Luis had provided them with a good-sized bucket and Quill, who'd been wondering how they were going to pass the long hours until ten o'clock, figured that they might not have enough time to display a respectable catch if they happened to be accosted by annoyed and affronted policemen.
The dark came quickly, as it always did this far south, and as it came, the wind rose. The clouds in the west flared briefly in a last, martial show of red, and full darkness followed. Lights came on over the water. A large yacht sailed by, portside lights blinking frantically, then a small and efficient-looking sloop. A large fishing charter roared by, temporarily sending the mullet in frantic disarray. The man in the Chris-Craft, too far away to hail, turned on his running lights and shone his spotlight into the water.
Meg had netted several pounds of mullet, which flopped in the bucket until she filled it with sea water.
The wind buffeted the little boat with increasingly harder gusts. Finally, Quill pulled up anchor and set the throttle on low.
By nine-thirty, everyone had left the water but the Chris-Craft. Quill was worried. It was becoming increasingly harder to keep the Verity steady. Meg had to bail out the bottom more than once. They'd both strapped their life jackets on.
"Should we go in?" Quill asked.
Meg shook her head. "Another fifteen minutes. That's all we need."
Quill turned the Verity toward shore and glanced over her shoulder. The clouds from the east were a mass blacker than the night, coming up fast, obscuring the pale moon and the halfhearted light of the stars. At ten-fifteen, Quill said, "I'm killing the lights." She snapped off the running lights. The darkess was intense. Slowly, her eyes readjusted. In a few minutes, she could see Meg at the bow in the faint light from the stars and moon.
Meg unpacked the infrared binoculars, focused, and looked intently toward shore. "I see them," she said loudly, over the roar of the waves and the wind.
"They're putting to."
"What are they sailing in?"
"What?"
"I said, what are they sailing in?"
The wind dropped suddenly, and Meg's voice came through clear and too loud. "Just a little twenty footer. Got a big motor, though. At least a hundred fifty horse. It's a cigarette boat, I think. I can even see the name. Class Act." The wind sprang up like an animal surprised, and Meg lost her balance. "Whoops!" She lowered the binoculars. The wind was strong, whipping the wig's black hair into her eyes. She tore it off and stuffed it in the mullet bucket.
She opened her mouth, but Quill could only hear occasional words through the gusts. It was like listening to a radio with static. She shook her head and pointed to her ears. It was becoming harder to see Meg as the clouds advanced across the sky and the moonlight dimmed and brightened erratically. Meg gestured forward, and Quill steadied the bucking boat with one hand on the gunwales, the other moving the throttle against the wave action to keep them steady. They were in a following sea. They moved forward faster than the motor, the waves pushing them inland. Quill did her best to keep steerage, maneuvering the Verity slightly ahead of the water. Their father, who'd spent half of his life on the ocean in the navy, had told them both from the time they could walk, You panic against the sea, and she'll drown you. You accept, moving with her, as you move with a horse, and she won't take you down. Or at least you've got a fighting chance.
The trouble was that a stiff breeze inland was a wind of twenty knots or more out on the water. And Hurricane Helen - wherever she might be, was at last sending her outriders to plague them on the water.
The red light of the number nine buoy appeared at starboard. Eyes to the binoculars, Meg waved one hand frantically. Quill swung the tiller hard over, slowly, to face into the waves. They were at the mouth of the channel, and she did her best to find the current in the rough water. The light of the buoy bobbed, a steady beacon. The red and green lights of the Class Act showed briefly behind the buoy, and then the buoy light was totally obscured as she rounded it.
Meg turned and crawled over the seats to Quill. The redistribution of her weight, as slight as it was, caused the Verity's nose to soar upward. Meg's (or rather Luis's) straw hat had long been blown overboard. Meg pushed her hair out of her eyes and wordlessly handed Quill the binoculars. She took the tiller and Quill raised them to her eyes.
For a moment, all she saw was eerie shadow land. The headland behind the buoy sprang into weird relief. The infrared gave everything a Martian glow. She brought the lenses lower, caught the buoy, missed it, and then focused on Evan Taylor's intent face. Corrigan was at the tiller, and he was a good sailor. He kept the craft steady as Evan reached over the side, a waterproofed canvas bag in one hand, a heavy strap in the other. He lashed the bag to the buoy with swift, muscular twists of his arms, then signaled thumbs up. The Class Act motor roared, and the boat disappeared. Quill was left staring at the bag attached to the number nine buoy.
Meg put her lips close to Quill's ear and yelled, "Well?"
Quill gave her the binoculars. "They did it!" she cried. "They left it there."
Meg, her eyes to the buoy, grabbed her hand tight. "Look!" she shrieked. "Look!"
Quill took the binoculars back. It took her an agonizing length of time to find the marker again. And when she did find it, she shouted, "Hey!"
The heavy seas had tom the packet open. Newspaper plastered the red light, wrapped wetly around the buoy joists, and disappeared into the heaving water.
"There's no money at all!" Meg shrieked. "They stiffed him!"
"We should have a camera!" Quill shouted back. The Verity hit a huge wave and she fell forward. Her head hit the seat. She righted herself with difficulty.
"... get the tote!" Meg screamed.
"What?"
"We have to get the tote! Evidence!"
"Damn." Meg was right. A prosecutor would make mincemeat of their unsupported testimony. She watched the waves glumly. The light from' the buoy pitched up and down. Meg was going to have a devil of a time unstrapping the tote from it, even if she could get the Verity close enough. A water-soaked tote bag filled with soggy newspaper might not be enough to convict, anyway.
"We've got to try!" Meg yelled.
Quill nodded. The wind had taken her hat off long ago, and her hair whipped wildly around her face. The lights of Palm Beach gleamed less than a quarter mile away.
She shoved the throttle half open and began the slow maneuvering to get the boat to the buoy. Meg sat in the center seat, gripping the sides of the boat, face set. Quill turned to port, misjudged the water, and veered off the back of a large wave headed for the point. She maneuvered starboard, catching the face of the next one. The Verity slid forward faster than her motor and it coughed and died. Quill snapped the starter rope; the motor coughed and failed. She snapped it again. The engine caught and held.