Semester ends are always the same — like the middle of a swan dive from a 32-foot platform. You are accelerated into exam week and go crashing through. In that split second between hitting the surface and arching your back 10 feet below, you learn whether your arms are still in their sockets. I just wanted the semester to be over.

     Angst had exacted its toll. Would Alice and her journalist friends publish the "real story of Ben Candidi"? Would Tassle-Toe summon me to testify I was the Old Man’s unwitting fool, or would he subpoena me as a conspirator? I lived in constant fear of the process server. But finally it was Monday of exam week, the last week in May. The next day Rebecca and I both had finals.

     Rebecca was looking forward to sailing the Bahamas. It fit nicely in the two months between the end of the semester and her National Board Examinations. The boat was not yet provisioned, but I did make two important preparations. Firstly, I located a periodical clipping service, gave them a substantial deposit and ordered every newspaper and magazine article on the Ledbetter trial.

     The second preparation was relaxing, even if it did involve a six-mile bike ride west on Bird Road. It took 40 hot, dusty and sweaty minutes of pedaling along that ugly commercial strip before I reached ABBA Radio & Video at 93rd Avenue. I had an appointment with the proprietor, Joe Kazekian. Joe had dropped out of Mensa a couple of years ago. But Joe was always dropping out of something. He dropped out of high school to repair televisions back in the days before the Japanese took over. When TV repair dried up, he switched to video, and from video he moved into commercial videotaping. As an Armenian, he had the videotaping business locked up for every Armenian wedding from Key West to St. Augustine. Now he was dabbling in satellite communications. He came out to greet me as I locked up my bike in front of his shop.

     "Ben, if I’d known you were going to ride your bike out here, I would’ve picked you up with my van. You’re taking your life in your hands, riding that thing on Bird Road."

     We chatted a little about old times before we got down to business.

     "Joe, you’ve got all the public access channels here."

     "Sure. Everything from the School Board to Wayne’s World."

     "A murder trial of Dr. John Ledbetter will start in a week or two. The trial will probably take a month. I want it taped, gavel to gavel."

     "Gee, boss, that won’t be any problem, but it’s going to take a mountain of tape."

     "I’m not asking this as a favor. It’s strictly business. I want the whole thing taped, no matter what it takes. You just figure how much the tapes cost, figure your time changing and labelling them, and be sure to charge overhead on your equipment. When it’s done, just give me a bill."

     Like many Middle Easterners, Joe was never satisfied with a deal that didn’t involve bargaining. He was definitely uncomfortable the words "money is no object."

     "But Ben, what if you get tired of the trial a third of the way through? Give me your number, and I’ll call you after I get started."

     "I’m telling you now that I want the whole thing, no matter what." To prove the point, I took out my checkbook and wrote a check for a substantial sum. "Here’s your retainer. I’ll give you the rest when the trial is over. As the saying goes, ‘Money talks and bullshit walks’."

     Convinced, but still uneasy, Joe asked, "Where can I get hold of you? Are you still living on that sailboat?"

     "Yes, but you can’t get hold of me. My girlfriend and I are sailing for the Bahamas in a couple of days."

     A knowing smile grew on Joe’s face. "I see. Well — "

     "Well, I’m counting on you, Joe. And just so you don’t forget, can I see your ‘in and out’ ledger?" Joe showed me, and I picked up a red pen and wrote "Ledbetter Trial" for every day for the next three weeks.

     Joe wanted to know all about my sailing partner. He had married a sweet Armenian girl 12 years ago, partially to please his parents. Over the years, she had sort of ballooned out, and Joe had developed a roving eye. He popped in a cassette and showed me clips of 20-year-old Armenian beauties dancing and merrymaking at a weddings he’d recently taped. If it weren’t for Rebecca, he might have persuaded me to change my ethnicity. After half an hour’s gab, I was back on my bike, pumping east on Bird Road.

     At Rebecca’s that night, I called Dr. Steve Burk at home. I told him I’d be on vacation for two months and hoped he didn’t "need anything done" in that time frame.

     "That’s fine with us, Buddy," he said. They hadn’t used me since the final pay-off.

     "Please give my regards to Dr. Westley," I said. Nothing was holding me back, now.

     The next morning, Rebecca took her final in Mechanisms of Disease and I took mine in Cardiovascular Pharmacology. It was a real bitch, but I felt good handing in the nine pages.

     That afternoon, what made me go back to check out the Diogenes instead of studying for the next day’s Molecular Genetics final? As I rowed my dinghy round the spoil island, the Diogenes’ masts came into sight. The hull was obscured by a Boston Whaler, apparently anchored behind it. Then I noticed that the companionway was open. Was I catching burglars in the act? Unfortunately, none of my boat neighbors seemed to be home. My heart raced, as I quickly rowed up to the stern of the Whaler. It was tied to the Diogenes’ stern. And it wasn’t a police boat — no siren and too much personal stuff around. Noises from inside the Diogenes told me they were tossing the place. I carefully pulled the dinghy, hand over hand, along the side of the Whaler. I wrote down its Florida registration number on a scrap of paper.

     "How much longer we going to be looking here, boss? Bet the guy’s clean. All he’s got here is his log book and some crap that looks like school notes." High pitched. Definite Spanish accent.

     "Just see if the notes have Dr. Ledbetter’s name in them," answered a lower voice with a trace of Brooklyn accent.

     I let the wind and tide drop my dinghy back until we were even the Whaler’s outboard engine, a 260 horse Johnson. My six-foot length of chain made a handy wrap around their propeller and I secured it with a padlock. Then I pulled the dinghy, hand over hand, to the stern of the Diogenes. Their knot was easily undone by my unseen hand and the Whaler was set adrift. Pulling hand over hand along the Diogenes’ starboard rail, I moved to the bow and secured the dinghy to the anchorline. As I lifted myself onto the deck, the dinghy thudded against the Diogenes’ hull.

     "What’s that?"

     "Probably a board. I’ll take a look," said the lower voice.

     I made my way along the starboard lifeline, past the forward hatch, rolling my feet Iroquois style until I was in front of the main mast. The bulge of the sail cover on the boom offered some protection against discovery. One of them may have looked out but neither came topside.

     The open cockpit was a mess. Hatches were open and rubber fenders, life jackets and diving gear were scattered all around. A boat pole and my Hawaiian sling rested on the starboard bench. So I had the choice of bopping them on the head or spearing them like a fish. The spear was already set in the hand grip/launcher, and the rubber straps were in place near the blunt end.

     "Maybe he’s got a secret compartment. We going to start tearing into the ’glass?"

     "Might have to if we don’t find what we’re looking for," answered the Brooklynite.

     "Hey, Joe. He’s got a funny bulge by the toilet."

     "Here’s the tire iron, Al. Go pry it open."

     My blood started to boil. I jumped down into the cockpit, grabbed the Hawaiian sling, stretched the rubber bands as far as they would go, and pointed the tip through the companionway into the cabin. "Come out of there with your hands up or I’ll run you through. You’re both under citizen’s arrest."

     My spear was three feet from the chest of one of them. The other looked out at me from the V berth. We were all surprised.

     "Hey, you’ve got it all wrong, sonny boy," said the close one in a low Brooklyn voice, looking me over and sizing me up. He was middle-aged, fat and wore a dark sports jacket with an open collar. "We’re police officers. And you’re the one who’s under arrest. For criminal possession of narcotics."

     "Like hell you’re a policeman! You busted my lock and trashed my boat and — "

     "Here, let me show you my badge."

     Before I could say anything, his hand was fumbling in the right outside pocket of his jacket.

     "Don’t move — "

     He brought up his hand as if producing a badge. The tear gas hit me faster than I could shut my eyes. After a split second’s hesitation, I let loose the sling. My ears told me it struck wood, not flesh. As I gasped for breath, a fist jolted my stomach. I tripped over a fender and fell back on an open hatch, my legs splayed open.

     "You little bastard. You point that thing at me?" he growled. A bolt of lightning went up my spine and reverberated in my skull when he stomped my crotch. I gasped, sucking the dripping tear gas deep into my lungs. Doubled up in a paroxysm of coughing, I received an roundhouse to the left side of the face. "Did yuh get a good look at me? You good at identifying narcotics officers?"

     "No," I croaked.

     "Maybe you wanna get another look at me." He sprayed more tear gas around my mouth and nose.

     "You dome sheet! You almost killed me," snarled the high-pitched one. Instinctively, I ducked as the skin on the top of my skull was plowed open.

     "Don’t kill him, ’cause we aren’t going to arrest him. We’re letting you off this time, punk."

     I rolled back, fell over the side and let myself sink deep below the water’s surface. I rubbed the tear gas off my face. It’s funny how my face was still full of tears, even under water. My skull ached and a pink cloud floated around my head. He’d tried to spear me in the face with the tire iron.

     I spun around, found the hull of the Diogenes and swam to its bow. Drowning in my own pulmonary fluids, my lungs felt ready to burst. But a couple of deep breaths, holding on the anchor line, brought me back to my senses.

     "Look what that sheet-bird did," whined the tire iron man. "He cut the Whaler loose. How are we going to get to — "

     "He’s got a dinghy tied up front," said the pudgy one. "We’ll row it back." The longer he spoke, the more familiar sounded his voice. I’d heard him around the med school.

     I swam to the port side of the Diogenes and listened to them on the starboard side, climbing into the dinghy.

     "We’d better look around. Maybe he’s drowning," said the pudgy tear gas man.

     "No. I saw him swimming under water," said the tire iron man.

     As they rowed away, I collected my energy. The drifting Whaler was now about 75 yards astern. Apparently there was no one in the anchorage to see those guys beating me up. No use to call for help. As the pair reached the half-way point, I got a clear view. Tire Iron was rowing and Tear Gas was sitting in the back, his fat ass hanging over the transom. Under their combined weight, the gunwales were barely an inch above the water. The arrogant bastards were getting away! I took stock. My groin ached and the left side of my face felt like it had been slugged by a baseball bat. My scalp was bleeding but I wouldn’t lose enough blood to put me into shock.

     Tire Iron’s face was completely blocked from view by Tear Gas. If I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me. Yes, I could make it. I took off my shoes, pants and shirt, and tied them to the anchor line. Then I swam towards the dinghy in a free-style crawl. It seemed to take forever, but after 40 yards I knew I’d intercept them. With 15 yards to go, I hyperventilated, dove and breast stroked towards them about several feet under the surface. I was just starting to gray out when Tear Gas’s fat ass came into distorted view above me. I ascended and grabbed the transom, pulling it down with all my might. Water rushed into the dinghy so fast that it surprised even me.

     As the dinghy sunk, Tear Gas lurched forward. I climbed up, reached around his shoulders and pulled his jacket back over his arms. The dinghy slipped quickly below the surface and so did he, wiggling his straitjacketed arms. I pushed his head below the surface. Under water I made out a revolver in a shoulder holster. I reached over his shoulder, tore the gun from the holster, and stuffed it in my underpants.

     Tire Iron had fewer clothes, but he must have been a miserable swimmer. He struggled furiously to keep his head above water. I took a deep breath, dove, and inspected him under water. The outlines of his wet T-shirt didn’t reveal a shoulder holster but his ankle-height boots would make a perfect hiding place. Like a drowning man, he kept sinking below the surface and then clawing his way back up. I positioned myself under him, waited for his downward swing and grabbed. For the price of a kick in the head, I gained possession of one right-footed boot and a .38.

     I came up for air five yards away, hyperventilated and tucked the second gun into my underpants. The dinghy was on the weedy bottom, 10 feet below. Groping along its floor, my hands found the tire iron. I grabbed it, surfaced behind Tire Iron Man and clobbered him on the head so hard that the metal hummed like a tuning fork. He panicked and started to climb Tear Gas like a tree. I dove down, circled behind Tear Gas, grabbed his crotch with my right hand and squeezed with all my might. He doubled up and let out an enormous burst of bubbles.

     Swimming back to the Diogenes, I hoped that the two would drown each other. I called out to the neighboring boats, but incredibly, no one answered. As I reached the stern of the Diogenes and looked back, I saw that the pair was now making progress, buddy-swimming towards the Whaler. Remembering my swim ladder escapade with Rebecca, I created a foothold by making a loop in the anchor line. After my third agonizing try, I was sprawled on the deck of the Diogenes.

     Painfully, I let myself down the front hatch and into the V berth, which looked like it had been visited by a tornado. After a nightmare of slow-motion groping, I finally found what I needed: My telephoto lens and 35-millimeter camera. Luckily, it was freshly-loaded with 36 shots.

     Through the companionway, I saw that the two gangsters had made it to the Whaler, and were helping each other on board. From deep within the cabin, I clicked off several good face shots as they stumbled around and fired up the big Johnson outboard. It made a horrible sound as they threw it into gear at high revs. I swear that sparks flew out of the water. For a full minute, the jerks tried to make the fouled prop push water. Then they came to their senses and freed the prop with a bolt clipper. I got off a few more shots, catching them and their Florida registration number.

     I turned on the VHF and hailed the Marine Patrol on Channel 16. They answered and promised to come just as the Whaler limped away. I took some more shots of the trashed interior, the two revolvers and tire iron. Then I set the lens to short focus and photographed my battered face and gashed scalp. The Marine Patrol took their time, and it was starting to get dark. So I set the swim ladder, cleated a 30-yard line to the stern and set out to recover the dinghy.

     Just as the sun was setting, the Marine Patrol roared up in a big Cigarette boat. Officer Mike Carter, was tall, muscularly built. He conducted business in a quiet, understated, professional manner. I imagined him as a paratrooper in his younger years. He took the registration number of the Whaler and radio-phoned an inquiry. I told him the whole story and gave him the two revolvers after writing down their serial numbers. He gave me a receipt for them. Just as he was giving me some friendly advice about going to the ER, his hand-held radio crackled and his dispatcher communicated the name and address of the owner of the Whaler. I quickly memorized it: Joseph Klouski and a South Miami address.

     When Officer Carter left, I went to the head and took a look at my scalp. The gash was three inches long and bled profusely every time I let up on the bandage. Now, the cabin light was on at Frenchie’s. After half an hour of signalling him with a hand-held spotlight, I finally got him on Channel 16.

     "Frenchie, could you come over with your first aid kit and some sutures if you have them. Over."

     "What is it Ben? You been scraping barnacles without wearing gloves again? Over."

     "No, I caught some bad guys burglarizing my boat and they gave me a three-inch scalp wound. And I don’t want to spend the night at Dade County General. Over."

     "I don’t blame you. I’ll grab my kit and row right over. Mon Roi WK 35087 over and out."

     "Diogenes WAR 7142 over and out."

     Frenchie used to be a hospital corpsman on a Canadian icebreaker. When he rowed over with his black bag, he was real apologetic. He had sterile sutures but no lidocaine. He tried to talk me into going to the ER. I grabbed both ends of the table and told him to do it now. Fifteen stitches and 30 minutes later I was thanking him. He pulled a non-prescription antibiotic ointment from his black bag.

     "Put this on it three times a day. And you’d better keep that wound out of the water for the next couple of weeks."

     "Thanks, Frenchie. I’ll try to do that. And could you keep an eye on the Diogenes for the next couple of days. I’ve got the feeling these guys will come back."

     I hailed the Marine Telephone Operator on my VHF and placed a credit card call to Rebecca.

     "Rebecca, I’m calling you from the Diogenes. We will have to speak slowly because it’s coming over the VHF."

     "What’s the matter, Ben?"

     "I can’t come home tonight. I’ve got to stay on board."

     "Ben, are you okay?"

     "Sort of. I surprised a couple of guys breaking into the boat, and I got hit a couple of times before they got away."

     I told her most of the story — leaving out the reason for the burglary, my head wound, and how I took away their guns and almost drowned them. I’d stay on the boat that night and go directly to my exam the next day. Rebecca also had a final.

     "Oh, Ben. Do be careful."

     I gave her my love and signed off. It took a couple of hours to put the boat back in order, including splicing back the alarm wires. It took a couple of hard yanks to pull the spear out of the bulkhead. I reinserted it in the Hawaiian sling and put it next to my berth, so it would be close at hand.

     My house cleaning uncovered a strange diskette — a brand I never used. My visitors must have planted it. I taped it to a can of beans so I could deep-six it on a second’s notice.

     A splitting headache made it impossible to study for tomorrow’s exam. So I grabbed a can of beer from the warm ice chest, and sat in the cockpit, contemplating the lights of Coconut Grove. Sodium-lamp photons bounced around in a low sky full of African dust, immersing me in an ambrosia-orange city glow. A fuzzy outline of Mr. Jason Diamond Esquire’s Mayan pyramid building was visible in the distance. Through the terraced shrubs shone lights from several offices. Was this high priest of law sitting up there plotting my ritual death? My visitors were probably reporting back that they hadn’t found any evidence for a Candidi-Ledbetter connection so they planted some on my boat.

     Westley’s Faire Isle complex was but a diffuse glow. What had been his last words of advice? "Do your utmost to keep from getting sucked into this thing." But now I was sucked into it. "I hope you will be able to weather the coming storm." I went to bed but tossed and turned the whole night.

     An hour after sunrise, I was on my bike heading for Bryan Medical School. Along the way, I put the planted diskette in a plastic bag and hid it in the crotch of a tree. I also dropped the films off at a drugstore, ordering three sets of prints. Arriving at the Med School library a couple of minutes after opening, I went straight to my locker, expecting to grab my notes and do some last-minute studying. I opened the door to find things subtly rearranged. I pulled out my computer, flipped it on and quickly searched the name "Ledbetter". My heart skipped a beat as two files came up on the screen. One contained Ledbetter’s hate correspondence with Dr. Cooper. The other was a complete text of his European patent application. I deleted them both and overwrote all the free disk space.

     I complained to the head librarian that my locker had been entered. She wasn’t a very good liar. She offered to give me a new lock, which I declined. Returning upstairs, I cleaned out my locker and turned in the lock at the front desk. Why give them another chance to plant evidence?

     The Med School telephone directory listed Joseph Klouski, all right — Assistant Head of Security! That’s where I’d seen him before — outside the Med School puffing cigarettes and debriefing his uniformed security officers. Well, I would deal with him later. Now I had a final exam. I went back upstairs and crammed molecular genetics.

      Around noon, I grabbed a bite at the hamburger place and then went over to the classroom. I caught a glimpse of Maria, staring at her notes with a worried expression. When she looked up at me, she looked even more worried.

     "Ben! What happened to you? You look horrible. What happened to your face?"

     "I caught some guys breaking into my boat and there was a little scuffle." I gave Maria a quick, sanitized version of yesterday’s events.

     "An what’s with that baseball cap? You’ve got it on backwards, like a teenager."

     "It’s going to bring me luck on the exam."

     "Ben, there’s something that I’ve got to tell you. Some security people have been coming around, asking about you — yesterday afternoon and this morning. They set up in the conference room. Dr. Moore’s secretary went around to the labs and brought us in, one by one."

     "What did they want to know?"

     "They told me there were reports that you’d been acting strange. They said some people felt threatened. They asked me if I had noticed anything strange about you. They wanted to know if I ever saw you going into any labs where you didn’t belong."

     "What did you tell them?"

     "What do you think I told them, Ben! I told them they was crazy. I told them I never saw you do nothing wrong!"

     "Sorry. I didn’t doubt you. I know you’re my friend."

     "You’d better believe it, Ben."

     "What else did they ask? "

     "They didn’t ask anything more. They said that it was a routine inquiry. They said that it was confidential, and I shouldn’t talk to anybody about it."

     "Thanks for tipping me off."

     "Ben, do you know that there is a rumor going around that the coroner sent you here to investigate Dr. Ledbetter?" Her voice quavered and her eyes exuded empathy.

     "It doesn’t surprise me. Dr. Moore hauled me down to the Dean’s office several weeks ago, and they practically asked me the same thing, point blank. I guess they didn’t believe me, if they’re sending around security people to make a liar out of me."

     "Ben, you take good care of yourself," she said softly.

     Our classmates were filtering in, and we couldn’t say more. Dr. Sturtz handed out the exam, and soon we were struggling with the problem of "clearly and precisely" stating how to find a piece of DNA encoding a target protein of the tyrosine kinase enzyme, using an anti-tyrosine phosphate antibody and standard molecular cloning technology as our "primary tools." The exam question listed a number of "special features" of the target protein. The problem was the mental equivalent of parachuting into the middle of the Everglades, equipped with a pocket knife, collapsible drinking cup and chlorine tablets, and being given three days to trudge your way out.

     Two hours later Sturtz came back and collected the exam. Rebecca had one more exam tomorrow, and then we could get out of town. Just one problem: How to inform Dr. Taylor I wouldn’t be around, without coming right out and saying it? He was in his mop closet office reading one of his Nature magazines.

     "Boy! Do you look a sight," he exclaimed looking at the left side of my face. "What happened to you? Did you run into a locked door while prowling around here at night?"

     No boisterous laugh, this time.

     "I’m afraid I don’t know what you are talking about, Dr. Taylor."

     "Well perhaps it’s just my imagination. You look like a street punk, with that hat on backwards. Did you fall off your skateboard?"

     "Would you believe that I fell off my bicycle?"

     "Well you seem to be unmitigated and undeterred. Pray tell, what may I do for you?"

     "I wanted to ask your permission to postpone my next laboratory rotation for a few weeks."

     "I suppose you would like to spend the time in a front-row seat at Dr. Ledbetter’s trial," he snarled.

     "No way. I’ve had it up to here with that thing," I said, bringing my flattened palm to just above eye level.

     "So precisely how do you propose to use the time?"

     "To study for medical pharmacology. They say grad students have a harder time with it than med students."

     "So you propose to study pharmacology in the library?"

     "No, I was planning to study at home, actually."

     "Where do you live? You never did give us a proper address."

     "I live 400 yards off of Dinner Key, on my sailboat."

     "On a sailboat?" he challenged, like I’d just told him I lived in a whorehouse.

     "Yes a thirty-eight foot, two-masted Choi Lee."

     "Indeed! And how will we get hold of you?" he asked, as if this were his constitutional right.

     "Get hold of me?"

     "Yes, if we need to communicate with you."

     "Leave a note in my pigeon hole. Or write to my post office box in Coconut Grove."

     "And if we need to get hold of you on short notice?"

     "I’m moored in the Dinner Key Anchorage."

     "And one could find you there any time?"

     "Unless I sail down to the Keys for a long weekend."

     "Pray tell how we would get hold of you then."

     "I’ll listen to Channel Sixteen every night at eight."

     "Channel Sixteen, bloody hell! Do you expect us to — "

     ". . . that’s only if you need to get me in a hurry. You just call up the Coast Guard, or better yet, the Marine Operator."

     "It seems very complicated and I don’t know if I could approve — "

     "I do get to call the weekends my own, don’t I?"

     "Well, yes, I suppose."

     Immediately after leaving Dr. Taylor, I put a note in his pigeon hole, reiterating what I had just told him. For my own protection, I made a photocopy. In my own pigeon hole, I taped a note requesting that all my mail and notices be forwarded to my post office box.

     Balancing on my handlebars a big garbage bag full of my academic possessions, I must have looked like a homeless person. My first stop was the drugstore. The photos proved well worth the $14. Despite my jittery hands and the blood on my eyelashes, I’d taken the best telephotographs of my life. There were enough photos of Klouski’s face to make a holographic 3-D picture. The Florida registration number came out clearly, and you could even make out one of the oars from the sunken dinghy floating near the Whaler’s bow. I bought some envelopes and stamps, and hastily drafted a letter to the Florida Marine Patrol Officer Carter, enclosing one set of photos. I mailed the second set to myself at my post office box and kept the third in my backpack.

     Next, I quickly pedaled a mile down the road to the Coconut Grove Bank. They were just closing the lobby, but I pleaded my way in and deposited the negatives in my safe-deposit box. Outside, I made a hefty withdrawal from the automated teller machine. Then I rode my bike to the tree and reclaimed the planted diskette. Then there was some heavy-duty shopping to do at the Super Check, up where the Grove meets U.S. 1. Then, after a quarter of an hour outside the supermarket, I found the right guy to help me — a construction worker carrying a cold six-pack back to his pickup truck.

     "Hey buddy, I’m in a jam. Let me give you twenty dollars for the use of your truck and fifteen minutes of your time."

     "What-shu got that needs haulin’?"

     "This," I said gesturing to twelve bags of groceries, my garbage bag and my bicycle. "Just need to get’m down to the Coconut Grove waterfront."

     "Shouldn’da bought all that stuff if you don’t got no car."

     "I lost her last week. She threw a rod. Hard times. We live on a boat, and we’ve gotta get out of town quick."

     "I’ll back my truck in right here," he said, pointing to a 10-foot open space along the fire lane.

     Minutes later, my dinghy was packed solid with groceries and garbage bag. I laid my bike over the top. It took a little argument to make the guy take even $10 — and then he gave me one of his beers. So we tossed one down together. After we wished each other luck and he drove off, I phoned Rebecca. I’d have to make my move right away. If she couldn’t leave tomorrow afternoon, maybe she could take Chalk’s Airline and meet me in Bimini.

     "Hello."

     "Rebecca, I’ve been tied up with provisioning the Diogenes."

     There was a long silence, and I knew there was trouble before she said her next word.

     "Ben, I can’t go. . . Mother called me this afternoon, right after my exam. It’s about Dad. His diagnosis. It’s pancreatic cancer. He doesn’t have six months to . . . to . . . " she broke into a deep sob, "to live . . ."

     "Oh, darling. I’m so sorry. I — "

     "You see, Ben, I have to be with him," she whimpered.

     "Yes, darling. Of course." My brain was whirling. Maybe I could get Frenchie to watch after the Diogenes and I’d go up with her to New York. "Go up there right away. Take your books along and study for the Boards. Maybe I could come up for a while."

     "Oh, I don’t know, Ben. I can’t think now. It might be hard for me. Mother and Father haven’t accepted the idea . . . And now that Father’s going to — " she cried convulsively and then was abruptly silent. She must have put her hand over the transmitter.

     "Rebecca, I understand. I just meant that I could get a room in one of those tourist hotels. Or maybe I could stay with Dad and his girlfriend in Newark."

     "I just don’t know, Ben. Wait. There’s someone at the door."

     I could hear the knocking getting louder as she walked with the phone to the door. I heard a metallic clank of the security latch and pictured the door partially opened.

     "Process server, Dade County. Are you Miss Rebecca Levis?"

     "Yes."

     "We’re informed that Mr. Ben Candidi is living here. I am directed to serve this summons for him to appear in the matter of the State of Florida versus John Ledbetter, as a witness for the Defense. In the name of the Law, I direct you to open your door so that he may be duly served."

     "Rebecca!" I pleaded. "Stall, and listen to me."

     "Just a minute, please. I’m on the phone." I heard the clank of the security latch.

     "Rebecca, listen carefully. I’ve got to disappear for a couple of months. You’ve got to trust me. You’ll hear a lot of bad things about me. Don’t believe them. I can’t tell you now. Don’t ask why. Just trust me."

     "But B — " She caught herself before pronouncing my name. "But, darl — " She caught herself again, with a desperate sob.

     "Miss, you’d better give me the phone now."

     "Just trust me!" I pleaded, then hung up in a split second.

     It was already dark. I pulled out another quarter and called up Western Union. Pacing back and forth, I worked my way through their touch tone routing menu. Finally I was answered by the voice of an elderly Southern lady. I gave her my American Express number and dictated a telegram.

     The lady asked, "Can we phone this telegram to your party? A copy will arrive in the mail."

     "No! I want it to go to her hands and to no one else’s hands."

     "We do offer personal delivery service, although it may take a extra day if the party is not home."

     "Do it. I don’t care what it costs. God bless you and your company."

     "And may God bless you too, young man. And always remember — Jesus loves you."

     Fifty yards out from shore, I remembered the lady’s words. My overloaded dinghy’s rail was little more than one-half inch above water level. Twice I came within a hair’s breadth of sending the whole mess to the Deep Six. Thirty minutes later, I put one hand on the Diogenes stern and took my first deep breath. I tied the painter to the aft cleat and manhandled the bike and bags into the cockpit. I stowed the dinghy on board, lashing it down over the forward hatch.

     I fired up the engine, and furiously hauled in the two anchors, leaving them in a muddy heap on the forward deck, resting on a bed of coiled anchor line. Time to make things ship-shape later. I flipped on the navigation lights, pulled out the spotlight and signaled Mon Roi. Frenchie appeared on deck just as I passed by his stern.

     "I’m going down to the Keys for a few days, Frenchie."

     "Ben, switch on Channel Thirty-two. We need to talk."

     "Sorry. Can’t talk."

     "But Ben!"

     I motored out at full speed towards the southern tip of Key Biscayne. For 30 seconds at a time, I left the helm to stow the grocery bags, bike and anchors. Should have bought that autopilot. Thirty minutes later I was half way to the Stiltsville Channel. I put on a life jacket, pointed into the wind, and hauled up the main. Had to run back from the mast to the helm several times to correct the steering. Really should have bought that autopilot. Repeated the routine to raise the jib. Better to hoist canvas here than risk falling off the boat in the middle of the Gulf Stream.

     With a 12-knot south wind filling two sails, the Diogenes fell into pace, holding course with no help from me. Allowing myself a breather, I looked back at Coconut Grove, wondering if I could ever return. Then I made out a Cigarette boat roaring up to my anchorage. As it came off plane, its spotlight flicked on and began illuminating the boats. Probably the Florida Marine Patrol looking for the Diogenes. So I didn’t haul up the mizzen sail, hoping they’d take us for a sloop. And I kept the diesel engine running to make full speed.

     Ten minutes later, the Marine Patrol boat moved into the Dinner Key harbor and out of sight. I was just making my way through the Stiltsville Channel and out to the Atlantic when he reemerged and headed south with his blue lights flashing. They’d be looking for me down in the Keys like I told Dr. Taylor and Frenchie.

     An hour later I was rolling in three-foot waves of the Atlantic Ocean, hoisting my mizzen sail. I killed the engine. The boat held steady while I went below to turn on the VHF and get my spotlight and flare gun. You need them all when a freighter comes bearing down on you in the night. It didn’t take much listening on Channel 16 before I heard the Diogenes being hailed. I tied a rope around my waist and tied it to the helm. Within two hours the Miami skyline was little more than a glow off my stern. Let the process servers search the Florida Keys all they wanted. I had just passed the 12-mile limit, which put me outside U.S. jurisdiction. They probably couldn’t subpoena me in Bahamas.

     It was a lonely run, running away from the trial, from the Ph.D. Program and from Rebecca — thinking that all three were probably lost. Rays from the half moon danced on the three sails of my rocking boat like they had danced on the palm tree, that night on Miami Beach with Rebecca. The red glow of the binnacle light brought back memories of the enchanted evening when we consummated our love. Now, love would be a memory. My one constant friend would be my compass.

     I sailed on through the night without being run down by a freighter, without dozing at the helm, and without getting knocked out by a flying fish. Landfall at Bimini came shortly after sunrise. I had to keep slapping myself in the face to stay awake while pulling down the sails, maneuvering in behind the winding sandbar, and motoring through the narrow channel to the Bimini harbor. I tossed out the anchor, raised the yellow quarantine flag and then sank into my berth with a sigh of relief which quickly resolved into slumber.

     An hour later, I was awakened by a loud roar. Drunk with sleep, I scrambled topside just in time to catch a shower of propwash from an amphibious twin-engined Gruman "Mallard" of Chalk’s Airline, as it "taxied" past me. The horizontal spray washed all of the African dust from the port side of the boat. I had to laugh as the old bird literally waddled its way up the ramp, with its rudder flapping back and forth like a duck’s tail, until it stood on solid ground. "The Mallard quacks across the cove." But it wasn’t bringing Rebecca.

     After a bite to eat, I motored to the Alice Town "customs dock" and filled out a declaration. Then I reclaimed my mooring. I slept deeply through a sultry day, and fitfully through a balmy night.

     The next morning, computer in hand, I went topside to meet the first rays of the sun. I inserted the planted diskette and read it. It contained the same two files they planted in my hard drive at the library. Hands trembling, I removed the foreign diskette. As soon as I reached open water, I’d deep six the fucker. Half an hour later, a small wooden runabout pulled away from the dock at the Big Game Fishing Club, and motored directly towards me. A young black man sat in back, steering with the outboard motor. He was shirtless and shoeless, but wore long black pants. I waved to him and he smiled. He throttled down and drifted towards me, until his bow was ten yards off my stern.

     "I know I see right from de observation deck of de Club. This is the Diog .. gen .. es," he said, referring to a piece of paper. "So you must be Mr. Benjamin Can .. di .. di. I have a message for you from Mr. Jason Diamond."

     "Sorry, you’ve got the wrong boat. This is the Dionysian and I am Marcus Lucifer," I said emphatically.

     "But he tell me on the telephone to look for a two-masted Choi Lee and here be just such a boat, man."

     "The Dionysian is a Grampian sloop, retrofitted as a ketch. How do you like my wooden planking? I installed it myself."

     "Hey man, Mr. Diamond is goin’ to take it real bad if I do not deliver his message."

     "Do you know him?"

     "Yeah man, he come to de Club with his deep V all de time. He take me out to fish and I bait his line and show him de good places and he pay me good. Hey man, you give me break and take de message so I get what Mr. Diamond promise me! I know you de boat he looking for. If I call him back and say you don’t take de message, maybe he don’t give me de money."

     "How much money did he promise you?"

     "He say he give me twenty dollar. Say, man! You know of Mr. Diamond?"

     "Just by reputation. They say he’s a very rich man who is very stingy with his money. Wait just a minute."

     I went to the wet locker, pulled out a $50 bill, came back topside and flashed it. It was like waving a steak in front of a hungry dog.

     "Look. What did you say your name is?"

     "Malcolm, Malcolm Williams."

     "And do you remember my name?"

     "You say you be Marcus Lucy."

     "Right, Malcolm! Now I’m interested in seeing that Mr. Diamond gets his message to the right place, since he’s such a big, important man. Now listen carefully. I saw a two-masted Choi Lee named the Diogenes heading north, yesterday afternoon. So if I give you this fifty dollars, do you think you could set out right now, without stopping back at the Club, and motor a ways north, looking for that boat."

     Malcolm stared at me with curiosity. I simply waited until the look of understanding came slowly to his face. I smiled and continued my instructions.

     "You could take most of the day looking for him. And then you could come back at four-thirty and call Mr. Diamond. Tell his secretary that the man told you wrong and that there’s no Diogenes here. And that would be all you would say! Think you could do that?"

     "Yeah, man! I give him a good search," Malcolm said with a grin.

     "Good, here’s the fifty dollars. I want Mr. Diamond to get what he deserves. Be sure to call him collect."

     "No problem." Malcolm started to motor away, but then throttled down and called back. "Hey man. How good you know Mr. Diamond?"

     "Well enough that I will find out if you don’t do right by me, man! Well enough to call him up and let him know! When Mr. Diamond comes back to visit next time, I hope you have some more good fishing trips with him."

     "No problem." Malcolm throttled up and headed north.