11

 

Tuesday evening

Meshach ascended the metal stairs. The platform looked well maintained in the easily accessible areas. A fresh coat of paint covered the deck, handrails, and wellheads. Thick slabs of rust replaced the orange paint on the pylons, bracing and lower supports.

The wellhead topped with the production tree stood ten feet above the main deck. A white, navigation warning light mounted on the handrail and powered by a bank of batteries charged with solar panels clicked off and on. The incessant rhythm of that click was only slightly less irritating than the foghorn’s repeated, piercing blare. The faint hum of gas streamed through the piping, like water from a faucet, and spanned the gap between the horn’s blasts.

Meshach climbed the small work platform and checked the gauge on the wing valve—just shy of 1500psi.

“Helloooo!” Shanteel yelled from the boat tied to the landing below. “Are we going to stay here all day? Baby, drink a beer with me. You haven’t had one yet. I’m lonely.” The last statement sounded like a reminder.

Three hours earlier, she’d twisted the top off the first beer and hadn’t shut up since. Her mouth outran the boat at ninety-nine questions an hour. After the first thirty seconds and ten questions, he regretted he’d opted for the displeasure of her company.

Platforms dotted the ocean surface in every direction. Too many to number without losing count. He didn’t loathe the sight, as did some of the more ardent earth-first believers he knew. Those morons didn’t know their ideal world would take mankind back into the fifth century. Meshach liked his toys and the convenience of world travel at a moment’s notice.

“Darling, I mean it.” Her voice turned shrill and grated like fingernails on a chalkboard. Now, she was mad. He could see she was the foot-stomping type if she didn’t get her way.

He put his hand on the key to the boat in his pants pocket and felt better about leaving her alone.

She’d already proved valuable. Maybe he should keep her around, just in case.

“I want to go home!” she yelled.

Then again, maybe not.

Late afternoon cooled into a nice evening. The sunset painted lazy white clouds in shades of red and yellow. A slight breeze broke the ocean surface except for a few glassy patches in the distance that had to be slicks. Crude oil leaks weren’t always to blame. A passing vessel pumping out the bilge, lube oil leaking from propeller shaft seals, or the oil and biological debris from fish feeding on other fish caused the same effect.

He turned the handle of the wing valve on the production tree. One round, two rounds, three, four…the humming intensified as the gate inside of the valve-body made the opening smaller and smaller, pinching off the flow of gas. A final swoosh then silence. Seventeen turns to the right. The gauge pressure rose gradually and stabilized at twenty-eight fifty. Next to the wing valve, upstream, closest to the tree, was another barrier, a failsafe-closed valve with an actuator that used the well pressure and the natural gas produced to hold the gate in the open position. He punched the red emergency shutdown button.

There was a reason for the no smoking sign at the bottom of the stairs. The expulsion of gas as the valve closed was strong and substantial.

Several hours would pass before the pressure in the line dropped enough to be noticed, but someone, somewhere, at the production facility where the line he’d just closed ended, would soon wonder what happened to the line pressure. The field hand sent to investigate would see right away the failsafe had tripped, but he might take a while to think to check the manual valve. After all, who would close it?

Small thorns caused the most powerful elephant to limp. A man just had to know where to stick them.

He descended the work platform and made his way down the steps to the boat. Shanteel had finally consumed enough beer to douse her fire. She slept curled up on the seat, exposed to what sun remained. Passed out more likely. Despite her tan, she looked cooked. As he took off his shirt and put it on her, he wondered why he cared.

A ragdoll had more life.

An hour later, the camp house came into view. The fancy boat was still gone, but the other two sat in their slips.

A cop walked down the dock from the parking area behind the house Shanteel had appeared from that morning.

Meshach motored past the row of houses, like all was normal. He just hadn’t arrived at his intended destination. Another group of houses a mile distant gave the ploy credibility.

The cop paced the dock once before planting himself at the head of the narrow slip where he stood erect, arms behind his back, like a poster-boy for a police recruiting drive. The man looked everywhere but at Meshach. His cruiser sat next to the red Audi, Shanteel’s car. His lips and cheeks worked from grimace to pout and back. He did not look happy.

Meshach eased the throttle forward a touch. If Shanteel woke and sat up, she’d be visible. He’d bet money the cop was her ex-something, or even worse, her current something. In either case, past or present, he didn’t want to find out.

If the situation soured, the backpack held his way out. One in the chamber and six in the mag.

 

~*~

 

Meshach didn’t care if Shanteel didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to either. She woke up sore as a bad tooth, no doubt hung over and visibly sunburnt. Her supply of showgirl smiles had run out.

The night closed in thick when he turned the key and the running lights clicked off. The boat settled against the rubber bumpers. Water lapped. Voices drifted through the windows of the end house to the east, where the late-night bunch stayed. Sounded like they’d gotten a second wind. No lights shone from Shanteel’s house, a good sign. He couldn’t see anyone lurking, but lights from an occupied house made shadows darker, more distinct and easier to hide in.

She didn’t wait for him to moor the boat. She stepped ashore and padded off into the night. After a minute, a door slammed. One light came on—a bright one toward the back of the house. Then it dimmed as another door slammed.

He felt a sting in the middle of his back and another on his neck. Mosquitoes reminded him she’d run off with his shirt.

The cooler held plenty of food, as well as water and ice for another outing. Gas would be a problem soon. He should have filled up at the marina on the way in, but he didn’t want to be seen by the local population with a woman he knew nothing about and who was passed out in the boat. This proved to be a good call with the cop wandering around. Shanteel had to be a local, someone everyone knew, and from the way she acted, more than casually.

He grabbed his gear and stepped onto the dock. Halfway up the steps to his house he paused. The deck stood fifteen feet tall. The railing around it added another forty inches. He set down the bag and trotted back to the boat. In the forward compartment lay the anchor and tied to its crown, one hundred feet of good-quality, braided nylon rope. He untied the end attached to the bow of the boat, grabbed both, and trotted back to the east side of the house, in the deep shadow of the empty house next door.

The anchor weighed ten, maybe fifteen pounds and was made of galvanized-steel, eighteen inches wide and twenty-four long. He shook it. The thing clanked, but that could be fixed with cloth to dampen the metal-on-metal ring. He shook out several loops of rope, grabbed the end of the anchor and heaved, letting the loops of rope peel off his hand as the anchor and chain sailed over the handrail onto the deck above. Might as well have thrown the thing through the front window. It had the same effect when it landed on the glass tabletop. He cringed and looked into the night, but there was nothing to see. The buzz from the marsh quieted for a second then continued. After a pause, he pulled on the rope and dragged the anchor and the patio table frame across the wooden deck until the rope tugged tight. He pulled himself halfway up, hand over hand, then slid down. The rope was slick, but knots two feet apart would cure that.

Sometimes, the right tools lay at your fingertips.