DEAD IN THE WATER.

By: STUART WOODS.

This book is for the saints of Washington, Connecticut, Paul and Joan Marks.

CHAPTER.

one.

Barrington slowly opened his eyes and stared blearily at the pattern o moving light above him. Disoriented, he tried to make sense of the light. Then it came to him: he was aboard a yacht, and the light was reflected off the water.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. The night before had been the stuff of bad dreams; he never wanted to have another like it. The nightmare had started at Kennedy Airport, when his live-in girlfriend, Arrington Carter, had not shown up for the flight. She was supposed to come directly from the magazine office where she had been meeting with an editor, but she had not arrived.

Stone had found a phone and had tracked down

Arrington, still at The New Yorker.

"Hello?" she said.

Stone glanced at his watch. "I guess you're not going to make the plane," he said. "It leaves in twenty minutes."

"Stone, I'm so sorry; I've been having you paged at the terminal.

Didn't you hear the page?" He tried to keep his voice calm. "No, I didn't." "Everything has exploded here. I took the proposal for the profile on Vance Calder to Tina Brown, and she went for it instantly.

Turns out she had tried and tried to do a piece with Vance when she was at Vanity Fair, and he would never cooperate." "That's wonderful," he said tonelessly. "I'm happy for you." "Look, darling, Vance is coming into New York tomorrow, and I've got to introduce him to Tina at lunch, there's just no getting around it." "I see," he replied. "Don't worry, I'm already booked on the same flight tomorrow. You go ahead to St. Marks, take delivery of the boat, put in some provisions, and get gloriously drunk. I'll be there by midnight." "All right," he said.

"Oh," she sighed, "I'm so relieved you're not angry. I know you can see what a break this is for me. Vance hasn't sat still for an in-depth interview for more than twenty years. Tina says she'll bump up the printing for the anticipated increase in newsstand sales."

"That's great," he said, making an effort to sound glad for her. "I'll meet you at the St. Marks airport tomorrow night, then." "Oh, don't do that; just sit tight, and I'll grab a cab." She lowered her voice.

"And when I get there, sweetie, try and be well rested, because I'm going to bounce you off the bedsprings a whole lot; you read me?" "I read you loud and clear. I'd better run; they've almost finished boarding. And remember, we've only got the boat for ten days; don't waste any more."

"I really am going to make it up to you in the best possible way, Stone," she said. "Bye-bye."

"Bye." Stone hung up the phone and ran for his plane. Moments later, he had settled into a comfortable leather seat and had in his hand a rum and tonic, in honor of his long-anticipated winter holiday. As the big jet taxied out to the runway he looked out the window and saw that it had started to snow. Good. Why have a tropical holiday if you can't gloat?

Vance Calder was, arguably, Hollywood's premier male star, often called the new Cary Grant, and he had played an important part in Stone's and Arringtorg lives already. She had been in Calder's company when they had met at a dinner party at the home of a gossip columnist nearly a year earlier. Although Stone had been struck by her beauty and had found her marvelous company, he had not bothered to call her, because he hadn't believed for a moment that he could take a girl away from Vance Calder. Instead, Arrington had called him. Vance, she had explained, was no more than an acquaintance who, when he was in New York, liked to have a pretty girl to squire around, especially at dinners like the one at Amanda Dart's apartment, which she would feature in her column.

Inside a few weeks they were living together, and Stone had never been happier. At forty-two, he was still a bachelor, and he liked it that way. Living with Arrington, though, had made a lack of freedom seem very attractive, and he was determined to hang on to her, even if it came to marriage. Marriage had been increasingly on his mind of late, especially since Arrington had been showing signs of feeling a lack of commitment on his part. On the plane down to St. Marks he had reached a decision. They would have a wonderful cruise on the chartered boat, and they would come back engaged, unless it turned out to be easy to be wed in St. Marks; in that case, they would come back married. He was looking forward to the prospect.

Then the night began to go wrong. In San Juan, their first stop, he learned that his flight to St. Martin, the next leg, had been delayed by two hours. In St. Martin, the connecting flight to Antigua had also been delayed, and by the time he had arrived there, the light twin that would take him to St. Marks had already left and had to be summoned back at great expense. He hid reached St. Marks sometime after 3:00 A.M. Nevertheless, he had been met by the charter agent and taken to the boat, a Beneteau 36, a roomy French design, and had, without unpacking, fallen dead into the double berth in the little owner's cabin.

He got out of bed and stumbled naked into the little galley and found half a jar of instant coffee in a cupboard. Shortly he had found the gas tap in the cockpit, boiled a kettle, and made himself a really terrible cup of coffee. While he drank it he took a stroll around the interior of the little yacht, a very short stroh indeed. He was glad there would be only the two of them aboard.

There was a very nice dining table, some books, no doubt left by previous charterers, and a small television set. He wondered what he might receive on that. He turned it on and, to his surprise, found himself looking at CNN.. The marina must have a satellite dish, he thought. He slid into the navigator's seat, the leather cool against his naked buttocks, and looked around the chart table. All the island charts Were there, plus a small Global Positioning System (GPS) receiver, a VHF radio, and everything else they needed to navigate in the islands. He found some stale cereal and ate some, watching CNN. A major snowstorm would reach the New York City area by evening, and travel was expected to be disrupted. Thank God Arrington is getting out this afternoon, he thought. He washed his dishes, then unpacked and put away his clothes. A swim might be nice, he thought; he got into some trunks and climbed into the cockpit. As he did, a yacht of about forty-five feet have into. view, under engine. It had a dark blue hull and teak decks, and her name, Expansive, was lettered on her bow in gilt. Two other things about the yacht caught his eye: the mainsail was still up, and in tatters, and it was being steered by a quite beautiful young woman. She was small and blond, wearing a bikini bottom and a chambray shirt knotted under her breasts, leaving a fetching expanse of tanned midriff showing between the two. The yacht passed within twenty yards of Stone's boat, but she never looked at him. Oddly, no one came on deck to help her dock. He started to go and help, but a yellow flag was flying at the cross trees signaling that the yacht was arriving from a foreign port, and he saw a uniformed customs officer waiting to take her lines. Stone watched the somewhat clumsy operation and wished he had gone to help. He'd have liked a closer look at the woman. He put down the boarding ladder, then dove off the stern into the bright blue water, which turned out to be exactly the right temperature--about eighty degrees, he reckoned. Maybe later today he'd call somebody in New York and gloat. He swam out about fifty yards into the little harbor, then sprinted back to his boat, hauling himself up the boarding ladder. He got a towel from below, made himself another cup of the awful coffee, and settled into the cockpit to get some sun on his all-too-white body. As he did, he saw the customs officer leave the yacht and, at a dead run, head for the little police shack fifty yards away. Odd.

A moment later, the customs officer emerged from the shack in the company of two police officers, one of them of rank, judging from his uniform. The three men marched rapidly back toward the blue yacht and went aboard, disappearing below. Stone watched with interest to see what would happen next. Ten minutes passed before the young woman skipper appeared on deck wearing a cotton dress. Accompanied by the three uniformed officers, one of them carrying a small nylon duffel, she walked toward the police shack and disappeared inside.

What the hell was going on? Stone wondered.

He kept an eye on the police shack all afternoon. Finally, sometime after five o'clock, the woman left the shack in the company of two uniformed policemen, got into a waiting car, and was driven away. Stone didn't know what sort of trouble she was in, but he felt for her, alone in a foreign place, at the mercy of the police. He had seen many people in custody, and he had never envied any of them.

CHAPTER.

one showered, shaved, and got into some of his new tropical clothing--a short-sleeved silk shirt, Italian cotton trousers, and woven leather loafers, no socks. He found it an unexpected pleasure to dress so lightly in January; there was much to be 'said for winter in the tropics.

As the sun set he wandered across a wide green lawn toward a wide thatched roof covering a bar and restaurant open to the breezes. It was early, and there were few customers. A black bartender stood behind an expanse of varnished mahogany, idly polishing a glass. A television set over the bar was tuned to CNN, the sound muted.

"Evening to you, boss," he said amiably, with what sounded to Stone like a Bahamian accent.

"Evening," Stone said.

"And what might be your pleasure this fine evening."?"

"Oh, something tropical, I guess, to celebrate my first evening in warm weather."

"A pifia co lada mebbe?"

"Sounds good." Stone looked up at the television and saw a woman in a heavy coat standing on what looked like a New York City street corner.

A blizzard was raging about her. "Could you turn the sound up on the TV for a minute?" he asked the bartender.

"Sure thing, boss."

"... was predicted for later this evening, but it started around noon, and we already have a foot of snow on the streets, with at least twenty inches expected by the wee hours of tomorrow morning. Kennedy, La Guardia, and Newark Airports closed at midafternoon, so nothing is flying into or out of the city until fitrther notice. The Port Authority predicted that no flights would be moving until noon tomorrow."

"Shit," Stone said aloud. "Okay, you can turn the volume down again."

"What you care, boss?" the bartender asked, turning down the TV. "You already here."

"Yeah, but my girl isn't. She was due to leave at four this afternoon."

"Bad luck, boss," the man said. "Where are you from?" Stone asked.

"Born right here on St. Marks, boss."

"Funny, you sound Bahamian. You shining me on with that accent?"

The man grinned. "You're too good for me, pal." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Thomas Hardy, like the writer." Now the accent was more island British, with an extra, familiar layer.

Stone shook his hand. "Do I hear a little New York in there somewhere?"

"Lived in Brooklyn a long time; worked all over the city."

"I'm Stone Barrington; I'm on a charter yacht over at the marina."

"That's kind of a familiar name," Thomas said. "Don't know why; it's my first time in St. Marks." "Were you ever a cop?"

Stone blinked in surprise. "I was, mostly in the Nineteenth Precinct.

Have we ever met?"

Thomas shook his head. "No, but I heard about you.

I was walking a beat in the Village when you left the force; everybody was talking about you, said you got'-a bad deal."