Dana Stabenow - Dead in the Water

"So?"

"So, we can tack it over that hole I made in the roof of the dugout."

"Barabara."

"Whatever."

Her smile was reward enough for the thought, and realizing it, he knew he had it bad. In the air the following morning, when he banked the Cessna for a last look at the honeymoon suite in the hot springs, he was sure of it.

As they climbed another thousand feet, over the sound of the engine Kate said, "You think somebody got shot in the barabara?"

"Yup."

"Maybe somebody who was hiding out from somebody else?"

"Yup. "

Kate was unable to keep herself from wondering which one. Alcala or Brown. The sexy ascetic or the teddy bear.

Whose dried and darkened blood had it been that had spilled over the cardboard cases, had mingled with the gravy oozing from the broken cans and dripped down, to lose all color and identity until it became one with the dirt floor?

Could have been both, she realized. No reason why not. The mental picture of the two young men, spending the remaining minutes of their lives cowering between the cases of pork and beans and the rolls of toilet paper, was enough to keep her silent all the way back to Dutch.

KATE opened the door into her stateroom and found a human pretzel in the middle of the floor. The pretzel shifted and there was a flash of bleached blond hair.

"Andy? Is that you?" All the relaxed sense of well-being acquired over the last twenty-four hours abandoned her in a rush and she jumped forward, the heavy wooden door banging shut behind her.

"What?" In a single, sinuous twist, the human pretzel resolved itself into a long, lanky human with blond hair flopping into his thin, earnest face. "What's wrong, Kate?"

Kate stared at him, her mouth open. "For a minute I thought-what the hell was that?"

Andy dropped forward, his forehead on his knees, his body folded forward like a cherry popover. "What was what?"

"What you were doing!" she roared, her voice a furious husk of sound. "What are you doing?"

He popped erect, looking bewildered. "It's only yoga, Kate."

"Yoga! Yoga?"

"Sure. You want me to teach you?"

"Yoga." She pulled herself together. "I don't think so. I am not partial to twisting myself into anything it doesn't look like I could twist myself back out of unassisted."

He rippled to his feet and ran an impersonal finger over her shoulder. "You're strong and fairly supple." He poked her deltoid muscle with a critical frown. "Probably wouldn't be hard to get down a few of the more basic moves."

"No," Kate said, stepping out of range, "I don't think so. Thank you all the same."

Andy, sure that she was only waiting to be convinced, insisted, "Hatha yoga is the yoga of physical well-being.

It helps you find harmony, and peace of mind, and true happiness. You'll sleep better and sounder, your tensions will diminish-"

"The tension alone I get from rooming with you, nothing could diminish."

"Plus your disposition will improve," he observed.

Kate took a deep breath and managed a smile. "My disposition doesn't need improving, thank you."

He shook his head disapprovingly. "You're so resistant, Kate. I'm going to have to do something about that."

What scared her most was that he might succeed.

They left Dutch Harbor on the evening tide and were pulling pots in the Gulf of Alaska thirty-six hours later.

The halogen lights mounted on the cabin illuminated the Avilda's deck and nothing else; the fog was back with a vengeance, as if in retaliation for the one perfect day.

The swells, too, were increasing, long, slow swells that came in from the southeast, each one higher than the last, making Ned Nordhoff shake his head and mutter into his beard. He climbed the ladder to the bridge and Kate saw him arguing vociferously with Harry Gault. A few minutes later he was back on deck, his face red beneath his beard and his voice curt.

The first pot they pulled had half a dozen Dungeness and a pollock inside it. "Garbage," Ned growled, and hoisted the pot over to Andy and Kate. They opened the door, tossed the dungies and the gasping bottomfish over the side, rebaited the pot and tied the door shut again.

Something about the pot bothered Kate but by then the next pot was aboard and routine took over.

The second pot came in, as empty as the first one of anything harvestable, and gloom settled in on deck.

A crew share of nothing was nothing. Still they went through the motions, pulling, baiting and resetting. Kate wondered why the skipper didn't tell them to stack the pots on deck, to set them somewhere else, because the tanner had obviously vacated this part of the ocean for greener sea bottoms elsewhere.

It wasn't until the sixth pot in the string that the nagging feeling clicked over to recognition. "Hey," she said, puzzled. She looked at the yellow ties holding the door of the pot closed. "Andy, you're a southpaw, aren't you?"

"Yeah.

"So your wrap on the door ties would go this way.

Right?"

He stared for a moment. "I guess so."

"Show me. Tie one."

He reached for the twine, his fingers moving slowly and clumsily, making several false starts. "It's harder to do when you're thinking about it," he apologized.

Finished, he stepped back.

"Uh-huh," Kate said. "See? Your hitches go the other way around. You didn't tie these," she elaborated when he looked mystified. "And look at the bait jar."

"What about it?"

"I use a becket to hang our jars. That looks like some kind of granny knot." She raised her voice. "Hey, Ned?

Come here a minute, would you?"

There was a responding growl next to the pot launcher and Ned materialized out of the fog, which had thickened into a gray-green soup that swirled and eddied all around them. "What?" he asked sarcastically. "The kid making suggestive remarks about your ass?"

"What can he say except that it's perfect?" she snapped back. "Look at this."

"Look at what? I don't see anything."

Kate, holding on to her temper, said evenly, "Somebody's been at these pots before us." She showed him the ties and the bait jar.

"The shots are coming up tangled, too," Seth said from behind Ned, "and the bridles don't look right, either."

Ned examined the knots, and they waited. An oath ripped out that singed the ears of his listeners and he turned to make for the bridge ladder. After a moment the Avilda's engine settled into a low, neutral purr and Ned returned to the deck with the skipper at his heels.

Gault's mouth worked soundlessly and his face slowly reddened as he looked at the door ties and the bait jar. The rest of the crew waited, Seth impassive, Andy nervous, Kate watchful.

Ned said something to Gault and was waved away with an abrupt movement. "It's that fucking Johansen on the fucking Daisy Mae again," the skipper spat. "This time I don't take it lying down." His grin was mirthless and malevolent when he added, "This time I know where the little prick's pots are."

"It's not worth it," Seth said, his voice as clear as it was unexpected. "We shouldn't take chances, not with what else we've got going-" He looked over at the rest of the crew, hesitated and said, "It's not worth the grief we'll get from the owners if they ever find out about it."

"I don't give a damn what they say in Freetown!" Gault yelled. "I don't grab my ankles every time Freetown says bend over! Secure the deck and rig for running!"

Gault returned to the bridge. Ned and Seth exchanged a long glance. Seth shrugged, and Ned growled, "You heard the man. Secure the deck."

Andy looked bewildered. "What do we do with the pot? We need to dump out the garbage and bait it, right?"

"You got a hearing problem, blondie?" the deck boss demanded. "The skipper said dump it."