The fog clung to Cast Island like a shroud as the private yacht cut...

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2026-06-08 13:33:08 -

The fog clung to Cast Island like a shroud as the private yacht cut through the waters of Penobscot Bay. James Morrison stood at the bow and watched the limestone buildings of the veterans' sanitarium materialize through the gray.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," said the man beside him. Agent Bobby Callahan was a lean, sharp-featured man with a cork in his pocket and a perpetual scowl. He belonged to Prohibition, and the Prohibition belonged to him. "I've seen worse," James said. And it was true. He had seen the Argonne forest in November, when the mud took men the same way the rain did. The sanitarium was a squat...

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