Buried At Sea (38 page)

The Fiat van that pulled out of the hospital moments later raced through La Boca and crossed an iron bridge over the Riochuelo. It sped south on Route 2, the main highway to Mar del Plata, Buenos Aires's playground on the Atlantic Ocean. Twice it was stopped by police, who greeted the driver like an old acquaintance, took their regular bribe, and waved him on.

He told Jim and Shannon that he was a university student and only dealt fadopa to his friends. Later, a couple of hours out of Buenos Aires, while rolling along the edge of the pampas, he admitted that he'd been out of school for some years. The economy was bad and he held down two jobs in addition to these distribution runs. The third stop was at the hands of the provincial police, who were not at all friendly. Still, coimas is coimas, the driver had assured Jim and Shannon, a bribe is a bribe. The notoriously greedy, corrupt, and brutal provincial police, he maintained, "aren't about to kill the goose that lays the golden egg, much less overturn the applecart by searching the goose's vehicle." His assurances offered little comfort to Jim and Shannon, who envisaged drug smuggling charges compounding their predicament.

Huddled under a blanket in the cargo bed, they listened fearfully to boots crunching gravel. The provincial police circled the van, banging on the sides, shouting. The driver sat quietly, humbly taking the abuse. At last they accepted his bribe and waved him on. An hour later, Jim directed him to Captain Faveros's front gate. Shrubs, trees, and Faveros's mansion blocked the view of the Rio de la Plata, but Jim could smell the sea on the stiff wind. It was hauling around to the east, which wasn't going to make getting out of the estuary any easier. But tired as he was from the long, crazy night, the wind sped his pulse. Just a few more feet, a few more minutes, and they'd be under sail. The driver noted the ornate ironwork, the surveillance cameras, and the electrified fence. He whistled appreciatively. "Cha masa. Mucho guita. Rich man." Jim waited for the van to go before he rang the bell. Captain Faveros came down the driveway in an open jeep.

"I see you were successful, my young friend. Buenas tardes, senorita." Jim said, "Captain Faveros, this is my friend, Shannon Riley." Faveros hesitated when he saw Shannon's crutches. But he bent low over her hand to kiss it. "Welcome, Senorita Riley. Come in, come in."

Jim felt an intense relief as the jeep rounded the first curve in the driveway and they were no longer visible from the road beyond the locked gate. He said, "Could you drive us right to your dock?"

"You must have lunch. My wife is much better today."

"Thank you, Captain. But we have to sail immediately."

"I would recommend you wait. The wind has shifted. There's a cold front approaching. You might encounter the pampero. Stay the night. Sail in the morning." Jim saw little choice but to be up-front and hope that the retired officer was still in absolution mode. And that confession went both ways. "Captain Faveros, I have to tell you, the police are after us. We did absolutely nothing wrong, but the sooner we're out of here, the better for us. And you."

"Not to worry. I'll telephone my friend the district commander."

•

"It's the federals from Buenos Aires."

"I see."

"If we leave immediately, no one will know we were here." Captain Faveros drove in silence toward the water but stopped the jeep before the dock was in view. Jim's heart jumped. There was a patch of empty water where he had anchored Hustle.

"Where's my boat?"

Faveros ignored his question. "You must realize, it would be my duty to report your presence."

"I swear to you we did nothing wrong."

"That would not be for me to judge, though I have no doubt that you are a good person." He drummed the steering wheel for a moment. "Both good people." Then, with a perplexed glance at Shannon, he spoke decisively: "What you tell me explains what I've been hearing on the marine radio channels this morning. They are looking for your boat."

"Who?"

"Once I heard the name of your boat, I switched on all my radio scanners—VHF, SSB, and a certain cellular telephone scanner that civilians and even retired officers are not supposed to possess. Interestingly, it is not the navy that is looking, nor the policia, but, shall we say, 'private interests.' Certain fishing boats—smugglers—even a customs cutter that I happen to know is crewed by thieves. It appears there's a sizable bounty." Jim heard him through a roaring in his ears. Would the McVays ever give up?

"May I ask—without prejudice—did you steal your yacht?"

"No! Who's offering the bounty?"

"Those on the radio were circumspect, of course, but I've learned that there's a Taiwan freighter standing off the coast.

And several other Chinese ships have reported ETAs to Puerto Buenos Aires—more than one would expect ordinarily, though they could be explained by the harvest. . . . I took the liberty of taking your boat off the mooring."

"Where is she?"

"Right there." Faveros put the jeep in gear and drove to the dock. "Behind mine." Then he saw her, squeezed between the dock and Faveros's huge schooner. Only Hustle's mast would be visible from the water, bracketed confusingly by the schooner's. You would have to come within a hundred feet to distinguish the sloop from the bigger yacht.

"It is known who I am," Captain Faveros said. "No one would dare to come too close. You'll be safe till dark." "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you helping us?"

Captain Faveros tried to meet Jim's eyes but couldn't. He looked out at the Rio de la Plata—oddly tan-colored as thickening high clouds obscured the sun—then down at his polished shoes. "I truly believe that I am not really a bad - person. I know that I cannot undo my mistakes. Nor can I repress them. Perhaps if I can help you—and if you are truly innocent—God will return me to my son's heart."

Faveros was practically begging Jim to ask for more help, believing that the more he helped, the quicker he would atone. Even in retirement, the wealthy naval man seemed somewhat connected. Argentina may have become a democracy, but everyone feared that the military still had teeth—and the cops were corrupt. Could Faveros use his influence to get them onto a plane to New York?

Jim felt Shannon's gaze and he was struck by how totally responsible he would be for her safety, her life, once they set sail. Was she, too, wondering whether it was more dangerous to flee than to take their chances with the authorities?

"What do you think?" he asked Shannon.-.

"I can't believe you sailed all the way across the ocean on that." Jim had always thought of Hustle as big—bigger than the Barbadian fishing boat, bigger than Margaret's outboard canoe. But now, huddled in the lee of Faveros's enormous yacht, Will's sloop looked quite small and insignificant.

What would happen if they were arrested? The first thing the cops would do was separate them. But if they took their chances on the boat it would be just the two of them—the " adventure" he was supposed to have alone, they would have together, an "adventure" that would define them one way or another.

"She's a solid boat," he said firmly. And Faveros chimed in, "I would imagine she is very forgiving."

"Very forgiving," said Jim, wondering what the naval veteran had picked up to guess that Jim was really still an amateur with little more than half a crossing under his belt—

less than a week single-handed without Will's yakking in his ear.

"Actually," said Faveros, "I would imagine you could foul up—and persist at it for some time—before she betrayed you." He seemed to be rethinking atonement in light of the complications of harboring fugitives. In fact, he looked immensely relieved when Jim called to Shannon, "Shannon, let's get aboard." He seized Captain Faveros's hand and shook it. "Thank you for your help. We'll leave as soon as it's dark."

"If there is anything I can do?" Faveros asked politely. Jim was eyeing the schooner's fat hull like a pirate. "Let me buy some diesel."

"Well, yes, of course. We can pump it over from my yacht." There was a garden hose coiled neatly on the dock, for washing the decks. "And would it be possible to fill my water tanks?"

"Yes, of—excuse me." He touched the beeper on his belt, snapped a cell phone from the holster, and punched a reply. He listened, his expression darkening. "Si . . . si . gracias." He holstered the phone and turned angrily on Jim.

"The police have arrested a drug smuggler who claims to have dropped you at my gate. They're coming now."

Jim scooped Shannon off the dock and swung her over the safety lines and into the cockpit. The boat was trapped in the spiderweb of the schooner's mooring lines.

"Help me cast off," he said to Faveros.

Captain Faveros said, "Show me what's in your bags." "No drugs."

"Show me!"

"Make it quick!" Jim whipped off his backpack and dumped the contents on the cockpit bench. Shannon did the same.

Faveros stepped aboard and rifled through their things. He seemed glad to find no drugs but was not apologetic.

"I had to know," he said. "I will not be played for a fool." Now he sprang into action. He jumped to the dock, untied his yacht's stem line, and, nimbly crossing both boats' safety lines, carried it across Jim's afterdeck and onto his.

Jim got his engine started and ran forward to untie his bowline. By the time he got back to the cockpit, Shannon had finished repacking their bags and stowed them out of the way.

Standing on the afterdeck of his schooner, Captain Faveros leaned his weight on a boat hook and poled off of Jim's hull, widening the slot in which Hustle had hidden. Jim engaged his propeller and backed out.

Faveros secured his stem line and climbed into his jeep. "I'll keep them at the gate," he called, "as long as I can. Bon voyage. Look out for the pampero." WHAT'S A PAMPER0?" asked Shannon.

Jim was driving, looking over his shoulder, as the diesel engine roared its slow six knots. They were a mile from Faveros's dock already and still no cops. The view of the coast was broadening behind them. He could make out the town of San Clemente. Which boats in the town's fishing fleet were angling for the bounty? Did the cops have a boat? He picked up the binoculars and focused on a yellow vessel putting to sea.

"Hey, Captain. What's a pampero?"

"Local storm. Squalls come screaming off the pampas. Will said they're a real bitch. Humongous gusts and sheets of rain."

"Would it hide us?"

"If it doesn't kill us."

"While hiding us from the people who want to kill us." Jim looked at her and they both laughed.

She looked as frightened as he did, and as worn down by the long, hard night, but she pointed happily at the band of water broadening between them and the shore. "Neat boat, Captain. Would you show me around?"

"I'll show you how to steer. It's hazing up. After another

mile, when they won't be able to see us from the beach, we'll get some sail up. Here, scoot around beside the wheel. . . ."

It was humbling to see how fast she got it. She did very little oversteering and in minutes was laying down a respectable wake. Jim jumped below and brought up the storm jib.

"What's that?"

"Storm jib. All this pampero talk is making me nervous. So's that sky." To their left, west, was a tangled checkerboard of bright white clouds on a field of black.

"Wow. That's weird. It was blue a minute ago."

Ahead the sky was bright blue. To the right, the low coast

of the inside of Cape San Antonio was almost invisible.

Shannon looked back. "There's a yellow boat following us." "Yeah, I've been watching him."

It was catching up, probably making a third again their speed. Already he could distinguish its round bluff bow and boxy cabin in back. When he got the storm sail banked onto the jack stay and its sheets led back to the cockpit, the shore behind had disappeared in haze. He thought he could make out Punta Rasa lighthouse at the tip of Cape San Antonio. But the yellow boat was close enough for him to see that it had a stubby mast.

"Soon as we clear that lighthouse we can swing east into the ocean."

"You'd think," said Shannon, "that with the sky looking that way he would turn around and head home."

"If he was just going fishing."

"Maybe the sky looks worse than it is."

Jim went below, put on his slicker, and brought up one of Will Spark's for Shannon. "Did you ever fire a shotgun?" "No. Did you?"

"No. Will had a sawed-off?'

"The one he killed that woman with?"

"It's down below, if we need it."

"I don't know if I could shoot at somebody."

"I'm guessing it's easier if they're shooting at you?'

Shannon faced west, where the sky was now more black than white. "Come on, pampero. Come on."

"Look!"

Ahead, crossing their bow, a pair of fishing boats similar to the one behind them were racing toward the lighthouse. "The Sailing Directions said there's an anchorage. They're running for it." He looked back. The yellow boat was still on their tail and still catching up.

Hustle was starting to roll in the brisker seas outside San Clemente Bay. Jim raised the storm sail and the boat settled down a little and picked up a knot when he sheeted in. He looked back. The yellow boat's bluff bow was throwing clouds of spray. A mile or so ahead, on a line with the lighthouse, he could see whitecaps where the wind and the east setting waves were no longer blocked by Punta Rasa. He looked again at the western sky. A curtain of black descended to the estuary, and it seemed to be curling ahead of them, too.

"The boat's catching up," said Shannon. "Do you want to steer?"

"You're doing fine. I'm going to raise the main."

He raised it only high enough for a double reef. Hustle didn't move much faster, but when whatever was making that sky crashed into them it would be too late to reef. Now with both sails pulling, he took the wheel and nursed a little more speed out of her. The yellow boat was heaving entire waves. They could hear it pounding, smashing the water with sullen booms. But it was still catching up and Jim realized with a start that less than two hundred yards separated the two boats. There was no one on deck, but he could see several forms through the wheelhouse glass. Yard by yard it drew near. Suddenly the wind stopped.