beach of Singer Island with its hotels. Ahead lay the Atlantic. They really were at sea, at the edge of the Atlantic, and beyond that - ' Algeria!' Quill shouted. 'Whoop! You want to head due east?'
'I want to fish!' Quill looked over the side. The water changed beyond here to a deep, navy blue. If they drifted farther out, it'd be too deep for mullet. She debated about casting the anchor; it would slow their drift and the wind out here was quite brisk. She shaded her eyes against the sun and scanned the water. No evidence of mullet yet. The old man in the Chris-Craft was about three hundred yards to port. He spat once over the side, gave Quill a malevolent look, and opened his throttle. The boat shot away in a curve of spray.
'Follow that guy, Quill.'
'Why?'
'Because every time I've seen him bring his boat in, it's been full of fish. He's obviously a pro.'
The Chris-Craft slowed, throttled down, and stopped. Quill, squinting against the light despite her sunglasses, saw him cast his net from the boat with an efficient snap of the wrists. The net floated in an arc, then settled into the water. Leaning over the side, the old man pulled, heaved, and brought up a net full of fish.
'Yes!' Meg shouted. Quill pulled the rope start with an sharp tug and, at a sedate pace, edged to about a hundred yards from the Chris-Craft. She throttled down. They were in the middle of a vast school of mullet, racing out to sea. Their silver backs flashed in the water; one or two leaped out of the water in small, swiftly executed arcs.
'They're like little robot soldiers,' Meg said. 'They all look exactly the same.'
Quill touched her hat to the old fisherman, who gazed back at them expressionlessly and shouted, 'Hope you don't plan on settling here.'
Splat! Another gob of tobacco hit the water.
'The guys are out bowling,' Quill improvised. 'Told them we'd have a nice fish fry for them when, they got back!'
No answer. He probably couldn't hear her. Although his steady stare was a little unnerving. He undoubtedly' didn't want to share the mullet.
Quill dropped anchor. It was deep here and she failed to hit bottom. The weight would slow the boat, though, and give them a chance to cast the net.
'Okay,' she said to Meg.
'Okay what?'
'Okay, we're ready to fish.'
Meg bent over and dubiously regarded the net.
'Well?' said Quill. 'We're being watched, Meg, I can tell you that right now. And it's not just the old geezer there, either. Jerry and his team undoubtedly have high-powered telescopes or whatever trained allover this coast. Besides, you've been nagging me to fish for the past twenty minutes. So fish.'
The pilot of the Chris-Craft threw his net a second time, with what seemed to Quill to be an insultingly easy flick of his wrist. He drew it up full, swung the net into the boat, then deftly emptied most of the net into a large bucket. He disentangled the fish that had failed to escape the net, refolded the net deftly over his right arm, and cast it out again.
'It looks easy,' Meg said.
Her first cast was actually quite respectable, although the sinkers attached to the net. collided with the bulwark and the net failed to spread. The second cast was worse. The third was worse than that, and when the man in the Chris-Craft spat.loudly and with obvious contempt, her face turned pink. The fourth cast netted three very small mullet, which Quill insisted on throwing back.
Luis had provided them with a good-sized bucket and Quill, who'd been wondering how they were going to pass the long hours until ten o'clock, figured that they might not have enough time to display a respectable catch if they happened to be accosted by annoyed and affronted policemen.
The dark came quickly, as it always did this far south, and as it came, the wind rose. The clouds in the west flared briefly in a last, martial show of red, and full darkness followed. Lights came on over the water. A large yacht sailed by, portside lights blinking frantically, then a small and efficient-looking sloop. A large fishing charter roared by, temporarily sending the mullet in frantic disarray. The man in the Chris-Craft, too far away to hail, turned on his running lights and shone his spotlight into the water.
Meg had netted several pounds of mullet, which flopped in the bucket until she filled it with sea water.
The wind buffeted the little boat with increasingly harder gusts. Finally, Quill pulled up anchor and set the throttle on low.
By nine-thirty, everyone had left the water but the Chris-Craft. Quill was worried. It was becoming increasingly harder to keep the Verity steady. Meg had to bail out the bottom more than once. They'd both strapped their life jackets on.
'Should we go in?' Quill asked.
Meg shook her head. 'Another fifteen minutes. That's all we need.'
Quill turned the Verity toward shore and glanced over her shoulder. The clouds from the east were a mass blacker than the night, coming up fast, obscuring the pale moon and the halfhearted light of the stars. At ten- fifteen, Quill said, 'I'm killing the lights.' She snapped off the running lights. The darkess was intense. Slowly, her eyes readjusted. In a few minutes, she could see Meg at the bow in the faint light from the stars and moon.
Meg unpacked the infrared binoculars, focused, and looked intently toward shore. 'I see them,' she said loudly, over the roar of the waves and the wind.
'They're putting to.'
'What are they sailing in?'
