Randy White - Twelve Mile Limit

I said, “That’s right. How’d you know?”

“Dalton Dorsey described you. From Coast Guard St. Petersburg? I’d like to speak with you privately, Dr. Ford, after I’ve talked to the group. Commander Dalton said you’d be the perfect person.”

“The perfect person for what?”

“I want someone to help me find out why that boat sank. Every single little detail, so I can make it public.” She dropped the formality then, the tone of her voice communicating pain, as she added, “The rumors are killing me, Dr. Ford. I don’t know what makes people so mean that they’re saying these kind of things, but none of it’s true. I didn’t know the other three people very well, but those poor souls aren’t even here to defend themselves, which is absolutely infuriating.”

“That’s understandable,” I said. “Some of the stuff floating around is pretty silly.”

“I’m an attorney. I know that the best way to fight a lie is with the truth. I’ve met my share of private investigators, but I’ve never met one who was qualified or equipped to do the kind of research it’s going to take to find the real facts and make them public. Commander Dorsey told me that you might be just the guy.”

I said, “That’s a compliment. Dalton’s a good man.”

“I like him, too. Very professional, plus, my guess is, he’s got a little circus going on inside him, which I tend to like in people. When he told me about you, first thing I did was look you up on the Internet. No web page-which I found surprising-but you’ve published a lot in journals, and enough of your fellow scientists have quoted your work, so there was plenty to find.”

“I had no idea,” I told her. “A while back, I had an interest in the Internet. I still use it, but just for research. So I haven’t bothered to check out what’s on there about me.”

She was nodding, pleased to be sharing information. “The thing I like is, you’re not attached to any agency. No government funding. You do your own work in your own way, and you obviously know your way around boats and the water. So I’m inviting you to help me figure out what the hell went wrong out there. Your opinion would carry a lot of weight with people who live along this coast, and the media, too. I want my reputation back, Dr. Ford, it’s as simple as that.”

I looked into her face. The late winter sun burnished her skin with a klieg-light gold. In that harsh, parchment light, I could see how she would age; how she would look in ten, twenty, even thirty years. Amelia Gardner was not pretty. She had never been pretty. But she possessed a handsome, prairie-woman’s plainness that is uniquely American, and that I, personally, find far more attractive than the predictable, painted masks of film stars and beauty queens.

Hers was a good face with a strong jaw, eyebrows darker than her red hair, full pale lips, no makeup at all, and a corn-silk down that grew below her temples. There were a few pores visible, and a faint acne scar or two that implied a difficult adolescence. She was an outdoors person with horizontal sun wrinkles on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes; the tennis-player, mountain-bike type who was also a professional. She had a sloping nose shaped like a ski jump and, yes, cat-green eyes. In that brilliant light, her eyes glowed as if illuminated from within, showing little specks of blue and bronze.

I said to her, “I’d like to help, but I’ve got a job, Ms. Gardner. The one person who I could trust to take care of my lab, Janet Mueller, is gone now. I’m sorry.”

I was surprised when she reached and put her hand on my shoulder, a fraternal gesture not often used by women, particularly women strangers. “I want you to think it over. Listen to what I have to say about what happened three weeks ago, then talk to me later. I’ll stay as late as you want. The thing is-”

I said, “What?”

She had her arms folded now, looking at me, and, from her expression, I knew she was trying to decipher the most productive approach for the brand of person she was dealing with-me. How was I best handled? What would be the fastest, most effective angle? It is an increasingly common phenomenon, a calculated brand of assessment and manipulation that may well be taught in business and law schools, yet I find it offensive.

Finally she said, “I have to follow my instincts. So here it is: There’s something I want to tell you, but you have to promise me not to tell the others. You’ll understand why later. If you promise, I’ll take you at your word. I don’t meet many stand-up guys these days, but maybe you’re one of the few.”

“Stand-up guy, huh?” I didn’t say it, but I assumed that what she had to say had something to do with her behavior after the sinking, some guilty secret, a burden she now needed to share.

She seemed surprised by my tone. “Is there something wrong with me thinking you’re trustworthy?”

“We just met.”

“Like I said, I’m going on instinct.”

I was shaking my head. “Sorry, Ms. Gardner. I’ve known the people at this marina much, much longer than I’ve known you. I respect what you did that night, but talking to me privately is the same as speaking to the entire group. If there’s some secret you want to share or maybe even confess, I suggest you contact a priest. But please don’t tell me.”

I could see that it irked her that I’d correctly deduced her religion, and she was clearly annoyed that I was questioning her intent. A friend once told me that newborn redheads ought to by law come with a warning tag on their toe.

Amelia Gardner had a temper. I saw her face flush, her eyes glitter, as she lowered her voice to say, “First of all, pal, I don’t need some oversized, sun-bleached nerd with Coke-bottle glasses to tell me when to see my priest. And second, I’ve got nothing to confess. I’m going to tell you anyway, and if you want to risk hurting Janet’s friends, go right ahead. But I will not play some little role you’ve dreamed up.”

She took half a step toward me, an aggressive move, hands set on broad hips, her nose not much lower than mine, as she added, “This is it: I can’t prove it, but I think there was another boat out there that night. Early that morning. A boat without lights. I saw it. I’m sure I saw it. And I think it may have stopped.

“Commander Dorsey says I was probably imagining things, but I know what happened, I was there. I think it’s possible that they got picked up, Janet and the others. Why else didn’t we find them? What I’m telling you, Mister Doctor Marion Ford, is that I think there’s a chance, a very slim chance, they might be alive.” Then she spun and stalked away, pissed off, demonstrating it by refusing even a chance of additional eye contact.

I stood there, watching her, and gave a private little whistle.

Tomlinson was right. A powerful woman.

I went to my house to change shirts before rejoining the party, reviewing Amelia Gardner’s words as I walked, her nuances of speech, wondering if she really might have seen a boat. Was it possible?

The woman was still much on my mind when I peeked into my lab and flicked on the lights. My pattern of thought shifted instantly. Aloud, I said, “What in the hell is going on in here?”

Two more stone crabs were missing. I’m so familiar with my stock that I knew right away. The heavy glass lid was on the tank, but the little metal vise I’d used to seal it fast lay on the lab’s wooden floor, in a streak of water. I stooped and touched my finger to the tiniest fleck of crab shell in the water.

Someone was sneaking in and stealing my specimens. Someone too sloppy or hurried to replace the vise. Who and why, I couldn’t fathom.

But my eight remaining octopi were still in their covered tanks. That, at least, was a relief. As I checked them, I sensed the solitary, golden eye of the largest Atlantic octopus tracking me from beneath its rock ledge. Its extended tentacle was still throbbing gray, pink, and brown as I switched off the light and locked the door.