The taxi took fifteen minutes to arrive, and in her imagination she could see Hurd awakening, getting to his feet, and going back to the house to call the police. She got into the taxi. “Lincolnville Ferry, please,” she told the woman driving.
As they were driving through Rockland, a police car passed them going the other way, followed by an ambulance. Sherry made a quick decision. “Take me to the harbor in Camden,” she said. “I forgot I have to pick up something there.”
The driver drove into Camden, deposited her outside a row of shops, took her money, and pointed down an alley. “The harbor’s right down there,” she said.
Sherry trotted down the alley, pulling her case behind her, then came to a dock. She stood, staring at a sign that read: WAYFARER MARINA. It was on the other side of the harbor. It began to rain.
13
Sherry stood there. She was afraid to retrace her steps and walk to the north side of the harbor, so she looked around for a boat. As if in answer to a prayer, a small boat with an awning came out of the mist and stopped. “Taxi?” the driver asked.
She climbed aboard. “The Wayfarer Marina,” she said, pointing. “Over there.”
“Five bucks,” the man said.
Sherry took shelter as best she could, and raked the coming shore with her eyes. There were a number of motor yachts, but none named Breeze.
The water taxi pulled up to the dock, and the driver set her bag ashore for her. She paid him, then looked around for a dockmaster. What she saw instead was a police car pulling into the parking area fifty yards away and a cop getting out of one side and Hurd out the other, sporting a bandage on his forehead and looking angry.
She spotted a shed at one end of the marina and ran for that. A young man had taken shelter inside and was reading a Playboy. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I’m looking for a yacht named Breeze,” she said.
“Right over there,” he said, pointing at a huge shed, the bow of a yacht sticking out.
“And where would I find Captain Todd?” she asked.
“Aboard Breeze,” he replied.
Sherry looked out the window and saw Hurd making his way toward the dock, followed by the policeman. She got out her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” a woman said.
“There’s an abandoned green van behind a filling station and Subway south of here. I thought you should know.” She watched through the rain-spattered window and saw the cop reach to his belt for a radio and say something, then he shouted something at Hurd, who turned and followed him back to the car. They turned the car around and drove away.
“Thanks for your help,” Sherry said to the young man, then grabbed her bag and headed for the huge shed, which had a pair of rails out front that ran toward the docks. Near the stern, a half dozen men had taken shelter. “Captain Todd?” she asked. One of them turned around.
“That would be me,” he said.
“I’m Sherry.”
“I was told to watch out for you.” He led her to a platform, then up the ship’s stairs to the deck, then down below to a cabin.
“Right now,” he said, “we have no electricity, but when the rain eases up we’re going to launch her. And when the engines are started, all the systems will be working, and you can take a shower. Towels and a robe in the locker there.” He pointed and left her to it.
Sherry stripped off her sodden clothes and put them in the head, in the shower stall, then toweled her hair as dry as she could get it. Then she got under the bedcovers to get warm.
Not much later she was awakened by the yacht moving. Shortly after that they were afloat, and the engines were starting. Lights came on in her cabin, and she got into a hot shower, then used the hair dryer. The yacht was moving, but she didn’t know where to. She got into some dry clothing, then called Van and left a message that she was aboard the yacht.
She went up a deck, through a large saloon, then through a dining room, forward, until she found the bridge. Captain Todd was at the helm, and two young women were with him.
“Hi, there,” Todd said. “You get a nap and a shower?”
“Both,” she said.
“I’ve let Bob know you’re aboard.”
“Where are we headed?”
“To Islesboro. We’re going to put you ashore at Barrington’s dock, where you’ll be met.” He switched off the windscreen wipers. “We’ll have some sunshine shortly,” he said.
“Was something wrong with the yacht?” she asked.
“Just the annual inspection and bottom painting. Your timing was good.”
One of the girls spoke up. “We’re Jean and Jennifer. We’ll be taking care of you. I take it you have some wet clothes somewhere?”
“In my shower.”
“We’ll launder and dry them for you,” Jean said, and they both went aft.
Sherry’s throwaway buzzed, and she answered it. “Van?”
“Call me Bob,” he said. “I take it you’re safe.”
“Yes. They were looking for me, but I’m safe aboard Breeze now.”
“They’ll give you some lunch, then drop you off at Stone’s house in Dark Harbor. We’re on the way to the airport now, and we’ll be at the house almost as soon as you will. See you then.” He hung up before she could ask who “we” was.
“Have you had any lunch?” Todd asked.
“No, I haven’t.”
He picked up a phone and gave some instructions. “Be ready shortly.”
Soon, Jennifer appeared with a mug of hot clam chowder and a ham and cheese panini, and Sherry settled into a seat and watched their progress as she ate. The sun came out, and Penobscot Bay became more beautiful.
“This is a spectacular yacht,” she said to Todd.
“She certainly is. Built just a few years ago. Stone and his partners bought it from the estate of the owner. They got a bargain. It would cost twice what they paid to build her now.”
An hour later the yacht dropped anchor, and she was taken ashore in a tender to a dock. There a man introduced himself as Seth Hotchkiss and took her into the house. He answered his phone, said a few words, and hung up. “Stone and Bob are taking off from Rockland now. I’m going to meet them at our little airstrip.”
“May I come along for the ride?” she asked.
“Sure.” He led her downstairs and outside to a very old but very well-restored Ford station wagon. “She was built in 1938,” he said. They drove to the airstrip where a Cessna 182 was setting down. It taxied to the car and cut its engines. Two men got out.
“Hello, Sherry,” the taller of the two said. “I’m Stone Barrington and this is Bob Cantor. I believe you know him as Van.”
They all shook hands and got into the car. Ten minutes later, Stone was pouring drinks in the living room of his house.
“I’ve heard both your names,” Sherry said, “taken in vain.”
They laughed.
“I’m not surprised,” Stone said.
“And, Bob, you look better without the beard.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling.
“Now,” she said, “can you tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Well,” Stone said, “the first thing I can tell you is that if you hadn’t been smart enough to get out of that house when you did, you’d probably be dead by now.”
“I had that feeling,” Sherry replied.
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