Aftermath

21

Pride goeth before a fall. That, and. a hundred other admonitions not to get too cocky.

Art lay on his back, shielded his eyes from the morning sun with his hands, and made another attempt to find a comfortable position.

The planks beneath him were of wet unseasoned timber, flat to the eye but not to the back. He had just spent six hours proving that. For the previous four hours he had been working a paddle, when any chance to lie down and rest seemed like a prospect of bliss.

Be careful what you wish for; you might get it. You didn’t often experience such immediate verification.

After they came out of the storm drain Art had thought that the biggest problem in reaching the syncope facility was solved — and he was not the only one. Seth, too confident too soon, had predicted that he would locate a boat with no trouble.

Four hours of floundering in deep snow by the riverside taught them otherwise. They traveled less than two miles. At last they found not a powerboat, able to carry them quickly and comfortably downstream; nor a sailboat, where the wind could help. Their big find was a battered and unwieldy scow, half-rotted in its timbers and with mildewed cushions on its single seat. A pair of cracked paddles floated in the three inches of scum that had to be tipped from its flat bottom.

Spend the night moving downstream, or remain huddled on the snowy riverbank? That choice was easy. You pursue progress, even if you suspect that it is an illusion.

Art had gladly taken his turn paddling in the freezing hours before midnight, when hard physical effort was the best way to stay warm. He had labored again in the predawn gloom, when a great rush of wind raised whitecaps on the shallow river and drove the boat fast downstream.

The weather front passed through in less than an hour. When it left, the temperature was fifty degrees higher. Extra clothes had to be discarded, left in a heap in the bottom of the boat for use as makeshift bedding.

Now it was Art’s turn to take it easy, drifting in and out of uneasy half sleep while Dana and Seth paddled the hulk downstream. Even with the steady push from the current, the boat was achieving no more than a couple of miles an hour. At this rate it would take days to reach the Q-5 Syncope Facility. By the time they got there, Oliver Guest’s body in its cubicle could be thawed and rotten.

Why bother? Why keep going?

For the same reason that Seaman Edgar Evans, who pulled a sled the day he died, had kept going: you paddled because if you wanted to live you had no choice.

The change in the weather was bizarre. Twelve hours earlier Art had been chilled through every layer of clothing. This morning he was down to pants and a short-sleeved shirt, and still he sweltered under blue skies and rising sun.

The quiet splash of wavelets against the side of the boat was broken by a roar of engines. He opened his eyes and lifted his head. Off to the right, silver in the sunlight, two aircraft were lifting across the Potomac River.

“From National Airport,” Dana said. She had noticed Art’s movement. “Pity we can’t get our hands on one of those. We could be where we want in fifteen minutes.”

Art nodded, following the aircraft as they headed southeast. They were propeller planes, of a style not seen for forty years.

“Cessnas.” Seth was tracking them, too. “Good to know something’s flying again. But they’re too rich for our blood. No good even if we could steal one. We don’t want people to notice where we’re goin’.”

“We sure need something new.” Art gave up the attempt to rest and sat up. So much for yesterday’s feelgood moments. The long day and sleepless night made every bone in his body ache. “We’ll take days to get there in this tub — if it stays afloat that long.”

“We’ll get there. But that’s more our style than the Cessnas.” Seth pointed to the riverbank on their left. Art, squinting that way with tired eyes, heard a throb of engines and saw a dark hulk moving into view around a snow-covered spit of land.

He shielded his eyes against the bright glare of sun and snow. “It’s a Chesapeake fishing boat. Coming round Hains Point from Maine Avenue, heading down the Potomac to the bay. Their electronic gear won’t be working, but they never rely on that anyway unless there’s bad weather. For them it’s business as usual.”

“Or better than usual.” Seth nodded to Dana and they began to paddle toward the other ship. “They can name their own price for their catch and cargo. Though I’ll bet my ass and hat they’re not takin’ credit cards. What do you think they’d ask to pick us up and drop us off at Maryland Point?”

“I don’t know what they’d ask,” Dana said. “But it’s too much. Didn’t you just say we don’t want people to know where we’re going?”

“No need to tell ’em that. We get dropped off somewhere else. What’s the nearest town to the syncope facility?”

“Riverside. But then we’d lose this boat.” Art realized that he had changed his mind. Five minutes ago he hadn’t a good word for the wreck he was sitting in. “We may need it when we leave the facility.”

“So we’ll keep it.” Seth stopped paddling and stood up. The fishing boat was less than a hundred yards away, but it was moving at a respectable speed. Very soon it would be past them and beyond contact. The scow rocked as Seth shouted and waved.

The other boat didn’t seem to change course, but someone on board must have already been watching them. The engines could no longer be heard and the ship was slowing.

“You in trouble?” A woman in black trousers and a dark gray T-shirt came to the low rail and called across to them. Her hair was tied back with a bright red head scarf. The boat was about ten meters long, black hulled with a green trim. The awning that sheltered the bridge was a matching dark green. On bow and stern, in white stenciled letters, were the words Cypress Queen.

“Not the usual sort of trouble.” Seth sat down again, and he and Dana paddled closer. “But we need to be thirty miles downriver today, an’ the way we’re goin’ we won’t get there ’til half past Sunday.”

“I’m not surprised, in that thing.” The two boats were close enough for her to see the condition of the scow. “You’d be better off rowing a coffin. I won’t ask why you’re in such a hurry. But I’ll tell you this: if you’re asking for a ride, it’ll cost you.”

She turned. A gray-haired man in shirtsleeves had appeared from below. He must have noticed that the engine was throttled back and the Cypress Queen was no longer moving. “It’s all right, Dad,” she said. “You eat your breakfast while it’s hot. We might be doing a little extra business.”

“Hmph.” He nodded and vanished below. Art felt his stomach rumble at the mention of food. He was as hungry as he was tired.

“How about a tow instead of a ride?” Seth asked.

“Can do that if you’d rather. But that’ll cost you, too, just as much.”

“How much?”

“How you gonna pay? Forget credit, and forget paper money. They’re using them again in Washington, but out on the bay they’re not worth squat.” The woman was in her mid-forties, with a tanned skin showing the lines and wrinkles of too many hours of sun and salt water. She was close enough to peer down into the flat bottom of the scow, which was a jumble of their discarded clothes and blankets and carrying bags. “You don’t seem overloaded with worldly goods, if you don’t mind my saying.”

Seth turned to Art. “What we got? I hate to give food an’ weapons.”

“Clothes, or blankets?” said Dana. “But we don’t know what the weather will do next. Tomorrow could be as cold as yesterday.”

“Two minutes more and we’re off,” the woman called down. “With or without you. We got work to do. We don’t got all day.”

“Oh, hell.” Dana stood up. “I hate to do this, but I guess I have to.” She had stripped down to her blouse for the hot job of rowing, and now she lifted it at the front and reached down inside her pants. She stood for a few moments, pushing her right hand deeper. After a few seconds she wriggled and crouched over farther.

“We don’t take payment in bumps and grinds,” the woman said. “Though I know Dad will hate it when he finds out what he’s missing.”

“These?” Dana at last had her hand free and she raised it. She was holding two coins between finger and thumb. “They’re gold — solid gold.”

“How do I know that?” But the woman sounded interested. “Gold is good, but can you prove it?”

“They’re half-ounce twenty-two carat special issue, Canadian mint. They were a Silver Jubilee item, Queen’s head on one side and a flower design on the other. I’ve had them in my family for nearly fifty years. You can take a close look at them when we’re on board. We’ll give them to you when you drop us off.”

“I thought you didn’t want to come aboard. Nature boy there” — the woman pointed at Seth — “said you wanted a tow.”

“Don’t listen to him. We want the boat towed, but these coins are worth a lot. We’re entitled to more.”

“Like what?”

“You mentioned a hot breakfast. And I’d love a place to pee where I don’t have to stick my backside out over the river and wonder if I’m going to fall in.”

The woman laughed. “Men lucked out on their plumbin’. But don’t you just hate dealin’ with females? They always negotiate for extras. All right, you can come aboard and we’ll run a line to your boat. You’re lucky, I’d never do this if we was headin’ upriver. And don’t blame me if she runs under when we start movin’. She ain’t built for speed.”

“Well, she’s certainly not built for comfort.” Dana went first. She put her coins away in her pocket, made a bundle of her extra clothes, and stepped across from the scow. A short ladder attached to the side of the Cypress Queen took her onto its deck. Art followed, almost missing his step. From fatigue or hunger, he felt dizzy. The smells of cooking made him salivate as soon as he set foot on the dark planking.

Seth waited, attaching the rope that the woman threw to him to a heavy metal ring bolted to the front of the scow. Then he came aboard in a single rubbery vault over the rail.

“Where you from?” The woman was already back at the wheel, powering up the engines. The Cypress Queen began to glide forward across the still surface of the river.

“Buckhannon.” Seth made sure the scow was being towed smoothly behind. “You?”

“Clarksburg. Thought I recognized West Virginia in your voice.”

“Same here. I’m long time gone, though.”

“Me, too. I’m Eastern Shore now, got my mother looking after my kids ’cross the bay in Pocomoke City. Wouldn’t want them around here, even if things was normal. You still got plenty of West Virginia in your voice. Lucky for you, or I’d probably have said no.”

“Pretty bad reason to let somebody aboard your ship, the way he talks.”

“Ain’t that the truth? Never said I was smart, did I?” The woman nodded toward the hatch. “Go ahead, tell Dad you got breakfast comin’ you.”

Three steps led down to a cramped but tidy cabin. The old man nodded when Dana delivered his daughter’s message. He gestured to bowls and plates on a rack by one of the long narrow windows and to a big iron pot standing in a hollow at one end of the table. Then he stood up and left without a word.

The woman appeared a minute later. “Dad said he’d rather spell me for a while at the wheel. He’s none too sociable mornings. We got nothing fancy here, fish chowder, corn bread, coffee. We never expected visitors, see, but there’s plenty. Dad likes to feel he can eat anytime he wants.”

Art took the filled bowl that Dana passed to him. The chowder didn’t bear looking at too closely. It included fish heads and fish livers and fish tongues and other less recognizable bits and pieces, thickened with sun-dried tomatoes and corn and seasoned with pepper. It was hot and rich and, like the bitter coffee sweetened in the pot with molasses, totally delicious.

The first bowl brought Art back to life. He nodded at the offer of a refill, set it in front of him, and kept eating. Across the table, Seth and the woman were talking. Their accents had thickened, and they spoke about unknown people and strange places. It occurred to Art that they were, in some perverse sense, flirting. This was another side of Seth, mixed in with the ruthlessness and cunning and animal vigor.

Nobody was as simple as he seemed — as maybe she wanted to seem. Dana, next to Art, had finished eating and was lolling toward him, her eyes closed and her head resting on his shoulder and left upper arm. Was she sleeping, or just pretending to? He stared at the spoon he was holding. It still dipped into the bowl and carried chowder to his mouth, but the operation seemed less and less under his control. He was vaguely aware of the old man sticking his head into the cabin and saying something to his daughter. If the man was here, and she was here, then who was steering the Cypress Queen}

Not Art’s department, he decided. It was one thing in the world that he didn’t have to worry about. He leaned his head to the left, to rest it for a moment on Dana’s.

And suddenly he was asleep, as fast and deep as if the chowder in his belly had been seasoned with opium rather than pepper.