Billingsgate Shoal (23 page)

Plymouth lay roughly equidistant from Gloucester and
Wellfleet, if that meant anything. Also, it was pretty close to
Boston—if that meant anything. There was only one person besides
the crew of the
Penelope/Rose
who could clue me in: Danny Murdock. Even dead drunk, he could be
eloquent. His sodden brain held the pertinent dope.

I eased the
Hatton
out of her borrowed slip and hummed back up Plymouth Harbor. I passed
the cordage works and saw the
Rose
still hitched quayside, a white-dressed damsel amongst thugs. It was
now late afternoon and things had ground to a total halt on the small
pier. I glided on toward Duxbury Harbor. I drifted to a stop and let
out anchor chain just inside the harbor, and clear enough of the
breakwater so I could see the dock across the water. When
Rose
left I wanted to know it. I packed my pipe and dismantled the gizmo;
the rain had lifted and—Lawd sakes amighty—there was the faint
promise of sun. I sat on the cabin top and puffed and sipped a
Budweiser, crinkling and uncrinkling my toes.

I thought of the scrambled CB conversation I'd heard.
It could be interesting, it had issued from the Rose and if there was
any marine double talk intended in it of the kind Ted had described
to me in the Schooner Race. Somebody was referred to as the general,
and he had something, tuna and, swordfish. Good for him. The other
party didn't want to be forgotten. According to the general, he
wouldn't be. That meant that in the future—probably the near
future—the men of the Rose were going to do something.

Why did he call himself general? Either he was really
a general—something I found myself discounting immediately—or
else general was a code name. Why general? There was Miles Standish,
standing up above the harbor. He was probably a general. That could
be it. The only other general I could think of in the area was the
General James Longstreet
,
the half-sunk target ship.

There were a lot of loose ends. I had to see Danny
Murdock, drunk or sober. That was for sure. I lazed about in
Hatton's
cockpit for the remainder of the afternoon, reading, sunning, and
watching the commercial pier. It was quiet as a tomb over there. The
water was still as glass in the faint sunlight. The draggers were
mirrored motionless where they sat. I could hear flies droning fifty
feet away. I dozed in the dying sun.

The crackle of the CB awakened me. It was number-one
son—the guy who loved whales. It was almost six. He was two hours
late. We met at the dock and I ferried him out to the catboat via the
dory. We had a long discussion on what had transpired, and decided
that we'd wait it out, in shifts if necessary, until Rose cut loose
and split. Then we'd make one more attempt at her interception. After
that there was nothing much more we could do except to trail
Ella
Hatton
back to Concord for her winter's
sleep. We sat and talked. Jack told me Tony was under medication for
his dose, which was good to hear. He said Mary was not the slightest
bit pleased at this quixotic streak that I had manifested itself in
me, and I understood—in part at I least.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot one other thing. Did you
write a letter to someplace in the Caribbean?"

He took a thin aerogramme out of his pocket and
tilted it around, looking at the postmark affixed to the tissue
paper.

“
Uh. . . Queen's Beach Condominiums?"

"Gimme."

I tore the flimsy thing open, and I read:

QUEEN'S BEACH CONDOMINIUMS
Charlotte
Amalie, St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands
"Where
Paradise Begins"

September 18, 1979
Dear
Dr. Adams:
Thank you for your recent inquiry
regarding your friend and our client, Mr. Wallace Kinchloe. While it
is the strict policy of this development, and all the developments of
the Chadwick-Longchamp Group, to maintain the utmost confidentiality
regarding all its tenants and clients, we do feel at this time
obliged to reveal to you and any other interested parties our concern
over the absence of Mr, Kinchloe, who indicated an arrival date here
in Charlotte Amalie of September 1. Since it is now getting on toward
October, we are justifiably concerned, especially given Mr.
Kinchloe's extremely prompt communications in the past.

You may rest assured that should he arrive
here, we will notify him immediately of your concern. Until such time
as we hear from Mr. Kinchloe, we shall of course maintain his suite
of rooms as per the agreement. However, if there is no word from him
whatsoever by the first of the year we reserve the right, under the
terms of the contract, to offer the suite for rent or sale. We would
regret doing this, of course, and still look forward to hearing from
him.

Sincerely yours,
John
C. Pepper
Manager

I pondered the epistle, blowing pipe smoke down onto
the page and watching it billow out around the edges.

"An arrival date of September l."

Windhover
disappears in
late June. Allow, say, three weeks for Murdock to alter the boat and
fake the papers. She would then be ready for Walter Kincaid, presumed
dead and now alias Wallace Kinchloe, to put out to sea around the
first of August, maybe a bit later. Roughly a month, then, to make it
from Cape Ann all the way down the Inland Waterway to the Miami area,
then island hop a bit to A Bimini, the Bahamas, and on over to the
Virgins. He could do it, but he'd have to hump a bit. Still, if he
really wanted to get away, he wouldn't dawdle; he'd scoot. For a
forty-foot-plus power boat a month was plenty of time to make it.
Perhaps even with a quick duck southward to visit Grand Cayman Island
too. Sure. Plenty of time. Only he didn't get the chance, because
just before he set out. . . what?

At nine-thirty that evening the running lights on the
Rose
flipped on. I
glassed the boat and could see the faint waver of heat above her
stack. She was going out.

"She's taking off, Jack, and so am I."

I left in the dory for the town pier and there placed
two calls: one to Joe and one to Brian, telling them that
Rose
was on the march.

I got back to the
Hatton
in time to see
Rose
slide away from the quay and glide along in the still water for the
harbor mouth. I opened beers for myself and Jack and we sat in the
cockpit under the stars—for the weather had finally cleared—and
talked. It was pleasant there with the water sloshing around. We made
a late dinner and took our time eating. I told him how the
Hatton
had handled herself, and what I'd seen. I told him about Mr. X—Jim
Schilling—sitting behind me in the cafe. We debated the cryptic
message over the CB—assuming of course it was the
Rose
.

"I don't know, Dad," said number-one son as
he pulled up the wool blanket and blew out the hurricane light in the
bow.

"This whole thing is so. . .
iffy
."

"Son, you're so right."
 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"AND THE THING that makes it really hard, Doc,
the thing that really pisses me off, is the apology given to me by
Clive Higgins. He's the guy I told you was my friend at Massport.
Like I predicted, he's now a former friend. But he was so goddamned
apologetic on the phone for not being of more service. Christ, Doc,
why in hell did I ever listen to you—"

A Brian Hannon was being true to his word. He was all
over me like a cheap suit. I was standing on his carpet examining ,
the weave. I was getting sick of being called into the principal's
office.

"And you know what? Did you know your
brother-in-law was in here too? Eh? Well, the both of us had some
mighty pretty words to say about you, Doc. Yes indeed."

He stomped around behind his desk and lighted another
Lucky Strike. He fanned out the match and filled his half off the
room with smoke. He kicked his desk and cussed.

"He hasn't told you? Well, Clive and Joe
together got the Coast Guard up for it. Told them to be sure and
intercept the dragger
Rose
on her return to Plymouth. Which they did. Yes sir! Sent a special
boat just for the occasion."

I decided to break my silence.

"And I take it, Chief, that they did not find
anything of interest aboard her?"

"Brilliant. Just brilliant. You are excused,
Doctor."

I left, but returned to stick my head back in the
door.

"The Guard screwed up, Brian. They should've
boarded Rose on her outward passage."

"Excused!"

I went home and dialed Joe at state police
headquarters.

"I didn't rat on you, Charlie, I just got mad,
that's all. Brian and I went out on a limb for you and it didn't pay
off. We have the authority—official or otherwise—to call out a
lot of people as often as we like. But we've got reputations, too.
Too many false leads don't do either of us any good."

"They should've nailed
Rose
outward bound, not returning."

"Now you tell us. You sure?"

"Well, she was clean coming in, right?"

"Oh, Christ, this isn't trial and error. You're
saying now she's taking something out?"

"Just guessing."

"Well, look, Old Friend, please don't guess on
my account, OK?"

"Can I take this warm reception by both you and
Brian to mean that I can expect no more help from official channels?"

"In a nutshell."

"Joe, I want a couple more favors. Please;
They're easy."

There was a weary sigh and an assent. I outlined the
three favors I wanted.

"Thought you said a couple, that's two."

"Should have said several, that's three."
They were:

l. For him to request the contents of post office box
2319 when it officially became an abandoned box, and to let me know
what these contents were.

2. To track down the owner of the blue van I saw and
photographed on the fish pier in North Plymouth, using the license
plate visible in two of my photos.

3. To accompany me to Murdock's Boatyard in
Gloucester, lending his official presence if nothing else, and
perhaps obtaining a search warrant if he felt it justified. In short,
to help me find Danny and get him to talk.

He listened—in apparent disgust—while this list
was read over the phone.

"The first two I can do easily. The third is
kinda outside amy jurisdiction—"

"No, it isn't, Joe. You know it isn't."

"Look: if I do the first two and work on the
third, will you get off my back?"

"For a while at least."

"Done."

He hung up. But I didn't feel the least bit guilty.
While he stayed with Mary during the
Hatton's
Great Quest, he drank my bottle of Glenlivet.
The bastard.

If it seems that I've skipped over Mary's reaction to
my homecoming, it was intentional. The fact is that she was not in
good humor about it. Women from southern Italy are many things:
beautiful, full-breasted, sensual, good cooks, shrewd, and lovers of
the hearth and home. But they are not subtle. Subtlety eludes them,
much as modesty eludes the French. So my welcome home from Mary
wasn't pleasant, and we were still avoiding one another. I went out
back to the cabin, a small guesthouse made of logs where I go when I
want to really be alone and think. Danny and Angel went with me. It
was cool enough for a fire, and I built one in the small woodstove.
The dogs flumped down in front of it as it ticked and crinkled with
heat and sent the air above it dancing. I had a good long think and
decided that it was best to forget the entire thing. Joe had told me
the details of the Coast Guard boarding.

They had intercepted
Rose
as she entered Plymouth Harbor at dawn. She was clean as a whistle:
no illicit goods, no safety violations, and all her credentials were
in order. The owner's name was Marlowe. Roger Marlowe, and he had the
identification to prove it. The Master Carpenter's Certificate was
new, claiming likewise for the boat. End of case. The USCG wouldn't
come back in no matter what I unearthed. I had asked Joe to get me a
description of Roger Marlowe.
He refused,
saying he'd bugged his contacts enough. Toward dinner there was a
soft knock on the cabin door. It was Mary.

"Dinner's ready. I take it you've talked to Joe
and Brian?"

"Yep."

"And they want you to drop this thing?"

"Yep. Drop it. Drop it like the proverbial
overheated
ground tuber."

"Well good then. We can be friends again,
Charlie. I'm really glad you're going to forget about this thing. In
a few weeks your wrist will be good as new and you'll be working on
all the lost practice. You'll forget about the whole thing." She
squeezed my hand as we walked back toward the house. There was meat
sizzling and it smelled mighty good. I was going to drop it.