Odd Hours

and searched among the vertical posts, along the horizontal supports.
    On the catwalk, I ducked my head behind the storage chest. A moment later the probing light swept over me, east to west, back again, and then away.
    Although Boo had moved past me and stood with his head through a gap in the railing, watching the giant, he remained visible only to me.
    When the searcher had moved out of sight into the labyrinth of posts and purlins and struts, I rose to my feet. I continued east.
    Padding ahead of me, Boo dematerialized. He appeared solid one moment, then became transparent, faded, vanished.
    I had no idea where he went when he was not with me. Perhaps he enjoyed exploring new places as much as did any living dog, and went off to wander previously unvisited neighborhoods of Magic Beach.
    Boo did not haunt this world in the way that the lingering human dead haunted it. They were by turns forlorn, fearful, angry, bitter. Transgressively, they refused to heed the call to judgment, and made this world their purgatory.
    This suggested to me that the free will they had been given in this life was a heritage they carried with them into the next, which was a reassuring thought.
    Boo seemed to be less a ghost than he was a guardian spirit, always happy and ready to serve, still on the earth not because he had remained behind after death but because he had been sent back. Consequently, perhaps he had the power and permission to move between worlds as he wished.
    I found it comforting to imagine that when I didn’t urgently need him, he was in Heaven’s fields, at play with all the good dogs who had brightened this world with their grace and who had moved on to a place where no dog ever suffered or lived unloved.
    Evidently Boo believed that for the immediate future I could muddle on without him.
    I continued east along the catwalk until, glancing down at the opportune moment, I glimpsed the inflatable dinghy tied to a concrete column far below, bobbing gently on the floodlit swells. Here the hulk had ascended and had begun searching westward.
    At least one-quarter of the pier’s length lay to the east of this position. I paused to brood about that.
    As it turned out, Boo had been right to think that I would be able to puzzle my way through this development without his counsel. The hulk had not searched the last quarter of the support structure because he was confident that I could not have gone that far before he had climbed up here to look for me.
    I did not believe, however, that he was as dumb as he was big. He would have left the last section unsearched only if, in the event that I slipped past him, someone waited on the shore to snare me.
    Perhaps both redheads had not begun searching together from the west end of the pier, as I had imagined. One of them might be waiting ahead of me.
    Had I been a dog and had Boo been a man, he would have given me a cookie, patted me on the head, and said, “Good boy.”
    After climbing over the catwalk railing, I lowered myself onto a tie beam below, lost my balance, got it back. I went north toward the center of the pier.
    Just before I reached the intersection with the east-west beam, I stepped off the timber, across a six-inch gap, and put one foot on a piton in one of the vertical supports. I grabbed another piton with one hand, and swung onto that post.
    I descended to the concrete base column, slid down through the enshrouding colony of barnacles, breaking them with my jeans, taking care to spare my hands, and landed as quietly as I could on the sectioned floorboards of the inflatable dinghy. A softly rattling debris of broken crustacean shells arrived with me.
    The boat bobbed under one of the floodlamps. I felt dangerously exposed and was eager to get out of there.
    A mooring line extended from the bow ring to a cleat in the concrete: two horns of pitted steel that barely protruded past the barnacles. I did not dare untie the dinghy until I was prepared to struggle against the currents that would carry it toward land.
    If I started the engine, the searchers would come at once. Considering the time that I, an inexperienced pilot, would need to negotiate among the pilings and into open water, I might not get out of pistol range before one of the gunmen arrived.
    Therefore, I resorted to the oars. A pair were secured with Velcro straps against the starboard bulwark.
    Because long oars were needed and space was at a premium in the dinghy, this pair had wooden paddles but