Isle Royale by John Hamilton Page B

impending doom. Ben redoubled his efforts, forcing the oars to dig hard into the foaming water. His muscles, which despite his age were wrapped around his arms and shoulders like bands of steel, trembled now in protest.
    The waters rose up, as if sensing prey. Ben miscalculated his timing and nearly swamped when a whitecap broke over the side. Just when it looked like the Lady would swallow Ben’s boat for sure, the vessel rounded a hidden point and disappeared from view, leaving the great inland sea to thrash and boil in frustration.

Chapter Eleven

    T wo shadowy figures crossed the windswept compound. Above them on the cliff, the lighthouse, its Cyclops eye shining bright, stood vigil in the face of the approaching storm.
    Ian and Sally, huddled under heavy raincoats, walked quickly toward the woods at the edge of the clearing.
    “This is crazy,” said Sally, teeth chattering, her body shivering at the cold wind blowing through the loosely fitting mackintosh.
    “Come on,” said Ian, leading the way. “It’ll be fun.”
    “Right. Fun. Spying on bootleggers in the middle of the night, in a storm. Yeah, fun.” As if in response, a clap of thunder echoed against the cliffs.
    At the edge of the dark woods, where the path leading down to the shore began, Ian lit a small kerosene lamp. The ever-increasing wind blew his matches out several times, but once the lamp was lit he moved on, down the trail. Sally hurried to catch up. “This is crazy,” she muttered.
    The pair disappeared into the thick woods, swallowed by the blackness.

    The fishing boat that had earlier shuttled LeBeck and his men from the black yacht now bumped up against the dock once again. Two men jumped out and secured the boat with heavy lines, though it continued knocking against the pier from the force of the churning lake, even in the protected waters of the cove.
    A gang of men poured from the boat and headed for the group of thugs camped out on the beach. When all was secure, another figure stepped onto the dock, then moved swiftly over the dark ground toward the stack of cargo on shore. A Tommy gun dangled down, held by a silver hook.

    At the edge of the clearing that comprised the beach area, a bush rustled. Two hands reached out and parted the foliage, revealing Ian and Sally, peering out at the shoreline. The barrels of liquor, which were stacked high just off the dock, partially obscured their view, but they could see some kind of gathering taking place.
    “Better snuff the light,” said Ian.
    Sally, who now held the lamp, quickly extinguished it. She’d insisted on carrying the light, if only to keep Ian from rushing on too far ahead of her. “What are they doing?” she whispered, leaning forward and squinting in a vain attempt to see through the murky night. All she could make out was the figure of Jean LeBeck gesturing wildly at his men. One of the thugs stood off a bit from the rest. He looked frightened, edging toward the shoreline, his back toward the water.
    “What’s that in LeBeck’s hand?” Sally asked.
    Suddenly, LeBeck opened up with his Tommy gun, its staccato beat exploding over the sand. LeBeck’s target, the man edging away from the group, screamed and did a macabre dance of death before finally sinking to the sand. LeBeck strode toward the corpse and aimed downward. Fire spewed from the muzzle of the gun as he shot off another burst at point-blank range.
    “Oh, crap!” said Ian.
    Sally, wide eyed, her hands covering her mouth, got up to flee, but Ian grabbed her arm and pulled her back down.

    On the beach, LeBeck looked up at the rest of his men, who stood there silently. “So,” he said. “Who’s my next bodyguard?” The men looked nervously at each other. There were no volunteers.
    “You there,” LeBeck barked, gesturing toward a large fellow standing close by. The unfortunate hood gestured as if to say, “Who, me?” LeBeck tossed him the Tommy gun.
    “Don’t worry,” LeBeck said. “Just make damn