The Face at the Porthole

A Teen Mystery ~ Kindle Edition

by Clayton Emery

"Porthole" sculpture by John Whipple
See his website for more wild artwork

Photo by Phil Douglis
See his website for more fantastic photos

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Thanks To

The United States Immigration Naturalization and Immigration Service and the townspeople of Lubec, Maine.

Author’s Note

This fictitious story takes place around 1991.

Chapter 1

"Ouch!"

"Shhhh!"

Samantha had stumbled over something boxy in the dark. Her sneaker lace was caught on the box, and it rattled and banged as she tried to get free.

"We have to be quiet!" Cam told her.

"I know!" Samantha hissed. "But I can't get loose!" She'd banged her shin on the box and it stung like fury. Man, it was dark out here!

The two kids crept down the alleyways between the stacks. Lobster pots made of plastic-coated steel mesh were stacked all around them. They were used pots, crusted with salt and barnacles and strung with dried seaweed that crackled when Samantha's jacket brushed them. Cam came to the end of the alleyway and scooched down. Sam hunkered behind him. She could smell garlic and strange spices on his clothes.

She rubbed her shin and whispered, "Anyone out there?"

Cam shook his head. Across a muddy parking lot was a long peeling gray building, the Seamore Seafood Products Corporation -- a fish packing plant. It had no windows except at the lighted office at one end. The other end had a wharf that stuck out over the harbor. A station wagon, a Jeep, and two pickup trucks sat in the lot. At least four people were inside, Samantha reasoned.

There was no one out here. The harbor was quiet, full of dark bobbing fishing boats. This was Lubec, Maine, the easternmost town in the United States. Across the bridge was New Brunswick, Canada. A pretty dead place, Samantha thought. Not much happening at ten o'clock on a Tuesday night in the middle of September. And cold. She could see her breath. She buttoned her denim jacket to the top.

Sam whispered. "Now that we're here, will you tell me why?"

Cam screwed around in place, his feet crunching on gravel. By the faint yellow light from the office, his head looked bony as the skull in the Science lab. Cam Nguen was skinny all over.

He was Vietnamese, a new kid to the junior high, with no friends yet. Sam had never spoken to him until today, when he'd approached her with a strange request...

~

"Can I hire you to take pictures?"

"Huh?"

Sam blinked. No one had ever asked her that before. She juggled her books, slammed her locker shut, shifted her camera. Sam carried her camera everywhere. "I suppose so. Why? You getting married?"

Cam didn't smile at the joke. She wondered if he understood it. His English was perfect -- better than Sam's -- but he talked like a Kung Fu movie. Like someone on a National Geographic TV special, Cam had a wide forehead and bony cheekbones with a narrow chin. He was very skinny and shorter than Sam. But so were most of the guys in the eighth grade. He asked, "How much would you charge me?"

Sam pushed into the crowd in the hallway. She had to get to English class. Cam stayed with her. "I don't know. What do you want photographed?"

Cam hesitated, "I don't want to tell you right now. But we would need to shoot at night down by the water. Do you have a big lens? A long one?"

"A telephoto? Yeah, a middle-range one. But what are you filming, drug deals?"

"No..." Cam frowned. "I don't think so."

Sam stopped square in the middle of the hall. Kids brushed her sides, muttering "Get out of the way, stupid!" She lowered her voice. "Is it something illegal?"

"I don't know." Cam shook his head. "Do you refuse?"

"Refuse?" Samantha laughed. "I think it's great! This might be my big chance!" More than anything, Samantha wanted to be a photojournalist. She wanted to travel the world working for CNN or Time or NPR, slogging in war zones and disaster areas, getting the story and broadcasting it to the world. The idea of an actual crime here in town thrilled her, filled her with curiousity. But she wasn't dumb. "This is awful fishy."

The boy insisted, "We won't do anything illegal. Just take pictures. I'll pay for your time."

Sherri Carpenter, Sam's best friend, shot her a queer look from the other side of the hall, seeing her with "that weird Vietnamese kid". Sam pouted. Cam seemed sincere. Whatever he wanted filmed bothered him. Curiousity bit at Samantha like a bulldog. I must have been a cat in a former life, she thought. "Well... It's the developing costs money."

"Would twenty dollars pay for it?"

"Probably. I'll give you any extra money back."

"So you'll do it?"

Would she have the nerve to film something mysterious at night down by the waterfront with a strange boy? Her father would kill her. If he found out.

The hall was mostly empty. The second bell rang. Sam started jogging towards class. "All right," she called, "but if you get cute I'll cripple you!"

She'd be late for English. Oh, well. It was a small price to pay for a budding career. She rehearsed, "This is Samantha Salvador for CNN. We've got a breaking story here at the Lubec waterfront. A major drug bust has gone down..."

~

Now in the dark, crouched between lobster pots that stank of dead fish, Sam checked her camera and Cam Nguen talked. His breath made white clouds. His teeth chattered. He wore only a thin baseball jacket.

He said, "I want you to take a picture of a man. A Vietnamese. I think they'll come to the office here."

Like a real reporter, Sam shot back a question. "Why?"

"They have some -- business here, I think."

"How do you know that?"

Cam paused. "I was down here on Saturday, collecting bottles and cans. I was digging in the dumpsters over there." At the end of the parking lot.

"Yuck!" The word escaped Sam, and she felt ashamed. "Umm... I bet you can make a lot of money collecting -- that stuff." Sure. If you collected twenty of them, you'd have a whole dollar.

Cam was embarrassed, but he plowed on. "I was in the dumpster when I heard these guys talking. I thought I recognized a voice --"

He stopped. Headlights splashed on the gray wall before them. A truck roared into the parking lot, the diesel engine knocking. It screeked to a halt by the office. Three men spilled out.

Cam pointed to the truck. He hissed, "Get them! Get the Asian!"

Stiff with cold, Sam scrooched past Cam and leaned out of the alleyway. She fumbled the camera to her eye and sighted at the three men. Hold still! she thought.

There! A face swooped into focus as she rotated her telephoto lens. It was a big guy with short punk hair and a black leather jacket. He leaned against the truck door and lit a cigarette. Sam was surprised to recognize him. It was Terry O'Brien, a high school crud who liked to set cats on fire and bash gays.

Cam joggled her shoulder. "Shoot the Asians!"

"Oh, right," she whispered. She swung the camera and the black background whizzed by. There. An Asian face, thin and pointed, probably Vietnamese. He talked to Terry. Sam checked her f-stop, focussed on the sharp line of the guy's forehead, and snapped the shutter. Cam hissed at the click and whir of the film advancing. The noises sounded loud in the night. But the men were talking and didn't hear.

Sam swung to shoot the other man. But his back was to the camera.

"Shoot!" Cam breathed.

"You want a picture of the back of his ears?"

Suddenly the man turned and grabbed the storm door. He was going to duck inside. Sam was afraid she'd miss him, so she hurried the shot. The camera clicked and whirred.

The three men stopped talking. Terry asked, "What was that?"

"They heard us!" Cam gasped. "Run!"

Through her camera, Sam saw the two Asians duck into the office. Then Terry O'Brien turned his ugly face and filled Sam's viewfinder. The guy flicked away his cigarette, grabbed a club from the back of the pickup truck, and came thudding in his big boots across the parking lot. Towards them.

Cam bolted down the alleyway between the lobster pots. Sam held her camera high and ran after him. "Wait for me!"

~

At the end of the alleyway, Cam came to a sudden halt and Sam almost piled into him. Terry had dashed the other way and blocked their exit.

Terry slammed the club back and forth between the two stacks of pots, a noise like a machine gun. "What are you clowns doing here?"

Cam stuttered. Sam slung her camera behind her and hoped Terry wouldn't notice it.

Terry rattled the stick some more, as if threatening to break bones. "You're trespassing, you know! That's illegal!" Then he recognized Sam. "Hey! You're the one carries the camera all the time! You better not be taking pictures!"

Sam tried to laugh. "Ha! You're a big one to talk about what's legal, Terry. You spend more time at that police station than you do at school!"

Terry pointed the stick at her. "Are you taking pictures? Cuz that's not allowed. You got that, puke?" He jabbed Cam in the chest with the stick. Cam grunted.

"Big man, waving a stick around, beating up people smaller than you!" Sam talked fast and tried to think. What could they do?

Terry really was big: big as both of them put together. The thug snatched Cam's shoulder and yanked the boy out of the way. He advanced on Sam. "You got a camera? I want it." Up close he stunk of cigarettes, like a dump.

Sam backed away slowly. "You going to beat me up, now? Big man, beats up little girls."

Terry jumped at her with the stick.

Sam couldn't help it. She screamed.

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