The Water Keeper(27)

I continued, “Please don’t lie to me. Just tell me where you are. Don’t hide you from me. I can’t help you if I don’t know the truth.”

She nodded.

I stepped forward and looked up at her. “Words matter.”

This time she spoke them. “I promise.”

“Second . . .” I waved my hand across the bow where Tabby had resumed his vigil over Fingers’ lunch box. “That’s his spot. Move him from there at your own peril.”

She was about to step aboard when she thought better of it and stepped back. She patted her chest and swallowed. “There’s more I haven’t told you.”

I knew this, but first walk, then run. Fingers’ face appeared front and center in my mind’s eye. How I loved that man. I spoke both to her and to the orange box. “I was once in a bad way. On the . . . cusp of some bad stuff. Had a friend find me and tell me that none of us are who we want others to think we are. That despite the mask we are all so good at wearing, we somehow manage to wake up every day hoping there’s still a chance. That maybe, somehow, we can balance the debt ledger we carry in our hearts. That maybe God is offering a special that week and one good equals two bad. But then there are the lies that the memories whisper.”

Her tears were flowing freely now. She asked, “What do they say?”

“They say we are alone. That bad choices and mistakes have drained the value out of us. And that we are not worth the cost of getting to us.”

“Are we?”

“I have yet to find anyone who is not.”

“Even when we—”

“Even when.”

“Where is your friend now?”

I stared at the orange box. “Gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

I nodded. “Me too.”

Indecisive, she kept still. This time I spoke without looking at her. “I’ll help you find her, but you need to be prepared for what and who you find.”

She nodded.

I pointed to the boat.

She took one step, then—conscious or not—twirled. Like mother, like daughter. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever witnessed, and it took me back twenty-five years to a beach, a breeze, and the smell of a girl.

When she stepped aboard, she was immediately tongue-assaulted by Tabby, who spun in circles with happiness. I throttled into reverse, backing into the current where my friend the attendant threw me the bow line and saluted.

Idling south, I turned to find Summer standing next to me. A question on her lips. “Yes, ma’am?” I asked.

She held out her new phone and pointed at mine. “Could I have that picture?”

Summer sat on the back bench, pulled her knees into her chest, and pressed her phone to her bosom with both hands. When I pushed Gone Fiction up on plane, she laid her head back where the breeze tugged at her brunette hair and Tabby licked her face.

Ten minutes later, she was sleeping across the bench, arm wrapped around Tabby who lay next to her.

The phone rested beneath her cheek. The faceplate was wet.

I dialed a number I knew by heart. He answered after the fourth ring. I could hear female voices in the background. Happy female voices. He must have exited the room or turned a corner because they faded and his voice grew loud. “Murph?”

“I just sent you a picture with name, details, and identifying marks. I need to know everything. Plus what you’ve got on traffic and trade routes. Players, names, vessels, destinations.”

I could hear him smile. “I thought you said—”

“I know.”

He has this thing he does with his fingers when he’s thinking. He pushes his beard away from the edges of his mouth—separating middle finger from thumb. “You got room on those shoulders for one more name?”

I stared out across the water, trimmed the engine, and pulled back slightly on the throttle. In truth, I didn’t know the answer. “Do you?”

A long pause followed. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just bumped into someone on my run south. And time may be short.”

“Shorter than usual?”

Another question to which I had no answer. “Not sure.”

“I’ll call when I know something.”

I hung up, sat back, and stared out through the windshield while steering with my feet on the wheel. Fingers’ lunch box sat oddly tied to the bow. When my vision grew blurry, I lifted my Costa Del Mars off the console and hung them on my face.

While Summer slept, we passed through Flagler Beach and into the Tomoka basin. Tabby lay on his stomach, tail wagging, ears flapping, eyes forward, tongue hanging out of his mouth. The sight of Ormond Beach told me Daytona wasn’t far behind. Which was good. I was hungry and I had a feeling Tabby was too.

Like Jacksonville, Daytona is a city of bridges. As I entered the city’s waterways, five towered overhead. I slowed, and we made our way into the narrow cut that leads into the Halifax Harbor Marina. I didn’t need gas but did need information. The attendant, Bruce, told me where I could find a dog-friendly place to eat. I thought about waking Summer but then thought better of it and asked Bruce to let her know we’d be back shortly.

Tabby and I bought lunch. I led him to a patch of grass, and then we returned to Gone Fiction, where Summer had yet to stir. Bruce spoke as if his work was lonely. “Yeah, all the big boats come through here. Snowbirds heading south again.” He rubbed his hands together and pointed to the IC. “Everything and everybody passes right here.” He smiled. “The world on my own private conveyor belt of water.”