In Hot Pursuit (6 page)

Mike shrugged.
"Sure. He was in Tom Sawyer."

"He wrote
Tom Sawyer," Will said, then caught Mike's look of disapproval. He'd
obviously embarrassed the kid, which, Will realized, didn't get him any points.
"Anyway," he continued, "Mark Twain said that if man could be
crossed with cats, it would improve man, but it would deteriorate the cat. I'm
sure he'd say that for dogs too," he added. Mike merely glared at him and
said nothing. Deciding he wasn't getting anywhere with Nellie's son by lobbying
for cats, he switched the conversation to whales. "After we get underway
I'll play a recording for you of whales talking."

Mike's eyes
narrowed with skepticism. "You're putting me on. They're just dumb
fish."

"They're
not fish, they're mammals," Will said, ignoring the defiant young eyes
fixed on him. "They live in families, they have babies like other mammals,
they love and care for their young, and they play. Fish don't play."

Mike eyed Will,
dubiously. "Even if they aren't fish, how do you make them talk?"

"By
transmitting music into the water through underwater speakers and recording
their responses through a hydrophone, which is an underwater microphone,"
Will explained.

Mike folded his
arms and glared at Will, and as Will looked at the formidable young face, he
sensed he could never have a rapport with this boy. As an adult he'd spent
little time around kids, and he vaguely remembered being one while growing up.

But somehow he
and this kid needed to work out a compromise because they were going to be
stuck with each other for longer than he cared to dwell on.

***

An hour and a
half later, Nellie left her final interview feeling morose. The museum job
turned out to be part-time at minimum wage clerking in the gift shop. The
attorney at the next interview listened politely while she described her
qualifications then smiled his apologies for not telling her earlier he needed
a legal secretary. And the doctor was delighted she had a ten-year-old son. He
had twin grandsons about that age. For fifteen minutes they discussed the pros
and cons of raising children in a small community. A job opening? Maybe toward
the end of the month he'd have some bookkeeping. But her spirits lifted as she
walked through the historic district, feeling as if she'd stepped back in time,
not to the nineteenth century when Port Townsend was a prospering seaport, but
fifteen years ago, when she and Uncle Vern meandered through the town, browsing
through shops and visiting galleries. The town had changed little since then,
maybe a few more souvenir shops, and restaurants, and antique shops.

After buying an
inexpensive pair of binoculars and a northwest bird book for Mike, she walked
to the marina, anxious to get back to the
Isadora
.
Only five days aboard and it already felt like home. When she passed the
parking area at the end of the dock, however, she was surprised to see that
Will's truck was not in its designated parking spot. She suspected
Will
hadn't finished what he'd set out to do and hoped Mike
hadn't been the reason.

Anxious to
change into comfortable clothes, she dashed into the boathouse…

And froze.

On the deck of
the
Isadora
stood an old man, his
hand on the doorknob, about to enter. "What do you want?" she
demanded.

The man
withdrew his hand and touched the brim of his battered cap. "I was
admiring the boat," he replied. "She's a beaut. And I apologize if I
frightened you. I intend no harm."

Nellie noted
the contrast between the man's articulate speech on the one hand, and his
unshaved face and unkempt appearance on the other. She'd thought at first he
was a vagrant, and she'd expected his words to be slovenly as well. He seemed
nervous. And something told her he was lying. "I'd appreciate it if you'd
leave at once," she said in a firm voice.

The man stepped
from the boat to the dock, but before leaving, his eyes scanned the
Isadora
, from stem to stern. Then he
tipped his hat and left. Nellie trailed after him through the side door and out
onto the dock, where she stood watching until he'd disappeared around the
corner of a boathouse. He could just be curious, but she didn't get that
impression when he offered his explanation. His apology seemed contrived, his
eyes shifty. And his hand had definitely been poised to open the door. It came
to her that he could be the person who followed them in the old car. If they'd
been followed. But there was simply no logical reason why anyone would do that.
Especially an old man.

Fifteen minutes
later Will and Mike returned. When Nellie told Will about the old man, Will
shrugged, and said, "People around here wander in and out of each other's
places pretty freely. The old guy probably just wanted to see how the work on
the
Isadora
was going."

"I think
it's more than that," Nellie insisted. "He was about to go inside the
boat, and would have if I hadn't come in when I did. I want to lock the boat
house when we're gone."

"There’s
no need," Will replied. "No one around here has ever been
robbed."

Nellie eyed the
door where the man exited. "Well, I don't want us to be the first."

Will looked at
her, curious. "Did you ask who he was, or where he lived?"

Nellie blinked
several times, while asking herself that question. "Well... no," she
replied. "He caught me off guard, and I just wanted him to leave."

Will brushed
his knuckle along her jaw. "Okay, if it makes you feel better, we'll lock
the boat house, and the boat. But I think you're overreacting."

"Maybe,"
Nellie admitted. Still, when she considered the incongruity of the old man's
polished speech and unkempt appearance, she felt anxious. More than anxious.
She felt frightened. Everything seemed far too coincidental.

After Will
returned to his task, and while Mike was tidying his cabin, Nellie called the Oregon
State Police to see if she could get information on the owner of the sedan,
though she suspected they’d be reluctant to reveal anything. But to her alarm,
she learned that the car with the Oregon license number she’d recorded had been
reported stolen.
Stolen!
She and Mike
had been followed by someone driving a stolen car. The police would not give
any information about the owner, but they did ask questions about the location
of the car and details about the incident. Again, the niggling uncertainty surrounding
Uncle Vern's death began to trouble her.

With all her
latest problems—her car dying, worry over job interviews, the work needed on
the boat—her mind had been occupied during the day. But at night, when Mike was
asleep, she'd begun to put together a list of disparities during the weeks
since Uncle Vern's death.

Contradictions
that seemed meaningless at the time now seemed relevant, like the man claiming
to be from the company that had insured the
Isadora
.
He'd asked about her relationship with Uncle Vern then followed with questions
that seemed unrelated to the issue of Uncle Vern's death. After the man left,
she'd mulled over his questions because they'd been so odd, but then she'd
dismissed it when the washing machine overflowed and she lost her job. It
wasn't until later that she learned there was no insurance on the
Isadora
because Uncle Vern let it lapse…

Seeing Will
coming toward her, she planted a smile on her lips. She didn't want him to see
her concern and begin asking questions. If he suspected something was wrong, he
might renege on their contract. And now she was anxious to be far out at sea
where she wouldn't have to deal with the fear and uncertainty of this new
development.

***

The following
afternoon, Will joined Nellie in the galley to help her sand the table and the
benches that made up an dinette booth, as well as the locker doors, which he'd
taken off their hinges and laid on the floor. He had engine work to do, but it
didn't seem right to hand Nellie the sandpaper and leave without helping her
get started. She looked tired. Although Mike spent the better part of the day
under her supervision while scraping the peeling paint on the outside of the
cabin, the kid's efforts had not been without almost constant whining and
complaining.

Will marveled
at Nellie's patience with the boy. But watching her also reinforced his
feelings of doubt about himself where children were concerned, which
strengthened his resolve to avoid parenthood—an irrevocable decision he'd made
some time back that would guarantee the end of his blood line. But avoiding
parenthood also meant avoiding marriage, the two inextricably entwined. He had
to admit though, he liked being with Nellie. But he was also becoming aware of
a growing urge to touch her, to take her in his arms and kiss her...

Finding himself
staring, he shifted his focus to the porthole. On the dock, Mike sat brushing
Katy. A short distance away, stashed behind a box of old rags, was a
seedy-looking teddy bear, the same tattered, one-eared stuffed animal Will
noticed Mike with on other occasions, always hidden from view. At ten, the kid
should be beyond teddy bears. Returning his gaze to Nellie, he said,
"Isn't Mike a little old to carry a teddy bear around?"

Nellie looked
up from her sanding. "His doctor says it helps him overcome anxiety."

Will tried to
relate to that, but found he couldn't. As a child he'd never had crutches like
blankets or stuffed animals. Actually, he'd never had many toys at all. His had
been a sterile childhood, physically and emotionally. But he'd survived, and he
felt stronger for it. It taught him to be independent. He didn't need anything
or anybody to help him over life's hurdles.

He glanced at
the ragged bear. "Wouldn't it be better to fix the problem?"

Nellie stopped
sanding and looked at him. "That's what we are trying to do, fix the
problem. Didn't you have a stuffed animal when you were little?"

Will shrugged.
"No."

"Then you
must have had a secure childhood," Nellie said. "Some kids aren't so
fortunate."

Will said
nothing. He remembered having a small ragged pillow once, but it was left at
one of the foster homes. After that, he seemed better able to cope.

Nellie started
sanding again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you," she said,
when he'd offered nothing more. "You can't be expected to understand my
son. But I'm doing the best I can, with Dr. Emery's help."

Will was
beginning to think the faceless Dr. Emery was running Nellie's life. But he'd
had his fill of psychologists, social workers, and the periodic obligatory
psychiatrist. As a child, every time he'd been removed from his home he'd been
subjected to a barrage of counselors who attempted to tell him how he should
feel. But none ever told him when he left a foster home, that he should feel
betrayed by those who assured him of their love, then let him be taken away
with little more than a handshake...

"Dr. Emery
says Mike's teddy bear represents me," Nellie said, returning Will's
attention to Mike and the bear. "It reassures Mike that I'll always be
there. Mike's afraid of losing another parent. Dr. Emery also says Mike's using
the bear as a transitional object to help him cope with the loss of his father
while learning to become an independent person."

Will tried to
absorb all the psychological jargon. A transitional object? A means of learning
independence? The fact was, one gained strength and learned independence by
letting go. "It seems to me he's using the bear as a crutch instead of
facing things."

Nellie pursed
her lips. "I've paid good money for the advice Dr. Emery has given me and
now you, who obviously knows little about kids, presume to have the answers. So
what do you suggest,
Mr.
Psychologist?"
she clipped.

"That he's
too damned dependent on that bear. That he should learn to function without
it," Will snapped, then wondered why what Mike Reid did with a stuffed
bear should bother him.

"Learn to
function? You make him sound backward," Nellie snapped.

"I didn't
mean to imply that," Will said. "He's definitely not backward. He's
very smart." Too smart to be hanging onto a damned stuffed animal. But it
was best to drop the issue. He glanced around at the lockers, which were almost
ready to varnish, and commented, "You're doing a good job sanding."

Nellie started
moving the sandpaper back and forth again. "Richard and I spent countless
hours sanding old cabinets," she said, "but after we finished
remodeling the house we'd bought, I swore I'd never pick up another piece of
sandpaper again."

Feeling the
tension of moments before ebbing, Will asked, "How long were you
married?" He wasn't meaning to pry, only trying to piece together the
background of a woman whose life seemed somehow destined to weave a path
through his own solitary existence.

"Thirteen
years," Nellie replied. "We were married as soon as Richard finished
college. He didn't want to wait any longer, and neither did I. I'd always
thought our marriage close to ideal. It was so different then, security without
financial worries, a loving husband to make my life whole, the comfort of a
nice home, a healthy son."

Will caught the
doleful look in Nellie's eyes. "Life can deal some pretty low blows at
times," he commented.

Nellie nodded.
"My problem is trying to adjust to this new feeling of being needed only
as a mother. I really enjoyed being married." She slanted Will a sideways
glance. "I get the impression you've never been... married, that is."

"You're
right," Will replied.

"Any
particular reason why not?"

Will shrugged.
"I'm too much of a loner."

Nellie stopped
sanding and looked at him, and for a moment, Will expected her to push for an
answer. He was relieved when she said, "Any family? Mother, father,
siblings?"