"Papa Jacques," said Deenie suddenly, "he know too."

Mike studied her. "What did you say?"

"Papa Jacques, he say shark waitin' outer waters. Waitin' to kill her."

"We'll borrow a speedboat," decided Mike. "Deenie, when she cleared the cut, which way'd she turn? North or south?"

Deenie shrugged and pointed east. "To sea. Cain't even see her now from Masthead Light."

"The hell with a boat," decided Jake. "Let's charter a plane. When we spot her, we'll call for a boat."

Mike nodded. The two of them jumped into the jeep, rocketed up Mike's private road, hit Aerodrome Road, and headed for the airstrip.

At least Mike knew where Hoagie was.

***

Hoagie Newcombe approached Salt Hole cautiously, parking his yellow jeep below the crest of the hill that overlooked it and moving quietly up to the ridge to reconnoiter.

He peered down onto the old quay. There was no boat there, and none at sea. But Lomas would be heading the other way, back to Nassau, or south to Spanish Galleon Cay.

He turned and inspected the airstrip, a half mile away. The runway shimmered in the late-afternoon sun.

The field was full of parked aircraft here for the Festival, but there was not a sign of life around. Everyone was in Prince George Town, getting drunk. The beacon on the battered operations building was not even turning; it cost too much to keep it on in the daytime, and the field closed nowadays at dusk.

Along one side of the runway stood a line of chartered planes, waiting to take tourists back to Nassau when the annual Junkanoo was over. There was no pilots' lounge at Whiskey Cay, so the pilots had gone into town too.

There were a dozen cars and jeeps parked by the operations shack: private pilots who had left for Miami for New Year's and had not yet returned. The Shell Aviation gas truck, battered and rusted with the ocean breeze, sat at the tiny shack.

He was running out of hope, but there was a slim chance that he might intercept Lomas yet. If he took off and searched the route to Spanish Galleon Cay and then to Nassau, he might spot one of Lomas's vessels—speedboat, powerboat, or cruiser—from the air.

He climbed into his jeep and headed for the airstrip. He parked in a spot marked with a shabby sign: PILOT, CALYPSO FRIENDLY CHARTERS.

Tiredly he walked into the hangar he shared with three other charter operations. He moved past private planes: an ancient Luscombe that seldom saw the light of day and a gleaming vintage Bellanca kept up by a retired engineer.

He paused at the love of his life, the ancient yellow Stearman open-cockpit biplane. He had bought it the previous year and restored it for aerobatics and for old times' sake. Sometimes he used it to tow advertising banners over Nassau and Paradise Island. Someday he would fly it to Jamaica and retire.