A Fine Cast of Characters - J. Dane Tyler [35]
“Lemme see it.” Keegan took the black, leather-bound book in his hand, and skimmed through it. He found the last entry, and his brows lowered over his eyes. “Huhn.”
“What is it, Cap?”
“The last couple entries here … they’re odd. This one says a storm blew in. It’s dated yesterday. Did we have a storm yesterday?”
Harmon screwed up his face in confusion. “No sir, we didn’t. Weather’s been like this most of the week and all weekend. Clear skies, calm seas. Good days for chartering a fishing trip.”
“That’s what I thought, too. So what’s this talking about?”
“You sure of the date?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Keegan nodded and flipped back through the pages, “and up ‘til then, there’s pretty much an entry every day. Nothing for today, though. Last one’s yesterday.”
“Yesterday afternoon’s when we picked up the emergency beacon.”
Keegan nodded. “This must’ve … I dunno, I guess she left it behind.”
“She?”
“Says it belongs to someone named ‘Kelly’ here on the inside front cover.”
“Hm. Weird. A storm? I wonder what she’s talking about?”
Keegan looked out at the vast sea, stretching away to meld with the cerulean sky at the horizon, placid, deceptive in its calm. “I don’t know. No storm came through, though. And she says the storm had lightning, but no thunder, and moved quick but no wind. Ever heard o’ anything like that?”
Harmon shook his head. “Nope. Can’t move a storm without wind.”
Keegan shook his head. “No. Guess not.” He sighed. “Well, keep the ‘copter circling for a while. How far you figure they could’ve drifted overnight, if they’re in another raft?”
“Not that far. No major currents ‘round here, no big wind to push ‘em along … we’ll circle a few times. It’s drifting inland anyway, so they’d might’ve made land, or seen it, anyway. If they were adrift.”
Keegan scratched his head again. “Jesus, this is just weird.”
Harmon sighed. “We’ll keep looking, Cap’n. Should we make ready to tow the tub back in?”
Keegan nodded. “Yeah. Got her numbers and owner?”
Harmon chuckled. “Registered to a small-time skipper, name o’ Flanagan. Steven Flanagan. His mate’s William Jurgen. Passenger list’s on file with the port. His reg was kept up. Payments, too.”
“So he didn’t fake his death to get out of paying for her.”
“Doesn’t look likely. He had a good, solid business going. Decent income, and a deal with some radio show syndicate. They sent him passengers once in a while. I guess one of the missing folks was a contest winner.”
Keegan snorted. “Yeah, great. Quite a prize, huh?”
Harmon chortled. “Yep.”
“What’s the tub’s name?” Keegan leaned over the console in front of him and stared down at the little white charter boat, bobbing carefree in the sea beside the Coast Guard cutter, small craft buzzing around it with personnel investigating the missing crew and passengers.
“She’s Lucky Caller Seven, Cap’n.”
“Lucky Caller Seven. If that don’t beat all.”
My Childhood Friend
When I wrote to my childhood friend to tell him of my plight, he took great pity on me. His immediate response invited me to visit him at his country house, atop a cliff near the sea. He said the sound of the pounding surf would soothe my embattled mind, ease my fatigued heart, and calm my tormented soul.
It was, of course, an invitation I could not decline. I made ready at once to be received, though the journey of many days would prove a strain on me in my current state. Never mind, I bade myself, the reward shall offset the effort tenfold. I departed in haste.
The coach jolted and jounced over roads infrequent of use, and my very bones ached in my flesh by the time we arrived at the final trestle which arced in a gentle convexity across a great ravine. In its depths lay the rapids of a white river rushing to the sea, and its sheer sides and jagged outcroppings gave me shivers. I dared not look out the coach window, for the acrophobic responses it triggered in me, but rather lay back into the soft velvet seat of my compartment and let the