by Rick Boyer
"Forget it, honey. They'll be caught; there's enough people looking for them, now, including the United States Army. When I get back let's go buy a puppy."
We returned in late afternoon with a cardboard carton filled with strips of newspaper and a four pound composition of sinew, wiry fur, big brown eyes, and needle teeth. Mary picked her up out of the box at least a dozen times on our way home.
"We've got troubles now, Charlie," she said, kissing the mutt on the side of her muzzle. She was smiling.
"Then let's name her that."
"What?"
"Troubles. You said, 'We've got troubles now.' So let's name her Troubles."
"Where have you guys been?" asked Joe. He was standing at the sideboard, having just made himself a generous gin and tonic.
"Gee why don't you just come right in and make yourself at home?" I asked.
"Thanks, I did already. That's why I was given a key. What the hell's thar?"
So we spent the next half-hour with drinks and the doggie. She pranced around the kitchen, sliding on the Spanish tile. She looked into strange places and whined and yelped—scampered back. We let the other two in, and Danny and Flack took to her immediately. Joe and I sat watching the animals frolic. I looked up and saw Mary pause at the window. She was looking at the newly spaded patch of ground in the Japanese garden. It was right next to the bronze lotus flower, the Asian symbol of immortality.
"C'mon hon. Time to forget. It's all part of the Great Going On."
"Well what you call the Great Going On is sad. . . and scary."
"Yep. And unfair too. But we're stuck with it. Come on, let's go destroy our intestinal tracts."
On the way to the Yangtze River, Joe said he had some promising news.
"We've located the Rose, Charlie. And you'll never guess where she is."
"Probably not."
"C'mon, guess."
"Gloucester."
"Shit. How the hell did you know?"
"Lucky guess I guess."
"How did you know, Charlie?" asked Mary.
"Because it's the most unlikely place for a man of Schilling's cunning to leave her."
"Is there something you're not telling me?" asked Joe.
" 'Course not. Now look, here's a parking place."
Two hours later, after ingesting gobs and gobs of hot sour soup, fried dumplings with hot sesame oil and white vinegar, moo-shi pork, Szechwan spicy beef, garlic shrimp, peppered broccoli, and so on, and having wreaked perhaps terminal damage on our alimentary canals (the top half of which we were now conscious of, and the bottom half of which would manifest itself during the next several days), we returned home.
And speaking of digestive systems, when we opened the kitchen door and saw our new friend, I again pondered that most ancient of nature's mysteries: how is it possible that a four-pound dog can produce—in an incredibly short time—eight pounds of excreta?
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE ROSE WAS sitting out there in Gloucester Harbor swinging lazily around her hawser like a pregnant duck. Joe had two men staked out watching her, They'd spoken to other crews as well. Nobody had seen hide nor hair of the men of the Rose. Nor had the harbormaster. This didn't surprise me. I considered that the Rose had been just a bit too easy to find, just a wee bit too conspicuous. I departed the harbor with Mary and we drove down through Manchester. We headed along Rudderman's Lane.
"No answer at all? How many times did you try?"
"Once. The operator said the phone had been disconnected. Either Laura Kincaid has changed numbers—getting another unlisted one—or else—hah! I was right. Look."
The Kincaid abode was for sale. The sign was in front, and the downstairs curtains were all drawn,. We stopped and got out to look. Mary drooled over it.
"Gee Charlie, I wonder what they're asking for it."
"I figure half a million minimum. If you think it's nice outside, you should see the interior."
We walked around. If anyone asked what we were doing, we had a perfect excuse. The lawn was as trimmed as ever. New grass was beginning to sprout thickly over the ugly scar in the lawn where the oil tank had been put in. Mary said she wondered where Laura had gone. I was wondering the same thing. Out of curiosity I rang the bell. Waited. Rang again. We heard the same distant pealing of Westminster chimes, but nothing else. Nobody home.
"Level with me, Charlie. What the hell's going on? I want to know. Now. I'm sick of all this screwing around. What the hell's going on in your mind?"
"A number of things. One: I don't think Laura Kincaid is as rich as she led me to believe. I don't know why I think that, I just do. Two: wherever Jim Schilling is, he's not going to come back to the Rose for a long time. The Coast Guard search, and the watch on the Buzarski place when the pinch takes place—will all tell him that the Rose is poison. If he's going to run any more batches, it'll be by some other means."
"Oh wait. I forgot to tell you, but while you were on your little cruise, Joe and I looked over your notes and your spare chart of Billingsgate Sound. We came up with a pretty neat theory to explain how the boat happened to get grounded on the shoal in the first place."
When we were home she showed me. She took a pair of dividers and placed one point on Billingsgate where we'd first seen the stranded boat. She then extended the other leg toward Wellfleet Harbor.
"Now, Charlie, I remember you said that Penelope was lucky to make it into Wellfleet without sinking."
"Right. She barely scooted in."
"Now you also said, from looking at the pictures you took of her, that she'd been near sinking before."
"That line of oil slick could've happened either after her collision or after leaving Billingsgate Shoal. It probably happened after she struck."
"So she came close to sinking twice, in all probability. Assuming she got this far almost sinking, it's then reasonable to assume that she could have traveled about the same distance the first time, right?"
"Ah hah! Yes, yes. You're saying that the point where she struck is the same distance from Billingsgate as Wellfleet."
"Look."
She drew the far point of the dividers in a big circle on the chart. The point swept past the neck of Great Island, went out into the bay, swung back, and came to rest within the circular dotted line on the chart encircling the zone marked Prohibited Area. And right smack in the middle of it was the symbol of a wreck and the words target vessel, do not approach within 1000 yards. It was a clever bit of reasoning. If correct, it meant that the Penelope (now the Rose) had struck on the wreck.
"Wouldn't it make sense, Charlie, to go to a place that's prohibited?"
"It sure would. Especially at night. If you had a rendezvous to keep, it'd be perfect, knowing no other vessel's going to come within a thousand yards of where you are."
A lot of small craft violate the warning during the day, especially fishermen because the wreck attracts fish and lobster. But at night it would be just about foolproof. And they could use the old wreck as a drop too; hide the stuff inside it and scoot, then the pickup could take place hours later.
"Sure. But supposing they had an accident during the rendezvous and struck part of the wreck, or the rocks around it. Then they would probably head for the nearest harbor."
"Uh huh. But if they were taking on Water too fast they would know they could never make it, so they'd head for the nearest safe place, which happened to be Billingsgate."
We looked at the chart. Mary drew her fingernail along the easternmost edge of the shoal.
"They slid the boat up here in the falling tide," she said. "Then they worked on the hull or whatever in the dark."
"And I happened to see them. I bet they still had the guns aboard too. I think that's why Allan Hart died."
"Really, how come?"
"Well, they're sitting in the harbor waiting to get the hull fixed and who appears but a diver, poking around under their hull. Also, do you remember the diving cap Allan was wearing? Remember it was loaned to him, a
U.S. Navy cap?"
"They saw it and panicked."
"Could have happened. They could, have beaned him right there in the harbor thinking he was on to them."
"But why did they let the boat be hauled up into that place?"
"What choice did they have? They had to skedaddle and you can't do that with a boat that's going to sink. They had a quick patch job done and then split. We saw them leaving. I've never seen a boat more determined to make time than the Penelope was."
“So you think our theory is pretty good?" she asked.
"I think it's just dandy. I had considered the Longstreet before but never in a specific way. Your little explanation seems to put the cap on it. Also, they haven't shelled the wreck in two years, so even though it's officially prohibited, and no doubt treacherous, it's safe from bombs. Yeah—you and your brother are to be congratulated."
“You're pretty sure Rose is a decoy?"
"Yep. I bet you Schilling and his people are operating out of Plymouth. It's pretty far from Gloucester; it's near Boston and Southie, and it's big."
"Well we're going to drop this thing anyway, right?"
The phone rang; it was Brian Hannon.
"Just touching base, Doc. Remember, don't go anywhere far without letting me or my office know, huh? I've got people watching your house and loved ones. You try to go anywhere, I'm gonna follow you like B.O."
"You remind me a bit of B.O."
"That's not funny."
I thanked him and hung up.
"I wonder if Jim's put Whimsea up for the winter yet?"
"One more fishing trip?"
I nodded.
"My hand's almost as good as new. That means I'll be returning to work shortly. I'd like to enjoy thoroughly what little screw-off time is left to me. I think I'll give him a jingle."
But before I reached the phone, it rang out.
"This Doctor Adams?"
"Yes, who's this?"
"Now listen heer, Doctor. I'm tremendous upset you set yer goons ta watchin' that barn, don't ya know? They're muckin' up me plans. Now you call 'em off or there'll be the devil pay. You tell 'em. I was kind the first time but twawnt be again—"
The line went dead.
"Who was that?"
"Wrong number," I answered, and dialed Jim DeGroot.
* * *
"I am amenable to such an excursion, especially since you have volunteered to buy all the gas," said Jim languidly as he stretched his feet out on the rattan stool of his screen porch. We were sitting out in the fall sunshine, watching the colors beginning to turn, and exercising our livers. "But we'd better do it this weekend 'cause it's getting close to the end of the season. Think there'll be any stripers there?"
"Probably tautog. They're thick in that part of the Bay because they feed off the quahogs and scallops. Got teeth in 'em like a gravel crusher. But I also want to do some snooping around and I can't use my boat; they're already on to it. Uh, don't mention this last bit to Mary or Janice, OK?"
DeGroot rattled the cubes in his empty glass and pondered. He said he didn't want anyone shooting at us. I told him there was scarcely a chance of that; we'd be fishermen. So we struck the bargain. Next Thursday we'd head south to Plymouth, then over to Wellfleet and the Bay, then back to Plymouth. It would cost me a small fortune in gasoline, but I felt I had to take one more try.”
Mary and Janice were none too pleased. But we emphasized it was a fishing trip, nothing else. I suggested that Mary stay at DeGroot's during my absence. This was arranged to everyone's satisfaction. My children had let me know their whereabouts, via Brian Hannon's office. Tony, his summer "job" ended, had taken up residence at the home of a girl he'd met at the resort. I phoned him there.
"Do her parents think it's OK?"
"Oh sure," he answered.
"May I speak with one of them please?"
"They're, uh, not here right now."
"Well when are they expected back?"
"Pretty soon. Look I have to—"
"Wait. When is pretty soon? Half an hour?"
"Next month actually."
"'Next month? Where are they?"
"Sri Lanka."
A female voice cut in. It was young and delicious.
"Doctor Adams? Hi! I'm Jennie! Listen there's really nothing to worry about. You see my older brother and his girl are here too and—"
"I'm so glad. You can?t imagine my relief. May I speak with my son alone for a second please?"
"Dad?"
"Look. I'll be brief and direct. Keep it in your pants until you've taken all the pills. Secondly, don't come near the house. You can reach Mother at the DeGroots'. Good-bye."
I called Jack at Woods Hole. He was staying in a dorm at the Biological Station with some friends. He asked if Jim and I were to visit The Breakers, and I told him it was unlikely and for him to stay clear of the place.
Thursday afternoon at one, we left.
Before heading for the Cape Ann Marina I checked Gloucester's main harbor. The Rose was still there, deserted. I called Joe at the Commonwealth Avenue headquarters.
"I take it nothing has happened regarding the Rose."
"Nope. But it will. You have any ideas?"
"No. You remember Jim DeGroot? Well, we're taking off for a few days aboard his boat. Why don't you jot down a few particulars, so in case we don't turn up you'll know where to look. But don't tell Brian Hannon I called you."
"He just called me. Wanted to know where you were. Said he was going to stick to you like Duco."
"Well tell him then; just don't let him bother me. Now take this down, and Mary's number too."
We purred out of the marina by the south route. Plymouth lay forty-five miles to the south, a straight shot. As we passed Marblehead I had an urge to zip into the harbor there. But why? If Schilling were active, we'd never recognize the boat he was using. The only hope we had was to see if by chance we couldn't run across his track in the two places I'd seen him before. In short, we had to forget Salem, Marblehead, Lynn, Swampscott, Boston, Winthrop, Scituate, Cohasset—all the harbors between Gloucester and Plymouth. And I knew the odds of laying eyes on him were remote indeed. If I were him I'd lay low as a hibernating woodchuck for a couple of months. But leaving the Rose in a place where the police were sure to look, that led me to the conclusion that Schilling . wasn't ready to hang up his jersey yet. And there had been a load of firearms in the barn; it was probably moved the night my strange friend and I paid a visit there. Where was that shipment now? Probably on its way overseas on some freighter or fishing vessel. If it was the last shipment perhaps Schilling would reappear and claim the Rose. No, maybe not. That depended on how well he'd covered his tracks.
Jim sat in the cabin instead of up on the flying bridge. It was too cold now for that. He eased the twin throttle knobs forward and the Whimsea lifted herself up out of the water a bit and began to plane. We clipped right along. I stood in the cockpit and watched the wake fan out behind us. The white and turquoise water mixed with the bluish exhaust smoke and rolled away behind us. The engines rumbled and spat and gurgled under my feet.
"Whatcha thinkin?"
I went forward and joined him at the helm. I squinted at a long brownish-red freighter in the distance.
"I'm thinking that James Schilling and I are going to meet face-to-face before very long," I answered. "We've scraped sides twice. I think the next meeting will be definitive."
"Just so I'm not involved in it. If you seek him out, you do so alone."
"Don't. worry. The police and the Coast Guard know where we'll be going; I saw to that. All I want to do right now is slide around the southern end of the Bay and keep my eyes open."
We poured coffee and sat and chatted as he kept the boat headed straight on. We had the VHF on and tuned to channel 16, the distress frequency. Nothing interesting was happening. I switched a couple of times to the commercial bands used by cargo boats and fishermen, and got nothing but the usual technical lingo about course chan
ges, gross weights, ETAs, cruise plans, and the like.
We kept the VHF on for a while. Behind the voices and the static was a constant drone that resembled an aircraft engine, or the rocket ships in the old Flash Gordon movies: "mmmmmmrrrrm·rmmm—vessel taking water—rrrmmmmmmm—snap! Yeah we have her sighted 'bout sixty meters off Spectacle Island snap!—mmmmmmmmmmmrrrr. . ."
And so on, and on. It got a bit monotonous. We switched to the more lively CB scanner.
"fffftttt! . . .eeeoow! . . fffft! . . .my port engine's down, come back. . ."
"Jimmy' Hey Jimmy?"
"fffft! Yeah. . . said my mother-lovin' port diesel's down. No go—over."
"You check out that fuel pump? Come back—"
"Don't think that's it—fffft!——Maybe it's the effin' injectors or else I gotta clogged—fffft."'
"You gonna stay out, Jimmy?"
"Look I'll limp home on the starboard engine. You comin' out or what, come back?"
"Soon's I get some bread to top her up. I'm hockin' my old lady's socks right now to get
fuel. . .where are you, come back?"
"I got—sszzzznapp! mmmmmmrmnmm. . .you there? OK, heading due north with Little Gurney Light off my port quarter 'bout three miles—you know where those deep troughs start? Over——"
"Yeah, gottcha, good buddy. But look, you get an RDF fix or loran fix and let me know exactly. You shouldn't be effin' around out there with one side down——"
"Yeah. I got—ffft.—so when I call you back you'll have it. I'm gone."
Back to the VHF:
"—Coast Guard Station in Boston with the latest weather—at two o'clock the temperature is fifty-six degrees and steady, winds south southwest four to six knots, gusting to nine. . .
barometric pressure twenty-nine point seven and falling...seas two to five feet. . .visibility eight miles and closing. Light fog and drizzle—"
The number of vessels increased dramatically as we passed Boston about eight miles offshore. Especially predominant were larger vessels: freighters and tankers, large trawlers, and a few big yachts. We all intermingled and crossed paths at big distances and continued on our separate ways with remarkable ease. I glassed all the boats continually, especially the medium-length trawlers and smaller powerboats. If I were running guns and had abandoned my boat, I'd want a fast powerboat, like a sport-fisherman. But peering through binoculars at the boats that dotted the sea was a bit futile.
