A chilly morning in late August when frost sheathed the railings and mist clothed the firs in ghostly rags at dawn, thickening to a dense fog as the day wore on, hiding the world, the sun growing no brighter than a weak pewter glare, and Wilander lay beneath the linden tree, drowsing, clad in T-shirt and boxers, wrapped in a blanket, now and again opening an eye to squint at the grayish-white grainy stuff into which the deck disappeared, then falling back asleep, having a trifling dream or two; and, when he woke to see a dark shape in the mist, a phantom shape, he refused to believe in it and shut his eyes, but when he looked in that same direction a minute later, it was still there, closer, darker, more fearsome, undeniably real, and he sat up, clutching his blanket, shouted, Hey! Hey! and stumbled to his feet, overbalanced, caught himself on the railing, and so was standing in a half-crouch among the linden boughs, gaping, his heart slamming, as Terry Alpin hove into view wearing his official uniform, black leather jacket, jeans, T-shirt, holding a cigarette that released a thread of smoke, making it seem as if that slim white tube had once contained all the mist and was down to its last trickle.
Wilander straightened and adjusted his blanket, striving for dignity, and pushed aside one of the boughs to give himself a more complete view of Terry. Where the hell did you come from?
—Boat. Terry glanced off along the deck. Damn! It must be eight, nine years since I been out here.
—Boat, said Wilander dully.
—My dad’s launch. Terry gestured at the door of the officers’ mess. I can get down to the engine room that way, right?
—What do you want down there?
—I’m gonna see if I can find my Uncle Frank’s initials. It’s where he used to sleep.
—Your uncle was part of the crew?
—Naw, man. When Viator ran aground, when people were coming out to rip shit off, Frank, he thought it was pretty cool, this big-ass ship in the middle of the trees. Then him and his wife had problems, so he says, Fuck, I’m moving to Viator. He didn’t stay long. Maybe a month. He said it was making him sick.
—Sick…like how?
—Sick in the head, dude. He was having fucked-up dreams and shit. Hey, your bathroom work? That’s one thing really messed up Frank. Having to walk through the hold, so he could go outside and piss. It was so dark down there, it freaked him out.
—Everything works, Wilander said, muzzily trying to frame a follow-up question.
Terry tore off one of the linden leaves and examined it. Weird. These should’ve started to turn. Couple, three weeks, we’ll be into winter pretty much.
—Yeah, well. We’re having kind of a fifth season out here. Lots of weird stuff. Feeling a chill, Wilander caught the blanket more tightly about his throat. What do you want?
—What do I want? Not to be here, man. I got shit to take care of. Arlene wanted to find you, so I rode her out.
—Arlene’s here?
—Yep. Terry flipped his cigarette over the railing.
The idea that Arlene had boarded the ship both dismayed and pleased Wilander, and for a second or two he was unable to react. Where is she? he asked.
—Trying to find you, dude. You might want to clean up before she sees you. You look like you been sleeping with the dogs.
Wilander hesitated, uncertain in which direction to move—his cabin, for a clean-up, or should he try to find her now? The latter, he decided; otherwise she might encounter one of the crew and he did not trust their reactions.