"What do you want me to callhim?"

"I still call him Chuck. A man has aright to change his name, after what they did to him, and what they're doing.Anyway, he's a writer, and writers use pen names."

"Okay, I'll call him Chuck. But youdidn't come here to argue about a name."

She fingered her mouth, pushing her fulllower lip from side to side. She wasn't wearing lipstick or any other makeup.Without it she looked younger and more innocent.

"Have you heard from Chuck?" I said.

She nodded almost imperceptibly, as if too great amovement would endanger him.

"Where is he, Madge?"

"In a safe place. I'm not to tell you whereunless you promise not to tell the police."

"I promise."

Her pale eyes brightened. "He wants to talk toyou."

"Did he say what about?"

"I didn't talk to him personally. A friend of hisdown at the harbor telephoned the message."

"I take it he's somewhere around the harborthen."

She gave me another of her barely visible nods.

"You've told me this much," I said."You might as well tell me the rest. I'd give a lot for an interview withChuck."

"And you won't lead the police to him?"

"Not if I can help it. Where is he, Madge?"

She screwed up her face and made the plunge:"He's on Mr. Stevens's yacht, the Revenant."

"How did he get aboard her?"

"I'm not sure. He knew that Mr.Stevens was racing her at Balboa over the weekend. I think he went there andsurrendered to Mr. Stevens."

I left Madge in my room. She didn't wantto go out again by herself, or ride along with me. I took the waterfrontboulevard to the harbor. While a few tugboats and tuna-fishers used its outerreaches, most of the boats moored at the slips or anchored within the long armof the jetty were the private yachts and cruisers of weekend sailors.

On a Monday, not many of them were at sea,but I noticed a few white sails on the horizon. They were headed shoreward,like homing dreams.

A man in the harbormaster's glass-enclosedlookout pointed out Stevens's yacht to me. Though she rode at the far end ofthe outer slip, she was easy to spot because of her towering mast. I walked outalong the floating dock to her.

Revenant was long and sleek, with a lowstreamlined cabin and a racing cockpit. Her varnish was smooth and clear, herbrass was bright. She rocked ever so slightly on the enclosed water, like ananimal trembling to run.

I stepped aboard and knocked on the hatch.No answer, but it opened when I pushed. I climbed down the short ladder andmade my way past some short-wave radio equipment, and a tiny galley smelling ofburned coffee, into the sleeping quarters. An oval of sunlight from one of theports, moving reciprocally with the motion of the yacht, fluttered against thebulkhead like a bright and living soul. I said to it:

"McGee?"

Something stirred in an upper bunk. A faceappeared at eye level. It was a suitable face for the crew of a boat namedRevenant. McGee had shaved off his beard, and the lower part of his face had abeard-shaped pallor. He looked older and thinner and much less sure of himself.

"Did you come here by yourself?" hewhispered.

"Naturally I did."

"That means you don't think I'm guilty,either." He was reduced to such small momentary hopefulnesses.

"Who else doesn't think you're guilty?"

"Mr. Stevens."

"Was this his idea?" I said, with a gesturethat included McGee and myself.

"He didn't say I shouldn't talk to you."

"Okay, McGee, what's on your mind?"

He lay still watching me. His mouth wastwitching, and his eyes held a kind of beseeching brightness. "I don'tknow where to start. I've been living in my thoughts for ten years—so long ithardly seems real. I know what happened to me but I don't know why. Ten yearsin the pen, with no chance of parole because I wouldn't admit that I wasguilty. How could I? I was bum-rapped. And now they're getting ready to do itagain."

He gripped the polished mahogany edge ofthe bunk. "I can't go back to 'Q', brother. I did ten years and it washard time. There's no time as hard as the time you do for somebody else'smistake. God, but the days crawled. There weren't enough jobs to go round andhalf the time I had nothing to do but sit and think.

"I'll kill myself," he said,"before I let them send me back again."

He meant it, and I meant what I said inreply: "It won't happen, McGee. That's a promise."

"I only wish I could believe you. Youget out of the habit of believing people. They don't believe you, you don'tbelieve them."

"Who killed your wife?"

"I don't know."

© Alexander Sviyash, 2009