09-Twelve Mile Limit by Randy Wayne White Page A

man.”
    “I like him, too. Very professional, plus, my guess is, he’s got a little circus going on inside him, which I tend to like in people. When he told me about you, first thing I did was look you up on the Internet. No web page—which I found surprising—but you’ve published a lot in journals, and enough of your fellow scientists have quoted your work, so there was plenty to find.”
    “I had no idea,” I told her. “A while back, I had an interest in the Internet. I still use it, but just for research. So I haven’t bothered to check out what’s on there about me.”
    She was nodding, pleased to be sharing information. “The thing I like is, you’re not attached to any agency. No government funding. You do your own work in your own way, and you obviously know your way around boats and the water. So I’m inviting you to help me figure out what the hell went wrong out there. Your opinion would carry a lot of weight with people who live along this coast, and the media, too. I want my reputation back, Dr. Ford, it’s as simple as that.”
    I looked into her face. The late winter sun burnished her skin with a klieg-light gold. In that harsh, parchment light, I could see how she would age; how she would look in ten, twenty, even thirty years. Amelia Gardner was not pretty. She had never been pretty. But she possessed a handsome, prairie-woman’s plainness that is uniquely American, and that I, personally, find far more attractive than the predictable, painted masks of film stars and beauty queens.
    Hers was a good face with a strong jaw, eyebrows darker than her red hair, full pale lips, no makeup at all, and a corn-silk down that grew below her temples. There were a few pores visible, and a faint acne scar or two that implied a difficult adolescence. She was an outdoors person with horizontal sun wrinkles on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes; the tennis-player, mountain-bike type who was also a professional. She had a sloping nose shaped like a ski jump and, yes, cat-green eyes. In that brilliant light, her eyes glowed as if illuminated from within, showing little specks of blue and bronze.
    I said to her, “I’d like to help, but I’ve got a job, Ms. Gardner. The one person who I could trust to take care of my lab, Janet Mueller, is gone now. I’m sorry.”
    I was surprised when she reached and put her hand on my shoulder, a fraternal gesture not often used by women, particularly women strangers. “I want you to think it over. Listen to what I have to say about what happened three weeks ago, then talk to me later. I’ll stay as late as you want. The thing is—”
    I said, “What?”
    She had her arms folded now, looking at me, and, from her expression, I knew she was trying to decipher the most productive approach for the brand of person she was dealing with—me. How was I best handled? What would be the fastest, most effective angle? It is an increasingly common phenomenon, a calculated brand of assessment and manipulation that may well be taught in business and law schools, yet I find it offensive.
    Finally she said, “I have to follow my instincts. So here it is: There’s something I want to tell you, but you have to promise me not to tell the others. You’ll understand why later. If you promise, I’ll take you at your word. I don’t meet many stand-up guys these days, but maybe you’re one of the few.”
    “Stand-up guy, huh?” I didn’t say it, but I assumed that what she had to say had something to do with her behavior after the sinking, some guilty secret, a burden she now needed to share.
    She seemed surprised by my tone. “Is there something wrong with me thinking you’re trustworthy?”
    “We just met.”
    “Like I said, I’m going on instinct.”
    I was shaking my head. “Sorry, Ms. Gardner. I’ve known the people at this marina much, much longer than I’ve known you. I respect what you did that night, but talking to me privately is the same as speaking to the entire group. If there’s some secret you want to