that we do, have shown us strength and resilience against the forces that seek to silence us.” The man stepped to a small table where food and utensils were laid out. He picked up a large knife, its steel blade flashing in the light from the fire. The chants grew feverish. The man walked to the goat, pulled up its head and slit its throat. The crowd walked faster around the fire as the man dipped his finger in the dying goat’s blood and stepped to the girl. He used his bloody finger to make a mark on her forehead.
Palmer felt like his heart was going to explode in his chest. Sweat poured from his face. The man in black used the knife like a queen might knight a man, touched it to the girl’s head and shoulders. He mumbled something in words that Palmer didn’t recognize. When the man touched the knife to the side of the girl’s face, Palmer yelled. “Back off asshole!”
The chanting stopped. People looked in Palmer’s direction. One man lifted a flashlight from the table and pointed it toward Palmer. The man in black yelled, “Don’t let him escape!”
Palmer ran. He ran hard. Zigzagging. Cutting through underbrush. He had a good head start on the men. Most were half naked and would have a hard time running through the thorns and saber leaves as Palmer bolted.
After running for at least a half mile, Palmer heard no one. He felt sure they’d given up and turned around. He was exhausted. His chest hurt, his heart still beating fast. He leaned against a tree to catch his breath, looked up at the moon beyond the branches and mumbled, “God, looks like it’s time for another flood.”
He wanted to make camp, and make it far away from the crazies in the woods. But at this point, Palmer wasn’t sure where he could go that would be safe. One place, he thought.
A bombing range.
SIXTEEN
The next morning I swallowed three aspirins with a chug of orange juice and then put on a pot of coffee. Following dinner last night on Nick’s boat, he broke out a second bottle of ouzo. The three of us raised glasses to Nick’s continued luck at sea and to my future as a short-run charter captain. It was close to 2:00 a.m. when Dave lumbered off to Gibraltar , and I found Jupiter waiting for me like a 38-foot waterbed. I crawled into the master bunk next to Max who slept closest to the large porthole window, the cool ocean trade winds blowing down on us.
Now, with the morning sun coming through the portholes like harsh spotlights, I made three eggs scrambled with Cajun hot sauce for me, one egg mixed with cheese for Max. I sliced the toast, piled everything on two paper plates, and we went topside to the fly bridge. I rolled up the isinglass side curtains, sat in the captain’s chair and placed Max’s breakfast on a bench seat where she stood waiting. As we ate, a pelican soared by us. It was followed by two sea gulls, one of the birds pausing, circling the fly bridge and squawking in hopes of a handout. Max ate faster.
The breeze brought the scent of saltwater and the damp smells of an incoming tide to reclaim roots and barnacle-laden dock posts. I could just hear the sound of breakers across the road and over the dunes. The pulley on a moored sailboat clanked one note as the breeze jostled it. The wind changed and brought the smell of strong, dark coffee and bacon coming from Gibraltar , across the dock from Jupiter . Dave had slept with all of the boat’s windows open. I pictured him watching the news and reading a morning paper at the same time. I glanced at Nick’s boat, St. Michael . Nothing. No movement. No one topside. Joe, the marina cat, stretched out across St. Michael’s transom. But no sign of Nick. I figured he’d sleep until noon and then get out of his bunk with a ravenous appetite and a serious hangover.
I had awakened thinking about Elizabeth and Molly Monroe. I’d hoped that
Palmer felt like his heart was going to explode in his chest. Sweat poured from his face. The man in black used the knife like a queen might knight a man, touched it to the girl’s head and shoulders. He mumbled something in words that Palmer didn’t recognize. When the man touched the knife to the side of the girl’s face, Palmer yelled. “Back off asshole!”
The chanting stopped. People looked in Palmer’s direction. One man lifted a flashlight from the table and pointed it toward Palmer. The man in black yelled, “Don’t let him escape!”
Palmer ran. He ran hard. Zigzagging. Cutting through underbrush. He had a good head start on the men. Most were half naked and would have a hard time running through the thorns and saber leaves as Palmer bolted.
After running for at least a half mile, Palmer heard no one. He felt sure they’d given up and turned around. He was exhausted. His chest hurt, his heart still beating fast. He leaned against a tree to catch his breath, looked up at the moon beyond the branches and mumbled, “God, looks like it’s time for another flood.”
He wanted to make camp, and make it far away from the crazies in the woods. But at this point, Palmer wasn’t sure where he could go that would be safe. One place, he thought.
A bombing range.
SIXTEEN
The next morning I swallowed three aspirins with a chug of orange juice and then put on a pot of coffee. Following dinner last night on Nick’s boat, he broke out a second bottle of ouzo. The three of us raised glasses to Nick’s continued luck at sea and to my future as a short-run charter captain. It was close to 2:00 a.m. when Dave lumbered off to Gibraltar , and I found Jupiter waiting for me like a 38-foot waterbed. I crawled into the master bunk next to Max who slept closest to the large porthole window, the cool ocean trade winds blowing down on us.
Now, with the morning sun coming through the portholes like harsh spotlights, I made three eggs scrambled with Cajun hot sauce for me, one egg mixed with cheese for Max. I sliced the toast, piled everything on two paper plates, and we went topside to the fly bridge. I rolled up the isinglass side curtains, sat in the captain’s chair and placed Max’s breakfast on a bench seat where she stood waiting. As we ate, a pelican soared by us. It was followed by two sea gulls, one of the birds pausing, circling the fly bridge and squawking in hopes of a handout. Max ate faster.
The breeze brought the scent of saltwater and the damp smells of an incoming tide to reclaim roots and barnacle-laden dock posts. I could just hear the sound of breakers across the road and over the dunes. The pulley on a moored sailboat clanked one note as the breeze jostled it. The wind changed and brought the smell of strong, dark coffee and bacon coming from Gibraltar , across the dock from Jupiter . Dave had slept with all of the boat’s windows open. I pictured him watching the news and reading a morning paper at the same time. I glanced at Nick’s boat, St. Michael . Nothing. No movement. No one topside. Joe, the marina cat, stretched out across St. Michael’s transom. But no sign of Nick. I figured he’d sleep until noon and then get out of his bunk with a ravenous appetite and a serious hangover.
I had awakened thinking about Elizabeth and Molly Monroe. I’d hoped that
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