Chapter 20: The Bulldozer

At six-forty on Monday morning, dozens of people stood in front of the main gate of the Ouellette Boatworks yard.

The bearded lobsterman had brought his whole crew, and the bakery woman had brought coffee in a milk can.

Fern had arrived at five with a folding chair, a thermos, and a sign painted on a bedsheet.

IT WAS HIS. NOW IT'S OURS.

"That's not the plan," I said.

"It is now," said Fern.

Fern's wife sat in the chair, knitting, with her feet on a cooler.

At six-fifty a flatbed rolled down the cove road, carrying a yellow bulldozer chained to its bed.

Two pickups followed it, then a dump truck.

The flatbed stopped fifty feet from the gate, and the driver leaned out the window.

"Folks," he called. "I've got a job to do."

"So do we," said the bearded man.

"I got a work order."

"I got a harbor," the bearded man said.

The driver sighed and got down.

He walked to the gate, a thick man in a company vest, and looked at forty-one faces.

"Look, I don't want trouble," he said. "I'm paid by the hour. Where's the owner of record?"

"That's me," said a voice behind me.

I turned.

Ansel had come on foot from the cove road, in his Marine Patrol uniform, with his badge on his belt and his hat in his hand.

I hadn't known he was coming.

He stopped at my shoulder and did not touch me.

"Morning," he said to the driver.

"Officer."

"I'm one of the owners. Twenty percent, by inheritance." He nodded at the gate. "I didn't sign that work order."

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