Dead in the Water

“Nah; he’s got nothing on me. And even if he did have, I’ve got enough relatives on this island to turn him out of office.”
    “I think Leslie has something like that in mind; why don’t you talk to him about it?”
    “I’ll do that.”
    They were nearly to the mouth of the harbor now. Stone gave Thomas a big hug, then watched as he jumped into the dinghy, untied the painter, and yanked the cord on the outboard. The little engine buzzed to life, and Thomas kept pace with the yacht for another hundred yards. Then, as the smooth water of the harbormet the swell of the sea outside, he gave a big wave and turned the little boat back into English Harbour.
    Stone watched him go. He reflected for a moment that he had not made many friends as good as that one, then he bore away around the point and headed for the open sea, a lump in his throat. There would be time later to sort out charts and courses, but right now, he wanted to sail his boat.
    That night, sailing north with the autopilot on, Stone fixed himself some supper, opened a bottle of wine, sat down in the cockpit, and began thinking about the events of the past days. There were anomalies in what he had seen and heard, and he wanted to think about them.
    He slept in snatches of a few minutes, scanning the horizon often for ships and other yachts and boats. He saw little traffic. The next day, at midmorning, he fired up the satellite phone and got it working. He called his secretary and informed her of his new travel plans, then he called Bob Cantor.
    “Hello, Stone; I heard the news on television this morning. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?”
    “There is, Bob. I want you to take a trip up to Ithaca for a couple of days and do a little research for me.”
    “Sure; what do you need?”
    Stone told him in some detail. Finally, he hung up the phone and sat down with his charts. He plotted a course up the leeward side of the islands, then between Hispaniola and Puerto Rico and then to the northwest, leaving the Turks and Caicos and the Bahamas to starboard, and on to Fort Lauderdale. It had not taken himlong to figure out that he could not afford to own the yacht; what with dockage, repairs, and insurance, it would break him, unless he sold his house, and he wasn’t about to do that.
    He sailed on, thinking about what had happened to him and what to do next. He made other calls, the last of them to Sir Winston Sutherland, who was surprised to hear from him, but extremely interested in what he had to say.
    By the time he had reached Fort Lauderdale, he had done all he could do. Except wait.

Epilogue
Two Months Later
    S tone sat in his Turtle Bay garden on a lovely early spring morning, breakfasting on eggs and bacon and orange juice. When he had finished, his Greek housekeeper, Helene, took away the plates and poured him a mug of the strong coffee he loved. He looked through the Times idly, checking for any mention of Allison. He had heard nothing from her, and when he had called the Greenwich house, the number had been disconnected. He had thought of calling her Connecticut lawyer, but had decided just to wait for Allison’s call.
    Alma, his secretary, came out to the garden with the morning mail. “There’s one from the broker in Fort Lauderdale,” she said.
    Stone opened that first and found a check for one million eight hundred thousand dollars and change. He smiled broadly.
    “I take it we’re not broke for a while?” Alma asked.
    “We certainly are not,” he said, endorsing the check and handing it to her.
    Her eyes grew wide. “I had no idea it was worth so much.”
    “The broker reckoned it had cost close to three million to build and equip. Still, after his commission, that’s a good price.”
    “What shall I do with it?” Alma asked.
    “Write a check for, let’s see”—he began scribbling numbers on his newspaper—“three hundred seventy-five thousand to that law firm in Palm Beach, for the account of Libby Manning’s mother. I want that off my conscience.”
    “Right,” said Alma.
    “Then send a check for five hundred and forty thousand to the Internal Revenue Service.” He groaned. “God, how proud I am to be an American and pay my taxes!”
    “Right. That leaves eight hundred and eighty-five thousand.”
    “Send my broker a check for two hundred thousand, and tell him to call me about where to invest it.”
    “We’re rich!” Alma squealed. “What about the rest?”
    “I was thinking about