The Rose was sitting out there in Gloucester Harbor swinging lazily around her hawser like a pregnant duck. Joe had two men staked out watching her, They'd spoken to other crews as well. Nobody had seen hide nor hair of the men of the Rose. Nor had the harbormaster. This didn't surprise me. I considered that the Rose had been just a bit too easy to find, just a wee bit too conspicuous. I departed the harbor with Mary and we drove down through Manchester. We headed along Rudderman's Lane.
"No answer at all? How many times did you try?"
"Once. The operator said the phone had been disconnected. Either Laura Kincaid has changed numbers-getting another unlisted one-or else-hah! I was right. Look."
The Kincaid abode was for sale. The sign was in front, and the downstairs curtains were all drawn,. We stopped and got out to look. Mary drooled over it.
"Gee Charlie, I wonder what they're asking for it."
"I figure half a million minimum. If you think it's nice outside, you should see the interior."
We walked around. If anyone asked what we were doing, we had a perfect excuse. The lawn was as trimmed as ever. New grass was beginning to sprout thickly over the ugly scar in the lawn where the oil tank had been put in. Mary said she wondered where Laura had gone. I was wondering the same thing. Out of curiosity I rang the bell. Waited. Rang again. We heard the same distant pealing of Westminster chimes, but nothing else. Nobody home.
"Level with me, Charlie. What the hell's going on? I want to know. Now. I'm sick of all this screwing around. What the hell's going on in your mind?"
"A number of things. One: I don't think Laura Kincaid is as rich as she led me to believe. I don't know why I think that, I just do. Two: wherever Jim Schilling is, he's not going to come back to the Rose for a long time. The Coast Guard search, and the watch on the Buzarski place when the pinch takes place-will all tell him that the Rose is poison. If he's going to run any more batches, it'll be by some other means."
"Oh wait. I forgot to tell you, but while you were on your little cruise, Joe and I looked over your notes and your spare chart of Billingsgate Sound. We came up with a pretty neat theory to explain how the boat happened to get grounded on the shoal in the first place."
When we were home she showed me. She took a pair of dividers and placed one point on Billingsgate where we'd first seen the stranded boat. She then extended the other leg toward Wellfleet Harbor.
"Now, Charlie, I remember you said that Penelope was lucky to make it into Wellfleet without sinking."
"Right. She barely scooted in."
"Now you also said, from looking at the pictures you took of her, that she'd been near sinking before."
"That line of oil slick could've happened either after her collision or after leaving Billingsgate Shoal. It probably happened after she struck."
"So she came close to sinking twice, in all probability. Assuming she got this far almost sinking, it's then reasonable to assume that she could have traveled about the same distance the first time, right?"
"Ah hah! Yes, yes. You're saying that the point where she struck is the same distance from Billingsgate as Wellfleet."
"Look."
She drew the far point of the dividers in a big circle on the chart. The point swept past the neck of Great Island, went out into the bay, swung back, and came to rest within the circular dotted line on the chart encircling the zone marked Prohibited Area. And right smack in the middle of it was the symbol of a wreck and the words target vessel, do not approach within 1000 yards. It was a clever bit of reasoning. If correct, it meant that the Penelope (now the Rose) had struck on the wreck.
"Wouldn't it make sense, Charlie, to go to a place that's prohibited?"
"It sure would. Especially at night. If you had a rendezvous to keep, it'd be perfect, knowing no other vessel's going to come within a thousand yards of where you are."
A lot of small craft violate the warning during the day, especially fishermen because the wreck attracts fish and lobster. But at night it would be just about foolproof. And they could use the old wreck as a drop too; hide the stuff inside it and scoot, then the pickup could take place hours later.
"Sure. But supposing they had an accident during the rendezvous and struck part of the wreck, or the rocks around it. Then they would probably head for the nearest harbor."
"Uh huh. But if they were taking on Water too fast they would know they could never make it, so they'd head for the nearest safe place, which happened to be Billingsgate."
We looked at the chart. Mary drew her fingernail along the easternmost edge of the shoal.
"They slid the boat up here in the falling tide," she said. "Then they worked on the hull or whatever in the dark."
"And I happened to see them. I bet they still had the guns aboard too. I think that's why Allan Hart died."
"Really, how come?"
"Well, they're sitting in the harbor waiting to get the hull fixed and who appears but a diver, poking around under their hull. Also, do you remember the diving cap Allan was wearing? Remember it was loaned to him, a U.S. Navy cap?"
"They saw it and panicked."
"Could have happened. They could, have beaned him right there in the harbor thinking he was on to them."
"But why did they let the boat be hauled up into that place?"
"What choice did they have? They had to skedaddle and you can't do that with a boat that's going to sink. They had a quick patch job done and then split. We saw them leaving. I've never seen a boat more determined to make time than the Penelope was."
“So you think our theory is pretty good?" she asked.
"I think it's just dandy. I had considered the Longstreet before but never in a specific way. Your little explanation seems to put the cap on it. Also, they haven't shelled the wreck in two years, so even though it's officially prohibited, and no doubt treacherous, it's safe from bombs. Yeah-you and your brother are to be congratulated."
“You're pretty sure Rose is a decoy?"
"Yep. I bet you Schilling and his people are operating out of Plymouth. It's pretty far from Gloucester; it's near Boston and Southie, and it's big."
"Well we're going to drop this thing anyway, right?"
The phone rang; it was Brian Hannon.
"Just touching base, Doc. Remember, don't go anywhere far without letting me or my office know, huh? I've got people watching your house and loved ones. You try to go
anywhere, I'm gonna follow you like B.O."
"You remind me a bit of B.O."
"That's not funny."
I thanked him and hung up.
"I wonder if Jim's put Whimsea up for the winter yet?"
"One more fishing trip?"
I nodded.
"My hand's almost as good as new. That means I'll be returning to work shortly. I'd like to enjoy thoroughly what little screw-off time is left to me. I think I'll give him a jingle."
But before I reached the phone, it rang out.
"This Doctor Adams?"
"Yes, who's this?"
"Now listen heer, Doctor. I'm tremendous upset you set yer goons ta watchin' that barn, don't ya know? They're muckin' up me plans. Now you call 'em off or there'll be the devil pay. You tell 'em. I was kind the first time but twawnt be again-"
The line went dead.
"Who was that?"
"Wrong number," I answered, and dialed Jim DeGroot.
"I am amenable to such an excursion, especially since you have volunteered to buy all the gas," said Jim languidly as he stretched his feet out on the rattan stool of his screen porch. We were sitting out in the fall sunshine, watching the colors beginning to turn, and exercising our livers. "But we'd better do it this weekend 'cause it's getting close to the end of the season. Think there'll be any stripers there?"
"Probably tautog. They're thick in that part of the Bay because they feed off the quahogs and scallops. Got teeth in 'em like a gravel crusher. But I also want to do some snooping around and I can't use my boat; they're already on to it. Uh, don't mention this last bit to Mary or Janice, OK?"
DeGroot rattled the cubes in his empty glass and pondered. He said he didn't want anyone shooting at us. I told him there was scarcely a chance of that; we'd be fishermen. So we struck the bargain. Next Thursday we'd head south to Plymouth, then over to Wellfleet and the Bay, then back to Plymouth. It would cost me a small fortune in gasoline, but I felt I had to take one more try.”
Mary and Janice were none too pleased. But we emphasized it was a fishing trip, nothing else. I suggested that Mary stay at DeGroot's during my absence. This was arranged to everyone's satisfaction. My children had let me know their whereabouts, via Brian Hannon's office. Tony, his summer "job" ended, had taken up residence at the home of a girl he'd met at the resort. I phoned him there.
"Do her parents think it's OK?"
"Oh sure," he answered.
"May I speak with one of them please?"
"They're, uh, not here right now."
"Well when are they expected back?"
"Pretty soon. Look I have to-"
"Wait. When is pretty soon? Half an hour?"
"Next month actually."
"'Next month? Where are they?"
"Sri Lanka."
A female voice cut in. It was young and delicious.
"Doctor Adams? Hi! I'm Jennie! Listen there's really nothing to worry about. You see my older brother and his girl are here too and-"
"I'm so glad. You can? t imagine my relief. May I speak with my son alone for a second please?"
"Dad?"
"Look. I'll be brief and direct. Keep it in your pants until you've taken all the pills. Secondly, don't come near the house. You can reach Mother at the DeGroots'. Good-bye."
I called Jack at Woods Hole. He was staying in a dorm at the Biological Station with some friends. He asked if Jim and I were to visit The Breakers, and I told him it was unlikely and for him to stay clear of the place.
Thursday afternoon at one, we left.
Before heading for the Cape Ann Marina I checked Gloucester's main harbor. The Rose was still there, deserted. I called Joe at the Commonwealth Avenue headquarters.
"I take it nothing has happened regarding the Rose."
"Nope. But it will. You have any ideas?"
"No. You remember Jim DeGroot? Well, we're taking off for a few days aboard his boat. Why don't you jot down a few particulars, so in case we don't turn up you'll know where to look. But don't tell Brian Hannon I called you."
"He just called me. Wanted to know where you were. Said he was going to stick to you like Duco."
"Well tell him then; just don't let him bother me. Now take this down, and Mary's number too."
We purred out of the marina by the south route. Plymouth lay forty-five miles to the south, a straight shot. As we passed Marblehead I had an urge to zip into the harbor there. But why? If Schilling were active, we'd never recognize the boat he was using. The only hope we had was to see if by chance we couldn't run across his track in the two places I'd seen him before. In short, we had to forget Salem, Marblehead, Lynn, Swampscott, Boston, Winthrop, Scituate, Cohasset-all the harbors between Gloucester and Plymouth. And I knew the odds of laying eyes on him were remote indeed. If I were him I'd lay low as a hibernating woodchuck for a couple of months. But leaving the Rose in a place where the police were sure to look, that led me to the conclusion that Schilling. wasn't ready to hang up his jersey yet. And there had been a load of firearms in the barn; it was probably moved the night my strange friend and I paid a visit there. Where was that shipment now? Probably on its way overseas on some freighter or fishing vessel. If it was the last shipment perhaps Schilling would reappear and claim the Rose. No, maybe not. That depended on how well he'd covered his tracks.
Jim sat in the cabin instead of up on the flying bridge. It was too cold now for that. He eased the twin throttle knobs forward and the Whimsea lifted herself up out of the water a bit and began to plane. We clipped right along. I stood in the cockpit and watched the wake fan out behind us. The white and turquoise water mixed with the bluish exhaust smoke and rolled away behind us. The engines rumbled and spat and gurgled under my feet.
"Whatcha thinkin?"
I went forward and joined him at the helm. I squinted at a long brownish-red freighter in the distance.
"I'm thinking that James Schilling and I are going to meet face-to-face before very long," I answered. "We've scraped sides twice. I think the next meeting will be definitive."
"Just so I'm not involved in it. If you seek him out, you do so alone."
"Don't. worry. The police and the Coast Guard know where we'll be going; I saw to that. All I want to do right now is slide around the southern end of the Bay and keep my eyes open."
We poured coffee and sat and chatted as he kept the boat headed straight on. We had the VHF on and tuned to channel 16, the distress frequency. Nothing interesting was happening. I switched a couple of times to the commercial bands used by cargo boats and fishermen, and got nothing but the usual technical lingo about course changes, gross weights, ETAs, cruise plans, and the like.
We kept the VHF on for a while. Behind the voices and the static was a constant drone that resembled an aircraft engine, or the rocket ships in the old Flash Gordon movies: "mmmmmmrrrrm·rmmm-vessel taking water-rrrmmmmmmm-snap! Yeah we have her sighted 'bout sixty meters off Spectacle Island snap!-mmmmmmmmmmmrrrr…"
And so on, and on. It got a bit monotonous. We switched to the more lively CB scanner. "fffftttt!… eeeoow!.. fffft!… my port engine's down, come back…" "Jimmy' Hey Jimmy?" "fffft! Yeah. .. said my mother-lovin' port diesel's down. No go-over." "You check out that fuel pump? Come back-" "Don't think that's it-fffft!-Maybe it's the effin' injectors or else I gotta clogged-fffft."' "You gonna stay out, Jimmy?" "Look I'll limp home on the starboard engine. You comin' out or what, come back?" "Soon's I get some bread to top her up. I'm hockin' my old lady's socks right now to get fuel… where are you, come back?" "I got-sszzzznapp! mmmmmmrmnmm… you there? OK, heading due north with Little Gurney Light off my port quarter 'bout three miles-you know where those deep troughs start? Over-" "Yeah, gottcha, good buddy. But look, you get an RDF fix or loran fix and let me know exactly. You shouldn't be effin' around out there with one side down-" "Yeah. I got-ffft.-so when I call you back you'll have it. I'm gone."
Back to the VHF: "-Coast Guard Station in Boston with the latest weather-at two o'clock the temperature is fifty-six degrees and steady, winds south southwest four to six knots, gusting to nine… barometric pressure twenty-nine point seven and falling…seas two to five feet… visibility eight miles and closing. Light fog and drizzle-"
The number of vessels increased dramatically as we passed Boston about eight miles offshore. Especially predominant were larger vessels: freighters and tankers, large trawlers, and a few big yachts. We all intermingled and crossed paths at big distances and continued on our separate ways with remarkable ease. I glassed all the boats continually, especially the medium-length trawlers and smaller powerboats. If I were running guns and had abandoned my boat, I'd want a fast powerboat, like a sport-fisherman. But peering through binoculars at the boats that dotted the sea was a bit futile.
Shortly after three-thirty we were entering the breakwater at Plymouth. We slid around in the big harbor for an hour while I glassed everything in sight from Whimsea's cabin, looking for anything interesting or unusual. We went over to the smaller harbor of Duxbury with the same negative results. Then we cruised around the north side of the big bay across from North Plymouth. I showed Jim the Cowyard, Gray's Beach, and where I'd seen the Rose. We went in real close to the big cordage pier where the draggers were tied up. The boats floated on the still brown water. A man on the wharf came out of a warehouse underneath a big corrugated steel door. He was wheeling a dolly with steel wheels on it. The cart was piled high with cartons and the steel wheels made a racket on the concrete. That was all that was happening.
"Big deal," said Jim.
"Yeah I know."
Then we heard the faint clacking of a solenoid and another big steel door began rolling upward in the brick building. A lift truck whispered out, holding crates aloft on its pincers. A man in a yellow helmet was driving it. The crates said Ocean Spray on the sides.
"This is so exciting I can't stand it."
"Let's swing by close, then go into town and get some bait."
We crawled right up to the big pier and watched the few figures moving back and forth along it, We were close enough for me to glimpse a grisly relic strung up alongside the Cyclone fence that marked the terminus of the big dock. I hadn't noticed it on my previous visit; It was a codfish head, cut off right behind the gills, suspended on the fence with a stevedore's hook. It was as big as a bushel basket. Flies swarmed over it.
"Will you look at that. Must've been a five-footer," said Jim. "Why do you suppose they've done that with it?"
He shrugged and spun the wheel lazily in his big hands. He eased the sticks forward and the engine whined.
"Dunno. Trophy maybe. Or else it's a warning to stay out of the yards when the gate's shut."
It was a grim reminder, and I thought of Angel's face staring at me from the oven rack. We picked up speed and soon landed at the main marina, where I bought Jim an early supper (apparently the entire trip, not just the fuel, was to be courtesy of Yours Truly) and we fueled the Whimsea's tanks and bought an ample supply of quahogs. These would be affixed to heavy hooks and dragged slowly (or simply rested) on the mollusk beds around the James Longstreet, a tempting treat for tautogs and other fish. While we waited for dusk prepared the bait, shucking it from the shells and cutting it into convenient-sized nuggets. We sucked down some of the St. Pauli Girl beer we'd brought along and listened to the radio. I was hunkered down in the cockpit out of the breeze so I removed my shirt, soaking up the last precious bit of sun,-even though it was thoroughly filtered by clouds. Jim pored over the charts of Cape Cod Bay.
Dusk came, and we left Plymouth Harbor.
We rolled out past the big break water again. A line of herring gulls stood on it, beaks to the breeze, most with one foot tucked up in their tummy feathers. They said skirl, skirl, skirl…
When we got to the James Longstreet the sun had been down forty minutes. It was growing dark fast. The old wreck looked more ominous than I'd ever seen it. Its bridge looked like a giant hunk of brown Swiss cheese. The hull was partially collapsed in the middle, where a lot of the steel reinforcing rods were visible, entwined in the concrete hull. The fly-boys from Otis were pretty good shots, I guessed. They'd nailed the old Liberty Ship right in the belly. In fact the midsection of the old hull was so full of holes and cave-ins that occasionally you could see clear through it to the dark bluish purple of the water on the other side. We crept in close; I DeGroot had his eyes glued to the fathometer fastened above the helm. It was a black box with a dial in the center, marked in feet and meters. A blip showed on the dial at zero feet, which was where the sound signal was emitted from Whimsea via a metal sounder in her hull. Another blip was appearing on the dial opposite the sixteen-foot mark. Whimsea rolled and lurched forward; the wreck loomed bigger and bigger. Suddenly the blip jumped back and forth, and settled up toward its mate at the zero end of the dial.
"Shit!" said Jim as he reversed and throttled up. But it was too late. There was a thump and a shudder, and then a slow heavy scraping sound. Whimsea stopped. It was falling tide; if we didn't get moving soon, we'd be there for the duration. Jim and I ran a flashlight all around the inside of the hull. Nothing. That was good at least. We had been going slow enough and reacted soon enough so that the boat was sill in one piece.
"What was it?"
"Dunno. But it was dumb to come in here. Why the hell do I listen to you? I suppose this place is full of shoals and rocks that aren't marked. Maybe they're big hunks of the James Longstreet, who knows? Of course it's not supposed to matter because we're not supposed to be here. And if the CG has to haul us off, we're going to look mighty silly and get fined to boot."
He gunned the engine once more, making the needle on the tachometer approach the red line. There was a grinding shudder as the propwash worked the boat loose. We shot backward and Jim cut the twin engines back.
"I'm not going back in there. It's a labyrinth of obstacles around that hulk."
So I talked him into letting me use the life raft. We inflated it with the compressed air bottle and soon I was in it, bobbing and rowing along to the old Liberty Ship. I got there quickly; the little rubber boat flipped right along over the nasty stuff that projected up from the sandy bottom. It wasn't hard to figure out how the Penelope tore a gash in her steel skin. Up close, the topsides of the ship loomed over me like a three-story apartment building. I paddled along toward the series of big holes in her beam. I looked back at the Whimsea. Jim hadn't set the hook, but was purring along in a semi-stall two hundred yards off the Longstreet's port quarter. The boat's shape was faint, and growing fainter in the darkness and light fog. I could see her running lights clearly, that was about all.
I reached out and touched the Longstreet. I felt the rough concrete with my hand, and grabbed a projecting steel reinforcing rod and pulled the rubber raft along to the first big hole. The seawater poured through this, and I glided into the bowels of the ship. It was like being in an old wrecked cathedral. The superstructure of the bridge towered above me, black and ragged against the dark purple sky. All the portholes were devoid of glass, which had no doubt been blown out long ago by the concussion of. the bombs. It was like a giant corpse with all its eyes poked out. Generally, it wasn't inviting, and the cold and the dark, and the sound of sloshing water, did not improve it either.
I took the waterproof spotlight and swept it around. There were plenty of nooks and crannies to hide anything your heart desired inside the old hulk of the Longstreet. There were bent railings, blown-away doors, exposed corridors, old hatchways, smashed and twisted bulkheads, Ventilating ducts, stanchions, wells, supporting members-it was a maze of pulverized concrete and twisted, rusty steel. I shined a flashbeam all around me. I saw nothing out of place though. No crates, plastic-wrapped bundles, or anything else that caught my eye. I heard two quick beeps. Jim was telling me he wanted to split. I rowed out through the big hole and started back to the Whimsea, which was now almost totally invisible. The chop had picked up, and the tiny raft pitched around uncomfortably. I heard another boat and saw a set of running lights sweep past out behind the Whimsea.
"See anything?" asked Jim as he helped me back aboard. I told him, and he told me another boat had been snaking around in the prohibited zone.
"Maybe they thought Whimsea was in trouble."
"They didn't say anything. Just cut around me in a wide circle and left. Blue hull, white topsides. About our size. Let's get on back while we can still see our hands in front of our faces."
We slid and rolled a bit all the way back to Plymouth in the following sea. We used the compass and RDF a lot because of the poor visibility. We passed the outer light at the end of the breakwater and turned to port when we approached Bug Light in the harbor's middle, then made our way slowly back toward the marina. During my visit to the target ship, Jim had caught a tautog, which we cleaned and wrapped in foil. We got a slip at the yacht club's pier; at this time of year there were plenty available. We had a nightcap and turned in. It was one-thirty in the morning. After ten minutes DeGroot was sawing logs. I lay in the upper bunk, my head inches from the wooden cabin top. I heard the very faint patter of light drizzle begin on the roof. I tossed and turned. I rolled on my side and looked down at Jim. He was sleeping like a baby, that big Dutch head immobile on the foam rubber pillow covered with a canvas print of code flags and buoys.
Jim had a basic calmness and world view which allowed him to march through life with minimal distraction and regret. He had enough Nordic discipline and stubbornness to shrug aside doubt and reluctance. I admired this, perhaps because I was a bit the opposite. Though never lacking in self-confidence, I seemed to view the world as a series of booby traps, a labyrinthine obstacle course of surprises and gross injustices, complete with Minotaurs at strategic locations., Whimsea swayed and rocked ever so slightly; the faint patter of light rain increased. Hell, I should go to sleep in no time. Should…
I slid out of the rack, opened the rear doorway and climbed the three steps up to the cockpit deck. I stood there just outside the door under the overhang of the cabin roof. I felt, well, wistful.
I had been conked on the head and thrown in the drink, attacked twice, been gnawed on by a dog, had a pistol held to the nape of my neck, my hand broken, my wife mad at me, my dog killed, my kids perhaps in danger, two people killed, and all I had to show for it was standing out in a twenty-eight-foot motorboat in the rain. Somehow it lacked something.
"Somehow it lacks something," I murmured to myself.
I wanted an answer.
I went back into the cabin and pulled on a pair of blue jeans, a long-sleeved jersey, and a navy blue turtleneck sweater over that. I put on thick wool socks of navy blue and my Topsiders. I pulled a dark wool watch cap down over my head. My beard, now almost luxuriant, was mostly black. I liked the way it broke up my face and covered the light outline of my jaw.
I put my wallet in my hip pocket. If the police saw the Midnight Skulker slinking around the docks, they'd want to know who in hell he was, especially clad like a cat-burglar.
The note I wrote said: 2 A.M. Went over to cordage pier in N. Plymouth.
Should be back by 4 A.M., if not, raise hell.
Doc.
I left this smack in the middle of my pillow, set the alarm for 4 A.M., and left. I was unarmed except for my folding hunter knife, which I had slipped into my jeans rather than wearing it on my belt in its leather pouch. My Bull-Barrel was at home. Anyway, I had the feeling it had brought me bad luck before. The only other thing I carried was a flashlight, a black steel one that was waterproof, and pretty hefty. The pier was lighted with overhead lamps in steel reflectors spaced about thirty feet apart. I strolled along nonchalantly. If anyone asked, I was out for a midnight walk, which of course was true. Off to my right at. the state pier I could see the Mayflower II, and at the pier's base the Doric stone mini-temple housing Plymouth Rock, a bathtub-sized boulder upon which John Winthrop, Miles Standish, and Company set foot when they landed in the New World-or so they say.
I ambled on and passed the shopping center with its clam joints, bait and tackle shops, the souvenir stands complete with carved wooden sea captains (hand-carved in the Philippines), ships in bottles (made in Macao), Yankee scrimshaw (plastic, made in Taiwan), miniature whaling harpoons (Hecho en Mexico), and little brass ship's lamps (from India). It was very American.
I broke into a slow, determined jog when I hit Water Street. While a lone walker might be arrested at two in the morning, a solitary jogger is admired. In about fifteen minutes I was in North Plymouth, at the gateway to Cordage Park. I was stumped right away; the big outer gate was closed and chained. Four strands of barbed wire guarded its top; and ran along the top of the entire tall Cyclone fence that enclosed the park. But I noticed a small stream that cut beneath the road and made its way, encased in concrete banks, into the park. It obviously emptied into the harbor. Where the creek, road, and tall fence met was a bridge railing of metal pipe. But the fence ran along both sides of the concrete bank.
Nevertheless I had a vague hunch that if I could work my way fifty yards or so down the creek the fence would be less formidable. I ducked under the bridge railing and saw the dark water sliding by. It gurgled around light-colored rocks, old logs, pieces of old wire fencing, and junk. No headlights approached on the road. I lowered myself gingerly down onto one of the rocks, and step-stoned my way the first twenty feet. Then a low, mucky ledge of slime formed at a slow bend, and I tested it, walked on it. It didn't smell so great but it held me up. I kept my eyes on the Cyclone fencing just above my head. I waded in shallow water that was cold and stinky the last forty feet until I saw the fence bow out. There was a four-foot gap in it at the top of the concrete river channel. I grabbed the top of this wall and drew myself up under the fence. The outer fence had been breached. But there remained the inner one, which had appeared to be pretty tight indeed when I saw it previously.
There were lights on here and there in the complex of buildings. The nearby buildings were newer than the others, small wooden things with sloping shingled roofs. They resembled houses. Behind them were several huge warehouse-type sheds, then the really big buildings on and near the wharf that comprised the old factory. The entire place was absolutely still and deserted. For all its size I would have been surprised if there were no night watchmen. I left the side of the fence and waited between two small spruce trees for a few minutes. My feet were turning to ice. Nothing happening. As Jim and I had seen, the wharf was hardly Grand Central Station during working hours. At night it was like the innermost chamber of Tutankhanien's tomb. I kept in the shadows and skirted the edge of the park where no lights shone. If someone had been watching me I would certainly be visible, but they'd have to be looking. I didn't think anyone was.
I crept up alongside a building and. looked at the inner fence, the one that sealed off most of the big cordage factory and wharf from all the other parts of the park. The gate, open wide in the day, was slid shut on its roller track, wound with heavy chain and padlocked. This fence, too, was topped with barbed wire. The place resembled Concord Prison, except the wire was strung straight on slanted brackets instead of being wound in giant spirals, concertina fashion. I stood in the dark and shivered and looked at the big fence. It looked tight as a bloated tick. It ended against the wall of a smaller brick building at the far end of the factory, toward the south. I walked along this deserted stretch of fencing, around the small building, and saw that it was perched on a sea wall about twelve feet high. It was low tide and the flats extended along this wall and-believe it or not-led all the way back to the park on the sea side. So the way to penetrate these fences was to do so where they met the water. I climbed over the parapet, hung by the top of the wall with my good arm,. and dropped a few feet to the soft sandy muck. I then walked around the sea wall, under the low building, and up on the beach. I had simply walked around the fence. Of course it meant that at high tide I was trapped in the complex. But I still had a few hours to look around before the water came in. From the narrow beach, littered with flotsam, it was a short walk up to the roadway that ran around the factory on the harbor side and connected with all the courtyards and delivery routes on the other side. There were no lights on this side, but the whole place was sparsely illuminated by the water and overcast sky, which cast a faint metallic glow onto the buildings. An enormous vertical black cylinder was fastened to this side of the factory wall, with many big pipes issuing from it. It looked like a boiler tank, and probably was. Some of the pipes ran along the wall at waist level. I thumped one with my knuckle. Heavy cast iron. They were for steam all right, or had been once upon a time. They snaked all over the complex from building to building. They climbed walls, traversed rooftops, over courtyards, went into, under, over, through buildings, sheds, and abutments.
I walked along this narrow roadway that fronted the harborside. The big building was to my left. It was about four hundred feet long. At its end I found myself on the main roadway that led from the wharf and its warehouse all the way through the old factory complex, through the rest of what was called Cordage Park, and out to the highway. I saw the fence I had just circumvented. I walked up to it and peered through at the rest of the huge buildings on the other side of it. The roadway went straight ahead, and I saw the familiar series of courtyards created by U-shaped wings of the big factory buildings that opened off to one side of the road. Each courtyard was surrounded on three sides by walls six stories high. Big black pipes and high voltage wires crisscrossed these courtyards overhead.
I planted my fanny on an old truck tire and thought for a minute. It sure didn't seem as if there was much going on. A sound reached me from several courtyards down the narrow service road. It was an engine grinding away. I supposed it to be some kind of generator or cooling, compressor. It sounded just like a semi-trailer truck idling at a truck stop. I rose up and walked toward the wharf. The end of the fence came back again and snaked around its far side. I noticed a foul stench as I walked, and saw the dark object stuck on the Cyclone wire. I remembered the severed codfish head, and went up to it. It was the biggest fish head I'd ever seen. The big eyes were gone, eaten out by maggots. All that remained were two holes as big as tennis balls in the leathery carapace of the skull. The mouth was bucket-shaped, like a bass's. The big hook came up through the lower jaw. The fish, when alive, could have swallowed a bowling ball without knowing it.
I walked out to the wharf on the service road, the one Jim and I had seen the lift truck on, the same one that I'd spied the blue van on. Behind me the road went into the factory complex and the courtyards of the big buildings. I saw big dark shapes on the water. Four of them. The draggers sat stone still in the shallow water. There were no lights aboard them, not even little sparks on the spars, or cabin lights. Nothing. The wharf too was dark. I crept along the building, passing the big corrugated steel doors. There were small swing doors in between each one. There was a fifth boat behind the four big ones, a small cruiser. And I'd be damned if she didn't have a blue hull, white topsides. I moved slower now, keeping snugly against the warehouse wall on my right. The light was faint on this side of the buildings, the north side, and I knew I was invisible in the shadows in my dark clothes. When I was abreast the little boat I looked down at her for a long time. She was quiet and dark. It was too dark to read her bow numbers and I didn't dare show a light, so I sat and tried to remember things about her. I had been gazing and thinking for a few minutes when I saw a flickering motion out of the side of my left eye. I looked down toward the foot of the long dock and could see nothing; it was all dark. Then, looking back at the boat, the flickering came back. In dim light you can see much better out of the sides of your eyes than dead ahead. This is because the area of your retina where the image is focused is also the point on the retina where the optic nerve enters. Consequently it is almost devoid of the light-sensitive rod and cone cells.
I shrank back against the wall and sidestepped slowly about eight feet to my right, toward the end of the dock. There were two stacks of fish bins there, stuck into one another like cardboard hamburger baskets. They smelled mighty ripe but I was glad; nobody in his right mind would get within six feet of them. l snuggled right in between them, and then slid down to my knees. I peered out down the dock again. Now the flickering movement was close enough to be visible when I looked straight at it. Two of them, and they weren't midgets either.
They came up the wharf slowly, as quiet as alley cats. They, too, wore dark clothes. I drew out the folding hunter and opened the blade, locking it. It was mighty pathetic, but if they saw me and came at me, I was going to lash out at them with a couple of wide swipes, then run for the end of the dock and dive in. I was getting good at midnight harbor swims.
I shrank back as the two men approached. As they walked by one grabbed the other by the sleeve and pointed at the small blue cruiser. The other man looked at it awhile, then turned to the other and spoke in a barely audible whisper.
"Them?"
The other nodded.
"We'll go in the back then. I haven't the stomach for it-"
"The word's come down. McGooey."
"Come on-"
They crept on toward the very end of the wharf. I caught the faint whiff-very faint-of liquor. One man spoke with a real brogue, but it didn't sound like the man I'd met in the Buzarski barn. The other man sounded like an American. I peeped out at them as they paused beside the wall. I heard a metallic clack. It was either a doorlatch or the cocking of a pistol. The men were gone. I waited perhaps half a minute to make sure they weren't going to pop out again, then eased up into a standing position. Inching along the wall I kept eyes and ears alert. Nothing. I picked up the pace, heading toward the fence.
But just before I reached the end of the long wharf building, one of the small doors opened in front of me along the side of the warehouse wall. I slid up against the wall, trying my damndest to shrink right into it. A figure emerged from the doorway and began to walk past me. I knew he would have to see me. There was nowhere to go. He turned just as he passed me.
"John?" he whispered.
"Shhhhh!"
"Listen… I jus-hey, you're not John-"
But by that time I had shoved a hand into his gut just below the center of the rib cage. Not a fist, a hand. A set of fingers straight as I could set them, rather like an ice spade. A fist won't carry the force in far enough to hurt; that's what Liatis Roantis told me anyway. It seemed to work. He bent his knees a bit and bowed down right in front of me. I switched the steel flashlight into my right paw and thunked him on the nape of the neck medium hard. I didn't want to hurt him-whoever he was-any more than was necessary to effect a quick exit. He tumbled down without a sound, let out a slow sigh and rolled just a wee bit, like a kid in a scary dream. He kept moving to and fro, as if aware, even in his semiconscious state, of the discomfort I'd put him in. I reckoned he would not emerge well disposed toward me.
I started back down toward the foot of the wharf again, fast and quiet. But the good cards just weren't turning up.
Just before I reached the same small door it opened again. I was so close It swung into the wall right next to the hinges. The door covered me as it opened all the way, and I saw the shadow of a big man emerge and walk right on past me. He went over toward the edge of the pier, dipped his head into cupped hands, and lighted a cigarette. I saw the fiery halo surround his head. He wore a trenchcoat and a tweed hat.
"John's" friend was in a semi-doze not thirty feet from where he stood. He would thrash and groan, maybe yell, any second. The end of the wharf was another twenty yards. But there was no cover. I knew the man who'd come out for a smoke would discover his fallen comrade long before I could make it. By instinct I'd caught hold of the metal door before it swung all the way shut. It was pivoted on a hydraulic door closer. I twisted the doorknob quickly, forcefully back and forth in a millisecond. No go. As I had supposed, it opened only from within without a key. If I wanted to hide, it was now or never, I really had no choice. I ducked around behind the closing door and followed its swinging path into the blackness of the huge building. After all, I told myself, if the doors opened from the inside, I could always get out again.
You jerk, an inner voice answered. You said that about twenty minutes ago when you scaled the inner fence. And now look what a sweet pickle you've gotten yourself into.
I had to admit it wasn't very promising: