The wake of a boat passing by caught their hulls. The rocking motion rubbed together the sides of the Freya and the white-hulled drifter, which had no name, only an f/v number issued by the Alaska Department of Fish and Game stenciled on the bow. The man went down the side of his vessel, unfastening the white rubber cylindrical bumpers from the free side of his vessel and transferring them to the side scraping against the Freya. The boy was still hiccuping noisily in his puddle of salt water and salmon scales, and in passing the man hauled back his foot and kicked him almost casually in the side. "Get your gloves and start pitching fish."

Kate pulled against Tim's grip, and he said again, more urgently this time, "Don't, Kate. Really. Don't. I know this guy. You'll just make it ten times worse on the kid."

As they watched, the boy managed to fight his way to his feet, move to a locker and pull out a pair of rough-surfaced, reddish-brown rubber glovesmonkey gloves they were called, Kate didn't know why. He looked across at the two of them, eyes narrowed and hostile, his right cheek swollen and beginning to bruise. "What are you looking at?"

Tim said nothing. Neither did Kate said, and the boy said, "You ready or what?"

His voice was as flat and brusque as the man's. Behind them the door to the galley opened and Old Sam's stern voice called out, "Tim, get your butt in here, boy, you want your ticket."

Kate drew a deep breath, and matched her tone of voice to the boy's. "Yeah," she said, and bent to the controls. "We're ready."

Tim faded from her side. Man and boy bent to their task, filling a brailer so that Kate could transfer their catch to the Freyas hold. She had to admit the two of them worked well together, bending, snagging fish by their gills, pitching them up and over the rim of the brailer. Of course, from what Kate had seen it was in the boy's best interests to work well. She cursed herself for not catching the damn rope the first time the boy had thrown it, and dodged back just in time to get out of the way of a fifty-pound king that sailed across the gunnel to hit the deck with a loud thud.

Her eyes lingered on the figure of the skipper. His movements were nimble, his feet stepped light as a cat's, his hands were deft and sure in the bulky monkey gloves, as they had been at the controls of the drifter.

He looked up and saw Kate looking at him, and straightened up slowly to return like for like. He took his time about it, his dark eyes moving slowly over the polished black helmet of her hair, the clear hazel eyes beneath lids folded to give her face an exotic Asian cast, the high, flat cheekbones, the smooth brown skin interrupted by the ropy scar that bisected her throat, the taut muscles and smooth curves of her body displayed to advantage in cut-off jeans and a cut-down T-shirt.