and it was his turn to jump out of the airplane. But he had made the jump and survived. And he’d make this one, too, or he wouldn’t survive. The little boat was bouncing around like a cork, and even from a distance, Mark could see that Amber was no longer perched on the back of the seat but huddled down on it. Only her head and shoulders were visible behind the rounded side of little boat, but he could see one hand tightly griping the rope that ran the length of the hull. Apparently now she didn’t think her excursion was the “absolute best.” A tall, white-clad figure appeared in the cockpit of the cruiser as he had the previous week, fishing rod in hand. He stood with one foot on the low transom, the breeze toying with his hair. The hat with gold braid now hung, glinting in the sun, from a rod-holder bracket. He posed, smiling, and expertly flipped his lure and sinker out over the side, then began feeding line down into the water. Both cameras focused on the man, but now and then one of them would pan the surface farther out or sweep slowly along the shoreline.
