An Incident At Bloodtide

samples?'

'Maybe, maybe, and maybe. But what would be the point? We've probably got the goods on them right now as far as taking on river water is concerned. We might even persuade the Coast Guard to make a call asking them to stop, assuming our friend Captain Marley was in a good mood. And they'd stop. If the Cairn Fishermen's Association decides they have enough evidence and witnesses now to take them to court, they'll stop. Then we'll be worse off than we are now, because we'll have tipped our hand. We didn't start this to prove Carver Shipping is polluting and stealing water; that's a sideshow. We want to find out if one of their captains is a killer.'

'So what do we do next?'

'You must enjoy hearing me repeat myself. However, since you insist on probing the devious and resourceful mind of this master investigator, I might suggest we have another option besides turning over these photographs and putting everyone, including Julian Jefferson, on guard.'

'What option would that be, O master investigator?'

'Work on our pal Chick Carver. He's a loose thread.'

'Loose thread? He's a loose cannon.'

'That too. But maybe we should pull on him for a while and see what unravels.'

'You think he was involved in Tom's death?'

'I don't know. What we do know is that he works for Carver Shipping, as an assistant to the head of security. He sure as hell knows about the water-stealing scam; probably everyone in the company down to the shipping clerks knows. Whether he knows anything about Tom's death is something we may find out if we pull at him a bit.'

'How?'

'Maybe he'll give us the answer to that question. He certainly is a persistent son-of-a-bitch, so I think it's safe to assume he'll make another pass at one or both of us. When he does, he may leave himself vulnerable in some way we can't know until he does it.'

'It sounds to me like you want to keep playing with him, Mongo. The idea doesn't much appeal to me.'

'I prefer my original metaphor of pulling on a loose thread,' I replied a bit testily. 'If you've got a better idea for forcing an investigation into your friend's death, please share it with me.'

'I still say he's a fucking loose cannon.'

'Then maybe he'll backfire.'

'I want to be perfectly clear about something, Mongo,' Garth said in a calm, casual tone of voice that, when combined with my brother's air of steely resolve, was always a powerful sign of danger. 'I understand what you're saying. If it were only you and me Sacra Silver was playing with, your approach wouldn't bother me; I might even enjoy the game. But Silver sees Mary as the prize in this contest; he's playing with, and for, her. And that's where I have to draw the line. So you play with him; pull his chain all you want. But if I meet up with him face-to-face, I won't be playing any game.'

I raised my coffee mug to him, nodded. 'I think I get your drift, brother. Perchance you thought I'd forgotten the danger Carver poses to Mary?'

'I didn't say that, Mongo,' Garth replied, uncharacteristically looking away. He picked up his binoculars from the coffee table and began scanning the river. 'I just don't want you getting pissed off at me if your loose thread ends up with a broken back.'

'We are in excellent communication, as usual.'

'So we wait?'

'Wait, keep taking pictures, and see what happens with Mr. Chick Carver.'

'Fine. Just so long as you remember what-' Garth suddenly stopped speaking, stiffened in his chair, then abruptly stood up and stepped to the railing of the deck. He was looking to the south through the binoculars.

'What is it, Garth?'

He motioned with his right hand for me to join him at the railing. I did, and he handed me the binoculars. Then he pointed downriver, toward an approaching tanker in the distance. 'Check it out.'

I peered through the binoculars, adjusting the focus. It was a big tanker, maybe seven hundred feet long, with a gray hull highlighted by red and yellow stripes along the waterline. As big as two football fields, the deck of the tanker was dotted with vent stacks, pallets of supplies, and large orange cranes on both its port and starboard sides. An enormous superstructure containing an elevated wheelhouse rose up into the sky at the stern end; painted white, the superstructure looked a bit like a three-tiered wedding cake. The tanker was negotiating its way between red and green buoys in an area where the deep channel crossed from one side of the river to the other, giving me a clear view of its length. The tanker's registration number was clearly visible on its stern end: 82Q510. Julian Jefferson was back in the neighborhood.

I said, 'Son-of-a-bitch.'

'Yeah,' Garth replied softly. 'That's what I was thinking.'

I watched as the tanker made its turn, then continued to proceed north, toward us. Suddenly two medium- size tugs appeared in my field of vision, coming from the north. The water at the stern of the tanker began to churn even more as the captain reversed his engines. A half hour later, with the help of the two tugs, the tanker was securely anchored to a permanent mooring offshore from the tool and die manufacturing complex across the river, perhaps fifty yards from the end of the complex's steel and concrete dock. A half dozen crewmen appeared on deck, and we watched as the men went about their business opening valves and attaching enormous black hoses that would be connected to fittings on the dock.

'So near and yet so far,' Garth continued quietly.

'Yeah.'

'You want to go rent some diving equipment?'

'I didn't think our mother raised any stupid children. When was the last time you were scuba diving, brother?'

Garth shrugged. 'Seven, maybe eight years ago-in the Virgin Islands.'

'You think you can find the underwater venting ports on that hull in total darkness, with a four-or-five-knot current nudging you in the ass?'

'You're saying we're not qualified?'

'I'm saying Mom wouldn't approve, and you remember, I'm sure, Dad's lectures on the difference between courage and stupidity.'

'I seem to recall him lecturing you on the difference between courage and stupidity. The fact remains that we have the ship that probably killed Tom sitting over there right under our noses. We don't know how long it's going to stay there, and we don't know when it will be back. We've got to go for it now.'

'Go for what?'

'I don't know. Maybe call the Coast Guard again. Something.'

'It would be a waste of time to call the Coast Guard. All they're doing right now is unloading a cargo of fuel oil.'

'Mongo-'

'Okay, let's go,' I said, hanging the binoculars on a peg on the railing.

'Where?'

'To see if we can't rattle the captain's cage, and see what transpires.'

Garth obviously liked the idea. He grunted his approval, then quickly fell into step beside me as I walked out of the house and headed down toward the beach. 'I thought the master investigator didn't think we should tip our hand.'

'The master investigator has changed his mind; master investigators do that all the time, which is one reason why we're master investigators. I said we didn't want to tip our hand to the company.''''

'That's not what you said.'

'This is-maybe-the captain who murdered Tom Blaine. If so, he may still be more than a bit edgy, and he might make a mistake. On the other hand, maybe what happened to Tom really was an accident, in which case Jefferson may not have any idea what happened. I just think it would be interesting to see how he reacts to us.'