right to be scared. One spill, one wrong shift in weight, and he might roll off the raft and go under. As heavy as he was, it might be a while before anyone could get him to the surface, if ever.
I’d gotten my ankle trapped free diving once and I could still remember the lull of the ocean, how soft the currents felt, and the unrelenting temptation to just give in and breathe, even though I knew I’d be breathing water. Even though I knew it would kill me. If Rigger slipped under, there was a good chance he’d succumb to the temptation long before any of us could help.
The absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on me. Here I was, ensuring the safe passage of a man plotting to kill me, but this was the best of a collection of bad options. And I had to admit, it was comforting to be out here with him. The ocean created a kind of forced detente; I couldn’t harm Rigger for fear of what Carlos and Hawking might do, and he wouldn’t touch me unless he was suicidal. Dragging the raft across the waves, I felt as safe as I had in a while.
The water ran clear and cold off Carmen’s body as she pulled herself up and over stern in front of me. Carlos, still a fish in the water, made it next. He slid up over the edge effortlessly, the black duffel strapped securely to his back. I yanked myself up, got Rigger close, and he got hold of the edge and rolled himself onto the deck, careful not to put any weight on the arm.
I heard the sound of coughing came from a few yards behind me, and I turned.
Hawking hadn’t been kidding—the man was a terrible swimmer.
He dog-paddled his way up and down the tiny swells, his head barely above water. Briefly I considered the idea that he was faking it. Why arrange a rendezvous in the middle of the ocean if you can’t swim? As I watched, he caught a mouthful of seawater and started coughing again. If it was fake, he was a hell of an actor. I felt a bit sorry for him, and then caught myself, nearly laughed.
Frank Conway: shepherd to wolves.
Ben got close, and Rigger reached down with his good arm, hooked him around the wrist, lifted him out of the water completely, and tossed him on the deck. He stayed motionless on deck, perched on his hands and knees, sputtering water.
“Careful mate,” Rigger said, “I think you’ve forgotten how to swim.” He issued a great belly laugh, scratched his oily scar, then pulled himself to his feet and headed below.
“Alright?” I asked.
Ben nodded, started coughing again.
Some mastermind, I thought.
The important thing was to get back to port. I had a feeling that arriving back on land aboard my boat wasn’t part the original plan, but then again I doubted their boat sinking was either. I hoped—prayed—that the plan had adapted to changing circumstances. Perhaps the best they could hope for was a ride back in, without anything attention grabbing.
Like, say, two dead bodies at the marina.
The ladder rails felt slick as I climbed up to the helm. I gripped them tighter, and got up as fast as I could. Plopping down into the captain’s chair, I reached inside my shorts to the tiny length of string sewn in there. The string wrapped the boat keys three or four times before doubling back on itself in a simple square knot.
Not so simple now that I needed to untie it. My fingers fumbled with the overs and unders, and when it finally loosened I just grabbed the keys and tore them free. I pushed the ignition key into its slot and checked the gauges from force of habit.
Everything looked five-by-five. I turned the key.
The engine came to life, missed a few strokes, then caught and began to roar. I nodded, already halfway home in my head
And then the engine died.
It sputtered, caught again, then sputtered again, weakly this time. Finally, it went totally silent.
I stared at the control panel, hoping an answer would reveal itself. I don’t believe in superstition, and it has never factored much into my life, but I closed my eyes and crossed my
I’d gotten my ankle trapped free diving once and I could still remember the lull of the ocean, how soft the currents felt, and the unrelenting temptation to just give in and breathe, even though I knew I’d be breathing water. Even though I knew it would kill me. If Rigger slipped under, there was a good chance he’d succumb to the temptation long before any of us could help.
The absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on me. Here I was, ensuring the safe passage of a man plotting to kill me, but this was the best of a collection of bad options. And I had to admit, it was comforting to be out here with him. The ocean created a kind of forced detente; I couldn’t harm Rigger for fear of what Carlos and Hawking might do, and he wouldn’t touch me unless he was suicidal. Dragging the raft across the waves, I felt as safe as I had in a while.
The water ran clear and cold off Carmen’s body as she pulled herself up and over stern in front of me. Carlos, still a fish in the water, made it next. He slid up over the edge effortlessly, the black duffel strapped securely to his back. I yanked myself up, got Rigger close, and he got hold of the edge and rolled himself onto the deck, careful not to put any weight on the arm.
I heard the sound of coughing came from a few yards behind me, and I turned.
Hawking hadn’t been kidding—the man was a terrible swimmer.
He dog-paddled his way up and down the tiny swells, his head barely above water. Briefly I considered the idea that he was faking it. Why arrange a rendezvous in the middle of the ocean if you can’t swim? As I watched, he caught a mouthful of seawater and started coughing again. If it was fake, he was a hell of an actor. I felt a bit sorry for him, and then caught myself, nearly laughed.
Frank Conway: shepherd to wolves.
Ben got close, and Rigger reached down with his good arm, hooked him around the wrist, lifted him out of the water completely, and tossed him on the deck. He stayed motionless on deck, perched on his hands and knees, sputtering water.
“Careful mate,” Rigger said, “I think you’ve forgotten how to swim.” He issued a great belly laugh, scratched his oily scar, then pulled himself to his feet and headed below.
“Alright?” I asked.
Ben nodded, started coughing again.
Some mastermind, I thought.
The important thing was to get back to port. I had a feeling that arriving back on land aboard my boat wasn’t part the original plan, but then again I doubted their boat sinking was either. I hoped—prayed—that the plan had adapted to changing circumstances. Perhaps the best they could hope for was a ride back in, without anything attention grabbing.
Like, say, two dead bodies at the marina.
The ladder rails felt slick as I climbed up to the helm. I gripped them tighter, and got up as fast as I could. Plopping down into the captain’s chair, I reached inside my shorts to the tiny length of string sewn in there. The string wrapped the boat keys three or four times before doubling back on itself in a simple square knot.
Not so simple now that I needed to untie it. My fingers fumbled with the overs and unders, and when it finally loosened I just grabbed the keys and tore them free. I pushed the ignition key into its slot and checked the gauges from force of habit.
Everything looked five-by-five. I turned the key.
The engine came to life, missed a few strokes, then caught and began to roar. I nodded, already halfway home in my head
And then the engine died.
It sputtered, caught again, then sputtered again, weakly this time. Finally, it went totally silent.
I stared at the control panel, hoping an answer would reveal itself. I don’t believe in superstition, and it has never factored much into my life, but I closed my eyes and crossed my
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