by Tom Clancy
Kelly ran a hand across his jaw, feeling the sandpaper texture. The hand itself was dirty. No wonder they’d acted that way at the grocery warehouse. Letting yourself go, Kelly.
Well, who the hell cares?
He turned to look at his guest and realized that he didn’t know her name. He was taking her to his boat, and he didn’t know her name. Amazing. She was staring forward, her face serene. It was a pretty face in profile. She was thin—perhaps willowy was the right word, her hair halfway between blonde and brown. Her jeans were worn and torn in a few places, and had begun life at one of those stores where they charged you extra to sell jeans that were pre-faded—or whatever they did with them. Kelly didn’t know and cared less. One more thing not to care about.
Christ, how did you ever get this screwed up? his mind demanded of him. He knew the answer, but even that was not a full explanation. Different segments of the organism called John Terrence Kelly knew different parts of the whole story, but somehow they’d never all come together, leaving the separate fragments of what had once been a tough, smart, decisive man to blunder about in confusion—and despair? There was a happy thought.
He remembered what he’d once been. He remembered all the things that he had survived, amazed that he had done so. And perhaps the worst torment of all was that he didn’t understand what had gone wrong. Sure, he knew what had happened, but those things had all been on the outside, and somehow his understanding had gotten lost, leaving him alive and confused and without purpose. He was on autopilot. He knew that, but not where fate was taking him.
She didn’t try to talk, whoever she was, and that was just as well, Kelly told himself, though he sensed that there was something he ought to know. The realization came as a surprise. It was instinctual, and he’d always trusted his instincts, the warning chill on his neck and forearms. He looked around at the traffic and Kelly saw no particular danger other than cars with too much engine under the hood and not enough brains behind the wheel. His eyes scanned carefully and found nothing. But the warning didn’t go away, and Kelly found himself checking the mirror for no good reason, while his left hand wandered down between his legs and found the checkered grips of the Colt automatic that hung hidden under the seat. His hand was stroking the weapon before he realized it.
Now what the hell did you do that for? Kelly pulled his hand back and shook his head with a grimace of frustration. But he did keep checking the mirror—just the normal watch on traffic, he lied to himself for the next twenty minutes.
The boatyard was a swarm of activity. The three-day weekend, of course. Cars were zipping about too fast for the small and badly paved parking lot, each driver trying to evade the Friday rush that each was, of course, helping to create. At least here the Scout came into its own. The high ground clearance and visibility gave Kelly an advantage as he maneuvered to Springer’s transom, and he looped around to back up to the slip he’d left six hours before. It was a relief, to crank up the windows and lock the car. His adventure on the highways was over, and the safety of the trackless water beckoned.
Springer was a diesel-powered motor yacht, forty-one feet long, custom built but similar in her lines and internal arrangements to a Pacemaker Coho. She was not especially pretty, but she had two sizable cabins, and the midships salon could be converted easily into a third. Her diesels were large but not supercharged, because Kelly preferred a large comfortable engine to a small straining one. He had a high-quality marine radar, every sort of communications gear that he could legally use, and navigation aids normally reserved for offshore fishermen. The fiberglass hull was immaculate, and there was not a speck of rust on the chromed rails, though he had deliberately done without the topside varnish that most yacht-owners cherished because it wasn’t worth the maintenance time. Springer was a workboat, or was supposed to be.
Kelly and his guest alighted from the car. He opened the cargo door and started carrying the cartons aboard. The young lady, he saw, had the good sense to stay out of the way.
“Yo, Kelly!” a voice called from the flying bridge.
“Yeah, Ed, what was it?”
“Bad gauge. The generator brushes were a little worn, and I replaced them, but I think it was the gauge. Replaced that, too.” Ed Murdock, the yard’s chief mechanic, started down, and spotted the girl as he began to step off the ladder. Murdock tripped on the last step and nearly landed flat on his face in surprise. The mechanic’s face evaluated the girl quickly and approvingly.
“Anything else?” Kelly asked pointedly.
“Topped off the tanks. The engines are warm,” Murdock said, turning back to his customer. “It’s all on your bill.”
“Okay, thanks, Ed.”
“Oh, Chip told me to tell you, somebody else made an offer in case you ever want to sell—”
Kelly cut him off. “No chance, Ed.”
“She’s a jewel, Kelly,” Murdock said as he gathered his tools and walked away smiling, pleased with himself for the double entendre.
It took several seconds for Kelly to catch that one. It evoked a belated grunt of semi-amusement as he loaded the last of the groceries into the salon.
“What do I do?” the girl asked. She’d just been standing there, and Kelly had the impression that she was trembling a little and trying to hide it.
“Just take a seat topside,” Kelly said, pointing to the flying bridge. “It’ll take me a few minutes to get things started.”
“Okay.” She beamed a smile at him guaranteed to melt ice. as though she knew exactly what one of his needs was.
Kelly walked aft to his cabin, pleased at least that he kept his boat tidy. The master-cabin head was also neat, and he found himself staring into the mirror and asking, “Okay, now what the fuck are you going to do?”
There was no immediate answer, but common decency told him to wash up. Two minutes later he entered the salon. He checked to see that the grocery cartons were secure, then went topside.
“I, uh, forgot to ask you something—” he began.
“Pam,” she said, extending her hand. “What’s yours?”
“Kelly,” he replied, nonplussed yet again.
“Where we going, Mr. Kelly?”
“Just Kelly,” he corrected her, keeping his distance for the moment. Pam just nodded and smiled again.
“Okay, Kelly, where to?”
“I own a little island about thirty—”
“You own an island?” Her eyes went wide.
“That’s right.” Actually, he just leased it, and that had been a fact long enough that Kelly didn’t find it the least bit remarkable.
“Let’s go!” she said with enthusiasm, looking back at the shore.
Kelly laughed out loud. “Okay, let’s do that!”
He flipped on the bilge blowers. Springer had diesel engines, and he didn’t really have to worry about fumes building up, but for all his recently acquired slovenliness, Kelly was a seaman, and his life on the water followed a strict routine, which meant observing all the safety rules that had been written in the blood of less careful men. After the prescribed two minutes, he punched the button to start the portside, then the starboard-side diesel. Both of the big Detroit Diesel engines caught at once, rumbling to impressive life as Kelly checked the gauges. Everything looked fine.
He left the flying bridge to slip his mooring lines, then came back and eased the throttles forward to take his boat out of the slip, checking tide and wind—there was not much of either at the moment—and looking for other boats. Kelly advanced the port throttle a notch farther as he turned the wheel, allowing Springer to pivot all the more quickly in the narrow channel, and then he was pointed straight out. He advanced the starboard throttle next, bringing his cruiser to a mannerly five knots as he headed past the ranks of motor and sail yachts. Pam was looking around at the boats, too, mainly aft, and her eyes fixed on the parking lot for a long couple of seconds before she looked forward again, her body relaxing more as she did so.
“You know any
thing about boats?” Kelly asked.
“Not much,” she admitted, and for the first time he noticed her accent.
“Where you from?”
“Texas. How about you?”
“Indianapolis, originally, but it’s been a while.”
“What’s this?” she asked. Her hands reached out to touch the tattoo on his forearm.
“It’s from one of the places I’ve been,” he said. “Not a very nice place.”
“Oh, over there.” She understood.
“That’s the place.” Kelly nodded matter-of-factly. They were out of the yacht basin now, and he advanced the throttles yet again.
“What did you do there?”
“Nothing to talk to a lady about,” Kelly replied, looking around from a half-standing position.
“What makes you think I’m a lady?” she asked.
It caught him short, but he was getting used to it by now. He’d also found that talking to a girl, no matter what the subject, was something that he needed to do. For the first time he answered her smile with one of his own.
“Well, it wouldn’t be very nice of me if I assumed that you weren’t.”
“I wondered how long it would be before you smiled.” You have a very nice smile, her tone told him.
How’s six months grab you? he almost said. Instead he laughed, mainly at himself. That was something else he needed to do.
“I’m sorry. Guess I haven’t been very good company.” He turned to look at her again and saw understanding in her eyes. Just a quiet look, very human and feminine, but it shook Kelly. He could feel it happen, and ignored the part of his consciousness that told him that it was something he’d needed badly for months. That was something he didn’t need to hear, especially from himself. Loneliness was bad enough without reflection on its misery. Her hand reached out yet again, ostensibly to stroke the tattoo, but that wasn’t what it was all about. It was amazing how warm her touch was, even under a hot afternoon sun. Perhaps it was a measure of just how cold his life had become.
But he had a boat to navigate. There was a freighter about a thousand yards ahead. Kelly was now at full cruising power, and the trim tabs at the stern had automatically engaged, bringing the boat to an efficient planing angle as her speed came to eighteen knots. The ride was smooth until they got into the merchant ship’s wake. Then Springer started pitching, up and down three or four feet at the bow as Kelly maneuvered left to get around the worst of it. The freighter grew before them like a cliff as they overtook her.
“Is there someplace I can change?”
“My cabin is aft. You can move in forward if you want.”
“Oh, really?” She giggled. “Why would I do that?”
“Huh?” She’d done it to him again.
Pam went below, careful to hold on to the rails as she carried her backpack. She hadn’t been wearing much. She reappeared in a few minutes wearing even less, short-shorts and a halter, no shoes, and perceptibly more relaxed. She had dancer’s legs, Kelly noticed, slim and very feminine. Also very pale, which surprised him. The halter was loose on her, and frayed at the edges. Perhaps she’d recently lost weight, or maybe she’d deliberately bought it overlarge. Whatever the reason, it showed quite a bit of her chest. Kelly caught himself shifting his eyes, and chastised himself for ogling the girl. But Pam made it hard not to. Now she grasped his upper arm and sat up against him. Looking over, he could see right down the halter just as far as he wanted.
“You like them?” she asked.
Kelly’s brain and mouth went into lock. He made a few embarrassed sounds, and before he could decide to say anything she was laughing. But not at him. She was waving at the crew of the freighter, who waved back. It was an Italian ship, and one of the half dozen or so men hanging over the rail at the stern blew Pam a kiss. She did the same in return.
It made Kelly jealous.
He turned the wheel to port again, taking his boat across the bow wave of the freighter, and as he passed the vessel’s bridge he tooted his horn. It was the correct thing to do, though few small boaters ever bothered. By this time, a watch officer had his glasses on Kelly—actually Pam, of course. He turned and shouted something to the wheelhouse. A moment later the freighter’s enormous “whistle” sounded its own bass note, nearly causing the girl to leap from her seat.
Kelly laughed, and so did she, and then she wrapped her arms tightly around his bicep. He could feel a finger tracing its way around the tattoo.
“It doesn’t feel like—”
Kelly nodded. “I know. Most people expect it to feel like paint or something.”
“Why did—”
“—I get it? Everybody in the outfit did. Even the officers. It was something to do, I guess. Pretty dumb, really.”
“I think it’s cute.”
“Well, I think you’re pretty cute.”
“You say the nicest things.” She moved slightly, rubbing her breast against his upper arm.
Kelly settled down to a steady cruising speed of eighteen knots as he worked his way out of Baltimore harbor. The Italian freighter was the only merchant ship in view, and the seas were flat, with one-foot ripples. He kept to the main shipping channel all the way out into the Chesapeake Bay.
“You thirsty?” she asked as they turned south.
“Yeah. There’s a fridge in the kitchenette—it’s in the—”
“I saw it. What do you want?”
“Get two of anything.”
“Okay,” she replied brightly. When she stood, the soft feeling worked its way straight up his arm, finally departing at the shoulder.
“What’s that?” she asked on returning. Kelly turned and winced. He’d been so content with the girl on his arm that he’d neglected to pay attention to the weather. “That” was a thunderstorm, a towering mass of cumulonimbus clouds that reached eight or ten miles skyward.
“Looks like we’re going to get some rain,” he told her as he took the beer from her hand.
“When I was a little girl, that meant a tornado.”
“Well, not here, it doesn’t,” Kelly replied, looking around the boat to make sure that there was no loose gear. Below, he knew, everything was in its proper place, because it always was, ennui or not. Then he switched on his marine radio. He caught a weather forecast at once, one that ended with the usual warning.
“Is this a small craft?” Pam asked.
“Technically it is, but you can relax. I know what I’m doing. I used to be a chief bosun’s mate.”
“What’s that?”
“A sailor. In the Navy, that is. Besides, this is a pretty big boat. The ride might get a little bumpy, is all. If you’re worried, there are life jackets under the seat you’re on.”
“Are you worried?” Pam asked. Kelly smiled and shook his head. “Okay.” She resumed her previous position, her chest against his arm. her head on his shoulder, a dreamy expression in her eyes, as though anticipating something that was to be, storm or no storm.
Kelly wasn’t worried—at least not about the storm—but he wasn’t casual about things either. Passing Bodkin Point, he continued east across the shipping channel. He didn’t turn south until he was in water he knew to be too shallow for anything large enough to run him down. Every few minutes he turned to keep an eye on the storm, which was charging right in at twenty knots or so. It had already blotted out the sun. A fast-moving storm most often meant a violent one, and his new southerly course meant that he wasn’t outrunning it any longer. Kelly finished off his beer and decided against another. Visibility would drop fast. He pulled out a plastic-coated chart and fixed it in place on the table to the right of the instrument panel, marked his position with a grease pencil, and then checked to make sure that his course didn’t take him into shallows—Springer drew four and a half feet of water, and for Kelly anything less than eight feet constituted shallow water. Satisfied, he set his compass course and relaxed again. His training was his buffer against both danger and complacency.
“Won’t be long now,” Pam observed, just a trace of unease in her voice as she held on to him.
“You can head below if you want,” Kelly said. “It’s gonna get rainy and windy. And bumpy.”
“But not dangerous.”
“No, unless I do something really dumb. I’ll try not to,” he promised.
“Can I stay here and see what it’s like?” she asked, clearly unwilling to leave his side, though Kelly did not know why.
“It’s going to get wet,” he warned her again.
“That’s okay.” She smiled brightly, fixing even more tightly to his arm.
Kelly throttled back some, taking the boat down off plane. There was no reason to hurry. With the throttles eased back, there was no longer a need for two hands on the controls either. He wrapped his arm around the girl, her head came automatically down on his shoulder again, and despite the approaching storm everything was suddenly right with the world. Or that’s what Kelly’s emotions told him. His reason said something else, and the two views would not reconcile themselves. His reason reminded him that the girl at his side was—what? He didn’t know. His emotions told him that it didn’t matter a damn. She was what he needed. But Kelly was not a man ruled by emotions, and the conflict made him glower at the horizon.
“Something wrong?” Pam asked.
Kelly started to say something, then stopped, and reminded himself that he was alone on his yacht with a pretty girl. He let emotion win this round for a change.
“I’m a little confused, but, no, nothing is wrong that I know about.”
“I can tell that you—”
Kelly shook his head. “Don’t bother. Whatever it is, it can wait. Just relax and enjoy the ride.”
The first gust of wind arrived a moment later, heeling the boat a few degrees to port. Kelly adjusted his rudder to compensate. The rain arrived quickly. The first few warning sprinkles were rapidly followed by solid sheets that marched like curtains across the surface of the Chesapeake Bay. Within a minute visibility was down to only a few hundred yards, and the sky was as dark as late twilight. Kelly made sure his running lights were on. The waves started kicking up in earnest, driven by what felt like thirty knots of wind. Weather and seas were directly on the beam. He decided that he could keep going, but he was in a good anchoring place now, and wouldn’t be in another for five hours. Kelly took another look at the chart, then switched on his radar to verify his position. Ten feet of water, a sand bottom that the chart called HRD and was therefore good holding ground. He brought Springer into the wind and eased the throttles until the propellers were providing just enough thrust to overcome the driving force of the wind.
