of it.
Sam . That voice again. But—his gaze flickered around the cabin’s neglected interior—there wasn’t anyone here, either.
What the …? Sam backed up the three rubber-treaded hatchway steps to the deck. He could lean over from there and hear better, without the waves slap-slapping the outside of the hull on either side of him.
Richard hit the boat with his hammer yet again; in response the stern dropped noticeably, way too fast for Sam’s taste. The whole idea was for water to run out of the boat, not in. But if Richard wasn’t careful, he’d sink Courtesan while trying to save her.
And then, astonishingly: Sam. How they hangin’, buddy?
Which was when he knew he was losing it. Brain-damaged, the way his mother always said he would be if he kept on drinking and drugging. Or maybe he had a tumor, just like …
The phrase had always been his dad’s weird, awkward way of trying to be a buddy to Sam. But there’s no such thing as ghosts , he thought, and even if there were, why here?
Why now? Disbelievingly, he crept forward toward the hatch leading to the hole in the cabin floor, roiling with dark water.
Somewhere above, outside, far away, Richard bashed his boat again with the sledgehammer; Carol revved the truck’s engine; a winch motor whined. The Nathans groaned, heaving the vessel forward; Sam felt it tilt up beneath him, its prow lifting as the Nathans shoved it and the winch howled its distress.
“Sam? What’s happening? Talk to me, pal, can you hear any water going out?”
Richard’s rasping voice hauled Sam back to himself. A loud gushing sound was indeed coming from Courtesan ’s punctured stern; she’d gotten up onto the trailer enough so gravity was emptying her at least a little bit, as Richard had hoped. Turning from the gurgle of flowing water, Sam shouted encouragingly.
“Yeah! Keep her stern low, let it run awhile before you—”
Winch it anymore , he’d been about to say, because the motor with all that weight on the winch line still sounded overloaded. Once Courtesan was lighter, they could pull her higher onto the trailer, let even more of what she’d taken on drain out.
Or that was the plan, anyway. Out of the blue, though, Sam recalled his own thought of earlier, that a boat always had some new curve to throw at you. No sense getting too confident …
Sam. Down here . A thrill of real fear went through him: the voice wasn’t in his head anymore.
No, it was coming up out of that hole in the cabin’s floor, definitely. A familiar voice … but that was impossible. That was crazy.…
His dad’s voice. Slowly, Sam turned from the hatch opening where he’d been about to go back up on deck. Instead he’d venture another look down into the hole, just to prove to himself that …
Goddammit, Sam, you get over here right this minute .
Sam obeyed, certain he was hallucinating. But the force of the command, the implied but very strong or else he heard in it nearly levitated him to the edge of the hole.
He leaned over, peered in, and—
No. Can’t be . But there in the wet depths under the filthy bilge water floated his father’s face: long lantern jaw, cleft chin, and full mouth. And the eyes …
Oh, those were his father’s eyes, all right, only now they were pure white, as if soaked for a long time in salt water. Eyes like a couple of pearl onions staring at him.
Sam bent down into the hole, trying to see better, to find any sanity-saving scrap of evidence at all to tell him that this was an optical illusion or hallucination of some kind, and not his dead father barking orders at him from inside the hull of a sinking sailboat.
“Dad?” he whispered. The face smiled.…
And then a lot of things happened at once: the scream of the overloaded winch motor, a bang like a gunshot, Richard’s shout of dismay. An instant later something smashed fast through the wall of the sailboat’s cabin, just missing Sam’s bent head as it flew by with a hot,
Sam . That voice again. But—his gaze flickered around the cabin’s neglected interior—there wasn’t anyone here, either.
What the …? Sam backed up the three rubber-treaded hatchway steps to the deck. He could lean over from there and hear better, without the waves slap-slapping the outside of the hull on either side of him.
Richard hit the boat with his hammer yet again; in response the stern dropped noticeably, way too fast for Sam’s taste. The whole idea was for water to run out of the boat, not in. But if Richard wasn’t careful, he’d sink Courtesan while trying to save her.
And then, astonishingly: Sam. How they hangin’, buddy?
Which was when he knew he was losing it. Brain-damaged, the way his mother always said he would be if he kept on drinking and drugging. Or maybe he had a tumor, just like …
The phrase had always been his dad’s weird, awkward way of trying to be a buddy to Sam. But there’s no such thing as ghosts , he thought, and even if there were, why here?
Why now? Disbelievingly, he crept forward toward the hatch leading to the hole in the cabin floor, roiling with dark water.
Somewhere above, outside, far away, Richard bashed his boat again with the sledgehammer; Carol revved the truck’s engine; a winch motor whined. The Nathans groaned, heaving the vessel forward; Sam felt it tilt up beneath him, its prow lifting as the Nathans shoved it and the winch howled its distress.
“Sam? What’s happening? Talk to me, pal, can you hear any water going out?”
Richard’s rasping voice hauled Sam back to himself. A loud gushing sound was indeed coming from Courtesan ’s punctured stern; she’d gotten up onto the trailer enough so gravity was emptying her at least a little bit, as Richard had hoped. Turning from the gurgle of flowing water, Sam shouted encouragingly.
“Yeah! Keep her stern low, let it run awhile before you—”
Winch it anymore , he’d been about to say, because the motor with all that weight on the winch line still sounded overloaded. Once Courtesan was lighter, they could pull her higher onto the trailer, let even more of what she’d taken on drain out.
Or that was the plan, anyway. Out of the blue, though, Sam recalled his own thought of earlier, that a boat always had some new curve to throw at you. No sense getting too confident …
Sam. Down here . A thrill of real fear went through him: the voice wasn’t in his head anymore.
No, it was coming up out of that hole in the cabin’s floor, definitely. A familiar voice … but that was impossible. That was crazy.…
His dad’s voice. Slowly, Sam turned from the hatch opening where he’d been about to go back up on deck. Instead he’d venture another look down into the hole, just to prove to himself that …
Goddammit, Sam, you get over here right this minute .
Sam obeyed, certain he was hallucinating. But the force of the command, the implied but very strong or else he heard in it nearly levitated him to the edge of the hole.
He leaned over, peered in, and—
No. Can’t be . But there in the wet depths under the filthy bilge water floated his father’s face: long lantern jaw, cleft chin, and full mouth. And the eyes …
Oh, those were his father’s eyes, all right, only now they were pure white, as if soaked for a long time in salt water. Eyes like a couple of pearl onions staring at him.
Sam bent down into the hole, trying to see better, to find any sanity-saving scrap of evidence at all to tell him that this was an optical illusion or hallucination of some kind, and not his dead father barking orders at him from inside the hull of a sinking sailboat.
“Dad?” he whispered. The face smiled.…
And then a lot of things happened at once: the scream of the overloaded winch motor, a bang like a gunshot, Richard’s shout of dismay. An instant later something smashed fast through the wall of the sailboat’s cabin, just missing Sam’s bent head as it flew by with a hot,
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