Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars Ch. 02

They dropped anchor that afternoon, a mile off the main channel in a protected harbor on the south side of Musket Island. He inflated the Zodiac and put the little Honda outboard on the thin wooden stern, then held her off with one hand while he pulled the little inflatable to Altair's bow. Ted was on the foredeck, getting the second anchor ready on the foredeck as he pulled up, and he took the anchor from him, put it on the Zodiac's hard floor, then turned to the motor and pulled the crank...

"Ready to pay out the chain?" he asked as the little outboard sputtered to life.

"I've got 200 feet ready. Is that enough?"

"Should be."

"I think we should tie the stern off to those trees," Ted added, pointing to shore. "Maybe keep us from swinging too much..."

"Not with these tides, unless you want to stay up all night paying out line," he said as he puttered slowly away from Altair. When he was fifty yards away from their first anchor he let this second one, a 44 pound Rocna, go; when it hit bottom he moved off a few yards then dropped the remaining chain overboard.

"Okay, back it down a little, rudder to port."

"Okay!" Ted called out, but by that time he was paying attention to Tracy again. Arms crossed over her chest, the same petulant expression on her face she'd worn all day. 'Not quite bored yet,' he sighed inwardly. 'But give it a few more hours...then the hurting will begin.'

The first thing he'd noticed as the day warmed and sweatshirts came off were the tell-tale tracks on her arm, and that had set off all his internal alarms. This was his ship and he was responsible for any drugs found on board, and that meant if they were boarded and drugs were found -- anywhere -- he'd conceivably lose the boat. His home. And that meant he had to proceed carefully, and quickly, to get to the bottom of this.

"So," he said aloud, "tell Ted and let him handle it, or do it myself?"

Do it yourself, the little voice in the back of his head said. Don't put this on Ted.

He nodded as he set a trip-line for the anchor, then he motored over to the rocky shore, to the crumbling remnants of an old granite quarry. He waved at an older couple anchored as he passed, noting their little sailboat had come all the way from Southhampton, England, and he shook his head, wondering what it would be like to be cooped up on a thirty foot boat in the middle of the Atlantic...for weeks?

The water was clear near the rocky shore as he slowed -- then beached the Zodiac, and he hopped out, walked the rocks for a few minutes, looking at Altair as he walked, at Ted and Tracy talking on the foredeck. He was not looking forward to this...no, not at all...

He looked-over the old quarry for a while, climbed among the rusted detritus wondering where these slabs of time had ended up. Some courthouse in Vancouver, probably, he sighed. He turned, looked at the sun...maybe an hour before twilight, so it was time to head back and get to it.

By the time he was motoring back he noted Ted and Tracy had gone below, and he groaned. 'God, not already,' he said inwardly...

He circled Altair once before he approached the swim-platform and tied off, and by the time he reached for the rail Ted was standing there, waiting, looking at him.

With a couple of baggies in hand.

And with what looked like a handful of insulin-type syringes in the other.

"What's all this?" he asked.

"Heroin," Ted said.

"Did you get all of it?"

"Unless it's stashed up her ass, yeah."

"Okay."

"I've checked already," his son added. "We can drop her at Powell River on the way up, in the morning."

"Is that what she wants?"

"No. She wants to stay."

"Nowhere to go?"

"Nope."

"No money?"

"A few bucks."

"What's with the McGill story?"

"Bullshit, for the most part. She came over a few years ago, dropped out after her second year. Been drifting ever since."

He nodded as he looked at his son. No, no longer a boy, that much was certain...but what kind of man was he going to be?"

"And what do you want to do?" he asked his son.

"Get rid of this shit."

"Take the Zodiac, get some rocks from the beach and put them in the baggies, take them off a-ways and dump 'em. Next, what do you want to do about her?"

His son looked down, shook his head... "I don't know, Dad. I just don't know."

"Well, whatever you decide to do is fine by me. I'm proud of you, by the way."

Ted looked up, smiled. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Never thought I'd hear you say something like that, Dad."

"Oh?"

"You're not the most demonstrative dude in the world, ya know."

The words hit him, hard, and he felt old and hollow inside for a moment, then he looked at his son again and nodded his head. "I am my father's son, Ted. Sorry."

"No need to apologize, Pops. I guess it just makes it all the more meaningful, ya know?"

He nodded again. "I'm going to put on some water for spaghetti. Is she in her bunk?"

"Yup."

"Is she hurting yet?"

"Yup."

"Goddamn it all to Hell," he muttered. "This isn't exactly what we had in mind, was it?"

"This is the world we live in, Dad."

"I must've missed something along the way."

"Somehow I doubt that, but it's a not the eighties anymore."

He smiled again, and nodded, then smiled as he said: "Maybe you should be a cop, Ted."

"Why not a pilot?"

"Because if you have a family you'll miss all the fun."

"And a cop wouldn't?"

"You got a point there, Bucko. Well, you'd better get to it."

"Right."

"Should I just ignore her?"

"No, I think she's expecting you. She saw you looking at her arms; that's when she came to me."

"Okay."

Ted pushed off and motored away, then he turned and stepped into the canvas enclosure on his way down below. Once in the galley he pulled-out a large pot and filled it with water, added some salt and olive oil then set it to boil while he pulled out a skillet and chopped onions and peppers, then set them on a burner in some more olive oil. Add a little garlic and cilantro, he thought, then a few cans of diced tomatoes and some basil to kick things off.

"That smells good," he heard the girl say, and when he turned he saw she was sitting in the saloon, her feet tucked-in under her legs -- and his heart went out to her sitting there. She looked like a used up waif, her life not beginning now, but in tatters.

"Next -- my secret ingredient, a good shot of Merlot..."

"In spaghetti sauce?"

"It's classy spaghetti sauce, kiddo."

"Like you, huh?"

"Me? I kind of doubt that..."

"I don't."

He turned and looked at her again. "How you feeling?"

"Strung out, burned out."

"Lost, and maybe a little alone?"

She turned away, started to cry...

"Knock it off, will you?" he sighed. "We're supposed to grown-ups around here...okay?"

"Sorry...I'm not feeling very grown-up right now."

"How are you feeling? Besides strung out?"

"Like I've been found out...by my parents, my father."

"And what would your father have done?"

"Beat me half to death, I suppose."

"And then...?"

"Him? He'd have gone down to the pub, I reckon. Had a few pints..."

"And your mother?"

"She wasn't around much, if you know what I mean?"

"No, I guess I don't."

"She worked nights, mostly."

"Nights?"

"On the street."

"So, let me see if I've got this straight...? Dad was a drunk and mom was a hooker?"

She nodded her head, looked away. "We were poor, lived in..."

"Pardon me, but I really don't believe a word you're saying?"

"What?"

"I don't believe you, Tracy."

She stared at him now, unsure of herself -- and angry.

"You told Ted you spent two years at McGill, but somehow I don't see a heroin addict raised in that kind of home ending up at a school like that. It just doesn't, you know, add up," he said as he turned back to his sauce.

"You think you know me...?"

"Who -- me? No, not at all. Point of fact, I don't know you at all. Second point? I don't think you know yourself very well."

"Oh, and what do you think I am?"

"In my limited experience, people lie like you are when they're trying to conceal something."

"Oh, and just what am I trying to conceal?"

"Beats me, kid. And even if you knew, which I kind of doubt, I don't think you'd tell me anything that even remotely resembles the truth. You want some wine?"

"Yes, please."

He poured her a glass of Merlot and walked it over to her, looking her in the eye as he handed it to her. "The thing is, if you want to talk, I'll listen, but I think I've already got the contours outlined in my mind."

"Oh, really?"

He walked back to the stove and stirred his sauce a little, sighing... "Yeah. Daddy was a rich man, Mommy was the drunk and she didn't get involved much, did she?"

"Involved? What do you mean?"

"He abused you, didn't he?"

"Abused? What do you mean?"

"I don't know. You tell me...?"

She looked away, took a big pull from her glass then looked at him again. "It wasn't like that, not really. I think he wanted to, but I don't think he had the courage."

"Now that's an odd choice of word, don't you think, Tracy? Courage?"

"Well, he always told me I was cute...too cute..."

"Ah, so it all comes down to restraint on his part? That's what you mean by courage?"

"I suppose so, yes."

"Because you're so, what, so irresistible?"

"Yes. I guess."

He looked at her again, careful not to say a word.

"God, that sounds awful, doesn't it?" she added.

He stirred the tomatoes and nodded his head. "Kind of, yes. What does your father do?"

"Imports mainly. Foodstuffs, from South America for the most part, I think."

"And he's wealthy?"

"Yes. Very."

"And mother?"

"She plays cards."

"And drinks a fair bit, I take it?"

She nodded her head again. "Yup."

"You want a salad?"

"Can I help?"

"Sure...I can always use a fresh galley slave..."

She laughed at that, and was still smiling when Ted came down -- and saw them both smiling and chattering away.

'God...I'll bet she never knew what hit her,' he thought, smiling a little at thoughts of other nights, and other interrogations.

+++++

'Yes...there it is again,' he thought. 'Something in the grass, moving this way..."

The pain in his right leg was almost overwhelming now, but the blood flowing from the wound had slowed a little after he put the coagulant around the penetrating metal shard, and though he'd wanted to shoot an ampule of morphine he knew he couldn't relax yet. Not now.

Then he'd heard something in the grass and curled up behind a large rock.

But then...nothing. Like as soon as he moved, the movement in the grass stopped...

He pulled some of the ragged parachute fabric over his body, trying to hide as best he could without disturbing the little structure he'd built, and then he'd lain still for minutes, trying not to move anything. Then he'd looked at his watch...

And cursed. Almost five now, almost time to check in with the E2 orbiting somewhere out there in the night, somewhere out over the Gulf.

He flipped the SART radio to active and pushed the transmit button: "509, 509, 509," he whispered, as per protocol. "509, in the clear on 243."

"509, sitrep."

"Something moving in on my position, being very quiet about it, too."

"Okay. Seal Team airborne at this time, be at your position less than two zero minutes. Jolly Green will be coming in behind them."

"509, got it."

"Hang tight, fella. The cavalry's comin'..."

He flipped the power to standby, turned his attention back to the marsh, looking for a shift in the shadows...when a new, sharper spasm of pain broke over him. He looked down at his leg, saw a snake of some kind coiled up beside his right foot and he knew, just knew, he was going to die just then.

He heard more noise in the grass then and looked up, saw a small leopard walk out of the waist-high reeds -- looking right into his eyes.

He was reaching down for his 45ACP -- slowly -- when the snake struck again.

This chapter (c) 2017 adrian leverkühn | abw | just a little fiction to wash away the evening