Cradle (5 page)

Just before noon Carol Dawson walked into the marina headquarters and approached the
circular information desk in the middle of the large room. She was wearing a sharp
silk blouse, light purple in colour, and a pair of long white cotton slacks that covered
the tops of her white tennis shoes. Two petite ruby and gold bracelets were wrapped
around her right wrist and a huge amethyst set in a gold basket at the end of a neck
chain dangled perfectly at the vertex of the ‘V’ in her open blouse. She looked stunning,
like a prosperous tourist about to rent a boat for the afternoon.

The young girl behind the information desk was in her early twenties. She was blonde,
quite attractive in clean-cut American style. She watched Carol with just a tinge
of competitive jealousy as the journalist moved purposefully across the room. ‘Can
I help you?’ she said with feigned cheer as Carol reached the desk.

‘I would like to charter a boat for the rest of the day,’ Carol began. ‘I want to
go out to do a little diving and a little swimming and maybe see some of the interesting
shipwrecks around here.’ She planned to say nothing about the whales until she had
picked the boat.

‘Well, you’ve come to the right place,’ the girl responded. She turned to the computer
on her left and prepared to use the keyboard. ‘My name is Julianne and one of my jobs
here is to help tourists find the boats that are just right for their recreational
needs.’ Carol noted that Julianne sounded as if she had memorized the little speech.
‘Did you have any particular price in mind? Although most of the boats here at Hemingway
are private vessels, we still do have all sorts of boats for charter and most of them
meet your requirements. Assuming of course that they’re still available.’

Carol shook her head and in a few minutes she was handed a computer listing that included
nine boats. ‘Here are the boats that are possible,’ the girl said. ‘As I told you,
there’s quite a range in price.’

Carol’s eyes scanned down the list. The biggest and most expensive boat was the
Ambrosia
, a fifty-four-footer that chartered for eight hundred dollars a day, or five hundred
for a half day. The list included a couple of intermediate entries as well as two
small boats, twenty-six-footers, which rented for half the price of the
Ambrosia
. ‘I’d like to talk to the captain of the
Ambrosia
first,’ Carol said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Where do I go?’

‘Do you
know
Captain Homer?’ Julianne replied, a strange smile starting to form at the corner
of her mouth. ‘Homer Ashford,’ she said again slowly, as if the name should be recognized.
Carol’s mind began going through a memory search routine. The name was familiar. Where
had she heard it? A long time ago, in a news programme….

Carol had not quite retrieved the memory when the girl continued. ‘I’ll let them know
that you’re coming.’ Below the desk counter on the right was a huge bank of relay
switches, several hundred in all, apparently connected to a speaker system. Julianne
flipped one of the switches and turned to Carol. ‘It should only be a minute,’ she
said.

‘What is it, Julianne?’ a booming feminine voice inquired within about twenty seconds.
The voice was foreign, German judging from the way the first word was pronounced.
And the voice was also impatient.

‘There’s a woman here, Greta, a Miss Carol Dawson from Miami, and she wants to come
down to talk to Captain Homer about chartering the yacht for the afternoon.’

After a moment’s silence, Greta was heard again, ‘Ya, okay, send her down.’ Julianne
motioned for Carol to walk halfway around the circular desk, to where a familiar keyboard
was sitting in a small well on the counter. Carol had been through this process many
times since the UIS (Universal Identification System) was first introduced in 1991.
Using the keyboard, she entered her name and her social security number. Carol wondered
which verification question it would be this time. Her birthplace? Her mother’s maiden
name? Her father’s birth date? It was always random, selected from the twenty personal
facts that were immutable and belonged to each individual. To impersonate someone
now really took an effort.

‘Miss Carol Dawson, 1418 Oakwood Gardens, Apt. 17, Miami Beach.’ Carol nodded her
head. Julianne obviously enjoyed her role of checking out the prospective clients.
‘What was your birth date?’ Carol was asked.

‘December 27, 1963,’ Carol responded. Julianne’s face registered that Carol had given
the correct answer. But Carol could see something else in her face, something competitive
and even supercilious, almost ‘Ha ha, I’m years younger than you, and now I know it.’
Usually Carol paid no attention to such trivia. But for some reason, this morning
she was uncomfortable about the fact that she was now thirty. She started to indicate
her annoyance but thought better of it and held her tongue.

Julianne gave her instructions. ‘Walk out that door over there, at the far right,
and walk straight until you come to Jetty Number 4. Then turn left and insert this
card in the gate lock. Slip “P”, as in Peter, is where the
Ambrosia
is berthed. It’s a long walk, way down at the end of the jetty. But you can’t miss
the yacht, it’s one of the largest and most beautiful boats at Hemingway.’

Julianne was right. It was quite a distance to the end of Jetty Number 4. Carol Dawson
probably passed a total of thirty boats of all sizes, on both sides of the jetty,
before she reached the
Ambrosia
. By the time Carol could discern the bold blue identifying letters on the front of
the cabin, she had started to sweat from the heat and humidity of late morning.

Captain Homer Ashford walked up the gangplank to meet her when she finally reached
the
Ambrosia
. He was in his mid-to-late fifties, an enormous man, well over six feet tall and
weighing close to two hundred and fifty pounds. His hair was still thick, but the
original black colour had now almost completely surrendered to the grey.

Captain Homer’s wild eyes had followed Carol’s approach with undisguised lubricious
delight. Carol recognized the look and her reaction was one of immediate disgust.
She started to turn around and go back to the marina headquarters. But she stopped
herself, realizing that it was a long walk back and that she was already hot and tired.
Captain Homer, apparently sensing her disapproval by the change in her gait, changed
his leer to an avuncular smile.

‘Miss Dawson, I presume,’ the captain said, bowing slightly with fake gallantry. ‘Welcome
to the
Ambrosia
. Captain Homer Ashford and his crew at your service.’ Carol reluctantly smiled. This
buffoon in the outrageous blue Hawaiian shirt at least did not appear to take himself
too seriously. Still slightly wary, she took the proffered Coke from his outstretched
hand and followed him along the smaller side jetty beside the boat. The two of them
then descended on to the yacht. It was huge.

‘We understand from Julianne that you are interested in a charter for this afternoon.
We would love to take you out to one of our favourite spots, Dolphin Key.’ They were
standing in front of the wheelhouse and the covered cabin area as they talked. Captain
Homer was clearly already into his sales pitch. From somewhere nearby Carol could
hear the clang of metal. It sounded like barbells.

‘Dolphin Key is a marvellous isolated island,’ Captain Homer continued, ‘perfect for
swimming and even nude sunbathing, if you like that sort of thing. There’s also a
sunken wreck from the eighteenth century not more than a couple of miles away if you’re
interested in doing some diving.’ Carol took another drink from her Coke and looked
at Homer for an instant. She quickly averted her eyes. He was leering again. His emphasis
on the word ‘nude’ had somehow changed Carol’s mental picture of Dolphin Key from
a quiet tropical paradise to a gathering place for debauchery and peeping Toms. Carol
recoiled from Captain Homer’s light touch as he guided her around the side of the
yacht.
This man is a creep
, she thought.
I should have followed my first instincts and turned around
.

The clang of metal grew louder as they walked past the entrance to the cabin and approached
the front of the luxurious boat. Carol’s journalistic curiosity was piqued; the sound
seemed so out of place. She hardly paid attention as Captain Homer pointed out all
the outstanding features of the yacht. When they finally had a clear view of the front
deck of the
Ambrosia
, Carol saw that the sound had indeed been barbells. A blonde woman with her back
toward them was working out with weights on the front deck.

The woman’s body was magnificent, even breathtaking. As she strained to finish her
repetitive presses, she lifted the barbells high over her head. Rivulets of sweat
cascaded down the muscles that seemed to descend in ripples from her shoulders. She
was wearing a low-cut black leotard, almost backless, whose thin straps did not seem
capable of holding up the rest of the outfit. Captain Homer had stopped talking about
the boat. Carol noticed that he was standing in rapt admiration, apparently transfixed
by the sensual beauty of the sweaty woman in the leotard.
This place is weird
, Carol thought.
Maybe that’s why the girl asked me if I knew these people
.

The woman put the weights back on the small rack and picked up a towel. When she turned
around Carol could see that she was in her mid to late thirties, pretty in an athletic
sort of way. Her breasts were large and taut and clearly visible in the scant leotard.
But it was her eyes that were truly remarkable. They were grey-blue in colour and
they seemed to look right through you. Carol thought that the woman’s first piercing
glance was hostile, almost threatening.

‘Greta,’ said Captain Homer, when she looked at him after her first glance at Carol,
‘this is Miss Carol Dawson. She may be our charter for this afternoon.’

Greta did not smile or say anything. She wiped the sweat off her brow, took a couple
of deep breaths, and put the towel behind her neck and over her shoulders. She squared
herself off to face Carol and Captain Homer. Then with her shoulders back and her
hands on her hips, she flexed her chest muscles. With each flexure her abundant breasts
seemed to stretch up toward her neck. Throughout this routine her astonishingly clear
eyes evaluated Carol, checking out her body and clothing in minute detail. Carol squirmed
involuntarily.

‘Well, hello, Greta,’ she said, her usual aplomb strangely absent in this awkward
moment, ‘nice to meet you.’
Jesus
, Carol thought, as Greta just looked at Carol’s outstretched hand for several seconds,
let me out of here. I must be on a strange planet or having a nightmare
.

‘Greta sometimes likes to have fun with our customers,’ Captain Homer said to Carol,
‘but don’t let it put you off.’ Was he irritated with Greta? Carol thought she detected
some unspoken communication between Greta and Captain Homer, for at length Greta smiled.
But it was an artificial smile.

‘Welcome to the
Ambrosia
,’ Greta said, mimicking Captain Homer’s first remarks to Carol. ‘Our pleasure awaits
you.’ Greta lifted her arms over her head, watching Carol again, and began to stretch.
‘Come with us to paradise,’ Greta said.

Carol felt Captain Homer’s burly hand on her elbow, turning her around. She also thought
she saw an angry glance from Homer to Greta. ‘The
Ambrosia
is the finest charter vessel in Key West,’ he said, guiding her back toward the stern
and resuming his sales pitch. ‘It has every possible convenience and luxury. Giant
screen cable television, compact disc player with quad speakers, automatic chef programmed
with over a hundred gourmet dishes, robot massage. And nobody knows the Keys like
Captain Homer. I’ve been diving and fishing these waters for fifty years.’

They had stopped at the entrance to the cabin area in the middle of the yacht. Through
the glass door Carol could see stairs descending to another level. ‘Would you like
to come down and see the galley and the bedroom?’ Captain Homer said, without a trace
of the earlier suggestiveness. He was a clever chameleon, there was no doubt about
that. Carol revised her earlier judgment of him as a buffoon.
But what’s this business with muscle-bound Greta, whoever she is
, Carol wondered.
And just what is going on here? Why are they so strange?

‘No, thank you, Captain Ashford.’ Carol saw her opportunity to exit gracefully. She
handed him what was left of the unfinished Coke. ‘I’ve seen enough. It’s a magnificent
yacht but I can tell it’s much too expensive for a single woman wanting to spend a
relaxing afternoon. But thanks a lot for your time and the brief tour.’

She started to walk toward the gangplank to the jetty. Captain Homer’s eyes narrowed,
‘But we haven’t even discussed price, Miss Dawson. I’m certain that for someone like
you we could make a special deal….’

Carol could tell that he was not going to let her go without some additional discussion.
As she started to leave the yacht, Greta came up beside Captain Homer. ‘It would give
you something to write about for your paper,’ Greta said with a bizarre smile. ‘Something
unusual.’

Carol turned, startled. ‘So you recognized me?’ she said, stating the obvious. The
strange pair grinned back at her. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

Captain Homer simply shrugged his huge shoulders. ‘We thought maybe you were travelling
incognito, or were looking for some special fun, or maybe even were working on a story….’
His voice trailed off. Carol smiled and shook her head. Then she waved goodbye, mounted
the gangplank, and turned on the jetty toward the distant marina headquarters.
Who are those people?
she asked herself again.
I’m certain that I’ve seen them before. But where?

Carol looked over her shoulder twice to see if Captain Homer and Greta were still
watching her. The second time, when she was almost a hundred yards away, they were
no longer in sight. She sighed with relief. The experience had definitely unnerved
her.