Free Peter Benchley's Creature by Peter Benchley Page B

after the Nez Perce chief . . . you know, the Battle of Bear Paw Mountains. He said that with only one wing the heron reminded him of what Chief Joseph said after the battle: 'I will fight no more forever.'"
    "Is the Chief friendly?"
    "If you've got food he is. If you don't, he's a perfect pain in the ass."
    Max grinned. "Maybe I'll find some special animal, something I can take care of and name."
    "Sure," Chase said. "Maybe you will."
    Tall Man guided the boat into its slip between two smaller craft-—a Whaler and a Mako—and Chase hopped onto the dock and retrieved the lines. He tossed the stern and spring lines to Tall Man and returned aboard to show Max how to cleat the bow line.
    Then, while Tall Man went to find food for the heron, Chase and Max went on up the hill.

    Osprey Island had been a private family compound for nearly a hundred years, but over four generations the family had outgrown the five houses that local zoning permitted. Periodically, family members had tried to buy one another out, but they had found themselves caught in a paradox.
    Technically, because it consisted of thirty-five acres of waterfront property, the island was worth a fortune, and the state and township had taxed it accordingly. Over the past two decades, taxes had doubled, and doubled again, until finally the cost of running the enclave had approached a hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year. One by one, family members had discovered that for their allotted two weeks on the island every summer, they were paying more than the cost of renting a decent house on Nantucket or Martha's Vineyard for two months.
    They had tried to sell the island, and discovered that, in fact, it wasn't worth very much at all because nobody—including the family members themselves— wanted to pay its assessed value.
    And so, in a calculated act of revenge against the local "taxocrats," the family corporation, an entity that existed solely to run the island, had taken out as large a mortgage as the local bank would permit—half the assessed value—had split the proceeds among the twelve families within the family . . . and had then dissolved itself and abandoned the island, leaving its liens, its taxes and its upkeep in the hands of the bank.
    Simon Chase had been welcomed by the bank and the town as the new owner. He had deep roots in the local community, and though as a nonprofit entity the Institute might not pay local taxes, some of Chase's projects might generate substantial revenue for the townspeople. For example, he might find a way to bring the shellfishing industry back. For years, the beds of clams, scallops and mussels around Waterboro had been so badly polluted that no one was permitted to dig, eat or sell any of the mollusks. Perhaps Chase could find a way to clean up the beds.
    Local merchants knew, furthermore, that the Institute wouldn't be competition for any of them. And finally, Chase's grand plans for the island promised to bless the area with what it needed most: jobs.
    Defense cutbacks had slashed jobs from the largest employer in southeastern Connecticut, Electric Boat in Groton, and the ripple effect from EB and other damaged companies had decimated service industries. Restaurants and grocery stores, saloons and gift shops had shut their doors, to be replaced here and there by antique stores and art galleries. Waterboro was being gentrified and ossified, and it was hoped that the Institute would be able to restore life to the community. Hundreds of people would be employed to build it, wire it and plumb it, and when it was completed, dozens more would find full-time jobs there or in one of the many businesses that serviced it.
    For a year, it had seemed that the dream might come true. Chase had taken a course in preparing grant applications, and he had received a hundred-thousand-dollar grant to buy boats and basic scientific equipment. He had also received preliminary approval for grants for projects involving endangered species,