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didn’t like to go on deck barefooted; he had once nearly broken a toe, tripping on a deck fitting. He moved slowly, sleepily intothe saloon; there didn’t seem to be any great urgency; Denny was not calling for him. He climbed halfway up the companionway ladder and stopped, puzzled. The wheel was locked; Denny was standing on the stern of the boat, looking aft, shielding his eyes from a rising, red ball of a sun.
    â€œWhat’s up, Denny?” Cat called out. “We got a problem?”
    Denny turned and looked at him, silhouetted against the rising sun; Cat could not see his face.
    â€œNo, no problem,” Denny called back, then turned and looked astern again.
    Cat climbed into the cockpit, raising a hand to shade his eyes. “Why are we stopped? What’s going on?”
    Denny did not reply but continued to stare astern.
    Now Cat heard an engine. He started aft toward Denny, staggering a bit with sleep and the gentle rolling of the yacht. He made the stem and climbed up beside Denny, holding on to the backstay for support as the hove-to boat rolled with the swell. “What is it?” he asked again.
    â€œI don’t know,” Denny said, dully.
    The young man seemed to be breathing rapidly, Cat thought. He looked out astern, the sun hurting his eyes, and, for the first time, saw a white shape that had to be a boat a few hundred yards out, coming toward them. The sound of an engine was distinct now, borne on the light breeze. Cat looked around the cockpit for the binoculars, then remembered that they had been stolen in Santa Marta. He squinted at the boat, trying to judge its shape and size. It seemed to be a sportfisherman, he thought, something on the order of thirty feet. It came on, steadily, toward Catbird.
    â€œWhy did you stop the boat, Denny?” Cat asked again.
    The younger man stepped down from the stern and stood in the cockpit, still watching the approaching boat, now only a hundred yards away.
    â€œNothing’s wrong, Mr. Catledge,” Denny said. “Everything’s okay.”
    Cat was wide awake now, and becoming irritated at the lack of an answer to his question.
    â€œDenny, I asked you why you stopped the boat. Answer me.”
    â€œUh, there was a problem with the mainsail. I thought it ought to come down.”
    It was as Cat had suspected, then. But what about the approaching boat? It was less than fifty yards away, and Cat could clearly make out a man and a woman on the flying bridge. There was a name visible on her bows, too: Santa Maria. The boat had slowed markedly, and her skipper was clearly bent on coming alongside. Cat could make out her crew’s features now. The woman, who seemed quite young, disappeared below. The man was in his mid-thirties, bearded, and rough-looking. Cat thought that all he needed was an eyepatch, and he’d look like a storybook pirate. Pirate. The word echoed in his head. He turned. “Denny,” he called back, evenly and distinctly, “please go below and hand me up the shotgun. Do it right now.”
    â€œYessir,” Denny said, immediately, and turned for the companionway ladder.
    Cat turned back to the approaching boat, which had stopped perhaps ten yards off his port quarter. “What do you want?” he called to her skipper, who was leaning on the helm staring at Cat, keeping the throttle at idle. The man grinned broadly, exposing some gold teeth, but did not reply. Cat thought he must not speak English. He wastrying to think of something else to say when he heard Denny’s footfall behind him. He turned to see the young man approaching, the shotgun in his hands. Katie was right behind him, coming up the ladder.
    â€œWhat’s happening, Cat?” she was calling.
    Cat reached out for the shotgun, and to his astonishment saw Denny step back and raise the weapon, pointing it directly at him.
    â€œNo fooling around, Denny,” Cat barked, alarmed. “I need that right