A Man's Reach

A Man's Reach Val Cameron

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Muse Creations Inc. All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. These characters are not even distantly inspired by any individual or individuals known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention. Published by Muse Creations Inc Box 4514, Nanaimo BC Canada V9R6E8 http://www.musecreations.com 1-894424-19-0 1-894424-27-1 Copyright 1999, 2002, Muse Creations Inc. Some cover art images copyright www.arttoday.com Muse Creations Inc

Table Of Contents One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Far Reacher's Duty Roster Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty-One Twenty-Two The Dark Biography

One Dale Welland left for Mexico the day after he testified against Barry Durheim. He took the stand, swore his oath and gave evidence while Durheim stared at him with hopeless, myopic eyes. Durheim, of course, was convicted. Welland Systems collected a big fee from the client. Barry Durheim, guilty. Case closed. Dale left the courtroom, walked into the street and wished he could simply keep walking. He was scheduled for a consultation with the directors of yet another bank the next day. He did not want to do another bank, to corner another Barry Durheim. San Francisco's streets were packed with people rushing, pushing, shopping. The air felt chilly from the fog blanketing the bay. Dale flagged a taxi and sat through twenty minutes of crawling traffic. In the foyer of his office building, he waited again for an elevator that seemed permanently lodged on the twentieth floor. Waiting, studying the travel posters in the travel agency's window, the sailboat caught his eye. The sleek, white yacht flew a brilliant red and white spinnaker, her lee rail buried in white water as she churned up blue-green foam. His sailing days had consisted of two summers at university, working on a wealthy student's yacht. Sanding, varnishing, polishing brass, hauling lines. Wind and spray in his face. Hard physical work. Good summers. He abandoned the elevator and strode into the agency. "Caribbean?" suggested the girl behind the counter. She was pretty, blonde, impossibly young. "No, thanks. Too many tourists." "What about Alaska? A cruise." Her eyes narrowed as she assessed this potential customer. "Get away from it all." "Sorry, too cold." He had devoted fifteen years to building Welland Systems into a discreet, respected investigation service. Fifteen years. No wonder he felt stale. He rejected the tourist havens of Acapulco and Mazatlan. "Southern Baja?" she suggested. "Mexico, but not crowded. Mountains, deserts, and ranches. Beaches, of course. Fishing. Sailing. Skin diving." She saw she had caught his interest. "We can arrange quality accommodations in either Cabo San Lucas or La Paz. Markets. Mexican markets are very colorful, the people friendly." "La Paz? What does that mean?" "Peace. It means peace." †† The buildings of La Paz sprawled around a big bay opening onto the Gulf of California. Mexico: strange-sounding words in the streets, maniacal drivers, dangerously uneven sidewalks. Everywhere, metal air conditioning units protruded through walls at the perfect height to knock Dale senseless as he walked. He ate hot, delicious meals in noisy restaurants. He learned that cerveza was the word for beer, that malecón meant sea-wall, that the yachting community. mostly Americans and Canadians. congregated in a bar on the malecón. He drifted there each afternoon, attracted by English-speaking voices and

sailboats in the harbor. Watching people had become a habit, the skill he used to make a living catching white-collar criminals. Here, he watched tourists drinking cerveza, Mexicans serving them, sailors beaching their dinghies. He thought about buying a sailboat and casting off for foreign waters. He thought about flying home early and getting back to work. He listened. "... years since La Paz has been hit by a hurricane. All these boats that stay through summer are going to get creamed one of these years. You won't catch me ... pitch-poled rounding the Cape. His back was broken. She strapped him to a table to keep him immobile, then she started bailing ... probably down to Panama this spring. Got to wait for the Tehuantepecers to quit blowing, but then ... bitch swung right into me! I was on a mooring, and he came in and anchored. Then he dragged and creamed my bow pulpit! If that bastard doesn't come good for it ..'shot off flares and the steamer just chugged on by. So the next boat that came, she got out the shotgun and fired across the bows ... My, God! I don't believe it! You bastard! I haven't seen you since Australia!... crewed to the Marquesas, but had a fight with the skipper and left him there." Mid-September, but hot and sweaty in La Paz. Too hot. †† Dale watched an inflatable dinghy fly along the flat water towards the beach. A half-nude, sun-browned man sat on one pontoon, his hand stretched back to control the motor. Dale drained his beer and crossed the street to the beach. The soft sand absorbed his office walk, turning it awkward and slow, his polished city shoes kicking up sand. A few yards away, the sailor killed his outboard and stepped out in shallow water. He wore salt-encrusted leather sandals and a ragged pair of cutoff jeans, nothing else. He looked alive, vitally alive, his sun-darkened fingers closing on the painter to pull the dinghy up on the beach. Brown back. Brown chest, dark hairs curling tightly. Dale stopped in the shade of a beach palapa. The sailor had a hard face with dreamer's eyes that had become cynical. Eyes narrowed against the sun. Mouth set against the world. A man of stone, until he saw Dale watching, and a smile flashed. Or had he known Dale was there all along? Was the bronzed half-nude stranger a bit of a showman, playing to the gallery? Dale shook off the suspicion. This was vacation time. No criminals. No embezzlers, no forgers. Only a man sun-darkened in the style of one who did not need to worry about going to work, a man picking two plastic containers from his dinghy. He stood erect and wandered towards Dale, smiling. "Hot," said Dale. "It must be pushing a hundred degrees." "Bloody uncomfortable, those clothes of yours." "Your outfit looks more practical." The stranger looked down at his own body with a grin. "Cuts down on laundry. It's the humidity that gets you, you know, especially when you're not acclimatized." "You're acclimatized?" Obviously he was. "Do you live here in the harbor? On a boat?" He wagged his hand back and forth in a Mexican gesture. "I go where the wind blows. Tahiti. Tonga. Mexico. I stay in the sunshine, move when I get restless."

Dale thought of days among workers and computers in tall office buildings, of suspicion and embezzlers, of testifying against Barry Durheim. "Sounds like a dream come true." "There's nothing to beat the wind in my face and the sails full, Far Reacher churning up a foamy bow wave." "Far Reacher?" Dale pushed his hands into his lightweight slacks. They were thin, but too hot. His light shirt was the same. "That's the name of your boat?" "A ketch. She's a beauty." The empty plastic jugs swung in his hands. "Why don't you give me a hand getting my water, then I'll take you out for a cold beer." "Sounds good." Sitting on the deck of one of those sailboats with a bottle of beer in his hand, the gentle motion of the water under him while he dreamed of a wild, free sail on a vast ocean. "I'm Brent," the sailor announced, handing Dale one of the plastic water jugs. He stopped at a tap near the sea wall, turned the faucet and began to fill one of the containers. A young Mexican boy dropped down on the beach and stared at the two gringos. Brent grinned at the boy and received a shy smile back. "I'm Dale. Dale Welland." Brent crouched down on his heels in the sand, holding the container under the stream of water. "Down here on holiday? Where are you staying?" "El Presidente." "Here, hand me that other jug. You're alone in Mexico? It shows, you know. My guess is you're an accountant, a workaholic." "Systems analyst," Dale said, lying by habit. "Huh?" "Computer stuff." Over Brent's shoulder, Dale saw a car grow impatient with traffic and roar into high speed, passing a truck. A car coming the other way screamed to a stop with only inches to spare, its driver pounding angrily on the outside of the car door with his open palm. Brent tightened the cap on the last jug. "My wife would know what you're talking about. Take your shoes off. You won't get off this beach without getting your feet wet. System analyst? I bet you charge out at a couple hundred bucks an hour?" Brent's wife? Dale had an uncomfortable vision of himself sitting on Brent's boat with a beer in his hand, watching them together. Brent, and the woman who made his voice turn from casual warmth to a tender caress. "Look, Brent, why don't I buy you a beer? Across the street." "I'm not dressed for it. Mexicans believe in dressing properly. Bare chests are only for the beach. Lots of tourists don't care, but why should I offend these people? Come on, I'll show you my boat." They sped across the calm harbor in the rubber dinghy until Brent cut the engine and the pontoon bumped up against a sleek, fiberglass sailboat. White. A ketch, wooden masts caressed by gleaming varnish. A red maple leaf flag streaming back from the stern. Dale's eyes got lost somewhere halfway up that gleaming main mast. "It's gorgeous," he said reverently. He followed Brent up and stood on the deck, feeling a deep envy that bordered on passionate jealousy.

It had been so long since he had felt anything that mattered. He covered the emotion with cool words. "I used to crew on a big sloop back at university, but I haven't been on a boat since then. You're Canadian?" "I haven't been home in years, but I fly the flag." Far Reacher. Magic, something from another world, where freedom and adventure blended into excitement. Brent's voice turned soft and he said, "She was a wet kit, fiberglass. You know, the hull and deck factory done, all ready to throw in the water, but hollow inside. We did the interior, Catherine and I." "Catherine?" "My wife. She was an accountant." He smiled. "Some accountant. Some woman. Suits and skirts in the daytime, telling businessmen how to arrange their taxes, talking to computers. Then, after five, jeans and sandpaper and power saws. God, she looked gorgeous in a pair of jeans! When we got home she'd shower and come out in a filmy black thing. She was ..." "Was?" "She's dead. She died." Brent shrugged his mood away. "Come on down below. See the boat. She's beautiful, a dream of a ship." As Dale followed Brent down the steps from the cockpit, Brent tossed back, "You're on holiday? How long?" "I don't know." He had bought tickets for a month, but had been thinking of changing them and flying home tomorrow. Now, with Brent's glowing teak decks overhead, he wondered if he could wrangle an invitation for some sailing. Dale grasped for handholds as he climbed down the stairs. Suddenly it was a deep hunger in him, an excitement that must be like falling in love. He had never risked falling in love, but he could risk this. The seas and a ship, wind and waves and a taste of nature's wild power. He followed Brent past the double stateroom, through the galley and the dinette. They sat in the salon with its white upholstery and small fireplace. "I don't need the fireplace down in these latitudes," said Brent, lifting his cerveza and pouring a long, cool stream of beer down his throat. "The fireplace was Catherine's idea, for chilly evenings up in Canada. She liked to sit where you are. She would curl her feet under her, lean back and half-close her eyes while the music flowed over us in the quiet waters of some deserted anchorage. Deserted except for Catherine and I, and Far Reacher." It was more than the words. Something in the motion, the movement of the ship under them, something in Brent's almost dreamlike voice. Dale could feel the woman's presence. Catherine ... on the wind, in this beautiful boat, in this man who was half sailor and half dreamer. Brent's voice turned slow and reflective. "In the firelight, her hair gleamed copper and warm. Her eyes would be all soft brown and magic, watching me while I filled the lanterns with kerosene." Dale could feel Catherine's presence, almost as if she were alive, as if her warm brown eyes followed him. Almost as if she were his magic sailing companion, his lover. Brent stood, suddenly restless, and Dale heard his own voice ask, "Do you ever need crew?"

The other man stared at Dale, frowning. His words came slowly, with an odd deliberation. "I'm going up into the Sea of Cortez, to Partida anchorage, then Isla San Francisco. Good swimming there, a green, sandy bay. Good diving, looking down through green water, watching the colors, the life flowing. There's a salt mine at San Francisco." Brent's Mexican San Francisco contrasted vividly in Dale's mind with his own, with city buildings and embezzlers. The only parallel was Dale's own house overlooking the dark waters of San Francisco Bay. Brent was saying, "... north to Puerto Escondido. Maybe across the Sea to the mainland, a night passage on a fresh northerly." He paused, watching Dale, seeming to consider, then he said deliberately, "I don't have crew right now. I'm single-handing. Why don't you pack your suitcase and come along?"

Two After five weeks exploring the Sea of Cortez on Far Reacher, Dale Welland and Brent Markesson anchored the sailboat at Santispac, some two hundred miles north of La Paz on the Gulf of California. From there, they flew together to Los Angeles, then changed to a San Francisco flight. In San Francisco, Dale went to his stockbroker, then his bank. By the time he had liquidated enough to write the check and have it certified, he was left with none of the gilt-edged bonds his broker had raved about. He had three thousand in his checking account, but he drew out most of that in cash, for expenses. He had not touched Welland Systems operating funds, although he had used twenty thousand of the company's short term deposits to repay some of his own shareholder's loan. The company owed him and it was past time he took some personal benefit from success. His lawyer glared across his desk through small, round eyes and demanded, "Why the hell do you have to do it in such a hurry? Why can. t you buy an American documented boat! Jesus, Dale! There must be a hundred. maybe a thousand boats for sale in the Bay area. Why pick one down in Mexico, fifteen hundred miles away!" "Joe, just do the paperwork, would you?" The sooner the papers were signed, the sooner Dale would be back in Mexico ... back on board Far Reacher and sailing. Joe frowned and shifted the belly that had been growing over the years. "The down payment's too big. You should have. You realize eventually you'll have to get the Canadians to de-register it, then you'll have to document it in the States." Restlessly, Dale adjusted his jacket. He stared at his leather shoes and wondered how he had ever tolerated a life of sitting, of meetings, of waiting in lawyers offices, traffic lineups, boardrooms. "Joe, that's what I pay you for, to work out the details. Not to tie me up listening to the hassles." The next day, Dale signed. Brent signed. The certified check changed hands. Joe took charge of Brent's Canadian Blue Book, frowned and cautioned, "What if the Mexicans want to see the Blue Book while I've got it tied up in red tape at the Canadian Ship's Registry?" Brent grinned and shrugged the problem away. Joe frowned at Brent's tattered jeans and stared at the Spanish words on his T-shirt. Dale felt impatient to be gone. Then, finally, it was over. They left Joe, left his plastic-perfect secretary in the front office, got into the corridor and finally, into the elevator. "I don't think he understands," said Brent as the elevator doors closed. Dale pushed the ground floor button. "You're damn right he doesn't understand. He's wondering if I'm certifiable."

He remembered how Joe had winced when Brent casually stuffed the check into his back pocket. Now the sailor pushed his hands into the pockets, probably crushing the check. "Just think," Brent said quietly. "There you'll be, leaning back in the cockpit with the sun setting over the open Pacific Ocean. You'll stare up at the skies, a million stars in a black sky, the Milky Way streaked across. You and Far Reacher." The smile grew as the image of sail and sea grew strong inside the elevator. Then, his voice hardening, Brent said, "That'll be you, but Joe will be back here, taking Maalox for his ulcer and wondering if he should buy a toupee." They walked out of the elevator, out of the building into the fast-moving crush of busy people. For a moment, Brent's fantasy image remained very strong, then a sports car roared and Dale smelled the city. They separated for a few hours, Dale going to a conference with Todd at Welland Systems while Brent did some shopping. They met again for dinner in a Mexican restaurant. Both men laughed when the waitress did not understand Brent's Spanish. The next morning, Dale went with Brent to the airport. Brent was flying back to Far Reacher. Dale would follow soon. "I'll see you in a week," Dale promised, feeling vaguely guilty. It was neither consistent or sane, but he was running back to check on his business before he tossed his hat over the windmill! "No hay problema," said Brent, pushing his hands into his jeans pockets, leaning back against a wall as he watched another passenger go through the security check. "The rest of the money might be through by then." "No hurry," Brent's lips curved in the smile that seemed to say something else, something mysterious. He said, "I'll head back and look after your boat. Don't get caught in the rat race, my friend." His boat. Varnished masts stretching to the blue sky, sleek white hull slicing through the waves. A Blue Book had changed hands, signatures on paper, and now it was his. Well, almost. All but the red tape. "I won't," Dale promised. "A week, then we're going to sea." He walked through the door of Welland Systems and the fingers of the business he had built curled around his limbs. The new bank investigation was heating up. A multinational had asked for a consultation on internal control systems to prevent a repeat of last year's disaster. Todd had it under control, but. Five days. Six. "I thought you were going back to Mexico," Todd said on the sixth day. "Yes, but. " "I bet you'll still be here in a month." Dale realized that under the smile, Todd was itching to get his fingers back on the reins. So why was Dale holding back? This was what he wanted, wasn't it? The freedom to go sailing. Dale drove home and locked up his house again, did not let himself feel emptiness when he stood looking over the bay with an empty house at his back. He left his car in his own garage and took a taxi to the airport, then spent the flight to LAX sitting beside an elderly woman who was on her way to visit her daughter's family. While she talked, Dale alternated between panic at the crazy thing he had done, and excitement at the dream. No hay problema, he repeated softly to himself. Todd would love the chance to stay in control of Welland Systems a few weeks longer, and the sailing would be fabulous. Out of the Sea of Cortez into

the open Pacific, beating North from the tropics to San Francisco. Like the last five weeks on Far Reacher, but better, more exciting. It was his boat now, although Brent would stay on board as crew until they reached San Francisco. "Why not?" Brent Markesson had said with a shrug. "I'm going that way in any case, back home to Canada." He had grimaced and said ruefully, "Back to regular employment, damn it!" Why not, Dale echoed in his mind. As for the money: what the hell was money, anyway? Lawyers made a profession of looking for problems, but the money was Dale's to spend as he pleased. It was more than time he spent some of it on a luxury, chasing a dream. All those years of caution and where was he? Successful. Alone. Even Anne was gone now, although Anne had never touched his heart and his dreams. He had never let her that close. Anne, the week before Barry Durheim's court case. They had been sharing morning coffee in his dining room. She had left her untouched coffee and moved to stand with her back to the window that looked out over San Francisco Bay. "Dale, I'm leaving." He had been halfway through his cup of coffee. He had swallowed without tasting a drop. He had focused past her, on the violent surge of the ocean outside the window. Then he had put the cup down onto the polished surface of the dining table, had looked at her strained face. Somehow, her face had reminded him of Durheim sitting behind his desk, that blank look on his face as he listened to Dale telling him that there was evidence, dates and numbers and a clear trail of the money moving from where it belonged ... to Barry Durheim. Dale hadn't wanted Durheim to be the one doing the embezzling. He had liked Durheim, although he had no business liking anyone when he was working. "What did you say, Anne?" He had pushed his hair back from his forehead, that unruly lock that kept crawling down. Leaving, he thought as she stared at him, but the word had no meaning. She turned away, looking toward the trees, the ocean. Blue slacks, he noted absently, wondering if they were new, if he had seen that lacy white blouse before. She looked good in frilly things. Frills and lace ... he played with the words, but they wouldn't turn into poetry. Anne. Blonde, pretty, wound up like a coil as she said, "I'm leaving, Dale. Now. This morning." He felt that crazy conviction that he was not there, that his voice was simply a mechanical wind-up toy, grinding out words without meaning. "Sure," he said, deliberately misunderstanding her. "You may as well get away for a while. It's been hellish humid." "I'm not talking about a trip." She gulped, shook her long blonde hair back. "I'm moving out. Permanently." The curve of her lips should have torn at his heart. "Dale, it's a gorgeous house, and you're a gorgeous guy, but ..." He felt the barriers flow in around him, soft thick substance that insulated him from the rest of the world. She was walking out. There was no changing it, no reaching out to her. He couldn't remember reaching, not ever. Not even at the beginning of Anne. "Why not stay?" he had invited casually that first night. They had met on the Tiburon ferry, gone on to dinner. Dancing. Then he had brought her to his home, to his bed. Two years ago. Stay, or go. It doesn't matter. He had issued an invitation that first night, not a request. She had stared at him, her fingers spread on his naked shoulder. Then she had smiled. "Why not?" she

had agreed softly. Two years, then Anne standing in front of the window, her eyes haunted as she said, "Let's not drag it out. We didn't make any promises." "Is that what you wanted? Promises?" Her eyes blinked, hard, and he knew he should reach out, but his hands were frozen as she whispered, "I wanted you to love me, Dale." Why not say the word she wanted? Love. "Face it, Dale. When I walk out that door, it isn't going to hurt you at all. Inconvenient, maybe, but not pain. You don't feel pain. You're just pretending to be part of this world, hiding behind those blue eyes." Then she came very close, her body rising as her lips brushed his. "Tell me you can't get by without me, Dale. Tell me." Her words crawled softly in his mind for weeks. Anne, he thought now, staring out the window at a white bank of clouds. Five miles above California, and Anne was just a name, no more meaningful than the roar of the jets as they pushed him along the sky. Anne. A nice girl. Two years, and all he thought was that she was a nice girl. He didn't blame her for leaving. Listening to the old woman in the seat next to him, to the quiet roar of the jets in level flight, Dale tried to shake the feeling of unreality. It all seemed artificial, a world stuffed with cotton wool. Was that why he had embarked on this crazy adventure? To try to touch something, feel something? Brent with his fantastic life, seductive life, seductive memories. Catherine. Catherine, he whispered deep inside his mind, and he could feel what Brent had felt for Catherine. A dead woman, for God's sake! A ghost! Was it really the boat Dale wanted? Or was he insane enough to think that he could trap the ghost of a dead woman by taking possession of Far Reacher? "She named it," Brent had said, leaning back against the mast with a cerveza in his hand and dreams in his eyes. "My dream, and she made it real. She quoted that thing from Browning. 'Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for.'" Tears had glistened in Brent's eyes. "Far Reacher," he had whispered. "Catherine. Reaching for her was like reaching for the moon, like touching heaven." Dale shivered in the fantasy. Where was rational thought? Analytical judgments, made coldly? Brent Markesson with his magic life. Sailing on the Sea of Cortez. On the charts the body of water inside the Baja peninsula was called the Gulf of California, but Brent called it by the old name. the Sea of Cortez. More exciting, Brent said. Cortez and Spanish galleons. Pirates. The pirates had made La Paz their base. Magic history. Magic Far Reacher, with wind in his face and warm water all around. After five weeks sailing aboard Far Reacher, Dale wasn't sure where Brent's dream ended, where his own began. Somewhere, tangled in the dream, was Catherine. Strong. Sensuous. Loyal. Love. Catherine, Brent's wife, walked in Dale's dreams. A psychiatrist would have fun with that. Dale, the man who would not let himself love, falling in love with a dead woman. Safe, the psychiatrist might decide. What commitment could a ghost ask of her lover? Dale forced his mind cold, analytical, away from the husky memory of Brent's voice. Catherine was Brent's dream. He repeated that to himself, feeling more like the logical man he was supposed to be.

Watch. Evaluate. Don't get involved. Even with the tragedy of Catherine's death, Brent had more of love than Dale could ever touch. The woman was a ghost, part of Far Reacher. He played with dreams of the wind in the sails, the challenge of pitting twenty tons of man-made monohull against the weather and the open ocean waves. Would Far Reacher become trapped, a weekend sailor on San Francisco Bay once he and Brent had sailed her back to San Francisco. Perhaps next spring he could take a few months away from the office again, set sail for Hawaii. He could venture around the world on Far Reacher, jetting back home to Welland Systems every few months. Maybe, he thought, feeling that excitement again. The jet changed tones. The woman beside him clutched his arm. "We're coming down," she whispered with tension. Dale was nowhere, suspended between worlds listening to an old, unhappy woman. Back in San Francisco it had seemed nobody gave a damn if he ever returned. Ahead was a magic fantasy he suddenly had difficulty believing in. It had seemed real enough while Brent was there, standing at his side, grinning at the careful, cautious things. Fifty thousand dollars! Jesus! Joe was right. It was a hell of a lot of money for a down payment. A big angel like Far Reacher was easily worth the hundred fifty grand he had agreed to pay, but why had he made such a big down payment? What if something went wrong? What if. No. Of course not. Joe was right, it had been foolish, but the paperwork would go through and the boat would be his. But next time he decided to take a flier, he would dip his toes in a little more cautiously. He grinned, admitted that without Brent to give him reckless courage, his life would undoubtedly turn tame and dull again. At LAX he changed to the commuter jet that would hopscotch across the border to Mexico, then down the Baja peninsula. The seat beside him was empty. After takeoff, he watched the patchwork of buildings that was San Diego, Chula Vista, National City, and San Ysidro. They all blended together and he missed where it changed into Tijuana. Mexico. Mountains. More mountains. Small scatterings of people. The Baja peninsula of Mexico stretched southeast almost a thousand miles from the border with California. Between the peninsula and the Mexican mainland was the Sea of Cortez. He looked to his left, across the aisle, past the shoulder of the dark Hispanic man seated across from him, and saw the Sea, deep blue and magic. Though his own window, down below to the west of the mountains, he stared at the Pacific Ocean. Bigger. Wilder. It stretched on forever. While Joe was arranging the ownership transfer at Ship. s Registry in Canada, Dale and Brent would set sail, would clear the southern tip of the Baja and escape to the open ocean. From fifteen thousand feet up, Dale looked at the open ocean and felt a surge inside that was equal parts excitement and fear. It was one hell of a big ocean! He was smiling when he got off the small jet at Mulege. Instantly, he was aware of Mexico: hot sun, the smell of an animal carcass somewhere, the sight of buzzards circling a nearby hill. Three battered yellow taxis met the plane. Foreign sounds, voices. He knew a few polite sounds in Spanish, but the quick conversation surrounding him was nothing but

gibberish. A short, slight Mexican with a sleek mustache popped out of nowhere, grinned and announced, "Taxi, señor." He did not allow Dale time to respond before he grasped his suitcase and headed for the trunk of the taxi. Dale watched as the driver pushed a big rusty screwdriver through the hole where a key had once fitted to unlock the trunk. The trunk popped open and the suitcase went in with a thud. The screwdriver went into the Mexican's back pocket. "Vamos!" announced the Mexican, gesturing to the taxi. Dale got into the front seat. He felt hot, but mercifully there was none of the sweltering humidity he had experienced in September and early October. The driver leaped in behind the steering wheel and started the unmuffled engine with a roar. "A Mulege?" the Mexican demanded as they lurched into motion. It was a typical Mexican taxi, the upholstery battered, the engine coughing. "No, I want to go to Santispac." Dale remembered his lessons on getting by in Mexico, courtesy of Brent. "How much?" he asked. The driver didn't answer, so Dale repeated the question in awkward Spanish. "Quánto cuesta?" The driver frowned, then muttered, "A santispac? Es muy lejos." A pause, then, "Twenty dollars." Too much, Dale thought. Then he shrugged. What the hell! So the driver would go home and give his family a good dinner. Or he would go out on a binge. "OK," he agreed and he saw the Mexican relax slightly in the seat. Dale relaxed, too. Ahead, a blonde woman, evidently a tourist, was walking across the street. Dale tensed slightly, his foot pushing the floor, psychological breaking. He had his hand out to brace himself against the dash because he knew the Mexican would slow down for the woman. The uneven engine roared, throwing Dale back against the seat. He grabbed desperately for an anchor as the taxi accelerated and jerked to the right, screaming with angry power. Dale heard a shout or a scream as the woman's stunned face whipped past his window. He got a grip on the open window and jerked his head back to locate the woman. She was there, running towards the edge of the road. Jesus! He could have sworn she would be dead, her body meat for the buzzards. The taxi left the narrow roads of the little town, passing a big transport truck on the wrong side of the road in the face of oncoming traffic and going full speed through a stop sign. Then up a hill, steep and winding and too narrow for this maniac taxi driver. Dale glanced at the face beside him, saw a wide grin, white teeth, and two hands gripping the wheel violently. He didn't know the Spanish word for careful! Ahead of them, a Pepsi truck loaded with soft drinks was crawling slowly up the hill. Ahead of that, Dale saw a wall of rock, a blind corner. The taxi crawled up behind the back wheels of the Pepsi truck, hugging the big back axles. Dale heard the rattle of glass bottles as the truck ahead went over an uneven section of road. The taxi crawled closer. Dale closed his eyes, opened them again to avoid a vision of the trailer ahead breaking free, of this taxi buried in two tons of broken Pepsi bottles. Suddenly, the taxi roared into action.

"Jesus! Not on this corner!" The driver grinned harder and spun the wheel. He leaned on his horn and emitted a loud wail as the ancient taxi passed the big truck with a shout and a gigantic puff of dirty exhaust fumes. As they reached the front bumper of the big Pepsi tractor, Dale saw a reflected glint of sunlight from up ahead. He went rigid, his feet driving into the floor of the taxi uselessly, his hands clenching on nothing. Too late for action. To their left, nothing but a sheer rock drop of two hundred feet. To their right, the massive truck. And ahead, a dirty green truck coming at them, fast. Scream of metal. Smell of burning rubber. A lurch, a puff from the truck's diesel exhaust. A hard swing to the right. Dale felt his heart start again as he heard the wind from the green truck scream past. He stared ahead at empty highway, his heart thundering louder than the engine of this old taxi. Miraculously, he was alive. The taxi was still in motion. The bastard at the wheel was still grinning. Ahead, mercifully, he could see the blue-green of Santispac anchorage, could see the bare poles of sailboat masts standing out like thin match sticks. He could not identify individual boats yet, but he leaned forward, straining to see Far Reacher. Brent would be aboard, waiting for him, eager to weigh anchor and set sail. At this distance, impossible to spot one boat among so many lying at anchor; but he couldn't stop himself from trying as the taxi turned off the highway and drove on the sand towards the water. "Twenty dollars," Dale said, handing it over in exchange for his suitcase. "If you'd killed me, you'd have gotten nothing." The driver laughed. "Understand English?" "Little," said the driver. He got back into his taxi and drove away along the beach towards an open-air beer stand a few hundred yards away. Dale watched the taxi stop outside the palm-thatched concession, saw the driver get out. A moment later he was back in the taxi, powering loudly towards the highway while he lifted the beer to his mouth and drank. Dale rehearsed the story for Brent, anticipating the Canadian man's laughter. He picked up his suitcase and walked the few steps closer to the water, stopped beside a palm shelter and stared out at the sailboats. He recognized a couple of the boats. He and Brent had sailed into Santispac and dropped anchor, then spent a relaxing few days swimming and talking with both the yachties and the campers on the beach before they flew north to the States. The palm palapas that dotted the beach were rented out to campers on a daily basis during the winter tourist season, with a few fanatics living under them even in the hot summer. Anchorage in the bay was free to the visiting sailboats. The yachties often stayed longer than the campers. Some of the boats were gone now and others had taken their place. Dale left his suitcase in the sand while he walked along the shore, his eyes scanning the boats in the little anchorage. He counted thirteen sailboats: several sloops, two trimarans, three ketches. Two of the ketches were white. One was blue. He strained his eyes and felt an impossible, frightening conviction that neither of the white ketches was Far Reacher.

He spotted a Mexican panga in front of one of the trimarans. "Hola! Hey, chico!" The Mexican youth in the panga looked up, recognized a gringo and the chance to make a profit. The fiberglass boat rose up and planed in his direction, powered by a big Evenrude engine. There had been a time when the Mexican fishermen sailed to their fishing grounds with makeshift rigging and homemade boats, now the boats were fiberglass, powered by big outboards. Dale pointed to the panga, then to himself, then out to the boats. The youth nodded and gunned the outboard without putting it back in gear. "Wait a second," said Dale. He held two fingers up in the Mexican gesture he had learned from Brent, ran back and got his suitcase. Then he swung his suitcase into the boat, telling his panicked mind that once they got out there, Far Reacher would pop out from whatever obscurity was hiding it. There were fourteen sailboats, not thirteen. As Dale had hoped, one boat had hidden somehow among the others. The trouble was, the fourteenth boat wasn't Far Reacher. He gestured tensely and the youth powered once more around the boats lying at anchor. One of the sloops looked familiar and Dale signaled to the Mexican. The boy shrugged and pointed the panga at the sloop. They had passed this dirty white sailboat twice already and the boy's expression announced plainly that the gringo was loco. "Stop here!" The captain of the sloop was lying semiconscious under an awning in the cockpit, a bottle of beer in his hand. Dale called out, "Hi, there!" He searched for the man's name and failed to come up with the memory. He had met him two nights before he and Brent left for the States, at a gathering of fifteen and twenty cases of beer. The man must have had a name. Today, the nameless man hardly stirred, but his voice was friendly enough. "Hi, sailor. How's things?" Dale stood in the panga, balancing on the slow swell from a wind blowing out in the Sea of Cortez. "Not bad. I'm looking for Far Reacher. You seen her?" A long stream of beer left the bottle and disappeared down the captain's throat. He was sensibly wearing nothing but a brief bathing suit and a couple of yards of very brown skin, and Dale became aware that his own light suit jacket had grown abruptly too hot. It was mid-afternoon, the sun blazing high in the sky. He grabbed the rail of the sailboat to keep his balance as a swell surged up around the panga. "Yeah," said the captain slowly. "Far Reacher. Sure. Brent was here a few days ago." The Mexican played with his throttle, making the engine roar, throwing Dale off balance. "Do you know where he went?" Brown shoulders shrugged. "Left a couple of days ago." His eyes closed as he absorbed more of the beer. "What day is it?" "Friday." Dale tensed against his own impatience. "It's Friday. When did Brent leave? Where was he. " "Guess he took off Monday." "Where? Where'd he go?" "Who the hell knows? Who cares? I was asleep. Woke up and looked out and the bugger was gone. Ask the first mate on Risky Venture. She sees everything."

A chubby arm raised an empty beer bottle, then bare feet thudded to the deck and the man disappeared inside his boat, probably searching for another bottle of beer. Dale turned back to the youthful panga driver. "Over there," he said, pointing in the direction the inebriated captain had indicated. The Mexican shrugged. "Mucho tiempo. More dollars." "Yes. Sí, more dollars." Jesus! Where the hell was Brent? Where was his boat? No, damn it! Not Brent's boat. Fifty thousand bucks said it was not Brent Markesson's boat to take away. Where? Risky Venture was a marginally-seaworthy trimaran flying a flag from somewhere in the British Commonwealth. Dale never could keep those ensigns straight, but he assumed that if the tri was Canadian, it would be flying the maple leaf flag. The woman was dark-haired, dark-skinned from the sun. She was wearing a very brief bikini bottom and a couple of patches fastened over her breasts with what looked like string. She had great cleavage and looked as if she knew it. "Hi, gringo! What can I do for you?" He remembered her, not the name but the body. He could hardly forget all that smooth browned skin, even though he had consumed a large quantity of cerveza the night she appeared among the crowd on Far Reacher. As he had that night, he found his eyes searching for a trace of pale skin somewhere. There was none. When she sunbathed, she took the triangles off. "I'm Dale," he said. The panga lurched as the Mexican boy gunned the outboard and jockeyed back into position beside the trimaran. She shifted her hips and said seductively, "I do remember." She had been another nameless sailor at that party, until she stumbled against him and pressed those full round breasts against his chest. There had been a husband or a boyfriend. he was not sure which. on the other side of the boat, but she had clung to Dale for balance and her eyes had said she was available. "Ron," he said, grasping for the memory. "Is Ron here?" He shifted his shoulders uncomfortably inside the lightweight jacket. As soon as he had his hands free from hanging on while this kid jockeyed the panga around, he would take the bloody jacket off. "Ron's not here." The smile reappeared, then slowly melted as she ran her tongue around full lips. Dale said desperately, "I'm looking for Far Reacher." "Brent? He left Monday morning. Early." Her eyes narrowed, moved down to inspect his hips, his thighs. "Come aboard." Her eyes went to the suitcase and she smiled, her teeth white and even. "Looking for a berth? I can give you a bed for the night." "Ron. " She shrugged. "Went up to San Diego. Come on, bring your suitcase. I've got cold beer." And a hot body. He felt the stirring of his own response to her blatant invitation, but he did had no time for her, no desire for her borrowed body to make him feel empty and tawdry. He gripped the gunwales of the panga. "Look, do you know where Far Reacher went?" Then, abruptly,

he forced his hands to relax, his face to assume a mask. Inside, he felt panic growing, but somehow, automatically, he was shifting gears, becoming the same man who searched for clues to embezzlers. He said casually, "I've got mail for him." She nodded, accepting that as he knew she would. A steady stream of mail traveled down from the States to the gringo boats in Mexico, mainly parcels from San Diego marine stores. Where the hell was Brent? Why? Fifty thousand! Gone! Certified check, crushed into Brent's jeans pocket. No. No, it was all right. There would be an explanation. Dale could see Brent's smile, the questioning look in his eyes, could feel his own embarrassment as he explained to Brent that no, of course he had not really believed Brent skipped out on him. Dreams. Magic. Jesus! Had he fallen for it, cashed in all his liquid assets for title to a dream that would blow away like mist on the Golden Gate bridge? Risky Venture's first mate leaned towards him, her arms supported on the life rail, her breasts hanging forward, threatening to burst free of their frail enclosure. He stared up at voluptuous curves, heard Brent's voice echo in his mind. It had been night. They had lost wind, drifted to a gentle motion, becalmed in the middle of the Sea. Eyes closed, the warm night air, a bottle of Mexican beer in his hand. The voice drawing the kind of pictures only Brent Markesson could draw, Brent talking of Catherine. ... dressed in the most modest damned suit. Some kind of tweed. Covered from knees to throat. Her face was like that, too, covered, not letting anyone in. It made my fingers itch, hungry to get those zippers and buttons out of the way, find out what was hidden underneath. I'd never seen her before in my life, but every cell in my body knew she was going to change my life. She stood there on the deck of that damned ferry and when I looked in her eyes I could see that under it all she was nothing but damned woman. All wrapped up, locked in, waiting for me. No one had ever touched her before. Dale cleared his throat, found himself staring straight at a deep, golden cleavage. "Come on," said the woman. "Climb up." "I'll check around, see if anyone else here knows where. " "They don't." She snapped open the gate on the lifelines, invited him aboard with a gesture of her naked arm. "I'll see what I can find out." "How?" He stared at the curve of brown breasts, thought of Catherine's white skin, the fantasy picture of Catherine in his dreams. Night and day, he thought, but he could feel tension in his groin alongside his distaste for what was in her eyes. He pushed away Catherine's dream. "How are you going to find out? What can you find out?" She shrugged and pushed at an uncomfortable shoestring strap, the one that held her left breast. It slipped off her shoulder and the breast dropped. The triangle shifted, revealing two more inches of swollen flesh, but no tan line. The Mexican boy's hand jerked on the throttle. She grinned, enjoying the Mexican's eyes on her. "On the VHF radio. Maybe someone knows around the anchorage. I'll call and check, but I don't think so. Best bet is the short wave ham radio." "You're a ham? A radio amateur?" He knew ham radio it was the way messages were passed all around the Sea, realized that amateur radio was probably the surest way to find the location of Far Reacher. "Yeah. Extra class, believe it or not." She grinned and the hot breasts pushed against their soft cloth barriers. Her hand came to rest on his, a fleeting stroke, uneasy fire on his flesh. "Come on. You could

use a cold beer." The Mexican boy wanted ten dollars. The woman threw out a stream of Spanish at the panga driver and they had a heated but incomprehensible conversation. "Give him five," she said finally. "Ten's a rip-off and he knows it. He figures you for a tourist sucker." "That's what I am," said Dale. He handed the boy an American ten, then swung up onto the deck of the trimaran. "Why the hell did you do that?" Dale shrugged, watching the panga rising up on the water, then planing towards the shore. "If he's got to put up with foreigners who don't speak his language, don't intend to learn, why shouldn't he get paid extra?" "He doesn't make that in a day's fishing. You pay like that, they'll all start expecting it. Corona or Pacifico?" "What?" "Beer. Corona or Pacifico? What kind do you want? Throw your suitcase inside. If you don't, you'll cook your shaving cream. Haven't you got a pair of shorts? A swimming suit?" "A suit." "Get into it. I'm sweating just looking at you. I'll get the beer." "What about the radio?" "Keep your pants on! I'll get to it!" Her voice warned that she would balk if he tried to hurry. He stared at the hatch she disappeared through, decided after a moment of frowning thought that she was his best bet for information on Brent at the moment. He opened his suitcase and pulled his bathing suit out. He stripped off his suit jacket, his shirt, crammed them into the suitcase. He was standing in his under shorts when she came back out. "I like those," she said, grinning. Anne had bought them, informing him that his underwear were too damned conventional. They were red and brief, revealing his arousal. He was not sure he liked this woman, but his body had no doubt. "What about the radio? Far Reacher." "I'm getting to it." She pushed the cold bottle up against his chest, laughing when he jerked away. "What's your rush?" He shrugged, then she went back down below and he got into his swimming suit. Anne had bought it, too, and it was not going to hide much. "What about Ron?" he called after her. "Your husband? What's he doing in San Diego?" Either she did not hear him, or did not choose to answer. He needed a bed tonight, and Risky Venture was a better bet than the hotel back at Mulege. Risky Venture had ham radio. He toyed with the idea that Brent might have left a message with the woman who ran the small openair cafe on shore. Unlikely. The woman spoke no English. More likely that Brent would leave word with someone on one of these boats, someone like this woman, or Ron. He wandered into the cockpit, leaned down and watched her as she turned the dial on a radio and

picked up a microphone. "Are you sure Brent didn't tell you where. " She shook her head. He listened while she called another boat, but he learned nothing except that her name was Liz. Whoever she was talking to knew only that Brent had set sail from Santispac on Monday morning, early. "What about the ham?" he asked as she came back topsides. Like all the boats down here, Risky Venture had a big sun awning rigged on deck and Liz flopped onto a deck chair under the awning. "Tomorrow," she said, closing her eyes, pressing her cold bottle of beer into the damp place between her breasts, letting out a little, sensual gasp as the cold touched. "I'll get on the Chubasco Net, tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, cool it, sailor. Relax. Go for a swim." "What's the Chubasco Net?" She shrugged, raising the bottle to her lips, sending a little trickle into her mouth. She licked slowly, savoring the taste, before she answered. "Bunch of hams get on the radio every morning. It's a scheduled get-together of ham radio stations. We all tune in at 7:30 in the morning. Chubasco Net handles emergency traffic for boats in the Sea of Cortez, mainly American boats, but anyone can call. They pass traffic, give a summary of the weather information for the Sea, pass health and welfare requests." "Health and welfare?" She raised the bottle again, closed her eyes to sip. As she swallowed she shook her body slightly, sending the breasts swaying under their flimsy covering. "What you want, sailor, is a health and welfare on Far Reacher. I get on tomorrow morning, ask for a health and welfare. Anyone knows where Brent is, knows if he's still floating, they answer." She opened her eyes and stared up without blinking. The silence stretched too long, then she said in a hard voice, "Tomorrow. Seven-thirty. Five minutes after that, you might have your answer. Until then, I don't want to think about it. Now, gringo, let's cool off." When he dove into the warm water, she dove in after him, swimming like a fish, coming up from below and sliding her wet body along his, wrapping her legs around his hips and riding him in the water, a slippery, twisting armful of eroticism. Somehow his arms made their own decision, but before he could pull the scrap of fabric away from her breasts, she was gone, laughing, climbing up on the deck of the trimaran. Dark fell quickly here, so near the tropics. He came out of the water, found her waiting for him on a big thick quilt spread out under the awning. As he stood looking down at her the light faded to silhouette. The dark air on his wet back was faintly warm. "It's too hot down below," she said huskily. "Come on, gringo." He sank down onto the quilt, found another cold bottle of beer pressed into his hand. Using the bottle in her hand, she pressed icy hardness against his thigh. "It's been a long time, hasn't it, gringo?" Her question was a satisfied laugh on the night air. Two months, more or less, since Anne. "Long enough," he said, reaching for the thin straps that held the teasing covering. She twisted her body under his, laughing at what the moonlight showed in his face. He heard victory in

her laughter, felt anger grow inside himself. "You want me, don't you, gringo? How much? Enough to beg?" His fingers closed on the thin straps and he felt her gasp as the shoestrings bit into her shoulders, heard the angry snap as first one, then the other gave way. Her breasts were dark, the mixture of salt water and perspiration gleaming in the moonlight. He stared down at them, then at her eyes gleaming in the dark. "Take it," she whispered. "Take what you want so badly, gringo." The dream surged up, Catherine, Brent's voice, remembering. I couldn't believe my fingers weren't shaking like a drunk's. The blouse was silk, done up from her neck, right down to the waistband of that tweed skirt. I could see the thrust of her woman's breasts, swelling, warm, waiting for me to free them. She made a sound when I undid the button at her neck. Kind of a sigh, like a door opening. The buttons were small, like pearls. There were ten of them, close together, and as the silk parted, her skin underneath was white. The sun never touched it. No one had ever touched it. When I did, when I got the blouse off'she didn't say a word the whole time. She stared at me, her eyes wide like. like. Oh, God! She was beautiful! And she made a sound like a sob when I touched that soft roundness for the first time. But her eyes were glowing, like a banked fire ready to burst into life. Catherine ... . She groaned when his hand came close, then she grabbed, thrusting herself close with a violence that had nothing of seduction, only of war and conquest. He saw himself touching her, felt his body hard and demanding, like a stranger's erection. He touched her dark, sultry breast and she growled angrily. Her fingers dug into his back, her teeth sought the softness of his earlobe and burrowed in painfully. His hand clenched on the fullness of her breast. He bent down, took the nipple between his lips, taunted it with his teeth, without gentleness. Her cry was a mixture of victory and anguish. She wanted to make love like a cat, with punishment and pain, grunts and screams. It was fast, violent. When it was over, he felt empty and soiled. He stared at the pitted white surface of the rising moon while her head rested on his arm like a sweaty, dead weight.

Three He picked up the bus by the side of the road at Santispac. It was full, but the driver let him on, shouting something about a piss. Dale stood by the driver, hanging on to a rail overhead as the bus revved up to top speed in record time and the driver shouted again at him. "La Paz!" he shouted back, holding out a handful of Mexican bills. The driver grabbed several. The bus rocked perilously as he looked to count. He shouted again. Dale caught the word piso screamed at him as they tore around a corner with inches to spare between the bus and a big fifth-wheeler trailer. "No comprendo!" he shouted back. "La Paz?" "Sí! Sí! Usted en el piso!" The driver gestured wildly to the area behind him. Dale looked, but every seat was taken. A man with a dark leather face and a tattered hat gestured to the floor. "Bus is full," he said. "Sit on floor."

The suitcase would not go flat on the floor, so he put his jacket down and sat on it. Amazingly, the floor was only vaguely dirty, but after two hours of sitting wedged on the floor, coming up against Mexican arms or legs every time he twisted to try to fit his shoulders in a space too small, his back was killing him and his imagination had given up trying to picture what the road ahead looked like. A sign above the driver said aire acondicionado, but if there was air conditioning it had not worked in a decade. Dale's shirt clung and he could smell his own body odor whenever he shifted position. Occasionally the sultry air moved slowly, bringing him a nauseating lung-full of strong tobacco smoke from the man two seats back on his right. Two hours, then amazingly, a young man got up and gestured to his seat. Dale hesitated, but the speechless man was insistent. Dale took the empty seat. Through the rest of the ride he sat in relative comfort, able to see the suicidal tendencies of the driver in full detail. The Mexicans took turns standing. Dale was unable to figure out how the rotation was decided, but every ten or fifteen minutes another man would get up to take the place of the standing man, giving up his own seat. It was a courtesy he had not expected. He was filthy by the time he got off in La Paz. His light trousers were streaked with dust and oily spots. His polished shoes were dusty. When he got to Brent's boat. No, his boat, damn it!. he was going to get rid of this suit and live in shorts. After he had settled up with Brent. The Canadian had a bloody lot of explaining to do! "Taxi?" "Yes. Sí. To the beach?" What the hell was the word for beach? The driver nodded. Dale got in and was relieved when the taxi actually did get to the dinghy beach. There he found a panga willing to take him out on the water. "El yate Far Reacher," he told the driver. Like all panga drivers, the Mexican piloted his boat standing up erect in the back, one hand stretched down to control the engine. "Yate americano?" he shouted at Dale. "No. Canadian." "Ah! Canadiense!" "Sí!" agreed Dale, but the next question was one he could not comprehend. He and the driver had exhausted their ability to communicate. There were now over two hundred boats lying at anchor in the port of La Paz, more tied up in marinas. It would have made sense to stop and do some asking, but Dale was fed up with asking where Far Reacher could be found. He would run around in this damned panga as long as the Mexican was willing to ferry him. Eventually, he would find what he was looking for. Or would he? His jaw worked as he stared out over the water. Contacts, that was what he needed. Here in Mexico, that meant someone who could overcome the obstacle of the language. Preferably, a Mexican with influence. In his weeks with Brent, there was only one Mexican Dale had actually talked to, beyond fumbling with taxi drivers and shopkeepers. Fernando. What the devil was the man's last name? Had he ever heard it? He strained to remember the day the cultured Mexican had hailed Far Reacher at Puerto Escondido. Brent had invited him aboard. Introductions, Dale, this is Fernando. Had there been last names? Probably not. The three of them had relaxed on deck under the awning, drinking cerveza and talking about sailing. Fernando had been

angling for an invitation to go sailing with Brent. Brent had not complied. Dale remembered watching Fernando in his crisp white shirt and tie, wondering how long it took to become acclimatized so that you could sit under the hot sun and not sweat. He remembered little else. That was the day Brent had told him that he had run out of money, could not keep on cruising. Back to Canada, he had said wryly. Back to regular work. Then his face had shadowed and he had said in a low voice, "I guess I'll have to sell Far Reacher, but I hate to think of strangers having her." Just before Fernando turned up, they had thumbed through the pages of Brent's five-year-old marine survey. Brent had asked Dale what he thought would be a reasonable price. The surveyor had assessed Far Reacher at a quarter of a million dollars, but Brent knew he would not get that if he sold the boat in Mexico. No, Dale had hardly listened to Fernando's conversation that day. The Mexican had turned up again at Santispac. In fact, he had been at that party, with Brent. Liz had been there, half naked and swinging her hips suggestively whenever she caught his eye. Ron, her husband, watching her, and others, too many others. Fernando had spoken good English, intelligent and charming. He and Dale had discussed the Americanization of the Baja with heat and some agreement. They had come close to getting drunk together, but still he had no clue what the man's surname was. Fernando lived in La Paz. He traveled a lot in his job. The job had something to do with government, or he had extensive contacts with government because of the job. The Mexican had hinted to both Brent and Dale that he could expedite any problems with the authorities, for a fee. Could he help find a stolen boat? Dale filed the possibility away, pending ideas on how to locate a man with no last name in a city of almost 200,000. Easier to find the boat. The panga wound its way through ketches, sloops, schooners. Catamarans. Trimarans. Power boats. Every damned thing. Shiny new boats, old and ratty derelicts, boats flying every damned flag in the world. The shiny boats had bright new flags, the ratty boats had ratty old flags. Canadian. American. British. The green, white and red of the Mexican flag was everywhere, a small square flying high on every boat in acknowledgment of Mexico's sovereignty. The only Mexican boats he saw were the big gray vessels that belonged to the navy, lying stern-tied to the shore. "Prohibido," shouted his Mexican driver. Anchorage was prohibited in this military area. Only the numbered navy boats. There were more foreign boats past the navy yard. A big blue sloop and. "There it is! Over there!" Bright and white, sporting two beautiful wooden masts. He had loved the warm, glowing beauty of those masts from his first sight of them. He pushed a twenty into the driver's hand as they came up to the ketch, swung his suitcase up onto the deck with a smooth motion as they came abreast. Damn! He felt like a sailor. Just seeing that boat, knowing Brent had not skipped the country. There would be some crazy explanation and everything would be back to the dream. He could stop feeling like the suspicious, cold Dale Welland. "Gracias," he mumbled to the driver, swinging his own body up, following his suitcase, coming up onto

the deck, not looking back. He called out, "Hey Brent, you son of a bitch! Do you know what kind of chase you led me? God damned you, I've been. " The gun was pointed at him. It was a big gun. A light machine gun, he thought. It was pointed at his heart, thrust abruptly closer by a slight man with a cruel face and a very official-looking uniform. Dale spread his hands out, palms open. "What the hell. Hey, don't point that thing at me!" His ears rang with silence. He should have kept his Goddamned mouth shut! For Christ's sake, you didn't scream at a man holding a bloody machine gun, a man who could blow you away on a whim. "Look, buddy, I-#151;Who the hell are you?" His voice had no heat now, not against that terrifying thrust of dark metal. A stream of Spanish. Dale shook his head, not understanding. The gun pressed into his belly and the words screamed at him again. "No comprendo!" Shit! What the hell did you do to appease a man with a bloody big gun and a vicious face? He pushed his hands higher, felt the wet growth of sweat under his arms, across his back. It was not all heat. It was terror. "No comprendo," he whispered again. Another man came from behind the first, demanding answers. "No comprendo," he insisted again. Two bloody big guns, submachine guns. He closed his eyes, was assailed with a taunting vision of some unrecognized television hero leaping forward, sweeping the guns overboard. "Where's Brent? I'm just looking for Brent." Silence. The demanding stream of Spanish broke off to a quiet, dangerous nothing. He took a step backward. He would abandon his bloody suitcase. The water was warm, God damn it! He could swim for shore. Another step backward and he was against the toe rail. "I was just looking for Brent Markesson," he said quietly. "I'll go if he's not here." The gun jerked towards him, an angry gesture. Behind him, he heard the sound of a low-pitched engine. He turned slowly, very carefully, keeping one eye on the guns. The approaching launch was about forty feet long, open at the back and packed with men standing, all staring at him. Mexican men. Two of them wore suits. Important men. The rest wore uniforms, but not all the uniforms were the same. Some matched the uniforms of the Mexicans pointing machine guns at him. Others had the look of police uniforms, leather belt and pistol holsters, night stick dangling from the belts. Some were blue uniforms, some brown. The lettering on the side of the boat announced something to the effect that this was an official vessel, something to do with the Port of La Paz. Who were the men? Port officials? What about the uniforms? "Su nombré?" demanded a voice. He was not sure who it came from. "No comprendo." God damn! A man had to be crazy to wander around a foreign country without being able to speak the language. Where was Brent? Did these men have something to do with Far Reacher scooting away from Santispac? "Your name!" demanded another voice. "What is you business?"

English! Ungrammatical, heavily accented, but English! "Dale Welland," he said quickly, smiling cautiously at the Mexican wearing the gray suit and the mustache. He relaxed slightly when he saw that the guns had eased their hard vigil on him. "I'm an American. A systems analyst. I'm on holiday, just. " "I ask! You tell! Not more! You business!" One of the Mexicans jerked his gun back into position. If he fired, Dale would not have a chest. His tension eased slightly when he realized that a round of bullets would wipe out at least one of the collection of authorities on that power boat. The gun was a threat, to make him frightened. It was working. "I told you," he said carefully. "I'm a systems analyst. I work with computers." "You business! Why you here?" "Oh. I-#151;" Keep it simple. Getting into complicated explanations with this mob of well-armed Mexicans could be dangerous. "I'm looking for. for my friend. Brent. Brent Markesson." It was the wrong thing to say. The navy man said something to the important man in the gray suit. They both frowned. One of the policemen added his opinion. He heard americano and canadiense, which seemed to lump him with Brent. He felt his own panic rising, told himself it would be all right. In a minute someone would explain. No one did. "You come with us," said the policeman. "Please, come on this boat." "Where? Where are you taking me? Why?" The machine gun stiffened and Dale stepped quickly across the gap to the launch. Why was there a guard on Far Reacher? Where was Brent? These were important men, frowning men. They shifted slightly to make room for him to stand with them, but there was no doubt that he was their prisoner. Grey-suit turned to stare at him. Dale stared back and made his voice very calm. "Señor, I would like to see a lawyer." The man shrugged. Dale felt the contrast of his dusty, sweaty body and this Mexican's. Every one of these men was crisp and immaculate. Dale, on the other hand, must look the perfect picture of a dissolute down-and-out American. "You will speak with Judicial federal," Grey-suit announced in a cold voice. Then he turned away and talked to one of the navy men. What the hell was Judicial federal? Was that the same thing as the federales he had heard about? What did he know about the federales? Not much, just odds and ends overheard in conversation. They had a large plainclothes force throughout Mexico. They were constantly concerned with catching foreigners transporting illegal drugs, often stopped and searched foreign cars and campers. Was it drugs? Now that they had him on board the official boat, they were ignoring him. No one was trying to search him, but that could come later. Was Brent mixed up in drug smuggling? Dale could not believe that Brent's clear, direct eyes hid an international dope dealer. Or that Barry Durheim was an embezzler? What if the idea struck Brent as a challenge? What if he decided to make one big run, to set himself up with cruising money for another year or two? Jesus, Dale! I hate the thought of giving it up, of walking away from this boat and into a nine to five, taking orders, shivering when the bloody snow flies. I'd do damned near anything to keep cruising.

What had Brent done? †† They transferred him from the boat to a white police car. They commanded his movements with abrupt jerks of the guns. The police car took him to high white walls. Big, square walls. Barren. Guard towers at each corner. There would be guards, too, big guns and lights. The car drove slowly into the complex, stopped, doors opened. A jerk of the guns and Dale stumbled out into a dirt courtyard. No one touched him, but the guns were only inches away. He walked docilely between two uniformed men, into the jail. He was processed with disinterested efficiency. Gestures. He understood, emptied his pockets. His passport was taken. His keys and pen knife. He hesitated before dropping the wallet onto the counter. It contained about fourteen hundred American dollars. He was not given a receipt. Was a prisoner entitled to a telephone call in Mexico? "Lawyer," he said. "Necesito lawyer." He said it several times. The request was ignored. Once, the taller policeman shrugged. "Embassy," Dale said then. "American embassy." The tall policeman handed him over to a guard. "Listen, I need to see the consul. A lawyer! I-#151;" The guard jerked his head. Dale followed him to a small, dingy cell. He stared at the man as he pushed the metal door closed with a hard slam. He was locked in a cell, the guard gone, footsteps receding. He shouted, "American embassy! Lawyer! Somebody!" The footsteps did not pause. Shit! How long could they keep a man in a cell? Where did those stories come from, where people were tossed in jail and left to rot? ... locked him up and threw away the key ... then they tossed him in jail and that was the last anyone heard of him ... never saw a judge or jury, never came out. The cell was small, bare, almost clean. He walked to the concrete block wall, back to the bars. Three paces, and three back. He could see another man in a cell across a gray concrete corridor, a thin Mexican stretched out on the bleak, concrete floor. He heard a door slam with metallic finality. The guard leaving the lockup, going into that office where Dale had emptied his pockets. Dale leaned against the back wall. Slowly, he sank down to sit on his heels. He needed to urinate. He pushed away the urge. Peeing in that plain metal bucket would be an admission that he was in here for longer than just a few hours. He wanted desperately not to make that admission. What the hell was going on? Was Brent in another cell? If it was drugs, how the devil could Dale Welland persuade a bunch of cynical Mexican cops that he had never heard of any drugs? He had told Grey-suit that Brent was his friend. After that, the questions stopped. Had claiming Brent's friendship put him in jail? Why? More important, when would he get the chance to declare his

innocence? Had Brent smiled and laughed and led Dale into this nightmare? On a cement beam above the bars, a big cockroach sat motionless. It did not move, although hours passed. Something came. It might have been called supper, a small bowl of gray refried beans and three tortillas that had once been warm. Water. He drank the water, thinking of all the things that could happen to you if you drank Mexican water. He had not urinated yet, had not used that bucket. The water would make it worse. He ate the tortillas. He could not bring himself to eat the beans. Darkness blanketed the prison. The big cockroach still had not moved. Dale stared at the spot long after the world turned to black. Was it still there? Would it crawl on him when he finally lay down on that flat concrete floor? Jesus! He was locked up for no damned reason, rotting in a Mexican jail, and he was worried about the bloody cockroaches! Sounds. Voices raised. Silence. Later, a man crying. Metallic explosions of doors opening, closing. Cell doors. The pressure on his bladder was fierce, making him nauseous. He pushed his hands into his trousers, but the fabric cut into his gut. A guard walked past, did not look into the cell. A quiet conversation. A door slammed. Silence, except for the man who sobbed quietly into the night. Dale used the bucket. Night had brought coolness. He put on his jacket and wondered where his suitcase was. Still on Far Reacher? Then he stretched out on the concrete, his eyes staring sightlessly into the black, his ears straining to hear rustlings that were live things moving around in the night. Tomorrow he would get himself out of here. Somehow. It would be easier to plan if he knew what was ahead, why he had been locked up. He wished ... His mind fell into a gray stupor that was not sleep. The door crashed open. He sat up, heart thundering in panic, eyes squinting painfully against a brilliant light. Someone touched him, jerked his arm. He stumbled to his feet. He walked between two men dressed like outlaws. He said none of the words he had planned. These were not men you reasoned with. It was hot in the room they took him to. There was a chair. He sat. He should have used the bucket again. The need to void was making him weak and nauseous. The two men stepped back. Another took their place. "Señor Welland." This man wore a freshly pressed white shirt with short sleeves. Either he had not been in the room long, or he did not perspire. Dale tried to sound calm. "I would like to know why I am here." The man stared at him. "You will talk to me about the americano, Señor Markesson." The heat grew oppressive. Dale twisted in the seat, shed his jacket. "Sir, I would like to see a lawyer." He resisted the impulse to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He could feel puddles of liquid crawling down his back. The man in the white shirt looked cool, comfortable, staring at him without expression. "When did you first meet Señor Markesson?" Behind Dale, the two men stepped forward. He could not see, but he could hear. Men with mean faces, hard eyes. He felt the sweat on his forehead balling up, rolling down, puddling into his eyebrows.

Those men might beat the shit out of him. There were not going to be any lawyers. You have nothing to worry about if you're innocent! He felt like choking. Innocent of what? And who the hell said there was nothing to worry about? "In September," he said desperately. "I met him in September." "By arrangement?" The voice was smooth, casual. "No. I was walking on the beach at ... here at La Paz. I met him on the beach." "Where were you last night?" Was the man's crisp, white shirt faintly damp? Was it really this hot? Dale felt the sting of perspiration reaching his eyes. Maybe it was actually cool and pleasant. Maybe it was just him. Could it be the water he had sipped? "Last night?" His voice stumbled. "Where was I last night? I was here. In jail." The white shirt moved impatiently. "No!" The man had black eyes, thin lips. "The night before. November nine." "I-#151;Santispac. I was at Santispac. Near Mulege." The questioner leaned forward, eyes flashing. "What were you doing there?" What the hell was this? Was Brent being questioned in another room? If so, why? Dale stared at those black eyes. He was a foreigner accidentally embroiled in. in something. "What were you doing at Santispac on November nine?" "I just came down from the States." They had his wallet. His passport. His tourist permit was in the passport. It had been stamped at the airport on his entry to Mexico. They must know already that he was telling the truth. "I was supposed to meet Mr. Markesson at Santispac." White shirt stared at his fingernails. "And?" "He wasn't there. He. I got to the anchorage, and his boat wasn't there. I checked around, asked. Finally, I found out he'd gone to La Paz." He shrugged, blinked stinging eyes. He should not have had that water. He was going to be terribly sick. He felt weak, dizzy, and it must be the water, not the heat. It was too far-fetched to believe they were torturing him with a hot room. He lifted his arm to dry his forehead. The sweaty shirt only moved the moisture about on his forehead. "So you came to La Paz?" It was an accusation. "Yes," he agreed. "I came to La Paz to find Mr. Markesson." "And what was your business with Mr. Markesson?" "We'd become friends, and I had a deal with him to buy his boat." "His boat?" The Mexican seemed surprised. Dale licked his lips. They felt dry, but were in fact covered with moisture. "You were to buy his boat?" It was said singsong, like a fairy story. The white shirt lifted in a shrug. "You came to La Paz then, to find Mr. Markesson?" Dale nodded. "On day nine of this month?" "Yes, I-#151;No, not the ninth." Was it the ninth? Or the tenth? He had been at Santispac when? He tried to sort out dates and questions, found himself dizzy when he stared at those black eyes. Was this real? Being questioned in the middle of a night, drenching in his own sweat?

Or was it a nightmare? "November nine?" demanded the voice. "No, I went to Santispac on the ninth. I came to La Paz yesterday. today. On the tenth. Yes, the tenth." "You can prove this?" "Yes. Yes! Of course I can." What was he suspected of? "I took the bus. If you ask the driver, he'll remember me. I had to sit on the floor." White shirt walked out of the room. Confused, Dale spun around and found himself staring at the other two men. A door opened. No words, only a gesture. He got up, stumbled into the next room. The door slammed behind him. An empty room, only one chair. He took two steps towards the chair, halted. He was in a God damned ice freezer! The sweat on his face, his body, was turning to a cold agony. He turned, remembering his jacket, but it was back there, in the other room. The hot room. This was the cold room. Its questioner wore a sleekly barbered mustache and a jacket, stood near a window that faced out on nothing and kept his eyes glued to Dale's face. Dale said coldly but unsteadily, "I am an American citizen. I would like to see a lawyer, or someone from my embassy." He had heard that line, or read it, or both. He could not exactly remember if the request had worked for fictitious characters in trouble in foreign countries. For him, the words seemed to be silence falling onto nothing. A sharp gesture. He obeyed, sat in the chair. He shivered, the sweat turning icy on his body. His shirt was too thin. The cold came at him with an icy blast. He tried to make sense of it, needing something rational to push back the urge to scream, to pound on walls. He was not going to get out of here by throwing fits. He needed his wits. Logic. Think. Watch. The cold came from a unit in the wall. An air conditioner? If so, it was turned down to just above freezing. The chair seemed to be positioned to catch the blast from the cooling unit. He half-stood and pulled the chair to one side. The thugs moved abruptly. The barrel of a machine gun jerked against his chest. He jerked back at an abrupt gesture from the head of a snarling man. The other man returned the chair back to the midst of the icy blast. Dale sat down again and tried like hell not to shiver. There was a lot of machismo in this room. He could feel it in the air. His questioners, men inside the walls of an official prison installation who looked like thugs and had authority. This was a psychological battle. He was damned well not going to shiver like a puppet in the hands of macho hoodlums. The questions were the same. English words, but senseless, meaningless. He answered. Not answering was unthinkable. He remembered sitting on the sofa in his house, watching an adventure movie on television. There were guns. There was violence. The hero kept his mouth shut, snarled at his captors, and managed to destroy a foreign army of men with guns, men without inhibitions about shooting. At the end of the show the hero had been sensually sweaty, unharmed except for a shallow cut on his arm that trickled a light stream of blood. "Bullshit!" he had told Anne with a laugh. "Capture a man and point a big gun at him, and he'll talk. I'd bloody well talk. Put a gun on me and I'll be the most cooperative son of a bitch you've ever seen." A Mexican jail. Two men behind him, wearing jackets, carrying guns. Moving closer if he failed to

answer a question. They did not touch him, except for that one terrifying brush with the gun when he tried to move his chair; but their presence gave a threatening significance to the cool voice of the mustached man. "Buying the boat?" The mustache worked over that idea, the eyes cold, unwavering. A shiver escaped the rigid barrier of Dale's tense body. "When did the money ... ah ... change hands? Last night? In La Paz?" "No. I told you." He wound his arms around his chest, but there was no warmth in his body. His heating system had gone on strike. "Last night ..." He foundered over the confusion of days. "The ninth. Yes, the ninth. I was in Santispac." "You had the money?" "The money? No. No, we went up to the States. Brent and I-#151;A week ago. No, ten days. Two weeks ago. We went to San Francisco, saw my lawyer. Edwood, of Graham and Edwood. He drew up the papers." He spoke quickly, his voice gaining confidence. "Call him. Call my lawyer in San Francisco. He'll confirm what I'm saying. I paid Markesson the down payment. He signed the bill of sale." "Down payment," mustaches repeated slowly. "How much?" "A third of the price. Fifty thousand." "Dollars?" "Yes. Dollars." "And this money? Where is this fifty thousand now?" Dale hugged himself harder. Jesus! It was so fucking cold! "How the hell should I know where it is? I told you. I gave it to Brent Markesson. I suppose he put it in the bloody bank!" His teeth got loose and started to chatter. "C-could you t-turn off that fu. that thing. I-#151;I'm cold!" "Where is the money?" "I don't know! How could I know? I gave it to Markesson." Mustaches walked out. Dale stumbled when the guards waved him out of his seat, fell onto the icy cement floor. One guard grunted something, gestures with the gun. Dale struggled to his feet and somehow walked through the door. Warm. God! It felt like heaven! He sagged against the chair, holding it from behind with hands and arms shaking. Warmth, seeping into his body, turning the iciness to smooth slippery pools of damp. A machine gun jerked. He stumbled to the front of the chair and sagged into it. He closed his eyes, panting slightly. The air was thick and difficult to force into his lungs. The warmth surged over him, turning to heat. More questions. The same questions. More heat. Last night. The ninth. The tenth. The sun rose. Which night? The light blazed into this furnace of a room, making a halo around the black hair of the man with the white shirt. It had to be a new white shirt, freshly laundered. The man had showered since the first time he questioned Dale. He could smell soap! Dale closed his eyes, gasped at the heat, imagined that he felt cool water raining down on him ... jerked erect to the heat.

"Where is the money? Where is the money now, Señor Welland?" "I don't know! How would I know?" Move ... they moved him again, into the other room. Cold. Freezing. The trembling consumed him, cold shimmering into fantasy heat. Last night. The tenth. The ninth. The bus. La Paz. The money. "Ask Markesson! Why don't you fucking well ask Markesson! I don't know!" The echo of his scream faded into the heat. Heat. The hot room. When had they moved him? Jesus! He couldn't breathe! White shirt leaned close to him. The cold voice threatened while thin lips sneered. "But we are asking you, Señor. Please answer." Mustaches, the lips beneath thin and turned down. "Señor, you tire me. How can we ask the man Markesson. You have murdered him, have you not?" "Murdered? When? Brent ... dead?" He blinked, trying to retrace the words. "Have I? Have I ... what?" Cold. Hot. Questions. Men with guns. Shivering. Sweating. Terrified. Two nights, or three? He lost contact with something essential to his survival. How long had it taken to become a shivering victim with his world out of control? Brent dead? Murdered? He needed sleep desperately. To be warm ... cool ... left alone. He fell asleep, again and again, was woken abruptly, water thrown over him in the frozen cold of that room. He must sleep. He lost track of fear. Nothing mattered but sleep. Warmth ... coolness. A judge. A courtroom. What day was it? Was the judge real? Or was he part of the nightmare? Questions. He answered, but he had no answers. Then, finally, there was a telephone and yet another polite man with no smile. "To call your lawyer, Señor. The call is to be collect. You will tell the number to me." Joe's number. What was Joe's number? Damn it! He knew it, dialed it a couple of times a week for one reason or another. Then he remembered and mumbled the series of numbers. The girl who answered said the word collect as if Graham and Edwood had never taken a collect call in their entire history. For all Dale knew, it might be true. "Look," he interrupted the operator quickly. "It's an emergency. Tell Joe it's Dale Welland on the line. He'll take the call." He had damned well better take it. Dale closed his eyes while canned music from San Francisco played in his ear. He prayed the operator would keep the line open long enough for him to get Joe. "Dale?" Thank God! "Joe, I-#151;" "Hold on, Dale. Yes, operator. I'll accept the charges." There was a faint noise, then Joe's voice again, ironic and clearer. "Collect, Dale? I'll have to bill you for that, you know." He closed his eyes, took a ragged breath. He could smell jail on himself. "Joe, I need. " "I'm glad you called. Look, Dale, that fellow who sold you the boat. Is he there? Can you get hold of

him?" "Not exactly. Joe, I've got a problem. I need. " "Problem is not the word! It's a legal mess." ". three thousand dollars." Dale shivered and felt the heat soaking into his body. Plain ordinary heat, the kind you would expect to find in Mexico. Had the torture been real? The inhuman heat and cold? Or was it only the fantastic distortion of a body suffering from the typical travelers ailment? "Joe, I'm in jail in La Paz. I need three thousand dollars for bail." "Bail? What the hell did you do?" He sagged back against a wall. "You're my lawyer. Aren. t you supposed to keep an open mind about my innocence? Can you get the bloody money? You know I'm good for it. They don't want to take a check." He crossed one weak leg over the other, looked at the filthy grime on his clothes and was amazed to find himself laughing. The guard stiffened and Dale's laughter hardened to ice. "Dale, is this a joke?" "No, it's not a joke. I'm in jail. I haven't been charged with anything as far as I can tell, but they want three thousand bail. Yeah, I know, but this isn't California." Joe was ranting legal precedents and international relations. Dale cut him off. "I don't give a damn. Brent Markesson's been murdered, and some of these jo. policemen would like to pin it on me. I want out, and I want you to dig me up a lawyer down here. I'll give you the fellow here who can tell you where to send the money, but first tell me what the hell you were talking about. What mess did you want to tell me about?" Silence, then, "Jesus! Murder? I was calling about the boat, your purchase of the boat. There's a bit of a hitch, but shit, nothing compared to murder." "A bit? A legal mess?" The Mexican was getting impatient. "Quick, Joe. What is it?" "That boat is held under joint tenancy, under Canadian law. That means. " "Who's the other person? You said two holders?" "He had no right to sell that boat, Dale. Under joint tenancy, he can't sell his share." "Who the hell is it?" "Catherine Ann Markesson, his wife." The breath slowly left his lungs. "It's a paperwork screw-up, Joe. Catherine's dead." "Dale, are you absolutely certain? I put through the change of registered owner. What I got back was the details of registered owners, joint tenancy. Markesson is recorded as Managing Owner, but for a sale, without her signature. " "She died four years ago. She went in for surgery. Appendicitis. She died on the operating table." "Where?" "Vancouver, Canada. Now the bail. " "One minute ... OK. I've got that. You don't know the name of the hospital, do you?" "As a matter of fact, I do. Joe, for Christ's sake! Let's get things in proportion here. Talk to the man and get me out of here! We can chat later!"

Four "Catherine?" "Hmm?" She took her glasses off, pushed back the shining brown curls that hardly showed the gray. Tony's face looked tense and shocked. His fingers were curled tightly into his palms and he stared over her shoulder at the window where rain pelted against the glass. "What is it, Tony?" Tony collapsed into an empty chair. "We lost it." "Lost what?" She turned over the sheet of paper in front of her, glanced at the next page to hide her amusement. Tony's disasters ranged from trivial to medium, and this wasn't the first time she'd thought he should try out for the stage. "Be specific." He wailed, "Burton's receivables. The file's scrambled. Can't access it. Nothing." Damn! They had been inputting Burton receivables since eight yesterday morning, the statements were due to be in the mail tomorrow morning. "How long since the last backup?" Catherine did not like chaos. She liked things on time, deadlines met, computers behaving. She skipped lunch to fight with the computer, her usual smile absent, her lips turned down and her mind juggling work schedules. By mid-afternoon they had reconstructed from the backups and had the new transactions twenty-five percent posted. With any luck she would be out of here by midnight. By that time, her whole staff would be grousing about overtime and missed appointments. No matter. Burton's billing would be in the mail on time. The clients would be satisfied. Only her employees would know the chaos it had taken to produce everything to schedule. At four-thirty that afternoon, the junior data operator flagged a Burton account with a credit balance of twenty thousand dollars. Then the receptionist delivered a message in a striped envelope to Catherine just as Tony threw a printout onto her desk. The page was covered with red circles. "Balances forward!" he shrieked. "They're all wrong!" Catherine pulled the printout closer, her lightly glossed nails contrasting with the dull matte of the paper. "All right, so the backup's contaminated, too. We'll have to go to the grandfather." Her calmness was a contrast to Tony's excitement. "That'll take all night! And tomorrow!" "So we'll be a day late in the mail." She relaxed to the inevitable. Absently, she took the thin, sharp letter opener and neatly slit open the envelope. It looked like one of those mailgrams, generated by some government worker's computer and spit out into the postal system. Overdue PD7AR from one of her clients, probably. She said absently, "Tony, you're going to have to ease up, or find a different profession. I'll call in the relief data operator for a night shift. You find out how far back we have to go for a pure database." The message was from the Foreign Affairs office in Ottawa. She read it, sitting in the midst of computer chaos on the twelfth floor of a downtown Vancouver office building. The words were impossible. Reality slamming into her world of bits and bytes and numbers.

Brent Markesson dead in La Paz. Her mind caught at a detail. She was trained for details. Until that moment, she had not known that La Paz was in Mexico. She could have sworn it was Bolivia or Brazil. She had an insane urge to go home, find her atlas and look it up. She recognized the impulse for what it was. easier to focus on facts than on Brent. Your husband, the official letter said. Your husband. Your husband, a stranger. "Catherine? It's two months." Tony again, arms flung out on nothing. "We've got to go back to August to get a clean database." "All right." Moving felt odd, unreal. Life was unreal. "I'll come. I'll reconstruct it." She was faster than the data operator, faster than any of them. She was a hell of a good data operator, a hell of a good accountant, too. Not a good enough wife. She sent the rest of them home, kept Tony because he was efficient when she told him what to do. Oddly, he was also efficient when she was not there, when he had no choice but to make his own decisions. They worked until three in the morning. By that time they had reconstructed the database and re-input the September transactions. All that was left was October. "Go home," she told Tony. "I'll finish it." If she worked through the rest of the night, she could get it done by dawn. Brent, dead. Had he died of his dreams? She was loaded with coffee, felt that she could work forever. In the deathly quiet of an abandoned office, she pushed her way through a high volume of transactions. Deathly quiet. Next of kin. Was a woman who had not seen her husband in four years still next of kin? It must have been on his passport, her name written under person to notify in case of. On the next page, after the picture. There was a place for permanent address, and one for next-of-kin to notify in case of ... After four years, Brent had kept her name there. A symbol of what? Her failure? Or had he simply forgotten to change it. He must be traveling on the same passport he had been issued shortly before he left. She remembered the night he had written in her name and the office address. "After all," he had said with that slow smile. "We'll be selling the house, but the data service will be there forever, won't it? Of course, you'll be with me, too, so it's really pointless writing anything at all here." "Us," she had whispered as he touched her, stroked her sensitive flesh as if it were satin. "Forever," she had promised, and his smile had taken her away from the world. Tony hadn't been her assistant then. It had been Gloria, a newly qualified accountant, efficient and ambitious. The future had been laid out. Gloria would become Catherine's partner. Then, in a year's time, she would take over. Catherine would step into the background as a silent partner.

Catherine and Brent, sailing away into the sunset. Paradise, and Brent. Forever. All part of the dream, as Brent had been part of the dream. Later, when the dream failed, Gloria left, her ambitions frustrated. Would they send her Brent's passport, or did the passport become the property of the Canadian government when a person died? Who had his passport, anyway? The Mexicans? The Canadian consulate? That picture, his passport photograph ... They had gone together to the photographer, laughing, the adventure alive. This was a big step, applying for the documents that would be their passports to the world. Her picture had been somber, her vibrancy deadened by the camera. Not Brent's. His was gorgeous, making him look dark and sexy, interesting as hell. An adventurer, a modern day pirate with that slow grin and those half-cynical eyes. God, she had loved him! But not enough. Arrangements. She stood, left the keyboard, walked slowly through the empty offices to her desk. The message lay there, open, a live thing laughing at her. The windows were black now, but still the rain pounded on the glass. Her eyes followed the dead words. November the ninth. It was the thirteenth now. He had drifted somehow to Mexico, then four days ago he had died. She had not seen him in four years. She had managed not to think about him most of the time. She had signed the dividend checks each year, had mailed them to Brent's mail forwarding service in North Vancouver. Her only contact with her husband had been the knowledge that the checks were cashed. Four years and not one postcard, not one letter. No telephone calls. At first she had waited, heart pounding when she ran to the mail, stopping when the telephone rang. The pain had flared and festered, then dried to nothing but an old scar. Lately, when Brent's image flowed through that part of her, she had shrugged it away. The man, the boat, would be somewhere on the other side of the world. Tahiti perhaps. Australia. He had sailed out of her world. Mexico. A hot country where one could not wait long to bury a person. It had been four days already. What a horribly gruesome thought. Where was the grief? Where were the tears? She went back to the keyboard. "Brent," she whispered in the empty office. There was only the sound of her own fingers on the keys. Love, she thought, but it was empty, sterile. In the middle of the dark night, her fingers stilled. Had he been alone? Or had he taken another woman into his bed, someone who could take her place without failing when the test came? Oh, God! What did it matter? She did not sleep. When it was time that Lorne would be awake, drinking his first cup of coffee and reading his newspaper, she dialed his number on the telephone. "Good morning, Catherine." His rather pedantic voice soothed her. "What got you in motion so early?" "I've been up all night, fighting with computers." "Foolish. You should have. " "Lorne, Brent's dead. I got a telegram." She heard his faint gasp of surprise, then the pause while he thought out his words. She hurried on, telling him the details. "Catherine, are you all right?"

"Yes." She stared at her hand, at the gold band on her finger. Slowly, she slid it off and put it in her drawer. She was not going to cry. It was much too late for tears. "Of course I'm all right. Would you look after the details, Lorne." Lorne, always the lawyer, thinking before he spoke. Finally, he said, "You want me to arrange to have his body flown back here to Vancouver?" Brent's vital body stilled and closed into a coffin. "Yes. yes, arrange to ... have him flown home." "Catherine, it's been four years." "I know. Just look after it, please. If you need a check from me. " "No, we'll settle that up later. I'll look after it. I'll also have the register searched to see if he filed a new will." "Yes," she whispered. Four years, and somehow a part of her had tried to believe that he would be back, walking through her office door, teasing the receptionist, smiling straight into her heart. "Catherine, he walked out on you." "No, not exactly." She stared at nothing. Lorne was waiting for her to explain, but she had never been able to talk about Brent. She could not now. Later, while she was trying to eat lunch, she thought of the boat. It would be hers now. Where was it? In Mexico? She shivered, thinking of Far Reacher. Brent's ghost would be watching, smiling, because in the end Catherine had not escaped his dream at all. Wednesday. Burton's receivables to get out, then the Allerton accounts. Friday would come, and this weekend she would not work. Friday at five, Brent's ghost would flow over her. She could feel him there, waiting. She had to get through two days first. †† "Then take the fucking boat apart!" The smaller man cowed at the screamed instruction. "We've looked," he insisted, defensive, frightened. His hands tortured each other. "We've searched'started to search. Now the God damned navy is all over, crawling all over it." "For Christ's sake, it's Mexico! Bribe someone. Get past them." "It's the navy! Guards and M-16s. I'm not bloody bribing a couple of M-16s! They'd shoot me, or throw me in jail." The small man paced to the window, stared down at traffic, toy cars far below. "The federales are around, too. Sniffing around, talking to the navy. You never know who's giving the orders, but if the federales are in it, maybe we could penetrate. " "No!" Alpha threw down the computer printout in his hands. His face was hard, dark from the hot places he had been. He was hard all through, his fingers threatening in their tense curling. Then the tension left. The man by the window watched Alpha's face lose its hardness and flow into the smooth mask of a charming man. He knew that this was a mask more dangerous than the other. Alpha said tonelessly, "There are enough damned people sniffing around as it is. There's no way to know who's on whose payroll. What about the gringo?" "Welland?" Carefully, Gamma pushed his hands into his pockets. Once, he had seen Alpha punish a man he was displeased with. If it happened again, he wanted to be far away. The big man did not move. He was still, frowning, his eyes far away. "What's Welland's game?"

"It looked innocent." He saw Alpha's irritation, added quickly, "We don't know how they met. First we knew, Welland was on the boat. We found out he'd been staying at the local El Presidente. He checked out, took his bags out to the boat, and they set sail." Alpha leaned forward. "Where did they sail? They must have filed a crew list with the port captain at La Paz. They had to list their destination." "Welland was on the list as piloto. I don't know why he's on as pilot. Why not seaman?" Alpha was sitting more erect, his eyes flashing. So there was significance to the entry as piloto. "They listed Santa Rosalia as their destination." "So they went to Santa Rosalia? And did they go to the mainland?" "They didn't even go to Santa Rosalia. They don't list all the stops on those crew lists, and it doesn't seem to matter if they actually get to the place they listed." He shrugged. Mexico, for God's sake! Nothing went by the rules. It didn't matter if you followed the words on the paper, as long as the paperwork was done. No one ever read it, they just filed it. Five copies. Six. "Where did they go?" "Partida. San Francisco. that's an island, not the city." "For Christ's sake! Don't give me smart ass remarks!" Alpha's fist hit the map in front of him. "They came back to La Paz! I need to know where they were in between." Gamma smiled, enjoying the opportunity to correct Alpha. One did not get that chance often. "They didn't come back to La Paz until after they flew together up to the States." "And you did not tell me?" Gamma swallowed at the cold softness in Alpha's voice. "Where in the States? Why?" "I don't know." "When? Before or after?" "Before." Alpha nodded. "Now, find out every stop that boat made, every other boat they rendezvoused with. We've got to get on board, because Welland didn't stay in the States. He's back, and there must be a reason. The federales picked him up in La Paz and put him in jail. If they're suspicious of him, we should be suspicious." Alpha leaned forward and Gamma trembled. "It is obvious that Welland knows what is on that boat. The question is, does he know where to find it?" "It might not be on the boat. Markesson could have hidden it anywhere." "Why is Welland there if the boat's clean? You did find out what Welland does for a living, didn't you?" "So? What the hell does that do for us?" He stared at Alpha. "He's a God damned computer programmer. Systems analyst, he calls himself." "Calls himself is right. Look again, but meanwhile watch every move he makes. You can bet he knows something, and he's playing in the game. Our game, Gamma. You'd better figure out just who he's playing with." "Who?" "It does make a difference, you know." "I'll find out," he promised. He reached for his jacket. "I'll get close to him. Give me forty-eight hours and I'll tell you exactly where Welland stands."

"Do that," said Alpha softly. "Because if you don't, I' m pulling you in and I'll get the God dammed stuff myself!" †† Dale did not look inside his wallet when it was returned to him. Wallet, keys, a handful of loose change. His passport. He accepted them, pushed them into his pockets without comment. His penknife was missing, but he did not care. He did not ask about his bag. He was almost positive that it had been left back on Far Reacher. God knew what had happened to it, but he was not delaying even another minute here to find out. He would get out, get clean and presentable somehow, and then he would decide what he could do. "Quiere un taxi, señor?" The officer's voice was polite. "Yes. Gracias." The taxi came almost at once. "El presidente", he told the driver, breathing easier as the battered taxi passed through the gates and outside the prison walls. "El presidente?" The driver glanced back at him. Dale found his hand going to his face, felt the rough stubble of three days growth. "El presidente," he repeated, making his voice a hell of a lot more confident than he felt inside. His hands were shaking as he pulled out his wallet. He was not naive. This was Mexico and the whole process of throwing someone in jail was a hell of a lot easier than it would be back home. Rights and controls might be there, but they were vaguer than at home. He remembered the slight smile on the face of the man who had handed him back his wallet. As if he were waiting for Dale to make a fuss, just waiting to throw him back into the jail cell with that monster cockroach. When he left the States, there had been fourteen hundred dollars cash in his wallet. Then taxies at Santispac. The bus. Another taxi. A couple of panga rides. No more than a hundred dollars in total. He pulled the contents of the wallet out onto the legs of his grubby once- white slacks. Ten. Thirty. Thirty-five. He counted again. Then again. None of the green bills changed their numbers. Thirty-five dollars. Someone back at the jail was going to be celebrating tonight. He pushed the money back, searched further and found his driver's license, birth certificate, American Express Gold Card. Mastercard. Two gas station credit cards. Social security card. He had thought he had a Sears card as well, but doubted if anyone would lift a Sears card when they could have an Amex or Mastercard. He would probably find the Sears card at home, or perhaps he had given it to Anne. He had a half-memory of handing it over and asking her to pick up some new towels. He closed his eyes, opened them again to look at his watch. No watch. Fourteen hundred dollars and a watch. Or thirteen hundred. And the bail money, which he might never see again. It was hot, humid, and he knew it could have been worse. He could be back there still, in that jail along with the other men he had seen behind bars. Some of them had been there a long time. The bearded American with a faded leather face, in for something to do with dope. The pale, blonde man with a clean-shaven frown. Friends brought him razors, clothes, chocolate bars. But no one could get him out, because he had stolen a car and gotten caught. The man behind the reception desk at El presidente recognized Dale from his stay almost two months earlier. Dale would have preferred to be anonymous in his filthy, unshaven state; but once in his room,

he looked at himself in the mirror and knew that even an American Express Gold card would not have been enough to get him a room if a prior visit had not proved his credit card was good. He should call Joe. Do something about Far Reacher. Try to find out if it was still under guard. Call up that Mexican lawyer Joe had contacted and find out just where he actually stood with the authorities, what the meaning of the bail he had paid was. He showered, wrapped a towel around his waist, called the desk and arranged to have his clothes picked up and laundered. He was not sure if the slacks and jacket were washable, but they couldn't possibly look worse than they did now. Another call to the desk and, after an hour's wait, a razor appeared. The Mexican who delivered the razor accepted a tip and shrugged when asked about shaving cream. With his face clean-shaven, his body clean, he turned to the bed. He looked at the air conditioning unit and shuddered, remembering the jail, remembering the rooms where he had been questioned. He checked that the window was open as wide as possible. Then, with a light, warm breeze playing over his naked body, he lay on the bed and slept.

Five Dale stared out the window of his room at the El presidente. He was clean now, had slept soundly and without dreams through the afternoon and evening, through the dark night. He had woken finally late in the morning, groggy but clean. He was not hot or cold. His stomach felt empty, but no longer nauseous or cramped. It was amazing what a shave and a shower could do for a man, not to mention clean clothes! Looking from his window out over the blue waters of the Sea of Cortez, the only reality was wind-tossed waves and blazing blue skies. As for everything else, from the coldness of passion with Liz on the deck of Risky Venture, to the horrors of being thrown into a Mexican jail. none of it seemed real. He took a taxi to the waterfront. He managed to spot Far Reacher from shore. Without binoculars he could not tell if the man standing on the deck was carrying a gun, but there was a man on the deck. Far Reacher was under guard. If the deck had been empty, he would have been tempted to attribute yesterday, last night, the jail, the machine gun, the questioning. all of it could easily have been a nightmare. And Brent Markesson's death? Another taxi. The banks were closed, but he found a Casa de cambio and paid an outrageous seven percent commission to get a cash advance on his American Express card. Two pairs of slacks. Several shirts. A pair of shoes. His were never going to be the same. Underwear. Socks. Shorts and several T-shirts. It might be an unwarranted assumption, but he did not expect to see his missing suitcase again. Sandals. A bathing suit. A new suitcase. He should probably go to see the lawyer today, although right now everything was closing for siesta. This evening, then. The lawyer's office would undoubtedly be open along with the rest of the stores and businesses. The lawyer would be in his office, available at a fee. No, not tonight. Tomorrow. He needed this slow, isolated day to himself, needed time to regain his self-

confidence and a clear head. He felt thickheaded, slightly groggy. As if he had been out drinking hard, as if there were hours missing from his life. He went back to his hotel, his plans for the evening not yet formed. "Señor!" He tensed as he swung around, his eyes searching the lobby. He recognized the surge of adrenaline within his body and forced himself to relax. Even if it were the police, he was not crazy enough to run from men who held guns on him! His chest collapsed as the air escaped and he clenched his hand to stop the trembling. It was only the man at the reception desk. "Yes? What is it?" "Señor Welland, there was a person come to see you. You were not here." "Yes. Who was it?" "A Señor Salvadori. He left message." The paper turned out to be an envelope. Salvadori? One of those policemen? "Thanks," he said brusquely as he pushed the small white envelope into the pocket of his slacks. The slacks were clean, newly pressed, brand new, and the Mexican's eyes reflected a degree of respect that had been missing yesterday. Salvadori? Who the hell was Salvadori? The note was brief. He read it in the privacy of his room, half expecting some official message of doom. I have called only to find you out. If we could meet, it would be a great pleasure. I could be of service to you. Perhaps tonight? At the bar Sueño mexicano at 10 hours. Your good friend, Fernando Salvadori. Fernando. They had talked through that party on board Far Reacher. A very polite man, but a man of strong opinions. Well dressed, immune to the heat of the sun. His black hair and sleek mustache had been perfectly groomed, his face so clean-shaven it seemed to be the smooth young face of a boy. What had Brent said about Fernando? He's crazy about sailing. It's quite a sign of wealth here in Mexico for a man to have a yacht. He could probably afford it. He's from a good family. Influence. It counts for everything here. You never know when a little pull will come in handy down here. It's worth cultivating him, just for insurance. That cynical statement had seemed incongruous coming from Brent's lips as he sat in the dinghy cleaning abalone, a bucket between his legs. He had severed another abalone from the shell, then looked up, his eyes softening. That was when he suggested they slip away for a night sail. There was a quality of dreams to sailing with Brent, enchantment in the most commonplace event. They had pulled anchor quietly in the middle of the night, slid away with sails raised and the engine unused. Dale had taken the helm; Brent, the lines. Brent had said something about ghosting away like pirates in the dead of night. The other boats would wake up in the morning and find Far Reacher gone. No one would know where. It had seemed a harmless game. Now, putting on the new, lightweight suit jacket, Dale could see the parallel of Brent slipping away from anchor at Santispac. Why? Had he been running, hiding from some unknown threat? Or from Dale? Fifty thousand dollars, down-payment for full ownership of Far Reacher. Had Brent been running with the money, intending to keep the boat? Had he been murdered on a beach at La Paz only days later for some similar con?

Dale stared at his own reflection in the hotel mirror. It did not make sense. They had both laid their souls bare. You didn't spill your guts to a man, then lay a con on him. Surely Brent Markesson was not capable of that level of deceit? No, he could not accept that. After all, Dale himself was something of an expert at spotting criminals. Surely he would have sensed something wrong in his dealings with Brent if it were a con game? There must have been some reason for Brent's moving from Santispac to La Paz. Mechanical problems, perhaps. Sure. A funny sound in the engine, and no good mechanic in a small beach settlement like Santispac. Probably no diesel mechanics even in Mulege. But La Paz was big enough to service almost any marine problem. Yes, Brent had probably left a message for Dale somewhere. If he checked his answering service back in San Francisco, he might find a message there from Brent. So Brent had moved, left a message somewhere for Dale. Then, in La Paz, he had fallen victim to a random killing, been robbed and struck down. The robbers might not even have intended to kill Brent, but. Dale stared at his reflection, the questions boiling up inside him. The police said it was murder, but how? A knife? A gun? A beating? Was there some reason to believe Brent had been murdered by another foreigner? Did anyone seriously suspect Dale Welland had murdered Brent? Why was the guard posted on Far Reacher? Did Fernando know any of the answers? The streets were filling. Dale let the taxi malecón. He followed two Mexican girls down the street hand in hand. A red and hissing sounds that seemed to please the stretched fabric.

go at the beginning of the restaurant-bars that dotted the with tiny waists and microscopic skirts as they sauntered yellow car slowed as it passed the girls. The driver made two girls. Dale watched their hips swaying under tightly-

The girls passed a bench without looking at the couple sitting in the shadows. On the bench, a Mexican boy and his girl were entangled and blind to the world. The young Mexican was coming as close to devouring the girl as he could without taking her clothes off. Only twenty feet away, a matronly grandmother sat on the sea wall itself and watched two niños playing in the sand. Dale cut in front of a pickup truck overflowing with young men. The man standing beside the driver's door was taking a long swig from a liter of beer. His friend appeared to be urging him to hurry and pass the beer over. Across the street, a policeman stopped a Mercedes, but ignored the drinkers nearby. Sueño mexicano was packed. Dale searched the sea of faces in the dimly- lit restaurant while a tall, fair-haired couple pushed past him, speaking English with a slight accent that Dale could not place. He watched them disappear into the crowd of noisy customers, then lost sight of them. The waiter appeared in a crisp white shirt and gestured for Dale to follow. Dale could not spot Fernando in the crowd, if indeed he were here. One Mexican in a sea of them. Black hair and mustache. Ah, there he was! An elegantly-dressed man rising to his feet, his hand stretching out. Fernando, a picture of classic Latin masculinity. "Amigo! Cómo está?" "Fine," Dale said, accepting the elegantly manicured hand, belatedly recognizing Fernando's words as a greeting. "Bueno," he added, exercising his minuscule Spanish.

"Bien," corrected Fernando. "Sit down, my friend. We will talk with English. It will be more easy for you." Dale sat. The waiter said something, a question, and Dale nodded. The blackness of Fernando's eyes was masked by the poor lighting. Dale said, "I think I ordered a beer. The way my Spanish is, I could have asked for birds' eggs for all I know." "Bird eggs?" He frowned. "Do not be concerned. You will have cerveza, your beer. Está bien." Salvadori might be the closest thing to a friend he had in this foreign country, but damn it! The man was too pretty, to perfectly polite and immaculate. The conversation did not come easily. Fernando's English was good but not spontaneous. Dale's Spanish was virtually nonexistent. It had not mattered the last time they met, but now their talk seemed stilted. At the next table a woman berated her escort in a high-pitched stream of Spanish. Dale could not understand a word, but he recognized the man's pained expression. "I got your message when I came back to the hotel this afternoon." Fernando nodded but said nothing. "How did you know I was there?" A discrete pause. The downward turn of Fernando's lips did not disturb his smooth face. "I have learned of your small. your small trouble with the policía. I wished to offer my service to you, as a good friend to you." "Thank you." Dale tried to make his words warm and grateful. "How did you learn ... of my trouble?" Fernando shrugged, a silent message that indicated he would protect his source. Just how was this man connected with the government? Was he actually with the police? If so, Fernando Salvadori might actually have ordered Dale's arrest. Dale shook off the paranoia. "Did you know that Brent Markesson was murdered?" The manicured index finger stroked the tidy mustache. "All the city knows of it. El capitán del puerto has closed the harbor. No boats will be let to leave. The policía have been very active, to question every person who might know a thing." "They questioned me." He could see no sign of surprise or emotion in the Mexican's eyes. "I did not know he was dead." Dale spoke slowly, making sure Fernando understood. "I went to Brent's boat to visit him, and the next thing I knew I was in the jail being questioned." He did not speak of the torture of being moved from unbearable heat to inhuman cold. He knew it would sound trivial. There was no way he could describe how it had affected him, and he wanted to push the experience back, to leave those degrading three days in some dark hole where he could pretend they had not happened. He grasped at a shift of subject. "The boat? Do you. " "Far Reacher is under guard. She is a foreign boat, now in Mexico waters with no captain." Fernando lifted his glass and took a tiny sip of his beer. "You understand, a man has been murdered. Here in Mexico we disapprove of murder." Dale found himself grinning. Who did not disapprove of murder? Fernando said sternly, "In your United States, murders are many. Here, in a city like La Paz, there are not many. If our police find a murderer, he does not walk away to kill another." Dale sobered. "I believe you. They're pretty serious about their questioning. Look, Fernando, do you

know how he was murdered? Where? When?" Do you know who did it? The words almost slipped off his tongue. The Mexican's dark, expressionless eyes could almost persuade a person that they knew everything. As Fernando spoke, Dale found himself listening with the masked concentration he usually kept for his work. He felt his face assume a casual interest, his ears strain for nuances of the Mexican man's voice. He knew it was insane, but he listened carefully, as if there were a conspiracy and he had to sort it out. Imagination. Insanity. Three days of hot and cold and questions had sent him into a fictional world. Or perhaps it was that novel he had been reading last week. Robert Ludlum's fiction world of conspiracy had invaded his brain, had turned a murdered Canadian named Brent Markesson into part of something bigger. "... likely is a. How do you call it? To be attacked for the valuables you carry?" "A mugging." "Yes." Fernando's hands spread expressively. "You see, he is found in the water. Drowned perhaps, but there is a blow to the head. It is perhaps the struck to the head that killed. Or the water. The doctor does. A special doctor who examines the dead person? He performs a special operation." "An autopsy. Brent was found in the water? Where? When?" And how did Fernando know all this? "No, he was found by a pescador. The man swims out to his panga in the early morning, he goes to the waters for the fish." Pescador. fisherman. Dale nodded and Fernando shrugged away gruesome details, said merely, "The body is floating. El pescador calls to another. The policía are called." "How do you know all this?" Dale had not intended to ask that question. He shrugged away his tension. For God's sake! Fernando was no spook with ulterior motives. A tourist murdered. It happened, had happened before and would again. "I have some small friends in the authorities. My friend, I know also that you were never suspected of the death of Markesson." "Oh?" Dale shuddered, remembering the eyes of the man who had questioned him. White shirt. Cold eyes. "I'm not sure of that. I'm not sure I'm not still suspected." "No. The doctor tells that Señor Markesson was died in the small hour of the night. Near to medianoche. It is thinked that the victim goes to the bar to drink, then walks back to his pangita while he is. He is not a difficult task for the thief, has taken too much of the cerveza." Fernando shrugged. "Not important. But the bus driver agrees that you were on the bus at Santispac at eight the next morning. It is not enough time. To kill, then to go to Mulege, then to the bus to ride back to La Paz. Eight hours. más o menos. No person believes that you would do this, and then go back to the boat when the police would be there." "Your friends are pretty well-informed. If I didn't kill him, why the hell did they keep me for three days?" Fernando smiled. "To know the things that you know, to help in their investigations. And more: they wished to know where the hiding place was." "What hiding place? I bought the boat from him. I paid with a check for Christ's sake! There isn't any cash laying around, if that's what they think! Unless Markesson was crazy, the money's in the bloody bank."

The Mexican shrugged. "It does not matter. It is not my concern, is it, my friend? I would help you. You say that you have bought the boat, but there will be problems. You must know that there will be problems." Dale took a long swig of his beer, nodded to the waiter who was asking something incomprehensible. Yes, he wanted more. He did not trust Fernando, but suspected that he needed him. "I need to get possession of that boat. I have the papers, the bill of sale. I have Brent Markesson's signature. In my own country, I know what I would do to achieve this, to get possession of the boat. In your country I am a foreigner." "First I should see the papers," said Fernando. "Then I will know who to talk to. We may be necessary only to persuade some persons." Persons? Officials? "The papers are in my bag. It was left on Far Reacher when I was arrested. I can get other copies from my lawyer in the United States." Fernando said, "It is not correct, arrested. Los preventivos have autoridad to have in the jail a person for three days. There is no need to be charges. When the days are gone, the person must be to a judge." Fernando shrugged philosophically. "For the federales, is autoridad for many more than three days." Dale shuddered and Fernando smiled. "Is not important now. You will bring for me the papers?" "Yes. I'll phone my lawyer tomorrow." By that time Joe might have managed to confirm Catherine Markesson's death and presumably the transfer of title would be nearing completion. The balance owing on the purchase would probably be paid to Markesson's estate now. Unless the fact of Brent's death made the transfer impossible. Damn! He would have to talk that over with Joe, find out where he stood. "I will see what I will do," Fernando assured him. "You understand that it may be necessary to give a propina to some person?" A tip. A bribe. Dale opened his wallet and handed several Mexican bills to Fernando. The Mexican frowned but accepted them. Dale suspected that he would have preferred to receive American bills. They parted politely. Dale walked past the taxi stand, along the waterfront. He needed the exercise, the fresh air, the solitude. For all he knew, he had just given Fernando a hundred dollars for nothing. There was obviously no way to check on the dispersal of the money. It was unlikely that he would ever see it again, regardless of the outcome. Jesus! What did it matter, when he had already sunk fifty thousand? No, make that $53,000, counting the apparently nonrefundable bail he had paid for his freedom. No, damn it! More. Fourteen hundred in his wallet, now gone. Then if you counted plane tickets and. There was no end to it, no point in counting! He walked along the sea wall until he escaped the bright lights. He passed a small park with a windmill at its center and a semicircle of benches facing over the water. As always in the dark hours, the benches were almost all occupied by lovers. Kissing. Talking quietly. Warm breezes coming off the water, flowing over heated young bodies. It seemed so natural, so ordinary. Young men trying to seduce young women. So far away from murders and jail cells. A street light caused the windmill to throw a gigantic shadow ahead of him. The windmill. Brent had told him about its significance as the symbol of the prosperity of the Baja. Brent with his brown legs stretched out in front of him, his eyes closed as he took a long drink of ice water. Brent, smiling as if the

dream pleased him. You've got to imagine it. The Baja, years before electricity and desalinators. Desert. Utter desert. This big peninsula of mountains and desert, nothing but cactus and rock and sand, and yet there were prosperous ranches carved out of this desolate land. No electricity to drive pumps for wells. They did it with windmills, Dale. Just picture it. Pioneers. I'm always fascinated by pioneers. That was the day they left La Paz. They had put on pants and shirts, gone ashore to the port captain's office to get the crew list approved. Then to the immigration office. Six copies. Stamped and approved. Far Reacher had permission to leave La Paz for points north in the Sea of Cortez. Then, in the middle of the Sea, the moon glowing on the glassy water, Brent had rested his hand on the wheel, his eyes on the dark horizon, and talked about his Catherine. This time, Dale had seen the moonlit glimmer of tears on Brent's face as he talked. "When Catherine died, I just walked away, got on the boat and set sail. I left it all for the lawyers, selling the house, the insurance, all that legal garbage. God, Dale! I never thought when we took out that joint insurance policy that she'd die to finance my God-dammed cruise around the world!" "Far Reacher was the symbol of what we were, of our love. As long as I have the boat, I can't be free of it. Running, but I've taken her with me. I think it's as well that I'll have to sell it now, to go back to work. You know what I do for a living, Dale? I'm a ship's master. Wouldn't it be ironic if I got a job on the same ferry that. That's where I met her, you know. On the deck of the ferry, going from Victoria to Vancouver. I was off duty, going home for my days off. I was standing at the rail. She came out on deck. The wind caught her hair, her eyes looked right through me. I'll never forget it. Until the day I die, I'll never forget her." Whenever Brent talked of Catherine, Dale had felt he had a pipeline right into the man's heart. He saw Catherine, knew her, loved her. Even now, with Brent dead and the talk of Catherine only memories of talk. Dale walked past the benches, beyond the last of the houses. The sea wall crept around the side of a hill. He walked on.

Six The apartment was modern, gleaming with antiques that had never shone so brilliantly in their own time. Perfect. Immaculate. Organized. The windows were big and clean, looking out on the harbor of Vancouver. Sailboats on the water. Catherine watched them sometimes, but they were not real, just a living, moving picture that was superior art. Reality was blips in the computer, endless printouts, the games she played with the money she earned. Perhaps nothing was real. It was all a game, a crazy maze she wandered through. A game without magic. Once, the game had been Brent, her one magic adventure. A book with no ending. By Friday night the apartment seemed like a haven. The computers had stepped up their campaign of chaos through the remainder of her week. Outside the office, Lorne's queries had uncovered only confusion and complications. All through Thursday and Friday, he kept calling her. More twists to Brent's re- intrusion on her life. Difficulties piling on difficulties. Then Friday, quitting time. At last. She drove home. The long elevator ride up. The key. Her door. Tomorrow, Brent's funeral. She shut that away, got safely inside, away from it all. She unplugged the telephone, shed the suit that was her image, showered and let her hair down. She dressed in the jeans

that were the one remnant of her life with Brent. The sun was setting on the harbor, just as the sun had set on the water the night she met him. He had been a magic obstacle standing in the path of her ordered life. She had been returning from a trip to Vancouver Island. A business trip, a meeting with a computer expert who could advise her on modernizing the computer service she had purchased. Coming back, relaxing, wishing the thought of going home did not seem quite so empty. Later, she thought it fitting that her first sight of Brent should be standing at the rail of a boat, looking out at a ketch under full sail. Not the kind of man she talked to. Blue jeans and a denim jacket over a T-shirt. His hair dark, curling, a little longer than it should be. Clean shaven. Tanned. Hard muscles. He was a man who would never fit into an office. Certainly a man who would never fit into her life. It was the first time, the only time, that magic had walked into her life. She had stepped up beside him, had felt her expensive tweed suit out of place beside his casual attire. Then she had forgotten the contrast they made, two people from different planets. She was drawn by the romance of a full suit of white sails, by a peculiar need to share the magic sight with this stranger. The warm red of the setting sun had slowly colored the white sails. At the tiller of the sailboat, a man in a yellow suit had merged into the sunset. The stranger on the deck of the ferry was looking down at that picture, and she saw it through his eyes. The dark man watching as if the intensity of his gaze could place him in command of that ship. Catherine had formed the unromantic thought that the skipper of the ketch might be posing for a cigarette commercial. Then she had looked at the profile of the man beside her and something had happened to her hardheaded world. "You look as if you'd rather be in his place," she had said with a soft voice she did not recognize. "Yes," he had answered, smiling. The smile had grown, changed his face from mystery to life. Catherine had felt something flutter to life inside herself. "That's a dream," she had said, needing to hear his voice again. She had turned and leaned against the rail, watching his face and feeling the soft smile on hers. "Do you want to sail off into the sunset? Is that what you want?" "Of course." He had stared at the sailboat, its sleek bow plowing through the water, white foam churning up towards the bowsprit. A magic thing, at one with the water, beautiful white wings bending to the wind. The stranger's eyes moved and found Catherine's. "Wouldn't you like to sail off into the sunset?" She had stared back at him, wanting his voice to go on, mesmerized, unable to speak while his voice painted pictures there in the middle of Georgia Strait, on the deck of a ferry. Sandy beaches. Lying at anchor, alone in a secluded bay. Hot sun overhead. Diving off the deck of the boat, slicing into green, tropical water. "Are you a poet?" That had been her voice finally, trembling as if his words were a fleeting, sensuous stroking of her hungry woman's flesh. Then she had said, quite deliberately, "Dreams can come true, you know." Words had surged up, remembered from a university literature text. "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?" His amusement, then the passion. "Yes, perhaps I am a poet, for I want to reach as far as I can. Farther." His voice had dropped to husky seductiveness. "That's what I'll call my boat. I'll name it for a beautiful enchantress I met on the deck of a ferry. For you. Far Reacher.

She had felt hunger, a deep shattering yearning to make all his dreams come true. When he asked, "What are you doing after this ferry gets into Vancouver?" she knew what her answer must be. She had arranged to go to dinner and the theater with Lorne, a date made the week before. She had not forgotten it, but she had no choice but to say, "I'm spending the evening with you." He had grinned but made no move to touch her. She had never before felt her own body tremble for a man, certainly not for Lorne. But this man. He did not even have a name yet, but she knew that he would be her lover. The knowledge was a seed growing to compulsion inside her. Compulsion. Was that what Brent had been? Two years of compulsion, then emptiness? He was dead now. His funeral tomorrow. She stood at her window, watching the harbor until there were no boats left, only tiny points of light penetrating a black night. She shivered, her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her jeans. Brent's jeans. His hips were narrow, although his legs were muscular. Her hips were wide, stretching the denim of his jeans. A real broad, he had said huskily, his eyes following the way her lean buttocks curved. He had liked to see her wearing his jeans, the cuffs rolled up to accommodate her shorter legs. What I really like is taking them off you ... Catherine ... come here. †† It was the doorbell that penetrated the emptiness of her perfect apartment. Lorne, walking in, his face down-turned, his suit immaculate. Her world. Reality, no magic. Brent, the memories, a foreign country. "I called you." "I knew you would," she said dully. "I unplugged the phone." Brent. Of course, she had known it was gone forever. She had never really believed in her own crazy fantasies of his return. Had she? "Catherine," said Lorne impatiently, "you have to attend to this. Stop staring out the window and pay attention to me." The lights outside made a pattern that could mean anything in her mind. She stared at them, felt Lorne's presence without feeling anything. She said, "I asked you to look after it all. Send me a bill. If things need deciding, just decide them." She heard him moving, heard him open the cabinet where she kept the liquor she never drank. The scotch Brent liked, bought four years ago and never opened. She had stopped at the liquor store on the way home, picked it up, smiling, planning the weekend. Magic. The moment before the bubble exploded. The brandy that was Lorne's inevitable choice. She traced his movements with her ears, overlaying them on the darkness, a red light moving along the water. Red light, port side. The boat down there was sailing towards the harbor mouth. No, not sailing. A white light above, so the vessel must be under power. "It's the sailboat," he said finally. "Sell it," she said carefully. She felt the words leaving her like an empty pain. She knew so much more about all this than he did. Lorne was a competent lawyer, but boats sitting at anchor in foreign waters were way out of his line. She should be doing this, not handing the task to a man who was not qualified for it. She would do it, except that she feared to reach out and touch Brent's life. Lorne said, "There are complications you haven't thought of."

He was using his lawyer's voice. She remembered that voice from the drawing up of her new will after the wedding. Lorne's voice, younger, but the same. If she didn't incorporate, the firm would dissolve with her death, a confusion that could hurt business. Common shares. Preferred shares. Her shares, the voting ones. Brent's, nonvoting. Lorne had not wanted her to give Brent shares, but she was the accountant. She knew that splitting their income was one hell of a tax advantage. And Brent was her husband. With all my worldly goods ... Brent's voice, heated. "It's you he wants, Catherine. He's making trouble because he's always wanted you, and it's me who got you." She had never told Brent that Lorne had been her lover. It had never seemed to matter. Lorne, friend and lover. The lover part ended that night when she met a stranger on the ferry. If Lorne resented the change, he had never shown it to her. "Complications," she said now, her fingers tracing a line on the window. "There are ways to sell a boat located in a foreign country. You put an ad in the yachting magazines in California and here in BC: Canadian yacht for sale, located in the Sea of Cortez. You'll sell it to someone who wants to go down there, but doesn't want the hassle of getting there. Everyone wants to have a boat and cruise the tropics, but so many of them are afraid to make the long cruise to get there." She shrugged. "Sometimes not afraid. Sometimes it's just that they can't take the time for the long trip. They want a boat to escape to for holidays." She felt so tired. Her business. Brent. The apartment. Lorne. She wished it would go away, leave her in an inert, dark cave where she could curl up and be nothing. From a distance, she heard her own voice, "Contact the marinas down there, too. Put up a poster in the local marinas. You might attract some tourist with a yen to be on one of those boats in the harbor." She shrugged and faced him. Why could she not pay a fee and escape these details, hide? She said, "Pour me one of those, would you?" "You? You never drink." She shrugged. He poured and handed the glass to her. "Sit down, Catherine." "No, just tell me whatever it is." "You can't sell what you don't own." Brent's voice. I want to own it. She had stood there, feeling this stranger's hunger flow over her. He had been turned, staring back at the boat that was a small, powerful image of adventure from the tame ferry deck. Sometimes the passion to have my own boat is so strong I can hardly bear it. He had turned back to her, smiling, the power of his emotion in the air between them like sparking electricity. She had felt the storm growing, but there were no clouds in the air, only the heady feeling that she could reach out and touch excitement. Their bargain, never actually put into words. Only her words, silent. If you give me excitement, adventure ... love, then. if ... then I'll buy you your dream. "What?" Her voice was trembling. She could feel it, could not seem to fight it. "What did you say, Lorne?" He touched her, trying to make contact, a path for his words. She jerked away and he said, "There's a man in La Paz who claims Brent sold him Far Reacher."

Slow motion. Lorne staring at her, then walking over to the sofa. Her own voice saying, "But he couldn't. Brent couldn't sell it, not alone." Why the hell should it matter to her? She bit her lip and took a burning gulp of Lorne's brandy. He was sitting on the sofa now, watching her the way he would watch a client. Friends, she thought, but perhaps they were not even friends. Lovers. Why did their loving never touch her in the secret places? "He can't have sold it." It surprised her that she felt anger. "You did the registration. Joint tenancy. He can't sell without my signature, and I can't without his. If either of us ... dies. " "Catherine. " "Oh, hell!" So she had loved him. But she had made a choice in a funny way, a non-choice. She could have been there. The last four years could have been hers, too. There had been no words, but she had known the terms. "Lorne, I don't want to be around people tonight. Just go. Fix it up, whatever it is. Explain to the man that it's joint tenancy, that any sale agreement is void, that Brent's. Brent's death means I now have total ownership. Just explain it and. " "Catherine. " He was getting older. She supposed she must look older, too. Once they had been students together, young but not carefree. Now his frown made his face look older than thirty-five years. "I talked to the man's lawyer. He has signed documents. The man paid Brent, the bill of sale was signed and sealed and there's no doubt that it was Brent's signature. No doubt Brent had the money. In fact, the money was. " "How much money?" Brent's voice, saying, Trust you, Catherine, to pick up on the financial details. He had been angry, resentful when he said that, but she could not deny that part of herself. Too bad, but the dull center of Catherine had destroyed the magic. "Actually. " Lorne didn't like this. "Catherine, there. s a possibility that your husband was involved in something rather. rather odd. I cannot yet locate the money, and. " "Define odd." She saw the grimace on his face and she supplied the definition. Illegal. Would Brent be involved in something ... odd? Yes, he might. The dream was more important than the price. That had always been the difference between them. Lorne put his drink down and stood up. "The point is, my dear, that either that boat was sold, or the estate of Brent Markesson owes an American named Dale Welland the sum of a fifty thousand dollars. And if the estate has that much money, I sure the hell can't find it, not in cash. There. s Brent's preferred stock in your company, of course, but other than that. " "Far Reacher is worth more than that. She was assessed at a quarter million when we launched her." He nodded. "The purchase price was one-fifty. The rest is in a lawyer's trust account pending transfer of registered title. That's American dollars, of course." He touched his tie, but it was too perfectly tidy to need adjusting. "My dear, this man is not the sort who gives up. What he wants is the boat, and if you don't give it to him there'll be legal action. The estate will lose. You'll lose. The money, and damages, and legal costs. You. " Why couldn't she simply be alone. She needed time. "What if he's lying? What if Brent didn't sell it to him?" "He's not lying. In fact, he may have proof that Brent tried to commit a criminal fraud against him. His lawyer filed a request for change of owner with Ship's Registry, and Catherine, Brent managed to persuade a pretty sharp lawyer in San Francisco, and this Welland character, that he was sole owner. A Blue Book, Catherine. A Blue Book that does not show your name as one of the owners." He paused,

then said flatly, "A forged Blue Book." Brent's smile, the dreams in his eyes. He could persuade anyone, of anything. What had there really been? A bargain, broken by her. Love? "Catherine, legal costs will be more than just my fees. Your costs will be hellish, because the sale took place out of Canadian jurisdiction. The papers were signed in California. The money changed hands in California. We would have to retain a California lawyer, and they do know how to charge down there!" She smiled faintly. "And you don't?" "My dear, I do not recommend that you try to fight this. Let me negotiate with his lawyer and ..." So give him the damned boat! The words echoed in her mind, but somehow they didn't get past her lips. She said only, "Leave me alone, Lorne. I need to think." Dead dream. Dead man. Brent smiling. Brent with that look in his eyes. You're stuck in that shell, aren't you, Catherine? It's just a game, pretending that you can come out. Go back to your cave, Catherine. Talk to your computers and let the living get on with life. Brent's voice. She shivered, warmth and cold flowing together inside her mind. Brent. Back, back to that first meeting. †† She brought him to her house, the house her parents had left her when they died. Brent, stepping through the door. Catherine, trembling, cold beyond reason. He was walking, seeing everything. The living room with its view, the kitchen. Bedrooms, unused except for hers. He walked everywhere, his steps silent on the soft carpet. Everywhere, every room, as if it were his. Then back to the hallway where she stood waiting. "Your place?" She swallowed, unable to nod. He looked dangerous. What if he was the kind of man who left bleeding corpses lying tangled in the sheets? What kind of a man had she brought home? Why had she brought him? She should have suggested dinner in a restaurant, then good-bye. He found the cabinet where the liquor rested, found the brandy she sometimes served for Lorne, the wine she hardly ever drank herself. "Is this all you have? No beer? No nice, smooth scotch?" She could not talk. He came close and she stepped back, her eyes wide and frightened. "What's wrong?" he asked gently. The smile was only half-there. His eyes were watching. "I've never done this before." Never picked up a strange man and brought him home. Later she realized that he had thought her a virgin, and somehow she never corrected his inaccurate impression. He said softly, "You haven't done anything yet, honey. What's your name?" "Catherine." Incredibly, she had brought him home and did not even know his name. "Not Cathy?" She shook her head and his smile grew gentle. "Of course not. Catherine. I like that. You're rich, aren't you?" The house. Her clothes. The money in the bank. Not a fortune, but enough. Assets left to her by parents who had died while she was still at university. "Not hurting," she said, and he laughed.

"I bet you're not." She watched the movement of his throat, as if the hoarseness of his voice were something more than a bit of phlegm. "Catherine ... Catherine, come here." Her legs moved. One step. Two. He touched the tweed of her jacket, stared into her eyes as his fingers slipped the top two buttons open. Her voice trembled as she whispered, "I ... You. I think you should ... go." His hand dropped and he looked down at the glimpse of rose-colored silk under her jacket. His chest expanded with a deep breath. The faded blue denim of his jacket strained at the shoulders. He was a strong man. She would never best him in a physical contest. Her eyes went beyond him, to the fireplace tools that hung on a shining brass rack. "My name's Brent." He slid out of his own denim jacket, tossed it without looking. It settled on the end of a sofa, crazily incongruous against the tastefully recovered antique. "Brent. Say it." "Brent," her voice repeated obediently. He was at least as strong as he looked, shoulders broad, chest bulging under the T-shirt. The black hair on his head was echoed, tangling out through the neckline of his thin shirt. She stared at that dark riot of chest hair. Lorne had no hair on his chest. "You're doing it wrong, Catherine." "What?" She felt like a puppet, dangling on his string. What was going on? Why did she not freeze him out, push him out, get him out? "It's magic," he said huskily. "Magic, my beautiful Catherine. Remember the dreams that come true?" He touched the tweed of the jacket, moved and slid the covering away from her. A faint charge of static grew as the jacket left her, making the silk of her blouse cling to her bodice. "You're a dream," he said. "I'm a dream, too. Relax, Catherine, and be my dream." She was tensed for anything when his hand found hers and led her towards the sofa. Then he bent and slipped her alligator pumps off. "Put your feet up," he said. "I picture you leaning back, your feet curled up on the sofa, your eyes closed." His fingers touched so softly and her eyes were closed. Listening to the sounds of him moving. Her vision blanked by tremulous eyelids. He went to the door. Locked it? He poured something, then came to her and she jumped when he touched. "No, don't open your eyes." His laughter. God! She had never heard anything like that, twisting her stomach deep down. He covered her hand, pressed her fingers around the glass. "Wine," he said. "Drink." She kept her eyes closed as she sipped. It was only a dream. The wine was warm, tickling down her throat. Numbing her senses? Her inhibitions? Sounds. He must have discarded his shoes. Another drink? For him? The brandy or the wine? Odd sounds, then the whoosh of her gas fireplace. Footsteps walking, moving. Lights switched. Curtains opening. Or closing. Music. Faint, then stronger, singing along her nerves. He took the glass from her fingers as she raised it to her lips, just as she started to sip the sweet liquid. "No, don't look," he chided her gently. "Just feel, lovely Catherine." Then his lips touched hers, his tongue drank the sweetness of the wine from her lips. The dark pressure of his body hovered, close but not quite touching. Her heart thundered, waiting. Arms slipping under her, lifting as if her weight were nothing. Her eyes flying open as she felt herself sinking down. He lowered her gently against the cushions.

Cushions everywhere. Pillows from her bed, cushions from the sofa, all scattered on the deep pile carpet in front of the fireplace. Lights out, flames licking, sensuous shadows on the walls. The pale glow of the night sky through the windows. The dark silhouette of this man bending over her. Brent. "All woman," he said as his fingers found the next button of her blouse. "Soft ..." Fingers stroked the silk of her sleeve, dragged slowly across her bodice above the place where she was trembling, swelling, aching. "... and magic." She gasped as he traced lightly down her bodice and came to rest on her hip. "I-#151;" "No." He touched her lips again. "Don't talk." The fourth button, then the fifth. His hands were big and brown on the silk of her blouse as he pushed the fabric away and bent to her white, lacy bra.

Seven It was seven days before the guards abandoned possession of Far Reacher. If Fernando was right, if there really was something hidden on the boat, then the guards had more than enough time to search it. But what was hidden? Rather, what did the authorities believe was hidden on Far Reacher? Dale hesitated to question Fernando further. He did not fully trust the Mexican. It was possible that Fernando was being friendly in order to help his friends among the authorities. Just in case, Dale was careful to behave as if every word he said to the Mexican would be repeated to the authorities. Meanwhile, he could not push away the outrageous suspicions that were growing in his mind. Fantasies of an elaborate con being played on him, of drug- running and hidden caches of drugs or money on board Far Reacher. So many little things adding up, although he did not know the sum. The authorities interest in the sailboat. Joe's discovery that Catherine Markesson had not died in a hospital. She was alive, running a computer service in Vancouver and she was, without doubt, the registered co-owner of Far Reacher. The Blue Book, a forgery. Joe talked of attempted fraud and having a good claim against the estate, of forcing the Markesson woman to settle, forcing conclusion of the sale of Far Reacher to Dale. Dale hated the knowledge that he had been conned. After a lifetime of keeping his distance, not letting anyone close, he had found a friend in Brent, had trusted him. Brent. Strong man. Haunted man. A man who had loved a woman with his whole being, then lost her. Dale had ached for his pain. Catherine. Oh, God! Dale, I loved that woman so much. She was everything. We would have been forever if she hadn't died on that operating table. It was so crazy, so impossible. Who the hell dies in an operation for appendicitis these days? But Catherine Markesson was alive. It was all a lie! Had there been some kind of agreement between Brent and Catherine? Brent became full owner of the boat, while Catherine. While Catherine died? No. It had to be a con. The guard was lifted. Uneasily, Dale rode a panga out to Far Reacher. His bag was there, the contents intact. Perhaps not untouched. He was certain the bag had been searched. He couldn't possibly have packed everything in such a jumble. Fernando arrived later that same day, driven by the same panga driver, the ship's papers in his hand. Dale searched through them in disbelief. He was still trying to make sense of a Catherine Markesson

alive in Canada. But this. Copies of crew lists tracing Far Reacher's progress through Mexico. The crew lists were expected, but the hard blue folder. Impossible! Far Reacher's Blue Book of Registry. The formal Canadian ship's papers. Dale opened the blue binding, unfolded the heavy white document bound inside. He had delivered a virtually identical document to Joe the day Brent signed the bill of sale. It was not the sort of document that was issued in duplicate. Dale read the printed words. The boat's name. The date of registration. The measurements. The tonnage. His eyes finally found the one detail that was different. Registered Owner(s) Brent Jonathan Markesson and Catherine Ann Markesson. Jointly, man and wife were registered as holders of the sixty-four shares in the vessel. The Blue Book in his hand confirmed the details Joe had reported being recorded in the Register Office in Canada. He looked up from the document into Fernando's carefully polite face. "Thanks, Fernando." He managed to keep his shock out of his voice, to smile and say, "I'm glad to have these back. I really appreciate your efforts." He brought up a beer for them both. The two men made polite talk in stilted English until the beers were finished. Then he agreed to meet Fernando the next day for lunch, and the Mexican left. One of the Blue Books was a forgery. Joe was right. The one Brent had given him, the one he had given to Joe, that was the forgery. The Blue Book Joe had sent to Ship's Registry in Canada with the request for change of owner to be registered. Dale closed his eyes, called up a picture of that Blue Book. Identical to the one in his hands, except for the names typed inside. It was not the kind of thing you could forge in your living room, but it could be done with the proper equipment. The document was printed on heavy, oversize paper, folded into a blue binding. It would have cost Brent to find someone who could do it. It would have taken time, arranging. It had probably not been done in Mexico, certainly not in a low-tech city like La Paz. In the States, then. But Brent had shown Dale the Blue Book the day they packed to fly north from Mulege to San Francisco. Brent and Dale had discussed the differences in shipping documentation between Canada and the States; then Dale, curious, had read every word in Far Reacher's Blue Book. So the document had been forged earlier, before the first meeting between Dale and Brent. Dale felt his jaw clench as he admitted the undeniable to himself. The Blue Book was forged ahead of time, the man who had it forged had been waiting, watching for a suitable victim. Brent Markesson, living in the sun, eyes open for a gullible mark with enough resources to come up with the money he needed. Dale closed his eyes, Brent's open face clear in his mind. Catherine. Brent Markesson's love. The woman who had died. It had all been a lie. A con. He had suspected it, had told himself he was a rational man, that there was no point feeling anger at a dead man. Now, with the undeniable evidence of Brent's crime in his hands, he felt his control slipping into fury. "I want that God damned boat!" He heard the shock in Joe's voice when he made that announcement over the telephone later in the day, rode over the lawyer's words hotly. "Listen, Joe, I don't know if she was part of it or not. The woman was supposed to be dead. But I made a deal with Markesson. I don't care if he was entitled to sell or not. The fact is, he defrauded me. Make sure she realizes that. If I'm not sole owner of Far Reacher,

then I'm suing the estate. Either the sale goes through, or there's been a criminal conspiracy." Catherine. All lies. It didn't hurt. Of course it didn. t. He knew better than to open his heart to any person, to men with dreams for sale, to any kind of woman. Only his pride was hurt. He laughed harshly. It was a hell of a showing for a man who spotted criminals for a living. White collar crime, and he was the expert. Well, Brent had not manipulated a computer to commit his crime, but damn it! Dale should have had the sense to see what was happening. Joe had warned him. Joe had wanted Dale to keep the down payment low, to get the registration transferred before handing over any significant amount of money. On Joe's part, it had simply been habitual suspicion, but Dale should have followed the lawyer's advice. Damn it, what did you pay a lawyer for if you didn't follow his advice? Ironic. Dale was the man who didn't trust anyone, that was why he was good at his job. No matter how much he liked the people in the companies he investigated, he stayed back far enough to believe that any one of them might be capable of theft and betrayal. No matter how loving the women he met, he did not let them touch his heart. Except for this once. Catherine, the ghost. And Brent, the man. Brent Markesson had gone fishing, and Dale had run after the bait, had swallowed it hook, line and sinker. He had paid, but in the end he was going to win. By every moral right, Far Reacher was his boat. According to Joe, he also had the legal rights. He locked the boat. The locks were combination locks, but he knew the numbers that opened them. During the weeks he and Brent sailed together, it had been Dale who locked up as often as Brent. Yet when Dale boarded the boat this time, he had found the doors unlocked. He had thought nothing of it at the time, but now. Did the men who had guarded Far Reacher have the combination to the locks? How could they have? Had Brent left it unlocked when he went out on the last night of his life? Had he gone out to the bars, leaving his home wide open? Dale shook his head. He knew that the local children sometimes swam out to the yachts, that there had been pilfering, usually small things like cassette tapes and pen knives. Enough, though, to make Brent careful over locking up when he was in port in the city. Dale snapped the locks closed. Two doors; one leading forward to the main cabin, one back to the aft cabin. Two combination locks set to the same combination. Good quality locks, not the kind you could pick open easily. The officials guarding Far Reacher might have wanted the doors open, but they would have had to saw the locks off. It had not been necessary. Doors open, locks resting in the place where Brent had customarily put them when he was on board. That meant Brent had placed the locks in their holders, and had not locked the boat up again. Dale climbed into the rubber dinghy and drove to the marina dock. He left the dinghy there, paid a dollar for the convenience of a guard and a real wharf, then he took a taxi to the bar with the conscious intention of spending the evening getting as drunk as possible. He was half way to his objective, sitting at a small table in the Sueño mexicano, when someone called his name. He looked up and found Liz grinning down at him, a man standing beside her. Her husband Ron? Yes, Dale vaguely recognized the face. He nodded, not smiling. Liz swung her hips, her eyes wide as she watched him. Dale wished he were drunk enough to resist the polite obligation to invite them to join him. Ron pressed his hand against Liz's waist in a possessive gesture. He was a slight man with sandy hair and pale blue eyes. His arms had small, wiry muscles and his smile of greeting was definitely watchful.

"Hi, love," said Liz with a giggle. She made a kissing motion towards Dale, then sank down onto an empty chair without waiting for an invitation. Ron sat down beside her. Ron said, "Hi, pal. It's Dale, isn't it?" He had an accent that was probably Australian. No, thought Dale with odd clarity. He remembered their introduction, back at that party. The captain of Risky Venture was from New Zealand. He was an ordinary man, not large or muscular or even overly intelligent. Right now he was saying cheerfully to Dale, "I hear you've been having a time of it." "Oh?" Dale stared at the beer bottle in his hand. The waiter appeared. Both Liz and Ron ordered cerveza. "What do you mean by that?" asked Dale, wondering if it was his voice that sounded so aggressive. "Men with guns. Jail." Ron grinned, said, "We were glad to hear that you emerged victorious." "Word travels pretty fast. Does everyone in Mexico know I was in jail?" "Practically. Sorry, old man. That's the way it is. There's a pretty efficient jungle telegraph on the Sea." The gaiety disappeared and the sailor said somberly, "I only wish our friend Brent had been so lucky. It's unusual, you know." Dale stopped the bottle half way to his mouth. He set it down. It was years since he had tried to solve problems by getting blind drunk. It had not worked then. It would not be different now. "What's unusual?" he asked. He tried not to watch Liz, but the memory of Ron's wife naked and violent was like a tangible thing. Liz was ignoring their conversation, surveying the other customers, for all the world as if she were looking for someone in particular. Ron accepted his beer from the waiter, quickly drank almost half of it. "Man, I was thirsty. It's this heat. What's unusual?. I meant the violence. You hear wild stories about how dangerous Mexico is, but it. s not true. Maybe once, but the Mexicans today are pretty strict about crime. Especially, they don't want tourists attacked. The police take it seriously, and in fact it's very unusual for a tourist to be attacked down here. There are very few incidents. It was just bad luck that Brent was the target. Statistically, you know, he had more chance of getting mugged in just about any city in the States." "That's what I hear," said Dale. Liz's eyes came to his and he looked away, found Ron watching him. How often did the New Zealander have to watch other men and wonder if his wife had screwed them? Dale concentrated deliberately on Ron's face, his lips, keeping his eyes away from the woman. He said, "I've got to wonder, though, why anyone would pick on Brent. He wasn't in the habit of dressing like a man with money. For that matter, he wasn't in the habit of carrying much money around." Ron frowned. "Yeah, I know." Liz said, "From what I hear, he was hardly dressed at all. He was just wearing a pair of denim cutoffs when they found him." The alcohol in Dale's veins congealed into ice. He knew those cutoffs. "No shirt?" he asked casually. "No." Liz's eyes crawled down the front of Dale's shirt. "Just the cutoffs." That first day on the beach, Brent had refused the offer of a beer in the bar because of his bare chest. What had his words been? Lots of tourists don't care, but why should I offend these people? At the time, Dale had thought it an odd inconsistency in a man who was a drifter, a full-time rolling stone. Later, in the weeks Dale spent on Far Reacher, he had himself been witness to the fact that Brent never went into town without putting a shirt on. Usually he also traded the ragged cutoffs for a pair of slacks. Ron was talking, saying, "..'scored much off him at all. If the guy gets caught, he'll face the death penalty for no more than a few pesos."

"Is that the penalty for murder here? Execution?" Brent had been wearing only the cutoff shorts. If you knew Brent, it made nonsense of the assumption that he had too much to drink, had been jumped on the malecón, smashed over the head and left unconscious, perhaps thrown over the wall when the tide was high. Unless someone had taken his shirt? Ron laughed. "How the hell would I know? I assume they do something pretty definite. Criminals don't have many rights in this country, you know." Even suspected criminals, thought Dale. Had he not been there, treated as a criminal? Brent. Cutoffs. A bare chest. The police hadn't picked the locks; the boat had been unlocked. Brent had not locked it, for the simple reason that he had not left it. He had been sitting on the boat in his cutoffs, enjoying a quiet evening, perhaps with the inevitable bottle of cold beer. The murder had taken place on board Far Reacher. Dale covered his shock by discussing the problems involved in getting a boat ready for the trip north. He told Ron and Liz that he was the new owner of Far Reacher, that he was planning to take the boat back to San Francisco. Normally he would have kept his mouth shut, but Ron was watching him oddly and he had to say something. Ron turned out to be a wealth of information on diesel engines. Liz seemed expert in the matter of laying in stores. Dale's mind split, one track following this conversation about cruising north, the other worrying at Brent's death. If Brent had been killed on board his own boat, his body thrown into the harbor to be found later, it was harder to believe in a random killing, a mugging and robbery. "If you need crew," Ron offered after several more bottles. "We're in the market." Still wrestling with the problem of Brent's death, Dale said absently, "You've got your own boat." "Sure, but the cruising fund gets low, you know." Ron raised his bottle. "Beer's cheap in this country, but you can't live forever on nothing. Most of the yachties down here are in the market to do boat deliveries. It's about the only way to legally make money down here if you're not a Mexican national. Liz and I wouldn't mind a trip to the States at all, and we're experienced. We've done the Atlantic crossing, sailed from New Zealand. Africa. South America." "I'll think about it." He had an imperative problem to solve before he worried about crew. He needed permission to take the damned boat out of La Paz harbor, out of Mexico. Once he had clearance out of the country, he would need sufficient crew for the long trip north. It was possible to make the trip alone, but far safer with others to share the sea watches. Ron stood up, said, "No sweat, friend. We'll be around. We're moored in the harbor now. I imagine you saw our boat." "No, I didn't notice you." He had assumed Risky Venture was at Santispac where he had last seen it. "Where are you?" Liz grinned. "Just outside your boat. We came in last night." There was something in her voice that reminded him of that night on the deck of Risky Venture, especially when she added, "We're very close to you." †† He fully intended to avoid Ron and Liz, but in the days that followed he encountered them almost constantly. Ron kept dropping over to the boat, and now that Dale had moved out of the hotel and onto

Far Reacher, there was no way to avoid the encounter. Ron, it turned out, was a diesel mechanic by profession. So rather than deal with a mechanic who spoke only Spanish, Dale hired Ron to check out Far Reacher's diesel engine and be sure it was in shape for the trip north. While Ron worked on the engine, Dale went to a liberia and bought index cards, then he started at the front of the boat and dug into every hatch, recording the contents in a complete inventory. After four days of digging through the hatches that were built everywhere. against the hull, under berths and settees, and under the floor. Dale had determined two things. None of the hatches held either money or anything that could remotely be supposed to be drugs. The closest he came was a tin of white powder that claimed to be a marine glue. He had taken a tablespoonful and put it into a cup, then added water, as instructed. The result was a gooey mess that hardened overnight. As the label said, glue. Dale had not expected to find either money or drugs, not after the boat had been searched by heaven knew how many men with guns. No, he had not expected to find contraband, but he was relieved that he didn't. It was one less thing to worry about. His second discovery was less welcome. From the contents of her hatches, Far Reacher would need a great deal of provisioning before she would be ready for a voyage up the west coast of the Baja. Nine hundred miles from the southern tip of Cabo San Lucas north to San Diego. For eight hundred of those miles there was nothing larger than a fishing village. No stores, no mechanics, no coast guard. Looking at the charts he found, Dale suspected that the west coast of the Mexican Baja might be one of the most desolate stretches of coastline in the world. He went over the charts with Ron. The New Zealander seemed intimately familiar with each of the anchorages along the peninsula. "Not that most of them are any good," he grumbled. "Most of those anchorages are only half-sheltered from the northerlies. You get halfway in behind a cliff and drop your hook, then try to sleep while you roll your guts out on the surf, but you can't sleep worth a damn because you know if the wind turns south, the anchorage isn't worth a sweet shit. I don't know what God was up to when he made the Baja, but almost every single anchorage on that hunk of desert is a half-assed shelter from the north, and wide open to the south." The Kiwi grinned and added, "Actually, it's not a bad arrangement, because the prevailing winds are from the north, almost all the time." Dale frowned, tracing the line of the coast. "That must make it difficult heading north." "It's an uphill ride all the way, bashing your brains out into oncoming seas. Luckily, the winds are pretty light, but if a man had any sense he'd lay on lots of crew and head out to sea. If you went out to sea, you could do it in two long tacks, and it wouldn't be too damned uncomfortable." "Tacking out against the wind. that would mean more miles." "Yeah. More miles, but a better course for sailing. I'd bet it wouldn't take as many days." "I'll think about that. Meanwhile, how are we doing on the engine?" "I don't like to see a good piece of machinery like that Isuzu neglected so badly. You can get away with a lot when you're running a diesel, but why the hell couldn't he have treated it with more care?" "Anything serious?" He wouldn't be surprised if there were. By this time, Dale had decided that none of this was going to be easy. The officials. Getting title to the boat. Catherine Markesson. The ride home. What the hell, if the engine was a wipeout, it would just be another detail to fit the whole.

"Bits and pieces," said Ron. "She'll be right." "You've got it in pieces?" "Just cleaning things. Brent let water get into the fuel line. You need a second filter, a big sucker. I'll look after that. Give me a week and you'll think it's a new diesel in your engine room. I swear you won. t know the difference." Dale didn't have more than a superficial knowledge of diesels, but he could tell when a man knew what he was doing. Ron was a virtuoso when it came to a spanner and screwdriver. In the bar, the captain of Risky Venture had seemed lightweight, hardly significant, but he was a different man when he touched the dull painted steel of Far Reacher's diesel. Competent, strong, sure of himself. Dale decided that he had accidentally managed to find one of the best mechanics in La Paz. He gave Ron a free hand with his work. Dale found himself spending part of each day with either Fernando or the Mexican lawyer he had hired to try to facilitate getting the boat out of Mexico. At one meeting the lawyer informed him, "It is good that you are listed as piloto on the crew list from the other time." Dale blinked at that, but on reviewing the crew lists, he found his name on the list Brent had filed back in September when they sailed out of La Paz. "A piloto," the lawyer explained, "is the only person who may have authority to take a boat away from its place, except the capitán. But. " The lawyer, a slight, immaculate Mexican, frowned dismally. "But the crew list that is now, on that rol de tripulantes, your name is not." The last crew list had been filed at Puerto Escondido. Dale had not examined the crew lists in detail before. Written in Spanish, they were incomprehensible to him except for the names of places and crew. According to the most recent crew list, Brent must have gone from the anchorage at Santispac to Puerto Escondido. He had checked in and back out of Escondido the same day, filing a new crew list for La Paz. Why had Brent gone to Escondido? Why, for that matter, to La Paz? To avoid Dale, who would be returning to Santispac? That must have been the reason, because the con that Brent had perpetuated could not have sustained itself much longer. Once the forged Blue Book reached Canada, the fiction would explode. Brent could have been running from someone else. From the person who finally murdered him. "It is bad chance," the lawyer told him. "If you had the name on the crew list that is now, then we could remove the vessel. The piloto would have no trouble to remove the vessel from the jurisdiction. But now. " He frowned again, a more dismal curving of his lips. "You see, is required that the capitán, Señor Markesson, write a document to appoint you as the new capitán. But now he is dead. Now is more difficult." More expensive, Dale translated. The Mexican lawyer was in contact with Joe. La Paz and San Francisco, telephone calls and two sets of legal fees. Dale was going to be paying enough legal fees to keep a Mexican family of five eating well for years. Lawyers in Mexico seemed to be just as expensive as their American counterparts. It was Fernando who managed to get a clear directive out of the authorities regarding the fate of Far Reacher. He came to the boat one afternoon, his three-piece suit incongruous against the battered fiberglass of the panga he had hired. He accepted a bottle of beer and sat with his legs crossed under the awning that protected Dale from the blazing sun.

"There is a thing that can be done to get the paper for leaving the boat." Dale was becoming accustomed to the convoluted phrasing often used by Mexicans speaking English. "What is this thing?" "A paper." Fernando spread his brown hands, the buffed nails gleaming in the moonlight. "A paper that is of law, with a notary." Dale nodded, sipping on a glass of club soda. He had given up on the beer that was a perpetual companion to everyone in this country. He felt he needed his wits about him to get himself out of the country and retain possession of the boat he had bought. "A notarized document?" he said thoughtfully. "Fernando, what is the nature of this document?" But Fernando would not come to the point as quickly as that. "It is the capitán of the boat, you understand. The boat comes into Mexico with the signing of the capitán. All the documents are with the capitán. The regulation is that the salida is of the same as the entrada." "Salida?" He knew entrada, or could guess. The entry. "Salida," said Fernando. "The go out." "The exit?" "Yes. It is to be the same, the same capitán." The soda made a cool path down Dale's throat. Thankfully, the evenings were becoming cooler. He said, "But the captain is dead. There must be some way to take the boat out of the country when the captain dies." "Yes. The piloto can do it, but the papers now have no piloto. It is difficult with no capitán, no piloto. The authorities, they have most difficult. I have found a way." "This document? The authorities agree?" Which authorities? Police? Port Captain? Some other unknown group? Mexico seemed to be filled with authorities of every kind, and Dale was beginning to suspect that none of them worked together. The country was awash in a mass of unconnected, repetitive paperwork. "Fernando, what is the document?" "You understand that it is the owners now." "No, I don't understand at all." Fernando went on patiently. "The owners to appoint a new capitán. On the documents of the boat, the owners are the man dead, Señor Markesson, and a woman. Señora Markesson. If the woman is to sign a paper to make you capitán, it will be good." Dale frowned. "I have a bill of sale." Fernando shook his head. "This document, it is a problem, not a good thing. It is not having the signing of the woman. It will be a better thing to leave the country with the document of the woman. The authorities can accept this if a notary has made it legal." Lawyers. A woman named Catherine. A dead woman, a lie. "Yes," Dale agreed, knowing there was nothing else to do. "I will see what I can do." Fernando's brows dropped in query and Dale said, "I will ask my lawyer to get the document you need. Who do I give the document to?" "You give to me." Fernando stood, his business complete except for one small thing. "I must talk to the officials for you, for I have arranged the solution. You understand, it will require a small propino for

the officials." "More mordida?" Fernando shrugged, a philosophic acceptance of bribery. For all Dale knew, Fernando might be pocketing it all. What choice had he? It was the lawyers or the bribery. Both seemed to charge about the same rate. The Mexican said, "It will be necessary." "Sure." What the hell. A few dollars was nothing at this point. He stood up and said, "First I will get for you the paper." Shit! He was starting to talk like Fernando! He asked, "Do you want me to run you back to the marina in my dinghy?" "Si. Por favor." Dale felt a wry pleasure when he put the dinghy up on plane and sent a spray of salt water onto Fernando's immaculate slacks. His half-smile disappeared, however, when he arrived back at the boat and found an official launch tied alongside, several men aboard waiting for him. He climbed onto the deck of Far Reacher. Another imprisonment? Was it a good sign that the officials had not actually boarded the sailboat this time? He smiled, a mask like the one Fernando always seemed to wear. "Yes, señors? How can I help you?" Although he spoke to them all, his eyes had picked out the man dressed in a suit. How did these people survive wearing three piece suits in this climate? The foreigners wore white cottons, and as little as possible, but the important men in Mexico dressed very formally. "Mr. Welland, I would like a small conversation with you." The English was very good, almost unaccented. "Come aboard," said Dale. It seemed a good idea to keep things polite. The official nodded and stepped across onto the sailboat. The uniformed men and their guns remained on the other boat. Dale knew that he could not rule out these people speaking very politely to him one moment, then throwing him back in jail the next. "Would you like a beer?" The man frowned. Dale explained, "Una cerveza." "Gracias, Señor Welland." The man held out a brown hand. "I am capitán Robles." "Bueno," murmured Dale, taking the man's hand politely before he went below for the beer. Ron said that bueno was used for the Mexican equivalent of everything from 'Glad to meet you,' to 'Hello,' on the telephone. From Captain Robles' courteous smile, it seemed that Ron was right. So it was to be a courteous meeting, but what would be the topic? Brent's murder? The presence of hypothetical contraband on Far Reacher? Or some other, new complication?

Eight "He wants me to what?" Catherine pushed the curls away from her forehead, stopped her pencil from making a senseless mark on the financial statements on her desk. She dropped the pencil before she could do damage with it and gripped the telephone receiver more tightly. The headache was developing early today. Now, with Lorne's voice in her ear, she wished she had given way to the temptation to have Sheila say she was out. Lorne's voice said, "He wants a notarized

document from you. He wants you to appoint him captain of the vessel." She pushed the papers aside and said into the telephone, "If I give him that, he can take the boat anywhere. I wouldn't be able to stop him." "Now, Catherine, it's not an unreasonable request. He does have a claim against the estate, Brent's signature on a bill of sale." He was using his low, pacifying voice, the one he kept for difficult clients. "My dear, you must realize that you cannot continue forever delaying on this issue. The estate has a liability to Mr. Welland. Meanwhile, his lawyer has made a very convincing case for having the vessel removed from Mexico as quickly as possible." "Why?" She used her free hand to knead tense muscles at the back of her neck. The headache had been with her for two weeks, ever since the day Burton's receivables got scrambled, the day she had received a message from Foreign Affairs. "Listen, Lorne, we don't know beans about this man. He. Just a minute." Damn Tony! Why couldn't he manage alone for one single morning! She pushed the hold button, lifted dark eyebrows in a question. "Yes? What?" Tony said, "New client. Jock type, maybe runs a health spa or something. He wants to see you." "You look after him." "I tried." Tony grinned. "He won't have me." She pushed a button on the telephone. "Sorry, Lorne, but I've got to go. A client." "Catherine. " "I'll think about it." Far Reacher was part of her past. What difference did it make if a stranger sailed away with it? It was not hers, anyway, except in a legal sense. It had never really been hers. She sighed, wishing she could let the whole thing go. "Lorne, get onto that American lawyer and talk about guarantees. What guarantee do we have that Welland won't just sail off into the sunset and never come back?" She slammed the receiver down. Tony jumped. "Something wrong?" he asked. "You OK?" "Headache, that's all. It's probably something to do with winter coming on. Shorter days. Less sunlight." She shook her hair back. If she didn't watch it she would come apart. Whimsical headaches, the wild desire to walk out and say to hell with it all. "Where is he?" "Out front. Shall I send him in here." "No. I'll go out. I need the change of scene." Tony frowned and for a brief instant Catherine contemplated telling him about Brent's death, about the mess over Far Reacher. She suppressed the impulse. They had a good relationship, all debits and credits, bits and bytes. Neither she nor Tony had ever talked of personal matters. Now was no time to start. "While you're out there, Catherine, could you have a look at the Pentium in my office? I've got the Burton file up and I don't think we've seen the end of that contaminated data." Screw the Burton file! The scream in her mind was so loud that she was surprised Tony didn't react. It was obviously time she

took a vacation. She sucked in a deep breath. "Do some random checks. I'll take a look later when you've a better idea what the problem is." Sheila was sitting at her desk in the reception area, pretending to work while trying hard to look pretty. For Sheila, it was not difficult. The client was lounging on a leather sofa. Tony had called him a jock. Sheila would undoubtedly call him a hunk. As Catherine appeared, he came to his feet gracefully, six foot plus of self-confident male muscles and bones. Catherine ignored him, stopping beside Sheila's desk. "Sheila, have you finished the IAC pro formas?" The girl looked up, her eyes twitching towards the client, then back to Catherine. "Almost, Ms Markesson. I'm just putting the last figures into the computer. I'll have the printouts this afternoon." "Good." Catherine saw Sheila relax slightly. Sheila had always been nervous of her boss, from that first day of work almost two years ago. Today, thinking of Brent and that one impulsive period in her own life, Catherine found Sheila's wary respect depressing. She moved towards the new client with her purpose achieved. He was a little less confident now. He had settled back down on the sofa and he waited for her to make eye contact before he stood to greet her. "Hello. I'm Catherine Markesson." He took her hand, his fingers long and cool, his grip firm and brisk. He had the clean smell of an outdoors man. Catherine found herself disagreeing with Tony's assessment. Managing a health spa would be too much like regular work for this man. She said briskly, "You wanted to see me?" He nodded and his smile widened. "Yes. I'm Jerry Mordichaih." So what, she thought, but she wanted to smile back at him. He had something of the engaging puppy about him despite that too-handsome face and the sandy blonde hair that curled engagingly over the neck of his casual shirt. He said, "I guess you don't recognize the name?" "No, Mr. Mordichaih. I'm afraid I don't." She was surprised to find her voice soft instead of brisk. "Should I?" "I thought with your background, you might. I was first mate on Donovan's Challenge in the Swiftsure." "My background?" She saw in his eyes that her voice had turned to ice. Swiftsure ... the Swiftsure Race. "I take it that you're here about sailing? Not about accounting?" "That's right," he agreed, the smile persisting. There would be no end to it. "Why don't you come out for a cup of coffee with me. You do take a break sometimes, don't you?" His eyes teased her and she tensed. Did she look like a boring workaholic at first glance? He grinned, said, "You should. We could talk over coffee." "We can have coffee in my office." She turned and left him to follow or not, as he pleased. She had not been sailing in four years. It was not a coincidence that he had turned up on her doorstep at this instant. "Sheila, bring us coffee, please. And donuts," she added, glancing back at Mordichaih. He had the look of a man who was perpetually hungry. "Thanks for thinking of the food." He was still smiling as he sat down in the chair nearest her desk.

"That was considerate." She found herself smiling back at him, saying, "Perhaps the donuts are for me." "Not likely. You're the type who doesn't think of eating until the work's all done." He crossed his legs in a relaxed fashion that somehow emphasized her own tension. "Do you ever drop that smile?" "Not often." Was it real? He looked like a man with a permanently easygoing, sunny disposition. Why was she so suspicious of him? "All right, Mr. Mordichaih, I don't imagine you came to talk about the Swiftsure race. I didn't watch it. I don't even know who won it." "Donovan's Challenge won. That's why I thought you might recognize me, or my name." He was very comfortable, relaxed even under her intent scrutiny. "Publicity, you know. Newspapers. Television interview." "Sorry. I didn't watch any of it. Why are you here?" "Aren't we going to make social chitchat until the coffee and donuts come?" "No." He laughed, then leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, hands turned up expressively. "It's like this. I'm a sailor." His voice was serious now, sincere. "If I were rich, I'd have a big yacht and I'd spend my life on it, but I'm not rich. So I get on the water whenever I can. Crewing in races. Crewing for cruisers now and then. Boat deliveries." He let the last words settle into the silence. She was silent, waiting, although she knew now why he was here. Finally, he gave in and said it himself. "You've got a boat down in Mexico. I thought you might like someone to deliver it for you." "How. " She broke off at a tap on the open doorway. "Bring it in, Sheila." She watched as Sheila bent over Mordichaih's long form, offering sugar and cream, both of which the young man accepted. He also accepted two donuts, then managed a creditable job of juggling them all. Catherine made a gesture to the receptionist. The girl placed the tray on the edge of the desk and left the office, closing the door behind her. She let him eat his donuts before she asked, "What makes you think I have a boat that needs delivering?" Lorne had put an announcement in the obituaries, but no mention of Mexico. How had Mordichaih learned about Mexico? And Far Reacher? How many people would know that Catherine held title now? Disputed title, she amended. Mordichaih brushed a crumb off his chin and met her eyes guilelessly. "You're Markesson's wife, aren't you? I was talking to a friend on ham radio couple of days ago. He's on a boat in La Paz. He told me about Markesson. I figured you might need a hand." "You knew Brent?" "No, but you know how it is among the yachties. You hear about people, boats. So I knew who he was." She watched him, suspecting the innocence of his face must conceal a more deliberate intent. She was unwilling to ask the questions that would be required to get answers. Who told you I was Brent's wife?

Why come to me? Most people assumed she and Brent were divorced. She had never contradicted the assumption. Only Lorne knew better. Why don't you divorce him, Catherine? I could get you a property settlement. For heaven's sake, you're entitled to something from him. It's all your money in that boat, and he's wandering around the world in it. Why. She shut Lorne out. "Mr Mordichaih, do you have references? Testimonials? A resume?" He laughed. "That formal? Sure, I can get references if you like. Or I could just give you a couple of phone numbers." "Let's do it formally." She picked up her automatic pencil, clicked the lead down needlessly. Could she send Mordichaih to Mexico to take the boat away from Dale Welland? Probably not. According to Lorne, Welland was determined to win title to Far Reacher. She had no idea why, but she was equally determined not to give it to him. To Mordichaih, she said, "I want a resume, references I can check. I don't know you from Adam, Mr. Mordichaih. I'm not at all convinced that I should let you do my delivery, but let's see what kind of testimonials you can come up with. Then we'll talk." Was she insane? This was fantasy stuff, sailing, reaching for the romance of waves and wind and moonshine on water. It was worlds away from computer systems and financial statements, yet she could feel her excitement growing. She called Lorne from her apartment that night. She was not surprised at his reaction. "Catherine, have you lost your mind? If you would simply sign the papers, you can have the money Welland's lawyer is holding for completion. Sign, Catherine! Close!" His voice was a frustrated wail. "It isn't like you to be so difficult. Sign the appointment of captain, sign the boat over to him and pocket one hundred thousand American! If you don't, you owe Welland fifty, and apparently the boat market is down. you'd never get the quarter million out of her that was on the appraisal. What do you need with the aggravation of. " She dropped the receiver into its cradle. She knew as she did it that she was being childish. Uncharacteristic. In all her life, she had never been so rude as to hang up on anyone but a crank caller. The telephone rang again within seconds. She walked away from it. She was not running. Inside, she could feel cold reason boiling up. She remembered to lock her apartment door as she left. The telephone kept ringing, reaching out to her as she waited for the elevator. It stopped, finally, as the elevator doors slid open. She went to the water's edge, found the beach deserted now in the dead of night. Vancouver harbor, city lights crawling across the water from the West End. She stood staring out over the magic, waiting for her heart to still. It was a rerun of that first meeting with Brent on the ferry. He had challenged her, changing her world from cold numbers to exciting adventure. Then he had sailed away and left her cold. Her fault, her failure, her emptiness. Brent who had walked out, but Catherine who had been too frightened to go with him. The money did not matter. Her money, but in every sense she had known that it was his boat. That was why she had never followed Lorne's insistence that she have the boat seized to force a financial settlement from Brent. Now, with his death, he was taunting her again, holding adventure just out of reach. He had died in a

foreign port, a place she had never seen. She was a success. Her business was the only thing she was good at, so she had pursued it. Brent had proven that she was not good at love, at laughter, at dreams and fantasies. Lorne had logic on his side; but if Welland sailed away in total possession of the dream she had shared with Brent, there would be no more chances. Catherine would walk straight through the years to her grave. Nothing, no one would ever touch her again. She had been the only child of well-off professionals who were too busy to touch and laugh and love. She had not been mistreated in any way, could not remember being unhappy. As her parents had, she had buried herself in work, winning scholastic awards and taking satisfaction from her accomplishments. She had never dreamed of adventure, travel, or love. Her dreams were practical, concrete, more plans than dreams. She would succeed, would have money in the bank and letters after her name. Then she met Brent and for a time her world was fantasy. Then emptiness. She was thirty-five years old and she had been in love once, had turned away from that love. Now she had only a successful business, a luxurious apartment, and Lorne. a friend who was her lover. It was supposed to be enough, but tonight she knew that it was only an empty shell of life. She wanted to reach for more, but she was afraid. †† They would not settle this through lawyers. Catherine knew that. She made the motions, though. She instructed Lorne to contact Welland's lawyer, to convey her intention to have Far Reacher delivered back to Canada by her own agent. The reply was more like a threat. Neither Welland nor his lawyer would accept Catherine Markesson's agent taking custody of Far Reacher. Lorne had a list of reasons why Catherine could not do it, more reasons why a dispute in the courts would be trouble for Catherine. "OK, Lorne, I know. Just leave it, stall the San Francisco lawyer. I'm going down there. Lorne, if you start lecturing me, I'll hang up on you again." She called Tony into her office and they spent hours going over all the clients' affairs while she instructed him on what to do in her absence. "How long will you be gone?" "I don't know." She met his eyes, found curiosity there as well as a rather nervous excitement. So Tony was looking forward to a stint as boss. She decided for once to be open with him, relatively open. "It's personal, Tony. My husband died two weeks ago." "Catherine, I'm sorry. I didn't know." She shook her head. "Tony, we've been separated four years. It's not that much of a shock. It's not. It's just that there's a bit of a legal mix-up, what with his having died in Mexico. I'm going down to straighten it out." "A few days?" speculated Tony. Did he sound disappointed? "Maybe longer. He left a boat down there, and I've got to work out what to do with it." She said it aloud for the first time. "I might sail back up on the boat. If I do, it'll be. I guess, a couple of months to sail from La Paz up to the States. A few weeks. I'm not sure exactly." She added tightly, "Tony, I don't want this talked about. I might not even do it and. " "Don't worry. I won't say a word." He grinned and she thought it might have been the first time she had

seen him smile without reservation. "It's certainly a contrast to your image." "If I do take the damned boat to sea, that will be why." She was going to need someone like Mordichaih, if only as a buffer between herself and Welland. They were enemies. She had never had an enemy in her life, but she knew that Dale Welland would be the first. Oddly, she welcomed that thought. A good fight would clear her mind, get her over this futile discontent with her own life. She could go, fight it out, make the crazy trip on the boat, then return with her ghost exorcised. She knew she could handle Mordichaih well enough. The only problem was in explaining the situation to him. She would far prefer to avoid explanations entirely, but she had to tell him something. She looked over his resume when he brought it to her. "Impressive. I get the feeling the ink's barely dry." "A friend of mine did it up last night." "The Swiftsure. You didn't mention crewing for the America's cup?" He shrugged. "It's a lot more impressive to be on a winner. You can check with any of those people about me." "I will." He was the kind of man who inspired confidence, but she was not so naive that she would fail to check references. She stared down at the names. Holley Donovan. That showed how far removed her life had become from Brent's world. She had not followed the Swiftsure race, had not even realized that Holley Donovan had entered a boat and taken first place. It had been years, but Holley had been a frequent visitor during those last months with Brent. A big man, but a person could miss his presence in a crowd simply because he was so quiet. Yet if you asked him a question about boats or sailing, you could trust his answer to be right. Brent was not the only person to turn to him for advice and counsel on outfitting a boat, planning a cruise. She would check with Holley. She set the resume aside. "Mr. Mordichaih. " "Jerry. No one calls me Mister." "Jerry," she conceded, taking in once more his well-worn but expensive Nikes, his casual but welleducated smile. She did not suggest that he call her Catherine. She stood up and walked to the window. It was raining again. Almost the end of November, winter setting in. In Mexico there would be sunshine, warmth, and Far Reacher. She felt a surprising hunger to walk through the small cabins, to feel the deck moving underfoot as Far Reacher rode out a swell at anchor. Wind in the sails, the roar of water rushing along the hull. Sailing. Brent's laughter, his arms around her as she stood at the wheel, tense at the strength of the wind and the wild heel of the boat. "I might want to hire you as crew," she told Jerry. She turned and found him watching her without the smile. Watching, waiting, listening. "If I do, I'll be sailing with you." She was chewing the inside of her cheek. She forced her jaw to relax, added, "And others." "Who will be captain?" For a second his eyes were narrowed, then his face relaxed and his whole body seemed to turn from tension into a casual sprawl in the chair.

She ignored the question, said, "If I do decide to hire you, how much notice do you need?" "Not much." The grin was back. "A day. I keep my pack ready." "Have pack, will travel?" It was hard to ignore this man's charm. She found herself smiling as she watched him walk out of her office. She called Holley that evening. She had not remembered Holley's voice, except that it was gentle, the words slow, but she found that she recognized the sound of him at once. He spoke with a low, husky timbre to his words, frequent pauses because he was not a man who made statements without thinking them out first. "Catherine Markesson? Of course, I remember you. Did you think I wouldn't?" She heard fondness in his voice and realized that she had always felt the same for him. Why had she let the people she cared about slip out of her life? Friends were rare enough, there was no need to go throwing them away because they had been connected with Brent. Especially Holley, who was telling her he had heard about Brent, and was tactful enough not to ask questions except, "What can I do for you?" "I wanted to ask you about Jerry Mordichaih. He approached me about delivering Far Reacher back to Canada." "He's good crew." There was the characteristic pause, then, "I thought he might approach you. He was the one who told me about Brent. He wanted to know what I thought would happen to the boat." So that answered the question she had not directly asked Jerry. Holley had given him her name. "I'm thinking of making the trip, too, Holley." She had not intended to say more than that, but she did not want Holley to learn the truth later and be hurt at her reticence. Friends, she thought wryly. Friends meant responsibilities, and she had never really learned how to share herself with others. She said awkwardly, "Brent was in the middle of selling Far Reacher when he died. The purchaser is down there now, and he's determined to sail it north." "And so are you?" She did not answer him. "His name's Dale Welland. Do you know anything about him?" She heard the sound of a lighter, remembered the perpetual cigarette in Holley's mouth. "The name doesn't ring any bells at all. It can be awkward, Catherine, sharing a passage with strangers. All things considered, Jerry's probably a good choice for you. He gets along with everybody, and he's not afraid of work." Holley paused again and she had the feeling that there was a story he could tell, some anecdote that would feature Jerry Mordichaih, but he said only, "If you're looking for someone to defuse an explosive atmosphere, I'd recommend Mordichaih. Just keep him away from the girls. I heard that once in Tonga he. " "Holley, I already know about the girls. My receptionist bought a new dress and threw over her boyfriend, and she's taken to watching the door instead of her work."

Nine Liz had a remarkably practical streak. "Break it down into days, meals," she said briskly. She had paper and pencil, and Dale's list of the contents of the hatches. "Four of us," she told Dale, "and less than a month from Cabo San Lucas to San Diego if we harbor-hop. Eight or nine days if we shoot for it. It's all logic." Dale watched as she turned a blank piece of paper into columns, her dark curls bent over the paper. As

usual, she was wearing only two patches over her breasts and the tiny bikini bottoms. Dale kept his eyes away from the triangular patches, very conscious of Ron only a couple of yards away. "Let's say we provision for six weeks," she suggested. "That gives us more than enough. Now, you realize we have to allow for eating differently out there." "We do?" Damn the woman! Couldn't she at least put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt? Liz drew a dark line under a heading, smiling as if she could see his thoughts. "Definitely. You'd be surprised. You won't have much urge for fried hamburger or steak when we're beating into a six foot swell. For a while, you'll want to exist on soda crackers and soup." She laughed and reached out tanned fingers to his face. He said quickly, "All right. You're the expert. I'll leave you to it." He escaped to Far Reacher's tiny engine room where Ron had the fuel line taken apart. Looking down on the mechanic's sandy head bent intently over his job, Dale heartily wished that he had kept his pants on back there at Santispac. Damn it! He wasn't into married women, and this was good reason why. Liz and Ron, on board his boat every day for weeks to come. "How's the installation coming?" he asked Ron. Ron shifted, grunted as his legs complained at the cramped position. The crawl space beside the engine was just large enough for a small man. Ron had grease up to his elbows, dark stains of oil on his cutoff jeans and bare legs. He said, "Not bad. An hour and you'll have so much filtering on this bloody fuel line that you won't have trouble for a year." "Good." Dale stared down at the collection of tools under Ron's hands. "What about the rest of it? How long until we're shipshape?" Ron managed to keep his hands on the hose, the clamp, and the screwdriver all at once while he aligned a little screw in the clamp. Dale saw perspiration gleaming on his naked back as he said, "Give it four more days. I should have that new voltage regulator for the alternator day after tomorrow." The New Zealand twang in Ron's voice was evident. "That's easy to install. Then a day to check for odds and ends. I think the mechanical end will be shipshape, say three, four days." Four days. There was no reason Liz couldn't have the food provisioned by that time as well. Dale would give Joe that long to work something out with Catherine Markesson. Four more days of letting the lawyers try to settle something that he suspected lawyers could not settle. He had work to keep himself busy for those four days. Waterproofing the skylight hatch, checking and tightening the shrouds, repairing that small tear in the mainsail, getting the sheets rerun for handling the jib, locating the harnesses and making sure two were in top condition. one for each person on watch. Ron was staring up at him, waiting for a response. "Good," Dale said abruptly, turning away from the man's pale blue eyes. "Maybe we can get out of here in. let's try for seven days. Next Wednesday. I'm going up top to work on that hatch. Give a shout if you need me." "Sure thing. Take it easy." Did Ron know that his wife was promising her body to Dale with her eyes? Did he know that. He shook the thought off, grabbed the sunscreen and went topsides. He spread the cream on his arms and chest while he stood on the deck, then twisted to reach the parts of his back that he could, hoping he would not get too much sunburn. He should wear a shirt, but it was too damned hot for any

unnecessary clothing once he started working. The other day he had stood in the galley to spread on the protective cream. Liz had come up and taken the container from his hand. "Turn around," she had commanded. Her hands had lingered over the job of spreading the cream while he stood rigid, trying to pretend nothing was happening. His body had betrayed him. She had seen, had laughed at his rigidly clenched hands. Ron had been hammering something in the engine room. At the sound of Liz's laughter, the hammering had stopped. Liz, still smiling, had slid sensuous fingers along the hollow of Dale's spine. Since then Dale had been careful to apply the cream out of her sight. He grimaced as he tried to reach one sunburned spot in the middle of his back. It was a ridiculous situation, dodging around Far Reacher, avoiding the overtures of a well-endowed and scantily-dressed woman virtually under the eyes of her husband. It was the stuff comic opera was made of. And it left him feeling cheap and grimy. He liked Ron Riskman. He got out sandpaper and a scraper from the wheel house hatch. Last week there had been a sudden, violent rainfall, an explosion of thunder and pounding rain washing over the desert hills. The rain had beat noisily on the deck for twenty minutes, washing away the dust that was perpetually carried over the harbor by the wind. Dale, alone on the boat, had stood on deck, enjoying the coolness of water streaming over his body, the violence of the storm. After ten enjoyable minutes under the sudden storm, he had gone down below for a beer only to find the galley soaked, water running from the closed skylight overhead. Examining the hatch later, he decided that it was a simple matter of caulking and re-varnishing. Unlike the engine repairs, it was a job he was fully qualified to do, and one he enjoyed. He sent a rueful message of gratitude to the man who had been his third stepfather. All those hours of sanding and painting in the cabinet making business were going to pay off here. He scraped the place where the wooden skylight frame met the fiberglass of the deck. There was no visible hint of exactly where the joint was leaking, so he carefully cleaned the intersection of deck and hatch, preparing the wood to receive a new layer of sealant. Then he took the opening section off at the hinges and went to work sanding the wood of the frame down to warm, brown teak. He enjoyed the job. A man could see the results of this kind of work. The pleasing smell of teak oil on the hot air. The feel of smooth wood under his hand. All right, so Brent had laid one on him, a con he should have seen through from a mile away. Tough, but it was not the first time. Stepfather number four had been a con artist. He had sucked Dale in many times before he got wise. No one had made a sucker of him since, until Brent. Dale was determined to come out on top. He would have this boat in the end, free and clear and legal. Catherine Markesson, Brent's soft lady of dreams, was not going to win. Nor were the Mexican officials, that confusing variety of uniformed and un-uniformed men, with and without guns. Drugs, Captain Robles had said softly. They had evidence that the captain of Far Reacher was involved in major drug trafficking. What evidence? Dale had asked, but Robles had not replied directly. Are you implying that I am involved? Dale had asked. Again, Robles had not answered. Rubbing the reddish teak carefully with the sandpaper, Dale tried to decide what he believed. He was forced to accept the truth of Brent Markesson, con artist. He could not dispute that label. But dealing in drugs? Dale tried to step back from it, to feel the detachment he felt when he was in the offices of one of the large corporations that were his clients. Evaluating a suspect, a man wearing a white collar. He had

handed shocking reports to presidents and vice-presidents of high tech companies. Until Durheim, he had always been the one who was never surprised. Yes, sir, that attractive young woman, the trustworthy manager of the data department. She's been taking you for three years. Somewhere over a hundred thousand dollars, and you'll never be able to convict her of it. Dale had seen nailed young mothers, timid accountants, surly audit clerks. He was the man who would believe anything of anyone. Once, he had uncovered a computer fraud perpetrated by the president of the company, the man who hired him. He had an instinct for a false front, but his alarm hadn't gone off when Brent conned him. So how could he trust his own judgment of Brent? Had Brent been trafficking in drugs? Dale brushed the dust away carefully and wiped the joint between skylight and deck with thinners to clean it. Then he went to get the caulking gun out of a hatch down below. It was time he looked at the whole thing logically. Every detail. Brent Markesson had conned him. Brent had lied about title to the boat, about the death of his wife. Catherine was quite possibly part of the scam. Once Brent had possession of Dale's check, he must have cashed it quickly, then dashed back to the boat and promptly left Santispac. He had gone to La Paz, would have gone farther if he had not died. According to Fernando, only hours before his death Brent had filed a crew list to leave La Paz. Fleeing from Dale? Or from someone else? Had Brent's murder been deliberate, an underworld killing? If the authorities were interested in Far Reacher, it was possible that other people might also be interested, people involved in the drug business with Brent. If there were such people, and if there had been something to interest them on Far Reacher, they would be hovering, trying to gain access to Far Reacher. Fernando? Ron? Liz? Surely no one in his right mind would suppose Far Reacher contained contraband? Not now, after being searched God knew how many times. Because one thing Dale was certain of, the men who had been guarding Far Reacher when he stepped on board and was arrested. those men had taken the boat apart, had searched every nook and cranny. They'd obviously found nothing. Robles had implied that Dale might have some suggestion of where the missing whatever was hidden. Dale, having done his own search, had no idea at all. He suspected Robles did not believe him, and feared the authorities would decide to take Dale in for another round of questioning. That risk was more reason for trying to get Far Reacher out of La Paz as soon as possible. Four days, then Dale would fly to Vancouver and give Catherine Markesson a choice. Sign, or go to jail for conspiracy to defraud Dale Welland of fifty thousand dollars. He was covered with a fine coating of teak-dust when the panga arrived beside Far Reacher. He shifted, sitting back on his heels to see who had come out to the boat. Fernando, he expected. Or perhaps Captain Robles. No, a woman. Whoever she was, she was not a yachtie. She'd dressed in crisp, lightweight slacks and a

loose blouse of some material that might be silk. Expensive. He had seen women executives dressed in clothes that made a more casual impression. Her handbag was expensive, coordinated with the rusty brown tones of her clothes. The green scarf was tucked casually into the neck of her blouse. No, not casually. Perfectly arranged. Her ears were covered by the short, wavy locks of glistening brown hair. He watched her pay the panga driver, saw a curl move in the wind, revealing a small, white pearl earring. Tasteful. Expensive. Immaculate. She spoke Spanish, too, or at least enough to thank the driver in his own language. Dale stood, raised his hand in greeting to the Mexican who had delivered this woman. The Mexican grinned. "Hola! Cómo Está?" "Bein." The woman turned to Dale's voice. Her eyes were cool and hard. Dale felt a tightening in his gut, but he did not let his smile fade as he asked the Mexican, "Y usted?" "más o menos." The Mexican shrugged, then he grinned at Dale as the woman stepped up onto the boat. His black eyes rounded and he made a gesture of approval to Dale. "Hasta luego. Buena suerte." Good-bye and good luck. Dale smiled faintly as the panga roared away, setting up a big wake that moved the deck under his feet. "Why don't you come aboard?" he suggested wryly. She stepped over the lifelines rather than opening the gate. She managed to do that without losing any of the businesslike cool. Her eyes moved from his mouth, down over his dusty chest to his disreputable shorts, his hairy legs, his naked sunburned feet. For the first time since he moved on board Far Reacher, Dale wished for the formal clothes he had left behind in San Francisco. She met his eyes and said without expression, "I don't think I need an invitation." There was only one woman who could claim not to need an invitation, but this was no woman of dreams. Her eyes were neither soft nor inviting. She was cold. The Mexican might admire the curves, but she was not a woman to enjoy a man's touch. This was Catherine, one more lie in a web of pretenses. Those eyes had never spoken of love. Balance sheets, more likely. He waited, willing her to give in and be the first to speak. She acknowledged the small battle with a cool smile, her eyes assessing and discounting what she saw. She gave her genuine leather handbag a slight hitch to settle it over her shoulder, then turned and walked along the side deck, away from Dale, towards the cockpit. "Mr. Welland, I presume," she tossed back as she stepped into the cockpit. Catherine Markesson. Well, let her go down below. She would find hatches open, groceries and equipment all over the boat, not to mention Ron and Liz. Dale watched her, then turned and resumed caulking the joint, knowing that if he did not go to her, eventually she would have to come to him. You should have seen her standing out on the deck while we beat into the waves. She threw back her head. The wind tore through her hair, turning it into a gleaming, copper chaos. And her laughter ringing out, torn away by the wind ... Not this woman. He would stake anything that she had never had a hair out of place; that when she slept, she woke with the copper-brown waves in their place, tidy and perfect. He put too much caulking into the joint, wiped the excess away with his finger, then cleaned his finger

on the seat of his shorts. He supposed the temperature was about eighty, maybe eighty-five. He would give the caulking a couple of hours to set. That should be plenty in this heat. Then he would do the varnish. "I take it you are Welland?" He had not heard her returning, had not heard her voice talking to either Ron or Liz. She stood with arms at her sides. Another woman might have crossed her arms in front of her, or rested her hands on her hips. It would have given some sign to her state of mind. He picked up the sandpaper and the caulking gun. "I am. I take it you're Brent Markesson's wife." He was surprised to see something in her eyes, a brief tightening, then it was gone. She shrugged, the motion so slight he almost missed it. He felt a ridiculous urge to shake her as she countered, "What about the two down below?" Catherine ... not a dream, but a cold woman. They were going to have one hell of a battle, but it would be like ice, not fire. unless Dale lost his cool, something he seldom did, but he could feel the anger boiling already. "What about them?" He stood, holding his small collection of tools. She turned away, not avoiding him, but making a careful survey of the deck, the rigging, the sails. "Are we going to fence all afternoon?" "Yes," he agreed with a faint smile. "Until you make some kind of polite noise, like please or hello." It surprised the hell out of him when she laughed. Her laughter was husky, a warm rumble over the air. "And will you make polite noises back at me?" He did not feel polite. He felt angry at himself for dreaming about her, angry at her for being so different from the woman in his dreams. "You could try it and find out." Her smile had cooled and he knew she would not give way so easily, despite the laughter. He had a depressing vision of Far Reacher lying at this mooring in La Paz for years, while they fought over ownership in court. "Dale?" called out Liz's voice. Then Liz herself appeared, her two patches emerging from the companionway. "I've got the list here." She leaped lightly up onto the deck, her eyes swinging from the strange woman to Dale. Then, quite deliberately, she walked past Catherine to rest her fingers on Dale's arm as she said, "You do want to go over that list with me, don't you?" Liz's brown skin was a flagrant contrast to Catherine Markesson's immaculately covered body. The temptress and the ice maiden. Catherine's eyes watched while Dale restrained the urge to pull away from Liz. "Liz, this is Catherine." Liz twisted to look at the other woman, her hand clinging to Dale's arm as if for balance. "Brent's wife," Dale added. Liz's lips curved into a soundless exclamation. Then her eyes swung, but not to Catherine. Past her. Dale saw it, too. He could hear the low roar of a powerful motor, knew he was due another visit from the authorities.

"Shit!" he said softly. "I'm off," said Liz. "This is not my thing. Ron can fiddle with engine parts all through it, but I get nervous when I get too close to those people." She moved to the side of the boat as she spoke. "Look over the list, Dale. It's on the galley counter. Add what you want, and I'll start shopping tomorrow." Liz quickly undid the painter for Risky Venture's dinghy and disappeared over the side as the Port Authority boat came alongside. Catherine Markesson had focused on the boat that was bumping softly against the side of Far Reacher. "Who. " "You'll see soon enough." Dale put sandpaper and caulking gun down, and brushed the teak dust off his hands as he crossed to the closed gate in the lifelines. The back of that launch was filled with an assortment of people not unlike those who had turned up the day he was thrown in jail. Uniforms and suits. Guns in holsters. Big guns cradled in the arms of two of the un-uniformed men. Dale's eyes picked out Robles from the pack. "Buenas tardes, capitán. ¿Cómo Está?" Dale asked politely. His accent might have been crude, but like most Mexicans, Robles responded politely to the use of his own language. "Bien, Señor Welland. Y usted?" "Fine." He was not going to make an idiot of himself by going any further in a strange language. "Will you come aboard?" He snapped the hooks to open the gate. He knew it was a bad sign when two of the armed men stepped on board behind Robles. "What can I do for you, Captain Robles?" But Robles approached Catherine. Giving in to the inevitable, Dale said, "Captain Robles. This is Mrs. Markesson." He saw the jerk of the captain's eyebrows and he added quickly, "Mrs. Markesson is represented by my lawyer." She might be an enemy, but he would not wish a Mexican jail on anyone. Robles might decide to question Catherine. If so, there should be a lawyer involved from the beginning. "Ahhh." Robles smiled slightly, acknowledging the information. Dale touched Catherine's arm, felt her rigid tension, but she merely nodded her head towards the captain as he said, "My pleasure, Señora Markesson." He did not give her time to respond, but turned to Dale. "Señor Welland, if you would permit a small look?" "A look?" His fingers curled into Catherine's forearm. He could feel her displeasure at his touch, but she stood silent, watching. He should have known that she would not leap into careless speech. "A look," agreed Captain Robles, his courtesy veiling the command. "To show that which you have said. You have no objection?" Dale met Robles eyes, his peripheral vision picking up the two armed men. "No, Captain Robles. I have no objection. Go ahead." Robles went first, the two men behind him. Dale watched them without moving, his hand still on the woman's arm. A few seconds later Ron emerged. "Time for me to go," said the Kiwi ruefully. "Those fellows seem to want the boat to themselves." His eyes fell on the launch with its two machine guns. "Liz took our dinghy?" "Yes. Take mine if you like." The men in the launch made no move to stop the New Zealander from climbing into the black Zodiac

tied at the stern of Far Reacher. Dale watched the Zodiac rise up on plane and go flying towards Risky Venture. He had forgotten his hand on Catherine's arm until she spoke. "Take your hand off me." Her voice was tight and low. He dropped his hand and she said, "I presume you had some reason for saying we shared the same lawyer?" "Yes." Amazingly, she left it at that. His eyes went to the Mexicans with machine guns, then jerked back to her as she moved. "Where are you going?" "Down below. They can't. " Dale grabbed her arm with a hard hand. She jerked away, surprising him with her wiry strength. This was Catherine, Brent's dream lady? Fool that he was, he should have known by now that Brent was all lies. "Don't touch me!" It was a spit, angry dark eyes, hard beautiful face. "Remember that. Keep your hands off me, Mr. Welland." He blocked her passage. She might be surprisingly strong for a small woman, but he was bigger, and he saw her hesitate. Their eyes battled silently. Her chest rose and fell with rapid, angry breathing. "Why don't you stop and think a moment?" His voice sounded a hell of a lot calmer than he felt. "Do you really want to get into an argument with a man holding a submachine gun?" He jerked his head towards the guard in the boat tied to Far Reacher. Her eyes followed and he felt her body tense, but it was anger, not fear. "Call me a boat," she commanded. "What?" "I want a boat to take me to shore. I'm going to call the Canadian consulate." She turned away from him, slinging her purse up on her shoulder. "I'm sure that will make one hell of a difference," He was surprised to hear his own laughter. "Lady, you're in a foreign country, and these are duly authorized officials. " "Officials! They're thugs!" She swung to glare at the man holding the big gun, stepped back when she found him closer to her, his gun held out threateningly. Dale said softly, "Consider yourself lucky that he doesn't seem to understand English. I can't say the same for the three down below. As for your consulate, I'd wait if I were you. I don't think your friend with the gun wants you to leave yet. "Why?" She was not stupid. Her eyes had evaluated the man with the gun and he could see her forcing herself to stillness. "Why should they search my. this boat?" My boat. Those had been the words on her lips, but she had suppressed them, biding her time. He was going to have a battle to win Far Reacher for himself. His jaw worked briefly, but he knew he would be in a stronger position if he avoided the heat of angry threats and declarations. "Drugs," he said curtly, seeing her shock. "They're searching for drugs. They say Brent was running narcotics." "I don't believe it! I-#151;" The machine gun jerked to attention and the woman broke off her angry words. Her eyes flew from the Mexican with the gun, to Dale in his once-white shorts and bare chest.

"Believe it," said Dale wearily. "Whether he was or not, the authorities think he was." "I'm more likely to believe you were the one mixed up in drugs." She pulled back, putting space between them. "You look like a man who would do anything." Her whisper was tense. "Did you kill him?" She moved back one step. Then another. He followed her, staying close so that his low, angry voice would reach only her. "Is that what you think, Catherine? Do you think I killed him? I had motive, didn't I?" He felt his face form a mask of anger, saw her eyes widen with fear. "Do I frighten you? Do you think that if I killed Brent, I might kill you, too? After all, you were both equally guilty, weren't you?"

Ten Was she afraid that he would kill her? She was frightened, certainly, her heart thundering in her ears, but no, of course he could not hurt her here with armed men watching. She moved away from him, not answering his angry accusation, relieved when he let her go. She could hear the subdued sounds of a search down below. She could see the dark eyes of two men with machine guns. If she had any sense, she would have left with the woman named Liz. Or later, when the greasespattered man left in the Zodiac. But, damn it! She was not going to walk out and give up her boat to this stranger. All right. When the time came, she would bow to the inevitable. Lorne had made it clear that Welland's legal claim was valid. But, meanwhile, she was damned well going to find out what this was all about. Perhaps she owed it to Brent to find out what had happened, not to let Far Reacher go without at least a fight. She certainly owed it to herself. She had assumed that Brent was killed in some kind of random tourist killing, one of those murders you heard about happening in far-off corners of the world. Mexico. Foreign. Exotic. A bit dangerous. Brent had been unlucky. Dale Welland. The mild expression on his face had exploded into fury. Now the anger was gone again and his face was a mask, covering something deeper. He was watching her, more suspicious of her than she had expected. What did he think she had done? Conspired with Brent to cheat him? Had Brent cheated Welland? Or was Welland the one who had committed a crime? He was not what she expected. She had expected someone more like Jerry. A sailing enthusiast. Welland was something else, something she did not trust. Too much was hidden behind those eyes. Drugs, he said. The authorities were looking for drugs. Brent might do a lot of things, but he would never become involved in drugs. Yet the suggestion meant. Men with guns, searching. Brent murdered. If Welland were to commit a murder, it would not show in his eyes. He would be calm and still. She would never see the answer by watching his eyes while she made the suggestion. Catherine moved to a chair on the fore deck, brushed dust from the canvas seat before she sat down. Below decks, she could hear slight sounds, quickly spoken Spanish. She did not know what it was all about, but Welland was right. It would be better not to go down below. She would wait. She smiled slightly. It came back to basic accounting principles: gather data before taking action. She sat quietly, ignoring him, taking in every detail. She should have gained a psychological advantage by not speaking, but he was playing the same game. He put away the tools he had been working with, moved here and there, sweeping dust off the deck, tending to things, in his turn ignoring the two men

standing on the back deck of the motor launch. The machine guns had relaxed and were pointing down towards the deck while the two guards talked quietly. At the front of the launch, through an open window, she could see a man at the helm. The launch was not tied to Far Reacher. The captain was holding the two vessels together with his engine and the steering. Welland ignored it all, establishing his claim with tools and attention to the boat. He was showing her that he was the one who tended Far Reacher, who touched and possessed her. She came to her feet when the three men from below reappeared on deck. She met them with Welland at her side. Whatever was to be said, she wanted to hear it. Captain Robles" eyes settled on her. "Mrs. Markesson," he said in a slow, stilted voice. "You have tourist card? Pasaporte?" She brought her passport out of her purse and handed it to him. "The tourist card is inside." He opened her passport and unfolded the Mexican tourist permit. He studied the papers silently for a moment. When he looked up at her, his dark eyes full of questions, but he said only, "You are staying here? On this boat?" "At the hotel Los Arcos." He nodded. "You will meet me there, tonight at eight o. clock, in the lobby." His smile did not extend to his eyes. "We will have a conversation." "Eight o'clock," she agreed, careful to keep her voice empty of emotion. What did he want to ask her? Or to tell her? He handed her passport back. She put it in her purse. She thought words would pass between Welland and Robles, but the Mexican official only nodded, then turned and stepped across to the launch. The two armed policemen followed him. "Friend of yours?" she asked as the launch powered away from them. "He's no one's friend. If I were you, I'd be careful of him. The officials down here aren't averse to throwing you in jail if they think you have information they want." "You'd know about that, wouldn't you?" His scantily dressed body tensed and she stepped back. "Do you have some purpose to coming down here?" "Yes." They were both silent, then he said, "Look, I've got some business to take care of. Why don't I send you ashore in a panga. I'll meet you at the Los Arcos bar at four. We can talk then." "Before I talk to Mr. Robles?" "Captain Robles," he corrected. "Yes, before you talk to him or any other nosy officials." She considered, trying to evaluate him. She said slowly, "I don't trust you. How do I know you won't pull anchor and disappear?" "That was your husband's trick, not mine. In any case, there's a harbor full of officials keeping a very close eye on this boat. This is a navy base, not the kind of port you slip out of without clearance." They stared at each other, neither one giving way. "Four o'clock?" he suggested. "Four o'clock," she agreed.

†† Dale made the most of the time he had. A quick visit to the lawyer. A call to Fernando. Then to the shops. He was damned if he was going to meet her in greasy shorts. This time, they were starting off on an even footing, on neutral ground. The bar was quiet. He saw her at once, sitting at a table near the window, looking out over the water. He nodded to the Mexican who appeared to seat him. "La señora," he said, gesturing towards Catherine. The waiter nodded and gestured for him to seat himself. Catherine did not look up as he approached, although he believed she was aware of his presence. He stopped, standing behind the chair across from her, looking down at her. In the low-lit room, her dark hair seemed almost black, yet the gentle waves of her short hairstyle caught the light as she turned her head to look up at him. Her face was still, waiting. Strong. Brent had seen that in her, the strength. But Brent had seen more, a whimsical dreamer that moved to his side and helped him reach for his dreams. He jerked his thoughts away. Fool! It had been lies, and she was lies, too. Silently, he pulled the chair out and sat down, setting the leather attaché case on the edge of the table, not quite between them. Her eyes followed the case. "That was Brent's," she said quietly. "I gave it to him." Damn! In his determination to claim the boat, he had not stopped to consider the personal effects that were on it. Not good, he decided. She was victor of the first skirmish of this meeting. He met her eyes, was shocked to see the echo of a hurt vulnerability in hers. It was quickly shuttered, but he would have sworn he had seen it. "I'm sorry. Brent kept the ship's papers in it. I always thought of it as part of the boat's equipment and supplies. I'll give it to you tomorrow." She frowned and he said, "Right now I've got it full of documents and papers. Mine. I'll clear it out tonight." She did not nod or acknowledge his words in any way. She was still staring at the attaché case. "Do you have the sale agreement with Brent there?" He opened the case, found it and handed it to her. "My lawyer has the original." She hesitated, staring down at the document in her hands. It was folded in legal style, with his lawyer's name and address on the front, the words Bill of Sale written in large print. He saw her fingers tense on the paper, saw her jaw jerk as she opened the document. She turned to the last page at once, stared down at the signatures. Her fingers brushed the uneven scrawl of Brent's signature and Dale heard the sharp intake of her breath, but she said nothing. Then she turned back to the first page and proceeded to read through the document, word by word, carefully. When she was done, she sat silently, staring at a point in space, the muscles of her face very still. She seemed not to see the waiter who appeared at their table. "Cerveza," said Dale. Catherine's glass was empty. He was not sure what it had contained. He pointed to it, said to the waiter, "Mas, por favor." "Where is the Blue Book?" Catherine asked when the waiter had gone. She was not looking at him, but he could see her fingers tense on the Bill of Sale. "Which Blue Book?" Her eyes jerked to his, then the surprise faded and he could see only a cautious watchfulness. "Explain what you mean by that."

She was probably an excellent actress. She was one of the most controlled women he had ever met. "The Blue Book of Registry was given to my lawyer, by Brent, at the time we had the Bill of Sale drawn up. I should say, a Blue Book. It listed only one owner. I accepted it at the time, as did my lawyer. However, when the documents were filed with Ship's Registry in Canada, my lawyer was informed that the Blue Book did not agree with the registration records. According to those records, Markesson was not the sole owner of Far Reacher." "Perhaps the Blue Book was just a clerical error, a mistake made at the register office." "Perhaps." His voice made it plain that he did not accept that explanation. He accepted the cold glass of beer from the waiter, watched as Catherine's empty glass was replaced with a full one. The ice clinked as she lifted the glass and took the straw in her mouth. "Perhaps," he said again as the waiter left. "But in that case, why did the authorities find a second Blue Book when they searched the boat?" Her eyes fell to the paper in front of her and she took a deep, ragged breath. For the first time, her voice trembled. "Brent cheated you." She closed her eyes, opened them again. "My lawyer said the Blue Book must be forged, but I didn't believe it." "Markesson conned me, all right, but I'm not at all sure that you weren't part of it. You were the legal detail that would screw up the sale when I went looking for Far Reacher. You. " "What do you mean, looking for?" Calm, he told himself. Anger is no way to get the better of this woman. He put his glass down carefully, said tonelessly, "Brent and I went to the States to sign the papers. I handed over fifty thousand, a third of the purchase price. A certified check. The other half, I left in trust with my lawyer, but of course Brent knew he would never see the other half. After the legal stuff was done, after he'd traded my check for cash, he took a plane back to Mexico, to Far Reacher which was anchored at Santispac. He. " "Santispac?" "North of here, an anchorage. I was to follow him, to meet him at Santispac. Then we were going to take the boat to the States. My boat. Back to San Francisco." "I don't believe it." She stirred the ice with her straw, said with conviction, "Brent wouldn't give up Far Reacher." "No, he wouldn't." All lies ... Catherine who had died ... Brent's grief. "He never intended giving it up. When I got to Santispac, he was gone. I traced him to La Paz, but by the time I got here he was dead." He saw her throat convulse as she swallowed. "How do I know you didn't kill him?" "You don't, I suppose. Except that I didn't benefit. I could have tied him in knots here in Mexico by producing that Bill of Sale to the port captain. With him dead, I've got far more trouble getting hold of the boat than I had with him alive." Her chin went up, her eyes accusing. "It seems to me that you've got possession." He shook his head. "It may look that way, but I can't move without filing a crew list with the Port Captain and Immigration. And I can't file a crew list, because Markesson is registered with the Mexicans as Captain of Far Reacher. Only the Captain or the pilot can remove a foreign vessel from a Mexican port." "You could have killed him," she said musingly, talking to herself more than to him. "You could have killed him because he slipped out of Santispac. Maybe you didn't know then that there would be a problem on the ownership. If. "

"When I got to Far Reacher I found it under guard. Brent was already dead. The police took me in for questioning. I can assure you that if there was any possibility that I could have killed your husband, I'd still be in that jail!" He could see the tension in her, the quick, shallow breaths she was taking. Then, suddenly, she relaxed and gave a hard, short laugh. "I don't believe I'm sitting here, discussing with a stranger whether or not he killed my husband." He shot back quietly, "And whether or not you were involved in conning me out of fifty thousand dollars?" She shook her head. "I haven't seen him for four years. Four years last June." "June the twelfth?" "Yes, I-#151;how do you know that? How can you know that?" "You were sick? With appendicitis?" "No!" She clenched her fingers on the glass. Her voice was not steady, although it was strong. "No. I was doing an audit. An audit of a service station." "A gas station audit?" He couldn't believe it. He shook his head, said, "You were in hospital, appendicitis. He visited you there before you went in for surgery. It was the week you were to have left Vancouver, sailing off in Far Reacher. Then, on the twelfth, you died on the operating table." "What are you talking about?" She swallowed. "What is this? Are you trying to play some kind of cruel game with me? I can't. " "He told me Catherine died on the operating table." He saw the shock in her eyes and knew it could not be faked. Then, as he watched, her disbelief was replaced by acceptance. "I see," she said finally. "I don't." She was cool again, sipping the drink. She said, "Brent always did think in images, metaphors. Our. Our marriage ended, or I died. What. s the difference?" She shrugged. "That's not the point, is it? The reality of our business is that you want me to give you permission to take Far Reacher out of Mexico. The reality is that I'm not prepared to hand the boat over to you. I don't trust you." "That's a problem. Especially as I don't trust you either. But I think it's important to get Far Reacher out of Mexico. The officials took it under guard when Brent died, and. " "Which officials? If find this vagueness irritating. Who were the men in that launch? Captain Robles. Captain of what?" "It's always very vague. The navy placed a guard on Far Reacher when Brent's body was identified, apparently at the request of the Port Captain. As for the other officials, it seems that the ones with machine guns and no uniforms are federales, federal police, judicial federal, undercover, and in this case they seem to think that your husband and his boat were involved in narcotics trafficking. What kind of narcotics, I haven't been able to find out." He spread his hands expressively. "In addition, there have been police, city police, and also officials of the Port Captain's office. And immigration officials." He shrugged. "This country is teeming with officials and they all seem to have an interest in Far Reacher." She sipped her drink, thinking, then asked, "Where do you get all this information?" "The lawyer here in La Paz that I retained to try to help straighten out the mess. And Fernando

Salvadori, a Mexican of some influence here." "And you're telling me that Brent was trafficking in narcotics?" "I'm not sure he was, but the authorities seem to believe it, and that's a hell of a good reason for you and I to give priority to getting Far Reacher out of Mexico. Before they decide that searching requires taking the boat apart piece by piece. I wouldn't want to guarantee that they'd put it back together again!" After a long silence, she said, "You could be the trafficker." He could deny the charge, but if she believed it, denial would make no difference. "You could be a con lady. We still have to get the boat out of here. We can settle the ownership thing much more easily in the States." "Settling it requires that one of us agree to lose Far Reacher." "Or that we go to court and let the courts rule. The Bill of Sale was signed in California. That makes it the logical jurisdiction for a court ruling." She almost smiled. "The boat's registered in Canada. Obviously, we're not ready to settle the issue today. So, given that I agree with moving the boat out of Mexico, we still have a problem. I'm not willing to trust you to do it." "You have no choice." "I could put my agent on board to deliver the boat." "I'm not willing to trust you, either, Mrs. Markesson. The next thing I know, the boat would be in Canada and I'd have a hell of a legal battle on my hands. I'm keeping my property in my sight, and in my possession, until this is settled." She nodded and he realized that she had not expected him to consent to her suggestion. "There's only one way that I will give my consent to your removing the boat from La Paz, much less from Mexico." "And that is?" He realized with a wry amusement that they sounded like two businessmen forcing themselves to a calm negotiation of a hotly-disputed rivalry. "I'll sail with you, along with another crew member of my choice. He'll be arriving tomorrow." Her brown eyes watched for his reaction. "No!" His calmness was gone, flown with the image of Catherine sharing the close confines of Far Reacher with him. Catherine, Brent's ghost. Or Catherine, the cold reality. He said, "I have crew already. There isn't room." "What crew?" "Liz and Ron. They're experienced. They've sailed their own boat from New Zealand. They're much more experienced crew than you and your. " "My crew member is a veteran of both the Swiftsure and the America's cup, as well as a circumnavigator. And there's plenty of room." Dale shook his head. "No, there isn't. There's Fernando, too. He's sailing with us. If he doesn't sail with us, it's quite possible we won't get clearance to leave port. He's helped me to arrange the agreement, that we'll get clearance if you sign consent. Without his goodwill, it might. " "That's crazy," she said impatiently. "Between us, you and I certainly constitute ownership of the boat." "Perhaps," he agreed, "but you're leaving out something. I didn't know it at the time I bought the boat

from Brent, but it's illegal to sell a foreign vessel in Mexican waters. The only legal way to transact a sale, from the Mexican point of view, is to take the boat out of Mexico, then sell it." "So the sale is void," she said with satisfaction. "No, not according to the lawyer I talked to. But the Port Captain could easily decide that the boat should be impounded again. The authorities could easily rule that a sales tax is payable to the Mexican government. Fernando can get around that and. " "Bribery?" He sipped his beer although there was only a dribble left in the glass. "I'm afraid it's a fact of life down here. Mordida is often the only thing that will make the official wheels turn." She stared at him and he saw her jaw working. "All right," she said finally, but he suspected that she would find some way to check the facts he had given her. "So Fernando is crew. You and Liz and Ron, and Fernando. Add me and Jerry. That's six. Far Reacher is built to take six crew. Single in the forward cabin. Single in the aft. Double in the port stateroom. And. " "I've taken over the port stateroom," he said flatly. "That's my cabin." Her fingers curled into the Bill of Sale that was still in front of her. He realized with an unpleasant shock that she must have shared the stateroom with Brent. It was the only double in the boat. She picked up her drink and gulped a mouthful. He pushed aside the guilty thought that he was hurting her with his words. She spoke very slowly and deliberately. "Then you can share your cabin with Fernando, or you can give it up for Liz and Ron, who I presume are a couple. As I said, that's four. The remaining two berths are in the salon. " "There's only one in the salon. The port berth is a full bunk, but the starboard is too short because of. " She laughed then, a husky sound of victory. "You don't know the boat all that well, do you, Mr. Welland? For your information, the back of the port berth swings up into an upper bunk. Give it a try when you get back there tonight, and you'll see." She had scored on him, and he resented that he found himself keeping track of who was ahead, as if it were a contest between children. "I'll think it over," he said finally. "Do that," she agreed. "Do you have the papers that you want me to sign? If you'll give me a copy, I'll look them over tonight." He found them in the attaché case and handed them to her. "The Bill of Sale?" he asked. Still holding the consent forms he had given her, she picked up the Bill of Sale and held it out to him. He watched the consent papers disappear into her handbag. She said, "I'll be in the cafeteria here at nine tomorrow morning. We can go to the lawyer together." She got up with a cool smile, shouldered her handbag and walked out of the bar. It was several minutes before he realized that she had left him with the tab. Oddly, that fact amused rather than angered him. †† The telephone connection was poor. Alpha said coldly, "Repeat that." "I said I'm going to be on the boat." "Going to be? Gamma, aren't you somewhat behind schedule?" "I know, it's been slower than I thought, but there have been difficulties."

"Difficulties?" Alpha laughed. Gamma found the sound unsettling. He knew that Alpha would be smiling. "I pay you to overcome difficulties?" Gamma said quickly, "The boat is leaving La Paz on Wednesday." "Tell me something I don't know." "How can you know? You. " "Gamma, get to the point!" "I'll be on board. I'll find. " "What about Welland? What are his motives? Does he know where it is?" "That will take time. Welland has been very careful. If you will just. " "No, Gamma, I will not just anything. I also will be on board. Be certain that you do not show your surprise when you meet me. We have never met before." There was a click, then a hollow sound on the line. Gamma found himself staring at the receiver, listening to a loud, sharp tone. The Mexican version of a busy signal. Slowly, he replaced the receiver. He did not like the thought of Alpha, in the field, watching him, judging his effectiveness. Alpha's eyes were entirely too sharp.

Eleven Catherine tensed as she felt the boat come down hard, heard the crash of the sea against the bow. What insanity had led her into this situation? She winced as another wave pounded, felt her breath go short as wind and wave combined to throw her against the wall of her bunk. Cabo San Lucas to San Diego. A seven day passage if winds were fair. Fourteen days at the most. One long tack out to sea. She remembered when she had first overheard Dale Welland and Jerry Mordichaih discussing it. There had been the voices of the two men, the rustle of charts. They were taking advantage of Liz and Ron's trip ashore in Cabo San Lucas to have a private planning meeting. Welland, the captain, and his first mate. Surprisingly, after her having forced Jerry onto Welland, the two men seemed to get on well. Welland evidently appreciated Jerry's experience, while Jerry gave the impression of trusting Welland's judgment. "More miles," Jerry had said, "but if you go out to sea, you'll have the wind in a quarter that's possible for sailing. Otherwise, it. s a long, hard motor all the way, against the prevailing north-westerlies. Everyone will get sick." "But we'll be able to anchor every night, get a rest." Unseen by the men, Catherine had nodded agreement, perhaps the first time she had wholeheartedly agreed with the man who claimed ownership of Far Reacher. Jerry had laughed, that attractive rumble that came so easily to him. "If you can call it sleep. The anchorages on the west coast of the Baja are generally a matter of hanging the hook around the corner, partly sheltered from the north wind. As Baja anchorages go, this one here at Cabo is pretty good." Catherine had shifted, grabbing onto the edge of the cupboard she was checking. OK, so they would spend their nights in constant motion. She could handle that. As long as they stopped every night. Dale had said, "Odd how the ocean swell manages to twist around the corners like that."

Anchored at Cabo San Lucas, Far Reacher had been swinging a few hundred feet off the extreme southern end of the Baja, with several hundred other boats for company. Cabo was the last outpost of civilization if you were heading north to the States, the first if you were coming south. As an anchorage, it was poor but popular. In December of 1982 numerous boats had been wrecked in a storm, proving that Cabo was dangerous in the unlikely event of a strong winter southerly. Catherine had looked over and seen Welland frowning as he considered the chart. She had stayed behind when the others went ashore, as much to listen in on this planning session as to take a chance to evaluate the food stores herself in Liz's absence. As Holley had said, Jerry was good crew, an experienced sailor who had a knack for getting along with other people. Catherine had seen at once that Welland would accept Jerry's input much more easily than he would hers. For the most part, on the journey from La Paz to Cabo, she had stayed in the background, letting Jerry's position as first mate suffice for her input to the planning. The antagonism between Dale and Catherine made it almost impossible for them to agree on anything. Waiting for Welland's next comment, she had shifted six tins of cream of asparagus soup aside to see what was behind them. "How many secure all-weather anchorages are there between here and San Diego," Welland had asked. "There's three or four where you could make an attempt at shelter in a southerly, and quite a few that would give uncomfortable, rolling shelter from a northerly. The only all-weather anchorage I'd trust is Bahia Tortuga. Some people would add Bahia Magdalena to that, but I've heard of pretty bad squalls in there, boats dragged off strong anchors. For my money, Bahia Tortuga is the only one." "Turtle Bay," Welland had murmured. In the two weeks Catherine had known him, he had become noticeably more fluent in his Spanish, picking up phrases from both Fernando and Ron. "That's about halfway. All right, then, what if we do go out to sea?" Catherine had realized then that her fingers were gripping the soup tin hard enough to create numbness. She had set the tin down as Welland asked, "What about weather?" "Once the hurricane season's over, it's almost unheard of to get a storm on the Baja. We'll start out from Cabo making the best course we can, almost due west probably. As we pick up the northeast winds on the edge of the Pacific high, we'll keep easing our course further north. Winds will be. I'd expect, mostly five to fifteen knots. Good winds for beating into it, not too strong. If we get anything, it would be a front passing through. A front would give us southerlies." Catherine had been staring at the soup, so she had not seen Jerry's grin, but she could hear it. "Maybe a bit of rain, too, but we'd do well to hope for a front. A nice south wind would help us along nicely." Catherine had shifted tins while the silence stretched between the two men. They were both thinking. She could feel the scream inside her. Out at sea. No land anywhere in sight. Why, when she was such a good sailor in sight of land, did she always become so panicked at the thought of nothing but water around her? It's safer, Brent had told her so many times. Catherine, use your common sense. You know the boat's built for anything the sea can give it. You know most boats go down by hitting rocks. What could be safer than being out there miles from land? There's nothing to hit! It was not rational. She knew it was against logic. She prided herself in her ability to analyze, to be rational. But in this. She had tried, for Brent. She had talked logic to herself, gone to great pains to learn the theory of what made a sailboat so safe in huge seas. She had learned that he was right. Not many boats came to grief in the middle of the ocean. It was land that sank boats. She had even made

herself look at the people she knew who had sailed the oceans. Certainly, some of them were sensible, competent people like Holley. But others were not. If idiots like Brenda Whalley could circle the world in a boat, how could Catherine Markesson hesitate? But she did. Brent had sailed alone, without her. She had offered him a dream, then stepped back short of delivery. She had not blamed him for going, had even understood that it was better the way he had done it. Clean, like surgery. No good-byes. What in God's name had she thought she would prove by coming on this trip? Hopping up the Baja, she had thought. She had gone down to the marine store and purchased a Baja cruising guide, had traced the route in the comfort of her apartment in Vancouver. West coast, certainly. The open ocean. But it would be harbor hopping. She stepped off distances, calculated Far Reacher's speed. OK, so there would be one or two sections where an overnight sail would be necessary. She could handle that. But straight out to sea? "How long?" Welland's voice. "Say ten days. Fourteen at the most. Seven if we're fantastically lucky and get ideal winds all the way. If we don't get caught too near the center of the Pacific high. We'll sail when we can, motor when the winds die." She could not possibly do it. She would leave, go back to Vancouver. She had Jerry on board, her representative. With Fernando arriving before they left Cabo, there would be five crew without Catherine. Enough. What did it really matter if she made the trip? In the end, she would have to sign the papers Lorne had drawn up. Welland's boat. Not hers. Well, what did she expect? She was half-surprised to find that she was still Brent's wife, that he had not divorced her from some corner of the world. Ten days. Fourteen days. Out at sea. She stared at the soup. Liz had gone overboard on soup in stocking the shelves. Tomato soup. Vegetable soup. Onion soup. Mushroom soup. Cream of Asparagus, of Chicken, of Mushroom. In the next cupboard, tinned meats. She sorted through them, found a store of every kind of cracker that had ever been sold. Eventually, she realized that someone had said her name. "What?" Both men were looking at her. She came to her feet, found her knees cramped from crouching in front of the cupboard. "What do you think?" asked Welland. It was obvious that he was repeating himself. His eyes showed no sign of impatience, but she knew by now that he masked his feelings well. She shrugged, said, "If you like soup with crackers and corned beef, we can feed a crew of six for about a month. Powdered milk, too. And Granola." "I was asking about Olsen." She sensed his impatience now, although his voice was neutral and his eyes showed nothing. "Oh." Jerry said, "Come on, Catherine, wake up!" He was smiling at her now. She knew that if she smiled back at Jerry in a certain way, they would have an affair. Because the knowledge made her uncomfortable, she avoided being alone with him. Welland was asking about Warren Olsen. He had hailed Far Reacher when they arrived in port two days ago, looking up from a panga with a smile and asking for Brent Markesson. Friendly, although a rather somber man. Balding, the top of his head covered with a thin fuzz of gray-brown hair. Brown

eyes with heavy, busy brows over them. A mustache totally gray. He had offered to show them the way to the immigration and port captain's offices for their check-in procedure. He had been shocked at the news of Brent's death. "My God! I sailed with him for a year. Met him in Australia. He wanted crew to cruise to New Zealand, and I-#151;" He had wiped his forehead, although the air in Cabo's outer anchorage was comfortably cool. "I can't believe he's dead. I saw the boat and I thought, hell! Bloody Brent here! You never know where you'll run into a man. The ocean makes a small world, but I never really thought he'd get back this side of the Pacific. I thought. " Welland had invited him aboard, introduced him to their crew. Liz. Ron. Catherine, Brent's wife. Catherine had winced at Olsen's reaction. "But, I thought. Yes, damn it! It was Catherine! That was the name, and she's dead." He had frowned then, his mustache flattened and his voice sharp as he accused, "Are you his wife? Are you sure?" Why had it upset her so much? She had demanded tightly, "Would you like to see my marriage license?" "No, of course. I-#151;Sorry. I didn't mean anything by. Really none of my business." His face had flushed a deep, mottled red and he had looked at everyone present. They had all been staring at him silently, except for Catherine. "Of course, I've mixed it up. Someone else's wife, I guess. Meet so many people on the water." "What are you doing in Cabo?" Dale had asked, a merciful change of subject. "Holiday. Business I'm in, I can take a holiday when I like. I'm a writer. Doesn't matter where I do my work, you see." He had laughed, but no one had responded. "I came down here because of the boats. Nice beaches of course, and comfortable hotels, but it was the boats. Walking around here, I might see anyone. A lot of friends from the days when I was crewing for Brent, and you never know, maybe someone looking for crew. Another sailing holiday, that would set me up for the next three books." "But you didn't expect to find Brent?" Liz had asked, and her voice had been oddly flat, lacking its usual strident assertiveness. No one asked what kind of books Olsen wrote. He had proved to be a competent guide, although Catherine knew that a guide was not necessary. Jerry knew Cabo quite well. Jerry, tactfully, refrained from pointing that out. Catherine suspected that Ron and Liz also knew Cabo well, although they said they didn't. Warren Olsen approached them all as a group the next day. They had returned to town to complete their check-in procedure. The migracion office had been closed the day before by the time they got back to it with their stamped crew list. After going back the next day to hand in the copy of the crew list, they had found themselves at Popi's, an ice cream parlor that was frequented by most of the yachting crowd. "San Diego," Warren Olsen had said, looking around at all of them with his eyes oddly expressionless under the thick brows. He had pulled his chair closer, making himself one of the group at their table. "I'd love a trip to San Diego. I'm a free agent, you know. Writer. Name my own holidays. Work where I want. I came down by plane, so I don't have a car here, nothing to stop me stepping onto a boat and. Good crew, too. I can stand watches, hoist sail, anything you set me to." He had grinned then, the first time Catherine had seen him smile. "I'll even turn to cleaning out the head when it gets jammed. Marine toilets can be a bugger, but I'm a good hand. I once took a fish out of Far Reacher's outlet valve. This long!" He held up his fingers.

At the next table, a bearded man laughed, not even pretending not to listen. "Take him on," he had urged Dale. "Anything to get out of taking those friggin' toilets apart when they jam!" Why had he chosen Dale to speak to? Catherine had resented it, but acknowledged that in his quiet way, Dale radiated the assumption that he was the man who would make the decisions. To Olsen that day, he had said merely, "We'll think about it." Catherine had assumed he was not taking Olsen's offer seriously. Now she stalled for time, picking up a taco chip from in front of Jerry and nibbling on it. "Why do we need more crew? We've got six, or we will have tomorrow when Fernando comes." She bit her lip. She knew the answer to her own question. Because Catherine was going to skip out. Coastal hops were fine, lovely in fact. But out at sea. Somehow, she could not bring herself to say it. She avoided the eyes of both men. "Six. That's the perfect amount for three shifts, and the boat's pretty full." The captain frowned. "I wouldn't want to count on Fernando as a crew member. He wants to come. In fact, he's determined to come. But frankly, I don't think he knows beans about sailing. Jerry and I have been discussing it. We don't know until he comes on board tomorrow, but he could be useless. I think all the sailing he's done is in his head." "Then why take him with us!" Catherine asked sharply. "He's our price for getting out of Mexico with the boat, and without any more trouble." "I thought the bribe you paid was that price," she retorted. He had not actually admitted to paying a bribe, but she was quite certain that the charming Fernando had not helped arrange their departure papers without payment. Whoever he had gone to, whichever officials had expedited the arrangements, she suspected that money had changed hands. She shook off the thought. Mexico. Crazy that it could seem a world away from home. "In any case, we have the papers." "Something could be done to stop us yet. We haven't cleared out of Cabo." She took another chip, conceded, "OK. I'll concede that we're stuck with Fernando. But what guarantees that Olsen would be any better sailor? Jerry suggested, "I could take him out for some drinks, talk sailing. I think I could get a pretty good idea if he has the experience he says." "Good idea," said Dale and Catherine together. Catherine said, "And I'll check the log. If he was on board, it should be entered in the log." Jerry managed to hail a panga almost at once. Catherine went to the aft cabin for the log, but brought the book back into the dinette where the light was better. She started flipping through the pages. She found the sight of Brent's handwriting in pale blue ink a painful sight. Launching day. The entry in her own hand. A trip to northern Vancouver Island. Her writing, then Brent's. Georgia Strait. Puget Sound. Back to Vancouver. All Brent's writing. He enjoyed entering the log, and she liked to see him happy. Juan de Fuca Strait. Brent's writing. Alone on board. Neah Bay, then out to sea. San Francisco. The crew he took on in San Francisco was. Liz? No last name, just Liz. She fought the tightening in her throat. It could be anyone, so many women named Liz in the world. And it was not her right to protest, was it? She could have chosen to be on board. It could have been Catherine there.

"You didn't know, did you?" "What?" She jerked her head up. She had forgotten him. Had he been watching her? "Mr Welland. " "I think it's time you called me Dale." He smiled rather seriously. "You know, it's not an admission of defeat to use my first name. I won't be able to use it against you in court." She considered him, and not for the first time she wondered who he really was. If she asked, he might tell her, but somehow the way they had reacted to each other from the first made that impossible. "You didn't know that Brent was going around saying you were dead?" She looked down at the handwriting, turned page after page and saw the names flow past her. San Diego. Cabo San Lucas. Acapulco. Then out to sea. The Marquesas. Tahiti. "Did you know?" "No." It was important to her that her voice sound normal, not shaken. Liz had left the boat at Cabo San Lucas. Was it the same Liz? Was that why the other woman had been staring at her with hatred in her eyes yesterday? Catherine turned another page. "He's here. Warren Olsen. Australia." Australia. A world away. Dale took the book from her, bent to read. "A writer," he murmured. "I suppose that much is true. I wonder if the rest is." He looked up and she saw for the first time that his blue eyes had flecks of a dusty gold in them. "I'm sorry, Catherine." "What?" "All this. You. I'm not saying I'm giving up any claim I have to this boat. I'm not. But it was never my intention to hurt you." "You haven't hurt me." Her voice was hard. She pulled the log back, read the words herself. Very quietly, he said, "Perhaps not, but I suspect that your husband conned you, the same as he did me. Maybe a lot of other people." She shook her head in denial. He shrugged away something that made his voice husky, said, "I'm sorry I thought you were part of it." Who are you, Dale Welland? What are you? For that matter, what are all these people? An accidental collection of sailors wanting to crew? Or something more? "We don't have room for another crew member," Dale said. She heard herself disagreeing. "Actually, we do. The counter in the passageway to the aft cabin. There's a board on the wall, it lifts down to make a bunk when it's in place beside the counter. The cushions on the starboard settee fit in there. It puts the passage to the aft cabin out of commission, means you have to go up through the cockpit to get from back there into the front of the boat." She pushed her short hair back, repeated Brent's words. "It's quite a comfortable sea berth." She looked back over to the galley, said, "I think we should stock some more real food. Everything in that galley is for sailors with weak stomachs. If we're going to be out ten days, some of us are bound to get genuinely hungry." One more chance to tell him that she would not be sailing with the rest of them. Tomorrow, she promised herself, but still her lips were silent. The last day, and everyone was busy. Fernando arrived with charming smiles and brand new blue jeans. Catherine went into Cabo by panga to supplement their food stores. Then, at the last minute, Warren Olsen moved aboard. Last day. Dale made out the check-out crew list. Jerry posted the duty roster. Catherine said nothing. She went into town to a farmacia to buy what she needed if her period should arrive before their trip

was over. Afternoon. All together, seven of them, filing into the migracion office. The tension as the immigration officer looked over all their passports and tourist cards, the crew list. There was no reason for apprehension, except the natural fears that sprung into everyone's mind when a frowning official perused passports. Fernando chatted in Spanish, with smiles and the rather courtly air of the upper class Mexican. The forms were stamped and signed, instructions given sending them to the port captain, then back to migracion with a processed copy of the crew list. "If they put the offices side-by-side it would be a hell of a lot simpler," Liz complained as they left the office. She swung her hips and Catherine saw the immigration officer's eyes watching the exposed length of Liz's brown legs under very brief shorts. Catherine, in slacks and a sleeveless cotton blouse, felt hot, and resentful of her own inhibitions. Dale announced a rearrangement of sleeping quarters during the evening. "Warren tells me he never gets seasick, and he doesn't mind having the forward cabin. So I'm letting him have it." "No contest," said Jerry with a grin. "I'll move out and it's all his." Dale nodded. "All right. Jerry, you can have the pilot berth in the passageway aft. I'll take the aft cabin. The women can share the stateroom. Other than the forward cabin, the stateroom's the only cabin with privacy and a door to close." Catherine managed not to frown although she had tensed at the thought of sharing with Liz. The other woman had her lips open to protest, but Dale rode over her. "Fernando and Ron in the salon." He looked at them all, said, "Anyone who doesn't like their room assignment, talk to me later. Meanwhile, it stands. We'll be taking four-hour watches in pairs. Liz and Catherine, you're on different watches, so you'll each have the room to yourself for at least two watches each day." "What about the watch schedule?" asked Fernando. "If there are to be two people on watch each time, we are one person too many." "Or one too little," suggested Ron. "It depends how you look at it." Dale nodded. "We're on watch in pairs. Three pairs assigned to each twenty-four hour period with four-hour watches. Odd man looks after the galley, prepares a hot meal for lunch, makes soup in the thermos and sandwiches for supper. Does all the dishes and so forth." Fernando was frowning. "I do not think that I can have a galley shift. I am not accustomed to cooking." Jerry's mouth twitched. Dale said casually, "Then you can make sandwiches, or serve crackers and sliced corned beef. Whatever. You're cook on day three. The schedule's on the wall." Catherine had seen the schedule earlier when Dale and Jerry were working it out. At first glance it seemed complicated, but each person kept the same rotating four hour watch until their galley day. After they had done a day in the galley, each person replaced the watch position of the next galley slave. The schedule was discussed. Fernando seemed to be the only one unhappy about it. Jerry wandered off with Fernando, offering to help him move his things into his bunk. Catherine suspected that Jerry would calm the Mexican's outraged machismo and persuade him that even men did galley duty on board ship. "We'll need bread baked every third or fourth day," Dale was saying. "That's separate from galley duty. Jerry's volunteered to look after the bread, but if anyone else feels up to baking bread at sea, talk to Jerry. He's the expert, but I imagine he'll welcome the help."

They left Cabo San Lucas that night at midnight, under a full moon. Far Reacher's engines started and she slipped her mooring. There was a light wind and a rough chop that seemed to grow out of nowhere. Slowly, the ketch drew away from the boats at anchor, pressing against the confused seas towards the darkness. Everyone stood on deck, watching the lights grow smaller and dimmer. Dale, at the wheel, followed the recommended route, slipping along the bottom of the Baja peninsula close to shore to avoid the tumultuous confluence of the currents from the Sea of Cortez and the open Pacific. Following the duty roster he had drawn up with Jerry earlier, Dale shared this watch with Liz. Catherine was to be cook the first day, although her duties in the galley would not start until seven in the morning. She went below to the cabin she was sharing with Liz, wanting to get to sleep while land was still in sight. Surprisingly, she fell asleep almost at once, rocked by the motion of the slight swell and the noise of the engine. The motion was not unlike a crossing of Georgia Strait near Vancouver. Besides, it was too late to get off now. She may as well sleep. She woke in total darkness, a loud noise echoing in her mind. Her eyes flew open, her heart stopped, then beat with panicked force. The boat lifted, then slammed down on a wave. She could hear the wind in the sails, could feel the violence of Far Reacher's motion. She crouched on the bunk, looking out the window for something, anything. The boat lurched and she grabbed wildly for the edge of the vanity at the head of the bunk. She felt the ache in her shoulder as her arm took the jerking force of her weight. She got her arms wedged, bracing herself between the wall and the vanity. The porthole was dark, then racing with wild, black water as a wave caught in the outer frame and circled the glass with angry froth. When the water left the window, she could see only a strange luminescence, the phosphorescence of the ocean water showing where the waves broke on the surface of the Pacific. Shivering, she curled her body into the mattress. She was thrown across the bunk by the next wave, then twisted her body to brace her feet on one wall of the double berth, her head and shoulders against the pillow in a corner at the other side. She lifted her watch and pushed the button, but the tiny light glared in her eyes and she could see nothing, no numbers. She carefully turned on her reading light, shielded her eyes, and looked at her watch. Ten to six. They had been sailing almost six hours. Six hours at six knots. Thirty six nautical miles. Nine hundred more to go! She was not going to be able to do it. She had thought she could trick herself, get out here and somehow manage to shake the fear. It was not going to work. Ten days of terror, maybe fourteen days. She huddled in a panic, pulling a sleeping bag over her against the cold. Was it actually cold? Or was it her nerves? She closed her eyes and tried to still her breathing. Far Reacher moved quietly, surging through the waves for a moment. Then she rose up and slammed into a wave. Then another, the boat heeling further to port. Catherine. s heart stopped. Finally, the motion quieted. She let her eyes close again. Sleep now. She had another hour. She would wish for that extra hour of sleep later. She was used to a precise eight hours of sleep each night and she tended to build a headache if she did not get it. The wave slammed into her porthole, threw her against the side of the bunk, her shoulder smashing

into the bottom corner of a magazine rack. Who was on watch? Six in the morning. Jerry and Fernando should have taken over for Dale and Liz at four. But Liz had not come into this stateroom. Catherine had possession of the double berth, alone. She strained, listening for some sound that would tell her there was someone alive up there. Were they careening out to sea, with no one at the helm? She gave up trying to sleep. Dressing with the boat's motion was difficult. In the end, she sat down on the step that led up to the bunk and pulled on a jogging suit, leaving off her bra for the time being. In the dead of night, who would know or care? She opened the door to the passageway and found it chilly there as well. She stumbled back into the stateroom to turn off the light. With seven people on board using lights, and with the freezer going full blast, they had to conserve power to avoid the batteries going dead. Standing in the passageway, bracing herself between the narrow walls, she realized what had woken her. The engine had stopped. They were pushing through the water under sail power alone. She found Liz lying on the lower salon berth that had been assigned to Fernando. The woman was on her stomach, head pillowed by her arms. For once, she was covered, a blanket twisted around her. She was breathing through her mouth, making a slight, unladylike noise with each exhalation. At that moment Catherine would have appreciated even Liz's company. Both the hatch and the door to the cockpit were closed. She knew it was crazy to speculate that both Jerry and Fernando had disappeared overboard, but she had to know. She climbed halfway up the stairs to reach the hatch and slide it forward. The first thing she saw was Jerry's head, surrounded by black sky and stars. She sagged with relief. He grinned down at her. "Hi! Early for galley duty, isn. t it?" "A bit," she agreed. Fernando's head appeared beside Jerry's and she asked, "Would you two like some coffee?" "Love it!" said Jerry. Fernando greeted her in courtly Spanish. She nodded to Fernando, then to Jerry who was saying, "But make it decaf. We're off in an hour. We want to sleep." She filled the kettle, turning on the electric water pump in the galley and bracing her hip against the stove for balance. She lit the gas element at the back of the stove, then tightened the holder around the kettle to make sure it would not go flying across the boat. She made a pot of strong coffee in the filter maker, balancing the filter holder over the thermos in the sink so nothing would fall when the boat lurched. Then she put the instant decaffeinated powder in two cups for the men on watch. She took Jerry his coffee first, stirring in the sugar and cream he liked. He smiled as she handed it to him. "Fernando, what do you take in your coffee?" "Take?" He blinked, his usually excellent English failing him. "Sugar? Cream?" She gripped the top of the cockpit door as a big wave sent them heeling hard. "Sí," he agreed and she left it at that. She put one sugar and some of the milk from the cooler. If it wasn't what he wanted, he didn't complain. She cleaned up the small mess she had made, rinsing and drying the spoon and dumping out the coffee and filter into the garbage. She poured her own coffee then, the strong brew, then she put the thermos

in the lower cupboard where there was a secure place for it. Before she went up to the cockpit to drink her coffee in the warmth of human company, she went looking for the cause of the slight banging noise she could hear. She found it finally, among the pots and pans. She stuffed a towel into the cupboard and the sound stopped. The boat's motion was stiff and constant. She knew that it would go on that way as long as they were beating upwind. All the way to San Diego. Too long. "Did you sleep well, Catherine?" Fernando asked as she settled into the corner of the leeward cockpit seat with her coffee. "Yes, thanks. How was your watch?" Talking to Mexican men tended to make a woman stilted and overly polite, she decided with an inward smile. "It was very quiet," said Fernando politely. "It is a very beautiful night." Even through her discomfort she could see the beauty. Jerry leaned against the leeward side of the cockpit only a foot away from her, balancing without apparent effort while he drank his coffee and looked out at the dark, undulating water. Fernando sat across from her, his arm looped over the backrest for stability. Jerry was quieter than she had seen him before, but obviously enjoying his silent vigil of the seas. Fernando made conversation, asking her about Vancouver, which he had never visited. "I have been to Montreal," he told her. "It is very beautiful." "Yes," she agreed, "But it's nothing at all like Vancouver. Vancouver is more beautiful, and we speak English there, not French like they do in Montreal." Fernando asked, "You have sailed many times? You are very easy on your feet on the water." She laughed when she saw Jerry grin at the image of Catherine walking on water, and said, "I've sailed quite a bit, but not for some years." Jerry pulled the hatch closed to keep the cold ocean air out of the boat. They sat together sipping on coffee under the stars. All around them, the wind had stirred the water to excitement. The white froth of breaking waves glowed in the night, the phosphorescence of the sea turning the water alive. Even Fernando became quiet from the beauty of it. When the Mexican had finished his coffee, he stood up. "I will go inside for a moment." "OK," said Jerry. "Close the hatch behind you." When the hatch slid closed, he said to Catherine quietly, "He's gone to take a leak, but he's too much a polite upper class Mexican to say so in front of a lady. She laughed. "How is he? Is he any use on watch?" "Yeah, he's not bad." She could see Jerry's face plainly in the moonlight. She liked the way he always managed to look so relaxed. "He's all right on the steering. We're on autopilot now, but I had it on manual steering earlier, and I put him on the wheel. I showed him how to read the GPS, too, and enter our position in the log each hour." "Where are we?" She felt her own tension returning as she asked. "About forty miles along our way. We've been doing about six knots under sail, sometimes a little less." "Shouldn't we run the engine then?" She gripped her cup tightly. "Why is it so cold out here, Jerry? It was so hot in Cabo and La Paz, even at night it was warm."

"California current." His hand covered hers. She stood, moving to the other side, taking herself away from his touch as casually as possible. He did not seem to notice. He said, "The current flows all along California and the Baja, a cold water current, keeps the temperature down out here. And no, there. s no percentage in wasting fuel if we can sail at anything over four knots. If we run into bad head winds later, we'll need that fuel." She bit her lip. Six knots instead of seven. Less sometimes. One mile less every hour. Twenty-four in a day. One day added to their journey for every six days at sea. "It's great out here, isn't it." Jerry voice was filled with love of the ocean, pleasure in the waves and the star-filled sky. "Yes," she agreed. "Yes, it is." After all, he knew the ocean. If there were reason to be afraid, surely he would show nervousness. She tried to imagine a nervous Jerry Mordichaih, but it seemed an alien concept. It was hard to be terror-stricken in the face of his cheerfulness. She was glad that she had brought Jerry with her. Water everywhere, as far as she could see. The sun would rise soon. She could see the black waves turning to gray, could see farther, more miles of nothing. She stared out over the ocean to the west. Nothing for a couple of thousand miles, and then only a few islands. A big, big, empty ocean. She forced her thoughts into the pattern of the blue-water sailor ..'safer out at sea ... no rocks to hit, no ground swells from shallow waters ... safer with open ocean everywhere and no land in sight. Ten days. Fourteen days ... and nights. †† Darkness. It was dark in the small galley, too. A kerosene light was kept turned low through the night, but Alpha had reached up and given one short, hard blow of his breath over its chimney, and the flame had sputtered and died. Above, there were two people on watch. Only moments earlier, Alpha had lain in his berth, listening as one came down to get coffee for them both. Afterwards, one of them had slid the hatch closed. Alpha nodded, his head moving on the pillow, silently. Then he had risen, quiet in bare feet, moving to the galley and the lantern, holding onto the rails, the cabinets, anything that would keep his balance as the boat rocked in its windward beat. No sound. There must be no sound to wake the others. It was the best condition possible for a meeting at the moment. The crew on watch were both above decks. The noise of the hatch opening would warn of any approach. Everyone else on board was asleep, except for Alpha and one other. "Alpha?" It was a whisper, then the shadow of a presence at his side. "Quiet," Alpha warned, his own voice hardly louder than the sound of water rushing on the hull of the boat. "They're. " Gamma's voice broke off as Alpha gripped his shoulder hard. "You know that we have one of the Company on board?" "No. " "I recognized him. So should you, you fool! From Florida. Last year." His hand gripped Gamma's shoulder too tightly. He felt Gamma's jerk of realization. "Yes, he is good, that one. Not a man you notice. But you remember, don't you? You understand what has to be done?"

"Yes." Gamma pulled his shoulder away. "Yes. I'll look after it." Silence except for the sound of the boat on the water, the wind overhead. Two dark forms slipped away to their berths. Later, one of the crew on watch came down into the galley with the empty cups, stumbled and cursed in the dark. After fumbling for a moment, the drawer opened. A match was struck. The lantern lit. A voice mumbled, "Wind from the skylight must have blown it out." The boat slept. ††

Far Reacher's Duty Roster DAY 1 GALLEY - Catherine 0000-0400 Dale/Liz 0400-0800 Jerry/Fernando 0800-1200 Ron/Warren 1200-1600 Dale/Liz 1600-2000 Jerry/Fernando 2000-2400 Ron/Warren

DAY 2 GALLEY - Liz 0000-0400 Dale/Catherine 0400-0800 Jerry/Fernando 0800-1200 Ron/Warren 1200-1600 Dale/Catherine 1600-2000 Jerry/Fernando 2000-2400 Ron/Warren

DAY 3 GALLEY - Fernando 0000-0400 Dale/Catherine 0400-0800 Jerry/Liz 0800-1200 Ron/Warren 1200-1600 Dale/Catherine

1600-2000 Jerry/Liz 2000-2400 Ron/Warren

DAY 4 GALLEY - Warren 0000-0400 Dale/Catherine 0400-0800 Jerry/Liz 0800-1200 Ron/Fernando 1200-1600 Dale/Catherine 1600-2000 Jerry/Liz 2000-2400 Ron/Fernando

DAY 5 GALLEY - Dale 0000-0400 Warren/Catherine 0400-0800 Jerry/Liz 0800-1200 Ron/Fernando 1200-1600 Warren/Catherine 1600-2000 Jerry/Liz 2000-2400 Ron/Fernando

DAY 6 GALLEY - Jerry 0000-0400 Warren/Catherine 0400-0800 Dale/Liz 0800-1200 Ron/Fernando 1200-1600 Warren/Catherine 1600-2000 Dale/Liz 2000-2400 Ron/Fernando

DAY 7 GALLEY - Ron 0000-0400 Warren/Catherine 0400-0800 Dale/Liz 0800-1200 Jerry/Fernando 1200-1600 Warren/Catherine

1600-2000 Dale/Liz 2000-2400 Jerry/Fernando

DAY 8 GALLEY - Catherine 0000-0400 Warren/Ron 0400-0800 Dale/Liz 0800-1200 Jerry/Fernando 1200-1600 Warren/Ron 1600-2000 Dale/Liz 2000-2400 Jerry/Fernando

Twelve Day one. Fernando was dismally seasick by afternoon. He insisted on staying in the salon except on his watch, despite Jerry's warning that the motion was more unsettling below decks. Ron was seasick also, but he grimaced and philosophically insisted he would be over it in twenty-four hours. Warren, as he had bragged, managed to keep his stomach even when the bow pounded into the waves, throwing the occupant of the forward cabin repeatedly and violently up, then down. Dale himself made only one trip into the forward cabin in mid-afternoon, to check the electric light that Warren reported malfunctioning. He managed to change the twelve-volt bulb quickly enough to avoid getting sick, then he stumbled back topsides and vowed to stay away from the forward section of the boat in future. Catherine made sandwiches and soup for supper. Being in the galley, working while the boat pitched into the seas, she had plenty of excuse to feel ill; but if she felt sick, she said nothing about it to Dale. He noticed, however, that she seemed tense throughout the day. Dale and Liz shared two four-hour watches on day one, the second beginning at noon. To Dale's relief, the cooler air of the open Pacific had driven Liz to clothe herself in slacks and a cotton shirt with sleeves. He kept himself busy during their shared watches, plotting their course, tending sail, doing make-work when there was nothing required. He managed to arrive at the end of the second watch without being caught by any of Liz's physical overtures. Dale and Liz ate the supper Catherine had prepared when they came off the second watch. After eating, Dale said good night to Catherine who was washing dishes, and to Liz who seemed both sleepy and irritable. It was obvious to him that the two women did not like each other. He only hoped they would keep their antipathy to themselves. He managed almost six hours of solid sleep before he rose for the midnight shift that would begin day two. This time Liz would be cook and galley slave, with Catherine taking her place as Dale's watch partner. He emerged from the after cabin and found Warren in the cockpit. "Evening, captain," said Warren from his relaxed position against the cockpit combing.

"Busy shift?" Dale asked, stretching while he looked out over the dark water. The deck of Far Reacher was well-illuminated by moonlight, but Dale's eyes got lost trying to find a horizon on the dark water. "It'll be a while before we see land again," said Warren. Dale nodded. "I'm going below to dig up a coffee. Where's Ron?" "Gone down for a leak." Ron reappeared as Dale started down. Dale stood aside to let him up into the cockpit, then went forward himself to make a cup of coffee. He found Catherine just rising from Ron's upper bunk in the salon and frowned at her. "Why did you sleep there instead of in your own cabin?" Catherine shrugged. "Why not? Ron wasn't using the bunk. He's on watch." He had obviously goofed in allocating the stateroom to Liz and Catherine. It was an intimacy neither woman wanted. Last night he knew that Liz had used Jerry's berth after her first shift. He decided to leave the issue as long as there was no open problem. He had other things to worry about. They took turns in the head, then Dale made coffee and he and Catherine took over the watch just before midnight. It was a silent watch. Dale did not know what Catherine's motives for silence were. She had been like that ever since they left port in Cabo San Lucas. For his part, he was glad of the chance to spend four hours with no demands on him except for the pleasing routine of keeping night watch in light winds. He sat in the cockpit across from Catherine in silence, thinking. Someone was carefully and surreptitiously searching Far Reacher. Which of his crew could it be? He ended the watch without answering his own questions. That morning Liz baked bread on her galley shift, mumbling loudly that Fernando would not do it the next day, that at least she was willing to help Jerry out with the messy job. Liz's day in the galley produced a lunch of spicy, meat-filled tortillas. Fernando, who ate several, was violently sick afterwards. Catherine skipped the tortillas and ate only soda crackers, the first indication Dale had that she might be feeling seasick. Ron, slightly pale but claiming to feel better, ate only a couple of plain tortillas. Day three. Fernando had galley duty, a disaster. He managed breakfast well enough, cereal and milk, although after breakfast he broke two unbreakable bowls while washing up. Catherine, who was coming on watch at noon with Dale, suggested Fernando slice corned beef and put out crackers and tomatoes for lunch, supplementing the simple fare with soup. Dale approved the suggestion. It sounded like a foolproof meal. Fernando, however, managed to turn the tinned mushroom soup into a lumpy, watery mass. Warren and Jerry ate without comment, while everyone else neglected the soup and filled up on corned beef and crackers. Fernando ate nothing at all. Again, Fernando was sick. Warren washed dishes and cleaned the galley for him. For supper, a serve-yourself meal because of the rotating shifts, the Mexican heated the leftover soup and poured it into the thermos. Only Jerry ate it. They rest of the crew went to bed hungry. Mercifully, the sailing was going better than the cooking. As Jerry had predicted, the winds northwest of Cabo San Lucas were light north-easterlies. They managed to sail tight on the wind, bringing the course up above three hundred degrees magnetic without using the engine. With each day's passage, each day spent moving under sail, their fuel reserves were looking better. For three days the winds had blown across the starboard bow. Far Reacher had sailed with full working sail, rising to six and a half knots speed when the evening winds picked up, dropping to four in

the dead of night when the breezes were lightest. At the slower speeds, the boat's motion was less pleasant because of the constant northerly swell. He knew from reports on the shortwave radio that a fierce storm blew in the gulf of Alaska, thousands of miles away. At the center of the storm, the waves were forty feet high. Even along the California coast, the northerly swell generated by the Alaskan storm was eighteen feet out at sea. Halfway down the Baja, the swell had diminished to nine feet. Further south, it was less. The storm was not easing in its ferocity, so although they were sailing in fair winds, each day of northward travel took Far Reacher into heavier swells. When she drove forward at six knots, her forward momentum steadied the nauseous rolling. At lower speeds, the motion was felt by everyone. Day three ending. Shortly before midnight Ron woke Dale with a cup of coffee. The winds were brisk and the motion pleasant. Dale and Catherine were scheduled to take the midnight watch that would begin day four. When Dale arrived in the cockpit, he found Catherine already there and Ron enjoying a cup of hot chocolate before he went to bunk down. "Where's Warren?" Dale asked. Ron grinned, admitted, "I sent him off early, told him to get a good sleep." Dale didn't like the break in routine. "If that sort of thing starts, it won't end." "Take it easy, captain." Ron put a hand to his stomach and rubbed it gently. "I'm in agony after Fernando's cooking. Warren's on galley duty tomorrow. I want him well rested." Catherine giggled. Dale said, "I see your point. I'd do almost anything for a good meal, myself." What the hell, there was no point in being an ogre of a captain. "OK, let's allow the cook a good sleep." Ron tossed the dregs of his chocolate overboard on the leeward side. "I'm for bed, too," he said, moving to the companionway. "Everything's the same. Same course. Nothing different to report. We've been making good speed. I logged our position fifteen minutes ago." Dale closed the sliding hatch as Ron went below, leaving the door to the after cabin open. As he leaned back into the corner of the cockpit, Catherine asked, "Don't you get cold in the aft cabin when you sleep? The door's always open." "I don't mind it. I just pull up the blankets. How are you feeling? Better now?" "Wasn't I feeling well?" "You didn't look it. You've looked ... tense, I guess. Seasick?" "Only mildly." She gnawed on her lip, then looked away, drawing her feet up and staring out over the water. "There's cloud tonight," she said in a muted voice. "It's covering the moon. You can't see much out there." "Just water." Was she nervous? Catherine Markesson, afraid of being out at sea? She seemed almost totally unflappable, but ... "Everything's looking good," he said, feeling an unexpected need to reassure her. "I listened to WWV on the radio just before I went to bed. There are no tropical depressions, no storms except in the North Pacific. Alaska and British Columbia are taking a pounding, but down here it's just ..'smooth sailing." She sipped her coffee. She had been taking it black when she first came on board, but now she was putting cream in it. He wondered why the change. Easier on her stomach, perhaps? Was she feeling seasick?

"How long do you think it will be, at the rate we're going?" "If we manage to time our tack so that we take advantage of this northeasterly without getting caught in the calm of the Pacific high, we might make it in nine days." "From now?" She sounded alarmed. Had she programmed herself for a certain length of time. less than nine days? He suppressed the impulse to touch her. "Altogether, I meant. Six days more. We're about two thirds of the way up to the island of Cedros now." He put his coffee down, wedging it between a sheet winch and the edge of the cabin. He left her and went back to check on their position. Inside the aft cabin, he took their position off the GPS. the Global Positioning System. then plotted the position on the chart. "Right there," he called out to her. She twisted to look in over his arm. "It doesn't look that far from land." "A hundred miles. This chart covers a lot of area." "That's Cedros Island. There's a town, isn't there? It's a place we could actually sail in and stop if we wanted." "It isn't much of a town, and the winds are bad there because of the big bay." He set the parallel rule on the chart. "Anyway, that's our course. We'd be losing ground if we went in to Cedros. We should be changing course more to the north sometime tomorrow. No, I mean today, actually." "Day four," she said softly. He retrieved his coffee and they sat silently, sipping their drinks. It seemed easy to be quietly together with the sound of the wind and the water, the elemental feeling of the boat moving upon the ocean. Above them, the Mexican courtesy flag snapped as the wind caught it oddly. "It's fraying," she said, staring up at it. "Should we have it up? We're in international waters, aren't we?" "Yes. We've exited Mexico. If we were to come back into port, we'd have to get our boat visa redone." "Just as well," she said. "I think this boat should stay out of Mexico. It attracts all sorts of trouble. Armed guards. Searches." The unspoken words were between them. And murder. Her husband killed. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Brent. His death. I guess it was quite a shock to you." He shifted uncomfortably. "I could have been more understanding of that when you came down here." At first he thought she was not going to answer. "Not exactly a shock," she said finally. "It was ... it's a long time since I've seen Brent. He just sailed away, and my life closed in around the ... around the place where he had been." He had no idea what the situation had been between them. Obviously, she was not dead as Brent had claimed. "You weren't divorced?" "No. Just ... we weren't together." She said it without emotion. Dale felt unwilling to probe further. Changing the subject, he said, "I'm a city man. This is all strange to me. The water. The wind. The most I've done before is San Francisco bay. That was a long time ago."

"But you love sailing." He looked into the darkness at water taking slow, undulating shapes. "The dream," he said in a low voice. "It was the dream that got me." "Brent was good at dreams." She stood up abruptly, reaching in and pushing the lever that cut in the hydraulic chamber for the wheel, pushing the button that cut off the automatic steering system. She stepped to the wheel and started steering by hand. He watched her standing at the wheel, touching it lightly, adjusting their course as if she were a part of Far Reacher. "And you?" He asked. Catherine, Brent's magic mate. "I heard you were good at dreams, too?" "Did you?" She stared ahead, her body rigid. He had forgotten to turn off the aft cabin light. It's brilliance flowing through the cockpit made it almost impossible to see into the darkness beyond the boat. "What else did you hear about me?" Things he could not tell her. Virginal. Warm. A woman to hold hands with through a lifetime, for loving and passion and completion. She said harshly, "You heard I was dead. Brent told you that I was dead." She kept her face turned away from him. "It's true, you see. Catherine is dead. The woman who was good at dreams. She's dead." How the hell could any man sail away from this woman? She was strong and sure. She had chosen Brent. He'd walked away ..'sailed away from her. "He was a bastard," Dale said flatly. "An operator. A charming con-man." "I loved him!" She swung to face him. The boat heeled, wandering off course. She did not seem to notice the motion. Dale reached in and pushed the lever down, punched the autopilot back on duty. He saw her throat spasm as she swallowed. She was glaring at him without seeing him. "Do you understand that? Whatever he did, I loved him." "I know. I know you loved him." He reached out, but drew his hand back. "He told me." Catherine. I-#151;She loved me, Dale. She loved me as if I was the only man in the world ... Damn it, Dale! I was the only man in the world. In her world Dale said slowly, "I think pretending you were dead made it easier for him to remember you without facing the fact that he had failed you." The anger left her. Her breathing quieted. "How do you know anything at all about Brent and I?" "We talked. Hell, it was more than talk. Out there, on the Sea, it seemed easy to open up about things you never talk about. We both talked." He shrugged. "I guess that hurts, too, because I thought he was my friend." Her fingers rested on his arm. "You have to understand about Brent. It's all kind of a game for him. Brent was like the midway at the circus. The magic is all there if you don't question it too closely, but in the end the circus leaves town with your money." Dale covered her hand with his. "Why don't you hate him?" Her hand relaxed under his. "I could have gone with him. All I had to do was turn my business over to someone else, throw away my suits and buy some blue jeans and shorts, give up our house. Step off the

edge of the world." The wind seemed to hesitate, then firmed, causing the mainsail to sag listlessly against the mast, then snap hard and full. Dale took his hand off hers and she drew away from him. "Catherine. " If she was breathing, he could not see the signs. He snapped off the light in the aft cabin then he could see her silhouette against the sky, her face lifted to the wind. She said, "This whole trip. It was part of the problem, you see. When I met Brent, the dream was what he wanted, and I helped him. I had the money, enough to buy the hull and deck kit, income enough from my business to finance his building the rest. I helped with that, too. In return I got Brent and a couple of good years. Great years." She spread her hands out and asked, "Can you understand? It was like being a kid again, except that I never really was a kid that way. Carefree, easy, dreams and laughter." He understood all too well. Hell, maybe that was why he himself had fallen for Brent's dream so easily. Just trying to capture something that had not been there when he was young, something he had missed. "But then?" She filled her lungs with a slow breath, then let it out in an explosive surge. "The boat was launched, and we went sailing. I loved sailing. A great way to spend weekends, holidays, but the end of the rainbow for Brent had always been walking away from everything and living the life of a lotus eater." "You didn't want it?" She moved restlessly. "It wasn't a matter of want, so much. The dream sounded nice, but I guess to me. When it came down to it, I didn't want to lose everything else. I'd built up a successful business, and damn it! I was good at what I did." He was silent, rearranging his memories of Brent. "Brent could have compromised. So could you. You could have taken more time off, flown to join him here and there. People do it, and for some of them it works." She did not answer for a moment, then she said, "He didn't ask me to compromise. He never could compromise his dreams." He lifted the mainsheet and coiled it carefully, then hung it on its cleat. She pushed her hands into her pockets. "I was afraid. I was terrified to be out at sea, out of sight of land." How terrified? She stood here now, managing well enough. He suspected that Brent had not tried very hard to help her overcome her fear. "I'm sure everyone's afraid to some extent. I've had qualms myself." She laughed. "Stark terror? You don't know how hard it was for me to set sail from Cabo the other day. Until then it was OK, knowing we were setting in to port every day. But. " She was shocked at herself, talking to him as if he were her own subconscious. He touched her hand fleetingly, as if understanding without pressure. She found that she liked that, but her pleasure made her uncomfortable. "Hand me my harness, will you? I'll take down the Mexican flag." "I'll do it," he said, reaching in for his own harness. "No, I'd like to."

He shrugged, dropping his harness back and bringing hers out instead. Out on deck she could feel the wind caressing her body. She braced herself, untied the flag halyard and lowered the courtesy flag. "Here," she said, handing it to Dale. "Would you put it away?" "Hmm, and I'll get more coffee for us." She would rather have been the one to go down for coffee. Being alone on watch tended to intensify her nervousness. She was afraid something would happen, a gale blow up suddenly or some other disaster, and terror would rise out of control. She tried to relax, drawing up her legs on the seat. Without the light streaming from the aft cabin, she could see the water, and none of the wild roughness that frightened her so. Later, when Dale came out and they had finished their coffee, she would put the harness back on and go forward on deck. From the fore deck the sound and feel of rushing water was stronger. She was coming to love the magic of Far Reacher tearing along through the ocean. Love and fear. Not unlike the emotions she'd had towards Brent's touch on her life. Dale returned. She took the warm mug from his hand. "Two o'clock," he said. "Halfway through our watch." "Do you think the police were telling the truth about Brent's killing being just a random mugging?" "I don't know, but whatever they think, I myself believe it was a deliberate murder." "You believe. Who?" He shook his head, a shifting of his silhouette in the darkness as the moon slid under a cloud. "I don't know, Catherine. I just know that the police are wrong. Brent couldn't have been out drinking. He was wearing only his cutoffs. He wasn't dressed for town, hadn't locked the boat. The locks were in those little teak holders." She remembered Brent sanding and oiling those holders, remembered his religious habit of checking the boat was locked each time he left it. Brent himself was losing substance, but she worried at the problem of his death. "I didn't think he would get into drugs. That's what the police think, isn't it? But if they think Far Reacher might be involved in illegal drugs, why don't they think he was ... deliberately murdered?" "Maybe they do suspect. I'm sure they haven't told us everything. They searched Far Reacher several times, but I don't think they found anything. They asked me about the money, and they didn't mean the fifty thousand I gave Brent." "Lorne still hasn't located that money." "Lorne?" "My lawyer." She surprised herself by saying, "He says I'll have to give Far Reacher to you." Dale shifted. "But you don't want to?" "Maybe I just need to say good-bye. Can we leave any decision until San Diego?" He nodded. Impulsively, she added, "Someone's been searching the boat since we left La Paz. The hatches in the stateroom have been taken apart. When they were put together again, whoever it was didn't quite get the floor of the bookcase in straight. I noticed the books sitting up too high, and I-#151;" "It's not you?"

"No, it's not me." "I found the same thing in the laundry hatch, down below the laundry bag. I saw fresh scratches on the fiberglass in there from the floor being pushed back into position." It was getting cooler as the night went on. Dale reached back and lifted his jacket off the brass hook near the door. "You can't get that floor out and back in without scratching the fiberglass. It wasn't scratched when we left La Paz." Catherine said, "Brent used to keep spare V-belts in there." "That's what was there. Maybe Ron, but I don't think so. Whenever he needed parts, he's come to me. He's never gone prowling, looking for things without asking me first." He picked up the main sheet again and re-coiled it. "I thought I'd inventoried every hatch in the boat, but I didn't even know that floor came out, that there was a space under it." She had known. There were other places, too, but she was unsure if she trusted him enough to tell him about them. She combed her fingers through her hair. The curls were tangled from the wind and she winced as her fingers freed a knot. "Who do you think it was?" "I thought it might be you. I thought you had a right if you wanted to try to find something." He paused thoughtfully. "If it wasn't you. Your room? That would have to be Liz, wouldn't it?" "Maybe, but. " She was surprised that he would point his finger at the other woman. From Liz's behavior, she had thought Liz and Dale had a relationship. Now she was not so sure, although certainly Liz had eyes for Dale. "It needn't be her. There are times when neither she nor I are in that cabin, and it's possible it could be someone else." She added, "I don't know exactly when it happened. I know when we left La Paz the books were in place, but it could be any time after that. And I think that every one of us has been alone on board at some time or another between La Paz and leaving Cabo." "Except Fernando," he said wryly, "which is too bad, because he's the one that I would have been inclined to suspect. I've never been sure if he's an influential man who helped us through the paperwork; or if he's actually some kind of undercover cop himself and he's been sicked on us as a spy." She rubbed her palms along her thighs. "What's supposed to be on this boat? And if the Mexicans really suspect us of something, why let us go at all?" She collected their cups, impatient for motion. She slid the hatch back and said briskly, "Every time I think about it, I come to that same place. Suspect us of what? It's all castles in the air." They finished the watch in silence, a companionable non-communication. Dale checked the GPS, confirming their position to the dead reckoning. Catherine tuned in WWV on the short-wave receiver and plotted the storm warnings. Again, the only warnings were for the Gulf of Alaska. A new lowpressure area was forming west of the current storm. The Alaskans were going to have to wait some time for anything approaching good weather. At three o'clock Catherine made a snack of crackers and cheese, an illegal use of the cheese which was to be carefully rationed. They ate it, feeling the guilt of children sneaking a treat. They both agreed that after a day of eating Fernando's cooking, they were entitled. Catherine cleaned up the evidence after they ate. Fifteen minutes before their watch ended, she went down to make coffee for the relieving watch partners, Jerry and Liz. At the same time she made hot chocolate for herself and Dale.

Warren's snoring was loud tonight, although somewhat muffled by the closed door to his cabin. She could hear his sonorous tones over the noise of the water and the heating kettle, although the noisy sleeping could not be heard as far back as the cockpit or the aft cabin where Dale slept. She smiled at the thought that if Warren had not taken the forward cabin, with a door to close between him and the rest of the boat, they would all have trouble sleeping through the noise. Liz stumbled into the galley, cranky. Jerry, as always, was cheerful. The four of them stood together in the cockpit for a short time, then Catherine went forward to go to bed, avoiding Jerry's suggestion that she sit up on deck and talk to him for a few moments. Dale came forward also, to use the head before he bunked down in the aft cabin. There were two heads on the boat, one across from the stateroom and the other behind Warren's closed door in the forward cabin. When Warren was sleeping, there was often a small lineup for the head across from the stateroom. Dale and Catherine ended up standing together at the galley sink, rinsing out their mugs. Dale jerked his head towards the closed door. "He sure makes a ruckus, doesn't he?" Catherine giggled. "You should have heard him when I came down to make the coffee. I'm surprised Ron and Fernando can sleep through it." "I don't know about you, but right now I could sleep through anything." He touched the hair at her temple, brushed back one curl among a head full of tousled curls. They stood for a moment, their eyes holding each other in the light from a kerosene lantern over the counter. The silence filled and somehow neither of them seemed able to turn away. Dale's voice was husky. "One of these nights, I'm going to kiss you." Her lips parted slightly, her tongue touching them as if she were nervous. She whispered, "Not tonight." "No," he agreed quietly. "Go to bed, Catherine."

Thirteen Catherine knew that she would not sleep. With the stateroom door closed, she was as alone as she would ever be. Jerry and Liz were in the cockpit, and Liz would not come into this cabin while Catherine was here. The two women had worked out a silent way to coexist. The primary thing was that they avoided being alone, avoided talking to each other. Catherine was unsure why she felt so intense a dislike for Liz, but she sensed that it was returned in full force. The mattress of the bunk extended from wall to wall, making a double berth that was quite comfortable. It seemed unreal that she had once shared this bed with Brent. What was on her mind, in her memory, was the fact that she had worked with him on the construction of this cabin. Under the mattress on the hull side of the cabin were four big hatches where extra bedding and sleeping bags were stored. They were not very easy to get at, but Catherine had been into them before they left La Paz, making sure all the crew had adequate bedding. The bedding was in plastic bags. She remembered having to open every bag to find out what was inside, because they were not labeled. Discounting the possibility that someone had sewn something into one of the sleeping bags, she was certain that there was nothing of interest in those hatches. The other side of the bunk was built against the engine room wall. To ensure full access to the engine if

a major overhaul was necessary, this section of the bunk lifted out to provide a passageway along the wall. Part of the engine room wall itself was fashioned so that it could be unbolted and lifted away. It was an awkward business which meant essentially taking the cabin apart, but it allowed for necessary access to the engine in case of emergency. Normally, taking the bunk apart would be done with the door open. The mattress, which almost filled the cabin, would be slid out on its edge into the passageway. The board that fit in along the engine room would also be taken out of the room. Catherine did neither of these things. She locked the door to the cabin and pulled the bedding off the mattress, stuffing it down into the foot- well by the cabin door. She managed to get the mattress on its edge, and wedged it between the non-removable part of the bed's base and the ceiling. The mattress curled up against the ceiling, covering her light. She turned the ceiling light off and put on the little reading light, pointing its articulated head towards the removable bunk board. She lifted the board out of place, but it would not turn endwise without jamming into the ceiling. Neither would it sit on its edge against the mattress. It persisted in falling off onto the floor. "Hey, Catherine, are you OK?" Jerry's voice, a tapping on her door. She caught her breath. "Fine," she called out. "I'm fine." "I heard a thump. Do you. " "Oh!" She managed a laugh. "It was me, being clumsy. I hit my head on this darned ceiling light. It hurts, but I'm going to live." She held her breath, listening. She heard nothing for a moment, then his footsteps as he went away. She lowered the board carefully to rest beside the engine room wall, but could not leave it there because she needed access to the hatches under it. She pulled the mattress out of its position, wrestled with it while she tried to get the board up onto the bed against the hull. The boat lurched on a big swell and she braced herself and gripped the board desperately. Somehow she managed not to bang it on anything again, but she was going to have a hell of a bruise on her thigh in the morning. Eventually, she maneuvered the board flat on the plywood base of the bed, got the mattress wedged back in place on top of the board. When she was certain that the mattress was in place and stable, she pulled the carpet off the exposed floor beside the engine room. The carpet joined the bedding in the corner. She sank down onto the floor, now the only place with room for her to sit. Wedged between the bunk and the engine room wall, she was held immobile when the boat dove into another big swell. She closed her eyes and tried to think. Anyone searching Far Reacher would probably find the hatches she was sitting on. There was nothing concealed about the way the bunk came apart. It was awkward, not hidden. Every boat should have a place to hide things. A special place, where even an intimate search won't turn anything up. There's a lot of countries where you can't take a gun into the country, but a boat should have a gun. Brent had said that and she had argued. She had contended that having a gun was dangerous, perhaps more dangerous than not having one. She had insisted, coldly and rationally, that an ordinary, peaceloving person would not think of an approach by a strange boat as a case of pirating, that by the time the situation turned threatening, it would be too late to go get the gun. In fact, she thought producing the gun might get a sailor killed. "The bad guys," she had said quite seriously, "Aren't going to hesitate to use their guns. You or I would hesitate to pull the trigger. After all, what if we were wrong? What if you killed a man who was only

approaching Far Reacher to ask if he could buy some fuel from us? So," she had concluded, "a gun could get us killed. We're better not to have one." Brent had laughed at her intensity, at the naive way she referred to good guys and bad guys. Then he had kissed her and they had made love. Later, he had built the hidden places, but he had not bought the gun ... as far as she knew. It was time she found out what Brent had placed in those secret hatches. She took the cover off the hatch nearest the door, found it filled with pulleys and cleats, spare parts that were heavy and took up room. She lifted them out carefully while holding onto the vanity for balance. She set each item down on the jumble of carpet. One of the things in the hatch was a multi-screwdriver. She set that aside. When she had emptied the hatch, she took the screwdriver and undid the thin pieces of wood that held the bottom in place. Then she took the bottom out, using the edge of the screwdriver to pry it loose. Underneath was an irregularly shaped area. Empty, just a useless space. The floor of the hatch had been put in, wasting a few cubic inches of space, to make the hatch more useful, closer to cubic in shape. She had not expected anything, of course she hadn't. She put everything back in except the screwdriver. She emptied each of the four hatches on the floor in turn. One was filled with tins of stainless steel nuts and bolts. Another was filled with coffee tins containing pipe clamps, and a plastic bag filled with nylon sail slides. Brent must have blown out the mainsail and had another made, then salvaged the slides from the old one. They would probably still be in this hatch, unused, when she was an old woman. She lifted the floor of the hatch out. Nothing. She had no idea what she was looking for. She hoped that she would not find drugs. She did not want to believe Brent would be involved in drug- trafficking. If she did find drugs, she intended to open the porthole above the vanity and throw the drugs into the ocean, under cover of darkness. The fourth hatch contained only an old pair of boots, thoroughly mildewed. Under the floor there was only the curve of the bilge, empty except for condensation. She did not replace the boots. She set them aside behind her. She did not replace the floor of the hatch either. With the hatch still open, she took the screwdriver and tried to lie down on the tiny floor with her arm in the hatch. She managed it, awkwardly, but found that she could not see the screwdriver in her hand. She sat up again, twisted the little light until it shone on the screws in the inner wall of the hatch. She held her finger on one of the screws while she twisted down onto the floor again. Somehow then, she managed to get the screwdriver into the little slot without losing the location. Turning the screwdriver was harder, more because of her angle than because it was tight in the wood. Brent would have used the small, battery-powered drill to turn the screw. It would be easy with the power drill, but she could not use it. Someone might hear. The first screw came out easily. It was shiny and new. She moved to the second screw. Again, it came easily. They all did, as if Brent had used this place often. Even where the wood was dampened by exposure to condensation from the hull, the screws showed no corrosion. When she had them all out, she half expected the wall of the hatch to fall over in her hands. It didn't. It still seemed solid and secure. Any person who went so far as to take those screws out would decide at this point that this was only an innocent wall between a hatch and the engine room. She sat up, undid two barrel bolts and lifted away a section of the engine room wall. Luckily they were

under sail, with the engine stilled. Otherwise, opening this wall would make the engine louder and someone might come to find out what had happened. There was not much room for this latest section of heavy wood. She lifted it carefully, groped around it and got it wedged up against the bunk, on edge on the floor. That left her with not quite enough room to stand between it and the engine room. It would be easier if she had a flashlight. If she had been thinking ahead, she would have found one before she came to bed tonight. As it was, if she opened the stateroom door, carpet and bedding and God knew what would tumble out. In fact, she realized that she could not now open the door in any case. It opened inward and the area it swung through was stacked high. She twisted sideways and crouched down. She slipped her arm inside the engine room, between the engine and the wall that formed one side of the hatch. She stretched until her hand reached the level where the hatch started, but found her fingers stopping short of her goal. She twisted past the plywood on the floor, sat down on the open hatch and ignored the pain of the open edges pressing into her buttocks while she reached her left arm into the engine compartment again. Better. Her fingers encountered the border between wall and floor inside the engine room. She stretched a little more and managed to push against the wall at the bottom. To her fingers it felt like a solid part of the bigger wall, but she knew that the bottom section of that wall was made up of a separate piece, fitted carefully. She pushed again. This time she felt something move. Harder, and it moved slightly more. She was not sure if it was enough, but she could not reach any farther. Brent, with longer arms, would have done it easily. She pulled her arm out. Her fingertips were black with soot. The back of her wrist, where she had touched the engine, was smeared with a dark mark of grease. She took the time to get a tissue and scrub it all clean. It would not do to leave sooty marks all over the stateroom. Someone. whoever it was, might wonder. Absently she noted that the wind must have picked up. Far Reacher was racing along, roaring through the water. They were heeled harder, perhaps as much as twenty degrees, but the motion was steady, all the energy given into pushing ahead through the waves. With her fingers almost clean, she shifted away from the open hatch to allow her arm access. She reached down inside. Yes, the wall had moved just enough to get hold of it with the edge of the screwdriver. Before prying it open, she put the wall section back in place and shot the barrel bolts closed. She had more room now and less worry about being heard. The water roaring past the hull drowned out everything. She slipped the edge of the screwdriver between the side of the hatch and the under surface of the floor. She pried carefully and the seemingly immovable wall came away in her hand. Behind it, Brent had built a small, virtually invisible hiding place. You could put a gun there, or valuables like money. As far as Catherine knew, the secret place had always been empty, unused. Not now. Inside, she could see a dark shape. She reached down and her fingers encountered plastic. She bent over and pulled a shapeless, plastic-covered bundle out of the hole. †† Dale woke abruptly, torn from a dream of surfing on a big wave with a giant surfboard. He sat before his eyes came open, jerking to alertness with a feeling of urgency. "What is it? What's happened?"

Jerry was bending over him, his face formed into an unaccustomed mask of sternness, his voice flat and quick. "It's Warren." "Hurt? Sick?" Dale had worried that something would happen out here, a medical emergency they could not handle. He saw pale white sky through the porthole, light outside. Sometime after dawn, late enough that there was no pink to the sky. Around eight. He asked, "Are you still on shift?" Jerry shook his head and Dale saw panic in his eyes. To snap the younger man out of it, he said sharply, "Well? What happened?" "I came off shift. Liz and I were on together. I woke up Fernando and Ron while she made the coffee. Then Liz crashed out in Ron's bunk, said she didn't care if she ever ate again." Jerry spread his longfingered hands and explained, "She's been feeling nauseous the last day. She. " "Warren," Dale reminded him. "Yeah. Well, I wanted breakfast, and after that fiasco with Fernando as cook yesterday, I wanted it badly. Warren was nowhere in sight! I was pissed! I went up to tell him to get out of his bunk and get his ass in gear! He was gone." Dale blinked. "Gone? You don't actually mean. " "Honest to God, Dale. I've looked everywhere. Even in the stateroom. Catherine's crashed in there, sleeping pretty heavily for once. I looked back here. In the two heads. Up on deck. Hell! How many places are there to hide on a boat this size?" Dale had his pants on and was pushing out of the cabin into the cockpit. "Has the autopilot been on all night?" he asked briskly, cutting off Jerry's words. "Yeah, all through my shift. You and Catherine were on before Liz and I-#151;" In the cockpit, Ron was staring at him, quiet, presumably waiting for instructions. Dale said, "Get down the sails! Fire up the engine. Jerry, you work on the mains'l." Dale's mind was assembling a list of things that could be done. He said, "Fernando, get a pair of binoculars and scan the water all through the southeast and southwest quadrants. Slowly! You might not see something floating in the trough of a wave. Watch each spot through one full cycle of the wave. Did anyone look in the dinghy?" Ron was walking along the side deck towards the mainsail. He looked back and said, "No. I never thought. " "I'll do it," said Dale. He handed the binoculars to the inert Fernando. "Get to it, man! Make yourself useful, for once!" The dinghy was suspended from the stern, hanging from two strong, steel arms called davits. It was wildly unlikely that Warren would climb under the cover and into the dinghy, but it was possible. Dale looped one arm around the starboard davit and swung his body out towards the dinghy. He was leaning out over nothing, bridging the gap between the stern of the boat and the suspended dinghy. It occurred to him that he was not wearing a safety harness and that it only took a second to fall overboard. "Jerry!" he shouted. "Keep an eye on me!" "Got you!" Jerry shouted back. The canvas dinghy cover was securely laced in place, making it even more unlikely that anyone could be under it. Nevertheless, Dale unlaced one corner and lifted it to look under.

Warren Olsen was not hiding inside the dinghy. Dale replaced the canvas and swung back to a secure position. "OK, Jerry!" Jerry nodded and returned to furling the sails. The boat was rolling aimlessly on the swell, the wind too light to keep a good course now that the main was down. Dale moved back into the cockpit. "Ron, once it's furled, I want you to log our position, then start the engine and motor the reverse course, but keep the engine down to twelve hundred RPM. Jerry, furl the foresails so that we've got a clear field of view ahead. I'm going below to wake the others. I want everyone on deck. Jerry, once the sails are down, organize everyone into a watch to scan the water. Each person is to watch a quadrant, and make sure the quadrants overlap." He could have sent someone else down to wake Catherine and Liz, Perhaps Fernando, who was probably as useless a spotter as he was a deck hand. He went himself, mainly because he wanted to see for himself that Warren was not anywhere on Far Reacher. He went first to the forward cabin. The door, usually closed, was latched open. Perhaps Jerry had opened it when he went to rouse Warren to cook breakfast. The bunk was empty, Warren's sleeping bag jumbled at its foot. Dale pulled open the door to the hanging locker, but of course there were only clothes in there. He looked in the small head, but found only the toilet and sink. He stood a moment, staring at the empty cabin. When he and Catherine came off shift at four, Warren had been sleeping soundly. Warren always slept soundly. He was probably the only person on board who could sleep uninterrupted through the roughest seas. So what had happened between four and. Dale glanced at his watch. between four and eight-thirty? Had Warren woken, walked into the cockpit, somehow unnoticed by Liz and Jerry, and jumped overboard? No, it didn't make sense. He turned back to the salon, checked the lower bunk where Fernando slept. Of course, Fernando had been in that bunk when Jerry and Liz came down to make the coffee, but. He lifted the sleeping bag, although there was nothing under it. He dropped his hand onto the shoulder of the sleeping woman in the upper bunk. "Liz! Wake up!" She twisted, grumbling, and he gave her a minute to get her bearings while he went back into Warren's room and checked the big sail locker under the bunk. It was really the only storage place in the boat large enough for a man. He stepped back into the salon and found Liz lying in her bunk, the sleeping bag pulled down to expose her naked breasts. "Hi, lover," she said in a husky voice. "I thought sooner or later. " "Can it, Liz! Put some clothes on and turn to on deck! We've got a man overboard." Her lips parted in shock and he added quickly, "It. s Warren." The galley was empty. The dinette. The head. He knocked on the stateroom door but heard no answer from within. He opened the door and looked in, found Catherine lying on her stomach, her arms pillowing her head, her hair tumbled. She was still wearing the jogging suit she had worn during their midnight watch. "Catherine!" She woke at once when he touched her, scrambling up, her eyes wide and alarmed.

"What is it?" "Man overboard," he said abruptly. "Warren." She was right behind him as he stepped back into the cockpit. "How?" she asked. "Where is he?" She was quick, her eyes taking in Fernando with the binoculars, the sails down. She flashed a quick glance at the compass, then at the water around the boat. "He's. You mean, he. s lost?" "Disappeared," said Ron. He was at the wheel, his face frowning heavily, his hands trembling on the wheel. Dale said, "I want us on autopilot. We've got to retrace our course as accurately as possible. Jerry? Liz? Did you see Warren during your shift?" They both shook their heads, but Dale insisted, "He might have come out on deck to sit and look at the stars, or. " "Dale, he didn't." Jerry was very sure. "He never has. That old bugger sleeps like a log. He goes off watch and you never see him until he's on watch again. Mind you, you hear him! He's the noisiest sleeper. " Jerry was talking nervously, obviously at a loss to explain Warren's disappearance. "Maybe earlier in the evening?" "No." Catherine echoed Dale's memory. "He was sawing logs when Dale and I went down below at four." Dale had the ship's log in his hands now. "OK, so it was sometime between four-fifteen and now. At four o'clock we were at 26 degrees, 13 minutes, thirty seconds north, and 115-48-09 west. Since then. " He twisted to see the display on the GPS and wrote down the figures. ". we've traveled twenty six nautical miles on a course of 311 magnetic. We'll search that area, back and forth. Liz, get on the radio. Give whatever the proper call is, see if there's any boats around here." Liz said doubtfully, "It's only a VHF. It hasn't much range. I doubt if we'd get farther than forty miles, maybe only twenty-five. We're way off shore and. " "Anyone farther away than that isn't going to be any help, but there might be another boat out here nearby. We could up the odds by having two boats searching. Get on the radio!" Everyone fell silent. They all knew the odds. Dale might try to track back and forth along the same course, searching for Warren, but with ocean currents it was impossible to double back on the exact path they'd taken. Added to that was the difficulty of spotting a man floating in the water in a heavy swell. Liz went to the radio. Jerry said slowly, "Warren definitely did not come up on deck while I was there, but perhaps there was once or twice when there was no one in the cockpit." Dale frowned and Jerry said, "Look, it happens. You know it does. Say Liz goes down to make coffee or to go to the head. While she's down there, I go into the aft cabin and read the GPS and plot our position. I think I'd have noticed if Warren came up on deck while I was in the after cabin, but. I don't know. If Warren. you'd think he'd say something to me, like hello or I can't sleep." Jerry shrugged. "Nothing," said Liz in an I-told-you-so voice. "The radio's dead." "You mean it's not working?" demanded Dale sharply. "No! I mean there's no answer. I called and no one answered." She gestured at the ocean and demanded irritably, "What do you expect. We're alone out here! There isn't another boat in. God knows! Maybe no boat in a hundred miles!" Catherine said quietly, "Dale, what can I do?"

"Go up on the port bow. Sit down so you don't impede visibility for the helmsman. Scan the forward port waters. Jerry, you take the forward starboard. Liz and Fernando, stand up on the roof of the after cabin, either side of the mizzen boom. Search port and starboard. Ron, you keep the helm. You and I will search everywhere, doubling up on the others. Anybody sees anything at all, call out." The wind over the deck was chilly rather than cold, but everyone shivered as they scanned the water. They saw waves and swells, sometimes lumps on the water that looked like a man's head. Whenever one of them shouted, Dale would instruct Ron to take the boat off course towards the spotting. Chasing waves, grumbled Liz. After the third such detour, Ron exploded, shouting at Liz. "What the hell do you want us to do! There's a man out there somewhere! Are we supposed to leave him to drown? Sail on as if he didn't matter?" She screamed back at him, "If we were near the States we wouldn't be in this situation! We'd be able to call the coast guard and they'd search." "You and your God damned Americans. I should have known better than to marry a bloody Yank." Fernando said stiffly, "My navy would search for the man. If you could call them, they would search." "With helicopters?" demanded Liz. "The Americans would flood the area with helicopters and he'd be found." Fernando shrugged. "You would criticize my country because we are not filthy rich? Even your Coast Guard could not search if they did not know the man was missing. If you had a longer distance radio. " "Keep your eyes on the water," Dale said sharply. Far Reacher was equipped with a top of the line Global Positioning System, or GPS, that computed the boat's position from satellite signals. The position displayed on the GPS's small screen was extremely accurate, but the invisible course line being searched for Warren was in itself an approximation, and even greater inaccuracy might have been created by unrecorded ocean currents. It was the best they could do. Before each detour to check a shadow on the water, Dale read the position off the GPS and the mileage off the recording log. Then they altered course and ran a straight line towards the unidentified thing in the water, towards what they hoped was Warren. When they had determined that it was not, Dale read the log again, then had Ron put a reverse course into the autopilot until the GPS position matched the one they'd left. It was painfully slow, checking the line they believed Far Reacher had traveled between four and eight-thirty that morning. Dale moved his crew from one post to another, hoping that by changing the areas they were scanning each hour, he could keep everyone fresh and more alert. He avoided giving himself a fixed segment to scan. He wanted to watch everything and move around the boat. After four hours, at Jerry's suggestion, he released Liz and Jerry to go below and bring up crackers, cheese and coffee for the rest of them. Having done that, Liz and Jerry were freed to go down below for four hours sleep. At twelve-thirty, just after noon, Dale confirmed that they had reached approximately the location they had passed at four that morning. He logged the location, then instructed Ron to swing ship one hundred eighty degrees. "We may as well put the sails back up," said Ron. "No. They'll impede our visibility. We'll do one more pass without." Having made that decision, Dale went forward on deck to the bow.

Catherine was there, sitting on the starboard side, her legs hanging over the side under the lifelines, her arms holding loosely onto the lifelines. She had a life jacket on, although the two lifelines probably provided an adequate safety net to keep her from falling overboard. Standing behind her, Dale realized that his legs were aching from hours of pacing the decks, looking for a man floating in the water. He decided to give himself five minutes and sank down beside her, keeping his eyes alert on the water. "You look tired," he said. Her eyes were usually clear and calm, or clear and shuttered, but today they were slightly red. The fragile skin under her eyes was dark with lack of sleep. "I didn't sleep well." She was speaking with the voice she used to shut people out. Then, suddenly, her voice dropped to a low murmur. "Dale, once when Brent and I were out on Far Reacher, we heard a Mayday on the radio. A woman had fallen overboard between Point Atkinson and the Lions Gate Bridge." He was quiet, waiting, and after a minute she continued, her fingers curling around the white lifeline as she spoke. "We were close, so we joined the search. Coast Guard boats were searching, of course, and about twenty pleasure boats like ours. We all combed the area for hours, back and forth. No one ever found her. Twenty boats in just a few square kilometers of water, and none of us spotted her. She wasn't wearing a life vest, so I guess there was nothing in the color of her clothes to stand out." He pushed his hands through his hair. He tried not to think about a shower and a long soak in a hot whirlpool at his club. Warren, a man who had simply wanted to go sailing. Dale remembered seeing a movie about a man who had lost his wife overboard. At the time, it had seemed wildly unlikely to him that the man could manage to find her in a big empty ocean. "Warren wasn't wearing a life jacket," he said finally. "Life jackets. Life rings. They're all here. On board. I checked."

Fourteen The search was bounded by two points. Dale came to think of them as point A and point B. Point A was the location of Far Reacher at the moment the search for Warren Olsen began. Point B was the position at the earliest possible time that Warren could have fallen overboard. The line between A and B extended across twenty-six miles of open ocean. For thirty-six hours Far Reacher moved back and forth between those points. Even in the darkness, Dale ordered the movement to continue. Through the night, Far Reacher ghosted along under partial sail with her engines silent. Luckily, the winds were light and from the northeast. It was possible to sail both course A to B, and B to A, under sail alone. Slowly. Silently. Jerry had suggested they suspend their search in darkness, but Dale vetoed the idea. He hoped that Warren, if still alive and floating, would see Far Reacher's lights as they passed him. He posted Catherine and Fernando on either side of the fore deck, to watch and listen for the sound of a man's shout. In this, the weather cooperated with them. The winds and the seas were both extremely light, thus Far Reacher was able for the first time in her voyage to move along almost silently. After four hours of darkness, Dale sent Catherine and Fernando to their bunks. They were relieved by Liz and Jerry. Then, for the last four hours of darkness, Dale himself and Liz took the watch. Liz, for once, spent her watch in silence. Although no one spoke the words, Dale knew everyone on board must share his growing conviction.

Warren Olsen must be dead by now. Who could stay afloat for over thirty-six hours in the cool waters of the California current? No life jacket. No life ring. Nothing to keep mouth and nose above water when exhaustion overcame. Yet Dale could not bring himself to issue the order that would turn Far Reacher back onto her northwesterly course. He was on watch when dawn came. Twenty-four hours of searching empty, lumpy water. He started Far Reacher's engines as the GPS reported their arrival at point A, the northern boundary of the search. The air was still. The sails had begun to slam from side to side as Far Reacher rolled slowly on the undulating sea. Liz watched silently as he pulled the sails in hard amidships to stop the slatting. "Try the radio again," he commanded, irritated by her silent inactivity. The woman was supposed to be experienced crew, but she had spent the last twenty-four hours alternating between complaints and lethargy. She shrugged, then moved towards the radio. When she called, there was no answer. They were alone, isolated on an empty ocean. For two days Far Reacher had moved through the water without sighting any other sign of humanity. No sailboat. No freighter. No cruise ships. In the early morning the water began to boil around them as a party of dolphins discovered the attractive sleekness of Far Reacher's hull. Dale watched the sleek, graceful dolphins breaking water, surging across the bow in a joyful celebration. Except for the dolphins, the world was eerily still. Dale went below, made coffee, knocked once on Catherine. s door. "Time for your watch," he called. Silence, then her voice, sleepily, "Coming. Two minutes." Jerry was up before Dale could get to the salon berth where Fernando was sleeping. They nodded to each other. "I'll make breakfast," Jerry said. This morning he was not smiling. "I'll take the next watch with Catherine, too. You may as well let Fernando sleep." Why not? Dale suspected the Mexican was doing an imperfect job of searching in any case. As expected, Fernando was close to useless on board. Dale went back up on deck. †† Catherine spent an uncomfortable midnight watch with Jerry. He was silent and moody, not his usual cheerful self at all. She found herself talking, trying to lift his depression. Then, near the end of their watch, he suddenly became very talkative, suggesting they get to know each other better after this trip was over, persisting when she tried to put him off. She was relieved when four o'clock neared and she could go down to make coffee and wake Liz who was scheduled to take the next shift with Dale. She found herself wishing that the shift schedules had not become jumbled, putting her in the uncomfortable position of being on watch with Jerry, who had seemed determined to pursue her romantically, although thankfully he had not tried to made a physical pass. She was relieved to get into her berth, to shut the door and fall into a deep sleep. She slept dreamlessly, jerking awake when the knock came on her door. Jerry was in the galley when she stumbled out of the stateroom "Anything?" she asked him. It was light now. Day five, she realized, her mind keeping track automatically.

"No." Where had Jerry's smile gone? He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his dark blonde eyebrows settling down over his blue eyes. He reached out gently and pushed back her tumbled hair. She forced herself not to jerk back. It was a friendly touch and she would be silly to overreact. He said, "Don't hope, Catherine. We won't find Warren now." Jerry and Catherine were alone except for the two lumps that were Ron and Fernando sleeping in the salon bunks. Liz, she realized, was up above with Dale, on watch. She wondered what they had done during the hours of their watch, whether Dale had made love to Liz while the rest of them slept. She pushed away the thought. Not her business. Not important now. Only Warren was important. "All he wanted was to go sailing," she whispered. "Why should this happen to him?" Jerry shook his head and her voice rose. "Jerry, how could it have happened? He wasn't even on watch. Why didn't someone see him?" "I don't know." She saw the tension in his face. Ever since Warren's disappearance, Jerry had stopped being the smiling, easygoing man who wanted only to sail. This Jerry had a face that was hard and tense as he said, "That's been bothering me, too, but I can't see anything, except that he slipped out while I was in the aft cabin doing navigating. He liked to look at the ocean, you know, and he always had to be reminded about that safety harness." She stared at the bowl of soup on the counter in front of Jerry. She was not sure if she would ever be able to eat again. "Catherine?" His voice was careful. "You realize, we're going to have to stop searching for him eventually? We're using fuel, and we've a hell of a long way to go. We can't stay out here forever ... looking." She nodded, then turned away to go into the cockpit. She did not want to talk about Warren, was not ready to admit that it was hopeless although a part of her knew that Jerry was probably right. Catherine heard Dale's quiet voice from the cockpit as she climbed the stairs. She turned the knob and started to open the door. "For Christ's sake!" Liz screamed. Catherine jerked to a halt with the cockpit door half-opened. Liz's fists were planted on her hips, her eyes blazing angry. Catherine saw her jaw work tensely as she glared at Dale who was standing on deck. Catherine heard Jerry coming up behind her, then felt his body pressing against her back. Liz swung towards Catherine, her eyes skipping over her shoulder to Jerry. Catherine stepped into the cockpit and looked back at Jerry herself, saw his eyes flat and somber. Liz screamed at him, "We've got to get the hell out of here! We can't look for him forever!" Everyone was still, frozen. Dale spoke first. "We'll finish this pass," he said flatly. Fernando's head appeared in the companionway as Jerry stepped up on deck behind Catherine. The Mexican said quietly, "I agree with Liz. It is time that we are back on the course. This man we will not find. It is too long." "One more pass," said Dale, his eyes finding Jerry's. Jerry, still holding a bowl of soup in one hand, was standing on the deck. No wind. Only a storm of emotions without words. Jerry nodded and Catherine saw Dale let out an inconspicuous sigh of relief. He said slowly, "I'm going below for some sleep."

Again, Jerry nodded, and Dale stepped down into the cockpit. Catherine was standing there, watching him. Inside her, she felt a hard tension growing. Something was wrong. She looked from one to the other. Jerry. Liz. Dale. Fernando, who should be lying in his bunk dodging watch duty. She could see them all, and something bothered her. Something artificial? But what? Dale stared at her for a moment, then they passed each other, Catherine stepping up on deck to watch the water, Dale stepping down into the aft cabin. At least, she thought, this watch with Jerry would be easier. With everyone awake, Jerry would have no chance to corner her and ask for promises that they would pursue a relationship once this voyage was over. She shrugged the thought away. She had to concentrate on Warren, on searching. One more pass. †† Dale turned on the short wave receiver before he went to bed. He wished for the tenth or twentieth time that he had invested in a short wave marine transmitter before starting this journey. They could have made their Mayday heard on short wave. He tuned in WWV. Once every minute, this station sent the world a time signal to set watches by. Universal coordinated time. Hourly, at scheduled times between the time tones, marine storm centers were given. It was almost ten minutes after the hour, time for the warnings. Dale listened to the tick of the time signal while he waited for the announcement that would give the locations of any storms in the Pacific. Every day, he listened. So far, the storms were all up north, where they belonged this time of year. He reached into the bottom drawer for the small tape recorder that he used to tape the announcement. He moved two chart books and assorted pencils, but the tiny recorder didn't materialize. He frowned, bending down to look more closely, trying to remember if he had actually put it back in place the last time he used it. No matter, because the voice came on and the worst was a storm center in Northern California. Nothing to affect them. Dale turned the radio off and pushed the drawer closed. Then he stripped down to his jockey shorts and climbed into his bunk. "Let's just take them!" The voice was rough, impatient but not loud. Two people had met in secret, but they were not alone. Four others on board the boat. The growing sound of the wind howling in the rigging wrapped their voices in concealment. They were standing at the bow of the boat. For anyone who saw, it would be assumed they were talking about the search for Warren Olsen. In fact, they were. The impatient whisper insisted, "This is ridiculous! Searching for a dead man!" Alpha shrugged, turning with a jerk. "A little thought," he suggested quietly, that flat look in his eyes. "Give it a little thought. What alternative course of action do you have?" "Course of action? What is your course of action?" "Waiting," said Alpha, and there was menace in the voice. "For what?" Eyes swept the boat. "We could take them all. Kill them." Alpha smiled faintly. "Wholesale slaughter? But then how would we find it?" An angry motion. Angry voice. "We could make them talk." Alpha considered the person at his side. Impatient. Greedy. Alpha had his own desires. No that he would object to the killing, except for Catherine. He had plans for Catherine.

"But make who talk?" he asked softly. "Who knows the answer to our questions?" In that dangerously gentle voice, he said, "Perhaps you have not considered that they do not actually know where it is." "Then. " "Get rid of them?" Alpha's laughter was genuine pleasure. "But they may know something. Markesson may have told something to one of them." Alpha grinned, said condescendingly, "A clue. It has not occurred to you to follow clues, has it? You are always too impatient." Then the amusement was gone, and he said in a cold voice, "You always were." †† "We've got problems." It was a flat statement of fact. Dale heard it, twisted it into the dream in which Fernando was holding a gun on him and Jerry. In the dream, he had woken to find Fernando and Jerry on watch, but Jerry had been immobilized by the ropes Fernando had used to tie him. There was a gun in Fernando's hand, one of those big machine guns. The gun had swung towards Dale. He saw Fernando tense as if bracing himself to fire. It was a big gun. Gigantic, in fact. Dale would not have thought the Mexican's small hands could hold its large grip firmly enough to fire. That was when he realized the truth. Fernando had killed Warren. "And Catherine," said the Mexican's evil dream-voice. "I have put the woman into the ocean, fed her to the sharks." A white smile cut the dark skin of Fernando's face. "No, Mr. Welland," he said smoothly, reading Dale's mind. "I do not have to shave. I have a smooth, Mexican face and the crude beard does not grow. And the Señora Catherine is a beautiful woman. The sharks will enjoy her much." Dale jerked up, felt the hand firming on his shoulder. He jerked away. "Listen, you bastard. " His angry words broke off to nothing. It was Jerry's hand gripping his shoulder, Jerry's voice saying something about trouble. Dale felt his own breathing, ragged and frightened from the dream. He pushed again at Jerry's hand. "Sorry," he said harshly. "Dreaming." He expelled an explosive breath. "What trouble?" Jerry, crouched beside the bunk, rocked back on his heels. He said, "South wind. Hit us about twenty minutes ago, been picking up ever since. Blowing twenty and still picking up. Must be a front from that California storm. We can't make headway into it. We've got to change course, run with it." A cold gust of wind twisted through the cockpit and impacted on Dale's bare shoulders. He swung his legs over the side of the bunk, grabbed the chart table for stability while he found his jeans. "I'll be up in a second. Change course." It wasn't that simple. The freshening southerly had caught them with all sail up. When the wind changed, Far Reacher had been motoring through still airs, sails pulled in hard amidships for stability. With no wind to fill the sails and exert a steadying pressure, the sailboat wanted to roll uncomfortably on the slow swell. By pulling the sails tight amidships, the large expanse of Dacron caught the air as the boat rolled, slowing the roll and giving extra comfort for the crew. When the wind hit, Catherine and Jerry had let the sheets out, allowing the sails to hold out to one side. That had relieved the massive pressure of wind on the sails somewhat, but the wind had continued to build. Far Reacher was caught in a squall with far too much sail up. As Dale came up into the cockpit, a gust of wind caught Far Reacher's sails and pushed hard from the starboard side. The boat swung to port, heeling hard and sending Catherine, who had been handsteering, tumbling against the cockpit combing. She lost her grip on the wheel. With the steering freed, the bow swung farther to port. A wave smashed into the starboard side and exploded, sending a hard

wall of cold, green foam over the deck and into the cockpit. From somewhere on deck, a man shouted. Dale saw Jerry then, or at least his legs. He was standing at the main mast, a halyard gripped in one hand, the other hand slung around the mast for support. He was trying to let the mainsail down, but with Far Reacher off the wind, the sail was pressed hard against the port rigging wires. Catherine regained her balance and fought with the wheel, but Far Reacher did not want to come back up to the wind. The force of the wind was greater than that of the engine. "Let the steering off a bit!" Dale shouted, remembering tricks from his old sailing days. "Try to told a hard course just off the wind. We'll build up some speed." She nodded, letting the wheel off to port. Dale reached down and pushed the throttle forward, adding the engine to the power of the wind. Far Reacher heeled to twenty degrees, then farther. Dale saw Jerry hurriedly cleat the rope. The tall sailor was hanging onto the mast on the windward side with both arms. Jerry seemed to have guessed Dale's tactic. The wheel chattered as Catherine turned it to hold their course from falling farther off the wind. Dale did not even consider using the autopilot for this job. They needed the quick response that was only possible with someone at the helm. He pushed the throttle farther ahead. With the wind pushing them, they were racing through the water at seven or eight knots, but heeling hard now to almost thirty degrees angle. The engine was roaring, but doing little work with the wind pushing them so hard. Dale hoped the oil would manage to find its way where it was needed in the engine. Diesels were not made to be pushed at three thousand RPM while angled at thirty degrees from level! He found his shoulder pressed hard into Catherine's. He braced his feet in the corners of the cockpit to give her room to work the wheel. She was tensed hard to keep her position, biting her lower lip, her hair a tumbled mass of wet curls. She spun the wheel. Their forward momentum carried the bow towards the wind. The jib fell abruptly slack as it lost angle to the wind, then slammed out to starboard as the wind caught from the other side. Abruptly, Far Reacher righted herself and hovered motionless, a false calm as she hung between tacks. As the mainsail lost the wind, Dale grabbed the sheet and pulled it in hard amidships to hold the sail away from the rigging and allow Jerry to get it down. "Now, Jerry!" he screamed, knowing that the sail had to come down quickly, or Far Reacher would be knocked on her beam ends as the wind caught the sheeted sail from the port side. If that happened, they would have to try to fight the sails down with the wind holding the boat over almost on her side. Either Jerry heard, or he was watching for the moment. The main slithered down, the white Dacron slapping wildly in the wind. Dale threw his harness on and stepped up onto the cabin roof. He aligned the swinging mainsail boom over its gallows, then pulled the sheet hard to tighten it. They had done it! Far Reacher's largest sail was down. Without the mainsail, Catherine was managing to hold Far Reacher on her course directly into the wind. The wind was catching the two head sails and slamming them from side to side with an explosive sound that couldn't be good for the sails, but the sails were not large enough to overcome the engine's power pushing the sailboat into the water. "Back off on the engine!" he shouted down to her, realizing that there was no point to their powering so hard into opposing waves. "Bring it down to seventeen hundred!" He saw her bend to the throttle control, then turn back to set the autopilot to their current course. Jerry had a rope around the mainsail already and was lashing the sail to its boom, not neatly but effectively enough for the moment. Dale went forward and released the staysail halyard. The staysail was their

smallest sail, but right now it was causing a lot of noise as it slammed from side to side, jerking the rigging uncomfortably with each explosive change of the wind. Taking the small sail down was difficult with the deck heaving underfoot. Despite the safety harness, he had to hold on with one arm at all times. He couldn't afford to let the jerky motion of the boat on the building seas throw him into the anchor winch or the mast. He found it was impossible to gather the folds of the sail to bundle them. Jerry, hanging his weight over the stable platform of the boom in its gallows, had it easier with the main. Dale abandoned his attempt to bundle the sail properly and lashed it roughly to the starboard lifeline just as Jerry was finishing with the main. "We'll leave the jib up," he told Jerry, his breath ragged from the effort. Jerry was still hanging onto the boom, his body swinging with the motion of the boat. He was breathing raggedly. "Yeah," he agreed. "A little course change and we can run with it." Dale narrowed his eyes, looking into the wind. "OK. We may as well take advantage of the south wind." Neither man mentioned Warren. They crawled back towards the cockpit, hanging carefully onto the lifelines as they went. In this wild ride it would be easy to lose footing and fall overboard. In the cockpit, Dale glanced at the compass. Catherine had set the autopilot and their course had settled out at three hundred degrees magnetic with the wind just aft of the port beam. "Bring it up ten degrees to the north," he instructed Catherine. The search for Warren Olsen had ended.

Fifteen They were under way on a course of three hundred ten degrees, the jib full and pulling well, the boat rolling on the still-building following sea. It was an uncomfortable ride, but they were moving steadily at five knots. "I don't think it'll blow any harder," said Jerry as he swung his legs down into the cockpit. Dale, on deck at the stern, was busy covering the generator. A light drizzle had started to fall. He heard Catherine say, "I hope not." "Where's Fernando?" Dale asked. Now that the sails were quiet, the following wind dampened by their own leeward course, he could speak without shouting. "Isn't Fernando supposed to be on shift?" Catherine twisted to look back at him. Her smile turned to a grimace as she gestured to the companionway. "Seasick again. Can you do something about him? He won't do anything, and on shift with me. I can't do all the sail handling. I haven't got the muscles for it." Jerry reached over to touch her shoulder. "We didn't expect you to. That's why we muscle-bound men came along." Dale saw that Catherine avoided the younger man's eyes as she shifted her position at the wheel, moving inconspicuously away from Jerry. "Why don't you switch Catherine to my shift permanently?" the first mate suggested. "You could put Fernando to yours." Dale frowned. "Agreed that we need a new watch schedule. I think we'll go with the schedule from yesterday. Warren was cook." Neither Catherine nor Jerry said anything, but all three thought of the

man lost somewhere at sea. "So yesterday's schedule doesn't depend on him." Jerry said, "If we use yesterday's watch schedule, what do we do about cooking?" Catherine reached into the aft cabin to turn on the autopilot, then shifted herself up to sit on the side deck, her legs hanging down into the cockpit. Not looking at either man, she said, "Why can't the watch-keepers look after the cooking? We've got two people on watch all the time. As long as the weather isn't wild, it shouldn't be a problem." "Sounds good," said Dale. "Catherine, that puts you on watch with me next, at noon. That's in ten minutes." "That's OK." She slid back down into the cockpit, her hands pushed into her pockets and her eyes on the jib. "I'm not tired. Hungry, mostly. Why don't I make lunch now?" When she was gone, Dale asked, "What's the problem between you two?" "No problem," said Jerry tightly. He glared at the compass, then said in an entirely different voice, "Has it occurred to you that Warren might not have fallen overboard accidentally?" Dale glanced back through the open door of the after cabin. The drawer below the chart table was closed. He said slowly, "Why? What makes you ..'suspicious?" Jerry shrugged, pushing his hands into his jeans. "Bloody cold out here, isn't it? Hard to believe we're off the coast of Mexico." Dale said nothing. He was good at waiting, and watching. He felt his face taking on the mask he often used when he was working. The watchfulness was hidden. Finally, Jerry said, "I think someone's looking for something. Searching Far Reacher." "Oh?" He met Jerry's eyes with sudden directness. "Who?" "How would I know?" The broad shoulders shifted restlessly. "My bunk's been disturbed. Someone's been burrowing under the mattress, in those hatches. Who? I don't know. Maybe more to the point, what would they be looking for? What's going on? I figured you might know. After all, you were sailing with Markesson shortly before he died." Dale reached past Jerry and adjusted the autopilot to set their course three degrees further north. "You tell me what's going on and we'll both know. Meanwhile, since we've still got a south wind, we may as well make the best possible course towards San Diego." Jerry frowned, then turned abruptly and went below, leaving Dale wondering about the conversation they had just finished. Too damned many mysteries. He checked the course before ducking into the aft cabin. Far Reacher was sailing comfortably on the new course. He reached for the drawer under the chart table. His fingers gripped the pull, then froze. Surely he had closed the drawer properly the last time he opened it? The drawer had a tendency to jam and he was always careful when he closed it. But now it was sitting cockeyed, open a quarter inch on the right side. Would he have woken if someone opened that drawer while he slept? Probably not. The watch-keeper was constantly stepping in and out of the after cabin. Taking GPS readings. Plotting dead reckoning on the chart so that they would know their location if the GPS failed. Sometimes simply sitting inside for a few moments of warmth on a chilly night. If Dale slept through all that, he would sleep through a drawer opening. He slid it open slowly. A pilot book. Two of Far Reacher's old log books from Brent's cruise around the South Pacific. Assorted advertising pamphlets for jib furling gear, including the advertisement for the

Hood gear that Brent had installed on the jib last year. If anyone had opened this drawer, it would not be suspicious in itself. Any member of the crew might want to browse through the old log books during a watch. Given the unexciting nature of most watches at sea, the dry pilot book for the Hawaiian coast might even be interesting. Between the Hood advertising and the pilot book was the small shiny tape recorder. He picked it up, moved the lever to rewind the tape, but found it already rewound. He pushed play. Nothing happened. The batteries must be dead. The recorder had disappeared earlier. Now it had returned with batteries dead. Five days ago, in Cabo, Dale himself had installed new alkaline batteries in the little machine. Since then he had used it a total of perhaps twenty minutes, recording and playing weather broadcasts. He had never seen anyone else use it. He found more batteries in the upper hatch where he had put them last week. He threw the old ones out through the door, heard the splash as they hit the water. Catherine had not returned to the cockpit yet. Jerry was down below, presumably in the galley with Catherine. The new batteries slid in easily. He snapped the little battery cover closed and pushed the button to rewind. The tape was almost at the end of its one hour playing time. He nodded, adding things up. When the tape finished rewinding, he pressed the play button. It was blank. Totally blank. If what he suspected was true, the recorder would only have been returned to this drawer if the tape were first erased. He slid the recorder into his pocket and went back to the cockpit to keep watch while he waited for his lunch. They were halfway between points A and B, heading towards A, the most northerly point. As they moved, their new course was taking them farther and farther away from the line of search. By this time, Dale knew that he would not find Warren floating in the water. He did not even look. He thought instead. He had a lot of thinking to do. If Warren had been murdered, Jerry and Liz were the logical suspects. Logical, because they had been the ones on shift during the hours in question. Not logical from any other point of view. An American expatriate woman on the make in Mexico, married to a cuckolded New Zealander sailor. No. If Jerry were involved in something devious and criminal, it would be many levels above the sort of thing Liz would get her claws into. Whatever had happened during the watch Jerry and Liz shared in the early hours of day four, the two watch-keepers had not conspired together. It did not make sense to think they had. The sea around Dale boiled with the south wind. A line squall overtook Far Reacher from behind, sending them on a wild ride, driven by the jib alone. Dale hunched his shoulders and let the rain drive into his back for a few minutes before he got sensible and went down below for a rain slicker. It was pleasant, standing in the rain, feeling Far Reacher reaching for the north, riding the squall. Wondering. Catherine brought him a mug of hot soup. "Where's Jerry?" he asked. He sipped carefully at the soup, trying not to burn his lips. "He's gone to his bunk for a while." Dale's eyes dropped to the place near her right knee. The porthole from Jerry's pilot berth opened into

the cockpit. Right now it was closed against the wind and rain. He kept his voice low. "Close the hatch, Catherine. Please." She stared at him for a moment, then slid the hatch closed and swung the door shut below it. Her voice was stilted as she said, "Sorry. I'm not used to having to keep the rain out. It's very different weather, isn't it?" She was holding her mug of soup, not drinking it, staring at him. "Are you and Jerry having an argument of some sort?" He sipped at the soup again. "Chicken noodle? It's good ... I was going to ask if you've had problems with Jerry. You didn't seem to like the idea of being on watch with him." Her face closed. Not Brent's Catherine. No, this was a real flesh and blood woman, hiding something. He could almost see past the barriers. He said softly, "Twists and turns and funny motivations. There's something going on, you know." Like fragile glass, her mask shattered. Her lips turned down with worry, lines radiating around her eyes. "I know." Her eyes flew to the deck behind him and he saw her tension, perhaps even fear. "I don't want to be on watch with Jerry, but that's personal, nothing to do with our mysteries. I have to talk to you." She swallowed, took a slow, deep breath. "I found something." "So did I." The porthole was closed. He shifted, tried to see the porthole on the other side, down near his feet, the one that led into the stateroom Liz and Catherine shared. Someone might have killed Warren. He could not afford to assume they had privacy here in the cockpit. "Where is everyone? Jerry's in his bunk. What about the rest of them?" "Liz is in the cabin. Fernando's groaning on the lower berth, seasick again. The south wind finished him off." She shrugged. "That's what he says, anyway." "Ron?" "Sleeping, I think." Dale's fingers curled around the tiny recorder in his pocket. "Does it occur to you that Ron's an odd fellow?" She shifted to find a more comfortable angle leaning against the side of the cockpit, then finally drank some of her soup. "Odd?" She licked a drop from her upper lip. "He's the quiet type, the kind of a guy who's more at home with an engine than a conversation. I've got clients like that. They're good at what they do, but can. t communicate to save their lives, or even to save themselves from the tax man. Ron spends most of his time watching Liz." "I hadn't noticed that." He should have. Catherine said wryly, "You didn't notice, because when Liz's around you're watching her, too." Liz was dangerous. Dale kept expecting her to drag him into a dirty explosion that would reveal that night he had taken her on the deck of Risky Venture. He believed she had a perverse desire to emasculate Ron'the couple's relationship seemed more a battleground than a partnership. Catherine said, "Look behind you on the deck, in the corner where the deck meets the toe rail." She put her hand into her pocket and pulled out a pocket knife. "I didn't know you carried a pocket knife." "I didn't until yesterday." She gestured towards the deck again. "I found that this morning. Look

closely." He bent over the deck and saw it almost at once. A dark spot, invisible unless you bent down and put your head on the deck to look towards the toe rail. The little stain could have remained hidden for weeks, even years, without being noticed. He said, "The deck's been washed clean there." "Yes." She handed him the pocket knife. He opened it and scratched a sliver of the dark substance. He tasted it. He stared at the blade of her knife, then wiped it carefully. "It's blood," she said quietly. "I'm sure it is." He was sure, too. "It could be from a fish. A fish caught, cleaned on deck. Then the deck swilled off with salt water." She shifted restlessly and said, "We haven't caught a fish since Cabo. Ron cleaned it on top of the lazarette." His finger traced a faint line on the deck. Three days ago, Dale himself had spilled some Sangria on the deck while he was on watch. The dark refresco liquid had stained the deck. He had cleaned it up, then noticed the next day that there was still some of the Sangria residue between the anti-skid particles painted into the deck. He had meant to get out the bucket and scrub brush to clean it up, but had forgotten. Now, part of the stained area was clean. Within the last two days, someone had scrubbed one small area of the deck very thoroughly. Was it Warren's blood? "I've known there's a problem for a while. Someone searching the boat. You knew that." She nodded and he said, "If this were a job, I'd look for the signs. There are trails, places you look for trails. Clues." "A job?" They were talking very quietly. It was unlikely that they could be heard even by someone standing on the deck a few feet away. "I thought you were a systems analyst?" "Most of what I do is detective work, the systems analyst business makes a good cover. We go into an organization, ask questions about everything from what the forms look like, to what time lunch is. Nobody's ever surprised to find a systems analyst looking at the old printouts, the bank statements, the shift schedules. Everything's fair game, because everything gets put into the computer. If you're going to revamp a corporate data system, it's even your business how far the ladies room is from the data entry station, and whether the programmer likes his job." She looked at him, her eyes moving from his conventionally cut head of brown hair to his comfortable but conservative shoes. "You cultivate the image, conservative and dull. I bet nobody ever asks questions about your job. You're a systems analyst and no one wants to admit they really don't know what the hell a systems analyst does." The creases around her eyes returned in quiet, soft laughter. "Computer thefts? Banks?" "I've done banks, but it doesn't have to be a bank. Phony purchase orders in shipping companies. Extra pennies of service charges in banks." He spread his hands, the tape recorder still held in one. "There's a hell of a variety, lots of ways to play with computers and bookkeeping to steal money or inventories." "So you're a detective. It must have been pretty embarrassing for you, getting taken by Brent's con."

"That's the understatement of the year. The way I fell for it, I deserved to get conned." He stood up, pleased when she did not draw away from him as she had from Jerry only an hour ago. "Brent was the ultimate con artist. He fleeced me, but I still have trouble hating him for it." "I know." Her mask was gone. He had a feeling that she might never be able to hide herself from him with that shuttered look again. She whispered. "I never could hate him." "Love?" She stared ahead. He could see her jaw tense, then relax. "Not any more." He wanted to touch her, but kept his hands curled around the mug. There was too much in the way ... Brent, Warren's death, Dale's own inhibitions, the unsettled ownership of Far Reacher. The boat moved steadily under a fifteen-knot wind from the southwest. Dale finished his soup, then said quietly, "Someone killed Warren. I was pretty sure of that before you showed me the blood. Someone's also been searching this boat, and it's only reasonable to assume that it's the same person." "Maybe it's all of them. Sometimes I think they're all watching me, waiting, as if it's a stage play and I'm the only one who isn't in on the lines!" "It's one person, perhaps two. If someone on board killed Warren, the same person probably killed Brent too. That rules out quite a few people." "Jerry was in Canada." "Are you sure?" He frowned. "It's not likely that he'd be in on it. You brought Jerry from Vancouver. You found him, asked him to crew for you." "No, he found me. He came to my office and offered to bring Far Reacher back to Canada." "How did he know about Brent?" Dale jerked erect. "You hired him without checking up on him?" "I did check his references. I was told he's got a good reputation as a sailor, and a bad one for women. What recommendations do Ron and Liz have? Or is the fact that you and Liz. " "No." He did not want to talk about Liz and see Catherine's eyes go from warmth to that flat coldness, but when she turned away from him, he found the words coming. "When I bought the boat from Brent, we went up to the States to my lawyer. We signed papers. I gave him the money. After that, Brent went back to Mexico. He was supposed to wait for me at Santispac, and then we were going to take the boat up to San Diego while the transfer of title went through. You know all that, more or less." She said nothing. He felt panic crawling up in his throat, because she was not Brent's Catherine, the ghost, soft and virginal and trusting. She was much more dangerous, this Catherine, and he was afraid that if she stayed in his life for long, he might find himself reaching out for her. Falling for a ghost was one thing, but a real woman like Catherine. "And?" "Where was I?" he asked, wondering why he was going to tell her. "Brent was waiting in Santispac." "Yeah." He stared down at the brown shoes. "I tidied up a few things, then flew back to Mexico. Only, when I got to Santispac the boat wasn't there. Risky Venture was, with Liz on board. I'd met Liz and

Ron at a party on Far Reacher a few weeks before, so I went over to find out if they knew where Brent was." Catherine stared at her sneakers. "And did they?" "No. Ron wasn't there. He was up in the States." Dale frowned, corrected, "Liz said he was up in the States. He could have been anywhere, I suppose. She offered me a drink, said she would get on the radio and try to find Brent." "You don't have to tell me." "I stayed the night." She said sharply, "I told you, I don't want to know about. " "We had sex. I'm not proud of it. It wasn't. Well, it happened. It's the only thing that there's ever been between Liz and I." He took a deep breath, said, "I'm no celibate, but frankly I'd feel a hell of a lot more comfortable if it hadn't happened. She's not the kind of a woman that makes a man feel good about himself." She would not meet his eyes. He had lived his entire live with everything held inside. Until Brent, and that had been one hell of a mistake. He hoped he was not making another mistake now. Catherine said, "There's no reason for you to tell me this." He put his cup down in the corner of the seat where it would not fall with the motion of the boat. "I wanted to tell you. I guess I'm trying to tell you that I trust you." He looked away, added quickly, "Trust you not to be in on whatever's coming down here. If you could bring yourself to trust me, it would make it easier for us to try to work together, to figure out who the hell is pulling. whatever they're pulling." She took a deep breath. "Dale, I took my room apart the other night. I found something. I know what they want." "Wait." They'd been whispering in the cockpit. He wished that they had moved to a better place sooner. He had felt as if they were the only two people in the world, but there were four others down below. It was easy to forget they were not alone. He went down below, taking their cups. Fernando was in the head, groaning and retching. Dale doubted if anyone could fake such a convincing and graphic sound. He was not as sure about Jerry and Ron. They both appeared to be asleep. And Liz? She was behind the closed door of the stateroom. He had no way of knowing if she slept. He returned to the cockpit, handed Catherine her harness and put his own on. She followed him up onto the deck without speaking. He snapped his safety line onto the stay at the bow, then he leaned against the edge of the bow pulpit and watched as she snapped her harness in place. She said, "This is against your rules. When anyone goes up on deck, there must always be. " "'someone watching from safety in the cockpit," he finished. She smiled and he found himself responding. "Both the stateroom and Jerry's berth have portholes onto the cockpit sides, not to mention the aft cabin." "You think Jerry might be the one?" She bit her lip. "I know he and Liz were on shift when Warren disappeared, but. " "Maybe they weren't." He took out the tape recorder, rewound it again. "How do we know the time of Warren's disappearance?" "We know." She shifted, leaning against the pulpit opposite him, her hands behind her, curling around

the stainless rail of the pulpit to keep her balance as the boat rode the waves. "Warren was in his cabin, snoring, when you and I handed over to Jerry and Liz. But Liz is too small to throw a man Warren's size overboard, and Jerry. " "You don't think Jerry did it? Why not?" "He seems like a nice guy. I know it's a stupid reason, but. Damn it, Dale! I don't have a much better reason for not suspecting you." "Actually, you do. I-#151;" "There's nothing I know without taking your word for it. I just don't think you would do that to Warren. I don't know about the rest. Maybe Brent made you angry enough when he conned you out of fifty thousand. That's a lot of money." "It took some scraping to come up with it that quickly. And I was mad as hell when I found out Brent had skipped on me. I might have hit him. I'd certainly have been shouting." He rubbed his cheek, felt the rasp of his beard. "I don't think I would have killed him. I've never killed anyone yet." It should have sounded like a joke, but it didn't. She turned impatiently, then came back to him, crouching down on the deck, finally sitting down because it was easier to balance and ride the waves that way. "I don't see you involved in whatever it was that Brent got involved in. I don't see you pulling cons or thefts, because he had to be doing both the way I see it. After what I found. But the trouble is, I don't see Jerry doing it either. He's too damned friendly, like everyone's favorite dog. And Liz. She can be vicious, but physically she couldn't finish off Brent and Warren. I don't know what kind of shape Warren was really in, but Brent was always very fit." Dale remembered that first day, Brent walking across the sand with the water jugs. Then later, hauling the mainsail tight in a brisk wind. "Yes. He was. Strong. Agile. And Liz isn't all that strong. Not as strong as you are. So if we're going to assume that you and I are innocent, that leaves only Ron and Fernando." "Fernando's too much of a wimp behind that phony Mexican macho exterior." She grinned. "Can you really see him overpowering Warren? I can't believe he'd risk his manicure. So it has to be Ron. And if it. s Ron, then Liz must be in it too. Yes, Ron and Liz. But how did they do it? Jerry was on duty. Before that, it was you and I, and we know Warren was still on board at the end of our shift." His jaw thrust out as he stared down at the little recorder. "I was recording the weather on this little gizmo. This morning I realized it was missing." She drew her legs up, wrapped her arms around them, listening. He sat down at her level, leaning back against the lifelines. "I found it a few minutes ago, back in its place. Between when it went missing and when it was returned, a new set of batteries went dead and the tape has been wiped clean. I had recorded various things on it. Bits of weather forecasts ever since we left La Paz." He turned the recorder over and over in his hand. "I never rewound it. I just kept tacking the new forecast onto the end of the last, setting the counter to zero at the beginning of each broadcast so I could locate it to play back." "And they're gone? The broadcasts are gone?" She took the recorder, pushed the play button. She held it to her ear. "There's a hiss." He nodded. "You get that kind of noise when you wipe the tape by pushing the record button when there's no sound. It records its own motor sound." "Why would anyone. " She snapped the stop button. "You mean, we didn't hear Warren at all? Someone

recorded the snoring?" "And played it back, put the recorder in his bunk and turned it on, shut the door. It wouldn't be a perfect recording, but with all the other noises, the water and the wind, we wouldn't be likely to notice the difference." "No." Her hand gripped his arm. He wanted very much to take her in his arms. She said, "We wouldn't be expecting it. He was always making such a racket with his snoring. It became just so much background noise." She met his eyes. He felt her fingers tense, saw her eyes widen. He could hear his own heart smashing against his ribs, but he thought he managed to keep it out of his eyes. He succeeded, barely, in stopping his other hand from covering hers. He felt a trembling inside, then something like pain when she pulled her hand back and turned away from him. "We've got to find out," she said. "No, we've got to get safely to San Diego. If we find out who it is, we've got to be damned sure we don't give away that knowledge." He grabbed her chin and pulled it around, glared into her eyes. "If we know who it is, then we're a big danger to that person. We're too damned vulnerable out here. You could get killed. I could get killed." She pulled away. "If we knew for sure, we could. Well, if it's Ron and Liz, we could overpower them, tie them up until we get to San Diego." "Catherine, damn it, you've been reading too many spy thrillers. What if we did that, and just assuming something didn't go right. " "We could sneak up on them in their sleep." "Perhaps, but what if we're wrong? What if it's actually. Well, let's say it's Fernando. Then we've shown our hand, we've announced to the world that we know Warren was murdered, and. " "It can't be Fernando, he's too much of a wimp. What about the tape recorder? You said it yourself. It was wiped. So someone recorded Warren snoring, then put the recorder in his room to make it look like he was there when you and I came off our watch. If that's so, then we know who did it. Ron. Didn't Ron say Warren went down early to bed from that night shift? Ron must have lied." "It's a guess!" He did not realize that he was shouting until he heard his own voice. "Catherine, when you do detective work, you make guesses, but then before you act, you make sure you're right." She gnawed on her lower lip. "All right. I can see that. But we could make sure. We could talk to each one of them. There are things I could ask, things I could say. Whoever it is, that person is searching for something." "No!" He caught her by both arms and shook her, hard. "Don't say a word! For Christ's sake! You're dealing with a murderer! I don't want you killed!" He saw the quick rise and fall of her breasts under her cruiser suit. He felt his fingers digging hard into her arms and he let go abruptly. She shoved her hands into her pockets. "I've played it safe all my life. Even with Brent, I thought I was taking a flier when I met him, but in the end I wasn't willing to take a chance. I hid in my little world in Vancouver, and let him go off to sea. Oh, I knew he conned me on the money, but the money never mattered. He wanted a boat and I wanted to be alive, to have an adventure. I knew part of my attraction for him was that I could give him the boat, that I could pay the bills so he could have his dream."

"Catherine. " "No, don't interrupt. I have to say this to you. I-#151;" She shuddered, said, "I messed it up myself. I knew what he was. I loved him, but I knew he had to be chasing his dreams, that he'd never stay still. I should have gone with him. There's no point to reaching for the moon, then hiding when it's offered to you. So. Well, I've played it safe, stayed home minding my business while my husband went off having adventures. I know that if I'd gone with him, it might not have lasted. I might have found myself abandoned in. God knows where. In Tahiti, or La Paz. But you see, by playing it safe, I got nothing. Four years alone, like the rest of my bloody life." "Catherine. " "Maybe you're right, I should be careful. I'll try to be careful, but Dale, I can't simply hide my face in my berth from here to San Diego, then spend the rest of my life knowing I was a flaming coward. If I get a chance to find out who it is, I'm going to try. I'm going to do my best." He frowned down at her. She said uneasily, "You can't stop me. Any more than I can stop you. You're going to try to find out, aren't you?" "For Christ's sake, Catherine, be careful! Watch and think, but don't let anyone know what you're thinking. I don't want you to be the next missing crew member." "I'll be careful." She smiled then, an impish movement of lips and dimples. "I guess, if you're not interested in sleuthing, you won't want to know what it was that I found in my cabin."

Sixteen Why would anyone want to kill Warren Olsen? It bothered Dale as much as the question of who. The man had been friendly, easygoing. A very ordinary man who wanted only to go sailing. A writer who undoubtedly produced dull books. He had accepted Warren as that, and the words written in Brent's old logs seemed to confirm it. Warren was an experienced sailor, good crew. better than most, because he did not object to the dirty jobs, did not complain about sleeping on the worst berth on the boat. Dale put their harnesses away, leaving Catherine on watch while he went below. He found Fernando sitting at the dinette table, holding his head in his hands. "Want some soup?" Dale asked. "There's some left here." The Mexican's dark face turned a greenish shade. "No," he whispered. "Nada." "You'd be more comfortable up on deck. Fresh air helps. So does being able to see the horizon." Fernando groaned a protest and Dale shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'm going up front to straighten out the anchor rope." "Anchor?" Fernando's voice sounded weakly hopeful. "We are going to anchor?" Dale managed a credible laugh. "Not out here. There's about a mile of water under us. I think that knockdown we took might have scrambled up the rope. I'd rather straighten it now than find it's snarled when we let down our anchor in San Diego harbor." He resisted the impulse to keep talking. How many times had he tracked down an embezzler by watching for the worker who was a little too ready to explain, too quick to justify? He had explained

enough. He resisted adding more words, left Fernando and walked into the forward cabin. As he passed Ron, he wondered if the New Zealander was lying too still, faking sleep. Or was it only his imagination, his nervousness? Warren's cabin was tidy now, the sleeping bag folded at the foot of the bunk, the pillow aligned precisely in the center of the mattress where his head would go. Dale thought that the cabin had been slightly messy the morning they discovered Warren missing, wondered who had tidied it? He resisted the temptation to look for Warren's things. Not yet. Far Reacher had two anchors, one on chain and one on rope. The chain and rope were fed through separate pipes leading from the deck down to the lockers, which were accessible from the forward cabin. Dale opened the locker containing the rope, leaned down and tried to let out a convincing grumble. "Bloody thing's a mare's nest in here." If Ron was sleeping, this muttering was wasted. If not, Dale's words might not be heard in the salon, but hopefully the mumbling would seem convincing for a captain legitimately engaged in tending to the ship. He did not want anyone to know he was planning to search Warren Olsen's cabin. In fact, the rope was heaped into the locker in quite orderly fashion, but Dale was the only one who could see that. He began to pull rope out, grumbling now and then as if he had hit a tangle and stopped to unsnarl it. When he had an awkward mass of rope on the floor of the cabin, he shifted his body to achieve more stable seating on the rope. Predictably, the pile of rope shifted towards the salon. Quite naturally, he closed the cabin door to contain the rope and stabilize his seating. Camouflage, he thought, wondering if he was being paranoid, wondering why it was so hard to believe one of the people on board was a murderer. He felt no particular attachment to any of them, except Catherine. But to imagine Liz, Ron, Jerry or Fernando recording the sounds of Warren sleeping and then throwing him overboard. Inconceivable, but Warren Olsen was gone. Brent, too. And hidden in a deep hatch in the stateroom, Catherine had found motive enough for both murders. He pulled Warren's bag out of the locker where it was stored and searched through it quickly. He saw nothing inappropriate to an innocent middle-aged man who liked sailing, but did not own a boat. Dale would have thought that an author would pack around at least one copy of one of his own books, but the absence of a book by Warren Olsen was nothing more than suggestive. No wallet. No passport. That was odd. They had been at sea for three days when Warren disappeared. Dale had thrown his wallet into the hatch at the head of his bunk the first day out, to avoid losing it overboard. After all, who needed a wallet a hundred miles or so from land? He tried to remember if there had been a bulge in Warren's pants, a lump that would suggest a wallet. He didn't think so, but found no wallet in the hatch at the head of Warren's bunk either, only a paperback thriller. Ice Station Zebra. Dale remembered Warren reading it during his morning watch the day before he disappeared. Catherine had laughed at the title, teasing Warren lightly because they were in the tropics. Surely Warren would not have carried his passport around on his person while at sea? Dale thumped the wall lightly to make noises like a man rearranging rope. Then he pulled the mattress off the berth. Nothing there. Next he searched every hatch in the cabin. Nothing. He checked the hanging locker, found Warren's jacket there, but the pockets were empty except for a pair of nail

clippers and a ring of keys. He put the case back, put the mattress back, returned the pocket book to the hatch. In Cabo, when they checked out at the migración office, every one of them had been required to produce passports and Mexican tourist cards. The immigration officer had checked each passport against the name on the crew list, confirming the nationality of each person, looking up to identify each face from the passport picture. Warren's had been an American passport. It had not appeared to be new, but neither had it looked battered the way Dale remembered Brent's Canadian passport looking. Brent had been in the habit of carrying his passport in his back pocket when he was in port. Warren, obviously, had kept his passport in much better condition. Dale started putting the rope back into the locker, slowly. He did not believe Warren had fallen overboard on his own. Even less did he believe Warren had kept his wallet and passport on his person when he was days away from land. Had someone already searched for the missing items? If so, why? Dale himself hadn't expected to find anything worth knowing. Checking Warren's room was simply something he thought should be done. Routine, but probably not profitable. Had Warren concealed secrets? Dale piled the rope back onto the locker, then shifted to stretch his cramped legs. As he stretched, Far Reacher hit a big wave and heeled over far to port. Dale lost his balance, coming down with one elbow hard against a hatch, his other arm sliding into the rope locker. He braced himself, gasping at the pain in his elbow. Damned funny bone! It hurt like hell. His eyes clenched shut, his body huddled over the rope locker as he rode out the wave of agony. After a moment the pain subsided and he shifted, getting his balance carefully, wary of another violent motion. He grabbed for a lump of rope and started to push himself erect. His thumb brushed against something that felt like plastic as he stood. He stood for a second, rubbing his elbow, then he bent down to look into the locker. There was nothing to see, but when he reached in he could feel the plastic on the underside of the locker ceiling. He traced its boundaries with his fingers. An area of plastic about four inches by six. It was stuck to the wood above, totally hidden from view. The whole area formed a bulge large enough to conceal quite a collection of papers. Or a wallet. Dale reached into his pocket and pulled out a small battery-operated squeeze light. Brent had stocked about a dozen of the small disposable flashlights in a glass jar in the galley. As long as the light was squeezed, the small beam stayed lit. Let go and it went out. Handy little lights. Dale held the light inside the locker and squeezed, twisting to get his head down to where he could see. It was a plastic shipping envelope, the sort couriers were in the habit of slapping onto the sides of the boxes they shipped. You could stuff waybills into them. Someone had stuffed this one full, then peeled off the paper and slapped the sticky side up in the rope locker. It was tough plastic, but he poked through it finally with Warren's nail clippers. Even with the plastic torn, the items held inside were squeezed tight against the wood. It took a couple of minutes to work the wallet free. Then the other item. He pushed both inside his shirt without taking time to look. Then he pulled the loose plastic away, pushing it inside his shirt as well. When he came out of the forward cabin, he was suitably grubby from fighting with three hundred feet of anchor rode. He was glad of the camouflage because Ron was sitting on the side of his bunk. "Ambitious, aren't you," the mechanic said, rubbing his short hair into even wilder disarray. "Planning to anchor us out here in the deep blue?"

"Not likely. By the way, we've gone back to the watch schedule from day four. You're not on until twenty hundred." Ron considered that, then shrugged. "Whatever. I'm going up for some air." Dale resisted the impulse to go into the head and examine what he had found. It might look suspicious if he went directly from Warren's cabin to some private place. So he stepped into the head but left the door open while he washed his hands. Warren Olsen must have had secrets, but he had been cautious enough to hide his wallet and passport very thoroughly. Warren was dead now. Dale must be even more cautious than he had intended. †† Just before Dale and Catherine finished their afternoon watch, Far Reacher passed point A, heading northwest on a course of three hundred and twenty degrees magnetic. At the time, everyone on board was awake, although none looked well rested. No one mentioned Warren. Catherine went below to make an early supper. It was the first proper meal that had been served on Far Reacher since the search for Warren began. Dale ate in the cockpit, keeping watch, while the other five sat around the dinette table. Everyone but Fernando managed to do justice to the spaghetti with its mild meat sauce. Fernando ate only one piece of bread. Nobody talked much. "That storm must be almost past us now," said Jerry once, twisting to look out the window. "I see blue sky coming up from the west." "That means we'll get the north winds back," complained Liz. "We'll be beating into head winds and seas before dark." "Not so bad now." Ron's voice was placating. "We'll be making a more northerly course by then, heading for San Diego. We should have a pretty good angle if it comes up northwest." Liz glared at him. "I don't know why the hell you had to drag me out here." She shrugged angrily and pushed a big forkful of spaghetti into her mouth. "It would help if I could get a decent bloody sleep, instead of having to share my bed with Snow White here." Catherine snapped her fork down on her plate. "I'll move into Warren's cabin." "That's crazy!" sad Jerry. "That's the worst berth on the boat, especially once we start beating into the seas again. It's better to leave it empty. Or you take my berth, and I'll take Warren's" "I don't mind." She got up and began running water into the sink. "I haven't had a trace of seasickness in a couple of days. By the way, Liz, you'll make sure there's breakfast out for everyone tomorrow morning? You or Jerry. You two have the four to eight watch. Then Ron and Fernando have eight to twelve. They're responsible for lunch." "Jesus, you're all I need!" Liz slammed her fork down. "Since when did you become the bloody captain?" Catherine shrugged, squirting a short burst of soap into the dishwater. Liz's nerves were getting bad. Did it have anything to do with Warren? If not Warren, then with the bundle Catherine had found in a hidden hatch in her room? She looked up and saw Liz staring at her. Remembering Dale's warning, she kept her face still as she washed the dishes. Liz and Jerry left for the cockpit. Dale came down, took a towel and started drying dishes. Fernando crawled away from the table to lay down on his bunk in the salon. That left Ron, sitting at the table,

looking uncomfortable. "Here, wash that table," said Dale, handing him a damp dishcloth. Ron applied himself to the table, then went into the salon and sat on the short settee with a book on diesel engines. He was still there when the dishes were done. Catherine collected her things from the stateroom, moving them into Warren's room and shutting the door. She lay down then, intending to rest for half an hour before she started searching the cabin. She was determined to find out the contents of each of Brent's secret places. In fact, she fell asleep within seconds of lying down. She did not wake until Ron tapped on her door just before midnight. "Your watch! Ten minutes!" †† Each crewmember had a four-hour watch, followed by eight hours off. Two watches each day, but with the propensity of humans for daylight, all tended to sleep away the dark hours when they could, to get up for the daylight. Without discussing it, Dale and Catherine did not mention their discoveries, their suspicions, to each other during the day. The night was different. The darkness covered them. The wind and the water secured their privacy when they went up together on deck. The fore deck, their secure talking place. The first night after Catherine moved into Warren's cabin, Dale announced quietly, "I'm not so worried about who that gold you found really belongs to. What bothers me is that I want it to stay hidden. As long as it's not found, whoever's looking for it has no reason to slaughter the rest of us. Face it, Catherine, that's why we're here, and why the. " "The bad guys?" she suggested. "Yeah, OK, call them the bad guys. That's why they're here. They've searched the boat. Everybody's searched the bloody boat, I'm sure. But they know, or at least they suspect the gold's on board somewhere. They can't find it, but they think we might. Whoever killed Warren came aboard with only one motive, to use you and I to find that gold. They were right in their guess, too, because you did know where it was. You found it." "Hiding places." She slipped her foot under a line that crossed the deck, hugged herself against the breeze. "Brent had a complex about them. If I check the others, I bet I'll find a gun somewhere. He always said he wanted a gun." "If you do find one, hide it again and tell me." At least they would have some defense if ... It was difficult to speculate on the if, when he was uncertain of the who. Catherine asked, "What did you find in Warren's wallet? Anything?" "Yeah. Birth certificate for Warren Olsen, matching the passport. But deeper down, behind the flap where you put the things you don't want seen when you pay the restaurant bill, he had other things. Things ho didn. t want found. His real name was Carter. Morris Carter." She turned to watch him as he spoke in that flat, disinterested voice, realized she was coming to read this hidden man better with each day. She rested her hand on his arm, willing him to turn and look at her.

"You don't like telling your secrets, do you? You like to keep it all to yourself until it's over, like some kind of Hercule Poirot." He looked at her, startled, then he laughed. "Yeah, you're right. I've always played a lone hand." "Is it some kind of rule? Don't you allow partners?" She was not sure why he should matter to her, but he did. Perhaps it was only part of this incredible voyage, this escape from the dull reality of her ordinary life. When they reached port in San Diego, her world might return to normal with a flat lurch. Then Dale Welland would be nothing but a man who had caused a lot of inconvenience over the title to Far Reacher. His hand covered hers briefly. "I'm not sure how one goes about a partnership," he said oddly. Then he let go her hand and they were sitting separately again, eyes not even trying to meet in the darkness. "Warren. Carter. Whatever his name was. He was working for some government agency. At least, he had identification that said he was." "Which government?" "American." Dale swung around, said, "It would make a bit more sense if you'd found some drugs in that hatch. Tell me again. Describe the coins again. You're sure Liz won't find them." She shook her head. She stood up, flexing her legs alternately, feeling a restless need for exercise. "I wish I could go for a good long walk," she complained mildly. "She won't find them. No one will. It's just about impossible to believe there's a hatch there even if you know where it is. I've told you where it is, but if you went in there and tried to find it yourself, I wouldn't be surprised if you came back and told me there's no hatch there. You really have to know." "OK." He shrugged his shoulders in his cruiser suit. They were both wearing the bulky cruiser suits that were designed to provide both emergency floatation and warmth for sailors in northern waters. They were not in the north, but it was unbelievably cold at night. "Maybe it's best," he said thoughtfully. "You gave up the cabin so easily, she. or whoever's interested. will assume you don't think there's anything there." He worried the flesh at the inside of his cheek with his teeth. "Gold coins. American Eagles, from the way you described them. How big?" She made a small circle with her thumb and forefinger. "They were marked, too, on the back. I forgot to tell you. I didn't take them all out, but the few I looked at, they said 1 oz fine gold "And from the size of the bundle. What do you think it weighed?" "I don't know. It was incredibly heavy for its size. I had trouble getting it out. At first I just reached in, then. Well, it must have weighed quite a bit more than a ten kilo sack of flour." "Ten kilo?" he muttered. She laughed. "You Americans aren't metric, are you? Twenty-five pounds, more or less. It weighed a lot more than that." "It's too bad you hadn't time to count them, but there must have been over a hundred grand's worth." She pushed her hands into the pockets of her suit, leaned against the mast. "I was afraid to take the time to count them. I didn't want to keep them out, and I thought it was safest just to put the whole bundle back. After all, no one's found it there yet." He nodded agreement. She said, "You paid Brent fifty thousand. You didn't. " "Pay it in gold? No, certified check. I handed it to him in San Francisco, and from what my lawyer said, he cashed it that same day. For greenbacks."

"He could have exchanged the money for gold. Where do you buy gold American Eagle coins?" "They're made by the US mint. I've seen them advertised in magazines. You buy them at banks, or coin dealers. But he couldn't have got that much gold for fifty thousand. Nobody's going to sell gold at a discount." She pushed her hands through her hair. She felt restless tonight, had trouble staying still. "Then. " "There has to be a drug connection. It's the only thing that makes sense. Cocaine maybe. Drug dealers like to be paid in gold." "How do you know that?" "I heard it on a television documentary. For all I know, it's nonsense, but if I were dealing in illegal merchandise I'd probably like to be paid in gold, too." "Drugs? It's just gold, Dale! There's nothing to show. What are you laughing about?" He caught her hand, pulled it away from its restless journey through her curly, dark hair. "Just gold. Don't you care about it?" He hadn't intended to touch her, but now he could not seem to let her hand go. Was she having trouble with her breathing, too? She said, "It's just a bunch of coins. They're not mine. I sure can't see killing someone for them." He released her hand, slipped his hands behind her back, tangling with the gear of her safety harness. He spread his fingers across her back, spanning the edge of the harness, holding her still as he came even closer. She did not pull back, didn't move at all. She stared at him, her eyes unreadable in the night. Part of him wanted to draw back, but his lips moved, head bent, and he possessed her slightly parted lips. It was a disturbingly chaste kiss. He felt her lips tremble under his, felt an unaccustomed tenderness that drove him to taste her slowly, carefully, feeling gently for her response. When he felt the hard demand of his own body, he pulled away. It was a long moment before she whispered, "What did that mean?" "I don't know. You scare hell out of me." "Then why did you. " "I don't know." He had not realized until now how beautiful strength could be. Catherine's strength was deceptive. At first he had thought it was coldness; then, when he saw glimpses of her softness, the strength seemed to disappear. But it was here, now. Resilient. He wondered how it would be if she loved him, the way she had loved Brent. †† Dale left her then, walking back to the cockpit. He did not invite her to come, so she stayed, leaning against the mast, her harness securing her to the forward shroud. She watched him loosen the jib sheet from its cleat. He let the jib out slowly. She turned to the front and saw the sail shift, filling with wind. She fancied she could hear the difference in the movement of the hull through the water as the boat responded to the new set of the sail. He trimmed all the sails, altering their course a few degrees to the north. Then he came back, announcing, "We picked up half a knot in speed when I did that. This wind's good for us." To her he looked a classic picture of a sailor and the sea. She found herself smiling as he said, "If it keeps on

giving us that much westing, we'll do well." She nodded, content to say nothing. "About the gold," he said, frowning now. She liked what moonlight did to his face, sharpening the angles and making it easier to read behind the mask. "It would make more sense if it were drugs. You've got to stop and think about the nature of the people who were interested in this boat. Warren, some kind of American secret cop, undercover in Mexico. The Mexican federales. their big thrust is to try to control the drug traffic, you know. And someone else, someone who killed both Brent and Warren." He flung his hand out, demanded quietly, "What kind of sense does it make to have all these government people interested if Brent ripped off someone. s collection of gold coins?" "There were a lot of things Brent would have done, but I don't see him smuggling drugs." "Scruples?" Dale shook his head. "What kind of scruples can you attribute to a man who conned me out of fifty thousand, who conned you out of this boat and. " "Sure, he conned me. He conned everyone. But you have to realize that he was always reaching for dreams. He never did anything that would make him feel bad about himself." "Oh, come on, Catherine! He was a thief!" "No." She shook her head. "I've thought about this a lot. For years I didn't think about him, tried not to remember. But since I got the telegram saying he'd died. Well, I've thought about him a lot. Morally he was a thief, but he did it with style." "Lots of criminals do it with style. I know, honey, it. s my job. Artistic theft with computers. Dummy companies paid for invisible products, and the purchasing agent gets rich. It's still theft. It's still a crime." "I'm not talking about right and wrong, Dale. I'm talking about Brent. He could have been a pirate and felt good about himself. After all, pirates are romantic. He could sell you a castle in the air, and disappear. It was a game. He would feel. Well, he'd feel the same as a small boy who's won at marbles. He liked that feeling. If he'd been in drugs. I'm sure of this, Dale. He would have felt dirty, not like a romantic hero. He didn't mind playing Robin Hood. He could take me or you, and. Well, face it, Dale. You could afford to get taken. So could I." "I can't afford fifty thousand." "Can't you? Will you go hungry?" She touched him again, her hand on his arm. "I'm not defending him, I'm just saying there were things he wouldn't do. Not because he was moral. He wasn't, but he liked the vision he had of himself, and drugs wouldn't have fit his self-image."

Seventeen Day six. Jerry made bread. Everyone ate fresh bread and cheese for lunch, even Fernando, who seemed to have recovered finally from his seasickness. The wind held at west-northwest. After lunch, while Fernando was in the galley doing dishes, Liz and Ron had a screaming argument in the stateroom. Dale was up in the cockpit on watch, listening to Jerry recount the adventures of the Swiftsure race he'd crewed in. Catherine was in the galley getting coffee for herself and Dale. She was aware that Liz and Ron were together behind the closed door of the stateroom. Neither was on watch and Catherine had speculated that they might have closed the door for privacy, to sleep together.

To have sex together, she corrected, trying to correct a tendency she had noticed in herself to avoid words like sex and intercourse and ... love. But it was not possible to think of Liz making love with a man. There was something hard and vicious about the woman. Certainly there was no love in what was happening in the stateroom. Catherine avoided Fernando's eyes as Liz's voice rose and "fucking bastard" penetrated through the door. Catherine took a clean, wet spoon from the draining sink and concentrated on stirring sugar into Dale's coffee. "Would you like me to help you with the dishes?" she asked Fernando. "No," he said stiffly. Ron's muffled voice. "Bitch ..'stupid cunt." Catherine winced. Fernando said, "The dishes are mine to do." His voice was louder than necessary. "I will do them, and Ron, my partner on the watch, will do in the kitchen, the. " He shrugged and spread his hands. "The cooking?" "Yes. It is better that he does this." Fernando smiled and she realized that it had been days since she had seen his perfect, white teeth. "I am better for the dishes. I must only be careful not to break much." "You'll get dishpan hands," she said, watching his hands disappear into the suds. He had already lost the perfection of his manicure. From the stateroom, she heard only silence. †† Day seven. Winds holding to the west. Course steady at 344 degrees magnetic. During the first four hours of the day, Dale and Catherine kept the watch. Darkness. No moon. Far Reacher was motor-sailing, pushing through waves and swell at five to seven knots, depending on the strength of the wind. Dale checked the GPS and logged their position. They were within two hundred miles of San Diego. On board Far Reacher, time seemed suspended. Someone had murdered Warren. Dale and Catherine were both inclined to suspect Ron and Liz, but suspicion was all they had. Catherine made coffee and they took it forward to the place on the fore deck where they could be sure of privacy. They sat together, sipping, thinking, slowly sharing their quiet, stealthy discoveries. Dale had searched Ron's belongings the day before, but found nothing except the New Zealand passport he expected to find. Liz was traveling on an American passport. Catherine had located it in Liz's things when she was packing her own to move out of the stateroom. It told her nothing, except that Ron was listed as her next of kin, and the two shared the same surname, so evidently were legally married. Ron had $300 American in his wallet, and several peso notes. Liz had only an American five dollar bill. If that was all the money they had in the world, they were living very close to the wire. Dale had managed a quick look through Jerry's things while Jerry was on watch, but found nothing surprising. Jerry's wallet, thrown in a hatch near his bunk, held several major credit cards and about two thousand dollars American. Although Jerry was traveling on a Canadian passport, the credit cards were all issued by American banks, and his driver's license had been issued in California. Jerry had not mentioned to Catherine that his residence was in California.

"I don't know why he should," she told Dale. "I only asked him about sailing, and when I called Holley Donovan to check Jerry's bona fides, we just talked about crewing." "Still," mused Dale, "you've got to wonder what he uses for income. You don't get an American Express gold card without some kind of assets or income." Catherine shrugged it away. "We can't put him on the bad guy list just because he seems to be solvent." "No." Dale turned his empty mug in his hand slowly. "The last case I had before I came down here was a bank job. Fellow named Durheim had worked out a very artistic way to filter several hundred thousand dollars out of his bank's international exchange transactions. "He was one of these guys you'd expect to find passing the collection plate at church, every Sunday for forty years, never miss a Sunday. He was small and bent over a bit. Wore bifocals and a smile, as if he expected people to push him aside and didn't really mind that much." He shrugged uncomfortably, said, "The bank's board was paying me, they had first right to whatever I found." Far Reacher rolled on a swell bigger than the others and Catherine found her shoulder pressing against Dale's. He shifted to put his arm around her. She held herself tense for a second, then relaxed against him. "You didn't go to the board first?" She felt his breathing, deep and steady. "I went to Durheim. I told him and he admitted it. His sister had gone into hospital the year before. She'd been a waitress all her life, hadn't any medical insurance. She needed open heart surgery, then was hospitalized for a long time afterwards. He was paying her medical bills." Catherine shivered. "In Canada, we've got universal medical insurance. It's hard for me to conceive of that kind of debt from getting sick." She turned to look up at him, said, "If it were me, I'd be inclined to let the international exchange account bear the cost." His chest pressed against her as he drew in a deep breath. "I told him I'd give him twenty-four hours, time to get out of the country before I handed my report in to the board." She turned to see him, but the darkness was almost total. She touched his cheek, stroked the faint bristling of his beard. "You're a nice man." "I sure the hell didn't feel nice that day. He told me to go ahead. He had nowhere to go. There was no one but his sister, and he couldn't walk out on her." Catherine closed her eyes, nestling against the curve of his arm. She could think of nothing to say to ease his uncomfortable memory. His arm tightened around her. "Do you have family?" he asked eventually. "My parents died in a plane crash when I was at university. Dad was a lawyer, the kind who charges a fortune for drawing up corporate contracts. My mom. " She shrugged. "I didn't know either one of them that well. I went to private schools from the time I was eight. Their lives never seemed to have much to do with me." His thumb caressed her arm. She said, "They left me the house and an insurance policy, other odds and ends. Enough for my university. Enough to set up the computer service when I got my accounting designation. Well organized." There was a wry smile in her voice. "Everything about my parents was well organized, including my life and their death." This time, when he kissed her, she let her arms slip up around his neck, let her body press against his and form itself to his hardness. The wind and the sea turned to a roaring that she felt more than heard.

When his lips pulled away, she heard nothing but her own heart, then the ragged tearing of her own breathing. His face was a dark shadow, not far from hers. Even through the thick padding of the cruiser suit she could feel the way his fingers pressed into her back, holding her, wanting her. No words. Motionless. Slowly, her ears tuned to the sounds. The water. Dale's unsteady breathing. Her arms tensed around his neck. She wanted to pull away, to escape. She wanted to stay, to pursue the wild beating of her heart. She remembered Brent, his eyes, his dreams, the way he had lead and she'd followed. She felt the old helplessness growing again, an emotion she had almost forgotten. Dale released her when she drew back. She whispered, "I don't know much about casual affairs. I#151;I've never really had one." He said nothing. She had to fill it with her own words. "When I was at university, I had an affair with a man in law school. Lorne. It was ... convenient. Then Brent." "You don't have to tell me this." His voice was low, disturbed, but if he didn't care, surely he would stand up, trim a sail or go and plot their course? "I think you should know what I am, who I am. With Brent it was passionate but it wasn't real. We were playing games, roles. There was all that magic, but I never let him see the parts of me that aren't so nice, the fears and the needs. He didn't want to see, and I didn't want to show him. It was like a movie. Catherine and Brent, a love story. We played our parts, then walked away from the production and lived our separate lives." She found her hands on Dale's arms. She wished he would turn his wrists and take her hands, but he didn't. "Brent always talked as if I were a virgin when I met him. I didn't tell him I wasn't, but he must have known, mustn't he? Anyway, there was no one but Brent from the day I met him." "And after?" She was glad it was so dark. "After Brent ... I spent two years waiting for him, thinking he'd be back ... then ... Lorne's been my lawyer ever since I set up the computer business, and my lover for the last two years." A wave slapped against the hull and sent light spray over them. "Marriage vows," she said. "I meant them when I made them. Even when he left, I hadn't intended to ... but I was lonely, so damned lonely, and it seemed my life would go on that way forever. Lorne. we've been friends for a long time. I love him that way, as a friend." His arms hardened. She felt awkward in his embrace, frightened. "I'm going to take his place." He moved to touch her lips in a fleeting caress. "But I want more. More than Lorne. More than Brent." She felt a shudder go through him as she slipped her fingers through his hair, drew his face down to hers. He took her mouth in a deep invasion that left her straining against him with an aching warmth at her very center. When his lips moved to trace the trembling curve of her throat, he drew his hands down along her back, turning the hollow at her spine to shuddering pleasure even through the bulky cruiser suit. He lifted his lips. She was afraid to talk, but he said, "I've never been married. There have been women. I lived with a woman for two years. Anne. Until this summer. She left me because I couldn't tell her I loved her. I didn't love her." He released her, traced the curve of her cheek and the line of her throat with slowly moving fingers. He traced the curve of her breast through the bulk of her suit. "She was a nice girl. It was convenient."

Her breathing brought her breast against his fingers, then away. "Am I convenient?" "No." His fingers cupped her breast. "I want to kiss you again, but if I do I'm going to want to take that damned suit off." She smiled. "It's cold out here." "Yeah. And we're a long way from being alone." She went into his arms and they stood together without kissing. To Catherine, their embrace had the feel of a moment stolen. Then, slowly, they separated and went back to the quiet details of their night watch. At four in the morning they handed the watch over to Jerry and Liz. Then they parted and went to their separate berths. Catherine went into the forward cabin. She felt quietly excited. She took off her clothes and slipped into the sleeping bag in her underwear. She closed her eyes and thought of Dale lying in his bunk at the other end of the boat. She smiled and thought he might be smiling, too. She slept, dreaming of San Diego less than two hundred miles away. San Diego. Port. Jerry and Fernando, Ron and Liz. all leaving. In her dream, Warren Olsen was not a victim of murder. Perhaps it was an accident after all. Perhaps Brent was a random victim of a Mexican thug. In any case, San Diego was a happy port, smiles and good-byes. Endings, and beginnings. Dale Welland and Catherine Markesson, together and alone. She half-woke once and stared up into the darkness. Such a dark night. She remembered Dale on the deck earlier. A touch. A kiss. Something deeper, a sharing without words. Was he sleeping now? Or was he staring into the dark, thinking of her? She smiled and turned onto her stomach, cradling her head on her arm, closing her eyes. The water was a warm sound. The motion of the boat was gentle. She sighed and heard her sound mingle with the sounds of a ship at sea. After a few moments the motion of the boat became part of a formless dream. Time passed. Miles she did not count. Then, abruptly, she was awake. Eyes open to nothing, only darkness. She whispered, "Who is it? What. " She felt the movement, some change in the air she breathed. There was no sound until a voice said, "Catherine," in a low caress. "Jerry?" A dream, she thought, and felt embarrassed at her own panic. "What's happening? Is something wrong?" His hand rested gently on her shoulder. "Nothing's wrong." She scrambled up, half sitting, pulling back from his touch. She smelled liquor. "Jerry..." "We haven't had time to be alone together, Catherine. There's always someone in the way. It was a wonderful idea you had, taking this cabin so we could be alone." "That's not why I ..." She jerked to a sitting position, staring at his shape in the darkness. "Jerry, you'd better go. We'll talk tomorrow." She sounded like an awkward teenager, for heaven's sake! Jerry's laugh filled the cabin, the joyful, charming laugh that was so much of his appeal. She drew back against the wall, nervous although she knew it was irrational. With six people on the boat, nothing was going to happen. All she had to do was call out.

"Jerry, you'd better go." "We'll be in San Diego in a couple of days, Catherine. I thought we'd have more time together, you and I." She realized that she was hardly dressed. Just bra and panties, and the sleeping bag had fallen to her waist. It was dark, but she pulled the edge of the bag up to cover her chest. "Why don't we talk in the morning. Jerry, I need to sleep. I'm tired and. " "I don't know how you do it, but somehow you manage to look like a promise of purity." His fingers were long and firm as he stroked the line of her jaw, finding it unerringly in the dark. Did he have cat's eyes? She grasped his wrist. "Jerry, I don't want. " "No," he said roughly. "You don't even know what it's about, do you?" His fingers curled around her neck, holding her still. She gasped and his voice dropped to a promise. "I'm going to teach you, Catherine. Not Welland, me. I saw him kissing you on the foredeck, but he won't have you, Catherine. I'll touch you and stroke you, and you'll know what it is to have a man." She pushed against him, but he overpowered her, leaning over her, his hands holding her head while his lips found the lobe of her ear, the curve of her jaw. Whiskey, she thought. Whiskey on his breath. She jerked to twist away, but he had her trapped under the sleeping bag, his body holding her pinned, the bag itself preventing her from kicking out at him. She twisted sharply, getting one hand free of entrapment between his chest and hers, clenching fingers on the edge of the sleeping bag and fighting to get it down, to free herself of its trap. He shifted and she found herself abruptly flat on her back, his big, broad body unbelievably hard and strong, a dark shadow above her. "Let me go!" she hissed. Her throat was hoarse and she cleared it, got her voice stronger. "Jerry, if you don't let go, I'll scream." He pulled back and she felt a sick relief. She reached for the edge of the sleeping bag and pulled it up. His hand covered hers, fingers tightening, freezing the motion of her modesty. She felt his leg slide across hers, trapping her again. He shifted, balancing himself somehow between that leg on hers and the one that must be on the floor. "You're hurting my legs," she gasped. "Get out of here!" This was not real. This was not happening. A nightmare. "I'll scream. I'll-#151;" The salon, just a few feet away. Two men there, sleeping. Fernando always slept poorly, although he spent so many hours in his bunk. Fernando was Mexican, macho beneath a thin veneer of Latin polish. "Fernando. He. ll. " "No, he won't." Those long fingers possessed her jaw, digging in painfully when she tensed to cry out. "Struggle if you want," he whispered. "But now, my darling Catherine, I'm going to teach you about love." "No.!" Her heart slammed her ribs. She felt adrenaline course through her veins. "I won't let you. " He rose over her, his knee finding the place between her legs, digging in painfully. She pushed her arms against him, unable to form any sound but a painful grunt. He ignored her hands, leaned harder. She tried to curl away from the pain, but his leg pressed harder and there was nowhere to go. He imprisoned her face again, fingers curling up around her cheeks, thumbs circling behind her jaw

just under her ears. He said softly, "I'm going to kiss you, Catherine. Deeply." She got her fingers around his neck, curled her nails into him. She heard his gasp of pain, but the muscles of his neck were hard, impenetrable. She moved her hands to his face. One thumb jerked from her jaw to the soft place under her chin, dug in and jerked her head back. She fought the urge to gag, heard a whimper that she did not know was her own. She twisted, fighting, her mind finally accepting what adrenaline in her veins had warned. This man was not the Jerry she thought she knew. A monster coming out of Jerry's mild smile. She got her arms free, pinched and dug in. He gasped. She heard that she was hurting him, overcame an inhibition to draw back and attacked again, punching. He shoved her hard, his hand bruising her shoulder. Her back rammed into the bronze of the porthole behind and she gasped. He grabbed her breast and the world exploded in a wave of incredible pain. His fingers squeezed, harder, until she thought he would tear her breast apart. When her breast was a mass of fire, when she was hunched over, gasping, he released her. Her hand went up, afraid to touch, hovering. She expected blood, the fabric of her bra torn, found nothing but the smooth fabric of her bra and the full roundness underneath. She gulped, gasping air, trying to get enough in her lungs to cry out. He smiled and reached to cup her breast again. She whimpered as his fingers shifted, making their presence felt. She huddled there in the dark, afraid to move, afraid to breathe too deeply. She was shuddering, cowering at the mercy of one cruel hand. She remembered Warren. She had heard him snoring so clearly, so plainly through the door. It had carried as far as the galley, although no farther against the sound of the sea. "Fernando," she gasped. "Ron. They'll hear us. They. " His fingers on her breast silenced her, turning her breath to sharp, shallow gasps. "Mine. You're mine, darling Catherine." His lips covered hers. There was nowhere to go between the wall at her back and the leg trapping her hips. Somehow, she must manage a sound. A cry as loud as Warren's snoring. She gritted her teeth hard against the probing of his kiss and felt bile rise in a moment of fear that he would get past the barrier of her closed mouth. He held her face with one hand while he stroked through the sleeping bag, fingers sliding from her hip up to the naked flesh of her shoulder. Her arms ... why wasn't she fighting, using her arms? She tensed, willing action, but then his hand found its destination and pain crippled her. "Now, Catherine. Kiss me." "Don't," she pleaded, hating the whine in her voice. "You have very good breasts, Catherine." His hand squeezed tighter. "Very sensitive." Oh, God! It hurt so much! "You're going to let me kiss you." His voice was a soft promise. "I love you, Catherine. I've watched you and wanted you, and I'm going to teach you to love me. I could give you a little pill, and there'd be no more fighting." He pressed on her jaw and she found it opening, found herself unable to oppose the sharp will of his brutal fingers. He slipped two fingers deep inside her mouth, holding her jaw open

and making her gag. "So easy, Catherine. You think you wouldn't swallow a little pill if I gave it to you, but you'd have no choice, would you?" He jerked her mouth. "Would you?" She shook her head, terrified. "You're learning, darling." His fingers released her. "I could put you so high that you wouldn't care what I did with your body." He shifted, but his knee was still pressed into her groin, a fraction of an inch from agony. And his hand at her breast, waiting to turn it to knives of fire. Surely someone had heard her struggles? "No, darling, I won't give you drugs. I'm not crazy enough to carry things like that when I'm crossing borders." His voice became thoughtful as he said, "Of course, I think Liz must have something. She likes everything, you know. Liz is a hot lady. I've had her, of course, but you're much more to my taste." She sensed that he wanted her to beg, said instead, "If you don't let me go, I'll scream and someone will come. Fernando or Ron, they're sleeping in the next cabin." "Ron knows better than to stop me." She heard a sound, recognized it in the dark. His belt buckle! His belt, the sound of a belt sliding free ... was he planning to beat her with his belt? She jerked to sitting, but he caught her wrists and twisted her arms, sharply, jerking them up towards the low ceiling. She screamed, twisted and found her hands free. Then he slapped her, hard, knocking her head back against the wall. Her hands flew to her face, to protect, but her fine-boned wrists were suddenly imprisoned by his fingers. She twisted, her body thrusting helplessly against his. He lay stretched all along her now, his thigh over her legs and hips, his arms holding her close, his breathing pushing his muscular chest into her breasts as they struggled. "That's it, darling. Fight me. Twist hard, push those lovely breasts into me." She fell abruptly still, then realized her mistake as he took the moment of defeat to shift his grip on her wrists, imprisoning both in one hard hand, twisting, binding them somehow, pulling them helpless against the wall behind her, freeing one of his own hands. His belt, binding her wrists together. How had he done that? How could it be so impossible to fight him? "Don't cry out again, darling. There's really no point." He stretched her arms back farther over her head by pulling on the belt. She twisted, fighting, succeeding only in pulling the belt painfully tight. Then his face contorted and she heard something, felt something. "There," he said, smiling at her, the same smile he'd given her when they met, friendly and open. "That should hold, darling." He moved back, both hands free. Her wrists were imprisoned, back over her head. He'd somehow hooked the belt onto something. She twisted and the binding held solidly. She thought of the hooks that held the lee cloths to keep the crew safe in their berths in rough weather. Safe. "Someone will come." "No one, darling. Our captain is at the back of the boat, sleeping. We could have an orgy up here and he wouldn't hear. Fernando won't come to you. He sleeps so poorly, the poor seasick sod. I told him

earlier that he'd be more comfortable in my bunk. You know my bunk, don't you, darling? The pilot berth. Back under the cockpit on the starboard side. You'd be amazed how soundproofed it is back there. What with the ocean, and the walls, and this and that. Don't worry, darling. Fernando won't be disturbed by your cries." "Liz ... you're on watch with her. She'll wonder. " "Liz knows exactly where I am. It's a calm night, she said, a perfect night for a visit to Catherine up there in the front cabin. Have fun, she said. I think Liz would have liked to watch, but someone has to mind the helm." He stroked and she twisted, making the belt dig into her wrists painfully. She let out a gulp, a child's cry, before she could stop herself. "I've closed the door, and locked it. If anyone comes banging on it, there'll be a minute before he gets through ... actually, I suspect it will take longer than that. It's a solid door." He touched her face tenderly, then his hand moved to her flaming breast. "Fight me if you want, lovely Catherine. I find it very exciting. But when you think of screaming, think of what I could do in the minute while someone. your hero of a captain. breaks through that door." †† When it ended, he stepped away from her and dressed. There was light, the gray that came before dawn. "Look at me," he commanded. His eyes were friendly, looking down on her. She could see his body rocking slightly as his sailor's legs compensated for the movement of the boat. Boat, she thought. Sailboat. She tried to focus on the word, to regain the reality, but there was no reality. Only those God-awful eyes staring at her. That voice. "Don't cry out, darling. You wouldn't do that, would you?" She shook her head. The door opened. Closed. She lay very still, very quiet.

Eighteen Fernando was on watch when Dale woke. The back of the Mexican's head was visible through the window that looked out onto the cockpit. Dale pulled on his slacks, his eyes going to the chart table as he stood up. First he checked the GPS. Last night he had put one of the entry buoys to San Diego harbor in as a way point so the machine could keep track of their progress. This morning the GPS said they were one hundred and fifty miles from San Diego. By tomorrow afternoon, they could easily be in port. He pulled on his shirt, his mind concentrating on ways to keep himself and Catherine safe until then. Catherine would be on shift with him, so it would be easy to keep an eye out for her. Ron and Liz, the prime suspects, were separated by the current shift schedule. With a little luck, nothing would happen between now and then. The night before, after he had gone to his bed and while Jerry and Liz were both down below for a few minutes, he had checked the radio, tried a call. He knew the ocean was empty, the range of VHF radio

short, but still, they'd been calling several times a day ever since Warren went missing. Last night, after his call failed, he'd examined the radio carefully and had found signs that someone had used a screwdriver on the back plate. He did not know enough about radios to know if something was wrong inside, so he did not try to open it himself. But he thought he knew why no one had heard their calls for help. Someone did not want help to come to Far Reacher. It must be Liz and Ron, although he had trouble with the idea of Ron pulling off two murders without leaving any trace of himself. He would not have thought Ron had the brains. Liz did. So Liz must be the brains, and Ron the hand of death. Warren had not gone early to bed from that shift with Ron. No, he had gone overboard, after first being smashed on the head and bleeding onto the deck. Dale himself must have slept through that. Astounding, when you thought that the deck, the place where they had found blood, was only a couple of feet above where he rested his head to sleep. They were good, but he would look after making sure neither he nor Catherine was alone on deck with Ron, or even with Liz. As for the others, Jerry and Fernando. He would talk to them both, quietly, during the next twenty-four hours. The danger would come when they approached land. Right now, it didn't make sense for Liz and Ron to force a showdown and leave the boat short of crew. They had one safety factor ensuring their lives, at least his and Catherine's. The gold was obviously the objective of this whole game. The fact that he and Catherine were still alive at all meant that someone thought they might know where the gold was, or might be able to find it. And yet ... He frowned, hoping the uneasy feeling would fall into place in time. Meanwhile, he would watch everyone very carefully. He would warn Catherine to be extra careful. The danger would come when they were near land. He would talk to Fernando and Jerry, and they would all be ready. Perhaps Catherine was right. Perhaps they should sneak up on Liz and Ron and. No, at least not yet. The first thing was to find time alone with the two other men. †† Fernando swung around as Dale entered the cockpit. "Good morning," said Dale. The Mexican only frowned. "We must talk together," he said in a low voice. "Yes," Dale agreed, relieved that Fernando had noticed things, too. "I'll just get a cup of coffee, then I'll be back up." Fernando glanced down through the companionway. He said, "Do not waste the time. Smile and say good morning, so that none will have suspicion. Then be back here with quick." "What. " "I have altered our course to Ensenada. It is closer, almost a day closer than San Diego. Soon one of them will notice. Things are happening that I do not like. I do not know what, or why. It is not expected that there should be activity now, at this moment. I expected later. No matter. Go, and return quickly." Dale glanced at the compass, frowning. Ensenada was in Mexico. He wanted to hear the reasons, but knew five minutes wouldn't make much difference when they were still over a hundred miles from land.

He nodded, then slid open the hatch forward of the cockpit and opened the door. Fernando had expected something to happen later. Just who the hell was Fernando? A seasick Mexican upper-class of some influence and little stamina, or something else? Ron sat at the dinette, eating his way steadily through a bowl of granola. "Morning," said Dale, but the mechanic did not respond. Bad mood? A fight with Fernando up in the cockpit? Dale felt tension in the air down here. Liz was in the galley mixing a jug of instant milk. She stared at Dale. "Morning, Liz." She smiled. He did not like that smile. His eyes found the closed door to the forward cabin. Nine o'clock. Catherine was usually up by now. Like him, she usually only slept about four hours after that midnight shift, sleeping again in the early evening after the second shift. He had slept in himself this morning, perhaps enticed to hold onto his dreams a little longer. He remembered how she had felt in his arms, how her lips had softened to his kiss. He started towards the closed door, the half-smile on his lips fading as Jerry's tall form blocked his path. "No," said Jerry softly. Dale saw him smile, but there was something menacing behind those light blue eyes. "What the hell?" Jerry's mouth turned down and he stepped back, gesturing Dale on. "On second thought, you may see the lady, but she won't want you now. She'll never want you again." Victory in Jerry's eyes. Dale had a vivid vision of Jerry watching Catherine, Catherine avoiding Jerry's eyes, casually stepping clear of his touch. No. He was imagining things, paranoid. He pushed past Jerry and pushed the door open. Then he was inside. "Catherine ... oh, Jesus ..." He heard the door slam closed behind him, jerked back to throw it open, but his arm came up hard against a barrier. Jerry? Holding it hard, on the other side. Jerry's voice, saying casually, "Ron, come give me a hand, would you?" He turned back to Catherine. She was lying on her back in the berth, the sleeping bag a tumbled mass on the floor. He saw a torn scrap of fabric clinging around her waist. Her arms were tied back, caught in a belt and impaled on the wall behind her. Her bra was caught between her arms, hanging behind her head. She turned her head away as he came to her.He heard a sound overhead, jerked his head up and saw a shadow blocking the light through the skylight. Someone above him, on deck. He sensed the intent and surged upwards. His hands hit the bottom of the skylight hard, pushing up and coming against a barrier. Damn! The hatch was fastened from inside. He fumbled with the hook to release it. Just as the hook dropped free, he heard the sound of the outside fastener snapping down. Who was up above? Fernando? Was Fernando not an ally after all, but one of them? Them?

Jerry, laughing and saying that Catherine would not want Dale now. Jerry's voice through that door asking Ron to come help. Liz, in the galley, smiling with evil in her face. Trapped, locked in. He half-turned towards the door, slammed into it and felt nothing give. He heard a quiet chuckle from the salon. "Don't waste your energy, captain." He turned back to Catherine, swallowed hard. She avoided his eyes as he took her wrists in his. The belt was jammed on the hook, her weight holding it tight. He struggled to free it, heard her gasp. "I'll cut it," he said, shaken, trying to release the tension he had applied to her wrists in his attempt to free her. His eyes sheared away from the swollen redness of her breast, the darkening bruise on her face. "I'll cut you free. I won't hurt you." "Just get it off," she whispered. He wondered if she would ever look at him again. "Just get it off quickly. I don't care if it hurts, just get it off!" Damn! He couldn't cut it anyway. He had forgotten to put his penknife back in his pocket after splicing a new end on a line yesterday. He lifted her slightly, fumbled and finally jerked the belt free of the hook. Then he gently rubbed the flesh of her wrists, trying to smooth circulation back into them. He bent to place his lips tenderly on the indentations of her wrist. "Don't. " The plea was choked off. "This was Jerry?" he demanded, knowing as he heard his own question that of course it was Jerry. He'd seen the look in the sailor's eyes. He lowered her arms to her sides. What the hell did a man do? He would kill that bastard, but first there was Catherine, bruised and somehow broken, her eyes turned away. "Tell me what you need," he begged, reaching down for the sleeping bag under his feet. He fumbled his attempt to smooth it out, snagged the zipper when he tried to open it and make a blanket for her. Finally, he had it free and could lower the sleeping bag over her nakedness. He drew it up carefully, afraid to hurt her more. She jerked, as if her body were still tied, entrapped. He touched her shoulder and she jerked away. "Don't. Don't be sympathetic, or nice to me. I don't want to cry!" He knew that she must. He touched her shoulder and exerted the faintest pressure towards his own body. "You've been hurt." He brushed the sweat-dampened hair back from her forehead. He dragged in a choking breath and smelled the sex that had been in this room. "Let me hold you while you cry, darling." "No," she whispered. He hated to say words that would take her back, but some instinct forced him. "He touched you and took what he had no right to." He felt his own tears. "He hit your face and ... bruised you, hurt you in ways I can't see." He felt her shudder. "Please, Catherine, let me hold you while you cry." She broke down then, sobbing, huddling away from him. He managed to turn her body, then to lie his own beside her, precariously balanced on the edge of the bunk. "Just hold me," he said. "Hold onto me, and cry ... cry until you don't need the tears." He felt tears on his own face. He had been the lonely child of an alcoholic mother and a succession of stepfathers. He had learned to keep himself separate from all of them, separate from feeling. Catherine, crying in his arms, forced the tears that the child Dale had never recognized, that the man could not admit to.

She was hardly strong enough to sustain the storm of weeping that possessed her slender body. He held her gently, hoping he was not hurting her, thankful that at least she could lie in his arms without fear. A part of him knew that there were things that must be done. He could hear the sound of a power screwdriver. The door to this stateroom, which locked only from this side, was being fortified, screwed closed. He stiffened, resisting the need to smash against the door. Jerry, and Ron. The two men together would be more than equal to Dale's attempts to break through a door while they held it closed on the other side. The time for action was not yet. God knew if there was any kind of action possible. His eyes flew to the skylight, but it was hopeless. The dogs were fastened from outside. The transparent window itself was made of Lexan, guaranteed to withstand the most violent act of the sea. She hiccuped He heard her swallow noisily, then breath a deep, broken breath. She said, "His voice was so friendly. That was the worst, that he was smiling." He kissed the eyes where her tears could not fall any more. He whispered, "Oh, my love, I'm so sorry," and finally her eyes closed and her body lay slack, although he knew that she did not sleep. He went into the small head. There was one small porthole and a ventilator. Neither seemed to offer any escape from their confinement. He put the plug into the sink and pumped water steadily, trying to keep his mind blank as he filled the sink. Something was boiling inside, hatred, the need for violence, for killing and revenge. He swallowed and took a wash cloth from the little shelf. She was quiet while he washed her. She tensed when he touched her thighs. "I won't hurt you," he promised, and she lay silently with her eyes closed while he tended to her. Then he asked, because he knew that he had to, "Catherine, are you hurt inside?" There was no blood. Thank God there was no blood. She shook her head. He opened the porthole behind her, opened the port in the head. There was air, fresh and cool, and sometimes a slight spray of salt water. She said dully, "We can't get out those portholes. They're too small." "I know. We'll think of something." He hoped they would. He found the hatch where she had put her clothes. He rejected the stiff jeans, picked up a brassiere and panties, then dropped the brassiere back into the drawer, remembering the swollen flush of her breast. He got his face under control before he turned back and started trying to dress her. She stirred then, sitting up and taking the panties from him. She pulled them on awkwardly. He realized that he was standing on the floor and she had no room to get out of the bunk with him there, and no privacy. "I'll go into the head while you dress." "No, don't leave me alone." He nodded and she said in a low voice, "I want a bra." She stared at him, something in her eyes now that might be anger. He thought anger was probably the best thing for her. He handed her the bra and she slipped her arms into the straps, holding it up against herself. "Could you fasten it for me, please?" He fastened it, then handed her the soft sweatshirt he had found. She put it on, but would not take the jogging pants. "I want jeans." "All right." Barriers, he thought, and he understood her desire to harden her curves with stiff fabric.

When she was dressed, she picked up the belt that was lying on the bunk. He had thought that there might be some way to use it to help them escape, but he did not stop her when she threw it out the open port. He folded the sleeping bag and pushed it into a sail locker. He needed something to do with his hands. He wanted her to look at him, but she was uncomfortable with his presence. That worried him. It had happened while he slept. Had she cried out for him? "I didn't think of Jerry," he said, furious that he hadn't. "If I had, I'd have known he'd be tricky, riskier than Ron or Liz. I thought if I kept you on my watch, you'd be safe." He could not read what was in her eyes. He said bitterly, "I'd like to take the bastard apart. I-#151;" Dale had been in his berth. Sleeping, for Christ sake, while Jerry raped her. "I know it doesn't help, but if I could kill him for you this minute, I would." Her voice was almost steady. "It's barbaric, but while you take him apart, I'd like to watch." "Catherine. " He felt so bloody helpless. "How do you feel?" What a damned stupid question! She answered it, said, "I hurt, but no worse than'than falling down a flight of stairs. Mostly I'm scared." He could have said he'd protect her, but with no weapons and most if not all of the crew against him, things looked bad. "We need to think about how we're going to get out of this." "Out?" She shook her head. "Dale, there isn't any out. We can't win against him. It's not just him, you know. Ron and Liz, too." "But not Fernando. At least, I don't think Fernando's in it. He wanted to talk to me. He was worried. I don't think he knew what had happened up here." He clenched his eyes closed. "Jesus, if the bastard knew and. " "He didn't. Jerry offered him his berth last night, said he'd sleep better, not get sick so easily. He couldn't hear anything from there. But Liz. Jerry said it was her idea, and he laughed." She was not trembling now, but she was not looking like the old cool Catherine either. "That's what was the worst," she said tonelessly. "He talked so nicely. Soft and as if what he were doing was. " "We're going to get out." He had no idea how, but it was impossible to believe anything else. She shook her head and he said angrily, "Catherine, you can't let him do this to you. Don't let him defeat you." She shook her head slowly, her eyes unfocused. "Things are always happening to Catherine. She doesn't really have any control. Brent happened to Catherine. And Jerry." He shook her, saw her wince, but shook her again, hard. "Stop it! Do you want to be a victim? You're Catherine, and Catherine is a strong woman. You and I, together, are going to beat the bastards on the other side of that door." "They've got all the cards." "Do they?" "I-#151;" "Catherine, if they've won, why haven't they killed us?" She swallowed. "Because Jerry wants me." "OK." There was no hiding from that. "He doesn't want me, though. Why has he locked me in here instead of tossing me overboard?"

"The way he did Warren?" She shifted away from him. He handed her a cushion from the foot of the bed and she pushed it behind herself. She looked thoughtful and he felt a sharp joy that for this moment the sick horror had left her eyes. Dale said, "I don't think Jerry killed Warren." He turned to pace, but the floor was tiny, there was no space. He shifted up and sat at the foot of the bed. "I think Ron killed Warren, probably because Jerry told him to. It makes sense. It never quite made sense for Ron to be the bad guy. He wasn't sharp enough. But Jerry. " "They must have known each other all along." She shook her head. "I don't understand how Brent and the gold and those people got mixed up into this. I-#151;It's the gold. They haven't killed you because they want the gold." "Yes," he agreed. Jerry might not want to kill Catherine, but Dale was expendable except for the possibility that he knew where the gold was. "It's the only reason for this whole farce of a voyage. Otherwise, why not do away with us in Mexico, or just take the gold and scram. We'd never have known." "They don't know where it is." He saw cool analysis in her eyes, then the beginnings of a smile as she said, "But we know." He folded his arms. "So they don't have all the cards, do they?" "No." She was amazed to hear herself laugh. "No, captain. They don't." She sobered then. "We'd better do it right, whatever it is we do. If we don't. "

Nineteen "One thing," Dale said. "There's one advantage to this." "What's that?" Catherine had her legs crossed in front of her, was leaned back against one end of the bunk. He was at the other end. They had been talking, trying to come up with a foolproof escape plan, some way to trick the people outside the barricaded cabin door. So far, neither one of them had suggested anything even remotely workable. "What advantage?" she asked again. "What advantage could there possibly be?" "I'll bet you're not afraid of sailing the open ocean now." He saw a slow smile spread over her face. "I guess I've forgotten to be afraid of what the ocean might do to me." He didn't expect her to move towards him, but she came to her knees on the bunk and leaned close to him, found his cheek with her lips. "You know something? You're a nice man, Dale Welland." He kissed her back, a chaste kiss, only lips brushing, but he felt warmth from it. "I hope you still think so when you get to know me better." She didn't tense away from him. He thought of Jerry and his face hardened as he said, "Let's do this right and not screw up." "OK." She shifted and he moved to make room for her. He felt a painful sweetness in the soft pressure of her body against his. He liked the way her voice went deeper when she was thoughtful. "We could open the through hull valve under the sink in the head. Then we could pull the plastic hose off." "We'd probably kill ourselves instead of them. The water would come in and the boat would sink. They'd abandon ship in the life raft, leaving us behind. If the ship's gone, they wouldn't need us." She rubbed the denim fabric of her jeans absently. He found himself wondering if she hurt, or if the action was simply an unconscious aid to thought.

She asked, "Do you really think he'd get into that life raft and leave the boat when we're a hundred miles from land?" "I don't know. We're not a hundred miles from land. A little over a hundred to San Diego, but as Fernando pointed out to me this morning, Ensenada is closer. About eighty or ninety miles. And Jerry might prefer to land on Mexican soil." "Why?" "Better chance of bribing his way out of trouble." He toyed with a copper- colored curl caressing her temple. "What if I offer them the gold? I do know where it is." He stroked her shoulder with his thumb. "They're going to get around to asking us about it pretty soon, anyway. I figure they're fixing the radio, putting back whatever Liz took out. She knows quite a bit about the innards of radios'she told me she was an extra-class amateur. I think she disabled it, and now it's getting put back together. They'll contact. " "They'll contact someone." She bit her lower lip. There were sounds from the salon. Not talking, just faint rustling and banging. "They must be part of some kind of organization or gang. They'll get a boat to meet them, then they'll tear this boat apart for the gold, or tear us apart to tell them." "Yes," he agreed. "Then they'll let Far Reacher sink, and we'll go down with the boat." "And Fernando?" She twisted to see his face. Dale suspected that hopes of rescue from Fernando were futile. "Fernando expected me back up to talk to him, but I didn't come and someone dogged down that skylight. either it was Fernando, and I was wrong in thinking he wasn't part of their little club, or else they got Fernando." From somewhere aft they heard a crash. She whispered, "I can't imagine Fernando being part of it. I'd like to know just what this is really all about. Is it a gold stealing ring? It sounds so bloody far-fetched." Dale was more accustomed than Catherine to people doing unlikely things for strange motives. "The gold was real, and some people will do anything for money. You're right, though. If Fernando were with the rest of them, then what was stopping them from locking us up long ago, once they were rid of Warren?" He shook his head. "No, he's something else. Either he's nothing, just bloody incompetent crew, or he's. " "Didn't it occur to you that there are too many brands of them?" "And too many of them," he added solemnly. "If we wait for them to make their move, we're in the soup. Three of them, two of us. We can't count Fernando. The guy's useless, anyway, and he's probably tied up somewhere." His fingers tensed on her arm. "Three to two. I'd back us against Ron and Liz, but. " "Jerry," she whispered, and he felt her fear. "We've got to chance it. Later, it'll be worse." "You really think there's more of them?" "On shore somewhere. Waiting for a radio call. Yes, I do. I didn't when I thought it was just Ron and Liz, but with Jerry involved, I think there'll be a big power boat and guns, and our chances are going to drop like a stone if we wait for that. Our best chance is to do something now, to throw a wrench into their plans for us."

He stared at the door that shut them off from the salon as if he could see through it. "I've got an idea those noises are an uninhibited search for the gold. They don't need to worry now about making noise, about tearing things up." His shoulders tensed. "I don't like that door. They're going to get us out of here one by one. They'll be expecting us to try something. Somehow, we've got to throw them off balance. Throw Jerry off balance, do something they don't expect." She shivered. "He doesn't get mad. That's what's so frightening about him. He's always cool, and everything he does is deliberate." She wondered if it would be better to have an angry Jerry. He would be off balance then, and he might make a mistake. On the other hand. Dale said, "I've got an idea." †† It took a long time for Dale to saw through the anchor rode with Catherine's penknife. When she had taken it from the fishing tackle box and started carrying it, she had vaguely thought of using it to defend herself. Now, seeing how ineffectual it was on the three-quarter inch diameter rope, she discarded any thought of attacking the bad guys with the little knife. The bad guys. Corny, she thought, but they were indelibly stamped as that in her mind. Even Liz. Especially Liz, sharp and bitchy, with all her goods on display. Liz, who thought it funny to suggest rape to Jerry Mordichaih. Dale glanced up from his task of sawing through the rope and she realized that she must have made a sound. "All right?" he asked, eyes on her, the knife still sawing. He had the rope caught under his foot. From his foot, it stretched taut to his left hand. She could see the bulge of his biceps under his shirt as he kept tension on the rope. With his right hand he was steadily cutting through, the strands parting. "It's coming," he said, his eyes returning to the task. "Should have it done by Christmas." She wished there were something she could do other than watch, but the plan was made and her turn would come. She caught herself almost believing that they would pull this off for a few minutes, then hopelessness crawled into her mind. No! She must not think of failure. Just the details, the plan. She stared at the knife, said dully, "I was thinking of using that knife, pulling it on Liz." She had a gruesome vision of Liz's body torn and cut, her own hand wielding the knife. "I'll keep the knife." He didn't look up. "It'll just get you in trouble, because in the end you wouldn't be able to use it." "I-#151;" "Jerry knows you've been carrying it." His left hand shifted, twisting the rope. He stroked the parting strands once more, then again. When the rope fell into two pieces, he took the short end that was attacked to the chain and dropped it onto the bunk, on top of the chain they had lifted out of the locker so slowly, so carefully. The other end of rope led down into the rope locker. Dale started pulling slowly, making a coil of rope on his arm as he drew it out of the locker. "Are you going to cut off a length of it?" "No need." They had no time to spare. "They've taken the sails down. I think they've altered course, too, but I'm not sure." She had been watching that skylight while he worked, afraid someone would come and look down to check on them.

Now she took the sleeping bag that she had been holding in her arms and spread it unevenly over the chain, letting it hang down to conceal the open rope locker. "Ready?" he asked. She nodded. She could not talk. Her heart was pulsing in her throat. She swallowed and found only dryness. She was not going to be able to do this, could not possibly face Jerry and say the lines she and Dale had prepared. Dale took the rope with him into the small head, not letting it out from the coil on his arm, but pulling more free of the locker. He had measured the section on his arm carefully as he coiled it. The boat was forty-six feet long. He had pulled off sixty feet. The rope stretched across the cabin behind him, a length of three-quarter inch anchor rope, somewhat frayed and discolored from use in salt water over a period of years. He stopped at the doorway to the head, stared up through the skylight. There were no white wings flying overhead. As Catherine said, the sails were down, furled. He could just glimpse the bulk of the staysail tied against the starboard rail. The sails were down, but no one had taken time to put the sail covers on. Far Reacher was running under engine power alone. Thoughtfully, Dale said, "He's got the RPM's up. We must be pushing seven knots. That's good for us. He's in a hurry now." Dale opened the small porthole in the head. He paused then, looking around for something strong to tie the rope to. The hand pump at the sink would never take the pressure. He thought of wrapping the rope around the marine toilet itself, but with the force that might hit that rope, the whole toilet could be torn out, damaging through-hull fittings. He was not trying to sink Far Reacher. He reached up and started to wrap the rope around the open port at the hinge. Force, he thought. A lot of force. He paused, then turned and stared at the closed door to the salon. "Call out," he said quietly to Catherine. "See if there. s anyone in the salon." She went to the door and listened, pressed up against it. "I can't hear anyone," she whispered. He nodded, urging her on. "Hello!" she called. "Is there anyone out there? I want to talk to someone. I've got. I want to make a deal!" The only response was the roar of the engine. Catherine whispered, "They must be up top, or back in the aft cabin." She smiled nervously. "I feel like a character in a corny movie, for God's sake! I want to make a deal. What a stupid line." He unwrapped the rope. Jesus, he hoped it would work. "See if there's a metal clothes hangar in that closet." She rummaged through the hanging clothes. "They're all plastic hangers. There's. No, here's one." The center section of the door that held them prisoner contained an inlaid louvered section that provided ventilation between the cabins. Earlier, Dale had inspected it, thinking the wooden louvers might give way under force. Impossible hope, because in fact they were not wood but painted metal, probably steel or aluminum. The whole thing was fitted into the wood of the door with a heavy- duty but attractive molding. Now he took the hanger and went to the lowest angled slot of the metal section. He bent the hook of the hangar at an angle to the rest, then angled it along the louvers. It slid through, the hook disappearing on the other side of the door. From what he would tell, the angle of the hook on the other side was

useless to him. He twisted and eased the hangar back, bent it again into a double curve. This time he was happy with the way the hangar sat once it was through the louver. He pulled out two more coils of rope from the locker to allow for the extra distance. Then he looked at Catherine. No smile. No light of laughter in her eyes. He said, "Let's hope there's no one out there." Then he slipped the free end of the rope through the uppermost louver. "And that this stupid idea works." He pushed the rope through until he thought there was enough, then started to move the hanger along the slot towards where the rope should be hanging. He felt the touch of the rope on the hangar. Felt it, but could not catch the hanging rope with the hook. He brought the hangar back into the cabin, pulled on the metal to open the hook slightly. It was made to curl around a clothes rod, but the rope was slipping too easily clear of the trap, sliding around the outside of the curve. It took another ten minutes. It seemed like an hour. Catherine handled the rope while Dale played with the hangar. She would slide the hanging section of rope slowly along the upper louver, towards the hangar. He would angle the hangar to trap it, twisting it to close the trap when they both guessed the rope was in place. They could not see the rope. It was not unlike a blindfolded game of nonsense at a party. They did not speak a word to each other through the whole blind game. Then, suddenly, the twisted hook on the hangar made the impossible contact. Dale stopped, breathing hard. "Now," he said. "Now we'll see if it's actually possible. Give me a little more rope. Just a few inches." The hanger did not want to come back through the louver now that the rope was caught in it. He bit his lip and worked it, twisting, pulling, his breath stopping once when he thought the rope had slipped out of its little trap. He could hear Catherine's breathing, feel her stillness as she watched. He knew what she was thinking because it was the growing fear in his own mind. The longer this took, the more chance that one of them would come down and see the rope hanging through the door. They might not understand its purpose, but the door would be opened and the next thing would be Catherine and Dale tied up, or dead. He twisted again. Yes! It was working! He drew the rope slowly through the louver. The bottom of the louver wanted to catch the rope as he pulled it in. It would have been easier to pull it through if it were being pulled up instead of down. Once the hangar was inside the door, it took only a moment to pull the rope straight, to have the end of it in his hand. Now he had a choice. He could get enough of this rope through to tie it firmly around the louver. Then he would have to cut the anchor rope again to give himself a free end for his purpose. Or. No! He was being stupid. He could put the rope through the porthole doubled, couldn't he? He bit his lip, trying to decide whether the doubled section would stream back in the water. He did not know, could not take the chance. "Catherine, push the rope through at the top. I want it to fall to the floor so I can pull it in at the bottom without it catching." It seemed to take forever, although Catherine was feeding the rope through steadily and he was pulling it in without pause. He heard a voice. Someone coming down the stairs from the cockpit? "Stop!" he whispered. He kept pulling, steadily and desperately drawing up the rope that she had pushed out for him, hoping to be

quick enough that there would only be the one band of rope along the louvered section, no rope hanging on the floor to catch an eye. When he had the rope tight, they both froze, leaning against the door, straining to hear over the sound of engine and water. Dale saw Catherine's eyes widen as the voice came closer. Liz. They stared at each other silently as they listened to the sound of the water pump going. Then footsteps, going away. "Close," whispered Catherine. "Too close. Let's make it quick." They worked quietly, hurriedly. When it was done, he coiled the rope again. "Get on the bunk," he said as he moved to the head. "This might turn into a dangerous operation. If that rope catches the propeller, things are going to happen fast." "What about you?" "I'll be right behind you," he promised. She scrambled onto the bunk, realizing why he had chosen that spot for safety. If, as he evidently hoped, the rope could snarl in the propeller and get twisted into it, the resulting forces might tear the louvered section out of the door. If so, they wanted to get through that door as quickly as possible, but first they had to stay out of the way of the flying metal while things got torn apart. If, somehow, the louvers failed to destruct, she knew Dale would be hoping that his original plan would work, that at least the rope would stream underwater towards the back of the boat and get caught in the propeller that drove them forward. He joined her almost at once. She whispered, "Did you get it out the window?" "Yes. When things happen, let me go through that door first." He climbed right into the bunk, then shifted to bring Catherine on top of him so they both could lie safely around the corner of the bunk headboard from that door. She said nothing. He held her more closely with his arms. They were both tense, waiting for the rope to do its work. He said, "It has to be me through that door first. I'm bigger. Stronger. I can do more damage to them, quicker than you can." She said quietly, "This sounds like protect-the-women. You're trying to protect me from Jerry." "Of course I am, but I'm not asking you to look on and cheer. Don't play the old fashioned heroine. If you can smash someone over the head, do it!" She giggled. She didn't know how, but the laugh escaped and she felt lightness in her heart. "Don't worry. I'll find a frying pan, and I'll smash in someone's head." They were silent then, waiting. They had talked about the details before. They could not see the salon but they had planned from memory what they would try to do if they could get out of this cabin. There were things that could be used as weapons. If they could get free, could get their hands on them. Jerry, she thought, and shuddered. Dale's arms tightened around her. "I'm all right," she said. She would be. She would not let that monster turn her into a victim again. "I want to kill him." Revenge. Revenge was ugly, like the crimes it sought to right. "It's not going to work," she said finally. "Nothing's happening." "Time," he said. They were talking so quietly, but if anyone came close enough to hear, the rope would be seen. They both knew this was true, that whispered voices were futile. Still, they whispered. Dale

said, "The rope is down there, under the water. It'll be streaming back, moving in the turbulence from the propeller. It's not long enough to show in the water behind the boat. Just a rope, surging around, pulled by the boat." He closed his eyes. "I can't count the number of times I've heard of boats disabled because someone let a rope stream into the water and the prop caught it." She wondered if he was as confident as he sounded, or if the sureness was intended to make her feel better. She twisted in his arms, craning to see. "Don't get out there." Dale grabbed her shoulder, jerked her back. "Do you really think it. ll. What's that sound?" A banging noise. Then thumping, crashing, mechanical sounds. Dale grabbed Catherine and pulled her down on the bunk, twisted to shove her under him. While she lay crushed under him, she heard the crash. Another thump. Another, louder, shaking the boat itself, blows on the hull that were felt everywhere. "Jesus!" he whispered against her neck. "I can't believe I'm doing this to a beautiful boat." They heard a rending crash, close by. Catherine squeezed her eyes shut, heard and felt something tearing apart, metal shrieking. The sound of torn metal was swallowed by the smashing blows that were making Far Reacher tremble. Then a louder bang. Another. Silence then. Nothing. No engine. After a long pause, sounds came drifting back. Far Reacher, the waves slapping gently on her hull, slower and slower as she lost momentum. Running feet overhead. Voices. "What the bloody hell was that?" "Transmission. It must have been the transmission." "Then fix it! Get in there and fix it. You're the bloody mechanic." Dale's weight left her body. Her ribs were bruised. She sucked in faintly painful air as she followed him. The door was ruined. She could see twisted metal still tangled with the wood of the door. The door, oddly, still rested perfectly against its jamb, but a gaping hole marred its center. Dale moved towards the hole, Catherine close behind. They glanced into the head and saw big ugly scars on the varnished woodwork, the missing section of painted metal twisted and caught tight against the porthole in the head, the rope still tangled in it. Dale had fed the rope out through the open porthole. Now it strained to bring the metal through after it. With the engine stopped and the propeller no longer turning, there was probably little danger from the stressed metal, but Dale closed the door to the head anyway, not wanting to take chances. If, somehow, the engine could force that fouled propeller to turn again, the stresses on that torn section of louver could be tremendous. Dangerous.

Twenty Catherine held the flare gun in her hand, broke it open and fitted a white flare into it. There were white and red flares, and she was aware of one level of her mind choosing the white, reserving the red for later. Red flare, the international distress signal. She was aware of so much, on so many levels.

Dale, in front of her, took the six pound chemical fire extinguisher out of its bracket on the wall of the galley. In unnatural silence, Far Reacher lay dead in the water. Waves slapped on the hull in the rolling motion of a ship lying ahull in light winds and low swell. Voices. No words, just the rumble of conversation from aft. Her mind made a picture of Ron, taking apart the transmission. How long would it take him to realize that the problem was outside in the fouled propeller, underwater? The other voices. Jerry asking questions. Liz complaining. Footsteps up on deck. Dale lead and she followed, breathless, walking slowly towards the companionway. The skylight over the galley was fixed wide open. Through it she heard a voice, his voice. "What do you mean, there's nothing?" Jerry, coldly impatient. She had thought it would be safer if he were angry, better than that terrible gentleness, the soft glove of his smile over barbaric cruelty. But his voice paralyzed her. Ahead of her, Dale flung one hand back to tell her something. Be careful. Be quiet. But she was frozen under the skylight. Jerry, through the skylight, on deck, coming closer. She could see his eyes, knew he had seen her! He stepped closer, towering above her, his smile growing. She could not breathe. Dale, ahead, still moving away, and she could not find voice to tell him, to cry for help. The skylight, her mind screamed. Close the skylight. Jerry's smile became a grin as he crouched down. She saw his hand reach down through the open skylight. She reached up, stretching to grip the release that would send the skylight crashing closed. As his hand closed on her wrist, she realized she should have run instead. Her gasp made no sound, but she saw Dale stiffen. Then Jerry jerked her arm up, towards him, and she was back in horror, helpless in his grip, nothing in the world but his smile. From above, Jerry gripped her wrist tighter as he turned his head, turned away, looking back, somewhere she couldn't see. "Ron," he said, "get below and stop our captain. He's loose." Then he was smiling at her again, pulling, lifting her by her arm as if he could lift her right through the open skylight. Her mind was frozen, only remotely aware of her own hand, her free hand, reaching towards him. Something, in her hand. She was reaching as if to ward him off, and her eyes caught sight of the thing in her hand. The flare gun. She pointed and it was plastic and small, a toy, powerless to stop him. She gasped and cried out and squeezed hard, screaming now, as she'd been unable to scream under his torture. She could not believe it when he released her. She fell, the collapse more her mind than her body. She stared up through the open skylight at a brilliant light, an explosion of sun flaring everywhere. Hands grabbed her, jerking her, pulling her, forcing her back. She fought, screamed. "Catherine! Stop it! Look away!"

She became aware of the breathing, harsh and painful. Her lips parted, her eyes wide, her teeth bared like an animal's. She blinked and there were black spots everywhere, an unreal image of Dale floating between the black things. "Don't look," he said. "You'll be blinded." The gun in her hand. She stared down at it. She could hear Jerry up above, screaming. She had pulled the plastic trigger and white light had flared everywhere. "Oh, God! Dale! The flare gun. The flare was burning ... it stuck to his. his face." She heard the splash, someone shouting. Liz's voice, Ron's. Where was Fernando? Jerry screamed again and she whimpered. "Catherine! There's no time. Not now! Get it together!" Jerry, torturing her. Jerry screaming. She stared down at the gun. She was like him, wanting to hurt, shooting that thing straight into his face. "Catherine, snap out of it. They'll kill us if we don't. " "OK." She gulped. She stared deliberately at the flare gun, saw herself break it open again as if another person were making the moves, shaking out the smoking cartridge. She said, "We're the good guys, so we have to win," and snapped the new cartridge in. "That's it. Come on." She stumbled to her feet as the door to the cockpit slammed open. She saw legs, recognized Ron's bowlegged stance. He was coming down fast and Catherine stumbled up behind Dale. In front of her, Dale hit him with a smoking white blast from the fire extinguisher. It blinded him, sent him coughing and stumbling down the last two steps. He crumbled at Dale's feet, choking still, his hands at his eyes. Dale grabbed him by the front of his shirt and half-dragged, half-lifted him through the stateroom door, then turned back towards the cockpit. Catherine followed Dale, just glancing at Ron long enough to be sure he was in no state to be a danger to them. She had never been able to think of Ron as a danger, but. Dale, standing in the cockpit, stopped too abruptly. Catherine came two steps up behind him, her head emerging in the doorway to the cockpit. Dale was frozen, watching Liz on the side deck. Liz held a real gun, pointed at Dale. "Drop the extinguisher," she growled. "No! Set it down, very slowly. And don't play around, because I can be a real bitch." Catherine watched as Dale slowly lowered the extinguisher. He bent down slightly to set it beside him in the cockpit. She realized then that she still had the flare gun! She pointed it, swallowed and could already see the white magnesium flare in Liz's face, burning and burning, sticking terribly to the flesh. Catherine gulped and squeezed her finger, but nothing happened. Liz said, "Captain, tell your darling that if she doesn. t drop that thing, I'm going to put a big hole through your balls!" Catherine jerked, letting the gun go. It made a clatter as it hit the doorjamb, then landed on the floor of the cockpit. "I'm sorry," she whispered to his back. His hand found hers, but he kept his eyes on Liz. Liz jerked her head and Catherine climbed two more

steps up to Dale's side. She heard anything from Ron, down below, but she could hear Jerry. Water splashing. A man moaning. He was in the water, must have jumped in to try to put out that terrible fire. Magnesium. She shuddered, trying to remember something she might have learned years ago in a high school chemistry class. Magnesium. The flares were magnesium. Was that one of those queer metals that didn't need air to burn? Or was that phosphorus? "Jerry! He. He'll drown." Her mind split again, one part suffering even for a man like Jerry. Another part watched Liz, waiting for a chance to take some action. She could feel Dale's tension, felt the squeeze he gave her hand to tell her to be ready. "Let the bastard drown," said Liz. "Alpha, the God-damned big-headed rich bastard. Telling everyone where to get off, and when. He's been nothing but trouble to us. Ron!" The last word was screamed. "For Christ's sake, you bastard, get yourself up here! Do I have to do everything for you?" Dale said, "He can't. I blasted him with the extinguisher." Catherine felt Dale coiled like a spring, waiting for the second's distraction that Liz's worry about her husband might bring. Catherine could hear something from down below. Ron staggering around. She twisted her head and saw him, his hands still over his eyes. Liz leaned across the house of the after cabin, thrust the gun against Dale's throat. "Don't you dare!" she hissed. "Don't try anything. Catherine, get my husband into the head and help him clean up his eyes. And don't pull anything, you bitch, or I'll shoot lover-boy here." Ron groaned. "Liz. " She didn't even look down the companionway, didn't make any effort to see what state her husband was in. She shouted at him, "And you, you useless bastard, hurry up and get your act together. You asses, you and Jerry. Letting a little cunt like her get the better of you! Do you ever do anything right?" Dale released Catherine's hand. She turned, knowing the only thing to do right now was to obey the woman with the gun. She went down the stairs, squeezed her body into the head with Ron, pumped water into the sink. She started rinsing his face with a dripping cloth while he stood, his hands hanging at his sides, mumbling angrily, "I did Warren. What about that, you bitch. I did him, and no one even knew." Liz shouted back, "Well, they know now, don't they? You're telling them, you fool!" Catherine heard the harsh sound of Liz's laughter and clenched her teeth. What if Liz shot Dale? Would she really shoot that gun? Catherine thought of Jerry, the flare burning into his flesh, her own trembling hand firing it at him. If she, Catherine, could do that, then Liz could kill Dale. She heard Liz ordering Dale down the stairs, heard him passing the door to the head. It sounded as if he stopped at the dinette table. From Liz's voice, Catherine guessed that the other woman had posted herself in the galley, a good position to keep the gun on Dale in the dinette and still be able to cover Catherine when she came out of the head. Liz was still shouting at Ron. ". about Brent? You really screwed that up. Alpha sent you after him to get the God damned gold, not to kill him." She felt Ron's shoulders jerk as if he had been struck. Then Ron grabbed the cloth from Catherine's hands and squeezed water over his eyes. He was trembling with some emotion as he bent down and scooped up water from the sink, sloshing it over his face and the counter. Catherine curled her fingers. Could she grab his neck, squeeze and. Ron's head turned and she saw that his eyes were still closed, saw his neck muscles cord up with tension. No, she would never make an

impression on his hard-packed body. But what else could she do? There was no room to swing her leg in a kick. The fire extinguisher? It was a small one, fastened to the bulkhead over the toilet. She twisted to reach while he was still blinded. She needed only a few seconds. She grasped the metal clasp, bit her lip and slowly opened it, straining to prevent the slightest noise. There! Open. She separated the two sides of the metal clasp, unhooked them, then her hand curled around the small red extinguisher. Ron hit her hard, throwing her body against the bulkhead. She heard Dale call out as Ron's body crushed her against that wall at her back. She grunted. A hard hand caught her arm and twisted. The extinguisher fell, hitting the toilet and ejecting its cargo of white, pressurized powder into the toilet bowl, the low cloud of white rising to waist level around them. He jerked her wrist and twisted. Her wrist gave, then her arm. Helpless, she was forced to turn. Her body half turned and came up against his, jammed between the man and the wall. He kept twisting her wrist. He was going to break her arm. She must have cried out, because Dale's voice came, flat and angry. "Liz, tell that bastard to let her go or you'll never find that gold." "Move," Ron said, twisting her arm. Somehow she turned. Her body lifted, trying to escape the pain, to ease the horrible twisting. "You're going to break my arm," she gasped. "Good." He jerked and she had no choice but to go the way he wanted. He stopped pushing when she stumbled into the passageway. He jerked back then and her body was held strained, an agonizing slave to the man who held her arm twisted up on her back. She stood very still, lifting slightly on her toes, her body curved into an awkward bend to try to keep her shoulder from dislocating, her arm from breaking. She breathed in short, shallow gasps. "Brent was your fault," said Ron, talking over Catherine's head to his wife. "You're the stupid bitch who told him about the exchange." Catherine saw the relief in Dale's eyes when he saw her. She was in pain from the brutal grasp on her arm, but still alive and whole. She saw in his eyes that he was ready to move, if Liz would look away for just one short second. Liz snarled at Ron, "You stupid cocksucker! If you'd gone along with me in the first place, we could have had that gold and been gone. Brent was the one who had guts. Brent was the one who realized how easy it would be." Catherine felt Ron move behind her, a restless motion that went nowhere. "I told you, you don't cross Alpha. Alpha doesn't forgive that kind of thing, and he finds you. Look at what happened to Brent." She screamed, "Because of you!" Catherine saw the woman. s body arch over the gun, tensed, coiled to strike, angry and boiling. But she didn't take her eyes off Dale, didn't let the gun shift. Her voice was filled with hate. "Alpha said jump, and you jumped, you asshole." Then Liz pushed the gun into Dale's throat again, as if that violence relieved her fury at her husband. Catherine stopped breathing, forgot the pain of her shoulder and her twisted arm. Abruptly, Liz drew back, keeping the gun trained on Dale. "Your little bitch of a girlfriend knows where the gold is, doesn't she?" Dale stared at her, his face saying nothing.

Liz snarled, "You're a bloody fool, chasing after her. Brent knew better. She's no good. He knew what to do with her. Leave her where she belongs." As Liz's hand tensed around the gun, Catherine fought to free herself from Ron, but he jerked her back hard and something in her arm seemed to tear. Her words came out gasping and weak. "I'll trade you, Liz. I'll trade the gold for our freedom. Let us go and I'll get it for you." Liz's eyes sparkled with pleasure. "No deal, bitch, except this one. You tell me. Tell me where it is, or I'll shoot him." Dale said quietly, "You're a hell of a long way offshore to go shooting able-bodied seamen." Catherine gasped as she saw Liz jerk. The gunshot was a thundering explosion inside the boat. In slow motion, Catherine saw Dale's mouth open, heard him shout. His body jerked as if struck by a big rock, then collapsed, his torso falling halfunder the table. In Liz's hand, the gun had jerked up as she fired, was now pointed towards the ceiling. Catherine screamed. Her legs moved, racing to reach Dale, to touch and pray that he was yet alive. Dale! Oh, God! Please, God! Don't let him be dead! Ron jerked her arm. She fell back against him, her arm screaming. Liz lowered the gun again, this time pointing it at Catherine. She smiled. "Let her go, Ron." Catherine scrambled over to Dale's body, one hand useless, the other feeling, touching. His shoulder, the muscle softened, inert. Be alive. Please be alive. They were impossibly far from doctors and hospitals. What if he was alive but it was a wound that would make his survival into a torment while he waited to die? "Dale? Please, Dale." She felt the pain, somewhere inside, emptiness. He moved. He shifted, groaned. Alive. He was alive. "Where? Where did she hit you?" She felt desperately for the blood with one hand, then saw the slow pool of red growing under him. He whispered, "Just ... give me a minute." She had never heard his voice such a pale shadow of himself. His hand found hers and she held tight, even when he squeezed her fingers to agony. He was alive. Pray God it was not too bad. He put weight on her arm, trying to get up. She tried to help him, tried to get her second hand to function, to grip, but it wouldn't. He turned, sliding out from under the table, and they both came to rest sitting together on the floor, crowded between the galley cupboards and the dinette table. He let go her hand and reached for his other arm, curling his fingers around his biceps and wincing as he did. She saw the source of blood then. His upper arm. She turned, trying to get up, froze when she saw the barrel of the gun pointed at her. She crouched, one arm hanging at her side helpless, the other gripping the table above for balance. She must not show her fear, not with this woman. She breathed slowly, tried to pretend it was a day at work. A crisis on the computers, Tony flapping around her. Her voice came then, devoid of expression, "I want to get the first aid kit. I have to bandage Dale's arm."

Liz quick breathing was the only sign that she was not totally calm. "Stuff it, bitch. Get me the gold." Dale said quietly, "Do it, Catherine." Catherine stared at Liz, countered, "First, let me bandage him." She had no idea what they could do now with a gun facing them, but the only thing she had to bargain with was the gold. The only thing she could think to bargain for was time. Bandaging Dale would take time. "Listen, you stupid cunt." Liz's voice was soft as she hissed, "Listen, I'll say it only once more. You get the gold, or I shoot him, in the heart this time. You should know by now that I won't hesitate to pull this trigger. So are you going to get that gold, or are you going to sit here and watch him die. Once he's gone, you're next." Ron said quietly, "Maybe he knows where it is." Liz smiled. "Of course he does. She told him. She isn't smart enough to hold out on her old man." She nodded, thoughtful, her thumb lifting and falling, lifting and falling, onto the hammer of the gun. "So we could play it another way, too. What do you think, Captain Dale? Ron used a winch handle on Brent to knock him out, but it was a knife with Warren. Think about a knife, and the lovely, cold Catherine." Liz was still smiling. "Oh, yes. I wish Jerry, our Alpha, could see this one. Ron, show them your knife." The boat echoed with the sound of a switchblade opening. Dale said hoarsely, "Don't touch her. Move and I'll get the. " "No!" Liz swung the gun. Dale, struggling to get up without using his arms, sagged back. "You," said Liz, swinging the barrel towards Catherine. "Tell me where it is." Catherine whispered, "Did Ron kill Fernando with the knife, too?" She did not look at Ron. Despite the sound of that knife, it was Liz who was the dangerous one. "Not yet, but he will. The prick is tied up in the after cabin." Liz laughed. "Stupid spic had it all wrong." What did she mean? Catherine didn't know, tried desperately to think of more questions. That was what a heroine did, wasn't it? Thought up questions for the bad guys to stall them in their purpose. Maybe she was not the heroine. This might be one of those deals where everybody ended up dead, splattered on the front page of national newspapers. "Where's the gold?" asked Liz, then she stomped the floor angrily with one bare foot. "Oh, for Christ's sake! Ron, knock the bitch around and make her tell us. I'm sick of this bloody farce." Catherine said in an oddly calm voice, "In the stateroom." "Where?" "It's under the floor." She rubbed her shoulder. The feeling was coming back. She told her fingers to clench, but they refused to obey. Soon, though, because she could feel tingles all along her arm, the painful prickling of recovering nerves. "It's a hidden hatch," she said, "inside another hatch. I'd have to show you. " The gun barrel jerked and Catherine said quickly, "It. s complicated. You go into the last hatch aft on the floor, then you have to open the engine room compartment, too. Then. " "Shut up." Liz jerked her head. "Ron, go with her. And for once, do it right. If she tries anything, stick her!"

Ron nodded, stepping back to let Catherine past, following her into the cabin, the knife lying in his curved fingers, his legs moving slowly, steadily, as if he were on his way to repair a defective engine.

Twenty-One Dale did not try again to get to his feet. Two reasons, and he was aware of cataloguing them, of needing the linear logic of rational thought. Reason one: If he remained where he was, Liz had to turn at an angle to hold the gun on him. That awkwardness was a good thing, he decided. Why give her a clear shot? Reason two: He was below her, and had he not heard that it was harder to shoot accurately if the target was below the shooter? At this range, she could hardly miss. There was a third reason. His legs did not want to hold his weight. He was weak, either from shock or loss of blood. He did not think the wound was serious, but it was bleeding freely despite his attempts to stem the flow with his hand. All right. Stay down. Conserve strength. Don't get up. What else? One, two, three. Where was the solution? He heard Catherine's voice from the stateroom, saying quietly, "I can't." Ron, his voice a low rumble. Not angry, but irritated. Be careful, Catherine! Don't take chances with him. He's more dangerous than he looks. She said reasonably, "Look, I'd do it if I could. You've got the knife on me. But my arm's not working. Something tore when you twisted it. I can't get that mattress out of there. If you take the mattress out, and the board. " There was scuffling, the sound of fabric rubbing, then one end of the mattress emerged into the passageway. Dale tuned out the conversation from Catherine and Ron. He could not do anything there, had a dismal feeling that he could not do much here, either, with Liz. He tried to see something in her eyes, some clue. She enjoyed the power of holding a gun. He suspected that she had never held a gun on anyone before, but that she was hoping to be able to repeat the pleasure again, soon. There might be a weakness there. Something he could turn to their advantage. She enjoyed it too much. Surely that must impair her objectivity, her ability to think straight and watch everything. "What are you going to do about the boat?" he asked. "There's a rope around the prop, you know. That's what stopped the engine." Her eyes passed him for a moment, distracted. He saw her take in the damaged door, saw her frown because she did not understand how it had happened. "We used the anchor rode," he told her. Talk. That was the only thing he could do. Talk to her. Talk about anything. "We fed it out the window of the head, tied the other end around the louvers. Ron was wrong, you know. I heard him saying it was the transmission, but it wasn't." Her jaw set. Anger at Ron, he thought. Good. At Ron. At Jerry. At anybody but us! He heard a thump, then nothing until Catherine asked Ron for a screwdriver. Silence, then more conversation as she told Ron she could not use the screwdriver with her arm injured. Rummaging. Dale assumed that Catherine and Ron had changed places again so that Ron could use the screwdriver. He hoped Catherine did not try anything. He sensed that the time was not right, if it could ever be right. Liz was expecting something and it would end with Catherine dead at the point of Ron's knife. Like Brent, floating in La Paz harbor. Like Warren, overboard.

Whatever happened, Catherine mustn't die here. "I'll get it." Ron's voice, the tone a man might use to say that he would carry the groceries. Then, harshly, "Get out! I'll get it." Catherine stumbled out of the cabin, squeezing past the mattress. Liz shouted, "All right bitch! Get under the table! All the way under!" Liz was not content until Catherine had squeezed under the table, her legs drawn up, her head bent for the table above, arms curled around herself. "What do you want?" Catherine asked Liz. "I'm a pretzel already. I can't get any farther under here." Dale saw Liz's eyes narrow, felt a moment's panic that the woman might want to force terror from Catherine. Don't anger the woman with the gun! Liz said, "Stay right there, bitch. And you. Captain, get on your feet and out on deck. We're just about finished with you two now." Dale rose slowly, looking for something, anything. Finding nothing. "Faster!" demanded Liz, banging her free hand down on the counter. "Get moving!" "You shot me," he reminded her mildly, and deliberately staggered as he stumbled to his feet. He couldn't see Catherine's eyes, only her legs under the table. There was nothing, no weapon he could reach. "All right, now move!. Ron! Have you got it?" Dale froze, waiting. She had told him to move, but the jerk of the gun and her eyes commanded stillness. A thump, then another, followed by Ron's voice from the stateroom. "Yeah, hon. Something here. It's a bundle of. Yeah! This is it! He. s wrapped it all in plastic. Under that. packed it into some kind of fabric thing, and. It's gold coins all right, but you know, I thought it was heav. " "Stay put!" she commanded him. "Stay in there while I get these assholes outside." She jerked the gun at Dale. He stumbled forward, fell into the mattress blocking the passageway to the cockpit. "Squeeze past it," she told him. He went past, slower than he had to. The fire extinguisher in the hall. Too high. No time to get it off the wall. Impossible, anyway, with only one arm. The second flare gun. No, there was no time to open the case, not with her standing back there in the galley, her gun hovering between Dale's back and Catherine's form scrunched under the table. Catherine would not be able to do anything. Wedged under the table, she would have to get out first, and by then. The lever to the bilge pump? Could he jerk it out, use it as a club. Jesus, Welland! Don't be an ass! A club against a loaded gun! He stumbled as he lifted his foot up onto the first step. Stairs to the cockpit. Liz called out impatiently at him. Christ! No time! There had to be something! He had to release his wounded arm, needed the good arm to try to pull himself up the stairs. He felt the blood pulsing out, knew the weakness was the worst thing. It was affecting his mind, too, making his thoughts too slow, his ideas sluggish and drained. He stretched his bloody hand up, grabbed the ledge overhead. It was a handy little ledge. When he was on watch he often put things there to keep them

handy. Yesterday. Jesus, was it really only yesterday? Yesterday, and he had sat in the cockpit splicing that rope. When he was done, he had dropped his jackknife onto that ledge. His fingers closed on the ledge, groped blindly. "Get a fucking move on, you bastard!" Liz. In the galley, trying to cover both him and Catherine with the gun. He let his voice fill with pain. "I am," he gasped. "I can't. my arm!" He pulled himself up one step to keep her pacified, then he sagged against the wall to the hanging locker, breathed hard and noisily for a second. "Just give me a sec"" he begged. He heard her laugh. Oh, Christ! It wasn't there! He stumbled up another step, his hand sliding along the ledge. An empty coffee mug spun in front of his hand and went clattering down the companionway. "What the fuck. " "A cup," he gasped. "I knocked a cup off the. " He stumbled through the opening and into the cockpit. He had it in his hand. Now what? She would see if she came up. It would be useless in his pocket, useless closed. He managed somehow to make his wounded arm work enough to hold the knife, to swing the blade open with his other hand. "What do you want me to do now?" he called back in a weak voice. "Freeze. Right there." He froze, the open knife in his hand, pressed flat against his gut. He looked at the deck. Nothing. He looked down and saw the fire extinguisher he had set down at her command earlier. He could not possibly pick it up with only one hand. Behind the fire extinguisher, he saw the open porthole that opened into the aft cabin bunk. A low port, opening just an inch above the cockpit seat. It was there for ventilation and to allow light into the berth. How many times had he lain in that bunk at night, looking out at the fabric of someone's jeans, or the yellow of a cruiser suit. He had often woken during his offwatch time, glanced through that port and seen sign that someone was there, on watch. Not a head. Not shoulders. Just a hip, or legs. The porthole was open now. He had opened it the night before. No one had closed it since. He stared through it, straight into the face of the Mexican. Fernando, lying in that bunk. Very still. His eyes open. Staring back at Dale. "OK, now, move!" Liz, behind him. She must be standing at the bottom of the companionway steps, pointing the gun up at him. She must have left Ron below, guarding Catherine. They had the gold. It was time for executions. Dale and Catherine. Fernando as well. He was just lying there, in that bunk. Tied up? Catherine, down below. Oh, God! Had Ron killed her already? "Up on deck!" repeated Liz impatiently. Why on deck? To make it easier to throw the bodies overboard later? Yes, he decided. Like making the victim dig his own grave, then stand beside it so he would fall conveniently when the shot was fired. So there was hope. Catherine was not dead yet. He turned his head back to watch Liz, but did not turn his body. "OK," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"I'm-#151;I'm going. I've only got one arm." He twisted his body, stepped towards the seat just under that open porthole. He stared straight into Fernando's eyes as he deliberately stumbled over the fire extinguisher. As he fell, he knew that the damned knife was going to twist and stab into his gut. He would die, bleeding like a pig here in his own cockpit. He felt his shoulder hit as he went down, felt the bulk of the fire extinguisher smash against his shin. His wounded arm was on fire. His body came to rest sprawled over the cockpit floor and the seat. He was still, alive, Liz screaming behind him. "Get up, you bloody prick! Get on your feet and. " He tuned her out. He moved his fingers, found the knife still in them, his hand trapped under his chest. He shifted and his face was right against the porthole, Fernando staring at him, the Mexican's eyes trying to give Dale the strength he needed. He somehow managed to make the muscles of his injured side work, to lift his body enough to release the hand that held the knife. He felt the pain, the weakness, dizziness. He jerked his hand along the seat, then could not stop himself from slipping, falling back. He kept his eyes open with the world turning red. He tried to guide the passage of that hand. He felt it hit the edge of the port and he made the fingers release. He thought he saw the knife falling, through the opening, towards the Mexican's face. God, that was all he needed. Kill the only man who just might get free to help. He could not keep his eyes open. "Get up!" He groaned. "You bitch, can't you see I'm hurt?" Later, he could not remember how he managed to get up onto the deck. He was on the cockpit floor, weak and in agony. Then he was standing on the deck, staring at Liz with that gun still leveled at his face. "What are you going to do to us?" he asked. He knew the answer, but time was their only chance. "You're going to drown." Liz's eyes swung to the cockpit. Ron was there, with Catherine in front of him. Ron's arm was curled around Catherine's shoulder, the knife held up against her throat. She was moving very slowly. Dale saw her fear and shared it. Even if Ron didn't try to kill her, if she slipped, that knife would. Liz said, "Of course, we'll help you along a bit." Catherine was on deck beside him now, and Liz said, "Tie them up, Ron." Dale leaned back and felt the boom of the mainsail against his back. Someone had not pulled the main sheet tightly enough when they furled the mainsail, had not even put the boom down into its gallows, so the big wooden boom swung slightly under his weight. He said, "All right, so you're going to kill us." "You're right about that, friend." Liz swung the gun to cover both of them. "Ron, hurry up. Tie them. That way, if you screw up the knife business, they can't swim anyway. We really do want them dead." "Shoot them," said Ron. "No. The launch is coming. I want all the bullets I can keep."

"Jesus, those are Alpha's people in the launch!" Ron was shocked, the first strong emotion Dale had ever seen in his eyes. "You can. t screw around with Alpha!" "Alpha's dead. See him? That's his shirt, floating in the water. Our little Catherine did him good. He died screaming. And you, Captain, don't you get any ideas. I may want to save bullets, but if you do move, I'll put another one through you." Catherine gasped and Liz's smile widened. "She believes me." Dale said weakly, "So do I-#151;But if you're going to kill us, at least tell us what the hell it's for." "Gold," Liz said flatly. "Whose gold? We walked into this cold, you know. We don. t know what it's about. At least tell us why we're dying, where that gold came from." Anything for time. Liz frowned, but the weakness of his voice seemed to reassure her. "You already know, you fucking private eye!" Liz's voice was angry, the gun jerking, the bundle of gold held tight against her side. "Alpha told Ron all about it. You're not a businessman on holiday. You're a Goddamned detective." Dale shook his head. "No. I'm not . " "Don't you try to. " "It's true." Dale felt energy building inside. His body was useless, but he had his voice and his mind. He said quickly, "Yes, I'm a detective, in a way. Computer crimes. I don't know beans about all this, whatever it is. I dig through computers and paper and trip up little men with glasses who live lives too expensive for an accountant's salary. Embezzlers." Ron now had Catherine's arms tied behind her back. He was moving towards Dale, sorting out the rope in his hands. This was bad. What could Fernando do if they were both tied? But how could Dale stop Ron? Ron was a little stupid, steady and plodding. Liz had told him to tie them up. He was tying, ignoring even his wife's insults. "No matter," said Liz with a shrug. She shifted the bundle of gold in her arm. It was heavy. She would be better to put it down and concentrate on the gun, but she did not want to let go the golden treasure. "It was Brent," she said. "Brent?" Dale encouraged. He used the voice he often spoke with in the places he worked. Vaguely interested, not placing much importance on what he heard. He wanted Liz to think of him like that, a nonentity willing to listen to her bragging. "Yeah." Liz smiled. "He always had a lot of nerve. He wasn't afraid to reach for what he wanted." He had reached for the grave, thought Dale, but he said nothing. Liz said, "We were coming back into Santispac. It's a good place, you see. Small enough there's no port captain, but a good anchorage. So we were doing a run for Alpha, and he'd told us to bring it there, to. "Liz!" Ron's fingers had tensed on Dale's wrist. Dale felt the blood running down his arm, tried not to feel the pain, tried not to feel weak. "Shut up, Ron! What does it matter now?" "A run?" asked Dale. "What kind of a run?" Good. Ron's hands had dropped from Dale's wrists. The man was staring at his wife, listening to the story he already knew. "Drugs," said Liz. "Drugs. Big money drugs. Alpha always was big time. We were nothing," she said bitterly. "A pipeline from the mainland to the Baja. It's easier to get the drugs north from the Baja, easier than on the mainland. Baja's a duty free zone, so the customs officials are less alert, and. We

didn't make border runs, though. We weren't stupid. Just deliveries across the Sea." "Exchanges?" speculated Dale. "Drugs for gold?" She nodded and he asked, "Where did the gold come from?" She laughed, high-pitched excitement. "Nobody asks questions like that. Whose gold? How would I know? Ron made a dive near Guaymas on the mainland, picked up the shipment. Never met the man on that side." Ron said, "Alpha liked everything anonymous. Nobody comes face to face. I only met him twice myself. Alpha kept himself out of it. Just collected the money somewhere along the line." "You were the diver?" Dale asked. Catherine was tied, but he still had two free arms, only one of which was any use. Liz snarled, "Shut up, Ron! I'll tell this. You just tie him up, and don't be too gentle about it." Ron bent to his task and Liz went on, "He was the diver. Dive at Guaymas, pick up the canister. Waterproof canister. Don't look in it, just put it into the bilge and carry it west. At the Santispac end, dive and place it. Someone had been down and placed a hook in the rocks, a chain and shackle. Fasten the canister. I told Brent all about it." "You!" Ron jerked the rope he was starting to twist around Dale's wrist. Dale managed not to flinch, twisted his wrist and the rope fell off. Ron had dropped it. "You bitch! You told me you had nothing to do with him! You. " Liz was growing angry, turning to scream at Ron. The gun was lowering. Dale tensed, ready ... then made himself relax as she suddenly swung the gun up, first pointed at Catherine, then at Dale. "You told Brent," Dale urged, his voice careful. "When?" "At Santispac. We'd just brought Risky Venture in to anchor, and Ron had gone out in the dinghy to place the canister. It was just after dark, and I knew he'd be at least an hour. He never understood that you could tell Brent anything. Brent knew about the drug operation." Dale felt Ron tensing again, but the man said nothing. "But Brent wasn't interested in drugs. That's one of the reasons we parted company back. Well, that's another tale. Ron, tie him up, for Christ's sake!" Ron bent down to pick up the rope. Dale left his hands hanging at his sides, made Ron grasp them and pull them behind his back. It hurt like hell when he grabbed the wounded arm. Catherine's eyes were telling him something. Wait. Keep talking. He could see hope in her eyes. Fernando. Dale kept his eyes on Liz, did not look back to the cockpit. "So you told Brent. ?" "And he loved it." Liz was shifting, excited and unable to stay still. Her thumb caressed the bundle of gold. "He wanted to know all about it. The gold was what really got him. Not the drugs. It was the gold he found exciting. I told him, and I could see him lapping it up. He'd just come back from the States." Just come back from ripping off Dale Welland for fifty thousand, thought Dale wryly. "And I told him where Ron was, what he was doing. He wanted to know it all. Where the hiding place was, how heavy the other canister was. I told him we'd looked once, had counted it all. Nine hundred coins. Gold coins. One ounce each, and nine hundred of them." Ron gasped, "You set him up to steal the gold?" "No, you fool." She shook her head. "I told him about Alpha, told him we'd thought of ripping it off, but the world wasn't big enough to get away from Alpha. I told him. " Dale shifted a little. Liz's eyes followed him and he relaxed. She was looking further forward now, more

away from that cockpit. Whatever happened, they must not look back towards the cockpit! Ron broke in, "The bitch told him where it was. The bitch told him what was going down." Liz laughed. "Sure I told him. Because I knew he wasn't interested in the drugs. He could have run them, too. He had the chance, but he didn't want to do it. But the gold. I told him, sitting there on the deck, just up there. We were sitting in two chairs, watching for Ron's dinghy coming back. How Ron would put the drugs down there in that waterproof container. Then, just before dawn, how he'd go back down and he'd pick up the other canister. It was heavier. Ron always had to leave his diving weights down there, leave them and take the gold. It wasn't our gold, though. We were small stuff. We'd get a few thousand, and someone else got all that gold." Dale speculated, "You delivered the gold back to the underwater spot on the Guaymas side of the sea?" She nodded. "So Brent took the gold? Got to it before Ron did the next morning? When I got to Santispac, you said that Brent had slipped his anchor and sailed away very early that one morning, before anybody was awake. He went down and got the gold, then he skipped out, took the boat to La Paz?" "Yes." Liz was smiling now, real pleasure on her face. "He was a real man, you know. Liked excitement, didn't mind taking chances. Not like. It was a game. Exciting. He'd have made one hell of a gambler. It was fun, telling him, watching him get excited. It was a real turn-on to him." Dale could feel Ron's tension. Ron didn't like her saying things like that. Ron, who had married this colossal bitch and seemed to worship her. Dale caught a flash of something dark in his peripheral vision. He did not turn to look, afraid to draw Liz's gaze to the cockpit. "A turn on," he said, making his voice husky. Oh, yes. She liked that. He saw her smiling, thinking she was turning him on too, the fool. "On the deck, you said, sitting there in the dark waiting for Ron to come back." He could feel Ron like a coiled spring at his back. He hoped to hell this didn't backfire on him. He said softly, "I bet I know what would have been an even bigger turn on for him. If he screwed you, out there, knowing your husband was coming back any minute." Liz laughed. Catherine was deadly quiet. Dale felt Ron. s arm move, know somehow it was the knife blade starting for his own neck. He said quickly, "Like you did me, Liz? I enjoyed that, screwing you on the deck of Risky Venture. You do that a lot, don't you? You wear that ridiculous bikini to get the men turned on, then when he's not looking, you. " "No!" Ron screamed. "Yes," said Dale. "You weren't there. You were gone somewhere. To La Paz," he speculated. "Alpha knew the gold was missing by then, didn't he? You told him. What did you do? Call him on the telephone? No matter, you were killing Brent under orders." "Fouling it up," said Liz bitterly. "He was supposed to get the gold, not Brent's neck. Alpha told him. " Dale interrupted swiftly, "And while he did, you invited me onto your boat, and gave me a drink. Then you came out, came on to me, and we fucked right on deck." "Noooo!" Ron crashed past Dale, threw himself at Liz. "You stupid bastard!" she screamed, pointing the gun at Ron. Dale threw himself forward, adding his weight to Ron's. Liz's body was thrown back against the life rails. He saw the gun go flying, heard a splash and pushed aside surprise that a gun should make such a big splash. He felt dizziness well up as his body fell off Ron's. That surge of energy had taken it all, but he could

see Fernando swarming up onto the deck with the fire extinguisher in his hands. Dale heard a voice scream, "Catherine! Close your eyes!" He did not know that it was his own voice. He felt heat welling up. I'm going to pass out, he thought, then there was a long eternity of soundless, sightless, floating. Then nothing. †† Catherine tried to reach Dale as he fell. She ran forward, but her arms were tied behind her and all she could do was collapse beside him. She heard his scream, saw Fernando run along the deck from the cockpit, the extinguisher pouring out a blast of white powder at Liz and Ron. She heard Ron cursing Liz. Liz said nothing. Catherine couldn't see anything, then she heard Dale's shout and turned her face away from the spray of the extinguisher. Fernando's voice, only not Fernando's. This voice was brisk, businesslike. "All right, Riskman. That's it." She twisted, opened her eyes. Fernando had Ron's wrist, was snapping on handcuffs, for God's sake! He cuffed Ron to a shroud, then turned to Liz who was bent over the lifelines. "Dale?" She couldn't get at him. He was face down on the deck, and she was half on top of him. And the blood from his arm. Oh, God! Was he dead? "Dale! Please, Dale. " She twisted her wrists against the bonds. Then Fernando was there, behind her, cutting her free. She reached for Dale. "No," the Mexican said. "Let me." He pushed her aside and turned Dale's body. "He is alive. Get me the first aid. No, take Ron's belt off." "What. " "Hurry." She stumbled to Ron. He was staring at Liz who had collapsed onto the deck, apparently unconscious. Catherine fumbled with Ron's belt. Ron did not even seem to notice when she yanked it out of the loops. She rushed back to Fernando. "Here. Here it is." The Mexican took it from her. He was frowning as he rigged the belt into a tourniquet above the wound on Dale's arm. "Is he going to be OK?" She swallowed and sank down on the other side of Dale, touching his face. He was alive, wasn't he? Fernando did not answer. He stood and walked back to the cockpit. She heard him talking as if on the radio. The words were in Spanish and she did not understand them. She could not seem to make her mind work on it. Dale, so pale and still. They were so far from doctors, from hospitals. Fernando back at her side. Catherine said dully, "The radio. It's not going to work. Liz did something to it. Dale said he thought. " "Yes," agreed Fernando, his hand on Dale's throat. Was he feeling for a pulse. "They took a transistor out, but Liz soldered it back in after they tied me up. Jerry used the radio to call for his people. For the people of the man named Alpha." She could not take any more. She whispered, "They'll come. Liz talked about the launch. They'll come and they'll have guns and. "

"They will not come. They have been stopped." He gestured with his chin and she turned to look. He said, "You see, they were not the only people who had friends waiting near to us. Also, I have had this vessel tracked, by radar, since it has left Cabo San Lucas. She could not believe what she saw. "The navy," she whispered. "The Mexican navy." "That is true. Of course, we are in international waters. Closest to Mexico, but international waters. Because this is not a Mexican vessel, my navy has no jurisdiction. It would only be possible for my navy to board this vessel, legally, if they were to be invited." The military ship was growing larger. "Who are you?" she whispered. "Some kind of cop?" "Some kind," he agreed. His fingers left Dale's neck. "There is a pulse. It is not strong, but I think that your captain will be good. There will be a doctor on that vessel." Dale, flat on his back on the deck, opened his eyes. Catherine touched his cheek. His lips tried to smile at her. She said, "Don't talk, darling. There's a navy boat coming." His eyes moved from her face to Fernando's. "What took you so long?" he asked weakly. Fernando said, quite reasonably, "You did not put the knife into the best place. You put it onto my face. I was very happy that it was not with the point in my face, but the hilt. There was some time to get my hands, which were tied behind my back, into the position where they could make use of the knife, to free my bonds." Dale's eyes moved, saw Ron cuffed to the shroud. "Liz?" he asked. "You've got Liz, too?" Fernando nodded. "When you throw your body against her, she releases the gun and the gold. They both went over. I watched it. The gold sank into the water very quickly." "Jesus," whispered Dale, half-smiling. "She threw away her own bloody gold." Fernando said, "Yes. But now she is dead. With the knife from her own husband." Dale nodded, but there was no smile left. His eyes closed again. Catherine put her fingertips to the place where Fernando had found a pulse. She could feel it, not strong, but steady. She looked up, found her eyes on the limp body of Liz on the side of the boat. Fernando said quietly, "I think it is best, for she would not be easy even in a jail." Catherine wondered why she felt nothing. The fear was gone, but there was no joy, no relief. Just nothing. She could hear the roar of the navy coming fast. Fernando said quietly, "Señora, el capitán is not in command of this ship. As the person who owns, I ask you, do you give permission to the Mexican navy to board this vessel?" She looked from Ron, still staring at his dead wife, back to Dale who was somehow still alive. "Yes," she said clearly. "I give my permission. Tell them I invite them to board Far Reacher."

Twenty-Two Dale saw Catherine in the courtroom. She was wearing a cool, cotton pant suit, the kind that looked simple but actually cost several hundred dollars. He thought she looked wonderful. It was the first time he had seen her since he was airlifted off that navy boat by helicopter and flown to hospital in Ensenada. The testimony was confusing. The fact that the proceedings were in Spanish made it impossible for

Dale to have much more than a vague idea of what was said. When Catherine was called, the prosecutor's questions were translated for her. Her answers were also translated. A lot of things were never asked. No one mentioned what Jerry Mordichaih had done to Catherine in that forward cabin. Jerry was not on trial. Jerry was dead. Dale took the stand. More confusion. More translations. It was Ron on trial, and others Dale had never seen. The people in the launch that had never come. Fernando had come to him in the hospital, had explained that the launch had been seized as it left the Mexican coast. Fernando had also reassured him about Far Reacher, saying it had been safely towed to a mooring in the Ensenada harbor, that navy divers had been down and cut the rope from the propeller, had checked the prop and found it undamaged, the shaft not bent. There were other witnesses. Strange Mexicans, then Fernando who seemed pleased with the proceedings. Then it was over, and Dale was outside the courtroom waiting for Catherine. He wasn't certain she would come, and had realized how much it mattered that she had not come to him in the hospital, might not want to see him now. Finally she came and stopped in front of him. She did not meet his eyes. He felt the great distance between them. "You look nice," he said. She looked like the woman who had boarded Far Reacher that day in La Paz. He sought her eyes and they were cool, closed. "Thank you." She stared at the sling. "Your arm. " "It's OK. I'm wearing the sling in hopes that you'll think I need coddling. I need every advantage I can get." She swallowed and looked away. Now that it was over, she did not want to remember. He could understand that. His face must remind her of all the rest, of what Jerry had done to her. She said quietly, "Tell your lawyer I'll sign." "Sign what?" "The papers. The boat." She pushed her hands into the pockets of the slacks, destroying the designer's line. "It's your boat, morally and probably legally if you were to take it to court. I-#151;" "I'm not taking you to court." He moved his free arm in frustration. "Look, this isn't. Oh, hell!. Hello, Fernando." Fernando was very courtly, taking Catherine's hand, bowing to her. "My country gives thanks to you, Señora Markesson. And you also, Captain." Dale said, "We are free to go then? What about the defendants, in there?" "Jail. For much time. It is bad chance that we did not get the drugs themselves in an exchange. It is why I was on your vessel, you realize. My information was that Markesson had stolen the drugs. I did not know. Well, in any case, it is now history." "What about Warren Olsen?" Fernando shrugged. "He was not, as you might have thought, the man you supposed him to be. He was also working to stop the drugs, from the americano side. We knew each other, although we did not work exactly together. We ... cooperated." Dale said flatly, "Back home, our own governments might think we were involved in this. This has made waves, I'm sure, and there must be some accounting for Warren's murder back home. Catherine

and I don't want to be held in any way responsible for. " Fernando raised his hands, palms towards them. "I assure you, it will not be. I have spoken with the man who is your Mr. Olsen's. Well, his boss. I have explained, and my country has also given information to your country. Information we have from the prisoners. Information that will help the americanos to stop the drugs on their end. Information about Alpha, the people he worked with." He smiled. "You may go, my friends. You will be fine at your customs. There will not be a problem." "That's fine for him to say," said Dale uneasily as he watched Fernando go back into the building. What the hell, he decided. He was alive, and if anyone else wanted to search Far Reacher, they were welcome. If the authorities back home had heard things about the boat, there were the records of this Mexican trial to show who the bad guys really were. Catherine moved restlessly at his side. Her eyes were still ice. He felt himself drawing back. Don't make an ass of yourself, Welland. The woman doesn't want. She said, "You organize it. The papers. Whatever. I'll sign." "I still owe a hundred thousand. And the other fifty. You never found that." Far Reacher, his, alone. He didn't want it alone. He wanted Catherine. "Whatever you want." She shifted uncomfortably. "Look, I just. It's yours. That's all." A taxi pulled up and the driver started hounding them in an incomprehensible Spanish-English mix. "Catherine, let's take the taxi." She climbed in without a word. "La playa," he told the driver, not knowing what else to call the waterfront. In Ensenada it was more like a messy industrial row than a beach, but the driver seemed to know what they wanted. "You're planning to go home now, to Vancouver?" She nodded. He looked down at his arm in the sling. Helpless, he thought. Not just the arm, but the man too. How the hell could he stop her? Why stop her, if she wanted to go? He remembered Anne, standing there hoping he would say he loved her. It was a cruel joke, because now he was the one reaching for candies that weren't his. "I need help to get the boat back to the States. Your help. I can get clearance out of here. Fernando said there's no problem with that. No real reason there should be, since you appointed me captain, but in the States. The boat's still yours in the register office." "I'll give you a letter of authority, appointing you captain. We can get it notarized here and you can. " "It won't work," he said desperately, grasping at phrases his lawyer had spouted to him back in San Francisco weeks ago. "Appointment of managing captain for a Canadian registered vessel. It has to be done on the proper form, has to be filed in the register office." She turned to stare at him. "Are you telling me the truth?" "Yes." Thank God, he was. He did not want to lie to her. He said, "And I'll have trouble getting the boat to San Diego with this arm." She swallowed. "You want me to crew for you?" He nodded, swallowing himself. God, Catherine! Don't walk away from me. Not you. Please. He swallowed again and managed the word.

"Please. It's only sixty miles. Ensenada to San Diego." He saw her take a deep breath. "All right," she said. He kept his face neutral, would not let his relief explode into the air of the taxi. He had one more day. What the hell was he going to do in that time? Nothing, he realized later. He could not seem to talk to her, and she was equally strained with him. He took her to dinner, but they talked only about the food and neither of them ate more than a few bites. They returned to the boat. Someone had worked to clean it up. The stateroom was tidy. The damaged door to the forward cabin had been removed entirely. "Did you do this while I was in hospital?" he asked. She nodded. "What about the door?" "Fernando sent someone. He took the door off. I said. I said I thought you wouldn't mind just leaving it without a door." Dale nodded. The door Jerry had closed when he went up there, to ... Dale put the sail covers on, made a hash of it with only one arm. Catherine came and helped him." She made out the crew list for their departure. Finally, they both went to separate cabins. He slept in the aft cabin. She slept in the stateroom. At dawn the next day they walked to the migracíon office and the port captain's, received clearance to take Far Reacher out of Mexico. They stopped at the Blanco store for milk and fresh fruit on the way back to the boat. There must have been more food they should have, but Dale's mind was blank and Catherine made no suggestions. Far Reacher cleared the Ensenada breakwater at noon. Catherine plotted their course to clear the kelp beds off the north side of Bahia Todos Santos because Dale was unable to manage the parallel rule with one arm. Once they were clear, Dale punched coordinates into the GPS, which promptly gave him a readout of a course to the Coronado islands. Dale set the autopilot. They had not spoken a word to each other since leaving Ensenada. Catherine came into the cockpit, staring ahead into the slight northerly wind. Dale had not set any sails. He could not handle the sails alone, and he did not like to have them up in case the wind freshened and left Catherine fighting alone to get them down. What now? He tried to think of words. A poet had said it, long ago. Come live with me and be my love. He knew that he would never be able to say those words, but he stared into the waves ahead and saw the future stretching out, wondered if somehow he could not at least keep some transient touch with Catherine. Finally, in desperation he asked, "How's everything in Vancouver? At work? Have you phoned your office?" "Yes." She seemed happy enough to talk about that. "My assistant, Tony, is in a flap. Everything's OK, I guess, but he's having fits because one of our clients is being audited by Revenue Canada." "A routine audit?" "I don't think there's any problem. There's certainly no problem with our records." He nodded. There would be no shady deals in Catherine Markesson's business. "You're anxious to get back, then?"

"Yes. Do you want coffee or something?" "Yes. Coffee." She went to make it, and he wondered what he'd said when Anne moved in with him. Why don't you stay? Something like that. It had been easy to ask Anne, because the answer hadn't mattered very much. She brought the coffee and he sipped it, trying to get words out. She sipped her coffee. The wind felt cool, the boat making slow progress. Their silence made it even slower. "What about your business?" she asked. "It's OK. Todd, my assistant, has everything under control. He's good." "Tony's good, too. He gets in a flap, but he always gets the work done on time, and resolves the problems if I'm not there to do it." She took another mouthful of coffee and coughed when it went down the wrong way. "Are you OK?" He wished he had the guts to touch her. Why had it seemed so easy when they were both on the verge of being murdered? Why had he thought it was a forgone conclusion, that Catherine and Dale would be together and there would be no need for words? "I'm fine." She sipped again, sounded almost angry when she asked, "Do you have family, Dale?" "My mother, but I haven't seen her since I left home at seventeen. She did a rotational thing with husbands, and a steady thing with booze." "I guess ... I guess if you started like that, you'd rather not grow roots?" Did she care? He was afraid to think so, but could not stop himself saying, "I've got a house. On San Francisco Bay. The water pounding in on the shore. Trees. Lots of big windows. It's a bit wild, but only a few miles from the city." "I've got an apartment," she said. "It looks over the harbor. I gave up the house that my parents left me. Brent and I lived in it, and after he was gone it seemed like too much for me." Brent. Jesus! With everything else, he had forgotten about Brent. He said abruptly, "I'm going to get something to eat." "Your arm. I could. " "No! I'll manage." Great, he thought when he arrived in the galley. So now he was shouting at her. He opened the cooler but there was nothing except apples that could be eaten without either cooking first, or using two hands. He grabbed two apples and pushed them into his pockets. Then he went back to her. "Apple?" "Thanks." She was sitting on the starboard deck now, her legs over the side under the lifelines. He watched the back of her head while she chewed on the apple. "Catherine, I don't need this boat." She stopped chewing, but did not look back at him. "You signed and made the down payment. It's yours. You're stuck with it now. At the rate we're traveling, we'll never make San Diego before dark." He had known that from the beginning, had avoided telling her. "There's the Coronado Islands. Just

this side of the border. Decent anchorage for the night." She nodded, then turned to look at him and his heart stopped. He crossed the cockpit, sat down on the deck. "What?" she whispered. "What do you want?" Love. It was only a word, for God's sake. Couldn't he say it? He saw her lick her lips. He shifted to support himself against the trunk of the aft cabin. With his good arm he reached out and touched her cheek. She did not draw back. "Catherine, I need to get the boat to San Francisco. If your assistant's got everything under control, why don't you come along?" He felt her flesh tremble under his fingers, felt her throat move as she whispered. "First you wanted me to help you get to San Diego, then San Francisco. This could stretch on . " ". for a long time. That's what I was working on." Jesus! Couldn't he do better than this? What if she was just as scared as he was? He cupped her chin in his hand and leaned towards her. Her lips were sweet and trembling. "I'm scared," he said huskily. "So bloody scared I'll end up spending the rest of my life without you." "Dale ..." She twisted and suddenly she was close, her softness pressed against his other arm and making it hurt like hell. He caught her closer, took her lips and found that even the pain was good. Her kiss was all the words they had not said. He drank from her lips and found the crazy courage to say, "Catherine, I love you. I want whatever it takes for you and I to be together." She said, "I like San Francisco, but in Vancouver. " "I think Vancouver's great. I've never been there, but you've got a business and an apartment there, so I love the place." She laughed and he said, "We can run back and forth. Whatever." She snuggled against him. "Am I hurting your arm?" "Yes, but don't move." She took the sling off and he got his arm around her. It felt good, although it wasn't much use yet. No damage that won't heal, the doctor had said, but it would take time to regain its strength. She said, "There's a problem. Something I haven't told you yet." He was leaning back against the cabin, Catherine in his arms, and he held tighter when her words penetrated. "What problem?" "Do you know if there's a regulation against bringing gold into the States?" "The gold is gone. I was out for the count, but Fernando said Liz. " ". dropped it overboard, yes. But Ron, when he got it out of the hatch, said he had thought there was more. So while you were in hospital, I looked in a few other places, and I found more. A lot more." He closed his eyes. "Holy shit! No, I don't know if there's a regulation." "So what are we going to do about it?" We. He liked the way she said that. He kissed her, found her lips soft and compliant, then hot and open. Her body strained against his and he felt the fire as he never had before.

He said, "I love you, Catherine," and laughed, for no reason except happiness. "I love you. It's easier to say the second time, the third time. I guess we'll try clearing customs without declaring the gold. If the Mexican navy and Jerry's bunch of thugs didn't find it, maybe customs won't." She laughed and he breathed in her scent, growling, "I'm going to try to keep my hands off you until we get to Coronado. That's not because I'm being virtuous, you understand, but because I don't want to smash us up somewhere, or sink us." "I understand." She shifted and spread her palms out across his chest. "I do love you, Dale. You make me feel real." God, she felt good! "When we get to Coronado, we'll get the anchor down. The chain, because the rope hasn't been replaced. Then we'll light the anchor light, because it will be dark by that time. Then..." She was smiling. In a minute, her smile would grow wider and he would kiss her again. Heaven knew where his resolve would be, keeping his hands off her. "Have you ever made love to a desperate man on the deck of a sailboat while it's underway?" "No." She brought her lips to his. "But Catherine's an adventurous woman. She'd love to try it." "I knew life could never be dull with you around." He touched her lips with his. "You understand that this isn't just a short affair? I'm in for the long count." She understood. Her lips, her body, told him that she understood. She began to undo the buttons of his shirt. ††

The Dark Turn the page for a preview of another Val Cameron thriller from Muse Creations Inc, available from www.musecreations.com

The Dark San Francisco, August The day after she returned from Quantico, Frances Walters wore the gray tailored pantsuit and powder blue silk blouse, pearl studs in her ears, and a gray leather shoulder bag with matching low-heeled pumps snapping against the vinyl floor as she strode into the Task Force headquarters. She enjoyed the image of herself in business clothes, knowing when she got home from work she'd shed the pantsuit and earrings, put on jeans and a leather jacket and ride the day's tension off on her Harley. Her desk was relatively tidy, shiny old wood with a heaping in-basket and two neat piles of files, cases she'd been reviewing two weeks ago when she left. Of the three other desks in the badly lit fifth story room, her partner's desk was the only one with a live body at it, and the most littered: computer and keyboard, a heap of sprawling file folders, and three notepads filled with Tony McMasters. illegible handwriting. Tony pushed his computer keyboard back and stretched as he stood, thin legs encased in battered Levis, curly brown hair brushing his denim shirt, the pencil in his hand in danger of falling as he reached for the acoustic tiles on the ceiling. "Pat wants us in his office," he said. "Nice corporate image you. re wearing. I heard rumors the FBI

wanted to keep you." "Jesus, where do you hear these things?" A year ago, when Fran left the San Francisco Police Department to join the Organized Crimes Against Children Task Force, she'd recruited Tony McMasters from San Francisco PD because of his skill in teasing information from both humans and computers. After working closely with him for a year, she still didn't know how he did it, but she often wondered if one day he'd turn over a rock and uncover her own past. "The point is, Walters, are you leaving?" Yesterday, on the last day of the profiling course at Quantico, Special Agent Ashton had suggested Fran apply to join the FBI, intimating if she did she'd end up in the NCAVC, the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. So far as she knew, nobody had overheard their conversation. "Tony, how the hell did you hear about this?" His brown hair brushed his cotton shirt as he jerked his head towards the closed door behind him. "On Monday, someone from Quantico called Pat Flanney to ask questions about you. Good career move for you, I figure." Ever since the invitation was issued, she'd wondered what would happen if she did apply, whether she'd pass their security check. She'd passed when she applied to the San Francisco Police Department, but she knew the feds ran a deeper check. Still, she had legitimate college records, even high school. Would they go back farther? Patrick Flanney was on the phone when they came in. As coordinator of the OCAC Task Force, Pat spent half his time on the telephone. When Fran and Tony sat across the desk from him, Pat grabbed a file and tossed it towards them, covering the mouthpiece while he said, "A Sergeant in Bismarck, North Dakota, wants us to pitch this kid's case to the board." "One kid?" said Tony. "Why does he think we'd take it?" Fran opened the file, handed the sheaf of photos to Tony. As she began reading, Pat's low voice on the phone faded into the background and her heart lurched. September 7, 1997. The kid's name was Cindy Parkers. The file reduced her kidnapping and death to a harsh, emotionless reality. Fran read the report with the outward calm she'd learned to wear as a mask over her rage. She grabbed the magnifying glass from Pat's desk, studied the crime photos carefully. Somewhere far away, she heard the receiver hit its cradle as Pat hung up. "Well?" Pat asked. "The Sergeant from Bismarck says he has a feeling about this one. Impressions?" "Cindy Parkers," Fran said in a flat voice. "Disappeared September 7, 1997. Eleven years old. Parents woke up and she was gone. Suspected abduction." "Dead in a dumpster in L.A. last week," said Tony who was spreading photos on the desk. "An L.A'sanitation worker found her at seven-thirty last Monday morning. He didn't touch the body." Fran picked up the second picture. A girl, small, blonde, naked, her left leg bent at the knee, hooked over the lip of the dumpster. "That scar someone branded her. I'd like Tony to poke around the computer world looking for similar scars." "Yeah," said Tony. "I'll try VICAP and HITS." "Try medical examiners," said Pat. "An accidental death wouldn't get on VICAP's database, but a

medical examiner would notice a scar like that." Tony nodded and Fran said, "I'll talk to the FBI. When Parkers was abducted, after 24 hours she would have been presumed to be transported interstate and the feds would be called in. Also, I'll talk to Bismarck, get more details on the suspect. How long do we have on this?" Pat leaned back in his chair, his hand cupped around his chin as if seeking a beard that wasn't there. "Two days. If you find anything indicating organized crime, or anything that might trigger federal asset forfeiture, get it to me Thursday and I'll fill out the OCACTF form and present the case to the board when they meet Friday. If not, push it on the back burner and play with it in your spare time." Fran picked up the rest of the crime scene photos and slid them into the file. She was halfway to the door when Pat's voice stopped her. "Walters, are you applying to the FBI?" "No," she said, "I'm going after Cindy Parkers. abductor. Twenty four hours later, Tony turned up a kid named Sarah Everley, abducted from Springfield nine years ago, found dead in a Las Vegas hotel room a year later. Because Sarah's death was judged suicide, the scar etched on her stomach naturally didn't make it into the VICAP database, but the medical examiner who'd done the autopsy remembered it clearly enough to respond when she got Tony's broadcast fax query with the sketch of Cindy Parkers'scar. Fran worked the phones all day Wednesday. She called Springfield PD for the Everley file, talked to a Lieutenant in Las Vegas who vaguely remembered Everley's death, and the medical examiner who'd done the autopsy. She left three messages for the Bismarck Sergeant who'd sent Parkers. file, talked to the FBI Special Agent who'd investigated Parkers. kidnapping, and the medical examiner who'd done her autopsy. Finally, she spent two hours on line with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. "We may have a pattern," she told Pat Flanney Thursday morning. "Tony sent a broadcast fax to a slew of medical examiners around the country. Only six responses so far, but already we've found one other kid with the same scar, abducted from Springfield nine years ago. Drug overdose. Suicide." Pat nodded encouragement. Fran said, "The deaths aren't related, but the abductions follow a pattern. Both were long-haired pretty girls. Parkers was eleven years old, Everley thirteen. Identical scars: same size, same pattern. Both medical examiners put the scars in the same time frame as the abductions. Both kids were abducted sometime after midnight on September seventh, different years, different states. In the Parkers case, a juvenile witness remembers a stranger hanging around before the abduction, a Latino about thirty years old. She identified him as Julio James Branston from a photo lineup." Fran had Branston's picture in the file and she pulled it out. When she realized her hand was trembling, she dropped the picture in front of Pat. "Cops picked the guy up in L.A. for questioning. He had a lawyer and an alibi, but while the cops were working on the alibi, the suspect disappeared." "Is there still a warrant out?" "No. About a month after Branston disappeared, Ellen Dynas came into the station with her father. She said she'd been wrong about the identification." "Daddy didn't want her to testify," speculated Pat. "But why did Branston disappear if he had a good alibi? What about the death? Could he have killed Parkers?" "We don't know where he was last week. He may be living in Mexico."

"What about the Springfield case? You figure Branston could be the abductor?" "The Everley kid disappeared six years before Cindy Parkers. She left a party with a Latino consistent with Branston's description and his age at the time. This Branston is nobody's hero. Convicted of rape in San Diego when he was eighteen, overturned on appeal with a very hot lawyer representing Branston. Two more rape charges in some little town south of L.A., both dropped before they got to court." Pat rubbed hard on his chin. "I can't sell this to the board without an organized crime connection, and you know damned well they'll want to see assets subject to federal forfeiture. This sounds like a lone serial operator with some sort of anniversary thing going." "Both kids were in the sex trade when they died," said Fran. "Tony's got a search going for other victims who haven't turned up in morgues yet. I think we've got a window on a child porno or prostitution ring. Give me some time on this, Pat. If it's kiddy-porn, I'll find plenty of money. Branston's lawyer didn't come cheap." "I'll see what I can do with the board. Meanwhile, keep digging." If Pat didn't get approval for an ongoing investigation tomorrow, Fran would continue on her own. Evenings. Weekends. Stolen computer time. Now she had a name for the face in her nightmares, she'd search until she found enough to set the dogs on Julio James Branston. If all else failed, she'd use Elizabeth Ann Miller.

The Dark by Val Cameron available January 2003 www.musecreations.com

Biography Val Cameron has lived on an island in British Columbia since returning to Canada from an extended sailing trip to Mexico thirteen years ago. Although A Man's Reach grew out of Cameron's own experiences sailing and living in Mexico, the author claims the only thing she has ever smuggled over an international border is an undocumented black cat. Val Cameron is the author of 30 novels with over 10 million books in print under another pseudonym.