Head Shot

34

'You ever been in an air terminal that you really liked as a place?' asked Joe Doherty.

'Barcelona.'

'Lucky you. I hate 'em, all of them, whether they're monsters like Heathrow and O'Hare, or small-town operations like this one. And when it's dark outside, I hate 'em even worse.'

'Bollocks!' Skinner laughed. 'What you're really saying is that you hate flying.'

His friend's lip curled into a sneer. 'Show me a man who says he actually likes it… especially since September 11… and I'll show you a liar.'

'You don't have to like it, Joe; you just have to do it. Personal y, I cannot see how heavier-than-air machines ever make it off the ground, but they do, so I take it on trust.

Now if you were talking about sailing, that would be different.'

'Uh? You don't like boats?'

'The smal er they are, the more I dislike them. I'l go on cross channel ferries when I have to, like when I take the kids on holiday, but that's it.'

'You get sea-sick?' Doherty's sallow face was lit by his broadest smile. 'The great Bob Skinner gets seasick?'

'No. I've only ever felt sea-sick once in my life, and that was on the waltzer at Portobello funfair with Alex when she was a kid. All I could think about was how wide it would spread if I actually did throw up. I made it to the end of the ride… just. But boats; I don't like them, that's all.

'It's a childhood thing; my mum used to tel a story about a time she and my dad took me to Mil port for the weekend, when I wasn't much more than a baby. Somehow, my old man managed to miss the last ferry on Sunday night, and since he had to be at work next morning, he hired a local bloke with a motorboat to take us across to Largs. I've got no conscious memory of it, but Mother said that it was a hell of a 138 chooDV trip, and that she was terrified. I suppose that communicated itself to me and that it's stayed with me ever since.'

'Oh' said the American. 'In that case there's something I'd better share with you: the location of our meeting with Jackson Wylie, your father-in-law's ex-partner.'

Skinner stared at him. 'Not his fucking boat! Christ, when I met the guv at Leo's place I had to dredge the bottom of the barrel to find an excuse not to go out fishing with the two of them. Joe, tell me Kosinski hasn't booked us on to his fucking boat!'

'Wylie cal s it his cruiser, but you got it, buddy; that's where it's at.

You want to duck out?'

The stare became a glare. 'Duck out? So you can tell your pals in Washington all about it? There's two things in this life I don't like; small boats and looking at dead bodies. From time to time, I have to do the one, and I'l fucking well do the other if it's necessary. Not liking is a human feeling; not doing is a human weakness. I'l go across Wylie's gangplank, don't you worry.'

'In that case, the good news is that it'l be moored in the marina. This ain't no fishing trip… other than for any information the guy might have.'

The airport announcer broke into their conversation, calling them to the boarding gate for their flight to Buffalo. Skinner glanced up at the departure hall clock; it showed twelve minutes after six. Through the glass walls he saw the lightening sky, realising that already it was breakfast-time at their destination, and that further east, Sarah and the children should be having lunch. A wave of homesickness washed over him; he took out his cellphone and called home.

Trish, the nanny, answered; she was a friendly girl, the daughter of a Barbadian mother and a Yorkshire father who had met on a county cricket tour of the West Indies. 'No, Mr Skinner,' she told him. 'Sarah isn't here.

She's up at the Royal, doing a post mortem on a murder victim.'

He laughed. 'She can't resist, can she. I'm married to a workaholic, Trish.'

'I guess you are, although she did say there were special circumstances involved with this one.'

'Wonder what she meant by that?' he mused, aloud. 'She'll tell me, I expect. Meantime, let me have a word with Mark.'

He had a brief conversation with his son as he walked to the gate, catching up on school news, then switched off the cellphone and put it away as his boarding card was checked.

The flight was even and uneventful; after a while, Joe Doherty almost relaxed. This time there was no view, other than of a cloud blanket that lasted all the way to the Great Lakes. So, instead of sightseeing, Skinner passed the time thinking, searching in vain through his sketchy knowledge of his father-in-law's business and personal history for any pointers to the mystery of his death.

The flight to Greater Buffalo International ended with a textbook landing and a sigh of relief from the Deputy Director of the FBI. As they stepped out of the aircraft they were hit by the warmth of the morning, a contrast from the Montana chil.

'Nice day for a sail,' Doherty remarked.

'Fuck off,' Skinner grunted, grimly.

They collected Kosinski's fax, in a white envelope, from the airport information desk, and returned to the rental car in the long-stay car park.

Doherty climbed in and turned the ignition. Nothing happened. 'Shit!' he swore. 'Dud battery.'

Luckily, they were parked close to an exit booth; within ten minutes, an airport worker arrived with a ful y charged start-up pack, and they were mobile once more. Still, they had lost time and were tight for their scheduled water-borne meeting with Jackson Wylie.

The Scot took the Special Agent's map as they set off; as soon as he looked at it, he realised that the drive would be longer than they had anticipated. The airport was around ten miles north of Buffalo, and Bayview, on Lake Erie, where the marina was located, looked to be the same distance to the south. The route that had been plotted for them took them round the outskirts of the city, but nonetheless, the Saturday traffic on Lakeshore was heavy.

Fortunately Bayview was a small community; the signs were poor, but stil the marina was easy to find. They found a space at the rear of its dedicated car park, and set out to find Wylie's cruiser.

The marina was a bustle of activity; Skinner guessed that most of the boat-owners were strictly fair-weather sailors and that the fine spring day had drawn them in droves to ready their vessels for the summer to come. 'Says here that we're looking for mooring number two-seven three,' Doherty muttered. 'The boat's called the Hispaniola.'

'Treasure Island, eh. D'you think our man fancies himself as Long John Silver?'

'Maybe so. Robert Louis Stevenson spent some time in New York State.'

'Ah, come on, next you'll be telling me that John Logie Baird was an 140

American.' Skinner paused. 'Hey, wait a minute.' He pointed along a boardwalk jetty not far from the gateway to the marina, where they stood. ' See that cruiser there; about ten boats along. A big bugger of a thing with an awning on top. There's a guy on deck, and I'm pretty sure that's Jackson Wylie.

'Fuckin' hell,' the policeman chuckled, 'he's got a barbecue going.

He's on a boat, and he's got a barbie lit.'

'You should be pleased then; it means he really ain't planning to sail anywhere.' Doherty glanced at his watch. 'Come on then, let's go see him. It's not too bad; we're only just over five minutes late.'

Skinner nodded, looked down automatical y to check his footing among the ropes and paint-pots that littered the wide walkway, and set out after him. He had taken two steps when, with no warning, he felt his head swim, and his knees buckle. The strangest sensation swept through him; it was as if he had stood in that spot before, had played the same scene in a parallel life. He felt as if he was in a throng of rushing, relentless people. 'Joe,' he heard himself call out, hoarsely.

The American stopped and looked over his shoulder, frowning as he caught sight of his friend's face. 'Bob, you okay?' he asked.

But Skinner's spell had passed, as suddenly as it had come upon "him.

'Yes, yes,' he said, quickly.

'You sure? You look as though you'd seen a ghost.' He walked back towards him.

'For a minute I thought I had; it was… Shit, I don't know. For a second there, I thought I was going in the drink. You know what I reckon it was? The water; the way it moves as you look through the planks. I know I said I don't get sea-sick, but I think I was pretty close to it there.'

'Listen,' said Doherty. 'Go back to the car if you want. I won't tell anyone, honest.'

'Don't be daft, man. I'l be al right.' They waited for a minute or so, until Skinner nodded. 'No, it's gone; I'm okay. Come on. Let's not keep the man waiting any longer.'

He took a step along the boardwalk… and then the whole world turned orange, and red, and black, all in the same instant.

A great invisible force seemed to pick the two men off their feet and hurl them backwards, sending them crashing on to the jetty. They lay there, stunned, until the noise caught up with them, fol owed almost at once by the awareness of great heat. A second explosion sounded; not so fierce, but closer this time.

Skinner propped himself up on an elbow and looked along, focusing his blurred eyes. The Hispaniola was nowhere to be seen; not in its original form. It was at the centre of an inferno; in the midst of which he thought he could see a figure, staggering jerkily around, a human torch, its arms waving in slow motion, and then seeming to sink into itself.

The boat next to it was on fire too; that had been the second explosion, he guessed, since it was closer to them. Its flames, in rum, were licking another large cruiser, even nearer to where they lay If its tanks went up…

He scrambled to his feet, looking at his friend as he did so. Doherty was unconscious, stunned either by the blast or by the force of his impact with the boardwalk. Skinner knelt beside him; grabbed his left arm and his right leg, and in a single powerful movement, stood once more, heaving the American over his shoulder.

And then he ran, as if Doherty weighed nothing at all; as far and as fast as he could. Hearing the crackling of the flames and feeling their heat as they crept towards him, Bob Skinner ran, carrying his friend, for their very lives.