The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay (32 page)

“So after it heads back out to the Bay, I wait awhile and go to check it out. I pull 'em. Two or three don't have nothin' in 'em. But then I hit the jackpot. The buoys are attached to pots, all right. But the pots ain't got crabs in 'em, partner. And no alewives neither.”

Clay listened, looking at Kate, who was sitting up on the couch now, the blanket falling from her shoulders and bunched around her waist.

“I got those fuckers' dope, Clay. It's payback time.”

Clay swallowed hard. Then he heard a key in the front door. As he and Kate stared, transfixed, it opened, and Matty stepped inside. He saw them, of course—Clay standing naked, with the phone in his hand, Kate pulling up the blanket. Matty paused, his face changing form before them. He put down his bag, his eyes turning from Kate to Clay. Then he shouted and started for Clay. Kate stepped to intercept him.

Clay spoke quickly to Byron. “Don't move, Byron,” he pleaded. “Don't move an inch. I'll be there quick.” He got the phone hung up just as Matty got to him, Kate trying to hold Matty and talk to him. Clay sidestepped Matty's charge and let him fall forward across a side table, his momentum carrying him down with Kate clutching his arm. Clay grabbed his pants, shirt, and shoes and looked at the two of them. Matty's face was bloodless and contorted
with a look of disbelief. Kate knelt, holding her blanket against her, trying to talk to him.

“I'm sorry,” Clay whispered. He hesitated. “I don't know how to start.” He looked at the open door. “I've got to go. Byron's in trouble. It's serious.” He turned and headed toward the door. “Christ,” he said again, looking back.

Clay ran for the pickup, hobbling on his pants. He backed out of the drive and started for the wharf, pulling on the rest of his clothes as he drove, steering partly with his knees. He got his shirt and dock shoes on and realized he was going over seventy. He slowed some. He couldn't get visions of Kate, and of Matty, sprawled, out of his mind. But a danger of a whole different kind was closing in on him, and he knew that it would be unforgiving and that he needed to think clearly. Fields of corn flashed by under the moonlight, but the trip to the boat seemed far. Rounding the curve at the end of Planters Landing Road, he came into the narrow bottleneck that led only to the wharf. Byron was there, in the parking area, pacing. Clay braked to a halt and jumped out.

“C'mon,” Byron said, taking Clay by the arm. Clay could smell the bourbon.

Byron hurried him along as they walked to the
Miss Sarah,
which was tied alongside the crab dock on two cleats. They jumped aboard. Byron lifted a blanket; under it sat two crab pots, each containing packages wrapped tightly in layers of plastic wrap and crisscrossed with tape, each package about the size of a one-pound bag of sugar. There were six in each pot. Byron had opened one of the cages and taken out one of the packages. He had worked a hole in the corner of it with a screwdriver. He picked it up and shook a small amount of white powder into Clay's hand.

“Taste it. It's coke.”

Clay dabbed at it with the tip of his tongue. It offered the bitter, jolting sensation of cocaine. Clay raised his head up and cursed. “This is big trouble.”

Byron shook his head. “We ain't takin' it back out to the river.”

Clay was silent.

“Hey, partner. You know, we could go north. Figure out a way to sell it?” Byron shrugged.

“How much you had?”

Byron sniffed. “Just a taste. I'm fine. It's pure. Lethal. Once cut, it will increase to ten times the powder.” He paused. “Hell, this right here's probably worth enough to buy back Pecks from the bank and then some.”

Clay wiped his hand off on his jeans. He looked at the plastic packages, so heavily wrapped. Then he let his gaze sweep down the creek and out over the gleaming bay. He thought about Pecks, and about Kate and how he could be so close. He looked back at Byron. Then he shook his head. “We've got to get to a phone and call the police.”

Byron sagged, sitting on the rail, holding the package tight against him.

“You're not thinking, Byron.” Clay spoke quietly and firmly. “These guys'll chase it. Wherever it goes. This is heavy shit.”

“Could ask Mac Longley to help us. He's still runnin' it. It'd bring a pile a money.”

“My guess is Mac Longley's a part of this.”

“Longley? Come on, Clay. That's a stretch, ain't it?”

“How did Longley know I talked to Brigman about working for him?”

“I don't know. So?”

“I think I saw Brigman at the bull roast.”

“Here?”

“He was talking to Matty's coke source. Guy with a ponytail and earring. Deals out of a crab loading dock. Get this: the business is called Indigo Seafood.”

“Indigo Seafood? Get out. No shit?” Byron shuddered.

“You said yourself it was a network.”

“Longley said it, not me.” But Byron wasn't convinced. He held the package close. “We could still keep it. Sell it ourselves.”

“Money's not what we've been after, Byron. Least not first off.”

“They won't know who's got it. Not for sure.”

“Of course they will. Take 'em two seconds. Why you think they wanted us out of here so bad?”

Byron shook his head, like he didn't want to hear.

“Amos Pickett's bad business, Byron. And he and the whole lot will be after us. Wherever we go. If I'm right, and Brigman's with him, they'll have people up and down the shore. We don't know the extent of it, but it's there. Christ. The chances of us dealing with them and survivin' are about zero.” He spoke slowly, choosing his words. “And even if we could handle 'em, then we'd have to turn into a Mac Longley, or worse. Selling dope. Being drug dealers. I'm not ready for that. I don't think you are, either.”

Byron heard him, though it was still hard to let go. “What if we can't even prove whose it is? To the cops, I mean.”

Clay pulled the dock lines, bringing the bateau against the wharf. “The police'll get it. They'll believe us. And no one will have any reason to be coming after us. And even so. Losing this”—he motioned at the bags—“this here's enough to hurt them plenty.” He climbed out of the bateau. “C'mon. We'll use the phone outside the restaurant. I've got a dime.”

Byron still resisted. “I ain't sure mixin' this up with the cops is the right move for us.”

“We need to make the call,” Clay said. “Together. We need to decide this. We aren't drug dealers.”

Byron sat still. Neither said anything. They just watched each other. Then Byron said, “I suppose we ain't. Drug dealers, I mean.”

“No sir.”

“Just somethin' else.”

“I don't know about that.”

“What?”

“I see us more than ‘just something else.'”

“What?”

“I'm not sure. Just more, that's all.”

Byron stood up.

Clay continued. “Nothing just average about being a waterman. Living independent. Feeding folks. I'd say that's more than ‘just something else.'”

“And partners.”

“That too. Though your partner is someone who himself is falling right now.”

Byron caught the break in Clay's voice. In his bruised eyes. “Hold on,” he said. He put the package down and climbed out of the
Miss Sarah
. “I'm coming. Let's make the call.”

Halfway across the parking lot, Clay heard the sound of a car engine. He recognized the headlights of Kate's Volvo coming up the gravel drive. They waited, watching it pull into the parking area. She got out and ran over to Clay, who was walking toward her.

“Clay,” she gasped. “Oh, Clay.” She threw her arms around him. “I'm so sorry about what happened.” She stepped back to look at his face and grabbed Byron's hands. “Byron, what's going on here?”

“Where is Matty?” Clay said.

Kate shut her eyes. “Oh, Clay, I'm sorry.” She opened them and looked at him. “He had a fight with his father and came back early. I couldn't tell him. Not yet. I didn't know what to say. I told him I thought Byron was in trouble and that I'd be right back. I promised him. I should only stay a minute.”

Clay kicked at some gravel. “You better go on, then.”

“But what's going on here? Please tell me.” She seemed about to cry.

Clay started to try to explain. But then he heard another engine and looked down toward the road. This time it was a truck he saw coming. Up from the Pepper Creek turnoff. A pickup. In the
moonlight he could see the silhouettes of at least two men in the back, standing as the truck moved across the flats. They had rifles or shotguns pointed in the air. He knew it was Pickett's truck. There was no way past them.

“In the bateau!” he shouted at Byron, taking Kate's arm and running her back with him to the
Miss Sarah
. “They've got guns.”

Byron saw the truck and was running behind them. Kate kept turning and asking what was happening. They got her on board and followed behind her. “Hold on,” Clay told her. In seconds he had the engine started and Byron had the lines off. Byron pushed against the piling, and Clay backed the bateau up quickly, to give him enough room to turn, and then shoved her into forward and gunned the engine. He watched behind him, over the bateau's stern, as the pickup came up the lane and into the parking lot, spewing dust and gravel behind it. Two men jumped out of the back, and two others from the front. Running toward the dock, one raised his gun. Clay saw the man had a ponytail. He grabbed Kate and pushed her down, but then he heard somebody yell to put the gun up. “Out of range!” the man shouted.

Clay saw them talking. One of the men remained on the dock with what Clay figured must be a shotgun. The others got back in the truck. The headlights from the pickup swung out and away from the parking lot. At the end of the drive the truck turned toward Pepper Creek. Byron stepped close. Clay had eased her back to midthrottle. The creek was too narrow and shallow off the channel to risk going faster. He knew, though, that in a matter of minutes, the larger and faster
Vena Lee
would be pushing out of the mouth of Pepper Creek. She could get into Mobjack Bay as fast as he could. She wouldn't be far behind him.

“They must've come right after me,” Byron said.

“Figures they wouldn't let this stuff sit in the river for long.”

“You could swim her ashore here,” Byron offered. “I'll make 'em chase me clear to Easton.”

Clay studied the marsh along the shoreline. “Too risky, Buck. In this light. With guns and a truck. They'll be hunting for us. Truck'll probably follow us down the creek. We'd probably get stuck. Up to our knees. And even so there's nowhere to hide or run to. If they spotted us, we'd be done.”

He looked forward and saw that Kate, sitting on the washboard, was shaking. Clay asked Byron to take the tiller and, once past the red markers, to head straight for the black spar blinking a three-second green and then to the southwest mark off the lighthouse. He went over and put his arm around Kate. He took her inside the cabin and talked to her, trying to calm her. He started to tell her what had happened.

She interrupted him: “Why don't we just swim for it?”

Clay thought he heard something and wheeled and looked across the flats, west toward Pepper Creek. He couldn't see Pickett's workboat yet. But the lights from the truck were running back toward them, down the creek road.

“They got a pickup, guns, radios, and it's dark. And they're looking for us. I don't like the odds if we jump. They'll hunt us down. They have to. We know too much now.”

“What?”

“It's over drugs. It's a drug operation. Cocaine.”

“Oh, my God.” Kate wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt.

She already knew about Amos Pickett and the cut pots and the damage to the boat. Clay tried to tell her the rest calmly. He walked her aft and showed her the drugs. “Smart operation, really,” he said. “Avoids customs or deck searches. Ocean trawler smuggles the stuff in crab pots. Inside U.S. waters, another boat gets in sight, they throw the pots in the ocean. Note their location. Foolproof.”

Kate reached down and touched one of the packages. She lifted it, feeling its weight. “This is a lot, isn't it?” she said.

Clay nodded as she set the package down. “Once in the Bay, the trawler drops them up here and Pickett picks 'em up. He's a crabber.
Who would suspect? Moves it to a seafood wholesaler. Brigman, I think. Indigo Seafood. Christ.”

Kate looked startled. “Brigman? From the sailboat?”

Clay let out a deep breath. “I think. Probably moves it in seafood trucks. Or cars. Or his yacht. That would be good cover too.”

Kate seemed to be trying to take all this in.

“That's why he wants the seafood operation at Pecks, I suspect. A Maryland base. And it's an all-cash business.”

“My God, Clay.”

“I know.”

“What's going to happen?”

Clay took her shoulders. “Get you safe, first of all. And then get me and Byron out of this. Get to the police.”

She shut her eyes, took a breath, and opened them. “And then?” She spoke quietly, looking at him.

Clay started to speak, but Kate put her hand over his mouth. “Don't say anything now.” She took her hand away, studying his face. “Just know I meant every word I said to you,” she said. “Everything I told you is true.”

Clay knew he heard something this time and turned. He saw the reflection of a spotlight back over the marsh spit and knew it was them and knew they were coming. He listened harder and heard the motor, faint in the distance. Before he reached the island and the opening to the Bay, before he found a cut or swash to hide in, Pickett would be behind him and would have him in sight.

Clay turned back and reached over and touched her damp cheek. As he did so, he felt the gradual veer of the hull as they neared the eastern shoal guarding Davis Creek and Byron began angling toward the stone lighthouse in the mouth of Mobjack out beyond. As they slowly turned, Clay saw the spotlight already out of Pepper Creek to the west behind them. Pickett's boat was less than a mile away. He nodded to Byron, who levered the throttle
down. He looked back at Kate and saw the tears holding in the corners of her eyes and her fighting them back. He brushed each one with his thumb and kissed her lightly, then rose back up and looked.