| Ahead, the trawler Emmy T. looked dark and deserted. She was beefy and sturdy, but with that slim-ankled delicacy of a well bred draft horse, her bow arcing gracefully forward over the rough wood of the dock. Teak railings dripped moisture on the Fiberglas hull, and the thickly woven nylon lines that tethered her were flemished neatly at their cleats like sleeping snakes. The only sound besides the drone of the neighboring television as TJ approached the boarding steps was the creaking of the wooden planks beneath his feet and the slap and slosh of the incoming tide. He conjectured creaking docks were probably part of the normal background noise in a marina, but as he mounted the steps and grasped the boat's railing lightly, the vessel dipped gently in its slip. You weren't going to board a boat this size without its occupants knowing about it. There wasn't any reason for stealth in this instance, but TJ's mind tucked the information away for future use -- after more than twenty-five years in the private investigation business, the need for caution had become a habit. It was the eerie quiet of an unfamiliar place that had preached caution to him, TJ decided. He shook it off and called out as he stepped up through the open rail gate, "Hello the Emmy T., anyone aboard?" He'd heard that phrase in some long forgotten movie and it sounded pretty melodramatic in his ears, but there wasn't any doorbell to push. Silence. TJ peered through darkened windows, then passed along the deck's narrow walkway to the stern, noting the only indication of possible habitation; a window open just a crack on the aft deck. It looked like a skylight, flush with the deck, about two and a half feet square -- what did they call the damned things on a boat? A hatch? He moved on, and when he had circled the vessel from the outside, he tried the sliding door beside the lower helm. It was not locked, and slid open with only the minor protest of the doorframe¼s aged, damp wood. The wheel was right out of the same old movie that had brought to mind the few things nautical TJ knew; a wooden circle with six ornately carved spokes, their rounded ends protruding from the circumference to fit snugly in the grip of curled fists. The spokes emanated from a brass hub whose shaft disappeared into the smooth teak beneath the helm. Above it was a bank of instruments. TJ recognized a compass, tachometer, fuel and pressure gauges, but the rest were foreign to him. Letting his eyes become accustomed to the dimness, he turned from the wheel to survey the main cabin. It reminded him of a studio apartment, compact and efficient. Behind the helm seat was the galley, comprised of a double sink, four-burner stove and apartment-sized refrigerator. On the other side of the salon was an L-shaped couch and a hardwood table with leaves that folded out. And just to the rear of the settee, another sliding door to the outer deck. On all four walls -- bulkheads he corrected himself, the term jumping to mind from that well of hidden Hollywood memories -- were vast wood-framed windows. Three hundred sixty degree visibility from anywhere in the cabin. A necessity when you were trying to avoid running into something, like a dock or another boat. No side mirrors here. The cabin was a masterpiece of functional design -- and it was totally empty. To the rear, two wooden steps led to a closed door, and just left of the helm seat three steps led to another. The sleeping quarters, according to the hastily sketched plan Harley had made of the boat; spidery pencil scrawls on a piece of lined tablet left with the keys on the chest in that tastefully decorated cell where he would spend his last hours. Aft, a large stateroom -- the Captain's quarters. And forward, two vee-bunks and access to the engine room below. The well leading down to the closed door was a close fit for a man his size, but TJ descended the two steps to the aft cabin, one hand on a teak grab rail, and knocked. When there was no answer, he opened the door. There were windows on either side as well as the glass hatch overhead, so the room was not much dimmer than the cabin had been. In the center was a queen-sized bed, complete with down comforter and square tapestry pillows depicting nautical scenes; lighthouses, a harbor of fishing boats. It was smooth and neat -- no one had slept there recently. Teak shelves and cupboards lined both walls of the stateroom below the windows, and a door to his left was half-open to reveal a bathroom with toilet, sink, and half-size sit down tub. A few toilet articles on a small shelf, but nothing there that didn't belong as far as he could see. The sink and its surrounding countertop were dry. TJ turned and started for the forward cabin. There was another teak grab rail along the wall where three steps descended at a much steeper angle than the two at the rear. TJ held it with his left hand and in an uncomfortable half crouch, with his shoulders touching the polished wooden walls, knocked before grasping the brass handle of the door and pushing it inward. It glided smoothly for about six inches, then jammed. He pushed a little harder, feeling bile rise in his throat when the door gave slightly, then sprang back. Whatever was blocking it wasn't completely solid; and the cloying odor that was drifting up through the partially open door, engulfing him, made his stomach lurch involuntarily. He forced himself to look down and examine the swatch of carpeting leading from the bottom step into the stateroom. The toe of a very scuffed dark leather deck shoe jutted toward the ceiling, its light colored rawhide laces trailing onto the deck. The door was lodged against the ankle of the bare foot that was in the shoe. |