Dead Water Zone - Kenneth Oppel [10]
“I can’t stand people like you, Paul,” she muttered. “I really can’t. You are so damn helpless. How is someone like you going to get a line on a computer in Watertown? Yellow Pages?” She gave a snort of irritation. “I can’t stand it. Ask Armitage about the computer when we get back. Maybe he’s got something kicking around. If not, I want you out of my life for good.”
Paul couldn’t help smiling in relief.
“And I don’t want another one of your suburban thank-yous.”
The last of the morning fog was burning off. Monica reached for a pair of sunglasses and perched on the back of her seat for a better view of the debris-strewn water. Paul turned the diskette over and over in his hands, as if it would suddenly offer up secrets. It might give him an idea of what Sam was doing down here, what had happened to him.
“Bad news.”
“What?” He scanned the water for menacing debris.
“Listen.”
Paul heard nothing but the growl of their engine. Monica pulled the boat around in a sharp turn and opened up the throttle.
“What’s going on?” Paul asked uneasily.
It was a few seconds before the rhythmic thumping of rotor blades reached his ears. Then the helicopter broke through the veil of mist and drifted lazily over the boathouse roofs, in their direction.
A piece of debris knocked against the boat’s hull, then deflected off the propeller with a sharp grinding noise. Monica swore but didn’t slow down. But the helicopter had overtaken them, hovering low, shattering the water’s surface. Paul clamped his hands over his ears, wincing.
“Who are they?” he shouted.
“Don’t know,” she yelled back. “But I don’t think they’re tourists.”
With a sudden burst of speed, Monica aimed the boat straight at a high pier.
“Hey, what are you doing!” he shouted in alarm.
She hunched tighter over the wheel. Paul’s fingers dug into the plastic upholstery of his seat. The boat veered crazily around pilings and timbers and then shot underneath the pier and into shadow, with about two feet of clearance overhead. The boat slowed to a gentle glide.
“How did you know we’d fit?” Paul asked weakly.
“I’ve done it before. If there’s one thing I hate,” Monica muttered, steering the boat carefully between the pilings, “it’s unmarked helicopters.”
“I think I saw that one yesterday.”
“Me, too.”
“It took a good long look at me.”
She glanced over at him. “Armitage is not going to be happy.”
“It’s probably just some cops on their lunch break,” said Armitage easily. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
He was sitting cross-legged in the boathouse, a laser disc player in his skinny lap, a metal file in one hand. He paused to study his handiwork.
“What do you think?” he asked Paul. “Can you read that?”
Paul obligingly peered at a metal plate on the back of the machine. The serial number was completely filed away.
“Looks good to me.”
“Take it from the expert,” said Monica with soft sarcasm. Paul felt his face flush. The closest he got to the world of crime in Governor’s Hill was the movies.
Armitage waved his file at the diskette in Paul’s hand. “Runaways don’t usually drag around portable computers.”
“Sam’s a strange guy,” Paul replied awkwardly, hoping Armitage wouldn’t pursue it.
Armitage replaced the laser disc player in its box and stood up, dusting metal filings from his trousers.
“I don’t have anything here right now,” he said. “Tell you what, though, I’ve got to go into the docklands today for business. Why don’t you let me take it in? I can get a hard copy run off for you.”
Paul desperately wanted the magnetic secrets, but he knew he couldn’t give the diskette to Armitage. Tell no one: Sam’s words.
“I’d rather keep hold of it,” Paul said. “If you don’t mind.”
Armitage looked at him for a long time.
“You don’t trust me, Paul?”
Paul shuffled his feet awkwardly. “It’s just that—”
“You’re smart,” Armitage said. “It’s safer not to trust people. But I’m a busy man, Paul. You can’t really expect me to bring back a computer, just for you.”
“No.” He’d overstepped again. “If you can’t do it, you can’t do it.”
“I didn’t say I can’t do