The Intriguers

XXVI

For a mild-looking, middle-aged gent, Jarrel White had some fairly violent and youthful speedboating ideas. He took us out through the pass as if our little boat were an unlimited hydroplane racing for the Gold Cup on Lake Havasu, if I have the hardware and location right, which I probably don't.

I couldn't see all the tide-rips in the dark, but I could feel every one of them through the cushioned bench on which I sat, just forward of the steering console. When we reached open water, the black man rammed the throttle all the way forward. Fortunately, it was a calm night. Even so, I had the impression that we only hit the water every fifty yards or so, and that when we did, it was hard as rock. The running lights went out.

"Shouldn't be nobody to see us without legal lights out here except the folks we're after, this time of night," Jarrel yelled over the roar of the motor, when I looked around questioningly. "You still figure they're way ahead of us?"

"They had a couple of hours' start," I shouted back, "but Captain Priest doesn't seem to think they'll head into the mangroves until they've got daylight to navigate by."

"We'll go well offshore so they don't hear us passing; then we'll swing down south and come in by the back door, so to speak." He patted the steering wheel approvingly. "Don't hold much with boats looking like guided missiles, but she handles nice. Wish she wasn't quite so deep, though. Tide's ebbing; we'll maybe have to lift the motor and pole through a couple shallow spots. Well, we'll see, cap'n; we'll see."

The title was, I knew, not a military rank. It was merely a mark of respect, indicating that I was a friend of Hank Priest, who'd given me a good buildup. There was no more conversation for a long time; just the high scream of the motor and the harsh hammering of water against the fiberglass hull. I could make out nothing but ocean-well, Gulf of Mexico-around us. Either the coast to port had dropped below the dark horizon, or it was uninhabited, or the inhabitants were sound asleep with all lights out. At last I picked up a flash off the bow. I looked up once more at Jarrel, standing at the helm behind me.

"Tortuga Light, cap'n," he said. "Off Tortuga Pass. We'd head in there if we wanted to get where we're going the quickest way. They're probably lying in there right now, waiting for light. We'll try Redfish Pass fifteen miles south. No light there, and it's not anything you'd want to tackle in bad weather, but a nice night like this we'll make it fine. Tortuga, that's turtle, cap'n. Redfish, that's what you maybe call drum or channel bass…"

Gradually, the flashing light drew abeam and fell astern. We ran on through the night. At last we swung east towards the coast, but it seemed a very long time until we picked it up. Jarrel had pulled the throttle back to halfspeed before I saw the loom of two islands ahead, low dark shadows off either bow, with what looked like an unbroken light sandbar between them.

Jarrel throttled back still more, so that the boat ceased planing over the water and, settling heavily, started plowing through it instead. Suddenly I was aware of something to starboard that wasn't water: a glistening mud bank barely uncovered by the dropping tide. The boat began to shimmy and sideslip in erratic eddies and whirlpools of current. There seemed to be all kinds of channels ahead in the darkness, a wilderness of mud and water, with patches of white here and there where the outrushing tidal waters broke in the shallows. Jarrel was dodging obstructions I couldn't see. He spoke quite calmly.

"Always remember the tide, cap'n, when you're in among the islands. Man can always find his way out if he remembers the tide. Hold on tight, now."

I saw the opening in the seemingly solid bar, but it didn't look like anything you'd want to take a boat through: a wide, angling gap of seething water moving inexorably out to sea. I felt the beat of the engine pick up as Jarrel opened the throttle once more. We hung in the entrance while he studied the situation ahead; then the rumbling vibration increased as more horsepower came into play, and we started to gain, the boat rising and planing once more, skittering over the disturbed surface, bounced and buffeted by the crazy currents. A cresting wave dropped into my lap from nowhere. The sand slid by, sometimes close enough that I could have jumped ashore. At last we broke free of the tide race and gained speed in the still, black water inside the bar.

"Used to take sailing boats through there when I was a boy," Jarrel said. "Course we had to wait for the right tide and a good westerly wind. You better use that Flit gun on your face and hands, cap'n. Like to be a few mosquitoes inshore here."

I sprayed myself and offered the aerosol can to him, but he shook his head. Apparently he was biteproof like many old-timers. I put the can away, got out my handkerchief, and dried the rifle lying across my knees. I didn't even try to memorize our route. In the dark, with one island looking exactly like the next, black and formless, it was hopeless.

There were wide, gleaming estuaries that we traversed at high speed, and slim dark passages through which we crawled with the mangroves brushing the boat and the insects attacking in force. Once I was told to stand by with the boathook, ready to pole vigorously, while Jarrel tilted up the motor until the propeller was barely submerged and worked us over some shallow flats, disturbing a number of birds roosting on a nearby islet. Several times there were heavy splashes close to the bank as we approached; perhaps fish, perhaps alligators. I didn't ask. I didn't really want to know.

We came around a long bend, buzzed across some open water-a kind of tidal lake-and Jarrel cut the power and laid us alongside an ancient, rickety dock thrusting out from the swampy point at the end of an island that looked just like all the rest. An uneven, narrow, sagging wooden catwalk on posts led ashore over the reeds and mud.

"Cutlass Key, cap'n," Jarrel said, over the sound of the softly idling motor. "There's a deserted cabin off to the left a hit, in among the trees; nobody's used it for years. Water's low right now, but there's six feet off the end of the pier. Time they arrive, in daylight, tide'll be starting to turn. At high water, that mud'll be covered clear to the shore, but likely they won't be that late."

"We hope," I said, slapping a mosquito, "or the bugs will have sucked me dry."

Grasping the rifle, I started to rise, but Jarrel shook his head. "Not here, cap'n. You don't want to go leaving sign where they can see it. There's a place around the bend of the island, to the right there, where I can put her pretty close to the bank. I'll set you ashore there, and pick you up when you're through."

I liked the casual way he said it. It was going to be the usual, beautifully planned mission, I could see, with everything figured out to the last detail-up to the point where, having finished his job, the agent tries to get clear after kicking over the hornet's nest.

"Where'll you be?" I asked.

"There's a good hiding place for the boat alongside a little island down that way a quarter-mile," he said. "You can see it from where I'll leave you, and I can see you; but they can't see it from here. That's the point. Time they hear me coming, I'll have you back on board and be heading out again at forty-five knots."

"With bullets whistling around your ears and mine," I said sourly. "Or between them."

"Been shot at before, cap'n," Jarrel said. "Figure you have, too."

I said, "That doesn't mean I like it." I grimaced, studying the dark mass of the island. "Where will I wait?"

"Look up in the trees to the right. You'll see a kind of lump, that's an old osprey's nest. Birds haven't come back last two, three years, but the nest is still there. You'll be right under it, almost. It's a hundred and fifteen yards from your blind to the end of the dock here. Figure you'll want to let them come a little way towards you along the boardwalk, just to be sure, but that's your business."

"Yes," I said. "That's my business."