‘And he heard shooting,’ Mary put in.
’There’s nothing you can do, Jerry,’ I told him. ‘It’s better to stay here. And keep Mary here. This thing… well, it’s a highly contagious disease… of a sort. ’
‘Of a sort?’
And then, with Jerry swearing from time to time and Mary’s eyes growing huge and frightened, I told them what I’d found out and what I’d seen. I was grabbing words in clumps and throwing them out, glad to be rid of them; but they left hollow impressions behind. When I finished we stood silent for a time. I could feel the pattern of my nerves tingling; felt as if the schematics of my nervous system were visible, glowing through my flesh.
Jerry twisted his hat brim. ’I wonder if they really would have done that?’ he mused. ‘If they really would have used it as a weapon?’
I said, ‘Probably not. The people who develop these things aren’t the ones who have the say on using them.’
He nodded, holding his hat so that his head dipped from it, exposing a wrinkled brow. He said, ‘I was in the army. Didn’t mind the idea of fighting. Never would of wanted to do a thing like that, though; ain’t no enemy deserves a thing like that.’
‘If only Elston had been more… courageous,’ Mary said. ‘A strange men, Elston. I’m not sure…’
‘Well, I reckon we’d best get Mary off the island,’ said the sheriff. He had slipped into his redneck accent; I wasn’t sure if it was deliberate.
’I doubt they’ll let anyone leave until. ’
’Hell, they can’t tell me not to go to the police cruiser. I’m still the law here… outside the compound, leastwise.’
‘They wouldn’t let me use the Coast Guard boat,’ Mary said.
’Different thing, that is.’
’We could try,’ I said.
‘Why, sure. Anyone tries to stop us, I’ll arrest him.’ He gave us a grim smile. ‘I’ll run you two over to the Keys. Guess I ought to come back, myself… although I can’t say I’m too damned keen on the idea.’
‘There’s no reason to; nothing you can do.’
‘That’s not the point, so much. Just that the sheriff hadn’t ought to run out on a thing like this.’ He was still mangling his Stetson; it was on the back of his head now, battered and twisted. His dedication was twisted, too; his sense of duty and obligation. I knew how he felt. Some insane part of my mind was telling me that I should stay on Pelican and see this out. It was more than getting a story, far more than a dedication to my work, but the turnings of such a resolve were too devious to follow, too sigmoidal to trace through the mind. I wanted to go.
Jerry said, ‘There’s no antidote at all, eh?’
‘They’ve not found one.’
‘And no one knows how long it will take for this thing to run its course?’
‘No.’
He shook his head. ‘Hell of a thing to do to a nice little island like this. Nice people. Well, let’s go down to the boat, let’s just see if we can…’
‘Jerry… if they let us leave… I don’t want you to come back here,’ Mary said.
‘Aw.. we’ll talk about that later.’
He moved to the door, drew the bolt and hesitated; then he threw the door open and stood back, with his gun ready. The street was empty. From the doorway we could look across the waterfront and out into the harbour. A large swordfish was hanging on a scale on the dock, hoisted up to be weighed and measured. Flecks of blue and green glinted in the drying skin. It would never be weighed now, never mounted. It seemed a shame. It was a big one; it had been caught at the wrong time, a death so vain it did not even bolster a fisherman’s vanity. The harbour was jammed with hobbling boats and there were navy boats crossing back and forth across the approaches. Jerry stepped into the street and looked both ways. A patrol was moving down the front, going away from us. There was no one else in sight. Mary and I moved out behind Jerry. I had forgotten the rifle; I went back for it. I followed Mary out and, as I did so, a loudhailer boomed from a naval gunboat.
‘Turn back! This island is under quarantine! Turn back at once!’
We saw the gunboat but we couldn’t see the reason for the command. Then, as we watched, a fishing boat slid into view, coming from the south. Jerry squinted at it. He said, ‘Why, that’s John Tate’s boat. What’s he doing out there?’
I said, ‘Tate? He told me he often ties up at one of the coves to the south, instead of using the harbour.’
‘He still does that? Old Tate! Used to do some free trading. Never very much; little rum or Havana. Hasn’t run a thing in ten years but he still clings to the image.’
Tate’s boat continued on its course.
I could see him on the bridge, a spindly old man with one eye and plenty of memories. The gunboat had veered towards him, intersecting his course, a white bow wave breaking from the grey prow. Tate spun the wheel and his wooden boat cut sharply to starboard. I had only met him the one time, but he’d left an impression. I could imagine him grinning with ferocious glee as he pitted his seamanship against the power of authority once again. He had run contraband past customs before and it was just like the old days — except he must have thought it a game, now, when he was doing nothing he thought illegal and could toy with them without fear of punishment or confiscated cargo. His small boat seemed to stand up on its stern as it changed course. The gunboat cut back, ponderous by comparison, and massive. The two vessels were dangerously close. The loudhailer sounded again. I couldn’t make out the words. Beside me, Jerry cursed violently.
‘They’re gonna ram him!’ he shouted.
‘Oh my God!’ Mary cried.
I saw Tate raise his fist, shaking it vehemently at the man on the bridge of the gunboat. He didn’t believe they were serious, I thought; he believed that some inexperienced navy captain was misjudging his approach and playing the game too close. Tate waved his gnarled fist, scolding the gunboat. The nimble wooden boat ducked down into a trough and the bow of the grey gunboat reared up. Tate’s fist came down; he still thought it was a mistake, but he realised it was a serious mistake. Then the gunboat rammed him.
Tate’s fishing boat went down within minutes.
The gunboat had taken the stern right off and veered away, like a bull hooking into a matador. I couldn’t see Tate. He must have been knocked down by the impact. Fragments of wood and rope dragged back from the gunboat, festooning the high prow and the bows of Tate’s boat pointed up to the sky and slid back and under. The water sighed as it closed.
The gunboat continued on.
Sailors looked back from the rails, but the boat never stopped. Jerry’s head was thrust forwards, the cords in his thick neck standing out like dark ropes, his throat rigged by rage.
He said, ‘They aren’t going to pick him up.’
‘No,’ I said softly. ‘They wouldn’t take him aboard… that wasn’t the idea.’
We looked, shading our eyes, but Tate never surfaced. Then we looked at one another.
‘So much for that idea,’ Jerry said.
We went back to the jail.
Mary had begun to sob hysterically. The sheriff put his hand on her shoulder and she clasped her own hand over his, her body vibrating. The tremors ran down Jerry’s forearm.
‘John Tate,’ she whispered. ‘Old pirate. He would have loved to live through this, wouldn’t he? It would have made such a fine story… better than how he lost his eye… how he eluded the navy gunboat. ’ She smiled sadly.