“Probably nursing a hangover about now,” the bartender said. “He came in last night with a hundred bucks. Used most of it up buy- ing drinks for himself and the regulars. He was pretty tanked when he left. He's done it before, so I didn't worry about him. Neal navi- gates better drunk than some men sober. He took off around eleven, and that was the last I saw of him. He's been living on his boat, even when the boatyard had it.”

“Any idea why the Tiffany isn't here?” Paul asked. The bartender scanned the harbor and swore under his breath.

“Damned idiot, he was in no shape to run a boat.”

“Would any of the other people who were in the bar know where he is ?”

“Naw, they were even drunker than he was. Only one not drink- ing was Fred Grogan, and he left before Mike.”

Trout's analytical ear was listening for inconsistencies. “Who is Grogan?” Paul asked.

“Nobody you'd want to know,” the bartender said with contempt. “Lives in the woods near the old plant. He's the only local guy the new owners kept on when they bought in. Pretty surprising, because Fred is such a shady character. He pretty much keeps to himself. Sometimes he sneaks into town, driving one of the big black SUVs you see around the plant.”

The bartender paused and looked across the water, shading his eyes. A small boat had entered the harbor and was moving toward the pier at great speed. “That's Fitzy coming in. He's the lighthouse keeper. Looks like he's in a big hurry.”

The outboard-powered skiff skidded up to the dock, and the white-bearded man in the boat tossed a line ashore. He was clearly excited and didn't even wait to climb out of the boat before he started to babble almost incoherently.

“Calm down, Fitzy,” the bartender said. “Can't understand a word.” The bearded man caught his breath and said, “I heard a big boom late last night. Rattled my windows. Figured it might be a jet flying real low. Went out this morning to take a look. Pieces of wood all over the place. Look at this.” He whipped back a tarpaulin, pulled out a jagged plank and held it over his head. The painted letters Tif were clearly visible.

The bartender's lips tightened. He went into his bar and called the police. While he waited for the law to arrive, he made several more phone calls. Pickup trucks began to arrive, and a motley fleet of search boats was organized. With Fitzy in the lead, the flotilla had already set out when the police chief arrived. The chief talked to the bartender and got his story. By then, some of the boats were return- ing. They had more scraps of wood that identified the boat, but no sign ofNeal.