Marian Fitzwalter sat at the table in the small kitchen, shredding a paper napkin into dozens of tiny pieces. Her long, straight auburn hair was a tangled mess. Her glasses were covered with a spray of fine, milky spots. Robin put a hand on her shoulder. "Sweetheart, what's wrong? What happened?"
Marian stayed in the chair. She reached out and wrapped her arms around Robin's waist. "I'll never get used to the cruelty," she said tearfully. "We got a call from the sheriff 's department today. Somebody phoned in a complaint about the stench coming from a warehouse over in Ridgeway." She leaned back and looked at Robin. "There were almost thirty dogs trapped inside without food or water. Some were already dead, and the rest were close to it."
Robin sank into the chair across the table. Unlike her partner, who felt deep despair over incidents like this, Robin usually reacted with anger. "How many did you get to the shelter?" she asked softly.
"I don't know. About twenty, I guess." She shook her head. "It's hard to tell at this point, but I think they may have been bred for dog fighting. Most of 'em don't seem to be socialized."
"Then the chances of finding homes for them any time soon are slim," said Robin. She understood the implications. Ridge Lake Animal Shelter was a no kill shelter. The added expense would be a financial burden, but she believed that most of the dogs could be socialized over time and eventually placed successfully in private homes.
Gracie, their own Doberman, had arrived at the shelter as a vicious dog, ready to attack any human who came near her. After six months of work and love from Marian, the dog reciprocated. After a year, people thought Marian was joking when she told them that the boisterous, exuberant Gracie had ever been mean.
But it was so hard to teach an animal to risk love or even trust when it had been severely abused. It would take time. Most of the animals would have to live at the shelter for several months, some even longer. And that meant they would need more money. "What's needed besides food?" asked Robin.
Marian frowned. "Plenty. We don't have enough individual kennels. Most of 'em need the large ones, and they're so expensive."
"How many?"
"Kennels?"
"Yeah."
"Ten, maybe twelve."
"What else?"
"Dog beds, blankets, a few more food and water dishes."
"Okay." Robin's tone signaled that the conversation was over.
They prepared dinner together: a huge green salad, iced tea, spaghetti, French rolls with butter, and chocolate ice cream. They tried to read, gave up, and went to bed early.
Marian snuggled up to Robin in the dark. "I'm concerned about the new dogs," she said.
"Don't worry. It'll work out. Go to sleep."
It was past midnight when Robin slipped out of bed. Marian sat up, looked at her, and fell back against the pillow. Robin pulled on a T-shirt and shorts, then a hooded sweatshirt and jeans. She put on her deck shoes, grabbed her keys, and slipped out the door. She got into her pickup and headed for the marina.
She parked at the rear of the store and entered, quickly disabling the burglar alarm. She didn't turn on the lights. She removed her shoes, sweatshirt, and jeans, and got into a wet suit.
Carrying only a snorkel and mask, she walked barefoot down to the dock, where a small aluminum fishing boat with an outboard motor bobbed gently. She got in and pulled a tiny GPS screen from the waterproof pouch that was fastened to her wet suit. She studied it for a moment, then released the boat from its mooring and began to row. About a quarter-mile out, she started the motor and continued her journey. Ten minutes later, she cut the motor and began to row once again. The running lights of the Loralei came into view.
With the mask and snorkel, she slipped quietly into the water and swam toward the boat. The anchor chain off the starboard bow stood out under the running lights, and she moved toward it.
She clipped the mask and snorkel to the anchor chain and pulled herself up the five feet to the Party Deck. The sliding door to the cabin was closed. She stood for over three minutes, listening, as the water dripped from her wet suit. Then she slid the door open and stepped quickly to the helm. The tiny red light over the captain's chair told her that the safe was locked. That was a good sign. She had opened it with the key card she gave to Guy, and it was still open when she left the boat in the afternoon. So the Gisbornes must have taken her advice and locked their valuables inside.
She pulled a key card from the pouch in her wet suit and inserted it. The red light turned green, and she opened the safe door. A heavy object fell out, bounced off the captain's chair, and landed on the floor with a thud, narrowly missing her bare foot. It was a notebook computer. She wondered briefly if the data on it had been backed up.
Guy sat up in bed. He whispered loudly, "Nancy? Are you awake?"
"No."
"I just heard a noise. I think somebody's on the boat."
"That's impossible. Go to sleep," she mumbled. "But there was a noise." He was speaking loudly now.
Nancy sat up. "I just went out there a few minutes ago for a glass of water. There's nobody there. Please go back to sleep, Guy."
He got out of bed and opened the pocket door. The boat was dark and quiet. He moved forward to the galley and turned on a light over the sink. The room was as he had left it. The red light on the safe assured him that all was secure. He turned and padded back to bed.
Robin observed the episode from the Party Deck. She waited ten minutes before sliding the door open. Once again, she opened the safe, this time replacing the computer. No sounds came from the stern. She hoped that Guy was asleep.
She drew a tiny pen light from her pouch and surveyed the contents of the safe. The Gisbornes had indeed taken her advice. All of the jewelry that Nancy had worn was there, including her engagement ring. There were also two passports and two wallets. Ignoring the credit cards, she pulled the cash from the wallets. Nancy had fifty-six dollars. Robin left it. Guy's wallet held over three thousand dollars. She took twenty-eight hundred, left the rest. She left all the credit cards, all the jewelry, and everything else. No point in messing with anything that could be traced. She closed the safe door. The red light came on. She sealed the cash, pen light, and key card in her pouch and backed outside to the Party Deck.
The descent down the anchor chain was considerably easier than the climb up. She unclipped the snorkel and mask and followed the tiny beacon to the fishing boat. She retraced her steps back to the marina, rowing the first quarter-mile from the Loralei and the last quarter-mile to the dock, letting the outboard motor do the work between.
The marina was still in darkness as Robin walked up the dock to the rear entrance of the store. At the sound of an approaching car, she hurried to unlock the door and slip inside.
Moments later, once again in jeans, sweatshirt, and deck shoes, she emerged from the store. It was no longer dark. She stepped into the glare of the headlights from the sheriff 's patrol cruiser. She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her wet hair and approached the window.
"Everything okay, Robin?" asked Sergeant Ben Godfrey. The young man got out of the cruiser and posed for her, straining the seams of his tight uniform, but showing off his muscular physique to maximum advantage. "I saw somebody go into the store a few minutes ago. I guess it was you. Is there a problem?"
She flashed him a smile. "Hey, Ben. I gotta say, you're really on the ball. My burglar alarm went off again. When that happens, it rings at home, too. So I got out of bed and dashed over here. Damn thing is too sensitive. This is the third false alarm I've had in the last month."
"You can have the alarm company adjust that," said Ben. "You don't want your alarm set off by something like mice running around in the store." He blushed. "I mean . . . I don't mean to imply that you have mice. What I'm trying to say is—"
"I know. I'll call in the morning and have them adjust it." She turned toward her pickup and looked back at him. "And thanks for doing such a good job, Ben." She breathed a sigh of relief as she started the engi
ne and headed for home.
Another successful operation completed. The pattern of the events that would follow was predictable. The honeymoon couple would return the boat. They would retrieve everything they had locked in the safe. A large amount of cash would be missing, but burglary was out of the question. They had been isolated on the water the entire time their valuables were in the safe. And nothing other than cash was missing. It would look ridiculous to report a crime of that nature. The new spouses would wonder if they knew one another as well as they had believed. Of the dozens of honeymoon couples who had rented the Loralei, none had ever reported a burglary.
Robin tiptoed into the bedroom, peeled off the layers of clothing, and slipped into bed.
"Everything okay?" Marian asked.
"Perfect," she replied as she wrapped herself around the other woman. "You should be sleeping, sweetheart. We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow."
When Robin awoke at five-thirty, Marian had already left. As she showered and dressed, she finalized her shopping plan. She grabbed two breakfast bars on her way out the door. She hooked up the boat trailer to the pickup and headed to the first stop. She ate her breakfast on the way. It was almost ten o'clock when a pickup pulling a heavily loaded boat trailer pulled into the parking lot of the Ridge Lake Animal Shelter. Marian Fitzwalter ran to the cab. "Honey, did you bring the kitchen sink? Or a dozen kitchen sinks? What's all this stuff ? Is it all for us?"
"All for you," Robin confirmed. She jumped out of the pickup. "If by 'you,' you're referring to the shelter." She grinned. "I doubt that you, personally, would care to stay in an individual kennel, no matter how big and nice it is."
The bed of the pickup was loaded with several dozen forty-pound sacks of kibble, a dozen cases of canned dog food, twelve large dog beds, two boxes of blankets, and four plastic shopping bags full of dog toys. The trailer held four dozen chain-link panels, from which twelve large individual dog kennels could be assembled. The brackets, hinges, nuts, bolts, and other hardware were in a box on the passenger seat of the truck.
Marian threw her arms around Robin, as much to hide her tears from her partner as from the joy she felt.
"You aren't crying, are you?" Robin asked. "I can't stand it when you cry."
"No, of course not, honey." She turned away and looked toward the shelter. "Martha and Kenny are here. I'll go and get them. We can start putting the kennels together right away."
By noon they had unloaded the pickup and trailer. Five of the twelve kennels had been assembled, and three of those were already occupied by their new residents. The dogs were leery and frightened. But they were safe and comfortable with new beds, fresh water, and toys they ignored for the moment.
"It's lunch time," said Marian. "I only brought one sandwich, but we can share."
Robin shook her head. "I'm already two hours late. I gotta hurry to the store so I can sell a few six-packs." She pulled an envelope from her back pocket. "The shelter has some change coming."
Marian looked inside at the bills and coins. "You're so strict about this," she said with a laugh.
"That money belongs to the animals. It wouldn't be right to take it from them."
"Well, they're very lucky animals, aren't they?"
She shrugged. "I guess you could call it luck. I think it's more a question of being in the right place at the right time. When that happens, you can pretty much count on the kindness of strangers."
Marian laughed and hugged her tightly. Despite a strong urge to spend the rest of the day at the shelter, Robin jumped into her pickup and headed for Ridge Lake Marina. She had a busy day ahead. The Gisbornes were due back in the afternoon, and in only two days, the Loralei was due to be cleaned up and ready for the next wealthy couple.
Resolution 1838
David Brookes
The machete thudded into the coarse, plastic surface of the table. Abdi let go, leaving the wooden handle quivering. Behind it, I could see the Chinaman's eyes cross as he focused on the dull grey blade, which had been embedded in the table between two of his fingers. His wrist was held down by Ghedi, who sneered. "Now you understand, Captain?" The Chinaman nodded.
Ghedi said, "Now maybe you learn how to speak English?"
The captain was allowed to sit up. He was still staring nervously at the machete. "I do speak . . . little English."
I remained where I was, at the back of the dark little room. The freighter was big, but only to accommodate the hundreds of tons of processed ore it carried. The crew's quarters were of secondary consideration and very small, and the interconnected corridors between them narrow and low. Being this deep in the bowels of the Chinese freighter made me uneasy.
"Cooperation at last," said Abdi. He took back his machete. As he pulled it loose, the wiry muscles in his dark arm tensed and coiled like snakes beneath his skin.
I seem to recall Abdi saying that his father was from the Kowilum clan, a tiny familial group from the northern Werder Zone. Their badge was a snake. Abdi is nothing if not snakelike, like a black python—powerful but slim, lithe. He does not like Chinese. In fact, he does not like anyone who is not from Somalia. Ghedi is much the same.
Abdi was saying, "You will make an announcement. Tell the crew that they must all gather on your foredeck. Everybody."
The captain shook his head. He was sweating profusely. His cap fell from his head, revealing a matted layer of short black hair. "You kill them!"
"We do not kill anybody if d'ey cooperate," Ghedi told him. "Now d'at we have boarded your vessel, it is ours until we say so. When we get paid, you go free and unharmed. But if you do not co-operate, we may have to kill somebody. So . . . what must you do?" He brandished the heavy machete. The captain said nothing, but he looked terrified. Ghedi threw the machete at the table again, narrowly missing the Chinaman's left hand. Furious, he shouted to me, "Fetch our captain!"
"No!" the Chinaman blurted. He was afraid of Mother Jamila. He must have heard us talking. "No, do not fetch her."
"Shall I, then?" I asked Ghedi. I wasn't in the habit of asking him anything, but sometimes even the quartermaster must step back and let the soldiers do the work.
"Will you do as we say now?" Abdi yelled at the Chinaman. "Yes."
Ghedi turned to me. "D'en you can go and report back to Mother Jamila. We will finish d'is."
I nodded and left the room, glad to get out of that hot little metal box. There were five men in that small room, not including the Chinaman. I cannot stomach men for too long.
After radioing Mother Jamila, I waited for her by the port-aft balustrade. We were roughly two hundred and twenty miles out to sea off the east coast of Puntland, in the choppy waves on the invisible line between the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea. It was monsoon season. Black clouds formed a vortex several miles farther out, sweeping south. The monsoon would miss us, but its effects were widespread. It threw rain at us hard, and the air was warm and humid. It brought to mind South American jungles, or greenhouses. I prefer this kind of weather. "What is it, Amina?"
Mother Jamila has always been blunt. It is her way to be as abrupt and as difficult as a man. It is the only reason she has survived in the Fifth Quarter gang and the only reason she has made captain.
I had been planning on cleaning my rifle, which had been slung low over my shoulder since our interrogation of the Chinaman. I put this down out of respect, leaning it against the outer shell of the wheelhouse.
"Ghedi and Abdi are speaking with the captain," I told her. "They are ar ranging for the announcement to be made."
"The captain is resisting?" asked Mother Jamila.
"A little, but not much."
"Good." She ran a hand over her bald, scarred head. Mother Jamila is twenty-eight years old, exquisitely muscled, her skin the blackest Africa can produce. She was not born in Puntland, like I was. I have been told that she is the descendant of Bushmen, but I do not believe this. She is too tall, and too mulishly faithless. I believe, instead, that she may have been born in
Rowanda.
"What weather is this?" she asked unexpectedly, peering up into the sky.
Her jawline and neck are sculpted like stone and her lower lip is twisted by a thick pink scar.
"Victory weather."
We both looked across the water. It was empty in all directions. We couldn't even see the coast. A radio message from a Third Quarter skiff closer to the gulf said that since the Chinese freighter's distress call, an Indian Navy warship had adjusted course to our direction. As yet, there had been no sign of it, but like most of us on these high seas, we were worried about our enemies.
Mother Jamila said, "Is that what Abdi would call it? 'Victory weather'?"
"Abdi is too busy playing with his knife."
"I've warned him about that." On so many occasions, the young man had been told to carry a firearm—a Russian AKM, or at least one of the TT-30 pistols we'd bought in large numbers from our Yemeni smugglers—but he had always refused. "Abdi is a little crazy."
"He fought against Siyaad Barre. All of us that did are a little crazy now." Nobody remembered the civil war fondly. There had been no good times under Barre, and none since.
Mother Jamila found me eleven years ago on a coffee plantation in the Gomma woreda in the Jimma Zone. The strong-smelling crops were cultivated close to the Didessa, which wound like a blue snake along the confluence of hills. Mother Jamila discovered me crouched shoulder-high in the muddy water, ten feet away from the bloody aftermath of a gun battle between the plantation owners and a gang from the neighbouring town. She said that I was made for the water. She said that I could sail with her.
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