“The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.” – Mark Twain

Prologue

At St. Margaret’s Episcopal Church, the pallbearers had been called forward after the closed casket funeral, taking their places on either side of the coffin. None of the pallbearers was particularly fit, and beads of sweat were forming on the hairlines, or where their hairlines would have been if they had any remaining tufts of hair to show. Each of the men waited nervously to be told when to lift the ornate wooden coffin of their somewhat distant relative, pulling on their suit coat sleeves and collars, or shifting uneasily from one foot and then the other. They glanced from the long bronze handles that they would soon be lifting to their wives or significant others sitting in the pews, and smiled weakly. 

At the head of the remaining congregants, the priest and the funeral director processed out, down the sanctuary center aisle, with the immediate family in tow and everyone else trailing behind. The assistant funeral director pushed the rolling cart from behind, until they reached the steps at the front of the church. There was no ramp as the church had been built long before ideas like handicap accessibility became the norm and the only option for the coffin was to walk it gingerly down the stairs. Inside the sanctuary, the church’s organist played something dramatically sad and soulful, drawing out a hymn until it sounded like it might last for days, while the rest of the funeral guests crowded behind the rolling cart in the narthex.

“Everyone, stand in. Grab the handle. Ready. Lift,” intoned the director, standing just ahead of the pallbearers. At the bottom of the stairs, the priest stood off to the side, giving the pallbearers a shorter, clear path to the back of the hearse. He had done a funeral every week since arriving at St. Margaret’s, and he could have given the pallbearers the instructions by heart. On one occasion, he had even had to step in as a pallbearer, when the deceased’s friends and family failed to show up in force for the funeral. 

Remembering the experience with a grimace, the priest dabbed at sweat forming on the tip of his overly large nose. Sliding off his glasses, he ran his handkerchief over his bald head and bushy eyebrows, using it as an excuse to mask the deep sigh that rattled through him. He glanced surreptitiously at his Apple watch and saw that the service had not lasted as long as he had feared. The deceased had been successful in business, but wasn’t particularly well loved by his family, given that he had spent more time at the office than at home. At the same time, his entrepreneurial efforts had netted the family the range of automobiles and homes that they had grown accustomed to enjoying, while making a sizable end of the year donation to the parish that the priest knew funded half of the budget. 

The priest heard the funeral director clear his throat, and stuffed the handkerchief away in the folds of his clothing. As he replaced his lenses, he blinked at the sun overhead, realizing that the feeling in the pit of his stomach was hunger. With any luck, he’d be back from the cemetery in time to catch a bite or two of the reception that would kick off shortly in the fellowship hall. Hopefully, the women in charge of bereavement had remembered his dietary needs, and there would be something gluten free on the menu. 

Everything had in fact progressed perfectly, if not slowly, at the funeral of Richard Simon Culcutter IV, for everyone except maybe Culcutter, who had passed away while on a cruise up the Eastern coast of the continental United States. Culcutter was one of the few folks in town who the priest had found genuinely unlikable, and his death on the cruise had easily morphed into the butt of jokes around the town. When your family made no move to speak on your behalf at the funeral, it was never a good sign.

The priest figured it wasn’t entirely Culcutter’s fault, as he had been born into money and had seen the town shrink even as Culcutter’s family invested more and more money in the town’s upkeep. While he hadn’t enjoyed the pompous man’s company, he did realize that the man deserved the appropriate ceremony due the transition to the next life. Sure, it had taken over a week for his body to be brought back to the continental United States, and then shipped to his home in this landlocked state. But the funeral director and the priest had worked hard to make sure that this day would be a day that the family would remember as an uplifting one, celebrating the life of their patriarch. 

Drawing a deep breath, the priest watched as the first pallbearers stepped down from the top step to the second and then the third. 

And then everything went sideways, literally. 

Culcutter’s grandnephew, Bertrand Richard Culcutter, a large man in his own right who had given up his gym membership several beer bellies ago, caught the heel of his overly ornate expensive dress shoe on the railing of the church steps. Dressed in clothes that had been en vogue twenty years (and thirty pounds) ago, the grandnephew of the dead man could barely breathe in the outfit he was sure his own wife would bury him in out of spite. 

Young Bertrand stopped, temporarily, but the rest of the pallbearers did not, weighed down as they were by Culcutter’s expensive coffin and Culcutter himself, plus the combination of momentum and gravity and an overall lack of upper body strength. Suddenly, the coffin was hung up, and then falling at the same time, with two steps left to go until the flat pavement. 

The coffin of Richard Simon Culcutter IV slammed head first at an angle into the pavement of the church’s parking lot, as several pallbearers now tripped, fell, or collapsed under the unbalanced weight. In the assistant director’s hurry to leave the incredibly lengthy service to get to the cemetery and to keep the gruff old attendant there named Bert from fussing at him, one of the latches on the coffin had not been completely closed. On impact, the coffin of Culcutter IV creaked and groaned, splintering as the lid popped open. 

The aforementioned reception crowd gasped, as parents tried to turn their children away from the tragedy and Culcutter’s widow fainted into the arms of her equally ill-prepared sister-in-law. As Culcutter’s abandoned body, fully dressed as demanded in his beach attire, flew through the air, the funeral director briefly thought about firing the assistant director before realizing that he would probably never do a funeral in town ever again. But no one reacted quite as theatrically as the Episcopal priest who was doused in white powder from the other contents in the coffin. Because as the coffin had opened, several large plastic bags of questionable substance had flung up in the air with Culcutter’s swimsuit-clad body, and exploded after being dashed to bits on the pavement in front of the unsuspecting priest. 

Covered in white powder, and feeling suddenly elated, the priest would require several hours to understand exactly what had happened. Someone from the back of the line who hadn’t inhaled any of the powder called for medical support, realizing that the folks outside were going to require some attention. The medical first responders in turn called the local law enforcement, who arrived in time to deal with a variety of emotionally-charged funeral goers. Attempting to interview them proved to be worthless given their state of exuberance or panic, depending on the powder’s impact on the individual. 

No one could pacify the widow Culcutter and she was finally sedated and taken home. The reception was better attended than anyone expected, as folks who had skipped the funeral turned up just to get firsthand accounts of what had happened that day. And finally, putting two and two together, the local constable contacted federal authorities about the illegal substances that someone had tried smuggling from somewhere in the coffin of Richard Simon Culcutter IV, God rest his soul. 

1

Red O’Rourke knew the history of Tranquility Island. He knew it like the proverbial back of his hand. O’Rourke’s hands were gigantic, formed by hard work and intense drive, generated through his time on and around various ships. Like the rest of his body, O’Rourke’s hands were strong and lean, and weathered by sun and wind. He caught the reflection of himself in the mirrored panel behind the grandfather clock in the dim light, and momentarily reflected on the scars that featured on his face and exposed neck. 

Each of the scars told a story, most of which O’Rourke was not inclined to share with any other breathing soul. He’d seen too much and done too much to want to revisit the moment by sharing it with someone else. This could’ve been a healthy boundary-making decision, but for O’Rourke, it was simply because the wounds beneath the scars cut too deeply into his being. No, just because he wouldn’t share the stories didn’t mean that O’Rourke could  leave the history in the past; he couldn’t seem to move ahead to make the present – or a new history – that mattered. The past was littered with too many mistakes, too many skeletons, too many scars that had never healed up correctly. 

In his late sixties, O’Rourke rose from his armchair and called out to his dogs, Poseidon and Neptune. Large dogs chosen because of their ability to intimidate, these two were harmless to O’Rourke and anyone who was welcome in his mansion on the island, but potentially fatal for anyone who breached the house looking for trouble. In thirty-plus consecutive years of living on the island, no one had ever threatened him on the property, but he’d always felt more comfortable with dogs like these two “sea gods” on hand. They jumped up from their spots by the hearth, and silently stood at his side. He patted each gently on the head, one of the few signs of affection he employed, but neither dog stirred. 

The walk out to the back of the mansion was short, and the dogs sniffed and trotted around him. They were massive and imposing, but next to O’Rourke’s sizable figure, they were still dwarfed by his giant steps. He looked out to sea and saw one of the cruise ships that he knew was headed their way, and shook his head. Some first mate had calculated incorrectly and the ship had arrived a day or two early, probably cutting short some tourist group’s stay in Nova Scotia. Back in his day as captain, he would’ve served up the walking papers to that mate for this mistake. Captains today were getting soft. 

Over the trees to his right, the lighthouse’s top level could be seen poking above the pines. Its light shone out to sea, no longer quite necessary but still a traditional mark of the island and one that needed to be maintained. O’Rourke knew from his days on the ships that there was no way to reach the lighthouse by sea, because the only remaining dock was on the long side of the island opposite from the mansion. Too soon, that dock and the Main Street that was situated above it would be overrun with tourists coming to see the whales as they migrated. The seasonal shops were already prepped and ready for the influx of people and money that came with the Annual Migration. It was one of O’Rourke’s joys in his youth, but now it just served up a few weeks of bothersome tourists. He’d once appreciated the arrival of new people with new stories, but now he saw the next two weeks as a nuisance of reflux-inducing proportions. 

The former ship captain shook his head. Why was he so cynical about business brought to the island? It’s what he had worked on for most of his adult life, after leaving the cruise ships for good. He knew the island needed it, that people needed it. The few times of year where the cruise ships arrived provided up to fifty percent of the regular income for most of the islanders. They wouldn’t survive if the whales somehow started to migrate farther away, which seemed like a possibility if global warming continued to take its toll. Tranquility wouldn’t survive without the cruise ships. 

Wiping sea mist from his thick mustache, O’Rourke pulled his hat tighter on his head as a breeze blew up from the water and over the cliff. A reddish lock bobbed with the breeze, and he tucked it inside of his hat. His appearance had once been a source of his pride, but it had been years since he’d really taken any time to care about his looks. He looked up toward the second story and thought about what his sister would think of all of this, and a tear rolled down his leathery cheek. 

Off the end of the mansion and closer to the center of the island, he saw a light in Dr. Steinman’s cabin through the haze. The man must’ve been up and working on something, but O’Rourke didn’t care enough to go and check on him. Steinman had always been useful to the ex-captain, but he knew the two didn’t have much in common. Steinman had his own responsibilities and O’Rourke did, too, even if people didn’t really know what he did anymore. There was plenty to be done, and never enough time to do it. That was the real irony: O’Rourke never felt like he had enough time, but it always felt like he was sitting and waiting for life to catch up to him, for better or worse. 

Whistling for the dogs, O’Rourke took one last look over the stone stairs that led down to the little cove below the mansion. He was past the days of fishing and swimming at night, but he still liked the way that the cove created a little cauldron at high tide and ebbed away for something calmer in between. He knew why his father had picked this spot to plant his flag and stake his claim. It was not for the faint of heart, but just by surviving here, for this long, it showed there was some strength to the O’Rourke name. 

Wincing at a tinge from an old battle wound in his knee, the last remaining O’Rourke male patted the two dogs on the head and limped back to the front of the mansion, past the fountain to the front door. Heading inside, he found that the cook and housekeeper Carol had left a steaming cup of tea on the mantle for him, with just a hint of lemon. She knew what he liked, and fancied that she knew what he needed, too. She was one of the last remnants of what had been his father’s business model, and she continued to serve the younger O’Rourke well. 

Begrudgingly, O’Rourke smiled. Life wasn’t always what you wanted but somedays it was passable. If he could get to the bottom of the island’s latest problem, maybe things would be better than they had been lately. He doubted everything could be fixed, but with his remaining time, he would at least try. It was something he could wrap his mind around, unlike the various consequences from his own mistakes over time. Those problems couldn’t be undone by hard work or just getting through them, and O’Rourke figured that they would never change. He sipped from the steaming cup without tasting anything, and lost himself in a tangle of memories as he stared out of the window. 

2

It was late at night or early in the morning depending on one’s perspective when Agent Moore of the Drug Enforcement Agency received a curt text from the special agent in charge. “It’s go time.” 

While the SAC was especially inclined to the dramatic, Agent Moore knew that the time had come to visit the island of Tranquility off of the coast of the New England mainland. Something was amiss on the island, and the DEA had decided it was time to put a pair of boots on the ground. Agent Moore had not predicted that the moment of conviction for the SAC would be one o’clock in the morning, but that was the time the message came and that meant it was time to get to the island. Moore figured the SAC had waited until now to convey marching orders that could’ve been shared the day before. 

Packing a few additional items into the go bag as part of the cover story, Agent Moore sat at the little breakfast nook that doubled as a kitchen table in the tiny apartment and sipped on a cup of coffee, black with sugar. Moore’s whole life felt like it had been leading up to this moment, an opportunity to prove once and for all that the decision to go into law enforcement was neither a mistake nor foolish. Against all odds, and definitively oppositional to the parents’ hopes and dreams, Agent Moore would be undertaking the first real case of a career that thus far had included years of book learning and practical application inside of cubicles up and down the East coast, and had led to exactly zero villains incarcerated. In fact, for the SAC to send Moore to Tranquility, it meant that he didn’t expect there would be anything too exciting to the investigation, because otherwise he would’ve sent a more seasoned investigator.

Proving that Agent Moore could work undercover would be a significant gem in the proverbial crown, the agent thought, sipping more of the steaming hot beverage. There would be no sleep now, and the next step was to drive several hours east before taking a ferry ride to Tranquility. Moore was to make contact with a retired law enforcement officer on the island, as well as the confidential informant who had come forward with information about drugs being transported by way of the island. Moore didn’t think there would be much to do while on the island other than gather information, but the ladder rungs weren’t easy to climb and this provided an opportunity. 

Without much of a real picture for what was happening and no hope of finding out more without being in the middle of the action, Agent Moore tried to separate facts from fiction while looking through the report, including the feelings of anxiety that threatened to bring the coffee back up from Moore’s gurgling stomach. Acid boiled and Moore poured the rest of the pot into the sink, put out food for the cat, and checked one last time to make sure that all of the major appliances were unplugged. Who knew how long this particular jaunt would take, and the cat would be fine as long as nothing caught on fire. Moore figured to be back in the apartment in under seventy-two hours either way. 

Locking the door, Agent Moore threw the necessary belongings into the backseat of the car and climbed in. The car took a few minutes to warm up, and in the meantime, Moore checked the weather for Tranquility. Things looked mild for the next few days, but meteorologists warned that an intense storm was blowing in. Great, thought the agent, another wrinkle and I didn’t even pack a raincoat. 

Oh well, Moore said silently, it can’t be that bad out there, can it?

3

The travelers arrived at the ferry to Tranquility Island from different directions and by various means of travel, with the residue fog darkening the sky around them. They came bleary-eyed and yawning, having traveled some distance to the out of the way dock that was their only path to the island. One family, complete with a screaming toddler and enough luggage for a three-week trip to the beach, pulled up in a weighed-down, decade’s old SUV and deposited a mountain of possessions on the dock. The harried mother tried to calm the toddler down with an assortment of snacks and finally settled on an entire Hershey’s chocolate bar that sent the little boy into a cheery food coma of sorts. The father took his time parking the car in a distant spot, meandering on his way back to the dock, willing to give himself time away from the tiresome little boy. The man appeared to be a gentle giant, favoring his right leg, no doubt injured during his college football days. When he arrived on the dock, his burdened wife took a few deep breaths before turning her ire at him, and shoving the chocolate-painted child in his direction. 

Two elderly women helped each other around the potholes and carried their bundles of purchases over to the dock. They whispered quietly to each other, and took turns staring at the little boy who was now covered from ear to ear in melted chocolate. Their tones were clearly disapproving and the mother felt their gaze burning holes in her windbreaker, which still bore the price tag and various stickers about its rain repellant promises and weather-proofed capabilities. The date for this excursion had slipped up on her as she tried to balance family life, a full time job, and finishing up her degree in fitness management at the local four-year school. She had been solely responsible for navigating the trip from their home to the ferry, after spending all night packing enough clothes and entertainment for the toddler. She’d forgotten her makeup bag, and was worried that she hadn’t packed a second set of shoes for the toddler if they were soaked with rain or ocean water. Somehow, this trip wasn’t going the way that the mother had expected, and the ferry couldn’t pull away soon enough. 

A single woman arrived in the middle of everyone else, parking in the back of the lot and backing her Tesla into a compact space. Sharply dressed, she had her wavy brown hair tucked back in a thick braid, her eyes hidden behind a pair of designer sunglasses. She’d slung her oversized purse over one shoulder, and pulled a sturdy bit of luggage that rolled behind her, bumbling over the gravel parking lot. She appeared to be focused on her mission, and nothing that she had encountered dissuaded her from her progression forward. Arriving at the dock, she checked her watch with an air of annoyance, finally looking up to survey the rest of the passengers waiting for the ferry. Making eye contact with the two elderly women, she realized that they were hoping she’d join them in judging the mother and her chocolate-inflected child. Instead of staring, the newest arrival unfolded her newspaper and went about solving the daily crossword puzzle, one long legged cuff bouncing above her other crossed foot. 

A few locals arrived, too, pulling their cars into reserved spots and hopping out. There were young and old, singles and groups of three or more. They arrived without any fanfare and casually made their way up onto the dock. The ones who were clearly regulars on the ferry greeted each other with smiles and pats on the back, asking how the weekend away from the island had gone and inquiring about family members that had been visited on the mainland. 

A few of the locals had satchels of groceries and other purchases made on the mainland in various bundles. One of them, clearly an islander with an eye for fine wines and other beverages, showed up pushing a shopping cart full of bottles of various shapes and sizes. He was greeted by another local, who attempted to slip one of the bottles out of the cart before getting cuffed on the side of the head and slinking away. Another arrival loaded a set of boxes onto the back of the ferry and with the help of the first mate, lashed the boxes to the back of the ship. The boxes were all marked fragile, and first mate told someone that he would be setting up an old fashioned photography studio for the next two weeks. Some of the younger islanders came to the dock with duffle bags of dirty clothes, while others seemed to have rolled straight out of bed in their only available outfit. They clearly saw the ferry ride as old hat, and didn’t seem at all in a hurry, instead crowding onto the benches around the out-of-towners and continuing their conversations as if the others weren’t there. 

Most of the locals visited the little snack shop on the dock. The proprietor was long and lanky, with stringy blonde hair that burst in all directions from underneath a hat he’d planted backward on his head. He had already put in an effort as the first mate on the ferry, mixing with the passengers more than the captain, who largely stayed to himself. Middle aged and without much meat to his bones, the captain absent-mindedly scratched at an old anchor tattoo on his left forearm and gruffly met the requests of the passengers who ordered food and drink. 

The first mate provided hot drinks like coffee, tea, and hot chocolate, as long as the passengers could stand the taste of the third using hot water not milk, and the possibility that the water itself had a bit of a coffee aftertaste. There were soft pretzels, popcorn, nuts, and on a good day, hot dogs, boiled of course. Simple condiments available were salt, pepper, mustard, and ketchup. Nothing about the snack shop was frilly, and should have warned newcomers to the ferry as a foretaste of what was to come aboard the ramshackle boat. But the newcomers treated the whole experience like a day at the amusement park, unaware of the voyage they were about to take. 

Scheduled to depart at noon, the ferry left whenever the captain said it did. He was the one puttering around with a basket of tools in the engine room now, then picking up some trash that had been left over after the ferry’s last run out to the island. He was a curmudgeon of a medium build, with a rough beard and hair that crashed out from underneath his captain’s hat into his eyes. He neither made eye contact nor looked away from the passengers awaiting his services on the dock, solely fixated on the ferry itself. He wore a weatherproof set of overalls on top of his dri-fit long sleeve turtleneck, and looked like he was just as used to being left outside overnight as the ferry he piloted out to the island. His clothes were worn but not old, and he seemed completely unflustered by the crowd that was rallying around him, crowding closer and closer to the ferry. 

The first mate was closing up the snack shop now, apologizing to the mother who had taken too long to decide what to feed her little rotund ball of fury next. She was frustrated but refused to succumb to any cross response or meanness toward the snack shop. She sighed, and glanced down at the boy, who was clearly craving his next snack. To no avail, she asked for each item on the shop’s placard, met only by a shake of the head to the negative. 

The mate had already run out of hot coffee and hot dogs, with the influx of a group of eight tourists who were decidedly on a spontaneous jaunt out to the island. They had accents from some landlocked state, and the first mate knew it would be a matter of time before he saw their hot dogs again, most likely on the deck of the ferry. Too many of the visitors from the mainland had never been aboard a boat before, and the passage to the island was not the smoothest. 

Apologizing again to the mother of the young boy, the first mate pulled the hatch down and locked up the snack shop. He stepped out of the side door and locked it behind him. Glancing at the parking lot, the first mate realized that tell-tale drops of rain were falling intermittently, and he had not rolled up his windows. He jogged over to the beat up jalopy and secured the windows, before leaning back against the car to enjoy a last-minute smoke. 

On the ferry, the captain gave him the high sign, and the first mate started the process of getting the passengers to present him with their tickets and stow their luggage in the storage space. A minor ruckus broke out when it was discovered that the stroller for the toddler proved to be more difficult to get stowed away on board the ferry than initially predicted. The captain stomped over to where the first mate was trying, unsuccessfully, to push the stroller into a way-too-narrow storage space, ripped it away from him and threatened to throw it overboard. 

Cooler heads prevailed, and the stroller was finally strapped down on the roof of the ferry’s cabin, much to the irritation of the mother who found out that she’d have to corral the little guy herself throughout the trip over to the island. She threw up her hands and said some choice words under her breath, before attempting to get the little boy settled. This lasted a few seconds before the boy bolted across the bench to his father and threw his hands up in the air. The father simply sighed and held the toddler, and the first mate moved on to the other passengers, content to get away from the toddler and his chocolate-coated fingers. 

Everything appeared set for departure moments later, and the first mate and captain had finished untying the ferry to the dock. The captain gruffly asked everyone to be momentarily seated while they got underway, assuring them that they would not need to stay seated during their hour-long voyage to the island. It was never a pleasant fix to fish a passenger out of the drink, whether they were leaning too far over and unsteady, or balanced precariously on a bench trying to get one last camera shot of the departure. The captain received the thumbs up from the first mate who had assessed the different groups of passengers, and pulled back on the throttle. White bubbles gurgled up behind the aged ferry, and a few of the visitors muttered prayers as the engine rumbled beneath them.

A panicked voice called out from the parking lot, and the passengers turned with the crew to watch as a young man in a dark suit began to sprint across the gravel toward them. He carried a simple duffle bag over his shoulder, and it wasn’t clear exactly where he had come from. But he held a ticket aloft in one hand as he ran, stumbling toward the dock, calling out for the ferry to please wait for him amidst apologies for his tardiness. The young man managed to get abreast of the ferry as it was nearly clear of the dock, and launched himself off of one foot into the deck of the ferry. Falling more so than jumping, the newest arrival was a tangle of arms and legs.

The first mate went to check on him, untangling him from the group of tourists who he’d crashed into upon his arrival. No one seemed injured by the late arrival, and the young man’s pleasant apologies were well received. The mate checked the ticket and saw that in fact, the young man was an intended passenger on that trip to the island. Given his incredible effort to join them, he saw no reason to expel him from the ferry, even if that last minute arrival might have been deemed unacceptable boarding. The captain scowled, and sucked harder on his pipe, before turning back to steer the ferry away from the mainland. 

Addressing the latest passenger, the first mate assessed the man’s suit, and deemed him some sort of professional headed out for employment on the island. Having lived in the area for his entire adult life, the crewman knew the man’s attire would quickly change on the laidback island. Shaking his head, he directed the new passenger to the back of the boat, and went to check on the other passengers. 

The young man slid into an empty seat along the stern of the ferry, and put his head back, staring up at the sky. The other passengers were still looking in amazement at him, wondering what had made him so desperate to get onto the ferry in the first place, and admiring the determination to follow through. He nodded curtly to them when realizing that they were staring at him, but he said nothing, finally closing his eyes. Before too long, the man had fallen asleep, lulled by the rhythmic movement of the waves and the thrumming of the ferry engine as it pulled away from the mainland. 

If only, wished the other passengers, the toddler would’ve fallen asleep, too. 

Section 2 (Chapters 4-6) coming March 1!