But now I stood, dry-throated, where the law said I should not have been. I reached out and touched Dream Chaser's flank; it still held some of the heat of the day, had a temperature like a living thing. I moved to the stern. The cops, apparently, had removed the ladder. I frowned and pawed the gravel and measured distances.
The lip of the transom was level with my eyes. I put my palms flat on it, and jumped, and pushed and pulled and kicked. The process taught me something humbling but useful: Being reasonably fit at forty-seven is only a pale parody of being young and limber. Joints complained at being yanked and then compressed; muscles took offense at all demands beyond the practiced and familiar. But I scrabbled and grunted and clawed, and finally I hauled myself over the transom and fell with a muffled clunk into the vacant cockpit, resting for a moment against the stem that held the wheel.
Lying there beneath the stars, I felt both brave and very silly. The alcohol was wearing off; physical effort had skimmed away the most urgent layer of libido. By the wan light of reawakening reason, this escapade was fucking stupid. But there I was, on board the forbidden boat. I almost giggled at myself. Then I saw a footprint maybe seven inches from my head. It was dark and smeared, like it was left over from wet clay, but after a moment I realized it was made of blood. The giggle died at the back of my throat. I got up onto my hands and knees and crawled toward the companionway.
The hatch had been pulled shut but there was no lock on it. I slid it back and removed the top splashboard from its channel. A meaty smell flew up and made me slightly dizzy. It was a smell of nauseating richness, of salt and iron and fat; a smell of the things we're made of. Trying not to gag, I stepped over the remaining boards and down into the cabin.
By the dim glow that entered through the hatch, I found a light switch, flicked it on, and stared at a scene of random devastation. No, that's not exactly right—it was devastation but there seemed to be a system to it, an appalling kind of thoroughness. Drawers had been pulled out and dumped. Shelves had been swept clean. Floorboards had been lifted so that the bilge could be explored; here and there bulkhead panels had been unscrewed and tossed aside. Presiding over the shambles, like some kind of ghastly, hollow sentry, was the chalked outline of the murdered Latvian. Andrus had come to rest with his body splayed across the navigation table. One arm was raised and it seemed his head had been twisted to expose the jugular. There was a staggering amount of blood. It covered the table, had poured down onto a chair shoved underneath it; it was plentiful enough to pool at low places in the floor. Knots of flies still fed on it; some were stuck where puddles had coagulated around their greedy legs.
I blinked and swallowed and had to remind myself to breathe. Had to remind myself, as well, that I was there not only to confront the dreadful spectacle but to learn from it. But good Christ, where did I start?
I squatted down, began hopelessly riffling through tossed mounds of books and papers and clothing and dishes. Finding nothing that made the slightest bit of sense, I shifted my position, was disgusted to feel my bloodied sneakers sticking to the floor. I started in on another pile of meaningless remains.
That's when I felt the boat move in its cradle.
There was nothing boat-like or watery in the motion; it was more the quick jerk of an earthquake, and it seemed to come an instant before the thumping and scraping that told me Dream Chaser was being boarded.
Adrenaline carried panic through my limbs before my mind had quite caught up. I found that I was standing. My eyes darted like those of a cornered rodent, seeking a hole to crawl into, a crevice through which to escape. My breath had become a fast shallow panting; the blood vapors coursed all through me, like I was smelling my own insides. Overhead, footsteps scratched and pounded; the whole cabin seemed to groan with every beat. I shuffled in my sticky shoes, but there was no place to run. I was pinned there, one more victim of the cursed vessel. In desperation, I switched off the light and shrank back in the darkness.
That ploy accomplished nothing except to make me even blinder when the ruthless searchlight came probing through the open hatch. It raked the mess, then nailed me where I stood. In a gesture of great helplessness and pity, I raised my arms, crossed my wrists in front of my face. All I saw was an exploding brightness, and a gun barrel wagging, obscene and without context, a few feet from my head.
———
Everyone turns really friendly at the lockup on Stock Island.
They let me keep my belt and shoelaces, just made me wear an orange jumpsuit over my mildewing shorts. The jumpsuit had neatly pressed lapels, said monroe county jail in huge white letters on the back, and would have made a magnificent souvenir. The night sergeant took some information from the uniformed cops who'd brought me in, then passed me on to a guard who walked me to the holding tank.