Billingsgate Shoal (30 page)

"Yep. And unfair too. But we're stuck with it.
Come on, let's go destroy our intestinal tracts."

On the way to the Yangtze River, Joe said he had some
promising news.

"We've located the
Rose
,
Charlie. And you'll never guess where she is."

"Probably not."

"C'mon, guess."

"Gloucester."

"Shit. How the hell did you know?"

"Lucky guess I guess."

"How did you know, Charlie?" asked Mary.

"Because it's the most unlikely place for a man
of Schilling's cunning to leave her."

"Is there something you're not telling me?"
asked Joe.

" 'Course not. Now look, here's a parking
place."

Two hours later, after ingesting gobs and gobs of hot
sour soup, fried dumplings with hot sesame oil and white vinegar,
moo-shi pork, Szechwan spicy beef, garlic shrimp, peppered broccoli,
and so on, and having wreaked perhaps terminal damage on our
alimentary canals (the top half of which we were now conscious of,
and the bottom half of which would manifest itself during the next
several days), we returned home.

And speaking of digestive systems, when we opened the
kitchen door and saw our new friend, I again pondered that most
ancient of nature's mysteries: how is it possible that a four-pound
dog can produce—in an incredibly short time—eight pounds of
excreta?
 

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE
ROSE
WAS sitting out there in Gloucester Harbor swinging lazily around her
hawser like a pregnant duck. Joe had two men staked out watching her,
They'd spoken to other crews as well. Nobody had seen hide nor hair
of the men of the
Rose
.
Nor had the harbormaster. This didn't surprise me. I considered that
the
Rose
had been just
a bit too easy to find, just a wee bit too conspicuous. I departed
the harbor with Mary and we drove down through Manchester. We headed
along Rudderman's Lane.

"No answer at all? How many times did you try?"

"Once. The operator said the phone had been
disconnected. Either Laura Kincaid has changed numbers—getting
another unlisted one—or else—hah! I was right. Look."

The Kincaid abode was for sale. The sign was in
front, and the downstairs curtains were all drawn,. We stopped and
got out to look. Mary drooled over it.

"Gee Charlie, I wonder what they're asking for
it."

"I figure half a million minimum. If you think
it's nice outside, you should see the interior."

We walked around. If anyone asked what we were doing,
we had a perfect excuse. The lawn was as trimmed as ever. New grass
was beginning to sprout thickly over the ugly scar in the lawn where
the oil tank had been put in. Mary said she wondered where Laura had
gone. I was wondering the same thing. Out of curiosity I rang the
bell. Waited. Rang again. We heard the same distant pealing of
Westminster chimes, but nothing else. Nobody home.

"Level with me, Charlie. What the hell's going
on? I want to know. Now. I'm sick of all this screwing around. What
the hell's going on in your mind?"

"A number of things. One: I don't think Laura
Kincaid is as rich as she led me to believe. I don't know why I think
that, I just do. Two: wherever Jim Schilling is, he's not going to
come back to the
Rose
for a long time. The Coast Guard search, and the watch on the
Buzarski place when the pinch takes place—will all tell him that
the
Rose
is poison. If
he's going to run any more batches, it'll be by some other means."

"Oh wait. I forgot to tell you, but while you
were on your little cruise, Joe and I looked over your notes and your
spare chart of Billingsgate Sound. We came up with a pretty neat
theory to explain how the boat happened to get grounded on the shoal
in the first place."

When we were home she showed me. She took a pair of
dividers and placed one point on Billingsgate where we'd first seen
the stranded boat. She then extended the other leg toward Wellfleet
Harbor.

"Now, Charlie, I remember you said that
Penelope
was lucky to make it into Wellfleet without sinking."

"Right. She barely scooted in."

"Now you also said, from looking at the pictures
you took of her, that she'd been near sinking before."

"That line of oil slick could've happened either
after her collision or after leaving Billingsgate Shoal. It probably
happened after she struck."

"So she came close to sinking twice, in all
probability. Assuming she got this far almost sinking, it's then
reasonable to assume that she could have traveled about the same
distance the first time, right?"

"Ah hah! Yes, yes. You're saying that the point
where she struck is the same distance from Billingsgate as
Wellfleet."

"Look."

She drew the far point of the dividers in a big
circle on the chart. The point swept past the neck of Great Island,
went out into the bay, swung back, and came to rest within the
circular dotted line on the chart encircling the zone marked
Prohibited Area. And right smack in the middle of it was the symbol
of a wreck and the words target vessel, do not approach within 1000
yards. It was a clever bit of reasoning. If correct, it meant that
the
Penelope
(now the
Rose
) had struck on
the wreck.

"Wouldn't it make sense, Charlie, to go to a
place that's prohibited?"

"It sure would. Especially at night. If you had
a rendezvous to keep, it'd be perfect, knowing no other vessel's
going to come within a thousand yards of where you are."

A lot of small craft violate the warning during the
day, especially fishermen because the wreck attracts fish and
lobster. But at night it would be just about foolproof. And they
could use the old wreck as a drop too; hide the stuff inside it and
scoot, then the pickup could take place hours later.

"Sure. But supposing they had an accident during
the rendezvous and struck part of the wreck, or the rocks around it.
Then they would probably head for the nearest harbor."

"Uh huh. But if they were taking on Water too
fast they would know they could never make it, so they'd head for the
nearest safe place, which happened to be Billingsgate."

We looked at the chart. Mary drew her fingernail
along the easternmost edge of the shoal.

"They slid the boat up here in the falling
tide," she said. "Then they worked on the hull or whatever
in the dark."

"And I happened to see them. I bet they still
had the guns aboard too. I think that's why Allan Hart died."

"Really, how come?"

"Well, they're sitting in the harbor waiting to
get the hull fixed and who appears but a diver, poking around under
their hull. Also, do you remember the diving cap Allan was wearing?
Remember it was loaned to him, a U.S. Navy cap?"

"They saw it and panicked."

"Could have happened. They could, have beaned
him right there in the harbor thinking he was on to them."

"But why did they let the boat be hauled up into
that place?"

"What choice did they have? They had to
skedaddle and you can't do that with a boat that's going to sink.
They had a quick patch job done and then split. We saw them leaving.
I've never seen a boat more determined to make time than the Penelope
was."

“
So you think our theory is pretty good?" she
asked.

"I think it's just dandy. I had considered the
Longstreet
before but
never in a specific way. Your little explanation seems to put the cap
on it. Also, they haven't shelled the wreck in two years, so even
though it's officially prohibited, and no doubt treacherous, it's
safe from bombs. Yeah—you and your brother are to be
congratulated."

“
You're pretty sure
Rose
is a decoy?"

"Yep. I bet you Schilling and his people are
operating out of Plymouth. It's pretty far from Gloucester; it's near
Boston and Southie, and it's big."

"Well we're going to drop this thing anyway,
right?"

The phone rang; it was Brian Hannon.

"Just touching base, Doc. Remember, don't go
anywhere far without letting me or my office know, huh? I've got
people watching your house and loved ones. You try to go anywhere,
I'm gonna follow you like B.O."

"You remind me a bit of B.O."

"That's not funny."

I thanked him and hung up.

"I wonder if Jim's put
Whimsea
up for the winter yet?"

"One more fishing trip?"

I nodded.

"My hand's almost as good as new. That means
I'll be returning to work shortly. I'd like to enjoy thoroughly what
little screw-off time is left to me. I think I'll give him a jingle."

But before I reached the phone, it rang out.

"This Doctor Adams?"

"Yes, who's this?"

"Now listen heer, Doctor. I'm tremendous upset
you set yer goons ta watchin' that barn, don't ya know? They're
muckin' up me plans. Now you call 'em off or there'll be the devil
pay. You tell 'em. I was kind the first time but twawnt be again—"

The line went dead.

"Who was that?"

"Wrong number,"
I answered, and dialed Jim DeGroot.

* * *

"I am amenable to such an excursion, especially
since you have volunteered to buy all the gas," said Jim
languidly as he stretched his feet out on the rattan stool of his
screen porch. We were sitting out in the fall sunshine, watching the
colors beginning to turn, and exercising our livers. "But we'd
better do it this weekend 'cause it's getting close to the end of the
season. Think there'll be any stripers there?"

"Probably tautog. They're thick in that part of
the Bay because they feed off the quahogs and scallops. Got teeth in
'em like a gravel crusher. But I also want to do some snooping around
and I can't use my boat; they're already on to it. Uh, don't mention
this last bit to Mary or Janice, OK?"

DeGroot rattled the cubes in his empty glass and
pondered. He said he didn't want anyone shooting at us. I told him
there was scarcely a chance of that; we'd be fishermen. So we struck
the bargain. Next Thursday we'd head south to Plymouth, then over to
Wellfleet and the Bay, then back to Plymouth. It would cost me a
small fortune in gasoline, but I felt I had to take one more try.”

Mary and Janice were none too pleased. But we
emphasized it was a fishing trip, nothing else. I suggested that Mary
stay at DeGroot's during my absence. This was arranged to everyone's
satisfaction. My children had let me know their whereabouts, via
Brian Hannon's office. Tony, his summer "job" ended, had
taken up residence at the home of a girl he'd met at the resort. I
phoned him there.

"Do her parents think it's OK?"

"Oh sure," he answered.

"May I speak with one of them please?"

"They're, uh, not here right now."

"Well when are they expected back?"

"Pretty soon. Look I have to—"

"Wait. When is pretty soon? Half an hour?"

"Next month actually."

"'Next month? Where are they?"

"Sri Lanka."

A female voice cut in. It was young and delicious.

"Doctor Adams? Hi! I'm Jennie! Listen there's
really nothing to worry about. You see my older brother and his girl
are here too and—"

"I'm so glad. You can?t imagine my relief. May I
speak with my son alone for a second please?"

"Dad?"

"Look. I'll be brief and direct. Keep it in your
pants until you've taken all the pills. Secondly, don't come near the
house. You can reach Mother at the DeGroots'. Good-bye."

I called Jack at Woods Hole. He was staying in a dorm
at the Biological Station with some friends. He asked if Jim and I
were to visit The Breakers, and I told him it was unlikely and for
him to stay clear of the place.

Thursday afternoon at one, we left.

Before heading for the Cape Ann Marina I checked
Gloucester's main harbor. The
Rose
was still there, deserted. I called Joe at the Commonwealth Avenue
headquarters.

"I take it nothing has happened regarding the
Rose
."

"Nope. But it will. You have any ideas?"

"No. You remember Jim DeGroot? Well, we're
taking off for a few days aboard his boat. Why don't you jot down a
few particulars, so in case we don't turn up you'll know where to
look. But don't tell Brian Hannon I called you."

"He just called me. Wanted to know where you
were. Said he was going to stick to you like Duco."