[JUMPING AHEAD TO CHAPTER 19 AND SKIPPING AHEAD SEVERAL PAGES. BEN AND REBECCA HAVE JUST DISCOVERED A SECOND BODY . . .]

      "Okay, Ben, I understand. You're going to call the police. And you're going to use one of your voices to keep us uninvolved. But what, then?"

      "We're sailing the Diogenes out of the marina tomorrow morning."

      "What are you going to do with the motorcycle?"

      "We can call the motorcycle rental place in Freeport and tell them to pick it up at the marina. They can bill my card for the extra service. We don't have to be there when they pick it up. A more important thing is to get the inflatable back tonight. It's chained to a tree by a guy's house, on the Gulf Stream side, near the roadside grill that we passed. It's only a few miles up the road. If you drop me off to get the inflatable, would you be able to ride the motorcycle back to the marina by yourself?"

      "Yes."

      "Good. Then we'll do that right after we make the call. You should be back at the marina before the police come out to investigate. And I should be able to make it back in less than two hours."

      "You be careful. It will be very hard to see."

      "I know. But there will be plenty of lights to home in on, once I get within sight of the marina."

      "And you have to watch out for other boats. You don't have any navigation lights."

      "If I see anybody, I'll signal them with my penlight."

      "Ben, I don't like it."

      "I don't see any other way. We have to notify the police. But if we identify ourselves, they'll pin us down at the marina. Then we'll be sitting ducks, just like before with the Second Chance. We have to get out of the marina before they come and start interviewing people."

      "You're right. And we can't tell them we know a thing."

      Walking up to the pay phone, I practiced a nondescript Southern accent. After making sure nobody was around, I picked up the handset and deposited two Bahamian quarters. The operator connected me with the Royal Bahamas Police Force in Freeport.

      "This is a good citizen call . . . well I'm not a citizen, really . . . and I'm reporting a dead body in a car in the brush off of King's Highway. Now listen good 'cause I'm only going to say this once. The car's in the brush some thirty-five yards to the south of King's Highway. It's about three-point-two miles west of Royal Lane, right where the road takes a bend. I noticed a bad smell and got out of my car to investigate."

      "Sir, can you tell me exactly where the car is on King's Highway."

      "I just tol' yuh. It's about three-point-two miles west of Royal Lane, right where the road takes a bend. Just get yourself out there, roll down your window and follow your nose. When you reach the bend, your headlights will catch a reflector on it. That's how I came across it and stopped to check it out. I walked in sideways to the car and did my best to keep from making tracks. And on the way out, I mushed them up so you wouldn't go barking up the wrong tree."

      "Could you give us your name, sir?"

      "Can't help you, there. My vacation's over, and my plane takes off from Freeport tomorrow, and I've gotta be on it."

      I hung up and wiped off the handset.

      I fired up the motorcycle, and we headed back to Jethro's conch fritter and fish grill. I stopped a couple of hundred yards short of it and turned the cycle around. It would be simpler if Jethro didn't see Rebecca. I got off and held the machine upright while Rebecca wiggled forward.

      "When you get there, lock it to a tree by the marina office. Don't talk to anyone. If they ask about me, tell them I'm on the boat or in the men's room -- any old lie that explains why they didn't see me. Don't worry, even if it takes me four or five hours. If the motor acts up, I have the oars, and the water's so shallow close to shore that I could never drown. Whatever you do, don't involve anyone else. Like you said, we don't have any friends at the marina. Everyone is a possible enemy."

      "How will we communicate?"

      "By cellphone, using code. Don't use the two-way radio."

      I could see her frustration, not being able to let go of the handlebars for a goodbye hug. I hugged her and kissed her. "Now go like hell. And don't stop that thing until you've reached the marina."

      The transmission clicked as she threw it in gear. "I love you, Ben."

      "Love you, too."

      I stepped to the side and steadied the cycle by the back of the seat as she revved the motor and let out the clutch. And as I stood there watching that red taillight recede in the distance, I knew that nothing would stop her.

      When I walked up to his stand, Jethro was glad to see me and didn't ask for any explanations. I told him that I'd come to take the inflatable and might be coming back in a few weeks. He said the boat was fine, and he accepted my 20-dollar bill for looking after it an extra day. But he insisted on my drinking a Kalik with him. At first I declined, saying beer would affect my navigational skills, but I quickly relented. It would be unfriendly to leave him no way to reciprocate. I paced my side of the drinking and conversation, aiming for ten minutes.

      When I said it was time to leave, Jethro abandoned his stand to walk me down to his house. He hushed his family's scrappy little dog and helped me carry the inflatable over the notch in the dune and down to the water. It was damn heavy with the engine on back and I was grateful for his help. Before taking off my shoes to wade into the water, I remembered to jam my cellphone in my shirt pocket, next to the personal two-way radio and my address book. Before shaking Jethro's hand, I pushed the glow button on my watch. It was ten minutes after ten.

      I tossed my shoes into the boat and guided it away from the steep beach until I was up to my thighs in six-inch waves. After squeezing the rubber bulb, manipulating the choke and pulling the cord a dozen times, the motor sputtered and showed signs of life. Dancing around on tiptoes, I kept two hands busy finding the right combination of throttle and choke to coax that sputter into a roar. It put out a lot of oily smoke. Jethro waded in to help steady the boat, wetting the legs of his long pants in the process. We said goodbye. I threw myself into the boat, while twisting the steering lever/throttle and turning it to a sharp angle to get the boat moving away from the steep shore.

      For the first 10 minutes, I kept a course perpendicular to the coastline. When I was half a mile out, estimated from the narrow angle of tree line between water and dark sky, I turned parallel to the coast and put the boat up on plane. And as I sat there bouncing through the waves on my soggy bottom -- soaked-through underpants and cargo shorts -- zipping along at about 20 miles per hour and peering ahead over water that was poorly lit by the quarter moon, I settled into a mental game called "Who Killed Rick Turner and Why?"

     [SKIPPING TWO PAGES IN WHICH BEN MULLS IT OVER WHILE SPEEDING THE INFLATABLE ALONG THE DARK COAST TOWARD THE MARINA]

      Yes, it was a lot of speculation, but a lot of things were falling into place.

      I began to make out lights from the West End marina. Pretty soon, I would be coming abreast of the airport. For an instant, I saw a flicker of light on the shore.

      I dropped the "Who Killed Rick?" game and started playing "Who Was Steve?"

      What did I know about "Steve," anyway? I knew that he stayed in a slip across from Wade Daniels. I knew that he was not a friend of Wade Daniels or any other member of SAWECUSS. They all said they hardly knew him. And they weren't lying because Ray Vangelden, useful fool that he was, would have contradicted them.

      Yes, they hardly knew "Steve," and they didn't know what he was doing. They didn't know that he had been listening to their cellphone conversations and vectoring in on their VHF marine communications. So who was this "Steve" who got himself killed, waiting 15 miles west of West End in the middle of the night wearing his night vision goggles and [spoiler material removed]?

      And who had killed him with a shot from below and finished the job by climbing aboard for an executioner's shot? What person had almost succeeded in erasing the story with several well-placed shots just below the waterline?

      A sound went off in my shirt pocket. The personal two-way radio had found a signal and locked onto it. "Launch number two," came the voice, loud enough to hear over the noise of the outboard and so clear that it felt like the speaker was standing right next me. The bottom fell out of my stomach.

      In that instant everything became clear. I knew who "Steve" was, what he'd been doing, why he was killed, by whom, and what sort of watercraft the murderers were using.