soon as he heard the rudder pivot on its spindle, he engaged the main motor and applied the throttle. At once the sub swung smoothly into the current. “Good job, Spook!” he said to himself.
The sub had begun to pitch up and down as the water heaped up in waves in its headlong rush toward the open ocean. Bean knew they were getting close to the bridge. Now he had to buy them time. If they swept through the Race at the speed of the current, Ab and Spooky would never be able to get hold of the bridge. He had to slow down the sub as much as possible. He quickly disengaged the starboard thruster, then pushed the main engine throttle as far as it would go. He prayed that the little motor would hold its own against the tide, even for a few seconds, and that the rudder would hold, and that the battery would have enough power, and that Spook and Ab would see the bridge before it was too late.
Out on deck, the maelstrom of the Race had risen to such a pitch that Ab and Spooky had to yell at each other to be heard, even though they were less than three feet apart.
The waves were tumbling over one another, gathering in a swift-
moving funnel as they surged toward the Race. Ab knew they were getting close, but she still couldn’t make out the lines of the bridge in the blinding fog.
“I don’t see it yet!” she yelled, turning to Spooky.
Spooky shook his head. “Me neither.”
“Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Spooky replied. Then, his eyes widening suddenly, he yelled, “Look out!”
In an instant the hulking, horizontal beams of the decaying old bridge materialized from the fog. Ab swung around just in time to duck. As she threw her arms up to protect her head, her fingers seized almost by accident on the rusted iron lip of the low I beam. Before she knew what was happening, she was swinging by her fingertips, her feet dragging in the stinging cascade of froth and foam that seemed to grab her and pull her down. A wave of sheer panic gave her strength she never thought she had; after three attempts, she managed to swing her waterlogged feet up high enough so her sneakers caught on the lower edge of the beam, and she hung there like a trussed pig.
“You okay?” Spooky bellowed.
Ab looked in the direction of the voice to see her companion suspended in the same fashion from the struts on the other side of the bridge. Had he jumped half a second later, he’d never have made it. Beyond and below him—in the brief instant before it disappeared in the fog—she saw the submarine being tossed around like a pot buoy in the brief, tumultuous calamity of waters.
There was nothing she could do for Bean now. She had to save herself.
“This way!” Spooky shouted. Already he was shinnying along the beam toward the granite pilings on the Armbrust Hill side of the bridge. Summoning all her strength, Ab followed suit.
By the time she’d gone three feet, Spooky had already gained a foothold on the pilings and was pulling himself to the shore through the slippery webbing of seaweed.
Meanwhile, Abby had come up against an obstacle; a hundred years of salt and wind had eaten away at the beam to which she had entrusted her life and, for a space of two to three feet directly ahead, had worn it to a brittle membrane of rust that obviously wouldn’t hold her. A quick look over her shoulder told her she couldn’t go back; it was too far. Already the strength that adrenaline and fear had sent coursing through her veins was ebbing. “Spooky!” she cried with all the breath she could muster. “I’m stuck!”
She couldn’t see where he’d gone, and apparently he couldn’t hear her. She had no choice but to press on, and pray that the paper-thin iron would hold. She shimmied another eighteen inches with her hands and, bunched up like an inchworm, prepared to move her feet to the weakened section of the beam. “Okay, Lord,” she whispered. “It’s up to you.”
Tentatively, she slid her feet along the beam until she was fully extended, then slowly shifted her weight to the delicate, almost transparent tracery of metal she gripped with her knees. For a second it seemed as if it were going to hold. Then, without warning, it gave way.
As if in slow motion, she watched her feet—still clinging to the jagged section of beam—swing down toward the water. With all that weight suspended from her fingers, they could not sustain their tenuous grasp. But her reflex had overcome her reason and she couldn’t let go of the beam. In a heartbeat, it would all be over. She pictured the jagged rocks at the foot of the falls.
Suddenly she felt something grasp her wrist like a vise. The shock brought her to her senses enough that she finally released the remains of the beam between her knees. No sooner had it fallen into the seething water than she felt herself being pulled up onto the bridge. For what seemed like an eternity she hung in midair, her legs flailing for purchase on something. Anything. Then, before she knew what had happened, she was kneeling on the surface of the bridge, and Spooky had collapsed beside her.
“You’re a lot heavier than you look,” he sputtered, breathless.
He’d saved her life. She could ignore the fact that he’d scraped her up pretty badly in the process. She was about to fall on him in a heartfelt embrace of relief and thanks when she remembered the submarine.
“Bean!” she cried, clambering to her feet. She raced to the other side of the bridge and squinted into the fog just as it parted in a teasing veil, revealing the little yellow submarine lying on its side, wedged between a nasty cluster of rocks and seaweed. Then the fog closed in again, obscuring the sub from view.
“The sub’s down on the rocks!” she said, returning to the still-prostrate Spooky. “We’ve got to get help!”
Spooky would rather have lain where he was, at least long enough to catch his breath. Ab would never know how much effort it had taken—how much sheer force of will—to pull her onto the bridge, or how close he had come to dropping her as she thrashed about. However, realizing his best friend was still in trouble, he thrust aside his personal pains and jumped to his feet. “We’ve got to go tell his dad. He’ll know what to do.”
“You go,” said Ab. “I’ll stay and watch the sub.”
“Watch what?” Spooky objected. “You can’t see anything.”
“Go!” Ab commanded. “Someone’s got to stay here. You’re faster than I am.”
There was no time for argument. Spooky quickly tied his shoelaces, which normally flapped in the breeze, then set off at a gallop toward the mountain path that circled the east side of Armbrust Hill. In a moment he was out of sight, and Ab was left alone with the thunder of the falls, the frantic beating of her heart, and the horrible feeling that Bean was unconscious, or worse.
“What a stupid thing to do!” she screamed, the tears flowing again as desperate fear overwhelmed her. “What a stupid, stupid thing to do. We should have just gone and told Constable Wruggles. But no . . .” She kicked at the spiny, dried remains of a sea urchin that some seagull had probably had for lunch long ago. “What a stupid, stupid thing to do!”
She was right. But fussing about it would do no good now.
“I’ve got to get closer,” she said aloud. She ran to the end of the bridge and tumbled down the rocks as close to the Race as she dared. “Bean!” she called into the cold, thick mist. “Bean!”
Over the roar of the waves, she thought she heard a creak of metal. At once she imagined the poor little sub breaking to pieces on the rocks. “Bean!” she screamed again, and again heard only the sound of twisting metal in reply.
Then the vapors parted again ever so briefly. Her glimpse was enough to see that the waves had pushed the sub free of its resting place. Once again in deep water, it had righted itself and was bobbing in the pull of the current that was sweeping it out Hurricane Reach toward the open ocean.
As it had before, the curtain of fog closed on the scene, leaving only the memory of the frightful image embedded in her brain.
“You’re an idiot, Bean!” she cried in impotent fury. “If you die out there, I’ll . . . I’ll never speak to you again!”
She fell sobbing to her knees. What she was saying was, I love you, Bean. But she didn’t know it.
Ages seemed to pass before she heard the crunch of tires on the gravel road leading to the bridge. She scurried up the rocks and arrived at the old blue Chevy truck just as Bean’s dad and Spooky were climbing out.
“Captain Carver, I’m so sorry!” she said, falling into his arms. He squeezed her reassuringly for a moment, then held her at arm’s length.
“Alvin told me everything,” he said, using Spooky’s Christian name. “I’ve called Constable Wruggles, and he’s having the harbormaster come up the Reach in his boat. Where’s the submarine?”
Abby pointed into the fog in the direction of the eastern bay. “It came off the rocks. He’s drifting out that way.”
A look of increasing concern crossed Captain Carver’s brow. “That’s bad. He doesn’t have much control, I take it.”
“I guess not,” Abby said, shrugging. She cast a questioning glance
at Spooky.
“He can’t turn,” Spooky explained. “Only in circles. Like I said, the rudder’s broken, and the port thruster’s toasted.”
Left unsaid was the possibility that Bean might not have survived the headlong plunge of the submarine onto the rocks. Abby was reassured by Captain Carver’s presence. Bean had often recounted his father’s adventures as a navy Seal, and during years with the Coast Guard he’d faced many grim situations. He’d know what to do.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t have a clue,” Captain Carver replied.
Abby’s heart sank.
“Let me think.” So saying, Captain Carver walked to the shore and climbed down the rocks.
“We’re in so much trouble,” said Spooky as they watched him descend out of sight in the fog.
“I’m not worried about us,” said Abby. She grabbed Spooky’s elbow and squeezed hard. “Isn’t there something we can do?”
Spooky shook his head and bit his lip, but he didn’t say anything.
Abby was just about to start crying again when the earsplitting blast of a boat horn pierced the fog.
“That’s Hutch Swenson,” said Spooky, who was familiar with the distinctive sound of the harbormaster’s whistle. “He’ll be pullin’ up to Link Dyer’s wharf. This way!”
Apparently Captain Carver had the same idea. He emerged from the fog on the run, passing the kids as they turned toward the wharf. By the time they arrived, he’d already jumped aboard the distinctive red and white rescue vessel and was about to push off.
“Can we come?” Abby called from the top of the ramp.
Captain Carver beckoned them sharply. “Hurry up!” he said. They tumbled down onto the float, and he lifted them aboard and cast off in a single, self-assured motion. “You kids get in the bow,” he ordered. “Watch for ledges, and holler if you see anything of the sub.”
Obediently, the kids huddled at the bow and leaned over the rail. “You watch ahead,” said Spooky. “I’ll keep an eye out for ledges.”
Abby did as she was told but was unable to see anything in the fog, which seemed thicker than ever. To make matters worse, it was getting dark. She glanced at her watch. The sun would be down in another forty minutes.
The boat crept through the dangerous shallows at an agonizingly slow pace as Spooky, using his hands to gesture left or right, guided Hutch Swenson through the shoals at the foot of the falls. It was a masterful performance, and soon the boat broke through to open water. “We’re clear!” Spooky yelled. “Clear!”
Instantly, Hutch applied more throttle and the boat surged forward, its narrow bow gracefully parting the waves like a knife.
Chapter Four
Bean Runs Out of Time
For the next hour, the rugged craft crisscrossed Hurricane Reach, beginning close to the falls and, by degrees, making its way toward open ocean. By that time several lobster boats, which Hutch had summoned to the search on the marine radio, were tracing and retracing the broadening expanse of water. Using radar, GPS, and foghorns, they kept out of one
another’s way, their running lights making dim halos of red and green in the rising mist.
When the fog finally lifted, it was pitch dark. Searchlights and flashlights from the various vessels swept the Reach with dizzying shafts of light, but there was no sign of the little submarine. Nevertheless, the searchers kept on with grim determination.
Spooky and Ab, huddled by the steering console in survival jackets Hutch had given them to keep warm, watched helplessly and listened to the constant chatter of the rescuers on the radio.
“Hey!” said Spooky, jumping to his feet. “I just remembered something!”
“What is it?” Captain Carver asked. Abby was shocked by how tired and worn his eyes seemed in the feeble glow of the console lights.
“He’s got a radio!”
“Who does?” said Hutch.
“Bean! There’s a radio in the sub.”
The men exchanged worried glances. “That’s not good,” said Hutch.
“Why?” Abby asked, her anxiety amplified by the look on their faces.
Captain Carver stared straight ahead. “Because if he’s got a radio, and he hasn’t used it to contact us, it means . . .”
Abby didn’t want to know what it meant. “Maybe it’s broken,” she
suggested.
“No,” said Spooky, wedging himself excitedly between the Captain and Hutch at the console. He tapped the radio. “It’s set on a weird frequency.”
“What was it?” Captain Carver demanded, grabbing Spooky by the shoulders.
“I don’t remember,” said Spooky, wracking his brain, trying to visualize what he had seen in the sub. “It was twenty something . . . I think.”
“Twenty something?” said Hutch skeptically. “That don’t make any sense. Nobody ’round here monitors those channels except the Coast Guard.”
“It’s a carrier frequency,” Captain Carver said, hope rising in his voice. “Of course, I should have known. That’s what a sub would need to broadcast underwater. Quick!” He pushed Spooky out of the way and grabbed the handset. “Turn to twenty-three kilohertz.”
Hutch complied.
“Bean!” Captain Carver yelled into the handset. “Bean, do you copy?”
For a moment the annoying hiss of the radio continued unchanged. Then suddenly a faint voice responded. “Dad, is that you?”
“Bean!” his father cried, tears welling in his eyes. “Where are you?”
The reply was weak, the words barely loud enough to break through the white noise of the electronics.
“Shut her down,” Captain Carver commanded. Hutch cut the engine. A massive silence fell over the open boat as all ears focused on the little radio speaker. “Bean, say again,” Captain Carver barked into the handset. He released the talk button and listened. Once again the familiar voice crackled through the ether. It was still weak and distant, seeming to come from another universe or another time, but, in the absence of the overriding throb of the boat engine, the words were discernible.
“Dad, I’m okay.”
“Where are you?”
“On the bottom,” said Bean.
“Sounds like his batteries are weak,” said Hutch.
“Shh!” said Captain Carver. “Bean,” he snapped into the radio, “can you tell where you are? How deep?”
“Twenty feet,” came the reply. “I blew the ballast by mistake. I think I musta hit the lever with my knee when she went up on ’er side.”
Abby had been listening with her heart in her throat. She didn’t like the sound of Bean’s voice; it was weak and unsure.
The same thought must have occurred to Captain Carver. “Bean, do you have air?”
Again, there was a maddening delay before the reply. “Some, I guess. Not much.”
“Are you tired? Dizzy?”
“Yeah,” said Bean. “Dizzy.”
Captain Carver shot a glance at Hutch. “I was afraid of that. He’s running out of oxygen.”
“See if you can get a fix on ’im—find out where he is,” said Hutch. “I’ll call Mosey Brown and get ’im to bring his salvage barge over here. He’s got a crane that can bring ’er up, if we can just get some idea where he is. Mosey’s a diver, too.” Hutch pulled a cell phone from his pocket and made the call.
“Bean, we need to get a fix on your location.”
“I don’t know how,” said Bean.
Abby spoke up. “Twenty feet isn’t that deep, is it? Can’t he just open the hatch and swim out?”
“Even at twenty feet, the pressure would be too much,” Captain Carver replied. “Especially if he’s as weak as he sounds. I need someone who knows submarines.”
“Just a minute,” Hutch said into the phone. He lobbed a hopeful glance at Captain Carver. “I know a man over in South Thomaston who builds the things. Ten to one he built that one. His name’s Kittredge. Retired navy man. I’ll get through to ’im.”
Hutch finished giving orders to Mosey Brown and rang off. “Mosey’s on his way. It’ll take a good half hour.” Hutch punched another series of buttons on the number pad, got the number from directory assistance, and called Captain Kittredge.
Bean’s dad, meanwhile, continued to talk reassuringly to Bean, not just to keep his hopes up but to keep him alive. “Help’s on the way, Bean,” he said with a calmness that belied the worried look in his eyes. “But you’ve got to stay awake. Hear me? Stay awake. Do you copy?”
“Copy,” came the drowsy reply. “I’ll try.”
“You’ve got to do more than try, son. Breathe slowly. Hold each breath as long as you can to conserve air. Copy?”
“Roger that,” said Bean.
“Do you have light? Press your talk button twice for yes, once for no.”
Two distinct clicks crackled over the air.
“Good.”
Hutch handed Captain Carver the cell phone. “Captain Kittredge is on the line. I brought ’im up to speed. He says the sub is one of his. It was rented ’bout a week ago by a marine biologist and hasn’t been seen since.”
“Captain Kittredge, Captain Carver here,” he said. “Thanks for your help.”
“No problem,” said Captain Kittredge. “Listen, Captain, it’s going to be all right. The sub has redundant safety systems for situations like this. She’s a tough little fish.”
It must be, thought Captain Carver, to have survived the falls intact.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear it. But time is running out, I’m afraid. His air’s low.”
“First things first, then,” said Kittredge. “We’ve got to get the boy some oxygen. You’re in radio contact, right?”
“Roger that.”
“Good. Now, tell him to find the little red-handled lever under the seat, more or less to starboard.”
Captain Carver repeated the instructions to Bean. “Click twice when you’ve got it.”
Almost immediately the reassuring clicks followed.
“He’s got it,” Captain Carver said into the phone.
“Good,” Captain Kittredge said calmly. “It should be in the down
position. Have him push it forward as far as possible. That will release
air from the dive tanks into the sub.”
Bean followed his father’s instructions and was instantly rewarded with the hiss of life-giving air as it filled the compartment. Almost immediately his head felt clearer. Although he was still a little nauseated, relief coursed through him as he breathed deeply.
“Got it, Dad,” he said, his voice much stronger.
“That sounds more like my Bean!” Abby cried, jumping to her feet. For the first time, she felt hope. Things were going to be all right.
Captain Carver held up his hand to quiet her. He placed the phone next to his ear. “What next?”
“There are two things we can try,” said Kittredge. “First, once he’s got all the air he needs, have him push the lever aft as far as it will go. That will release air into the ballast chambers and should bring her up. If there’s enough air, that is.”
“And if there isn’t?”
“If that doesn’t work, he can release the lead ballast. That’ll bring
him up for sure, as long as he’s not caught on anything.”
Bean listened carefully to his father’s commands. Once he was breathing comfortably, he eased the lever back. Almost at once, the little sub
responded. The nose lifted slightly, then the stern, until the sub floated free of the mud.
A tense minute later, while those in the launch waited breathlessly, there was a chorus of horns and whistles from boats a quarter mile up the Reach as the sub gently broke the surface amidst a glaring network of searchlights.
No sooner had the hull breached the waves than the hatch on the conning tower flew open and Bean popped out like a jack-in-the-box, waving and smiling. But he was in trouble and he knew it. He’d probably be grounded for life, but at least he had a life to be grounded for.
Abby waited her turn while Bean was hauled aboard the launch. His father took him in his strong arms and held him so tightly he could hardly breathe, while Hutch and Spooky alternately slapped him on the back.
“What am I going to do with you, boy?” said Captain Carver at last, holding his son at arm’s length.
Bean shrugged. “Feed me, I hope,” he said. “I’m starvin’.”
Everyone laughed the tenuous laughter of relief. Only then did Abby realize she’d been crying again.
“Hey, Ab,” said Bean, freeing himself from his father’s grasp. He intended to give her a pat on the head or something, but before he could act she threw herself into his arms, dampening his shirt with her tears.
“Too bad, you come this far without even gettin’ wet,” said Spooky with a chuckle, “and now she’s gonna drown ya.”
Next morning, once again, the misadventures of Bean, Ab, and Spooky were the talk of the town.
“Yessa,” said Drew Meescham, owner of the hardware store, as he emptied a box of twelve-penny nails into a metal bin. “A midget submarine, they call it. Built right over in South Thomaston. They sell ’em all over the world, they do, to marine researchers and whatnot.”
“You mean to say them kids took ’er out of Indian Creek through the Race when the tide was runnin’?” said Oakey Miller in disbelief. “It’s a wonder they wasn’t stove to pieces on them rocks.”