The Last Family

30

The twin-masted, wooden-hulled sailboat motored across the harbor, between the rock-encrusted sloping walls of the channel. Once past the Coast Guard station, the Shadowfax sailed out onto Lake Pontchartrain, a gently rolling liquid prairie. To the south the lights of New Orleans burned yellow against the night sky. The moon was almost full and illuminated the sails of a few other boats against the dark sweep of lake. The wind was steady and from the east. Reid Dietrich unfurled the mainsails by moving levers on the cockpit’s console as he held course by maintaining a left-hand grip on the large polished-mahogany wheel.

“Shadowfax is an odd name,” Thorne Greer said. “What’s it mean?”

“It’s named for a character in a book,” Laura said. “The wizard’s horse in a fantasy novel, I think.”

“She came already named,” Reid added. “I might have named her Reb’s Nightmare — which she is. But a wizard’s horse is appropriate, since sailing has a mystical, magical side. Look at the lights of the city, feel the breeze in your hair. Drink in the fresh air. Sailing her at night is as close to heaven as you can get with your clothes on.”

“Boats scare Reb. Always have. He’s like his father, he prefers solid ground beneath him,” Laura said.

“Beautiful night,” Thorne said. He turned away and yawned into his hand. “Peaceful.”

“We’re lucky we got the boat back while it was still warm enough to sail her in shirtsleeves,” Laura said. “Reid travels so much we don’t get out on it very often.”

“All that travel sounds exotic.”

“Not as exotic as hanging around with celebrities,” Reid said. “I live in motel rooms and on airplanes. But it’s the business I chose, and where doctors have money to spend, competition is fierce.” Thorne checked the tautness of a line. “Maybe that’s what keeps the romance fresh,” Reid said. “The absences.”

“Maybe,” she said. “I wish you weren’t leaving again until this is over.”

“She’s safe with you at the gate, isn’t she? I mean, you’re still listening to every creaking bedspring?” Reid asked mockingly.

Laura slapped his shoulder.

“She is a beauty,” Thorne said, changing the subject.

“She’s been in dry dock getting a new coat of paint, some cabin alterations, new navigation equipment,” Reid said. “Few more years and I’m going to retire, and then maybe I’ll live on her.”

“I hear boats are holes in the water to throw money into,” Thorne said. “My present Hollywood employer has one of those power racing boats-a Cigarette boat. Goes like thunder.”

“Bales and bales,” Reid said, laughing. “But it’s okay to enjoy a sail on someone else’s boat.”

“Appreciate the invitation,” he said. “I’m getting a little stir-crazy watching TV screens all day and half the night.”

“Well, the thought of your sitting on the pier waiting for us to return would have displaced some of the pleasure. Besides, you guys are the best baby-sitters we’ve ever had,” Reid said. “We can sail without a worry in the world.”

“We try,” Thorne said as he sipped the cola Laura had handed him.

Reid was standing at the wheel, the wind pressing his hair against his head, the nylon windbreaker flapping in time with the sail as the boat came around. He looked to Thorne like a model in a Rolex ad.

“You make sailing this monster look easy,” Thorne said.

“It’s the way it’s rigged, so I can sail it alone from the bridge. It’ll literally sail itself on autopilot. Set it once, and it’ll go till it slams into the coast of Scotland.”

“Or right into a ship,” Laura said.

“The autopilot doesn’t have eyes or a brain. It just holds a set compass course.”

“Nice,” Thorne said. “How deep’s the lake?”

“This lake is man-made. About twelve feet deep in most places. Twenty-five miles across, and I’d say about the same wide. You can head out to the river and from there sail to anywhere water touches. This is a safe port unless a hurricane ever comes up the river, pushing water into the lake and into the city. New Orleans is eight to ten feet below sea level.”

“Great,” Thorne said. “Can’t wait to get out of here.”

“Back to the safety of earthquakes, mudslides, and fires?” Laura said, laughing.

“According to statistics New Orleans is the most dangerous city in the country. But it is also the most charming. How’s that for a paradox?” Reid said. “The Pontchartrain Bridge there is the longest on earth.”

Thorne looked up at the twin spans, which seemed to go from the south shore to the end of the earth. The lights from cars streaked along a good forty feet off the water. He had always thought being trapped in a car underwater would be the worst way to die. The way his baby had died.

“You don’t have to worry about how shallow it is? This is a big boat.”

“Boat only draws six feet of water.”

“Ever thought of sailing across the ocean?” Thorne asked.

“In fact, I was thinking of a sail to the Caribbean in a couple of weeks.”

“Be careful down there. There are dangerous people on the seas.”

“I heard there used to be.”

“Still are. Pirates will steal a boat that’s large enough to fill up with drugs, or loot it. Then, after they take everything of value or run their drugs, they scuttle or just abandon it. But they like powerboats these days. Big powerboats.”

“They always kill the occupants?”

“Oh, Reid, that’s horrible,” Laura said.

“It’s reality in some parts of the world,” Thorne said.

Laura said, “It’s so peaceful spending the night with the waves caressing the boat. It’s the most restful way to sleep there is. Like being rocked in your mother’s arms.” She was trying to change the subject.

“Keep an AK-47, M-15, or something. Might want a twelve-gauge too.”

“A shotgun?” Reid asked.

“Perfect if you aren’t much of a shot.”

“Can we talk about something else?” Laura showed them a frown.

“I’m sorry,” Reid said. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about guns. The idea of shooting someone…” He let the thought hang.

“I’m gonna shoot the next person that talks about shooting, guns, or violence of any sort.” Laura looked toward the bow and let the wind push the hair out of her face.

“It’s like old times,” Thorne said.

“Too much like old times,” she said.

“I’d give anything to get ’em back,” Thorne said. “Back to the days before my hair was gray and my belly looked like an Easter egg.”

“Your belly is almost perfectly flat, and you know it.” Laura smiled at Thorne. “And gray is in. Don’t you keep up? Have a beer-or is it still bourbon?” Laura put a hand on his shoulder.

“No. I don’t care for anything.”

“The fridge is full,” she said. “Make yourself at home.”

“You sure have all the comforts,” Thorne said.

“We try,” Reid said. “Sure you don’t want a beer? On duty and all that?” he asked.

“I’d love a beer. But AA frowns on drinking.”

“Married, Thorne?” Reid asked.

Laura looked at Reid in disbelief. “Thorne’s wife was one of Martin’s victims, Reid.”

Reid smiled the slightly bleary smile of someone who had not been paying close attention to the conversation. Thorne decided his mind was on the boat.

Thorne sipped at the cola. He had been through the Alcoholics Anonymous twelve-step program, and the fourth step had required that he take a searching moral inventory of his life. He had done that and because of it had left his younger wife and infant son. He had come to realize that Ellen was truly comfortable with him only when he was drunk, and that was because drunk, he was dependent on her. He had loved her and his son, but had left her for the sake of his own survival. He had left their small son with her because a judge thought it better for the boy than living with an admitted alcoholic, even given Thorne’s year of sobriety. She’d married another addict-a cop who would snort cocaine on duty for a pick-me-up, snort for recreation at home, and probably snort any time he had the opportunity. For a cop the supply side was never a problem.

The couple had moved to Deerfield Beach. When Thorne was told his wife and baby had both died in the canal, he had blamed her, and it occurred to him that the deaths were a perfect excuse to drink again. But in the end the thought of starting over at step one after five years had kept him sober. He kept a sealed half pint of bourbon, which he had bought the day he’d learned of the tragedy, to remind him how easy it would have been to go back. How easy it would always be.

He started to take Reid through his history, but what was the point?

“What kind of electrical system does the Shadowfax have?” Thorne said.

“Twelve volt,” Reid said. “When the generator is running, we have a hundred twenty for the fridge, microwave, central unit, and the lights. When we’re moored, we’re hooked up to the land line and the telephone line.”

“That’d be a big help if you wanted to live aboard, I guess. It must be hell down there in the summer without AC.”

“How is the search going?” Reid asked. “Close to an arrest of this nutcase, Fletcher?”

“This job is segmented. We guard, watch. Others read clues and search high and low.”

“Makes selling CAT scanners seem dull,” Reid said.

“This is dull. I don’t mean now. But usually babysitting is just sitting in a room sipping coffee or sitting in a car trying to stay awake. Normally the stakes are smaller, of course.”

“Maybe things will pick up for you,” Reid said.

“I hope not,” Laura said.

“Maybe Fletcher tucked tail and ran when he discovered he’d have to come through you, Reid,” Thorne said, laughing.

Reid laughed, too.

Thorne helped tie the Shadowfax to the pier. After Reid locked the cabin doors, the three walked along to a space where a lone fisherman sat on a locker and watched his red-and-white cork floating between two moored sailboats. The trio slowed and watched him cast for a few seconds.

“Biting?” Thorne asked.

The man looked around at them and smiled, showing a mouth filled with gold caps and one milk-coated eye. He mumbled something incoherent that sounded like a few words about warm water, gave a generalized wave at the bay, and laughed like an idiot.

“I love fishing,” Reid said.

“See ya,” Thorne said to the fisherman, who grumbled something, bobbed his head, and snickered.

The fisherman was certain that he had not been recognized. He turned to watch the trio disappear into the parking lot. Then he twisted around for a better look at the boat parked at the end of the pier.

“Shadowfax,” Martin Fletcher said as he cranked in the line. Then he propped his back against the closest upright post, closed his eyes, and let the baitless hook dangle beneath the red-and-white float.