“This one; it’s mine.” The boy’s voice hardened. “But I go with it.”
Reardon hesitated only a fraction of a second and then dropped into the bottom of the boat. There was no time to argue and he realized he knew nothing of the bay. That body of water, as familiar to him in sunlight as the back of his hand, was a mysterious wasteland in the fog.
“All right, then. Let’s go.”
The young man threw off the mooring and slipped behind the wheel, grinding the starter. The twin engines caught with a roar; the boat fairly jumped from the dock, throwing Reardon back into his seat. Ahead of them the opening into the bay presented itself faintly in the thickening mist; beyond, the white curtain formed a solid wall, pierced by the hundred voices of as many foghorns. Reardon was suddenly very glad he had allowed the boy to take charge of the boat; alone he knew he would have been forced to return to shore — assuming he could locate it — and pray that eventually the harbor police or some lucky patrolman on shore would pick Crocker up. Not that he could see any great hope for himself to do it, but at least on the water there was a chance. And Crocker, he felt, was his personal quarry.
The young man slowed the large engines once they had passed the Marina entrance; the partially muted motors contained their roar to a growl. The boat rocked in the rougher waters of the bay. The boy spoke without taking his eyes from the wall of mist they were penetrating.
“What’s he wanted for?”
“Murder. He ran a man down with a car. Purposely.” Reardon looked at the boy. “He’s armed, you know.”
“I know. I thought for a minute there he was going to take a shot at me back on the dock. That’s my girl’s boat he took; she’ll give me hell for not stopping him, as it is.” He seemed to realize the purpose behind the statement; his grin faded. “I spent my year in Vietnam. I’ve seen a gun.”
“I’m sure.”
The boy thought of something. “Does this character know the bay?”
“I have no idea. Why?”
“Does he know one foghorn from another?”
“I don’t know that either. Why?”
“Because if he doesn’t, he can get hurt.” The boy’s tone indicated he was more worried about the boat the other was riding than his personal safety. “You have to know the horns.”
“He could get hurt, all right.” Reardon stared out into the faintly yellow mist. His ears picked up and tried to separate the dozens of echoes filtering through the fog. “There must be a hundred boats out there, judging by their foghorns. I never saw that many on a clear day.”
“Those aren’t boats. Some are, but the majority aren’t.” The boy tilted his head. “Hear that real deep one? Lasts about two seconds and then waits about ten and then comes back? That’s the bridge, the north pier. And that quick one, higher — goes boop-boop, and then waits...” They waited. “There it goes. That one, off to our left. That’s the southeast part of Alcatraz. The northeast corner goes grummm—” He waited, counting. “—grummm. Like that.” The Alcatraz foghorns accommodated by not disagreeing with him. Boop-boop — Grummm-grummm...
Reardon glanced at him. “You don’t have a horn?”
“Speedboats usually don’t go out in weather like this. In fact, they aren’t supposed to.”
Reardon stared about him in growing hopelessness. The boy swung the wheel as the sound of a horn grew in intensity, coming in their direction. “Moving,” he said succinctly and eased up on the throttles. Through the wall of fog the rusted side of a medium-sized freighter could be seen rocking slowly by, Plimsoll line indicating the owners would soon go broke if they couldn’t book more cargo. The boy suddenly cut his engine to the faintest of purrs consistent with continued ignition. He listened intently. Reardon stared at him curiously.
“What is it?”
“I thought I heard a speedboat motor. Everything else on the bay in a fog comes and goes, except big ships. You can hear their screws, but it’s different. A speedboat...” He paused, bending forward slightly.
“Where are we?”
The boy looked properly surprised at this ignorance.
“Between Alcatraz and the Wharf.” He shook his head. “I told you.”
“I wasn’t listening,” Reardon said shortly.
The boy brought his speed up again, his ears sharp for the various sounds from the thick mist about them. Reardon realized again how completely lost he would have been had he been alone. It was like playing blindman’s buff in an area fifty times the size of municipal San Francisco, and with no limitations in movement as proscribed by paved streets. The young man suddenly cut his speed once again; the boat rocked in silence. Ahead of them Reardon heard a sound that repeated itself without pause; a pulsing that could not have been a foghorn. With time I suppose I could learn, he thought, and turned as the boy spoke. He was nodding in satisfaction.
“That’s Ann’s boat. That’s him.” He looked at Reardon. “What are you going to when we catch up with him?”
“If we catch up with him,” Reardon amended. He looked at the boy. “I don’t know. I know one thing; once he’s in sight I want you to give me the wheel. And you duck down. There have been enough people hurt in this affair as it is.” He saw a look of stubbornness come over the young features and his voice hardened. “That’s an order from a police lieutenant, so forget about any argument.”
He turned his head, staring out into the mist as the boy brought his speed up again, turning the wheel. They ran less than a minute before the young man cut his engines once again. A new sound came to them. “Yerba Buena Island,” the young man said. They swayed in a murky isolated pool of gray light, surrounded by the mysterious shifting yellowish walls. The sound of the other motorboat was louder; apparently Crocker was running blindly, not taking the precaution of stopping to listen as they were doing. He obviously felt himself safe from imminent pursuit by the police, whatever he felt about the possibility of eventual escape. The boy instantly brought up his speed, turning toward the sound.
“He’s not going very fast,” he said, “for which I don’t blame him, especially if he doesn’t know the bay.” He couldn’t help adding with a touch of pride, “I could catch him easily enough if he went top speed. Ann’s boat is all right, but it’s no racer.”
His hands handled the wheel with confidence, his head turning now and then to catch the nuances of the various foghorns assailing them from all sides. Reardon brought out his revolver, checked it automatically, and held it loosely in his lap. The young man paid no attention to it. Suddenly he frowned, looking at the other.
“Your man better watch himself—”
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s a ship’s horn coming right at him, and another of some sort not very far from him. Sounds like one of the ferries.”
“Ferries?” Reardon frowned. “I thought they’d all stopped running a long time ago.”
“I call them ferries; they’re barges, actually. Leslie Salt, for one; you’ve seen them I’m sure, blue and white. And Southern Pacific still brings freight cars over from Oakland, and we’re just about in their route.”