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.