"Climb aboard, step into hot showers and eat hot chow. A beeper, huh?"
"Yeah. It's a hand-held job. Here, I'll show you." Lofton picked his seabag off the dining room floor and unzipped it. He dug around, produced the beeper, and gave it to Kirby. He dug around some more. "Damnit!"
"What's wrong?"
Lofton stood, emptied his seabag on the dining room table and swept his hands through his clothes. "Damnit!"
Silence.
"My GPS is gone."
"Do you need it that badly?"
"Yeah, the beeper has good range, but I don't want to spend all night swimming around looking for Brutus thirty feet under water. I want to be as close to him as I can. There are too many people around Avalon. Somebody could see that damned light.
"I want to be inside within a minute. The light will go off as soon as I shut the outer hatch."
"Well, think. When was the last time you saw your GPS?"
"Avalon, this morning. I checked my bag before I zipped it up."
"Then what?"
"Then I...we...that's it, that must be it! True Blue. The boat was doing death rolls. Howard Butler had a hard time steering the last few miles. We almost crashed a couple of times with gybe‑broaches. All of our stuff spilled to the deck inside the main cabin. The girl, Bonnie, went below to get my foul weather jacket. I was next to Butler helping him on the wheel. She left my bag unzipped, 'cause that's how I found it when we docked. The damn GPS must have fallen out when we were rolling and mixed with all their stuff. Damn! Even the bilge cover had popped off. It's probably lying in True Blue's bilge right now."
Kirby yawned again and stood. "I'm really out of gas. Wait and get it tomorrow. Let's hit the sack."
"Yes--no--let me think." Lofton rubbed his temples, then, "I save time if I recover the GPS tonight. Besides, I don't want to break into the boat in broad daylight. If I find it, fine, otherwise I'll call tomorrow to see if they have it."
Lofton stood and pulled on his jacket. "I'll be back soon. Hit the hay so you'll be fresh for your surgery tomorrow."
"All right, take the jeep in case someone saw us in the Mercedes, and be careful. Don't even think about going near your Audi."
"--maybe I ought to drive by and see if it's still in one piece."
"No way. Enter from the Marina's east end. It's too early to think about your car. Besides, having two people detailed to watch it on a twenty-four-hour basis eats up a lot of man hours. That's six, maybe eight less guys who could be actively on your tail. And make sure the gangway is clear before you break into that boat. You remember how to do it, don't you?"
"Right."
Kirby's jeep glided into the empty marina parking lot. Lofton drew up to gangway twelve, stopped, switched off the engine, then ratcheted the emergency brake. He looked up and down the aisles, empty except for a red Chrysler LeBaron convertible two stalls down and a derelict Alfa Romeo on blocks three hundred feet away; nothing else. He sat for five minutes watching. A few boats glowed with anticondensation lights. At least, he hoped, there were no live aboards nearby. The harbor was quiet, the water flat, barely lapping, viscous and oily looking. He picked out True Blue's white mast poking skyward among hundreds of others in the late Sunday night marina.
OK.
He sighed, opened the door, got out and walked to the gangway and listened and watched. The ramp sign read "No visitors after sunset." Lofton walked down the ramp, his light steps sounded like thunderclaps.
Sleeping boats seemed to leer at him as he padded along the gangway: a reflecting glint off a powerboat's windshield, a gleaming stainless bow pulpit. Everyone was watching, he was sure. They stood inside darkened cabins, picking up cellular telephones, calling the police, calling Renkin.
True Blue rested securely in her slip and glistened with condensation. Lofton checked the gangway once more. No shrieking sirens, no flack‑vested guards pouring out of boats charging him with M‑16s and Doberman pinschers, no Renkin with his gold-rimmed glasses.
He shook his head and turned on the dock to True Blue. She was dark, clean, no evidence remained of Howard Butler's trials and conquests at his helm earlier today. True Blue lay waiting for Butler's next adventure.
The Ericson's mooring lines squeaked in protest as he hopped easily over the lifeline. Her mast dipped, then realigned itself to the perpendicular. Canvas covered the top of the doghouse and the hatch cover. He unsnapped it, rolled it forward, and reached for the padlock. There was none. The hasp dangled on top of the hatch, useless.
Lofton sniffed. Some people just don't take precautions, he thought, as he lifted out the hatch boards and stepped down the ladder into the main cabin. He pulled the canvas over the cabin entry; he wanted to use his flashlight and didn't need to signal his presence.
The cabin was dark, yet warm; neat as he remembered it earlier in the day. The Seth Thomas clock on the bulkhead muttered along, the oiled teak wafted about him. He admired the shadowed symmetry of Howard Butler's small, self‑contained microcosm.
His attention snapped back to the GPS. The most likely place was the bilge. If the Butlers hadn't found it, it should still be down there among the keel bolts. He bent over, took out his flashlight, covered the lens with his fingers, then thumbed the switch. Enough light escaped between his fingers as he got on his knees and pried up the bilge cover. It creaked out and he laid it aside. Nothing directly below.
He bent further, nothing all the way aft, then forward, there! Near the mast step bracket! His olive-drab GPS receiver lay wedged under a heavy braided grounding wire.
He lay on his stomach. The GPS was just within reach. He stretched out his right arm.
A bolt of lightning suddenly ripped through his head. A shockwave of pain followed. His head would burst. He'd been hit, he knew. He struggled to his knees to get out, to--
This time the lightning bolt penetrated his right temple. He retched, then lost consciousness.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lofton's hand spasmed, he reached out.
"Oof."
"Thank God!"
Fire raged in his brain. Slowly it shifted to one side. He pulled a hand toward his head. A palm, not his, soft yet firm, guided his hand down. His stomach convulsed but he caught the retch with a choke; the nausea stopped midway and radiated for a moment. He forced it down. His mouth was dry, his tongue thick.
"It's OK, Matt, wake up." The voice drifted, the palm ran over his brow.
Lofton found his head; wet, seeping, swelling, sharp pain. A dagger penetrated both sides like--like the screwdriver through Thatcher's back! He opened his eyes; nothing, darkness. Blind?
He rose, a hand pushed him back. "It's OK. Don't move yet."
Shapes before his eyes, fingers. "How many?"
"Uh, seventeen."
"Try again. How many?"
He knew the voice. Shadows. A figure loomed over him in the cabin; medium-length straight hair, delicate features, fresh soap, cologne. A woman!
"Come on, how many?"
"Two. Uh, Bonnie?" he rasped.
"Very good. Look Matt, I'm sorry."
His head was in her lap. He distinguished the overhead, the teak grab rails, True Blue's cabin. Bonnie dabbed a wet towel over his forehead and temple.
"Owww."
Bonnie in a blue-checked flannel bathrobe--a not unpleasant sight under other circumstances. He closed his eyes, then looked again as her eyes darted over his and to the top of his head, then back to his eyes. Her brow was knitted.
"What happened?" he asked.
"You happened. I was asleep in the vee berth." She nodded forward. "I was terrified. I forgot to lock the hatch from the inside. Actually, I hate to do that, it gives me clausto. When you came in and bent over the bilge I grabbed the first thing I could find." She brandished a gleaming, varnished three foot teak flagstaff. "I had to hit you twice. I think I sort of missed the first time."
"No."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Matt. I'm glad it wasn't, well, you know, the
bogeyman or somebody like that, but someone I knew."
Lofton coughed, then lay silent for a moment. He focused, "I was in too much of a hurry. I should have known somebody was aboard when I saw the hatch wasn't locked. I'm the one who should apologize. God! my head!" He sat up, his head twirled. Bracing his palms to the deck he asked, "You all right?"
"Yes, how about you? Would you like something?"
"I should have knocked. You could have clunked me with a winch handle."
"I thought of that but they're stowed aft, you were in the way. Which leads me to ask, why are you here?"
She raised herself off the deck and sat on the pilot berth while she waited for him to answer. Lofton turned and looked up at her from the cabin sole, "Lost something here today. I had just found it when, uh, the lights went out."
"And what was that?" she asked, her voice cooler.
"In the bilge. It fell out of my bag today. Here, I'll...." He turned slowly and reached into the bilge. The flashlight was where he'd dropped it, shining directly on his Rockwell‑Collins GPS. "Ugh." He stopped, his eyes blurred, then sat back. "I better wait for a moment."
"Are you sure? I straightened the cabin this evening before Daddy went home. Everything was put away." She knelt next to Lofton and looked forward into the bilge, "Oh, is this it?" She got on her stomach, wiggled, then withdrew the small cigarette-pack-sized box and handed it to him.
"What is it?" She drew close.
"A GPS."
"Say again?"
"Yeah, sort of an advanced copy, a half ounce receiver for the Global Positioning System--GPS. Latitude, longitude, anywhere in the world. It uses VHSIC and MMIC chips."
"Good God! Is it accurate?"
"Very. Plus or minus three yards." Bonnie's presence swept through him, her warm flannel robe, the soap; she seemed natural. And she wasn't wearing those glasses. "I owe you a double apology. For now, and again for this afternoon. That was an awful stunt."
She looked down, "It's all right. I'm afraid I was sort of a brat. Here I was on my own boat, and then this know‑it‑all 'Joe expert' comes bursting aboard." She looked at him and smiled. "I guess I was resentful because 'Joe expert' really did know it all. Daddy talked to me about it after you left and I must admit his perspective on my shower was funny. I must have looked pathetic."
"No, very pretty."
Silence.
"What time is it?"
Bonnie turned to the Seth Thomas clock. "Twelve forty‑five." She got up and sat back on the pilot berth. "You were out for about five minutes."
Lofton shook his head gently. Better; nothing seemed to rattle, the pain was duller and the bleeding had stopped. He stood, pulling himself up by the teak grab rail. He willed the swirling to unwind. Finally, "Do you live here?" He looked around, the cabin seemed too neat for a live aboard.
"No, I'm just staying tonight. We live in Irvine and I have to make an eight o'clock presentation tomorrow morning in downtown Long Beach. So why fight the traffic?"
"Well, sorry I bothered you." Lofton pocketed his GPS, headed for the cabin steps and poked at the canvas.
"Sure you'll be OK?" she asked again.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Say hello to your dad and--" He stopped, then turned. "Presentation, you said something about the PW‑4000 jet engine today."
"That's right, we're bidding as a second source for the fuel pump."
"And you, your dad, Butler Engineering, makes fuel pumps for jet engines now?"
"Well, yes, at least major components. But we have a new system that we engineered ourselves. Daddy's very proud of it. It should--"
"Bonnie, let me ask you. Do you have an in‑house test facility?"
Lofton moved back into the cabin. This could be it. Come on, Bonnie.
She scrunched in the pilot berth's corner, drew up her legs and wrapped her arms around them. "Yes."
Lofton closed his eyes, then opened them. "What kind of fuel do you test with?"
"Jet 'A.' Matt, I don't understand--"
"JP-5?"
"Yes, that too, they're very close. We test with those two. We test with most varieties, including JP-8 and JP‑4. Why?"
God bless you! Lofton sat. "Look, can I talk to you for a moment?"
Bonnie Duffield pulled her legs tighter. "Well...I...it's late, Matt. I need sleep. Tomorrow is a big day."
He looked at her. "Five minutes?"
She studied him, "OK, you're here. Go ahead."
"I need about thirty‑five hundred gallons of either JP‑5 or Jet 'A.'"
"What?" Her mouth popped open. "Oh, I get it, you have a Lear Jet stuck on a deserted beach in Mexico with some white stuff aboard." Her words were staccato.
He put his head in his hands. How much would he have to tell her? "No, no, nothing like that. I need it here in Long Beach."
"Fine, call Long Beach Airport services. You can buy Jet 'A' at the pump there. Anybody can. About a buck ninety a gallon. Look, I'm tired. I'm sorry I banged your head. But now if you don't mind, Mr. Thompson..."
Lofton nodded and stood up. He took a step toward the hatch, then--damnit! He turned, "My name's not Thompson. It's Lofton, Brad Lofton."
She stared at him. "Figures. Nice to meet you--Mr. Lofton? Now please, let me get some sleep."
Lofton ground his teeth, then leaned against the galley. He needed the fuel, Jet 'A' or JP‑5, it didn't matter. Both of the simple cut kerosenes would do well in Brutus's fuel cells. But Renkin would have staked out major airports throughout California by this time. Any unusual off-site purchases of Jet 'A' would be reported. He'd thought of renting a flatbed truck and buying the barrels he would need; sixty‑seven of them at fifty‑three gallons per barrel. But that was cumbersome. He couldn't move sixty‑ seven barrels by himself; a full barrel of Jet 'A' weighed close to 360 pounds. Then how to pump each barrel into Brutus? Impossible! He needed thirty‑five hundred gallons in a tanker truck delivered to--he wasn't sure--but he had an idea.
He looked at her and smiled, his best grin, he hoped. "I still have two or three minutes."
"Damn, you're persistent."
Lofton sat down again. "Like I said, my name is Brad Lofton. I really am a naval architect and I work for the Marine Systems Division of Jenson Industries. Look, here's my ID and security clearances." He flipped open his wallet and handed it over.
"Here's what I can tell you..."
A sharp crack awakened Lofton. True Blue buffeted slightly, and the echo rumbled for a few more seconds. He sat up and looked at the Seth Thomas: 5:33. Almost daylight.
"What was that?" The door to the head flew open. Bonnie rushed to the doghouse window, leaned over him, and held the teak grab rail. Lofton shrugged out of his makeshift blanket, the spinnaker, and peered over her shoulder.
"What?" she said again softly. A black column billowed on the far side of the marina. Flames roiled, the early morning hue formed a backdrop for the smoke, the northwestern corner of the Long Beach Marina was bathed in campfire brightness.
Lofton's stomach churned. The Audi! It had to be; an explosion like that could only come from C‑4, not just gasoline or diesel fuel. He'd detonated enough C‑4 in his SEAL days to know what it sounded like. And the location was right. He sat heavily, then looked up to Bonnie as she peered out; faint flickers played over her face, her partially open mouth. Sirens began to wail.
"Matt--Brad, what's wrong?"
Lofton looked up to her, shook his head slowly, then leaned against the bulkhead. The C‑4. How could that have happened? The stuff is very stable except when an electric current--
"My Audi, that was my car, I think. It sounded like C‑4, like I told you last night. I don't understand what set it off." He looked at her; Bonnie's face was like alabaster as she stared out the window. "Bonnie?"
She turned to him, her eyes wide.
"Bonnie," he said softly, "sit down for a moment."
Bonnie Duffield looked back to the receding flames, then sat down slowly next to Lofton. The spinnaker cloth cr
ackled under her blue flanneled bathrobe. "You were serious last night," she sniffed. "Oh, that sounds stupid." Her voice trailed, then, "Are you sure that was your car? How could that happen?" She grabbed his hand. Her eyes blinked.
Lofton sighed. "Carrington's people know their jobs; it wouldn't have gone off accidentally. I don't know, maybe somebody was trying to steal the car. You know, hot‑wire it and--"
He waved a hand. "Look, I better check just to make sure. If it was my car, they may think I'm dead and that'll give me some time." He stood.
"Come on, I'll take you over." She rose beside him.
"You don't have to, you should get ready for your meeting."
She grabbed a purse and was through the hatch before he could stop her. "There's plenty of time. Come on, Mr. Lofton‑Thompson, you may be in the JP‑5 business, after all."
Lofton followed the blue flanneled bathrobe down the gangway, up the ramp, and to her red Chrysler LeBaron convertible. They got in silently. She asked as she started the engine, "How's your head?"
"Much better, only a dull ache. Thanks for letting me stay." He had called from a pay phone. Kirby's clinical tones commanded him to stay the night. He'd been right, Lofton was still woozy when he walked back to True Blue.
"That's OK, but to tell you the truth, I was thinking of calling the cops." She waited, two fire trucks whooshed by with twirling lights but no sirens. Pulling onto Marina Drive she said, "But I wouldn't have slept well last night, anyway. Too much going through my head. I woke up at five."
"Was it the PW‑4000 or the JP‑5?"
"Both. But for the time being it has to be the former."
He pointed. "Pull in this aisle. I don't want to get too close."
The LeBaron swung in and Lofton instantly saw that it was his Audi. Blue‑black smoke still roiled but the flames were almost out. Bonnie switched off her headlights. They weren't needed in the overcast gray dawn. She pulled next to a dumpster three hundred feet away from the demolished Audi.
THE BRUTUS LIE Page 8
