Dangerous Waters. Laurey Bright

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      Both men knew where they were headed.

      The cheap cafés and fast-food bars, the shops selling local handcrafts, gaudy sarongs and souvenir T-shirts, were replaced by boating and fishing suppliers.

      Rounding a curve, they reached a part of the shoreline where the streetlamps were fewer and the vessels tied at the weathered wharves were sturdy, battered working boats instead of glossy, greyhound pleasure craft. Past a warehouse, a marine engine repair shop and a malodorous fish-processing plant, they reached the mooring where the naked masts of the Sea-Rogue loomed against the stars.

      Rogan scarcely hesitated before leaping lightly onto the deck below, followed by Granger. The ketch shifted against the wharf, the worn tires hanging from the boat’s side to buffer the hull making soft bumping noises. Rogan went to the stern and ran his fingers along the old-style teak taffrail, paused as he found what he’d been searching for, and traced over the letters carved into the timber.

      “Still there?” Granger came to stand beside him.

      “Yep.” Rogan had been eleven, Granger twelve, when they’d marked their initials with a pocketknife. They’d expected a blast from their father as soon as he discovered the defacement, but he’d just laughed and clapped them on the back with his big, rough hands.

      A loose halyard flapped against the metal mizzen, and Rogan looked up, glancing at the furled sails. He remembered the thrill of the first time he’d been allowed to help hoist them, the wind cracking them free and blowing cool and strong on his face, while the ketch’s bow forged blue-green water into a foamy V, throwing up a fine white spray that showered him with its salty blessing.

      He’d fallen in love with the sea there and then. A love that had never left him. The only thing better than sailing was being underwater—a living, breathing part of the ocean itself. Between diving contracts he sometimes chartered a yacht with a buddy, exploring recreational dive sites. Or spent time on a tiny Pacific island where he and other professional divers supported a local dive school, giving financial and practical help.

      “Want to go below?” Granger asked.

      “Sure.” Tomorrow they’d see their father’s body in the funeral parlor before they carried his coffin to the seamen’s chapel whose doors Barney Broderick had seldom darkened in life. But his beloved Sea-Rogue was where Barney’s spirit lived. This was their real goodbye.

      Granger dropped into the cockpit where the mizzen was stepped, a few feet forward of the wheel. He took a key ring from his pocket and opened up the deckhouse to descend the short, steep companionway to the dark interior.

      Rogan followed him down. “Have you been aboard since the old man…?”

      “No.” Granger flicked a switch but nothing happened. Evidently Barney hadn’t hooked the boat up to shore power. “Hang on a minute.” He fumbled about the galley area behind the companionway.

      A small flame flared, and within seconds he’d lit a kerosene lamp hanging from a gimbal. The light flickered, brightened, and steadied. Varnish gleamed on the mahogany interior; a slit-eyed mask from the Philippines leered from one of the few spaces on the bulkheads.

      “Guess it hasn’t changed much,” Granger said.

      The palm-leaf matting on the floor looked new, but otherwise was identical to what Rogan remembered from years back. So was everything else.

      Seats that could serve as narrow berths formed an L at the table, their once-floral coverings faded and thin. A bank of instruments occupied the navigation desk near the companionway. Recessed shelves fitted with fiddle rails to safeguard the contents in rough weather held old volumes that Barney had treasured, along with some paperbacks, nautical knickknacks, and shells and carvings from islands around the Pacific.

      In the galley a cutlery drawer sat half open, and a cupboard door hung ajar. Granger said, “The police searched the boat for ID and a contact address.”

      He unhooked the lamp and headed toward the stern, pausing at an open door to one side of the short passageway. Taff’s cabin, with colorful pictures torn from National Geographic magazines pinned over the bunk, a battered peaked cap hanging on a hook, a rolled sleeping bag at the end of the mattress, looked as though he’d just stepped out on deck.

      Granger moved on to what Barney had liked to call the master’s stateroom in the stern, crammed with more books and a built-in desk. The attached wooden chair had a curved back, the varnish worn pale in the middle, its seat softened by a thin, indented cushion. Rogan had the absurd idea that if he put a hand on it he’d find it still warm.

      A marine chart of the Pacific lay open on the desk, with a small pile of tide tables and almanacs. Items of clean clothing were heaped on the relatively roomy berth fitted at the stern, and books occupied the shelves above.

      As Rogan followed him inside, Granger turned, lifting the lamp high. The framed picture of their mother still hung over the doorway, where Barney could see it every night before going to sleep.

      Rogan swallowed, then blundered back to the saloon.

      Granger said evenly, “I guess that’s it.” He rehung the lamp, and turned the flame down until it disappeared.

      In the blackness Rogan groped for the companionway. Back on deck he breathed in the pungency of salt water and fish, and a whiff of diesel. “He didn’t deserve to die like that,” he said hoarsely. Like some bit of discarded flotsam, callously abandoned to the cold and dark.

      “Nobody does,” Granger agreed.

      Rogan closed his fists, overwhelmed by a hot-eyed, skull-thumping rage. Whoever was responsible for causing his father’s secretly damaged heart to finally stop beating—when he found them he’d bloody well tear them apart, limb from limb.

      Chapter 2

      Camille wasn’t sure what to wear to the funeral of a man she’d never known.

      The one dress she’d packed—lightweight, creaseless, and simple enough for any time of day—had been fine for dinner with James Drummond. But even with a beige silk cardigan to cover her shoulders it looked a bit frivolous for a somber church service.

      Entering the historic seamen’s chapel later, she was glad she’d settled for forest-green jean-style pants with a cream shirt and low-heeled braided-leather shoes.

      Two men seated near the coffin wore impeccable dark suits, but other suits in evidence were of the ill-fitting, limp and unfashionable kind resurrected from some forgotten corner of a wardrobe, and the air was pervaded with a faint odor of naphthalene and mildew.

      The service was simple and brief. When the minister paused, one of the men in the front pew went to the lectern, and only then Camille recognized her piratical stranger’s dinner companion of the previous evening.

      Shocked, she turned her gaze to the second man.

      He’d had a haircut, but the broad shoulders straining at the jacket of the suit, and the confident tilt of his head, were already familiar. She half expected him to turn and grin at her with the same bold insouciance he’d shown last night.

      But of course he wouldn’t. This, she realized as his brother began to speak, was his father’s funeral.

      Camille СКАЧАТЬ