Storm Sail

by Charles Dougherty

  "I see. And then she slipped away and went back to bed without saying anything?"

  "Yes."

  "Definitely strange."

  "It's going to be an interesting few days, all right," Connie said.

  "You'd better get some rest, then."

  "On my way. Can I get you anything before I crash?"

  "No, I'm okay. Sea state's nice and quiet. I'll make myself some coffee in a little while. See you in a few hours."

  "G'night," she said blowing him a kiss as she turned to go below.

  Gina huddled in her berth, thinking about her encounter with the woman named Connie. She reviewed what had happened, trying to fix in her mind what she had said. She would need to keep her story straight, and she had to fill Dalton in, too. She thought she had been careful not to give away too much. There was probably no harm in telling Connie that they had been sailing on Blue Wing, but she wanted to talk that over with Dalton first. He was much better at keeping shit like that straight than she was.

  She thought again about waking him up. She'd managed to snag an extra peanut butter sandwich and a second bottle of water when Connie wasn't watching. She didn't know if he'd be hungry; there was no telling about that. He needed water, for sure, though. She decided to wait. Waking him could be dangerous; it would be risky enough to be near him when he came to on his own. She didn't need to be explaining fresh bruises on her face to Connie. She'd seen the way the woman had picked up on her shiner. Connie had been really nice to her, letting her ramble on and not asking her any questions.

  Why had she been so considerate? That was rare in Gina's experience. Nobody had ever gone out of their way to make things easy for her. Was this Connie woman up to something? She'd be on her toes; she always was, but this bitch made her nervous.

  "Aw, fuck," Dalton groaned, interrupting her thoughts.

  She tensed, ready for anything. She heard him shift his position, felt him bump his head on the underside of her berth.

  "Shit!" he muttered. "Gina?"

  "Yeah, Dalton. Keep it down, okay? Better they don't know we're awake."

  "Who?" he whispered.

  "Them people what picked us up from the raft."

  "The hell are you talkin' 'bout, woman? What raft?" He was still whispering.

  "You don't 'member? We was on Blue Wing, that sailboat, with them two old people."

  "In Annapolis?" he asked.

  "Yeah. We got on it in Annapolis. You hungry?"

  "Yeah, but I'm thirsty as hell. You got anything to drink?"

  "Water," she said, dangling the bottle over the side of her berth.

  "Reckon that'll have to do," he said, taking the bottle from her.

  She heard the tearing and popping sound of the top as he unscrewed it. He swallowed and belched. "Try to be quiet; we need to get our story straight before they start askin' us shit," she said.

  "We still in Annapolis?"

  "No. They was chasin' you, 'member? That's why we got on Blue Wing to start with."

  "Fuckin' cops. So where we at, then?"

  "About a hundred miles south of Bermuda, she said."

  "She? Who the fuck's she?"

  "Her name's Connie, and she's real nice. I — "

  "Start at the beginning, Gina. I'm all fucked up. I 'member bein' in Annapolis, and you come got me in that bar on the water where all them big sailboats were. I can't 'member shit after that, okay?"

  "Okay. You want this here sandwich while I tell you what's happened?"

  "Yeah, okay. Gimme it."

  She passed him the soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich and started reciting their recent history in a soft voice. She glossed over her conversation with Connie, telling him that she'd explained his sluggishness as a result of withdrawal from some medication he'd been taking for a long term "medical problem."

  8

  "Shut up and let me think, Gina," Dalton growled. His head felt like it was being crushed in the fist of a giant. His vision was blurred. He craved a pipe of crystal, but she'd just told him that his stash was gone, washed away when they climbed into the life raft. And this stupid bitch wouldn't give him any peace.

  "How long was we in the raft?" he asked, after a little while.

  "Maybe 'bout two days, I reckon."

  "You reckon," he hissed. "You fuckin' don't know how long we was floatin' around?"

  "I was passed out, Dalton. Hungry and thirsty. You throwed the water and food out right after we got there. We'd a-prob'ly done died by now, if'n they hadn't a-found us."

  "So it's my damn fault? You think this whole damn mess is my fuckin' fault, don't you, dumbass. So we was maybe in the raft for two days."

  "I don't see what that matters. I — "

  "You don't see shit. At least you didn't tell 'em nothin’. And you better not slip up."

  She was lying on her side in her upper berth, facing out. He stood, hands gripping the rail of her bunk, his face inches from hers. His eyes were fiery, red, even in the gray light of dawn that filtered through the salt-encrusted porthole.

  "I ain't gonna tell 'em nothin', Dalton. Not 'nless you say to. That's why I come back here and waited 'til you was awake."

  "Was it mornin' or night when we got in the raft?"

  "Nighttime. Late. Maybe after midnight."

  "How long were them people dead before we launched the raft, you reckon?"

  "Not too long."

  "Shit!" he hissed. "That mean 10 minutes? A day? What?"

  "An hour, maybe."

  "Hmm. 'Kay, so they was dead for an hour. Let's say it's been three days since we got in the raft. You said we'd been a-comin' from Annapolis for about three days when we got in the storm, right?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "So them people's been gone from Annapolis for 'bout a week. Was they gonna stop in Bermuda?"

  "Uh-uh. When we met up with 'em, they was lookin' for crew to go all the way to the Virgin Islands, 'member?"

  "No, shit-for-brains, I don't remember. If I did, I wouldn't be askin' you, that's for damn sure."

  "What are you tryin' to — "

  "Shut the fuck up!" He put a hand over her mouth and pressed her head down into the hard mattress. "I'm tryin' to figger out whether somebody's missed them yet."

  "Don't matter," she said, as he eased the pressure.

  "Don't matter?! You dumb fuck. It does matter. Our passports are on that fuckin' boat. Not to mention our damn fingerprints. Maybe it don't matter for you, but all's the damn cops gotta do is run my fuckin' prints and they'll be on my ass like a duck on a June bug."

  "Boat sank," she mumbled.

  "What?"

  "Their boat sank."

  "It did?"

  "I reckon."

  "You reckon? Did you see the sumbitch sink?"

  "You said it was gonna sink in a few minutes. That's why we got in the raft."

  "I hope to shit you're right. If it sank, we got a chance."

  "But we ain't got any papers," she said. "I forgot that. I'd just bought them passports, too. Never even got to use 'em. How we gonna get more?"

  "I'm thinkin' on it. This Connie woman say where they goin'?"

  "Uh-uh. I didn't give her a chance to say much, 'cause thataway, she couldn't ask me no questions."

  "Good for you. Reckon we need to find out, though."

  "What difference will it make, Dalton?"

  "We ain't got no papers. We end up in the USVI or Puerto Rico, I'll be screwed soon's they print me. Somewhere else, we got a chance to maybe buy our way in."

  "We ain't got no money, though."

  "We'll have to work on that, I reckon. There's other ways than money. Besides, these here people must be rich. Look around at this fuckin' boat and tell me they ain't got money, and I ain't even seen outside this room yet. Maybe they could spare us some, help us get a new start."

  He saw her take in his evil grin. She gave a shudder, and he laughed softly and climbed up into the berth with her.

  Connie was finishing the thermos
of coffee that Paul had fixed for her before he went off watch a half-hour before. They had discussed waking their guests to get acquainted with them but had decided to let the newcomers recover.

  When she saw movement through the open companionway, she first thought that Paul was up and about, but then she spotted the stringy, unkempt hair that belonged to the man Gina had called Dalton. He stepped onto the companionway ladder so that he could see into the cockpit and gave her a wan smile.

  "Good mornin', ma'am," he said, with a polite nod as he brushed the hair from in front of his eyes. "I'm Dalton Evans, and I reckon you must be Connie, from what Gina done told me."

  "Good morning," she said, smiling. "Yes, I'm Connie Barrera. I'm a little surprised to see you up. Gina had said you were pretty sick — something about withdrawal from your medication."

  "Yes'm, I'm a little wobbly, but I was awake, and I figgered I ought to come up and say thanks for what you and your husband done. Reckon me and Gina would be nigh on to dead by now if y'all hadn't a-picked us up."

  "It's just luck that we saw you; if the sea state had been like it was earlier yesterday, we probably wouldn't have seen your life raft last night. Somebody's looking out for you, I guess."

  "Yes'm, seems like they must be, I reckon."

  "Do you need anything?" Connie asked. "You should be resting. Even without the medication thing, you've had a rough time, with no food and water for three days."

  "Thank you, ma'am, but I'm all right. Gina gimme a sandwich and some water, and I need to go easy 'til my stomach settles a little, see."

  "Sure. Well, you and Gina make yourselves at home. Help yourselves to whatever food and water you want; we've got plenty. Paul usually cooks a meal when he comes on watch around noon, so if you two are up for it, there'll be hot food in the early afternoon. We've got a funny watch schedule, but it works for us."

  "Y'all usually sail just the two of you, you and your husband? Paul, right?"

  "Yes, Paul. But we're not married yet. We're headed for Martinique. We're meeting a bunch of friends there, and we're going to get married and have a big bash for everybody."

  "Well, congratulations to y'all. I was hopin' I'd catch Paul on watch, 'cause Gina had said you were on earlier."

  "You missed him by a half hour or so. He's probably zonked by now, but you'll meet him. Meanwhile, just let me know what you need, okay?"

  "Yes'm. I had a question or two for him but it'll keep."

  "I'd be glad to answer your questions; go ahead. And then I've got a couple for you, if you're up to it."

  "Well, it's kinda questions for the captain, I reckon, 'bout ship's business."

  "You're in luck then. I'm the captain; Paul's my first mate and chef."

  His eyebrows rose. "Chef? That sounds sorta formal, like."

  "I guess it does. We're in the charter business. When I bought my first boat, I hired Paul as the chef, because cooking's not my thing. So we're used to his being called the chef and my being called the captain."

  "Oh. I see. Well, me and Gina was a-wonderin' what you all was plannin' to do with us, now that you done saved us, and all."

  "Paul and I were wondering the same thing earlier. You don't have any papers, do you?"

  "No, ma'am. They was all lost with the boat. We figgered maybe you was plannin' on callin' the Coast Guard, or puttin' us on a ship if one come by."

  "Uh-huh. That would be a reasonable thing to do, except we got struck by lightning during the storm."

  "Whoa! Y'all are lucky to be here, then."

  "Yes. But it wiped out all our communications gear, so we can't call anybody."

  "Oh," he said hiding a smile. "Well, we was gonna offer to crew for you, ennyhow, see. We're tryin' to get down to the islands ourselves."

  "You're in luck, then. Unless a ship just happens by, that's the only option we have."

  "Even if a ship come by, I reckon you can't call 'em, huh?"

  "Right." Something about the fleeting smile and his tone of voice bothered Connie; his reaction seemed off, to her. She decided not to mention their handheld VHF. It wouldn't matter unless they were within sight of a ship anyway.

  "Were you on a yacht?" Connie asked.

  "Yes'm, just a boat, really. Nothin' like this here. This is a yacht, for sure," he said, glancing down and to the right.

  "Thanks. The boat you were on wasn't called Blue Wing, was it?"

  She caught the quick flicker of recognition before he locked eyes with her.

  "Blue Wing? No, ma'am. We was on a boat called Cajun Burn."

  "I see. I haven't heard of that one."

  "But you know this here Blue Wing?" he asked.

  "We heard them checking into the weather net on the SSB radio a few times. They were a little ahead of us leaving the Chesapeake. I think the storm caught them a few hours before it hit us. You know anything about them?"

  "Uhm, no, ma'am. Reckon not. Why do you ask?"

  "Oh, we were just wondering. They missed several check-ins, and Herb was worried about them."

  "Herb?" he asked, frowning.

  "The man who runs the weather net."

  "Oh. Will he, like call the Coast Guard, or anything, you reckon?"

  "I don't know; he might if they asked him to. People do make arrangements like that with him, sometimes. He seemed to know them pretty well; always chatted with Marilyn when she checked in, asked her about Harry. They'd used his service for years, I gather."

  "Hmm," he said, his right hand picking at his left forearm.

  That drew Connie's eyes to the scabbed-over sores that covered his arm. She noticed the crude tattoos Paul had mentioned. "What kind of boat was Cajun Burn?"

  "A white sailboat."

  "What kind?"

  "Um," he said, looking down again, "fiberglass, with a diesel motor."

  "Rig?"

  "Ma'am?"

  "How was she rigged?"

  "Purty good, I reckon. She done all right 'til we turned over. The masts broke off then, and she started sinkin'. That's when we got in the raft, see."

  "How long was she?"

  "Oh, 'round a 30-footer, I reckon."

  "Were you headed to Bermuda?"

  "The Virgin Islands," he said.

  "Out of?"

  "Ma'am?"

  "Where'd you leave from?"

  "Oh. Annapolis."

  "When?"

  "Uhm, several days ago. They kinda run together, now. Reckon maybe a week ago, maybe a little longer. Storm kinda slowed us down, and once I lost my ... uhm, ... medication, I kinda lost track."

  "You look a little shaky. You sure I can't get you something?"

  "No ma'am, but I reckon I best go lay down again."

  "Sure, you should. Want us to call you and Gina when Paul's got dinner ready?"

  "Yes'm, please. That'd be real nice of y'all."

  "He wasn't on watch," Dalton said in a soft tone, as he eased the cabin door shut.

  "So you talked to her?"

  "Yeah. Damn, that's one hot-looking spic bitch. If I didn't hate them filthy greasers, I'd give her a go, for damn sure." He waited to see if Gina took the bait. When she didn't say anything, he sat down on the edge of his berth. "Paul's gonna cook up some chow this afternoon after his nap. Fuckin' wimp."

  "You met him? I thought you said he wasn't there."

  "He wasn't."

  "Why do you say he's a wimp, then?"

  "Because that bitch is a ball-buster. No self-respectin' red-blooded 'Merican man would put up with her shit."

  "She was real nice to me. What'd she say that pissed you off?"

  "Told me she's the goddamn captain of this here boat; she hired him to be the fuckin' chef."

  "Well, he's her husband, so maybe — "

  "They ain't even married; she said they's gonna get married when they get to Martinique. Gutless bastard. Wonder if he's even a white man?"

  "Martinique? Is that in the Virgin Islands?"

  "Fuck if I know."

  "You find o
ut if they called anybody 'bout pickin' us up?"

  "Naw."

  "No, they didn't, or no, you didn't find out?"

  "No, they didn't tell nobody. And don't you go bein' a smartass. You ain't no fuckin' beaner, so don't you start actin' like her. I ain't above teachin' you some manners."

  "Sorry, Dalton. I just want to be sure I understand. I don't want to screw up nothin'."

  "Fuckin'-A right you don't. I'll kick your ass 'til it won't hold shucks." He sat for a moment, fuming at the way that black-haired hussy had talked to him, just like she was as good as anybody. He'd show her who was the captain before this was over.

  "I didn't mean nothin', Dalton. I ain't like her. I know who's the boss."

  "Uh-huh. I reckon you ought to by now. Just don't be gettin' no ideas from her. She's trouble."

  "I won't. So how come they ain't told nobody? I'd a-figgered they'd a-called the Coast Guard, or somethin'."

  "Probably woulda, but they got hit by lightnin' in the storm. Radio and shit's busted. They can't call nobody."

  "What about cellphones?"

  "Cellphones don't work in the middle of the damn ocean, dumbass. They gotta be 'round them towers."

  "Oh. But Harry and Marilyn had that phone that worked."

  "Right. A satellite phone."

  "I'd a-thought they'd have one of them on a big, fancy boat like this 'n," Gina said.

  "Me, too. Reckon if they do, it's busted. She said they couldn't call nobody, no way. We'd just have to wait 'til we get to land, she said."

  "Well, ain't that what you wanted, ennyhow?"

  "Yep. Now how 'bout you shut the fuck up so I can get some sleep."

  9

  "Good morning," Paul said, a grin on his face as he set two mugs of steaming coffee on the bridge deck. He climbed out into the cockpit and handed one to Connie.

  "Good morning yourself. Did you sleep?" She raised the mug, holding it under her nose and inhaling the rich aroma.

  "I sure did. When my alarm went off, I couldn't even remember where I was." Paul took a sip of his coffee and looked around at the endless indigo sea. The smooth, two-meter swells were lifting and lowering Diamantista II at regular, 12-second intervals. "Hard to believe what this looked like 24 hours ago."