LeBeck heard men screaming all around him, and for a brief moment he was certain he was back in the trenches of France, battling the Huns. Then a cannon shot exploded on the beach behind him, rocking the earth and snapping him back to reality. LeBeck stiffened his arm and aimed at the
Chippewa
, raising the muzzle high and hoping to pick off a stray sailor or two. Then he spied Ian running across the deck and leaping into the water.
“It’s that bastard kid!” he exclaimed to a frightened thug standing next to him. LeBeck tucked his pistol in his waistband, then ran toward the water. He stopped at the shoreline and cursed. The boy was out of pistol range, swimming parallel to the beach, toward the cliffs on the other side of the harbor.
LeBeck ran up the beach, following Ian and keeping him in his sights. Twice the teenager disappeared under the water as huge waves crashed down on him. LeBeck was sure he’d been sucked under and drowned, but each time the boy resurfaced, sputtering water, then continued his frantic swim toward the cliffs.
LeBeck continued running parallel to Ian, then was forced to stop when the beach came to an abrupt end at the base of the sheer granite cliff of Wolf Point. Ian swam past, into the roiling waters that crashed against the rocks.
LeBeck, his hand bunched into a fist, veins sticking out of his neck in rage, shouted after Ian, but his voice was drowned out by the howling wind. He raised his eyes skyward in anger, then froze. High above him, perched silently on the cliff, was the darkened lighthouse.
Sally, Ben, and Clarence stood at the deck rail, watching in disbelief as Ian swam away from the
Chippewa
, heading for the murderous cliffs on the other side of the harbor. Sally took a step back. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. She felt the wind tugging at her small frame, urging her on, then glanced toward the bridge to see Ian’s mother banging on the glass, her mouth contorted in a scream. Sally turned back and saw the adults standing there, immobile.
Sally blinked twice, then wound up and hit Ben hard on the arm. “What are you waiting for?”
Ben came out of his stupor as if he’d been jolted by electricity. Holding a bloody rag to his head, he marched toward the bow, rallying his crew. “To battle lads! To battle!”
A mighty roar went up among the sailors. Seeing their wounded captain striding up and down the burning deck, cutlass waving in the air, whipped them into a frenzy. They swarmed over the deck rail, jeering down at the gangsters circling in their boats.
The bow gunner, cackling through the gap-toothed grin sprouting from his skull, let loose another volley. An enemy boat just off the port bow exploded amid a hailstorm of debris.
More boats appeared on the starboard side, gangsters blasting away with Tommy guns. In response, a dozen ancient sailors swung down from ropes tied to the deck rail. Agile as monkeys, knives gripped in their mouths, silver hair flowing behind them, the men dropped barefoot onto the decks of the enemy ships, growling and coiled, ready to spring. Like toothless, wild-eyed devils, they drew their cutlasses and engaged the enemy in hand-to-hand combat. Most of the gangsters gave up readily, shocked into submission by the assault from the maniacal old salts. Those who fought were quickly run through with cold steel, or forced overboard into the stormy black water.
Ben, his face smeared with soot and blood, ran up and down the deck, directing his men. He waved to his helmsman on the bridge deck, gesturing for him to steer the ship directly for the dock. Time to storm the beach, Ben decided, come hell or high water, and damn the torpedoes! The helmsman acknowledged his captain, gritted his teeth, then steered the
Chippewa
directly into the path of one of the smaller boats, crushing it under the weight of the giant paddlewheel steamer.
Ben felt the impact in his teeth and bones, shuddered at the crunch of wood on wood, then steadied himself as the
Chippewa
made its run for the dock.
Ian swam hard, making for the cliff-face directly under the lighthouse. The water was shockingly cold. The instant he’d hit the surface of the lake he thought his heart had stopped beating; his skin felt as if electric eels where writhing over him. Then, a huge adrenaline surge coursed through his veins. Ian felt his heart smashing against his ribs. He sliced through the water and swam for his life. A huge wave smashed down on him, threatening to pull him under for good, but after a few terrifying moments he popped back to the surface, gasping for air. He made a frenzied push through the water, trying to reach the rocks before the next wave struck.
He almost made it.
Ian barely reached the slippery boulders at the base of the cliff, his outstretched fingers scrabbling for a firm grip, when another breaker hurled down on him. Ian’s brain refused to register what was happening. He was dimly aware of a mountain of foam enveloping him, the sound of a freight train from hell roaring through his head. His body slammed into something hard. Then he felt an awful tugging, as if the devil himself were trying to drag him down to the depths of Superior.
When the wave subsided, Ian found himself clinging to a lone pine tree growing right out of the granite wall. It was a witch’s pine, as they called it on the island, no more than a foot long, with only a few gnarled branches protruding from the rock. Without pausing to think, Ian grunted and threw himself against the cliff wall, trying to get a handhold on the sharp granite. Another wave crashed over him, nearly sweeping him off his perch, but somehow he managed to hang on once again.
Gasping for breath, Ian scrambled up the jagged cliff face. The climb seemed agonizingly slow as he battled the wind and the waves, until at last he cleared the crashing water below.
Ian craned his neck upward. Twenty feet directly above him, flapping against the cliff in the roaring wind, was the frayed end of the rope he’d used to climb down the previous day. Ian gritted his teeth and pulled himself up. The cliff at this point rose sharply, becoming more sheer, with less footholds. Ian slipped once, but stopped his fall by snaring a rock outcropping. He cried out in pain as blood streamed off his gashed hand. Then he cursed. The blood would make the climb more slippery, as if the wind and rain didn’t make it difficult enough. Ian twisted his neck around and peered out onto the lake. He couldn’t see the freighter, but he knew it was there, speeding headlong for the jagged rocks.
“Damn you, LeBeck!” Ian shouted with fury, his Scottish brogue laid on thick. The anger brought him strength, and he hauled himself farther up the granite wall, commanding his muscles to move. He looked up and saw the end of the rope, flapping just out of reach. With a huge burst of energy, he leapt up and out, totally committing himself. If he missed his target, he’d be dashed on the rocks below and dragged to his death by the waves.
He did not miss.
Ian snared the rope with both hands, then hung on for dear life as the wind slammed him into the cliff. He felt his head smash against the rock. He saw stars dance in front of his eyes, but through desperation summoned up a strength he never realized he possessed, something deep in his soul, and managed to retain his grip on the rope. His hands were numb with cold, but he locked his fingers tight, squeezing with every ounce of energy. He finally swung his legs around and got himself planted against the cliff, feeling warm blood oozing down where the granite slashed the bottoms of his bare feet. Then, battling the wind and rain, his hands slipping on the slick rope, certain he would be struck by lightning at any moment, Ian began the long, painful climb to the cliff top high above.
Down in the harbor, the gangsters broke rank and began a hasty retreat. The remaining boats turned tail and headed for the open lake, preferring to take their chances with the storm than challenge the
Chippewa
any longer. The thugs on shore scattered into the woods as the huge sidewheel steamer approached the dock. As the ship loomed closer, the bow cannon spat fire once again. Barrels of liquor stacked high on the sand exploded, sending hundreds of gallons of whiskey cascading over the rocks and into the lake. The deck gun fired again, causing more barrels to disintegrate.
The helmsman carefully maneuvered the ship closer, reversing the engines at just the right time, causing the bow to gently nudge the very end of the dock, as close as he dared take the ship. Several old sailors gave a war cry and swung down from ropes onto the dock. They drew their cutlasses and scampered off into the woods, in hot pursuit of the fleeing gangsters.
Captain Ben crouched on deck, aiming his spyglass up toward the darkened lighthouse. “Come on, lad. Hurry.”
Two hands came over the lip of the granite cliff, white knuckles gripping the rope that was anchored on the tree growing near the ledge. Ian’s face appeared, contorted with pain and fatigue, the veins on his neck popping from the strain of pulling himself up the slippery rope. He grunted and forced his arms to lift one more time, finally hauling himself over the edge to safety. Ian flopped onto his back, lying there on the cold, wet grass for a brief moment, his chest heaving, blood pounding in his temples. Suddenly, a blast of wind and rain slapped him in the face, causing him to roll over and crouch on his hands and knees. He felt the urge to vomit then, but held it down. Plenty of time to be sick later.
Ian staggered to his feet, then stole a glance down toward the lake. His heart skipped a beat as the clouds parted for a moment, revealing the running lights of the freighter still closing fast on the jagged rocks, not much more than a mile out now.
Ian turned, his eyes quickly scanning the lighthouse compound for signs of life; it was completely deserted. Lightning exploded overhead, causing Ian to jump backward. His foot slipped on the edge of the cliff, but he quickly regained his balance. A harsh laugh escaped his throat. Funny to make it all this way, just to be scared to death. Ian clenched his fists, then made a mad dash for the disabled lighthouse.
The run across the lawn was maddeningly slow. Ian slipped and fell twice, unsure whether to blame the rain-slick grass or the blood coating his bare feet. Finally, he reached the sitting room at the base of lighthouse. He reached out and practically wrenched the door off its hinges.
Ian strode in, passed through the dark sitting room to the interior of the base of the lighthouse, making directly for the clock mechanism, his way lit only by the flashing of lightning overhead. As he suspected, the gangsters had allowed the gears to wind completely down. Ian quickly wound the clock springs, watching as the counterweights rose toward the ceiling. He paid no attention to the wind howling through the entryway behind him, the door thumping madly against the brick wall.
After several seconds, he decided it was enough for now. He stopped winding and stepped back, then watched the gears as they began their seesaw movement. He heard a soft whirring, coupled with a grinding from up above as the prism in the lamp room began rotating on its pedestal. Now, to light it.
Ian opened a tool chest on a nearby shelf. He fumbled inside until his fingers grasped a small metal cylinder of matches. Grasping the cylinder tightly in his palm, he turned to start up the winding staircase.
Suddenly, lightning crackled across the sky. Ian turned his head and saw a dark shadow move across the threshold of the open doorway in the adjacent sitting room. Instinctively, Ian ducked down. A shot rang out. The sound boomed inside the room, nearly loud enough to shatter Ian’s eardrums. Wide-eyed, Ian looked up and saw Jean LeBeck standing in the doorway, a feral snarl curling on his lips, pistol in hand, pointed directly at the teenager.
“Kill you!” LeBeck roared, firing again.
The cement floor next to Ian exploded. He felt a jagged chip fly up and strike him in the cheek. Ian got into a crouch, his hands desperately searching the floor for something, anything, to use as a weapon. He saw LeBeck take several strides into the lighthouse interior. He was no more than ten feet away now. The gangster lowered his arm and took aim.
Ian’s hand latched onto an object, an open can of kerosene. Without thinking, he launched it into the air. The can hit LeBeck square in the chest, splashing kerosene upward into the gangster’s eyes. Ian saw LeBeck scream and jerk back, his gun clattering to the floor. The gangster immediately dropped down, raving like an animal as he groped in the darkness for his weapon. Ian sprang up and dashed for the spiral staircase.
LeBeck swept the floor with his hand, searching for the pistol. “I’m gonna kill you, boy!” he shouted up at Ian. His hand finally bumped against cold steel. He tightened his fingers around the pistol grip, then rose quickly, straightening his arm upward. He could see Ian’s form dash up the spiral staircase, could hear his bare feet slapping on the metal steps. LeBeck snarled and snapped off five rapid shots, the reports booming inside the enclosed central core of the lighthouse. Up above he heard a sharp cry of pain, then more hurried footsteps. LeBeck roared and bounded up the stairs in pursuit, taking three steps with each stride.
When he reached the halfway point up the long metal stairway, LeBeck spied a dark splotch staining the handrail. He bent down, touching the warm liquid with one finger. He examined it with predator eyes. Lightning seared across the sky, turning the inside of the tower a harsh yellow, and for a brief moment illuminating the droplets of blood on LeBeck’s fingers. Ian’s blood. He grinned like a wolf on the hunt, then rushed up the remaining steps.
LeBeck burst into the darkened lamp room and immediately went into a half crouch, pistol at the ready. Ian was nowhere in sight. LeBeck frowned, then looked down and followed the blood trail to the far side of the huge glass prism in the center of the room. The unlit prism turned quietly on its liquid mercury bearing.
“Come out, boy,” LeBeck muttered, creeping forward in the dark. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
LeBeck came to a halt and frowned again. The blood trail ceased at a trapdoor set near the lamp. LeBeck stood pondering this for a moment, and then he came to a horrible realization. He whirled around to shoot, but it was too late. He sensed a pair of hands inside the lamp assembly striking a match and touching it to a wick, and then suddenly, with a might whoosh, the lamp erupted with a blinding white light brighter than the sun.