Gregoire turned the boat from yet another small, private island and throttled the engine up. The island was the vacation home of a rock and roll musician of whom he’d never heard, much to the incredulity of the guests staying on it, who had done much to assure him that everything on their private island was fine. They’d regarded him as law enforcement at first, wary of his sudden knocks on the side gate to the outdoor pool, and several of the men had taken to wandering to other areas of the pool compound to get views on other areas of the island beyond the pool enclosure’s walls. Gregoire had smiled; they were all coked up, he figured, and suddenly paranoid that their island get-away had finally come under notice of the law.
Gregoire had quickly defused the situation, informing the group of models and fashion photographers that he was looking for a friend who’d gotten lost on a small boat and might have taken refuge there. When it was clear to them he wasn’t there as the point guard to an oncoming drug raid, they invited him to look around, assuring him they’d seen nobody during the week they’d been on the island, and Gregoire felt no need to poke through their business. Indeed, if Arris had washed ashore here, he’d have found a way to be sitting poolside with the group, taking an impromptu vacation from the world of specialty private military contractors.
Back on the boat, Gregoire sat down on the bench in the cockpit and oriented himself to the ocean, making sure the compass remained true, and slowed the engine to an idle. The boat bobbed on the water. Gregoire picked up the binoculars and scanned the horizon, looking for a man in a yellow inflatable life vest. Nothing. There were only a few more small islands left on his map before the vast expanse of sea, and if Arris hadn’t made it to any of them, he was likely lost to the waves and Davy Jones’ Locker below.