The boat had cost him thirty-seven thousand dollars-more than Humphrey had paid for his small bachelor's home, back in Gainesville, when he went to work at U of F. It had wiped out three-quarters of his savings, but it was worth every dime for the freedom it gave him, the means of pursuing his lifelong desire.
Not that Humphrey could pursue that dream alone, of course. He was too old for that, by far. No pirate he, with years of sea raiding behind him, muscles toned from trimming sails, swabbing decks and hand-to-hand combat. He had missed his chance, spent years in school as both student and teacher, before he ever dreamed that the buccaneers he idealized still existed in a modern world of jet planes, nuclear power and the information superhighway. It had come as a complete surprise, the single greatest shock and thrill of Humphrey's life.
He was sailing this day, off to pay a little visit, as it were, but he wasn't sailing by himself. He knew the way by now-Kidd trusted him with that much, after all that he had done for the seagoing brotherhood-but Humphrey's strength and health were not what they had been in younger days. Whenever he went off to visit his new friends, Kidd needed warning in advance, and he would send along a man or two for crew and company.
This morning, waiting for him on the dock, were two of Kidd's men whom Humphrey recognized, although they hadn't previously pulled the escort duty. One was Pascoe, a stocky, balding sea dog in his late thirties, who shaved his scalp in defiance of the bare patch on top. He wore a tattoo of a grinning skull and crossbones on his chest, now covered by a denim work shirt with the sleeves cut off to show his burly, sunburned arms. The other was a skeletal rogue with greasy, shoulder-length hair, who called himself Finch. The long scar down his left cheek crinkled when he spoke and when he smiled-the latter event occasioned only by sporadic references to acts of bloodletting.
"You're late," Finch said, as Humphrey came along the pier. The duffel bag he carried as his only luggage was slung across one shoulder.
"No, I'm not." Humphrey didn't consult his wristwatch, knowing he was right on time. Finch always tried to pick an argument with anyone available, and it was best to put him in his place or simply ignore him. At the moment, Humphrey hoped he had done both.
"Let's get on with this," Pascoe said. "We're burning daylight."
Humphrey recognized the line but couldn't place it. Was it from a John Wayne movie? Never mind. He climbed the gangway, taking his time about it, dispensing with any further pleasantries. The men Kidd sent to chaperon him on these little jaunts weren't chosen for their winning personalities, nor were they meant to keep him entertained. Kidd never said as much, but Humphrey knew that even after all they'd been through, there was still suspicion in the pirate's mind, a fear that Humphrey would betray him somehow, change his mind about their mutual arrangement and lead the authorities to Kidd's lair. In that event, Humphrey knew, his payoff would be a swift death and a tumble overboard to feed the sharks, as befit any traitor.
But that would never happen, Humphrey knew. He had no intention of betraying Kidd or the others. It had never crossed his mind, in fact. Why should it, when the whole arrangement had been his idea to start with? He had dreamed about this moment all his life, without imagining that it could ever really come to pass. It was a fantasy from childhood, carried over into the adult domain with no good reason to suspect that he would ever have a chance to live it out.
How many men his age-or any age, for that matter-were ever privileged to truly realize their dreams? It was a first in his experience, and nothing in his life, he knew, would ever be the same again. He had already passed the point of no return, and there could be no turning back.
Not that he wanted to turn back.
Again, the possibility had never even crossed his mind.
"How long have you been waiting?" Humphrey asked, addressing the question to no one in particular.
"Feels like all damn day," Finch said.
"I make it forty minutes," Pascoe said.
"So, we're ahead of schedule then," Humphrey declared. "Just as well, because there are a few things I forgot."
"Such as?" Pascoe sounded suspicious now.
"Provisions," Humphrey said. In fact, he had forgotten nothing, but he liked to play games with his escorts, sometimes. Even when he yearned to be on Ile de Mort-an interesting name; he gave Kidd credit for the choice-it helped for him to have some measure of control.
"Goddamn it!" The disgust was evident in Finch's voice. "Go get the damn things, then."
"It would save time if you could do it," Humphrey said. "You know, since I have things to do on board, before we leave."
"Well, shit! You go," Pascoe said to his younger, long-haired shipmate.
"Why should I-?"
"It would be quicker," Humphrey interrupted them, "if you split up the list. Is that all right?" Pascoe was visibly suspicious now, while Finch was merely angry over the delay.
"You got some kinda list?" he asked, the corners of his mouth turned downward in a scowl.
"Won't take a minute," Humphrey said.
"No funny business while we're gone," the bald rogue cautioned him.
"I wouldn't think of it," Humphrey said honestly.
"All right, let's have it, then."
Humphrey chose wine and cheese, because the shops lay off in opposite directions from the waterfront and would compel his escorts to divide their forces. One more little goad, to keep things interesting, while he got busy stowing items on the boat and made ready to sail.
It was perfect. Humphrey almost felt like a fullfledged pirate captain himself, manipulating rogues who would have cut his throat in any other circumstances. Granted, it was Kidd's authority that stayed their hands, not any strength of Humphrey's, but illusions were like that, devoid of objective reality. And they still made him smile.
"Don't dawdle now," he told the grumbling buccaneers as they went down the gangway to the pier. "We're burning daylight, yes?"
IT TOOK REMO FAR Too long to cover the ground-make that water-between Fort-de-France and Puerta Plata, on the northern coast of the Dominican Republic. On arrival, he had made his first stop at a public phone booth, where he found a home listing for Ethan Humphrey, complete with number and a street address.
There was no listing for a Cutlass Foundation in Puerta Plata, but the name alone gave Remo a fair idea of what it would entail. An outward cover for his fascination with the pirates of another century, for starters-and beyond that, what? Was Humphrey working on a book, perhaps, that would establish him as the ultimate expert in his chosen, highly specialized field? Or was something more practical involved, perhaps the distribution of loot taken from the private craft his friends were raiding throughout the range of the Lesser Antilles?
No matter.
Remo took the phone-book page with the home address listing for Ethan Humphrey, showed it to a cabdriver and soon found himself paying a call on the former professor at his home. The dwelling was a smallish bungalow, a quarter-mile inland, located in a residential district that would pass for middle class by local standards. There were roses and bougainvillea in the yard, behind a low, white-painted wooden fence. No lawn to speak of on the tiny lot, but Remo was more interested in the house. It had smallish windows, trimmed with lacy curtains, and a green door that contrasted nicely with the whitewashed stucco walls. The roof was Spanish tile and well maintained. It could have been an advertisement from Travel a getaway for the man who had everything and needed a place to hide from it on certain special occasions.