of Bandon. Dragonfly had to be part of the deal, though. I’d grown attached to the trawler and like most guys getting rid of a toy is like ripping your heart out, one aorta at a time.
The trip from San Pedro to Bandon in an eight-knot antique is a story all its own, left for some other time.
“Well, we should get the heck out of here,” Sal said.
Nodding, the chairs folded, we walked up the ramp to the parking lot.
Then a blip on the water. Not sure it made a sound or we just sensed it, but there in the overcast darkness of an Oregon night, the same paddle wheeler we’d seen a few nights before. Sal dropped his chair and reached for his cell phone. Clicked it open, punched a nub and clicked a photo of the gauzy boat as it churned its way downriver.
And just as suddenly, a second paddle wheeler appeared. This one to the stern of the first looking as if it were carved from smoke. Less defined than the first. Larger. Noiseless except for the distinct sound of the wooden hull creaking.
In the pilot house, a mystic figure, hands on the spoked ship’s wheel, eyes blank, dark medium length beard on a hawk-sharp weathered face. And three crewmen standing on the bow, unmoving, each staring forward, watching the sternwheeler ahead.
The captain and deck hands flickered like static. Scratchy images drawn with colored chalk.
Without eyes. Only smears of white where they should be.
I heard Sal click another photo just as the tallest crewman on the bow inched his arm upward and pointed toward the first paddle wheeler. As if on signal, the other two deck hands raised their arms in unison marked by motion blurs like they were being swung through tendrils of steam. Pointing with seemingly transparent fingers.
The captain’s body turned. White voids where his eyes should be. And with deliberation he raised an arm and pointed directly at us.
Then they were gone.
Sal was first to speak, the tone hushed, an uncharacteristic quiver. “I think I need a donut.”
________________________________________________
Sal and I sat in my dining room staring at the two photos the big man had taken and printed. The first showed the smaller paddle wheeler, the one we had seen four nights before. It was hazy but defined enough to make out the deck-side barrels and crates. The other was of the two boats nose to tail, not more than 20 feet between them, but the second stern wheeler was nothing but a white smudge. Indistinct as if someone had smeared Vaseline on the camera lens.
“Odd.”
“Truly.”
“It would be tough to I.D. what the second boat is unless you’d seen it for yourself,” I said.
Sal leaned back, lifted the picture of the two paddle wheelers, staring hard at the image. “Truly odd, Nick. What do we do about it?”
Bandon head scratch. “Got me. Stash the pics under X Files, I guess.”
My cell phone buzzed.
Flipping it open, “Drago.”
“Nick, do you and Sal have a couple of minutes to spare?”
“Sure Chief. What’s up?”
“Get down to the docks. I’ve got a small problem.”
“On the way.”
Sal raised his hand. “Don’t tell me. Forte has another puzzle for Drago.”
“To the Batmobile, Robin.”
“Who you calling Robin?”
We refilled the travel mugs with a new blend of Sumatran coffee I’d found on line and took the Crown Vic to town.
The Bandon boat basin has been part and parcel of the town almost since its founding. Not until the late 1800, however, did the waterfront become a commercial success. Once the treacherous bar was at least somewhat tamed – thanks to the efforts of one Judah Parker – shipbuilding thrived. The first was a two-masted schooner named the Ralph J. Long, an 85-footer with a 27-foot beam and 7 and a half foot draft.
Today, the basin has two long piers and docking for around 60 small craft and a few for the occasional yacht. While the fishing fleet has been decimated because of ever tightening regulations on catch size, most slips are filled during the spring and summer with casual boats.
Parking the Crown Vic, Sal and I walked down the basin ramp. Forte and Port Manager Clarence Tiller were standing on one of the slips next to what I guessed was a 70-foot fiberglass cruiser. A light southeastern breeze put a chill in the air.
Forte waved us over.
“Hey Clarence.” To Forte, “What’s up, Chief?”
Waving an arm at the cruiser, “Just showed up this morning. No one aboard.”
I walked to the stern and read the boat’s name. “Alley Cat” and port city, “Long Beach.”
“Long way from home, especially in February,” I said.
Clarence nodded. “Funny thing, we got a call yesterday from the harbor master in Long Beach who asked what the docking fees were for a 70-footer for six days. Told him the amount. That was the end of it. No mention of a boat coming or its name or anything.”
Forte interrupted, “Then, this morning, I get a call from Clarence and he tells me he has a boat in the basin that no one saw arrive and had no one on board.”
Sal had been walking the length of the cruiser and rejoined us. “I’d guess about 20 years old. A Hatteras. Maintained pretty well and recently had its bottom cleaned. Not carrying much in the way of cargo or anything. Sitting well above the waterline.”
Clarence nodded. “I checked with the Coast Guard and its papers are up to date. Owned by a small company in Long Beach, but I couldn’t get an answer when I called.”
“Company name?” I asked.
“Vector Atlas Partners, LLC.”
“That’s innocuous, enough,” I said. “Tells us nothing.”
Sal pulled his iPhone and punched the name into Google.
“No web site. Just a quick mention of its location in Long Beach but nothing about its business.”
“Have you been aboard?” I asked.
Forte and Clarence shook their heads.
“Waiting for you, Nick.”
“Shall we, then?”
The Hatteras is a bold statement of a yacht. And the owner of this one went all out. The rear deck was walled in a spotless clear Sumbrella enclosure. A cherry-wood bar with a granite top, stainless steel sink and refrigerator/icemaker butted up against the rear wall. I ran a hand over the wood. Smooth as silk and varnished so meticulously there wasn’t a single dust
