Anne Bonny's Wake. Dick Elam

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СКАЧАТЬ I thought, and then I remembered that the woman had pirouetted into my cockpit, not the least self-conscious about her naked breasts.

      What’s the Bear to her? I asked myself. Not a chance acquaintance; that appeared certain. A threat? Indeed, but on what authority? Family? A father, or a husband, or lover? Police? Whichever, this woman was afraid of this burly, bearded man. Or was she a stooge for him?

      I discarded the likelihood of police. But when the Bear motored closer, I saw a gun atop a yellow life jacket. I guessed a shotgun, maybe a rifle.

      If not police, why armed? A father bent on a shotgun wedding, or a husband who came home unexpectedly, or she took something that belonged to him?

      Or was the Bear a pirate? These waters had once harbored the notorious Blackbeard, a pirate named Edward Teach. Blackbeard had seized lightly armed merchant ships, buried treasure, bribed officials, drank grog, wenched. The Bear didn’t match my image of the handsome, dashing, had-to-be-thin Blackbeard, but the Bear could pass as one of the Pirate’s infamous crew.

      When I sneaked another look below, she wasn’t visible. Hidden, probably, behind the closed head door. She could watch from the porthole. I wanted to warn her: don’t look out the porthole, because the Bear’s motorboat was coming alongside.

      Stand by to repel boarders, I thought, but what I said was mundane:

      “Hi. How’s fishing? Whatcha catching?”

      “Harummm,” he growled. The Bear’s gruff voice matched his belligerent body. His large chest stretched the foul-weather pants between the suspenders. His arm muscles expanded the sleeves of his T-shirt. He squinted. His beard widened and revealed a frown from dark eyes to chin whiskers.

      His motorboat drifted within a boat length of the Anne Bonny.

      “Not fishing. Looking for someone we lost.” He spoke in a bass voice.

      To hold his motorboat off, the Bear rested a paw on my starboard beam. His long arm allowed him to stand left of his wheel. The shotgun, a pump-action that looked like a Browning 12-gauge, rested against his right ankle.

      “You been here long?”

      “Overnight.” I hoped my tone sounded noncommittal.

      “Seen a man and woman in a small—”

      A screech rose from the Anne Bonny cabin. The Bear’s motorboat bumped against the Anne Bonny as he reached for the shotgun.

       CHAPTER 3

       Scree-e-e-eech.

      The shrill pierced quiet Bear Creek. I knew the noise, but the Bear looked alarmed and stayed bent over his shotgun.

      “My teakettle’s boiling,” I said.

      The Bear relaxed his grip on the shotgun, stood up straight.

       What else sounds like a teakettle? A woman’s scream? A police whistle? Whatever the Bear thought he heard, he’s jumpy. Don’t rush anything.

      “I’d better get the kettle.” I turned toward the hatch.

      A second screech accompanied the teakettle shrill.

      “What-in-the-hell? Get the teakettle! Never mind. I’ll get the damn teakettle!” Her voice cursed me: “Damn you, you said I could sleep late.”

      From my cockpit vantage, I saw her bang open the head door. The brunette swimmer had turned herself into a plump hag. She waddled into the cabin. The hag grabbed the teakettle and set the steaming pot on the unused burner. The woman also reached into the utensil drawer. I saw her take out a second knife. Where had she concealed the first knife?

      The Bear leaned forward. I don’t think he could see down into the cabin. But he was trying.

      “You wanna keep this stinking fire going?” she rasped loudly.

      I didn’t answer—missed my cue.

      Her costume matched her shrewish voice: She wore my long-sleeved sweatshirt. The sweatshirt flowed over a stomach that swelled over a pair of my Bermuda shorts. Front pockets bulged, suggesting fat thighs, and the pants expanded to maximum beam width. She had encased her feet with tubular wool socks, the pair I wear in my foul-weather boots. The top of the right sock slouched over her ankle, while the other sock rose to just below her knee.

      “Dammit! What rotten time did you get out of bed? Mix me one of those damn instant coffees while I use the head.” She clomped toward the bathroom. Her hair expanded like a porcupine, boxing the compass with an assortment of gray, black, and white strands.

      The Bear had drifted where he might better see her performance. To keep his fishing boat close, he grasped the backstay, the wire strung from the mast top to the stern. That cable controlled the mast’s forward bend. The Bear’s muscles looked strong enough, his hands calloused enough, to climb, hand-over-hand, up that stainless steel cable, over our cockpit, to the top of the mast.

      I turned aft, faced him. He held the backstay in his left hand, but in his right hand he grasped the shotgun.

      His eyes studied me. Was he trying to match my face lines with furrows in the crone’s face? Did I look older than my forty-six years? My sideburns show gray, but my hair remains red, a gift from my English ancestry. I didn’t inherit the strong English nose or the angular cheekbones. My round face and pug nose endowed me with what my wife, Annie, used to call the “Andy Hardy look.”

      The voice shrilled again from the cabin.

      “Don’t buy any damn fish. If you buy any of his damn fish, you gotta clean and cook ’em. Hear me? No fish!”

      I yelled back: “I hear you. I hear you. He isn’t selling fish. And don’t put any toilet paper in the head. I’m not going to clean that toilet out for you again.” That admonition came easily, even though I hadn’t spoken that advice for over four years.

      Then I turned and shared my troubles with the Bear.

      “She won’t learn that you don’t put anything in the toilet that you haven’t digested.”

      He nodded, an understanding exchange.

      I continued with a disgusting tone: “She wanted to spend the night at Belhaven. Likes the oyster fritters there. Should never have anchored her in a quiet place like this.”

      The Bear began to look bored.

      “Sorry. Not your problem. How can I help you?”

      The Bear wrinkled his face into a look that suggested condolence.

      “Hmmpfh. Don’t suppose you saw any boats come up Bear Creek last night, or any people around much earlier this morning, did you? Would have been a small motorboat with a man and a woman aboard.”

      “No boats last night or this morning. And I woke up at dawn. Always do. Like the time to myself.” Told him no lies.

      The Bear nodded sympathetically when I said “time to myself.” He pushed away.

      “Thanks. СКАЧАТЬ