Infernal - Страница 25

After the supertanker incident, the remainder of the trip had proved unremarkable.

Jack had climbed from belowdecks the following morning to find Tom sipping a beer and acting as if nothing had happened—no near collision, no punch. No apology for dereliction of duty, no mention of the punch. Everything copacetic.

So Jack adopted the same attitude: The night before hadn't happened.

Not a bad approach, considering how they were looking at another day or so cooped up together on the Sahbon.

The truce allowed them to talk civilly. They got along. They stuck to neutral subjects like sports and movies; they watched videotapes—Dazed and Confused twice at Tom's insistence—and studiously avoided the landmine of worldview.

Jack didn't get Tom. He was unquestionably bright, clever—perhaps a little too clever—and could be charming when it suited him. He'd make a good acquaintance or card-playing buddy as long as you first made sure the deck wasn't marked. But a friend? Jack wondered if Tom had any friends.

True friends… people who knew all about him, people he could call on when in need, and who could in turn depend on him to come running when they needed him.

Look at who's wondering about friends.

Jack could think of only three people in the world he could call friend: Gia, Abe, and Julio.

Three was enough. More than enough. A friend was a commitment. Friends took time and nurturing. And you had to give them your trust. That was the big stumbling block for Jack: You had to let a friend know you. Jack realized he had limitations in that department. He didn't want to be known. The fewer people who knew how he made his living, the better.

Gia, Abe, and Julio. They knew. They were enough.

But Tom? Who did Tom count as a friend? Who called Tom friend? Jack couldn't imagine it.

And that was sad to say about your only living kin.

"Okay." Tom clapped his hands. "Time to get out the fishing rods."

"Fishing? No way. My feet need dry land under them again ASAP."

"You kidding?" Tom laughed. "Fishing? I can't stand fishing. Rather watch paint dry. The rods are our camouflage. We're going to sneak in in plain sight, and then we're going to hide in plain sight."

"Just as long as we don't end up like the Sombra."

"Not to worry. We've got all sorts of advantages they didn't: like charts and channel markers and depth finders."

Jack tried to squeeze some assurance from that, but came up dry.

"All of which you know how to use, right?"

"Of course. I'm not exactly what you'd call an old salt, but I do know a few things. The channel markers are the easiest. Just remember the three R's: red-right-return."

"Meaning?"

"Always keep the red channel markers on your starboard side when returning to port."

Jack nodded. Sounded straightforward enough. He didn't see how Tom could screw that up. Even he could handle that.

Jack scanned the water. The sky was a clear blue dome, the midday sun glinted on the gentle waves. The breeze ruffled his hair. He guesstimated the air temp in the mid-sixties.

And straight ahead, taking up a good chunk of horizon, lay the islands of Bermuda. Islands. Jack had been studying the maps and a tourist guide. He'd always thought of Bermuda as a single island but had learned it was a group—five major and a horde of small ones.

More accurately, Bermuda was the remnant of the rim of a giant, ancient, long-dead, undersea volcano ringed with coral reefs. It ate up a fair number of degrees of their horizon now. Not a desert island—anything but. Its surface undulated with green, pastel-studded hills.

Directly around them lay dark blue water; but not far ahead it changed to a pattern of turquoise interlaced with thick, dark threads: sand and coral.

The maps placed the western reefs about six miles from shore. The Sahbon looked to be about that distance right now.

"Where are the reefs?"

Tom jutted his chin forward. "Dead ahead. Just under the surface… waiting. Five miles deep out here, three feet or so in there where you see those little breakers—that's the only giveaway. Helps you understand why there's three hundred fifty wrecks around here. I mean, imagine coming through these waters at night, or during a storm." He shook his head. "No thanks."

Jack stared at the water. If Tom hadn't pointed it out, he wouldn't have had a hint that a reef lurked below the surface.

"Thar she blows."

Jack swiveled, searching the water. "What?"

Tom pointed to the left. "Our first channel marker."

Jack spotted a red triangle fixed to the top of a flimsy pole. He searched and found another a few hundred yards beyond it.

Red-right-return… all right.

"Let's get those fishing rods in their holders. We need to look like locals."

On the way in Tom hooked up with two other sport fishers. They all exchanged friendly waves and three boats cruised into Bermuda's Great Sound as if they all belonged there.

The five major islands are arranged in a rough, irregular, fishhook shape with the convexity of the hook facing west, its barb pointing north. The Great Sound occupies the space inside the hook.

Jack had followed their progress through the reefs on the tide chart. Once they reached the sound he refolded the map and stowed it. No reefs here. This was the deep caldera of the ancient volcano.

A little ways into the sound Tom veered west toward the bulkheaded shoreline. He pointed to a squat box of a building on their right.

"There's the island prison."

"Swell," Jack said. "Let's hope this is as close as we ever get to it."

He noticed Tom's attention was fixed more on the houses lining the shore than on the water. Pastels, especially turquoise and coral pink, seemed to be the local favorites—but only their walls. The roofs were a uniformly dazzling white.

Tom must have noticed his interest.

"The white roofs are traditional but not just decorative. See those slanted ridges? Rainwater runs along them and down into a cistern below each house. Not much rainfall here, so every drop is precious. This island is called Somerset Parish, by the way. Bermuda is divided up into parishes. Don't ask me to explain. I don't know."

Jack watched Tom's attention drift back to the shoreline.

"What're you looking for?"

"An empty dock."

"Lots of them along here."

"Maybe I should have said, An empty dock belonging to an empty house flanked by a couple of other empty houses."

"Sounds like a tall order."

"In season, yeah. But this is off-season. People who have second homes here are elsewhere, and even native Bermudians tend to leave the islands for shopping sprees in the U.S. All we—" He pointed to an orange-sherbet house. "There. That looks like a possibility."

Tom cut the engine to near idle and drifted toward the dock jutting from the bulkhead in front of the brightly colored two-story house. A sign on the dock proclaimed THE BERESFORD's. Jack shook his head. The world seemed full of superfluous apostrophes. He didn't know why they irritated him. Lots more serious problems around.

Focusing on the house he noticed the corrugated steel storm shutters rolled down over all the windows. Definitely looked like someone was away for a while.

A twenty-foot speedboat, partially sealed in some bright blue material and suspended from a pair of davits, took up half the yard.

Jack said, "It's got a boat…"

"Yes, but notice that the outboard engine has been removed, and the open area is sealed in shrink-wrap tarp. Definitely winterized. I can't see these folks coming back till spring."

Jack checked right and left. The neighboring houses looked equally deserted.

"So what's the plan? Tie up like we belong here?"

Tom smiled. "Exactly. Like I said: Hide in plain sight."

He turned the Sahbon so that its stern faced the bulkhead, then tried to maneuver it into the dock. The wind and current did their best to frustrate his attempts.

After the third failure Jack said, "Wouldn't it be a lot easier to go in nose first?"

Tom nodded. "Damn straight, but I don't want the transom visible to everyone who cruises by."

On the fourth try he maneuvered the stern close enough to the dock for Jack to jump to it with a rope. While he quick-tied to a piling, Tom hurried forward along the narrow port deck to the bow where he grabbed a rope and threw it to Jack. With the bow and stern tied, they were docked.

"Not pretty," Tom said, "but we made it."

Jack stepped off the dock planks onto the yard. He ground his sneakers into the sandy soil.

"Guess what?"

Tom turned to him with a worried look. "What? No surprises, please."

Jack spread his arms. "This is the first time I've set foot on foreign soil."

Tom stared at him. "You're kidding."

"Nope. You might say I'm a homebody."

A homebody without a passport. Can't get too far without one of those.

"Welcome to the rest of the world. How's it feel?"

"Pretty much like anyplace else I've been."

Why should it feel different? With no official identity, he didn't officially belong anywhere. He was a man without a country.

Not such a great position in these times.

After Tom had adjusted the securing ropes to his satisfaction, they hurried north along a narrow asphalt road toward the ferry stop. Jack had his new backup strapped to his ankle, and carried a small duffel with clean clothes. Tom had his backpack and nothing more.