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by Randy Wayne White

  Jeth and I stood shoulder to shoulder listening but also reading:

  …a ship abandoned in peril is not without proprietorship. Those on board, if forced to relinquish control of their vessel, do not give up title. However, if a crippled ship is at risk of wrecking or sinking, it may be rightfully assumed that the vessel’s value to its owner has been significantly diminished…

  For this reason, Admiralty Law permits great latitude in the common law of salvage to encourage salvers to rescue a vessel in peril from otherwise total loss…

  From the radio, I heard the voice of John MacNeal say, “If you have any connection whatsoever with those people at Indian Harbor Marina, this will be a very brief conversation, Mr. Tomlinson. My attorneys are dealing with them.”

  I heard Tomlinson reply, “Our only association with them is adversarial. They took a boat that a friend of ours owns—stole it, as far as I’m concerned. Maybe you had a similar experience.”

  There was a moment of static, then silence, before MacNeal responded. “Maybe. Whether it’s true or not, would you mind if my attorney listens in? We’d also like to record this for our records.”

  Tomlinson said, “It won’t be the first time my conversations have been taped. You’re in the Boston area? I attended university there. I can give you the names of some local people who can vouch for my character. Call them, but make it quick. Your boat’s adrift, no one aboard, and pretty soon she’s going to beach herself or hit a bridge.”

  Tomlinson gave the man names: Dr. Kenneth Kern, Massachusetts Laboratories; William Martin, naval historian; Dr. Musashi Rinmon Niigata…

  Musashi? That was a surprise. Musashi was Tomlinson’s ex-wife and mother of their daughter, Nicola. They were back on speaking terms?

  Tomlinson talked, as I continued to read:

  …Admiralty Law understands that a salver assumes risks, and is entitled to recoup expenses plus fair profit, but only upon successful completion of the task.

  However, just because a vessel has sunk does not transfer title of either the ship or its cargo to a salver. A salver who removes ship’s cargo or equipage when the vessel is no longer in peril is wrongfully relieving another of his property, unless that vessel or property can be proved abandoned. In the navigable waters of the United States, this period is 30 days.

  A ship’s misfortune does not license immorality. Theft is theft, no matter the water’s depth. Therefore, a vessel’s owner may negotiate the cost of proposed salvage, or refuse a salver’s assistance. The owner has the right to decline all salvage benefits, unless the derelict vessel threatens the public safety and well being.

  Tomlinson had underlined the last sentence.

  I heard John MacNeal say, “You say there’s a chance our boat may drift into a bridge?”

  Tomlinson replied, squinting at the GPS, “There’s a chance, yes. But I think it’s unlikely. I’m looking at a chart right now, and the way we’re setting it’s more likely she’ll go aground on the shoals off Fort Myers Beach. Damage shouldn’t be bad: props and driveshafts. Vandalism while she’s there, that’s your biggest concern.”

  I wasn’t surprised by his honesty. Nor was I surprised when he added:

  “Mr. MacNeal?”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want you to feel pressured. We’re going to try and save your boat no matter what. Rest easy, man. Whether or not you decide to negotiate a salvage fee with us”—Tomlinson looked at me and tapped his finger on another series of paragraphs that he’d underlined—“it doesn’t matter. We’ll still do what we can. I want you to know that before you make a decision—”

  I began to read again, as MacNeal interrupted, “Hold on. I’ve got another one of our attorneys on the phone. This may take a few minutes.”

  In keeping with Admiralty Law, a claim for a salvage award requires that three criteria can be demonstrated:

  (1) Maritime peril from which the vessel or her cargo could not have been rescued without the salver’s intervention.

  (2) A voluntary act by the salver. The salver must be under no official or legal duty to render the assistance.

  (3) The salver must have success in saving, or in helping to save at least part of the property at risk, and be able to substantiate the worth of his assistance.

  Tomlinson had put a check mark beside each paragraph. My guess was, he’d gone through the list one by one as he described the Viking’s situation to the Coast Guard. It was now part of the official record.

  After a long silence, MacNeal returned, saying, “I just spoke with an old acquaintance of yours, Dr. Ken Kern. My company does some work with Mass Labs. Because we told him how serious the situation is, he had no choice but to tell us the truth. He told us that when we checked your record, we’d find seven arrests for possession of illegal substances.”

  I was thinking, We can say good-bye to a salvage fee, as Tomlinson replied cheerfully, “That’s correct, seven. I’d like to think it shows how generous I was in those days; eager to share my goodies even with undercover cops. Trying to spread enlightenment among the Boston pigs.”

  “You sound proud to be a convicted drug user.” MacNeal seemed to be throwing things out, then standing back, judging Tomlinson’s reaction.

  “If you mean ‘convicted’ as in someone who has convictions, I am proud. Very proud.”

  A careful sociability came into MacNeal’s voice. “Dr. Kern told me that one of those arrests was because you took the rap for a friend. A student who was a few weeks away from graduating. My guess is, that student’s now a highly respected Boston geneticist.”

  Tomlinson looked at me, his innocent expression saying, What, me worry? “I don’t remember if that’s true, or who the friend was, but why not? Seven’s such a lucky number, man. How could I resist?”

  There was another silent conferral before John MacNeal, president and CEO of Boston Camera and Lexicon Software Analysis, began to speak in sentence fragments that were sometimes quickly amended—he had attorneys whispering in his ear.

  MacNeal told Tomlinson that he advised us not to attempt to save the company’s boat. It was too dangerous, his company would assume no liability. However, if we went against his advice and made an attempt anyway we had his permission to board the Viking. If we considered her derelict and a potential danger, we also had his permission to take reasonable measures to bring the boat to a safe port. Tomlinson could assume a role of custodial responsibility, pending negotiations for a salvage award.

  Yes, paraphrasing his lawyers, that was clear.

  MacNeal said, “I guess that means I’m washing my hands of it. You assume all responsibilities and liabilities, and the boat stays in your possession until we reach a fair settlement. Whatever you do, though, don’t let those people at Indian Harbor get their hands on it again. I’d rather let the boat sink.”

  T omlinson signed off from the marine operator, and looked at Jeth, who was still processing what he’d heard. Jeth said slowly, “You mean the Viking’s not Augie’s anymore?”

  “That’s right. It’s especially not Augie’s. Not his marina’s, either.”

  “The guy doesn’t even know us and he’s letting us borrow it?”

  Tomlinson said. “No. It’s more like we’ve adopted it—for now. MacNeal’s a nice guy, but he and his lawyer knew they didn’t have a choice. Risk a multimillion-dollar liability suit if the boat hits a bridge? It’s ours to keep until we settle. You and Javier suddenly have a very cool boat on your hands. And the timing couldn’t be better.” He held up an index finger: Wait here.

  There was something he’d been wanting to show us. He went out the cabin door and returned with all three dive bags. Inside were objects that we’d gathered while surveying the wreck. The objects had a few long-dead barnacles on them, but not many—an indication they’d been buried in an anaerobic environment.

  I’d found a rum bottle with raised lettering—RON BACARDI, HAVANA—plus the gun-sized glob. Jeth had recovered a flask-sized chunk of black
-encrusted metal, and a couple of smaller chunks—silver?

  As I held one of the pieces, I realized it was the first opportunity I’d had to tell them about the metallic rectangle I’d been trying to dig out of the sand. Could it have been gold? More likely, it was something golden looking in that silted light.

  I hadn’t mentioned that I was knocked sideways by an unidentified animal, either—probably a shark, though it could have been a giant grouper. That feeling of shock, then dread, was something I would have to process on my own. My profession was beneath the water’s surface. I’d be going back into that murky water very soon.

  I said nothing, as I inspected the encrusted chunk.

  Jeth and I then watched as Tomlinson reached into his bag and pulled out a 1940ish dwarf-sized Coca-Cola bottle, then a broken phonograph record that was made of unexpectedly thick plastic.

  “It’s an old 78,” he said. “I’d love to find out what’s on it.”

  He saved the best for last: a wooden plaque. He placed it on the galley cabinet so we could inspect it.

  “We’ll have to get that in salt water right away,” I told him, leaning close. “The stuff Jeth found, too.”

  “Of course.”

  The plaque was made of teak, most likely, swollen and black from years of being underwater, and covered with sand. It was the carved nameplate from a boat, a portion of it broken away long ago.

  Touch a finger to the letters, and it was easier to read:

  ARK LIGHT.

  Jeth said, “Dark Light. It’s the wreck your friend said she’d pay us to salvage.”

  Tomlinson replied, “Now we’ve got the boat to do it. Even in bad weather. Since Javier’s not here to do the honors, why don’t you go up and tell Augie the good news?”

  29

  That morning, watching from his condo window as Augie and Oswald pulled away in the Viking, Bern Heller experimented with the idea of using the boat to escape to some foreign country that had islands with palm trees, and straw huts and women who poured coconut milk over their hair and bodies to keep themselves feeling smooth…

  Were there islands like that anymore? Were there ever?

  Didn’t matter. He could still think about it.

  …escape to an island that belonged to a country not interested in a few mistakes a man might make while living in Florida. Not if the man had money, and a yacht as classy looking as the Viking, where he could take the women with their coconut-smelling hair. Keep the air conditioner in the master suite going; make drinks for them while they took care of his laundry, his cooking…his other needs, while they were at it.

  Bern pictured himself alone on the flybridge, all his belongings packed below, a trunkload of cash and certified checks hidden somewhere safe after cleaning out the corporation’s accounts. Pictured himself heading out across the Gulf of Mexico…

  No, not the Gulf of Mexico. The water had to be calm. It had to stay calm.

  …he pictured himself alone on the flybridge, keeping the boat close to the beach where there wasn’t any wind. Ride along nice and smooth, no more worries. He could follow the shoreline around to Mexico, or even Colombia—a favorite hangout of his grandfather’s judging from the passports that were still scattered on the nearby desk along with the leather-bound journal, the photo of the glamorous woman who was now probably an old hag, and documents mostly written in German.

  Something new was on the desk, too. A registered letter from the old man’s personal assistant, Jason Goddard. And a package. They’d been sent overnight mail, but they couldn’t have anything to do with the message he’d left on Goddard’s machine: “I was wondering about the woman in the black-and-white picture…”

  Or could they? Goddard was prompt. Known for being a step ahead. His grandfather referred to him as “my point man,” as if they were in a war. Or: “My personal son of a bitch,” because Goddard’s the one who did the old man’s dirty work.

  But send an overnight package in reply to Bern’s phone message? Nobody responded that fast, not even Goddard. Besides, the envelope had a thick feel—there was a lot more than information about a woman inside.

  Nothing good ever came in a thick envelope, that was Bern’s experience. Which is why he still hadn’t opened it. The way his luck was going? The damn thing could wait until tonight. Or tomorrow. He didn’t care.

  Bern just wasn’t up to dealing with another shock. There’d been too many, way too fast. Last night was yet another example: The redneck dumping a barrel that contained the body of a woman who’d been quietly buried…nine months?

  Yes, about that long. The girl Bern had spotted in a Gainesville parking lot, drop-dead gorgeous, with eyes that were way too good to waste time on him, so he had followed her. Got a little carried away when he dragged her out of the trunk, into a field, because the little bitch was a fighter—a mistake on her part, but his mistake, too, which he could admit to himself.

  How long, though, was he going to have to pay for one or two stupid mistakes? Fair was fair, but he’d suffered enough.

  The thing that tumbled out of the barrel probably was the girl from Gainesville, though he couldn’t swear to it. Hard to recognize what it was after being packed in a petroleum product for that long—dirty two-cycle motor oil in this instance. Which is what saved Moe’s Hoosier ass.

  Very calm and cool, Moe had looked at Bern and said, “Girl? I don’t see any girl.” This, with the girl’s body only a few feet away, all folded up like a paper angel, oil streaming off it. And just after hearing Bern say that the girl looked so tiny, she almost had to be the sort of person no one would care about, or come looking for.

  “A crack whore, most likely,” Bern had said.

  And Moe had replied, “Girl,” like: What are you talking about? That thing’s not human. Which was a big relief that got better when Moe suggested it was probably an animal of some sort that fell into the barrel then couldn’t get out. And added, still very cool, “Do you want me to bury that mess where I found it, boss? Or do you want to take care of it yourself?”

  At the time, Bern had his hands full. Full, because of the Cuban he’d spotted watching them from the twin-engine boat that was green in daylight but looked bluish in the yellow sodium lights.

  The Cuban had tried to run. Jumped out of the boat and scampered, Bern on his heels, the Hoosier lagging far behind. When Bern caught the Cuban, he’d looked as surprised as some of the wide receivers Bern had played against, a white guy his size dragging them down from behind.

  He had the Cuban’s arm levered up, and his knee on the guy’s throat so he couldn’t cry out, which is when Moe revisited the subject: “Girl? I don’t know why you keep saying that, boss, I’d swear it was some kind of animal. We can use the bulldozer and bury it where it belongs.”

  Which saved him.

  It didn’t save the Cuban, who was listening.

  T he phone on the desk of his condo was ringing. Bern didn’t notice right away because his ears were also ringing. They’d been ringing since about 1 A.M. that morning, when Moe’s unexpected gunshot had temporarily deafened him.

  Bern looked at the caller ID, seeing: PRIVATE NUMBER.

  There was a trick his wife back in Madison had learned, how to program her phone in a way so her own number was shielded from the person she was calling. She didn’t do it often though. More likely, it was Jason Goddard, who was also an attorney and did tricky stuff all the time.

  Bern answered.

  Damn. His wife.

  Even though impaired, he had no trouble hearing: “Bernard, you said you’d call me last night. I tried three times and you never answered—the last time was ten minutes after midnight!”

  At ten minutes after midnight, he and the Hoosier were trying to decide what to do with the Cuban. Call the cops and let them deal with him? Or take care of the situation themselves.

  “…which is thoughtlessness, plain and simple. I swear, you haven’t been the same since you took that Florida job. What’s got into you? Th
e money’s nice, I’m not saying I want you to quit, but try and be a little more thoughtful. It’s like Florida has taken all the sweetness out of you, Bernie…”

  Sweetness? The woman was still loud and clueless, something that might change about a month after they sealed her coffin and got a few feet of dirt on it.

  “…so I’m just gonna come right out and tell you what’s got me so upset. It’s that Augie. I was talking to your sister-in-law yesterday, and Augie told her that you got yourself into another brawl. But this time with some hippie who nearly killed you. Is that true, Bernard? Did he hurt you? You never said a doggone word…”

  Augie, the little fucking snitch. If he’d told his motor-mouthed mother, half of Wisconsin would know by next week. A really shitty thing to do to a former pro lineman in a state where fans worshipped their football players. Spread a rumor about him getting his ass kicked by some pansy doper.

  Bern interrupted his wife long enough to say, “A hippie choked me? Geez, honey, that’s so crazy it’s funny. The guys at the Cadillac dealership are gonna laugh their tails off when they hear it. No…of course it didn’t happen. Augie wants my job, honey. The whole family knows…”

  Bern held the phone away after that, preferring to listen to the ringing inside his own head as he slid the photo of the glamorous woman in front of him. After last night, he no longer had an interest in tracking down some old lady, no matter how good she looked umpteen years ago. He had more important things to do now. The most pressing: Figure out how to escape this nightmare if things began to unravel.

  They were unraveling fast.

  The photo, at least, gave him something to look at while Shirley yammered on and on. Stare at the beautiful woman’s picture too long, though, and something weird happened: the faces of the two dead girls were superimposed, one and then the other, beneath the glamorous, glossy hair and atop that pear-ripe body. Which got worse when the gorgeous woman’s face became his wife’s face…