"Old, wooden, practically leaking."

"That's a great boat. The guys said if you don't get out of town or get an attitude adjustment, they're going to tie your hands and feet together and throw you in the drink."

J.B. shrugged. "Wouldn't do them any good."

"Uh-huh. You're a highly trained federal agent, drown-proofed and everything."

Skepticism had crept into Bruce's tone. He obviously had his doubts about J.B.'s credentials, too. J.B. didn't mind. He hadn't produced an I.D. or really confirmed one way or the other he was with the bureau. Bruce had guessed it. His truck had backfired, and J.B., still on edge from his last investigation, had gone for his weapon-not that he was carrying one. Bruce nailed him then and there. "You a cop? A fed?" J.B. just said he was on vacation. Period.

The talk about tossing him overboard wasn't seri-ous-he'd invaded these men's turf, and they were remarking their territory, letting him know they didn't care if he was on edge or why. He was bad company. They weren't going to give him an inch.

"Nobody believes you're here on vacation," Bruce said.

"Why not?"

"You don't look like you take vacations."

J.B. didn't disagree. He looked as if he'd spent the past year working on an undercover operation that had ended badly, leaving him with his throat half slit and the searing memory of killing a man in front of his own children. Not what J.B. had envisioned when he'd infiltrated a group of violent criminals who used their virulent antigovernment beliefs to justify robbery, murder and the possession and distribution of illegal assault weapons and explosive devices.

"I'm doing genealogical research on my Maine roots," J.B. said.

"Uh-huh. You a Mainer. I like that. You ever been to Maine?"