"Of course, many of the locals don't really believe in the Red Tide," she said. "They think it's all the government's fault for dumping a lot of poison gas out in the Gulf some years ago. No, you'd better cut inside that little island up ahead. There's a good channel this side of it; you'll see the markers in a minute. Is this as fast as this thing will go?"
"Not really," I said, "but it's as fast as I'll go in water this shallow. I do have a spare propeller somewhere on board, but I don't feel like changing props today."
"I won't put us aground," she said confidently.
I shrugged, and ran the revs up until the nautical speedometer read thirty miles per hour-although why a boat speedometer should read in miles per hour instead of knots still baffled me. The little vessel was by no means fully extended, but the increase of speed seemed to satisfy the girl up forward; and in those narrow, shallow waters thirty was plenty fast enough for me. I was throwing us around the channel markers slalom-fashion as it was, glancing back occasionally to see our big white wake breaking on invisible shoals that we'd missed by only a few yards.
We slowed down a few times for other boats and once for a small village. At last, having come clear around the island, we passed under a high, new bridge I recognized as the one we'd driven over the night before, leaving the mainland. We were back in civilization. You could tell by the private docks and by the neat seawalls protecting the pretty little houses on the pretty little lawns, and by the earth-moving machinery tearing up the mangroves and the marl underneath, to prepare the way for more pretty little houses on more neat little lawns. Beyond this raw, new construction were some larger and older waterfront residences.
"Uncle Hank sold off part of his land to the developers. I'm not sure he doesn't regret it now," Martha said, looking that way. "There he is! The thirty-footer with the outriggers and the tuna tower. The gray-haired man in the cockpit… Can we just stop, or do you have to make like a secret agent and sneak through the bushes or something?"
I grinned. "Sometimes the bold move is the best. Uncle Hank, here we come."
XXIII
He was a big, weathered man with stiff gray hair that, cut quite short, made a kind of wiry brush on top of his head. His face was square and seamy, with a big mouth and a blunt nose. He had bright blue eyes, rather like Carl's, but somewhat paler and lacking the crazy intensity. He was wearing only a pair of faded khaki shorts. His deeply tanned body was in good shape for his age, which I placed somewhere in the early sixties. He leaned against a mop handle as he looked down at us from the cockpit of the big sportfisherman-at least it looked big from where I was sitting, at the wheel of my open, fifteen-foot job.
"Marty, girl," he said, "aren't you ever going to stop growing? Damned if those aren't just about the longest legs I've seen all week. And you're Helm? Well, you can make fast to the dock back there, astern of the Whaler, while I finish swabbing down this cockpit. Better give her a bit of slack. The way the kids from that new development go racing past she'll yank those tin cleats right out of that plastic gunwale if you snub her too tight."
"Yes, sir," I said.
I guessed at least four stripes of gold braid and a silver bird on the collar, at one time or another. It's a principle of the profession that it never hurts to be respectful to the brass, ex- or otherwise. It makes the relationship a lot smoother in the beginning, and it doesn't make them a bit more bulletproof in the end, if it should come to that.
I backed us past a small, shovel-nosed, open boat with a large outboard motor on the stern, and did a reasonably good job, if I do say so myself, of maneuvering into the indicated opening. Martha jumped ashore with the bow line while I secured the stern. On foot, we approached the big boat once more.
She was a real fishing machine, with the tall, thin outriggers pointing skywards on either side of the tapering, spidery framework of the lookout tower surmounting the cabin and the flying bridge. I could see how a Tinkertoy skyscraper like that might come in handy on occasion, but it wasn't really a structure I longed to be on top of, particularly if the boat was rolling in a heavy sea. There were two husky fishing chairs bolted to the deck aft. The name on the stern was Frances ii.
It was an impressive hunk of seagoing machinery. They come much larger, of course, but at a grand or more a foot, she was a lot of boat and a lot of money. Well, Sheriff Rullington had sold some land and put a Cadillac into his back yard. We all have our dreams.
Uncle Hank Priest emptied a bucket over the side as we came up, and put the mop to dry in one of the fishing-rod holders set into the cockpit gunwale.
"Marty, why don't you run up to the house and say hello to Frances?" he said.
The girl laughed. "Somehow, I get the strange feeling I'm not wanted," she said, and ran off towards the big house on shore.
The gray-haired man watched her thoughtfully. "I've known that young lady a long time," he said without looking at me. "I'd have bet my life she'd never…"
"You'd have lost," I said, when he stopped.
"You're sure?"
"Sure enough. Does it matter? I figure we're supposed to go through the same motions in any case. Am I wrong?"
He shook his head, and turned to look at me. "So you're the man he calls Eric. He has a lot of faith in you. I hope it's justified, but I'm beginning to wonder, when you come charging up to my dock in broad daylight."
I said, "Why play games, sir? You're known, and your association with him is known. Anybody who sees Martha and me here will know we're here to make contact with you."
"Yes," Priest said, "yes, of course. But I must say, this complicated kind of intrigue isn't really in my line."
"No, sir," I said. "If it were, you'd be in the Pentagon with the rest of the conniving brass, wouldn't you?"
He looked a little startled; then he grinned. "Come aboard and have a beer," he said. "Keep your damn feet off the brightwork-varnish to you." As I stepped down into the cockpit, avoiding the varnished rail, he glanced astern automatically; the admiral checking the disposition of the fleet before leaving the bridge. "Do you know why they call them Boston Whalers, son?"
He wasn't that old, and I wasn't that young, but I saw no reason to take offense. "No, sir."
"Because they aren't made in Boston and were never used for whaling." He laughed at his own joke, if it was his, and as senior officer preceded me into the deckhouse without apologies. "Get a couple of beers out of the refrigerator, will you, son, while I find my shirt and dig out the chart."
He disappeared into the dark cabin forward that seemed to consist mainly of two berths meeting in a V towards the boat's bow. I looked around for something that might hold beer and keep it cold. The deckhouse had plenty of glass and daylight. It seemed to be half dinette and half kitchenette-excuse me, galley. One corner was reserved for the seagoing john-excuse me, head. I found the refrigerator under the counter to starboard and extracted two bottles as Priest emerged from the cabin buttoning a khaki shirt, with a folded chart clamped under his arm. He spoke as if there had been no pause in the conversation.
"You found the little flares on board your boat?"
"Yes, sir. In the battery compartment under the helmsman's seat."
"Never mind the red ones. They're standard emergency equipment and came with the kit. The white ones are what you want. They're in a separate tube."
"I saw them," I said. I hesitated. "It's a neat little gadget, but I shouldn't think it would have much range."
"We figured concealment might be more important to you than range, son," Priest said. "Keep it with you at all times, loaded, with as many extra flares as you can hide out. Arthur said you people were pretty good at hiding things. When the time comes, I'll be standing by, as far in among the islands down there as I can get the Frances without putting her on the mud. I'll have the Whaler in tow, ready to go. There'll be a man up in the tuna tower. From up there, he'll be able to see quite a ways over the mangroves. A white flare will bring the Whaler in looking for you with plenty of firepower. That's not saying they'll find you, of course. Those are tricky waters. But it's the best support we can offer you."