I don't know when I became aware of it. It crept upon me gradually as I was reading the paper. Sometime in the middle of an article about Ted Kennedy, I replaced the canvas rain hat upon my head and drew it down on all sides. I slipped my damaged hand into the depths of my thick woolen sweater, replaced the big dark glasses, and turned into my booth to gaze out the window, hunched over.
And yet if anyone were to happen upon the scene and ask me why I couldn't have answered. Perhaps it was that same message-sent coursing through my injured brain-that forced me to swim under the filthy waters of Gloucester Harbor rather than surface to be killed. Like a Canada goose gliding low over a duckblind, I veered warily. I sat hunched, invisible as I could make myself.
The sound I was hearing was the scuffing footstep of a heavy man pacing back and forth behind me. Underneath that sound I could hear, at intervals as regular as Old Faithful, the sniffing, snorting, of a man nervously clearing his throat. I listened for ten minutes. There was no mistake. The fearful hour in the cold water was indelibly burned into my memory. I knew.
Mr. X, the Quiet One, the lethal sneak who sandbagged people, was behind me.
The pine partition of the booth kept me out of view. In the momentary dizziness of my discovery it-was curious how my mind had remained in a rather pedestrian state as I stared out the window, watching the big draggers in the gray drizzle. I felt a thump at my back, and almost jumped out of my skin. I do not consider myself the least bit cowardly (I suppose nobody does), but the thought of that expert sapper behind my line of vision upset me. It upset me a good deal.
The thump was someone sitting down in the booth directly behind me, throwing. his weight back against the partition. Was it Mr. X? I wasn't about to turn around and ask. Had he seen me? Probably not. First of all, he certainly wasn't expecting Yours Truly, having assumed that green crabs and slimy things were now dining on my remains,. Also, there was the recent beard, the pulled down cap, and my general low profile. I listened.
If indeed the patron behind me was Mr. X, or one of his accomplices, it didn't come out in the talk, at least in the few words I was able to hear. There was a continual reference to dawn, which I later decided was Shawn, or Sean, but I wasn't I sure. The partition kept thumping me in the kidneys, as if the occupant of the next booth was on edge, or excited. I stared out at the boats in the rain. I focused in especially on the one I thought bore a strong resemblance to P enelope. I stared hard. The more I stared, the more I realized it wasn't her. Just wasn't, from a thousand big and little clues.
Perhaps one of these big boats was the one that thumped by me in the night… but Penelope was not among them.
"We ready'?" came another voice from the booth behind me.
'Almost."
Then they talked some more, their words drowned out by the clatter of dishes and chatter of customers. I looked at my I watch: 7:40. Jack was to meet me at 4 P.M. at Duxbury! Plymouth Harbor. If I failed to appear he was to call out the militia. Another thump hit me in the kidneys and I heard the booth patrons get up and walk away to the counter. I didn't move. Half a minute later the door slammed, and I saw the two men walking past the window. The bigger one was limping, ever so slightly. It was more a slight roll than a limp. It was Mr. X. He was wearing a yellow slicker and a blue billed hat. He had a dark beard. His shoulders were wide. Very wide. The man next to him hobbled along quick and nervous, like a fox terrier. There was something vaguely familiar about his manner. Finally I recognized him as the man in the runabout who had streaked for shore in Wellfleet Harbor to seek the much-needed repair job for Penelope. I remembered too the same man hobbling with great agility on the sand flats a few hours previous. The men reached the end of the dock and began to descend a ramp to their boat, which obviously rode on the water out of sight. But at the top the big man turned and stared at something. Then I saw him in profile, and I knew I was looking at James Schilling, presumed dead. My heart skipped about three beats in a row-
Schilling was momentarily frozen at the top of the ramp. What was he looking at?
Then I realized he was staring at the Hatton. He kept looking at her a goodly time. Then he swung around, slow and stately as a bull elk, and looked down at the water on the side of the pier opposite the ramp he was standing on. That's where I'd tied the dory. And then, he kept swinging around and fixed his level gaze in my direction, though I was certain he didn't see me.
I didn't like it. I was about to glide casually over to one of the phone booths and bunker down into it, back to the window, if he came inside again. It wasn't that I was terribly afraid he'd attempt something in a crowded restaurant. If so, assuming he carried no firearm or hidden machete, I would I get in a few good licks myself. Lord knows I had reason to. Besides I was getting to be an expert at fighting lately. But I had to remain invisible from Schilling. If he knew I wasn't dead, he'd keep after me. More important, he'd realize his cover was blown, and lie low or disappear. Had he recognized the Hatton? I remembered again the glare he shot us when I took his picture as we left Wellfleet. No doubt he'd gazed after the departing catboat uneasily. Now he sees a catboat in Plymouth. No. I was worrying unnecessarily. Still I couldn't help wonder if he knew, or even thought, that the man in the Schooner Race was indeed the same fellow who snapped his picture in the harbor. Had he put my two identities together? I thought of the photograph on my driver's license.
Schilling spun on his heel and they stomped down the ramp and seconds later I saw their dinghy-I swore it was the same one I saw in Wellfleet-heading toward the cordage company's commercial pier. I stared down at the empty plates and wondered what to do next. Wearily, I rose from the booth and paid my bill.
Then I entered the phone booth and dialed Mary. I told her what had happened, down to the smallest detail. There was a longish silence ion the other end. When Mary finally spoke, her voice was shaking. She told me to get home fast or she was going to call the police and make them fetch me.
"Goddammit Charlie! Goddamn you, how can you keep doing this to me-"
And so it went. On and on.
"Let me talk to Jack. Is he there?"
I got number-one son on the line and told him to meet me at Duxbury Harbor with the Hatton's trailer at dusk. Duxbury is next door to Plymouth. This meant he had to go to Wellfleet first, then deadhead back with the empty trailer in tow. But time was of the essence. I had located my quarry, and had no desire to sail back to Wellfleet in a boat that could be recognized. It would be a simple matter for a big steel dragger like Penelope to cut me in two with her high bows. That meant the cruise was going to end a lot sooner than anticipated.
But perhaps finding James Schilling, Mr. X, in Plymouth was more than just simple good fortune. Perhaps studying the charts and thinking a lot had paid off. Perhaps I wasn't as dumb as everyone seemed to think. I had some other theories too.
"Call me on the CB when you arrive in Duxbury. I may not be inside the harbor when you get there, but I'll be within earshot. Use the name Ella Hatton, not our name; we may have eavesdroppers."
He agreed and I told Mary not to worry, then rang off. As I emerged from the booth I felt resentful. Schilling was sharp and cautious. Of that there was no doubt. He had a keen eye and memory, and used them. The distant boat had alerted him immediately. I felt out-foxed, and the dunk in the harbor added to my anger. I had worked myself up to a pretty good rage by the time I was whining back to the mother ship. I clambered aboard Ella Hatton fuming. The son of a bitch! With a pipe clenched between my teeth, I had a think session of about ten minutes, then decided to approach the big pier and see what I could see.