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bright orange paint job skipping along
the gray water about twenty yards to port. A crew member stepped out
on deck. He brought the red bullhorn up in front of his red face and
rested it on his red life jacket. The electronic voice, shattered the
stillness of the morning. “Cut your engine back and pull
alongside.”
    Corso shook his head and pointed
forward, toward Saltheart sitting at anchor a quarter mile
away. The Coast Guard repeated the order. Corso repeated the gesture.
    The crew member ducked back inside
the cabin for further orders. By the time they sorted out what to do
next, Corso had pulled the dinghy parallel to the swim step, tied off
and killed the engine.
    The Coast Guard boat was no more that
ten yards astern as Corso climbed on board, secured the crabs and the
dinghy and pulled off his black neoprene gloves.
    “You Frank Corso?” somebody
yelled.
    Corso ignored the query. Instead, he
knelt on deck and transferred the crabs from the bucket into an old
topless cooler full of fresh salt water. He watched the two new crabs
settle in. Watched how they fought for territory even within the
featureless plastic domain of a cooler, thinking maybe there was some
deeper truth to be found in the mindless battle for space, but not
being quite able to put his finger on it. He didn’t straighten up
until he felt Saltheart twitch as somebody put his weight on
the swim step. He got to his feet and looked down.
    Wasn’t the kid with the bullhorn;
this one had himself a little gold braid on his cap and shoulders. He
was about forty. Thick black eyebrows accented an angular face that
looked like it had been assembled out of spare parts. The sight of
Corso sent the eyebrows scurrying toward the center of his brow.
    “You deaf or something?” the guy
demanded.
    “I don’t remember inviting you on
board,” Corso said. The guy laughed in his face. “We’re the
Coast Guard, man. We tell you to pull alongside, you pull alongside.”
    “I had crabs needed to be put
away.”
    The guy sneered. “Under the
provisions of the Patriot Act I could—”
    Corso interrupted. “Don’t even
start with that shit. You want to check my paperwork or my gear, then
go ahead. That’s your legal right. Otherwise, I’ll be up top
cleaning crab.”
    The guy was nimble. He slipped a foot
into one of the arched holes in the transom and hoisted himself on
board in a single smooth motion.
    Corso’s first instinct was to grab
him by the arms and pitch him overboard. He took a deep breath and
restrained himself.
    “Okay, so I’m Frank Corso.”
    “You don’t know what’s going
on, do you?”
    Something in his tone brought Corso
up short. “What’s that?”
    “In Arizona.”
    “What the hell are you talking
about?”
    The guy told him the Reader’s
Digest condensed version. “He shot the third one a couple of
hours ago.”
    “Jesus,” Corso muttered.
    “I know it’s a hell of a thing to
ask of a man, put himself in jeopardy for the sake of people he
doesn’t even know.” He raised his hands in frustration and let
them fall to his sides with a slap.
    “People down there are hoping maybe
if he sees you’ve showed up, maybe he’ll stop. I’m supposed to
tell you they don’t expect you to go inside or anything, They just
want you to show up and maybe talk to him. Something like that.”
    “And if I don’t see this as my
problem?”
    The guy thought it over. “I guess
that’s between you and your conscience.”
    “I gave up guilt for Lent.”
    “My orders say it’s up to you.”
    Corso ran a hand through his thick
black hair. “My boat . . . ,”
    he started.
    “I’ll personally take her back to
your slip.”
    Corso nodded his thanks. “How am I
supposed to—”
    A sound in the distance stopped his
thoughts. The noise was rhythmic and growing closer. More of a pop
than a roar. Familiar. And then it was on them like a giant
grasshopper, the helicopter pushing its way through the ceiling and
settling down on the old