Inside the salon, the deputy had found the lower helm. She heard the port engine cough and die, and then the starboard, and then for the first time in half an hour there was no diesel under everything, and the sound that rushed in to fill the space was wind. Wind in the rigging of the sailboats on B dock, a high thin whine, a hundred halyards slapping a hundred aluminum masts, and under it the groan of the floating docks working against their pilings, and the river slapping against the hulls, and somewhere far up the boardwalk a loose shutter banging, banging.
"Seven-fourteen, Marine Two," the sergeant said into the radio. "I'm out at Halyard Point, C dock. Got one female detained, vessel secured. Can you get me a callback number for the complainant?"
Detained. She heard the word and filed it, the way she filed vital signs.
"Sergeant," she said. "May I have your name?"
He glanced at her. "Sergeant Shuford."
"First name?"
"Wiley."
"Sergeant Wiley Shuford," she said. "My name is Claudine Pettaway. I'm a registered respiratory therapist at University Hospital in Mobile. And my right arm is not doing too well."
"Ms. Pettaway," Shuford said. "Do you have anything in writing says you're allowed to operate this vessel?"
"Yes," she said. "In the salon. On the chart table. In a manila envelope."
"You're not going in the salon."
"Then have your deputy get it."