Buried At Sea (26 page)

"Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"Did you go to jail?"

"Most people my age have a past."

"You don't deny it?"

"I don't deny I was indicted, arrested, tried, and convicted. Why should I? You already know those 'facts." "Do you deny being a crook?"

"I denied it at the trial. The jury didn't believe me."

"Are you saying you were innocent? Why'd you run if you were innocent?" Be innocent, Jim thought. Please just explain this. I don't care about your names. Just convince me that Shannon's wrong. Tell me you're not a crook. . . . Tell me that Sentinel is real.

"Run? In a sailboat?" Will sighed elaborately.

"That's what the papers said. The FBI caught you in San Francisco."

"Everybody laughed?'

"It's a pretty slow way to run."

"They never caught me in that sense of catching up. But they were waiting at the dock when I sailed into 'Frisco. The special agents were busting a gut laughing. I fled the Federal Bureau of Investigation in a sailboat. How quaint. How foolish. How comically stupid."

"Were you surprised they were waiting for you?"

"Well, I'll tell you something, Jim—don't repeat this

I'll deny it if you do: the Feds had their laugh. I had mine last."

"What do you mean?"

"There was money involved. A considerable amount of cash."

"So you were guilty."

Will ignored that, saying only, "I've always believed that one should tithe one's paper profits. Ten percent a month added up rather nicely."

"You hid the money you stole."

"I deep-sixed the money I cashed in."

"What—"

"Doesn't anybody read anymore? 'Deep six' refers to the bottom of the sea. The deepest fathom. It means to throw overboard."

"I know what deep six means. I don't know why you threw the money overboard."

"In shallow water. I weighted the waterproof container so it would sink and stay put. I marked the spot with the GPS. Then, when I got out of prison, I dove for it.

"After I recovered the money, I bought a new boat. Boats are good. If you have a boat, people assume you're rich. Keep that in mind, Jim. Here, I'll tell you about a trick that never fails. Say you make landfall where you don't know a soul, aren't connected. Do you want to spend your first night in some ratty motel? Hell, no.

"So instead, you drop anchor off the richest house you see. Row ashore—no motor; oars are classier, suggesting you've been brought up properly—and ask permission to anchor for the night. You don't need permission—they don't own the water—but it's polite. Nine times out of ten, they'll ask you in for drinks. Once you're in for drinks, dinner follows naturally. And what kind of host would let a charming sailor row home in the dark? You'

re good for a week, longer if the husband's away."

"Who's going to have the last laugh this time?"

"Me," Will shot back. "Just like last time. And you, if you continue to play your cards right."

Jim shook his head. "You don't even apologize?"

"I don't owe you or anybody else. I paid my 'debt' to society."

"So why is the boat 'invisible'? Why did you need a getaway boat?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The carbon fiber mast?"

"No, for Christ's sake. Carbon fiber's lighter than aluminum. With a high rig like Hustle's it's a hell of a lot less weight swinging around the top of the mast. The reduced radar signature is a bonus."

Jim realized that he did not believe Will and for some reason that fact tore his heart. He was silent for a while. Then he said, "You fed me coffee and doughnuts my first night at sea. You made me as sick as a dog. Deliberately. Why'd you do that to me?" Will hung his head. "I'm sorry. I was running for my life, Jim. I was half hoping you wouldn't catch up. When you did, I just had to put you out of my way until I sailed us out of there. I am very, very sorry I did that to you. I know now you would have worked your ass off to help me in any way you could."

Jim flinched from what he could only call Will's charm assault. "Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Why'd you have to be a crook?"

Will looked at him. "What is your problem, Jim? You're taking my past mistakes personally. You didn't even know me then. Why are you making it personal? You are the most exasperating kid."

"Wasn't sailing enough, goddammit?"

"Why are you so upset!"

"I'm not upset. I'm merely asking."

"You're clenching your fists."

"I look at what you do—the way you and the boat are one, and how you can fix anything and read the water and feel the wind and know so much—and I think, If I could be that good at something, I'd be completely satisfied."

"Jesus H. Christ. You're making me into a role model."

"I'm just trying to—"

"I told you, I've been messing around in boats since I was a kid. Sailing's like breathing. And breathing, young fellow, while vital, is not satisfying. Nor does it pay the bills:'

Jim blundered out of the cabin, ran up the companionway, and stood in the cockpit turning around and around in confused circles. From below he heard Will's music start again, then cut off abruptly as he plugged in his headset.

He had to go below to answer Shannon's e-mail. But instead, he jumped out of the cockpit and hurried along the narrow side deck to the bow, where he gripped the thick forestay and leaned out over the water. Then he hurried back to the stem and leaned over the bubbling wake. He felt trapped on the boat: trapped with Will, trapped with himself and his disappointment.

He walked forward again, and on sudden impulse began to haul himself up the jackstay, climbing one-armed pull-up by one-armed pull-up to the top spreader fifty feet above the deck. He stood on it, breathing hard, his arms burning with lactic acid. Jesus, he was out of shape. His pees and biceps were shrinking. He was so busy running the boat that he was neglecting his workouts. He had to do more curls and winch the spinner up and push his body.

"Again," he said to himself. "Here and now. Do it!" He went down in slow reverse, armdrop to arm-drop, his body growing stronger as his muscles heated, then immediately climbed again. Standing on the spreader he looked out at the sea. A gust heeled the boat. His perch leaned far out over the water. Suddenly, he could see past the foresail.

"Jesus Christ!"

A huge ship lay dead ahead—waiting for them.

THE SHIP WAS a dirty red and built slab-sided and square as a factory. Containers stacked high from bow to stern made it look even bigger than it was. And closer, Jim realized, as his adrenaline-speared panic threatened to paralyze him. It was three miles off, he guessed. No, closer in the haze. Another two miles he'd have run smack into it. It had a single funnel, painted blue and white. A blue and white ensign flew from its telemetry mast. Russian merchantman colors, Will had drilled into him. Hustle was sailing straight at the Russian, close hauled on a starboard tack, mainsail and fully unfurled jib pulling six and a half knots from the southwest monsoon.

"What am I doing?"

He descended the wire as fast as he could, burning his hands, and hit the deck running. There was no point in dousing the sails: even if the Russians had posted a blind lookout they'd have seen him by now. His fastest move was to fall off the wind and flee south on a broad reach. He steered off the wind, let out both main and jib sheets, and started the diesel. The engine gave him another knot.

The ship had a lifeboat hanging from the big house in the

stern. He focused hard with the binoculars and saw the propeller. Motor driven. If they lowered that boat, he was dead.

"Hey," Will called through his cockpit port. "What's with the engine?"

"There's a ship."

"What kind?"

"Russian."

He heard the fear in his own voice and thought, I'm as paranoid as he is now. Will climbed the companionway, slowly and painfully. His pale face was sleep-wrinkled. He reached for Jim's binoculars, braced his elbows on the cabin roof, and studied the freighter.

"A goddamned Russian—why isn't he moving? Did he spot us?"

"I don't see how he could miss us. I wonder why he isn't chasing us."

"Probably stopped for repairs."

"I just hope he doesn't send that lifeboat after us."

"So do I," said Will. "So do I." He descended painfully down the companionway and when he struggled back up, he was holding the little silver derringer.

"I doubt that will stop them," said Jim.

Will weighed the gun in his hand. "It's not for them. It's for me."

"You're going to kill yourself?"

"I'll leave you the second bullet."

Slowly, the three miles increased to four. At five, the monsoon haze softened the boxy silhouette. At six, they were alone on the sea.

"Back on course?"

"Let's give him a few more miles."

"Good idea," said Jim. "God, that was close. What if we ran into him at night?" Will asked, "How long before you changed course?" "What do you mean?"

"How long did the Russian see you before you saw him?" "I'm—I'm not sure. Why?"

"Long enough to determine our course?"

"Long enough to see we're heading for the River Plate?" "I don't know. Maybe we better not go to Buenos Aires." "I'm running out of places, son. I've got to go there. Jesus, what a lousy break." Dear Shannon.

I got your letter and I confronted Will. Will Spark and that Billy Cole are definitely the same guy. But even though Will is the con man you say he is. I don't believe that he's dangerous in the sense of being violent or anything. Maybe I wouldn't buy stock from him. But I'm not afraid to turn my back on him either.

Jim studied what he had written. Wasn't he, in fact, "buying stock"? Hoping for a piece of the microprocessor in payment for helping Will sail to Argentina?

Shannon wasn't fooled, either.

Dear Jim.

But you *ere* buying "stock" from him. You're "investing" your safety by helping Will sail to Argentina, for which you're hoping to be paid a piece of his so-called microprocessor. You're risking your life sailing that far with a sick man. You're risking your life by making a bargain with the devil. You're buying stock with your life. And the worst thing is you're buying stock from a con man. How can you be so sure that Will Spark will keep his side of the bargain? There may not be any stock. There may not be a microprocessor. What makes you think that Sentinel isn't as phony es CanCure.com?

That was, of course, the big question ever since Shannon had first called Will a con man. Hoping against hope, Jim had to know the truth. So he waited until Will's defenses were low to pop the question.

Right after they saw the Russian, Will's fever had bounced to 103. He'd been too wasted to eat. Jim rigged another saline drip and sat on the edge of Will's bunk as the old man lay with his eyes closed. He had come to realize that Will had the ability to put himself in a state somewhere between waking and sleep, like meditation—a word Jim hated, as he associated it unhappily with his mother's self-improvement mania. It was as if Will could transport himself into a healing state where his body took the opportunity to repair damage. Jim was reminded of a time when Shannon's cat won an awful fight with some animal and had slept for days, healing, just as Will was now. For a second so intense that he had to drive the thoughts from his mind, he missed Shannon and home so deeply that it hurt.

"So, Will. Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot," he whispered, his eyes still beneath lids so thin that they molded the orbs like a coat of paint.

"Is the microprocessor any better than CanCure.com?" "What do you mean?"

"Is Sentinel real? Or is it just another scam?"

Will was quiet. After a while Jim feared that he had slipped from a meditative state into a deep sleep. As he started to leave him, the old man spoke, eyes still closed.

"Jim, I spent my whole life trying to hit a home run. Other men my age have built something solid, accumulating achievements until they've got something they can bank on, something they can point to and say, This is me. But I was always swinging for the fences. Fouling out, striking out, starting from scratch every day. But now it's my turn. Sentinel is my home run."

He opened his eyes and smiled at Jim, and the expression on his face was suddenly so hopeful that Jim didn't have the heart to ask again whether it was just another scam. But when he looked away, Will knew what was in his mind.

"Is Sentinel real?" Will said. "Why don't you ask Lloyd McVay? Or Val McVay? Or Andy Nickels. They think Sentinel's real enough to kill for it." WHAT IS THAT horse doing?" asked Admiral Rugoff.

The McVays' private dining room overlooked pastureland that was turning green with spring. The Russian had called an hour ago and invited himself to lunch, which could only mean he had something good on Will Spark. Avuncular-sounding on the telephone, he was a harder man in person, and it took no great leap of the imagination to picture him, more than a decade ago, as a flag officer of the second most powerful navy in the world.

"That is a Tennessee walking horse," explained Lloyd McVay. "Their smooth gait allowed southern planters to tour their vast plantations!'

"A horse bred specifically for American aristocrats?"

"Not quite," Val corrected him. "Walking horses were developed for the nouveau riche. King Cotton created many a wealthy man who hadn't been brought up to ride." The admiral laughed. "I have always said that the strength of your nation lies in its contradictions:'

Impatience flaring in his daughter's coal-fire eyes prompted Lloyd McVay to refill Rugoff's glass and ask, "To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence in our remote corner of New Jersey, Admiral?"

"Coincidence," said Rugoff. "I happened to be doing business in Port Elizabeth, when one of my captains reported that he had sighted a yacht that fit your profile in the South Atlantic."

"Sighted? Why didn't he seize it?"

"His ship had broken down. He was dead in the water, making repairs."

"Well, couldn't he have sent a boat after it? They carry lifeboats, don't they?" The old admiral looked at him curiously and McVay realized that his nerves were showing. He glanced at Val. She was waiting, as still as an ice sculpture. "I mean—"