Crooked River

10

Pamela Gladstone guided the R/V Leucothea from the Caloosahatchee River into the entrance of the Legacy Harbour Marina, heading toward the dock. It was a tricky landing, made worse by a twenty-knot offshore breeze. As she approached the pier, the High Point Place towers rose on her starboard side, casting late-afternoon shadows across the water. Approaching at the barest headway, she eased the bow of the vessel toward the dock and gently pinned it against the bumpers to keep it from blowing off, while throttling down and turning to starboard.

“Put over the aft tending spring line,” she called to her postdoc and unwilling first mate, Wallace Lam, ready at the gunwale.

The line went over, a perfect throw for a change, and a pier crewman cleated it neatly.

“Hold the spring, I’m coming ahead on her,” Gladstone said, keeping the starboard ahead and the port backing slow, bringing the forty-six-foot research vessel up snug against the pier face. She pulled the throttles into neutral. As the rest of the lines were cleated, she breathed a sigh of relief that the maneuver had gone well and she hadn’t made a fool of herself, like last time, when she had smacked a piling with her stern. Total jackass carelessness, and naturally everyone had seen it and she had to fill out an accident report, even though neither pier nor ship had sustained any damage beyond an unsightly streak of black rubber on the boat’s white gelcoat.

It had been a good trip. They had successfully retrieved both acoustic Doppler current profilers. To lose one of those twenty-thousand-dollar babies would be a disaster. Now she was eager to download the data and see if it finally confirmed her mathematical models.

She set the rudder to zero, and as she was putting all the controls on the helm to bed, she noticed through the bridge windows a man standing on the dock, tall and pale, the wind whipping his white suit. With a Panama hat on his head, he looked like an albino drug lord waiting for his shipment to come in. He was peering up at her boat and seemed to be looking directly at her through the bridge windows. She wondered how a weirdo like this had gotten onto the private pier, because he obviously was no mariner.

Once everything was in order and she’d filled out the electronic log and shut down the breakers, she stepped out of the wheelhouse. Lam was finishing up as well, transferring the ADCP devices to a two-wheeled cargo carrier on the pier. The man in white was now approaching her directly. She turned her back, busying herself with straightening up a muddy bight, hoping he would go away.

“Dr. Gladstone?” came a smooth voice.

She turned. “Yes?”

“I am Special Agent Pendergast.”

His hand was extended, but instead of shaking it, she held up both of hers, wet and smeared with tidal mud from the dirty line. “Sorry.”

The man withdrew his hand and fixed a pair of glittering eyes on her. “I should like to have a conversation with you.”

“Go ahead.” She stood there. Special Agent. Did that mean he was FBI? “Wait — you got a badge or something?”

A hand slid out a billfold, displayed a shield, then returned it to his suit. “If we could perhaps withdraw to your laboratory, where we could speak in confidence?”

“What’s this about?”

“Captiva.”

“No way. Sorry.” She turned, slung her duffel over her shoulder, and began walking briskly down the pier. Lam tried to catch up, pushing the carrier, and she again quickened her step, trying to escape the man in white. But he paced her, effortlessly.

“I understand you’ve been studying the pattern of gulf currents over the past five years,” he remarked.

“I said no. I’m in the middle of a research project, my grant is about used up, the lease on my research vessel expires next week, my rent’s increasing, my boyfriend dumped me — and I don’t want anything to do with those feet washing up.”

“Why not, if I may ask?”

“Because it’s going to be a mess. A big, hot, political mess, in which the science — the actual science — will be lost. I’ve been through it before... trust me.”

She walked still faster, but the man kept up without even appearing to quicken his gait. Gladstone was usually able to outwalk anyone, and this only served to increase her irritation.

“Dr. Gladstone, I’m glad you mentioned your research vessel. Aside from that ugly streak on the stern, it’s a handsome boat.”

They had reached the end of the pier. Lam was practically jogging in an attempt to keep up. Gladstone’s Kia Soul was parked close in, thank God. She spied it, raised the key fob, unlocked it with a chirp, and made a beeline. She reached the door, pulled it open, and got inside. She began to shut the door, but the man’s hand came to rest on it, holding it in place as he leaned in.

“Please take your hand off my car.” She gave the door a pull, but he was holding it fast with remarkable strength. He gave her a little smile.

“Dr. Gladstone, I am sorry to hear about your other troubles, but at least you needn’t worry about the lease on your vessel.”

She paused. “What do you mean?”

“I paid a call on Caloosahatchee Marine Leasing. Your lease has been extended. And they kindly pointed me in your direction.”

“Wait... why?”

“Because you see, Dr. Gladstone, the FBI is going to need that boat of yours. And, of course, you.”