The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer (28 page)

"Moe, you're a living monument to nausea."

"
C'mon, Doc, shut dat trunk. The light's not
good for 'em. They could die."

"What a shame."

He disconnected the cord and slammed the trunk lid
down.

"Know why the sunlight's bad for them?" I
asked. "Because they're bottom feeders. Every last one of 'em!
You got those pluguglies from Smitty, didn't you? You sucked up to
him and his staff so they'd let you have all the sea slime you could
carry home." I pointed at the trunk. "Every fish in there
is a dropout from God's plan."

"Not so," he sniffed. "You're just
narrow minded."

"Look: I don't know where you managed to hide
those, but—
"

"Ha! You admit it! I knew you and Joe were
sneaking into the supply shed to try to find these and dump them. But
I hid them in a lab in Lillie Hall. So there!"

"What's going on?"

We turned to see Mary coming from the front door. I
explained. She told me it was none of my business. That I should
leave Moe's hobby entirely alone. And so on. And on.

But then she went and looked.

"Sweet Jesus, Moe, dump 'em!"

So Moe left in a huff. As he got behind the wheel, I
told him not to reappear until he had dumped the fish and changed his
clothes. He leaned out the window and loudly thanked Mary for the
hospitality. Then he glared at me silently, rolled up the window, and
left. His old Dodge snorted, backfired, and blew clouds of blue
smoke. The shocks were gone and at the foot of the drive, the back
end jumped up and down, scraping on the  road.

"Poor Moe," said Mary.

"Don't give me poor Moe. That guy can afford a
brace of Porsches annually."

"No he can't. You know he gives all his money to
charity. That's why he drives that old car and lives in a trailer."

"And buys his clothes at K Mart. No, wait. It
must be Western Tire and Auto."

"You shouldn't be so mean to him, Charlie."

"I'm the one who's gonna have to look at those
fish, Mare. Right in our office suite. The place where people come to
get well, not sick. C'mon, let's go inside."

We found Joe on the phone in the sun porch. He nodded
and grunted into the receiver, then rang off.

"I'm going to be meeting with Keegan Monday.
We've got the composite  computer-generated sketch furnished by
the Isaacsons. He's been showing it around Woods Hole with no
success. We'll try New Bedford next. Then the towns in Rhode Island."

"I just might spook around myself on Monday,"
I said, "I've only got a couple of patients."

"Where are you going?" Joe asked.

"Maybe New Bedford."

"Why? Don't you think Keegan and I can do our
jobs?" he said with a touch of belligerence.

"Look Joe: the spotlight is shifting away from
Hartzell back to my son. Three guys in the field are better than two.
Besides, I said maybe."

Sobbing, Maria tugged at the cruel chains that bit
into her flesh. Her cries were in vain, and with tears streaming down
her face, she accepted her fate. She sank down onto the straw-covered
floor of her cell and wept bitterly.

Later, she heard footsteps in the dreary stone
hallway outside. Then there was a brassy rattle of keys, the sound of
the thick iron bolt being pulled back, and the heavy, iron-bound
oaken door crept open on groaning hinges. Flickering torches that
smelled of pine pitch shot golden light on the stone walls. The two
men entered.

'
Hah! There you are wench! Come! On your feet! The
auction begins! " said the coarse jailer. He stank of ale, and
as she staggered to her feet, he pulled her forth roughly by her
chains. As he pulled her up the gangplank, she bit her lip to keep
from cursing him and crying out . . .

"Is it getting any better?" asked Mary. She
asked nicely, and she was lying on her side, rubbing my back. We were
naked in the heat.

"Much better." What else could I say?

"Where are you?"

"At the auction."

"Mmm. Wait till you see what happens next."

"I've got a pretty good idea. I mean, she mostly
gets laid right and left. And I have also observed that she doesn't
put up too much of a struggle, either."

The hand stopped rubbing my back. Uh-oh. It started
again, working down below my waist this time. A skilled hand at that
. . .

"Keep reading, Charlie."

There were four women on the auction block. But it
was clear to Maria from the way the men were leering at her that she
was the most desirable. A pretty blonde next to her was weeping.
Maria swayed on her feet from hunger and thirst. Through clenched
teeth she offered up a prayer, and her eyes clouded over with tears.
The auctioneer came up on the block, pacing from one slave girl to
the next, turning them around this way and that, so that the bidders
could get a good look.

"Oh Virgin Mary! Save me! Save me."' she
cried, and she closed her eyes in terror.

Through her delirium, she heard the sound of rifle
shots off to her left. There was too the pounding of horses, many
horses, galloping closer at high speed. The shots grew louder, and
mingled with the surprised shouts of the crowd below her. Opening her
eyes, she saw a black stallion, wild-eyed and covered with foam, leap
up to the auction block. The rider was clothed in black, his face
hidden by a wide sombrero. The auctioneer, plainly fearing for his
life, tried to flee. But a rifle butt swung around over Maria's head
and knocked him senseless. She half swooned, and then felt the iron
arms reach down and pluck her from her shame . . . the iron arms she
recognized instantly as they swung her up onto the saddle. They
leaped of the platform in an instant and she heard the ring of silver
spurs as the rider, who gripped her tightly from behind, drove his
steed through the dazed crowd, who fled before them, screaming.

In her half conscious state, she was aware that
they rode long and hard. Then the pace slowed; she opened her eyes
and recovered her senses. The horse trotted along the high plateau,
and stopped at a winding brook, gleaming gold in the setting sun.
Nervously, Maria turned her head. Was it him? Or was she foolish to
even hope for it? She dared not look! What if it was the evil Raoul
Estevez! Oh God! She couldn't—

"So, my little desert flower, you thought
could run away, eh?" came a familiar voice. Maria turned her
head; she was looking up into the cruel, coal black eyes of Fuente.
She gasped, and cfered her mouth to his. They kissed passionately,
and then Fuente dismounted, pulled her down, and kissed her again as
he threw his coat onto the ground. Kneeling with her, his voice grew
rough as he panted in his desire. The stars shone brightly in the
golden air. The night birds sang. "I love you," she
whispered. "I love you, Fuente . . ."

"You will forgive me, my love, I cannot wait.
There is so much to do . . . so little time . . . " And he
pushed her down on the coat, a love bower in the wilderness—

"How's it coming?"

"I think somebody's about to," I said,
turning the page. "That happens a lot in this book."

"Art imitates life," she sighed. Her voice
was soft and purring. She was rubbing my legs now. I lowered my head
on the pillow and closed my eyes.

"So? Whadduyuh think?" she asked. The
rubbing was more intense, and I was beginning to feel the effects of
the book and her hands. Good thing I was lying face down.

"It, uh, has its moments, I guess," I
admitted, trying not to hurt her feelings.

"Zat all?"

"Yeah . . . it's uh, pretty good in spots."

Suddenly she grabbed my hip with her right hand and
spun me over on my back.

"Ha! I thought so, Charlie. You can't fool me."

Then she was kissing me, the way only Mary can kiss,
and I couldn't talk. But leave it to Mary to throw a twist on it at
the end. Just before she plunged over that warm, wet waterfall into
the scarlet mists, she cried out.

"Ohhhhhh, Fuente! . . . Fuente, I'm yours!"
 

TWENTY-TWO

MONDAY MORNING I got up early, went into the office
for two patients back to back, then returned to the house before ten
to change clothes and grab a cup of coffee before heading out. Mary
saw me off at the front door; we walked down the steps onto the
flagstone walk. I noticed she carried a parcel under her arm wrapped
in brown paper. In size and shape, it resembled a giant cigar box.

"My manuscript," she said, patting it
proudly. "After last night, I know it's ready to send off. You
know, Charlie, I bet this is the only romance novel that's actually
been field tested." Then she grabbed me.

"Hey, not out here in public, Mare—"

"Nobody's looking, dummy. God, it must be hell
being a WASP. Anyway, be careful down there in New Bedford."

We kissed, and I hopped into the car for the
eighty-minute drive. Once in New Bedford Center, I parked and walked
to the Seamen's Bethel Church and Isaacson's Pawnshop. It was the
pawnshop incident that kept sticking in my head. The kid who'd swiped
the radio had gone to Isaacson's to hock it. Of course, pawnshops are
a natural place to fence stolen stuff, but why this one?

Maybe because it was near his home, or on his way
home. And I thought if I just hung around the neighborhood long
enough, something might suggest itself. I sauntered down to
Isaacson's, looking casually in the window but not going in. I
noticed a nice Martin D-18 guitar in the window, and wondered how
much they wanted for it. Probably a grand. I looked around. On the
next street over were a whole raft of antique and curio shops. Some
sold junk, but others sold things like mounted elephant tusks, Ming
porcelains, ship's figureheads, and other neat things. It reminded me
of Charles Street in Boston, or Royal Street in New Orleans.
Isaacson's street was a notch or two lower, though definitely
respectable. There were also two small grocery stores, the kind that
stock imported beers and fancy foodstuffs.

A block up was Water Street, the main drag of the
historic part of town, just as Woods Hole's Water Street was. A block
away in the other direction was the waterfront. I ambled down there
and surveyed the fish piers, seafood packing houses, fish brokerage
offices, and marine supply houses. All the elements of Gloucester
Harbor, its sister city to the north, were there, except that the
harbor was huge and spread out, as opposed to the forest of masts and
spars, hawsers and packed hulls of the crowded confines of
Gloucester's inner harbor.

As I walked along the asphalt and cyclone fences
bordering the piers and factories, sunburned men with red faces,
wearing wool and flannel Jackets, hooded sweatshirts, corduroy pants,
and waterproof boots passed me, smoking, cussing, and laughing. The
clothes were the tip-off that these were fishermen. Nobody goes about
dressed for fall in midsummer. Nobody but deep-water fishermen, who
must work round-the-clock in the chill sea breeze and soaking spray.
And they had those lobster hands. You could see that each time they
raised them up to drag from their cigarettes, every time they lifted
a Styrofoam cup of steaming java—those swollen, scarlet,
baseball-glove mitts of theirs. The hauling of nets and line soaked
in brine does that. It's a dead giveaway. I sat for forty minutes
looking out across the water, then walked back north to the maritime
museum, with its moored lightship New Bedford and other preserved
vessels. I skirted the museum and continued walking north another
five or six blocks. Then I walked back inland a few blocks and turned
south again. I didn't know what I was looking for; I was getting the
feel of the neighborhood, hoping something would catch my eye. I
circled back in on the historic area, returned to my car, and drove
south down Rodney French Boulevard, which circles around the
promontory that holds old Fort Rodman. On the way I passed the
gigantic rock hurricane barrier, which the town finally erected after
several hurricanes almost destroyed the city. When bad weather
threatens, huge steel floodgates can be closed along the barrier,
sealing the harbor from tidal surges. I was willing to bet they'd
been shut during the recent storm, too.

All during this meandering I'm thinking to myself: a
guy who's burgled my house hocks my radio on New Bedford's
waterfront. He could simply be an out-of-work fisherman, or a guy on
the lam who happened to pass by. But I don't think so; the location
was too inconvenient for a casual thief.

As things stood, the most obvious connection between
New Bedford and Woods Hole was Bill Henderson's big stern trawler,
the
Highlander
. So far
I had not seen her. And it could be a long, long wait; a vessel that
big could stay out on the Banks almost two weeks.

I drove back into the center of town and resumed my
walking tour. It was another hour and a half, past noon, when I found
what I wanted: a guard shack at the gate of Fairhaven Fisheries,
Inc., just inside the high cyclone fence of the plant's parking lot.
It sat on a rise right over the harbor with a bird's-eye view of
everything. I knocked at the heavy glass window of the shack. The
pockmarked young man in the guard's uniform looked up from his
magazine. I looked closely and saw that the magazine was the National
Enquirer. Will Victoria Principal return to Dallas? What are Vanna
White's views on quantum reality? Is the chewing gum diet for you?
Will Michael Jackson go "all the way" and undergo surgery
in Stockholm to become a blonde starlet? How does your license plate
number affect your health? Inquiring minds want to know!