The Deep Blue Alibi

Forty-eight

A very loud woman shouted something at Steve.

He couldn't see her because his eyes were glued shut. At least, that's the way they felt. He forced his eyes open, a salty crust cracking along his lashes.

Ouch. He was staring into a broiling sun. Suddenly aware of noxious fumes. Burning fuel, melting plastic.

"Wave your arm if you can hear me!"

That voice again. Amplified. Authoritative.

If I'm dead, then God could be a woman. But then, that sun is hot as hell, and who's to say the devil's not a chick? Now, just where is my arm?

Steve managed to wave, water pouring down his wet-suit sleeve into his face. His mask was gone. So was one of his fins. He was floating, lifting and falling with every swell. The top-of-the-line buoyancy compensator-thank you, Stubbs-was rigged to float an unconscious man on his back.

Fowles. Where are you?

"Just stay calm, sir. We'll get you in a minute."

Steve lifted his head out of the water. It weighed about the same as that giant jewfish.

Maybe heaven is a giant spa, and I'm in the Jacuzzi.

Maybe that's where the good Jews go. The others are made into gefilte fish.

Bobbing in the water, smaller than a cutter, was a boat. He recognized the red, white, and blue diagonal stripes. Coast Guard. Most beautiful boat he'd ever seen. A woman in uniform stood at the bow rail, a bullhorn in her hand. Most beautiful woman, too, though he couldn't make out a single feature. He gave her the thumbs-up sign.

"That's it, sir! Don't try to swim over."

Swim? Going back to sleep is more like it. What time's my massage?

He was aware of the putt-putt of a small yellow inflatable craft coming to his side. Two men in uniforms leaned over, barking instructions. They seemed very young and pimply but their voices were strong. Best he could understand, he was to do nothing. They'd get him aboard. He tried to say something, but his throat was raw with salt water, and he vomited all over the guardsmen as they hauled him into the inflatable.

"Another man," Steve croaked. "Scuba gear. Where is he?"

"Just relax now, sir."

They seemed extremely competent for twelve-yearolds, Steve thought, hazily.

The inflatable headed toward the boat, dodging pieces of fiberglass and aluminum, the remnants of the Cigarette. Fuel burned, black and orange, on the surface. Bouncing in the waves nearby, without its rider, the rusty old chariot. The bow charred black, but seemingly indestructible.

As they neared the boat, Steve saw another inflatable in the water. Two more Coast Guardsmen. A lifeless body, a man in jeans and a bloodied T-shirt, lay facedown in the craft.

Conchy Conklin? Who else could it be?

With a net, the guardsmen were fishing something out of the water. What was it?

An arm! From the elbow down, an arm in a torn wet suit.

Fowles.

God, he'd done it. He'd sacrificed himself. He'd destroyed his own personal Tirpitz and saved Steve's life. How do you repay a debt like that?

You don't. Maybe you make a vow to be a better man, but the debt goes unpaid.

As a young guardsman helped Steve up the ladder of the larger craft, he had the vague notion that he'd lost something. The mask, of course. And one fin. And. .

The slate.

Fowles' confession. His dying wish had been to settle up, to clear Griffin's name. The slate was Griffin's deep blue alibi and now it was at the bottom of the deep blue sea.