Читать книгу Anne Bonny's Wake - Dick Elam - Страница 10

CHAPTER 4

“Watch your damn wake!” she screeched like an owl. The newly disguised hag waved a clenched fist.

The Bear powered past the Anne Bonny. He throttled back, and his boat’s wake rocked our boat.

“I said, watch your damn wake! Watch your damn wake!”

If the Bear didn’t hear her harpy tone, he couldn’t mistake the fist she shook.

The Bear throttled back, waved a passing salute, and gunned his motor.

A larger wake rocked the Anne Bonny.

The Bear looked back, and she raised her middle finger.

Spirited bluff, I thought. She’s a helluva poker player. She didn’t hesitate to back her hand. Her hand? Hell, she staked herself with my boat, my neck, and didn’t even name the game. She didn’t wait for me to ask.

“Let’s see what I can cook for my husband’s breakfast.”

She lowered herself into the cabin, raised the sweatshirt, and extracted the butcher knife. She wiped the knife with a dish towel and laid it alongside the other kitchen knife, then opened the cabinet above the sink.

I stayed in the cockpit and watched the Bear’s boat return to the Pamlico Sound. I watched until only a wake remained.

Checked my digital watch. 7:08. Time for breakfast, but I wasn’t hungry.

“Wait on the breakfast. We need to talk,” I called down.

“Please. Can’t wait on my empty stomach,” she pleaded.

Bill Havins would have provided me a country-boy comparison, such as “I been to a pig picking and two county fairs, but I ain’t never seen anything like this.” I needed to talk with Havins as soon as I could sail to Oriental. Might raise him now on the VHF radio.

Why hadn’t I radioed the Coast Guard when the Bear reached for his shotgun? What would I have broadcast? “Mayday. Mayday. Big Bear with shotgun chasing bare-breasted woman.” That message might lure listeners. I imagined fishing boats rushing to Bear Creek because the mermaids were schooling.

“You want to come down and light this stove?” she called from the galley.

I saw the Bear’s motor wake had dissipated. I climbed below. She stepped aside and surrendered the lighting job with a wave of her upraised palm. And I got a lecture.

“Missed your cue when I asked if you wanted to keep the stove burning,” she said. “When you didn’t answer, I shut the stove off.” She operated as if she had invited me aboard.

“Lady, pardon me, but you strain my hospitality,” I said. “Would you be kind enough to tell me who you are, what you are doing here, and what the man with the shotgun wanted?”

She answered, but with a question: “Sure. Where do you keep your matches?”

“In the bottom drawer.”

“Got ’em. What next?”

“Next, you explain what’s happening, and who you are.”

“Sure. Would you light the fire?”

I took the matches and fired the burner.

“Well?”

“I’m Maggie Moore from Hilton Head. I was swimming to save my life. And that guy chased me because I was trespassing. What’s your name?” She opened the oven, found the skillet, and placed it on the burner top.

“My name is Hersh Barstow.”

“Hersh as in Herschel?”

“That’s right. Maggie as in Margaret?”

“No way. My dad named me Maggie. Right there on the birth certificate. I’m named after a 1890s Australian stage star. Full name is Maggie Adelaide Moore. My friends call me Maggie.”

“Tell me about the trespassing.”

“Women aren’t welcome at cockfights. Especially when their escort carries a news camera.”

“Where was the cockfight?”

“Somewhere between here and Hobucken. Little village off the Intracoastal Waterway. I’ll show you on your chart. You’re a good sport about all this.”

“I’m trying. Tell me about your escort.”

“Works for the Raleigh News & Observer. Met him on the dock at Belhaven. By the way, I heard you mention eating oyster fritters at Belhaven. I could have been there last night if I had played my cards right. Found bacon in the icebox. Got any eggs? Never mind. I found them. Here’s bread. You make toast in that oven?”

“We’ll get to the food later. Tell me about the News & Observer man.”

“Young, about thirty. Short, about five foot six and a half inches tall. Wears glasses. Blond hair. Answers to Rick. How am I doing? I once worked as a secretary and receptionist at the Wilmington Police Department. What do you do for a living?”

I ignored her question.

She spooned the instant coffee and refilled our cups. She waited for the water to boil, her arms folded over her large padded bosoms, her hands rested on her pillowed stomach.

“Where’s Rick now? Why were you swimming—ummmm—topless?”

“Good question. I don’t know. You got any jam for the bread?”

“You don’t know where he is? You don’t know why you were swimming? What is it that you do not know?”

“Sorry. I knew why I was swimming. And I guess I would have had to stay in the water all day to keep anybody from seeing I had shed my sweatshirt. You really want the whole story on an empty stomach?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Rick was sneaking up to the cockfight. He was shooting fast film, ASA 1800, so he didn’t need a strobe light. He told me later there must have been twenty guys in this lighted barn. I could hear them yelling, mostly cussing. He left me with the motorboat. They didn’t know I was there, but I heard someone yell, ‘Stranger’ at Rick. Then I heard, ‘What’s he doing here?’ Rick told me he said he just wanted to watch, maybe bet. Rick had hid his Nikon camera behind his back. The man shouted at Rick to stand still. I heard that. Well, in just a minute I heard Rick running. He fell down in the dark, grunted, lost his camera. I heard someone yell, ‘He’s here. Come on.’”

The teakettle began to steam but not whistle.

“Water should be hot enough?”

“Probably. Go on with your story.”

“Well, Rick and I decided to run for the Neuse River, Rick turned northwest, created a false wake, and then headed back this way. When we heard a motorboat running wide open, we took off for the next lighted Intracoastal marker. We ran wide open, and then idled back and listened.

“Still chasing us. The motor was growing louder.”

She took out two plates, lifted an egg to each, and then decorated my plate with bacon. She served like a trained waitress.

“After a couple of miles, we heard the other boat gaining. That’s when I decided to tune the motor. I knew more about a Mercury motor than Rick did. I leaned the intake. We ran faster, but the motor noise behind told us that we didn’t gain any distance.”

She pumped more water into the teakettle, placed the kettle back on the burner. She looked through shelves and found salt and pepper, knives and forks in the cupboard drawer.

She sat across the table and pulled paper towels for napkins. I waited for her to start eating.

“You waiting to say grace?” she asked.

“No. I was just being polite.”

“My dad always made us say grace. You raised in a family like that?”

I nodded. I couldn’t imagine this disguised hag as a young girl. She looked over forty. She also looked silly. Her left bosom sank lower than the right.

Maggie mopped up her egg with her bread, topped it with the bacon, and folded the bread into a sandwich. She ate at a measured pace, leaving me to carry the conversation.

The golden bacon tasted like an October morning, just crisp enough to waken your taste buds. Maggie had cooked the egg to correct softness—breakable with the touch of my fork. And I ate too fast. My egg and bacon disappeared. She had eaten all her bread. I offered her my uneaten piece. She nodded thanks and took the bread without stopping her rhythmic chewing. Her jaws moved, but her lips—still marked with a number 2 pencil—parted only to take in food.

“How did you get out of the Intracoastal Canal, into the Neuse River, and to here?” I asked.

She took another bite of bread, then answered. “Outran the other boat to the Neuse River. Stayed ahead to Maw Point Shoal.” She chewed her last bite of bread.

“We cut behind the Maw Point turning mark. Looked back and saw running lights. And that boat following us also cut inside. We knew then that we had no advantage because of our shallow draft.”

“Who—and how did you identify who—was chasing?” I asked.

“The big guy wearing the red pants was chasing. He kept gaining. We could see his white wake as well as his running lights. Ahead, we could see the flashing Piney Point inlet buoy, so we headed for that buoy.”

She cleaned the plates into the garbage bag, sponged off the dishes. She mixed more instant coffee. I stood on a step and looked across the cabin and saw no other boats. Stepped down, went forward, and opened the hatch above the V-berth. I stood on my toes and couldn’t see any boats off our bow. Bear Creek looked clear.

Morning breeze circulated through the cabin. Dishes wiped, the stove out, the bacon smell gone, I sipped slowly on my third cup. Remembered I should watch my caffeine intake, particularly on lazy mornings.

She sat at the table, her glutinous head almost touching the kerosene lamp mounted on the bulkhead. Between coffee sips, she sponged off pencil marks and dried her face with a paper towel. Despite her matted hair, she looked no older than thirty. She showed few facial wrinkles.

“Excuse me for stringing out the story. I haven’t eaten since supper, and I haven’t slept, either. I’m not sleepy, but I sure was hungry. Not to mention, I didn’t want to stay in the water all day. Was beginning to feel a lot like Eve when she and Adam discovered they needed something more fashionable to wear than a fig leaf.”

Although amazed at her command of details, I was uncomfortable with her offhand account.

“What time did you reach Bear Creek? I’m a light sleeper. Didn’t hear any boats last night.”

“We never reached the Bear Creek inlet buoy. The guy didn’t get close enough to fire his shotgun. But he was gaining on us. That’s when we turned in to shore. Cut the motor before it touched.”

She sipped her coffee, then continued:

“We wanted to run aground, so I steered while Rick stood by to lift the motor. Big thump. Rick jerked the motor up, and we coasted closer to shore. Rick grabbed a paddle and started pushing off the bottom. I grabbed the other paddle and poled on the other side. I don’t think the guy could see us because of the trees behind us.

“The guy knew we were in the shallows. We heard him circling in deeper water. We continued to pole ourselves along the shore. Pretty soon we poled into deeper water. Rick decided to try and escape under motor. If I waded ashore, Rick said he could go faster with only one in the boat, and besides, I think Rick wanted me out of range.”

Her matter-of-fact tone pinned no medals on Rick’s gallantry.

“I also knew a trick I used to fool my babysitter. I would stuff my bed with pillows and sneak out on her. I suggested we rig decoys.

“I wrapped Rick’s shirt and my sweatshirt around life preservers that we fitted around boat paddles, blades sticking up to resemble our heads. Found a piece of rope and tied one padded dummy to a seat. I took off my bra and used the straps to lash a second dummy to the other seat. I told Rick to keep his belt handy to lash down the wheel and dive overboard if the guy got too close. With the dummies in the boat and the boat running wide open, the big guy might not notice when Rick dived overboard. Good that Rick’s black skin would be harder to see in the dark.

“I only wore my cut-off jeans and panties after we rigged the dummies. I kicked off my boat shoes so I could swim better. Slipped into the shallow water, pulled myself along the bottom. Rick waited until I reached the shore, then he raced his boat back into the river.

“The other boat must have been circling back. Anyway, Rick got a head start. The big guy took after him. The mean guy was gaining when the two boats raced out of my sight.

“I think I heard gunshots, but I can’t be sure. I hope that Rick dove overboard and the guy shot at our dummies, instead of him.”

“What time was that?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but I swam and waded the shore for several hours before I reached this part of the river. This is Bear Creek, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Um . . . I bet you want to know why I’m here. Dawn caught me in that open field across from you. I didn’t want to be seen. Decided to hide in the water, and your sailboat looked like a good hiding place. I didn’t intend to come aboard, just hang onto your boat. But you saw me swimming, invited me aboard, and I thought, why not? Sorry I got you into all this.”

“Glad I could help, I think. Where do you go next, back to Belhaven?”

“I guess I should. That’s where I left some clothes. I was planning to hitchhike a boat from there up to Chesapeake Bay.”

I knew young people worked on yachts for meals and a trip to or from Florida. The free rides don’t come easy now. Newspaper stories tell how a pickup crew overpowered owners and commandeered the boat to smuggle drugs. Boat owners hesitate to take aboard people they don’t know. And yet, here’s a crew I didn’t audition. Am I crazy?

Maggie demonstrated good boat hitchhiking skills. Performed expertly in the galley. A good galley slave counted more than two deck hands. I assumed she wasn’t a sailboat kidnapper. Logic, and my criminal justice readings, told me I had no reason to make that assumption, but I liked what I saw in Maggie Adelaide Moore.

“Maggie, I’m going the other way. I can take you up the river here and let you off at a town.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Or, you can ride to Oriental and catch a ride there. I’m taking the Anne Bonny back to Wrightsville Beach.”

“That’ll work fine. These clothes are as good as the ones I left in Belhaven, anyway. Sign me on for Wrightsville Beach.”

Could have told her she misunderstood. I could have repeated “town,” or “Oriental.” I could have said I meant I was sailing alone to Wrightsville Beach. But I didn’t.

She pulled up the sweatshirt and removed the pillow. I turned my head and busied myself writing in the log book:

8:17—fuel 40 percent, amps ¾—to Oriental

I went topside to get under way toward Oriental, and in three days sail to Wrightsville Beach.