Authors: David Poyer
"I don't remember it well. I don't remember who you are. But let me tell you something important."
"We're listening," said Keyes.
Galloway found himself fixed by her eyes. "I don't know what you boys are wantin' to hear, or what you're after. What you're strivin' for, or what your trouble is. I've had a lot of trouble in my life, yes I have. But you got to put aside this striving and sinning and live the best way you can. I did and I'm happy now because I know the Lord's going to take care of me. Although I'm suffering, that'll be over after a while. I know I've got to die soon. But when the Lord sees fit for me to go, I got no dread."
Over her bent head Galloway met Keyes's eyes. He nodded.
They left Mercy Baum facing the window, immobile in the sunlight, watching the wind ruffle the beach grass at the top of a dune. Tiller looked back once at her, along a corridor polished like the morning Albemarle, and thought: If you were eight years old, barefoot, you could scramble to the top in a minute. And see for a long, long way.
Outside Keyes opened the car doors and flicked on the air-conditioning. He looked across the shimmering roof at Tiller. 'You get anything useful out of all that ancient history?"
"Maybe a little."
"What? I got zip. She knows, all right. But she's still sharp enough to clam up on this one subject. If I could get five minutes with her without those nurses around—"
'You'd what?"
Keyes glanced at him. "Nothing."
Galloway looked at him for a long time. At last Keyes grinned faintly and got into the BMW. But Tiller didn't; only bent down, a little, to look in at him. "You'd what?" he said again.
"I'd ask her again—very politely."
"That's right," said Galloway. 'You try any rough stuff with these people, you'll have me to deal with. Understood?"
"Sure."
Galloway got in. Keyes started the car and a moment later they were rolling down out of the dunes, back toward the highway. After a time Tiller said, "We got more than you seem to think."
"What's that?" said Keyes.
"She let those names drop. The men with her husband on the beach patrol that night. Tolson, Hooper, O'Neal, and Aydlett."
"Hell, that was a long time ago. They're probably all dead."
'Yeah. They are. Except for the last one. Aydlett."
'You know him?"
"Sure do," said Tiller. "I used to work for him when I was a kid."
"Great! Well, let's go see him."
"I don't think it's going to be that easy."
"Why not?"
"He hates my guts."
"Why?"
Galloway said, staring ahead at the road, "Because I killed his son."
ILLER! YOU ABOARD?"
JL
Bernie looked around the dock, shivering. She was dressed in mid-length navy shorts, a T-shirt, and a light windbreaker, and it was seven in the morning, and a light mist had not yet burned off the water of the inlet.
There was no answer. She swung her tennies over the transom and rapped at the companionway hatch, listened for a moment, then slid it open. The main cabin was empty. She paused in the galley, noting silently two torn packages of instant oatmeal, two half-finished mugs of coffee, still slightly warm to the touch.
She closed the hatch and plopped herself on one of the lockers in the stern. She dangled her legs absent-mindedly and threw her hair back. She reached for a cigarette, then stopped; she'd promised herself to cut back.
She'd planned to spend the day on the boat, perhaps checking in on Jack that afternoon at his parents' home in Waves. Now an empty Saturday yawned. She had paperwork to do, but the thought of the office appalled her.
That was one good thing about her job—you weren't tied to a desk. Mr. Moulton, the supervisor, had told her that a good parole officer spent time with clients. Sometimes it was rough. You had to deal with people
society had junked. You had to understand them, what had gone wrong inside them, and try to help it go right. It wasn't easy and it didn't pay much, but you could make a difference; you could help people sometimes. And that was what she wanted to do.
Specifically, she thought she could help Tiller Galloway.
Sitting there, trying consciously not to think of a cigarette, she turned the case over in her mind once more.
Tiller Galloway was a felon. A drug smuggler, his record said; convicted under the 800 series of 21 US Code (A), Illegal Importation of Controlled Substances. She knew that the recidivism statistics on druggies were appalling, especially those in the management side. For most of them release was like returning from vacation. The lure of easy money, vast quantities of it, was too great, the deterrent of three to five years in prison too weak.
But Lyle Galloway III didn't fit the norm. He seemed to be making a genuine effort to turn away from that life. Her degree was in psychology and she tried now to think of Tiller Galloway subjectively, as if she were writing a case study.
She knew he felt guilty about his father's death. And there were other skeletons there, things he'd done when he worked for the shadowy Colombian he called only the Baptist. He'd refused to discuss them with the prosecuting attorney at his trial or with anyone since. So he hadn't turned his back completely on his former life. But he seemed genuinely to be struggling, fighting with his personal devils for some kind of redemption. Beneath the boozing and the cynicism she had an idea he was still plain and strong and at bottom even honorable as his Hatteras ancestors.
And that, unfortunately, was his problem. Because along with that, bound with it like one weak strand in a strong rope, he still had the streak of greed that had made him a cocaine runner.
Besides, she liked him. Not romantically; that would be disastrous, both for her career and her own peace of mind. But she admitted to some attraction. He was older than she was. But she liked older men. They knew what they wanted and they weren't so—childish.
Her thoughts moved from there to Keyes. Another older man. The odd feeling she got when he was around. He was attractive, but there was something else there too. She wasn't sure yet what. It might be dislike. It might even be fear. Whatever it was, it made life more interesting.
She reminded herself that she had to find out just what he wanted from Tiller.
She glanced lazily around the inlet. All was quiet in the ruddy morning light. On one of the fishing boats men were repairing a net, but for most of the locals a weekend was a time of rest. Even the pile-driving barge at the new pier-and-condo complex going in on the south side of the basin was silent this morning. Still thinking of Keyes, and how fine the decision might be between dislike and attraction, she looked ashore.
A man was watching her. An old man, short, stocky, with a nondescript face and intent hazel eyes and a tan deep even for the island. His Lacoste shirt, chinos, and tan bucks would have blended at a yacht club, or at the new golf courses in Duck Woods or Kitty Hawk. But here he stood out. When he caught her glance he came slowly down the pier, stopping opposite the boat.
"Good morning."
"Hi."
"May I come aboard?"
"I can't give you permission to. It's not my ship. Did you want something?"
His eyes slid forward, examining the boat, then came back to her. Close up, she saw he was older than she'd thought at first. He looked as if he'd been strong once, strong and ruthless. Now he was fragile. The strength had gone, leached by time like carbon from rusting
steel, leaving only its form. Judging by those eyes, it had left the ruthlessness as well. His lips twitched into a not very convincing smile. "I'm looking for a friend of mine. About six-three, maybe forty-five, generally wears a gray suit. Have you seen him?"
'You mean Mr. Keyes?"
"Keyes. Yes. Is he aboard?"
"No. He went ashore with Tiller—he's the captain—I suppose for the morning. They'll likely be back this afternoon, if you want to stop again."
"Perhaps this is better after all. Would you give him a message?"
"Sure. What is it?"
"Tell him that Tarnhelm is ours."
"I don't understand."
"Just tell him those three words. He'll understand."
"T-A-R—" He spelled it out.
"And what does that mean?"
"It's a personal message."
They stared at each other for a while across the lifelines. At last she said, 'You'd better write it down," and took out her case notebook. He nodded, looking at her closely, and slowly extracted an old-fashioned fountain pen from his slacks. After a moment he blew on the pad and then handed it back. 'Tou're a very suspicious young woman."
"Sorry, but it helps, dealing with the people I deal with."
"What kind of people do you deal with?"
"Former criminals."
"How unfortunate," said the old man. "Will you give him my message?"
"I'll give it to him. That's all I can promise."
"Thank you."
He was turning away when she added, in a louder voice, "And can I tell him your name?"
He stopped, as if considering, and then half smiled. "He'll know who I am."
She wanted to ask more questions, but he was already out of earshot, walking stiffly away up the pier. A silver and black 280 SE pulled out from behind the office, its driver leaning to open the door for him.
She hopped off the locker, holding the pad. She craned her head above the cabin, to make sure he was out of sight, and opened it.
"Tarnhelm is ours," she whispered.
She found that she didn't like this a bit. She stared at the car for a moment more, then taking out her own pen jotted down the tag number and followed it with a terse description of the man, the driver, and the car.
Shortly after noon Keyes slid to a halt between a Jeep and a rusty Ford pickup that gave off, in the heat, a powerful odor of fish. Galloway walked behind him as they strolled down the pier toward the boat. At the south end the pile driver was banging away. Thud ... thud ... thud, like the bass drum of a marching band. "Hell of a racket," said Keyes, inclining his head to it. "But I guess a new pier will be worth it. This one, I wonder you don't break your neck on it at night."
"Not for me. I've got my notice."
"What do you mean?"
"There was room for
Victory
at Harry's Dock. There isn't any at Blackbeard's Harbour. They gave me two months' notice."
"Then where will you go?"
"Don't really know. The old docks and piers are going fast. It's all charter boats now, or motor yachts—Yankees with gold chains on their necks and women on both arms." Galloway shrugged. "Maybe on the mainland there'll still be something."
They found Hirsch asleep on a pile of life jackets arranged in a shady corner of the pilothouse, a diet Pepsi and the stub of a fried-Spam sandwich beside her. One of Caffey's books on coelenterates lay spine up on the deck. Galloway nudged her with a toe. "Hey. You got nothin' better to do than hang around here?" "Oh, hi." She stuck a fist into a yawn. "Guess I fell asleep. Hi, Mr. Keyes."
He smiled down at her and she saw immediately that he was interested. There was no mistaking that look. She sat up, reddening at the thought of lying there sprawled out. She tugged her T-shirt lower, suddenly conscious of the way her nipples showed through the fabric, of her stockinged feet. This was not the way a Dare County parole officer ought to look.
"How's Jack? Any word?" Galloway asked, from down in the cabin.
"I called his house. The doctor said he'd be on his feet in a day or two."
"Good. Thanks." The last word was barely audible.
"Oh. Mr. Keyes. Here."
"What's this?" He took the paper suspiciously.
"A man came by while you were gone. Not long after eight. He left this message for you."
While Keyes examined it she watched his face. Watched it freeze, and the blue eyes tense. Then, a moment later, change to surprise. When he glanced up at her he looked puzzled. "I don't get it. Who did you say left it?"
"Late-sixtyish man, about five-eight, tanned, green polo shirt, tan slacks. Driving a Mercedes. Or rather, being driven by a young chauffeur."
"Doesn't clang any bells for me."
"Are you sure?" she said, watching him closely.
"Sorry."
"Tiller?"
She couldn't see him, but she could imagine Galloway, belowdecks, shrugging in silence. Keyes handed her back the pad.
"Look, I got his tag number along with the description. I could trace him from the office. If you want—" she left it hanging.
Neither man responded immediately. At last Galloway called up, "Dick? What about it? Want her to check it out?" "I don't see the point."
"Thanks, Bernie. But I think we'll just wait till he comes around again. If he does."
She stared at the notebook for a moment, then closed it and padded down into the cabin. Galloway had gone forward, invisible for the moment. She found him bent over an open locker, jotting a list on the palm of his hand with a ballpoint.