The Raft

by Christopher Blankley

  Chapter 2

  “You must think I'm a monster... after all this time... coming out here and saying all these things...” Rachael sounded sincere.

  She hadn't just come out to the Raft to ruin Maggie's life. Really, she hadn't. But when the story of the dead Rafter had come across the wire, Rachael had reacted badly. She'd been sure it was Maggie. Positive. Even after reading the physical description of the deceased, Rachael hadn't been able to shake the sinking feeling in her stomach. She had to hear Maggie's voice, make sure she was okay.

  “Forget about it,” Maggie said as she cranked her dinghy back up to its storage position. It had brought them across the crowded bay, out into the relative peace of the open Puget Sound, where Maggie's sailing yacht waited. Up a short ladder and Rachael found herself standing in the cockpit of the 40-foot-long craft, her luggage at her feet. Despite her heavy jacket, she shivered.

  Rachael had found Maggie's old number in the margin of her 2008 notebook, diligently filed away with a gaggle of identical, dog-eared, blue exam books from throughout the years. The number was right where Maggie had written it the night they'd met in that bar. Rachael had gone home with someone else, she remembered, but called Maggie the next evening. She had no idea if the number would still work - the last time she'd called it was over five years prior - but it was all she had.

  The number had rung to Rachael's infinite relief, and Maggie had answered.

  “Really, I'm sorry,” Rachael said.

  Rachael had lied and made up some tale about chasing down a story, and here she was aboard Maggie's boat with no clue of why she was there – that was a lie, too, she knew exactly why she was there, but she almost refused to admit it to herself. The task was so Herculean: she knew she had to get Maggie off the Raft. Somehow.

  “It's okay,” Maggie dismissed, securing the dinghy. The yacht was named the Soft Cell, Rachael could only vaguely remember why. It was the name the ship had borne when Maggie had purchased it and she was the unsentimental sort who'd never bother to rename anything once it'd been named. The yacht had been the dimensions of Maggie's home for the last five years. Since she'd left dryland and joined the Raft.

  “Is it always this bumpy?” Rachael asked. She was already starting to feel seasick. She'd never had the stomach for boats.

  Maggie didn't answer. It was still drizzling, but she removed her jacket as she worked. She tied ropes off to cleats. Maggie hefted the dinghy's electric outboard off its mount and began to spirit it away in a compact storage bin under one of the cockpit's benches.

  Five years and Maggie hadn't aged a day, Rachael marveled as she watched her work. Her dark skin still exotic, with her hard-edged face that only softened when smiling. Maggie stood a good head taller than Rachael, with wide, strong shoulders, and lean, thin arms. Time seemed not to have touched her. Her head of dark, tangled hair was well kept but still wild, whirling around her head. With her jacket off, Rachael could see the complex arrangement of her tattoos. The oversized, finely detailed Cross of Lorraine on her right upper arm still held Rachael's attention. Its significance escaped her.

  “So, what do you have? On the victim?” Maggie said, now businesslike, turning to Rachael and dusting off her hands.

  Rachael reached into the pocket of her coat and came back with a folded photocopy. She unfolded it and held it out for Maggie. The rain quickly began to smudge the grainy DMV photo.

  “The girl's name was Joanna Church, twenty-six,” Rachael began. She felt she needed to say something, anything, even though Maggie could read the photocopy for herself. “She was found by a homeowner at around seven this morning, bobbing in the tide. First guess is she'd been dead in the water for maybe three hours. Cause of death was blunt-force trauma to the back of her head. No water in her lungs. Dead before she went overboard.”

  “Meerkat,” Maggie said, looking at the photocopy.

  “Sorry?” Rachael steadied herself, feeling woozy.

  “I don't know any Joanna Church, but this girl,” Maggie handed back the photocopy, “is Meerkat. And if Meerkat has washed up dead... hell, truth be told, if anyone on the Raft has mysteriously washed up dead... then there is only one real suspect: Horus.”

  “Horus?” Rachael repeated.

  “Yes. Horus the Brontosaurus.”

  “What?” Rachael said, confused. “That's a name?”

  “Meerkat's boyfriend. Nasty piece of work. Weed dealer. Meerkat had her demons. Anyway, if she fell overboard, then I'd bet you sixty hours to a second that Horus was standing right behind her when she did. Sorry, Rachael, I doubt there's any sort of story here for you. I think you came all this way for nothing. Unless domestic violence is interesting to your readers.”

  In all honesty, Rachael didn't care. She hadn't really come to report on the murder.

  She'd come to get Maggie off the Raft.

  There was a storm brewing onshore, Rachael knew, though she herself was only aware of it at the very edges. The murder, the dead girl, the Raft... yes, a storm was brewing. Murmurs were leaking out of cracks in the normally watertight Seattle Police Department. Federal agents were walking the halls. A murder aboard the Raft? It was a prime opportunity.

  But Rachael cared even less about the Raft than she did about the murder. The second she'd seen the wire, a flood of old emotions had welled up inside her. Her breakup from Maggie had been... well, had they ever really broken up? Did it count if you never said goodbye? A total, blinding panic had consumed Rachael until she'd been able to positively confirm that the murder victim was not indeed Maggie. If anything had actually happened to Maggie, stranded out on that damn boat, Rachael would have never forgiven herself.

  Logically, she knew that Maggie's exit from dryland had not been her doing, but emotionally, she still bore the full weight of it. Maggie had run away from Rachael, that was the horrible truth that had welled up inside her as the terror had consumed her. And it was Rachael's fault. Even when Rachael had come to fully realize that Maggie was okay, totally unaffected by the events detailed in the wire, Rachael had been unable to shake the feeling of self-loathing that apparently sat locked up inside her.

  But now it was all over – the Raft, that is, not Rachael's guilt. When the storm building onshore finally broke over the Raft, it'd sink it to the bottom of the Puget Sound as sure as anything. Rachael had maybe hours, maybe minutes, before the feds and the cops finished their respective jurisdictional pissing matches and came out, loaded for bear, onto the Raft.

  If Maggie was still aboard when that happened... well, Rachael couldn't let that happen. She'd lost Maggie once already that day – at least emotionally – and she wasn't about to lose her again. Maggie could be stubborn... shit, she was practically half mule, but Rachael couldn't let anything happen to her. No, not after all that had happened, not with so much still left unsaid.

  God, Peter was going to be furious when he figured out where Rachael was. Margaret would be in daycare until three. She was going to have to call, tell Peter everything, but... maybe Rachael had enough time...

  Maggie was busying herself, preparing the Soft Cell to get underway. She was moving to the bow to raise the anchor. Rachael tried to follow, moving cautiously on the slick deck. “Maggie, I know this might not seem like much to you, but-”

  Rachael slipped, her left foot coming out from underneath her. She landed hard on her rump.

  “Take those boots off,” Maggie interrupted as she cranked up the anchor. “You'll kill yourself as well, and then the cops will have two reasons to sail out here and start poking around.”

  Rachael laughed in nervous shock. She should have known better to think that Maggie wouldn't have already grasped the full political implications of the young girl's death. Rachael sat down on the roof of the boat's cabin and pulled a rubber boot off. She did the same with a sock. Maggie slipped by, returned to the cockpit.

  “Maggie...”

  “Rachael, take your own advice: don't start.”

  “B
ut-”

  “Don't.”

  Rachael let her mouth close. She busied herself with her second boot and sock. When she was barefoot, she pulled herself back to her feet and tested the fiberglass below her toes. It was cold and damp and Rachael felt dizzy.

  What the hell was she doing here?

  She began shuffling back towards the stern, one hand keeping hold of the grab rail and the other holding her boots. “What are you going to do, Maggie?” Rachael said, not looking up from her toes.

  “Do?” Maggie seemed surprised by the question. “Arrest Horus, of course.”

  Of course. “But I thought you said you weren't a cop?” Rachael said as she reached the cockpit. She dropped heavily down onto one of the long benches, never slacking her iron grip on the boat's railing.

  “I said it didn't work like that. But if it helps to think of me as a policeman, fine.”

  “No,” Rachael winced. That was Maggie: don't explain, just condescend. “If I'm going to write an article about the Raft, you have to explain things to me. Are you a cop or are you not?”

  Maggie paused, looked at Rachael out of the corner of her eye, then chuckled. “Yes. And no. It just not like that out here, Rachael.”

  “But you can arrest this Horus character?”

  Maggie nodded.

  “And you're sure he's the murder?”

  Maggie shrugged.

  “Well, is he or isn't he? Isn't he innocent until proven guilty? Even out here on the Raft?”

  “I doubt anyone has ever seriously considered Horus innocent of anything in his life. But I see your point.”

  “Then who decides if he's guilty or innocent? A jury of his peers? A judge? What? Does the Raft have any sort of judicial system in place?” Rachael shifted in her seat, trying not to think about her queasy stomach. “No? You've never had to deal with a serious crime like this, have you? So there's never been any need. Damn it, Maggie, this is what everyone onshore is saying: that you're a bunch of spoiled, pie-in-the-sky New Agers, dodging taxes, skipping out on the check, preaching peace and love while practicing self-preservation. And now the Raft has finally killed someone, some poor, young, innocent girl, and now the world can see you all for what you really are: dangerous. Dangerous to yourself and dangerous to mainstream society.”

  Maggie didn't answer. She flipped a few switches on the console by the helm and the sound of churning water rose from a propeller at the stern of the Soft Cell. The craft lurched perceptively forward, cutting into the drizzle of the typical Puget Sound morning.

  Apart from the sound of the needing water, the boat was completely silent. No engine noise. Everything was electric.

  “Maggie,” Rachael continued, changing her tone. “They're ramping up for something big back onshore. I don't know what, I've only heard rumors, but you don't need me to tell you what the death of this poor girl means: cops, the FBI, the Coast Guard. Everyone has woken up this morning with the Raft first and foremost in the news. If popular opinion has kept the Raft safe until now, it's going to rise up and bite you in the ass when America hears about this girl. It's everything they've been waiting for, Maggie, all the ammunition they've ever needed. This time, Maggie, they're going to sink the Raft.”

  “I know,” Maggie said tersely.

  “Then let's go,” Rachael pleaded. She stood up and put her hand on the suspended dinghy. “Lower this back in the water and let's head back to Alki. Forget about this boat and forget about the Raft. The time has come, Maggie. Cut your losses. You know what's going to happen when the FBI sails out here and starts pushing people around. There's going to be violence. There's no need for you to get caught up in that. Come on, Maggie, let's head back to shore. We can put you up, we have spare room. You'll be safe. Maggie? Maggie, are you listening?”

  “I am, I am,” Maggie replied, holding the helm in both hands.

  “Then let's go.”

  “No.”

  “Maggie.”

  “Rachael.”

  “You don't seriously want to be out here, in open water, when the authorities arrive? Do you?”

  “No, certainly not.”

  “Then what are you planning to do?”

  “What am I planning?” Maggie finally turned to look at Rachael, incredulity in her voice. “Just what I said: arrest Horus, put him in cuffs, and hand him over to the dryfoot cops, guilty or innocent. I don't care. If the cops want a patsy, then I'm more than happy to provide them with one.”

  “But that's not going to satisfy them, Maggie.” Rachael shook her head.

  “And why not?” Maggie replied. “If the Raft can solve this murder before the dryfoots have even finished with their breakfast, why not?”

  “Maggie, I don't think you understand-” Rachael began.

  “No Rachael, I don't think you understand. Dryfoot cops – Feds – aboard the Raft, you don't understand how the Rafters will react. Violence is an understatement. It will mean all-out war. People here have been foretelling this for years. They've been readying themselves since the earliest days of the Raft. People have guns, lots of them, and every intention of using them.”

  “Then all the more reason to go ashore now.”

  “I can't leave the Raft to that fate, Rachael, I just can't. Not when there's so much I can still do to avert it.”

  “Then there's no convincing you?” Rachael said dejectedly. She dropped back down on the cockpit bench and leaned back.

  “No,” Maggie replied. “At least, not yet.”

  “Then?” Rachael perked up, letting her word hang in the air between them.

  “Maybe. I'm going to need your help, Rachael. If I show up onshore with Horus, that's one thing. But if I show up onshore with Horus and a reporter from the newspaper... well, that's something else entirely.”

  Rachael nodded, leaned back against the bench with a smile.

  “Maggie?” she said tentatively after a long silence.

  “Yes?”

  “I- I don't really have a story to write,” she admitted. “My editor isn't even out of bed at this hour. When the news came in... I was so worried...”

  “It's all right,” Maggie replied, her eyes fixed straight ahead, watching the water. “I only keep that phone... because I know you still had the number.”

  “What a pair we make,” Rachael commented reflectively.

  “Yes,” Maggie answered. “What a pair.”