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doubt about it, though, Skin Hood knew who they were. Yet he hadn’t raised the alarm, and didn’t appear interested in doing so. Which meant he was after something else. Because of that, and because he seemed to be working by himself, J.B. let things ride for the moment. He moved to the stern of the ship, standing beside one of two iron racks of fifty-five-gallon barrels painted red and securely strapped down.
    The white ship slid around the Morro Bay rock, into the open Cific Ocean. As it cleared the California coastline, it was hit by a strong side wind from the north. The sails snapped full with a sound like cannon shots, and the vessel heeled over hard to port. A few of the passengers fell to their knees on the deck, everyone else grabbed for something solid to hang on to. Overhead, taut cables groaned and sang in the wind. The ship righted itself, accelerating through the whitecaps toward the wall of fog. In less than a minute, they were swallowed up by it. Visibility dropped to less than a hundred feet. It was wet, cold and difficult to breathe with all the moisture vapor in the air. The farther due west they sailed, the darker and wetter it got. A gently falling mist became a steady shower. To escape it, many passengers retreated belowdecks.
    J.B. screwed down his fedora and stood his ground, angling his head to keep water drops off his glasses. It took about fifteen minutes to break through the far side of the fog bank. On the horizon dead ahead and to the north, darkness had fallen in the middle of the day.
    Black sky.
    Black roiling sea.
    The rumble and crash of thunder.
    Captain Eng steered south, where shafts of light speared through a dismal gray cloud ceiling. With the wind squarely behind them, the ship picked up speed, knifing through the swells, slamming into the wave troughs. Cannons bounced on their carriage wheels. Down and up, down and up, the ship plowed a shuddering track. One by one, the other passengers sought the relative safety and protection of the lower deck. Krysty and Mildred disappeared down the narrow companionway, followed shortly by Doc. Ryan and Jak waited a decent interval before separately heading for the forward stairs.
    As the sea state deteriorated, J.B. watched the captain strap his legs to the helm platform—this to keep from being thrown if the wheel gave a sudden kick when heavy waves pounded the rudder. Every sail filled, Eng was trying to outrun the danger. As the ship porpoised, waves of foam surged over the bowspit and flooded the deck, knee-high.
    J.B. was one of the last of the noncrewmen topside. Not because he liked the weather or the company. He was in a pissing contest with Skin Hood, who had also refused to take cover.
    Staggering along the port rail into the wind, the mutie hunter joined him on the stern. Eyes streaming, he looked into the towering darkness behind them and said, “Chem storm’s comin’up fast. A great big ’un. You ain’t a-scared, are ya?”
    J.B. didn’t dignify the question with an answer. “Who the hell are you and what do you want?” he said.
    Skin Hood smiled, displaying brown and yellow teeth. “Rad blast, Dix,” he said, “I thought we was gonna be pals.”
    “Just spit it out.”
    “You and One-Eye Cawdor and the others got something good going.”
    Denying his identity seemed pointless. “Where do you know me from?” J.B. demanded.
    “I don’t know you from swampie shit,” Skin Hood admitted. “Saw you and your crew take apart some sec men one time, though. Impressed me. Heard the stories about you since. You know, the kind of talk gets spread around the gaudies. Not that I believed even half of it.”
    “What do you want?” J.B. repeated.
    “I want me a piece of whatever it is you’re after. Only I want my piece up front…”
    Skin Hood was looking for a pay-off to keep his trap shut. J.B. had no doubt that after he got what he could from the companions, he’d turn them all in for a second reward from the other