Read Online The Turquoise Lament by John D. MacDonald - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John D. MacDonald
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in an aluminum case he bolted to the side of the instrument panel in the wheelhouse, sort of in the corner, barrel up. The case has pressure clips and a rubber lip. It would even float. Anyway, he taught me to use it when I went with him the first time. It's a Remington seven hundred. I forget what it shoots."
"Probably three-oh-eight?"
"Right! Sometimes they get funny about a gun and you have to let the customs people keep it for you while you're in port, but in a small boat usually it's okay. Which you already know. We were a week from Honolulu, dead flat calm, grinding along at about six knots, which is the best for stingy, on automatic pilot. I was sitting on the roof, forward, reading and drying my hair. BAM! Out of nowhere! I spun around and he was in back of me, not eight feet away. He had the rifle and he had a couple of empty cans in the other hand. He had a dazed look on his face. He said he thought he had unloaded it. He didn't know how it went off. Anyway, it was pointed almost straight up when it went off, he said. But I know how that thing sounds when it's straight up or out to the side or pointing away from you. It's more like whack. Or smack. Not like BAM. This ear still isn't right. It rings a lot. Trav, I think that slug was inches from my head."
"How did he act?"
"Really shocked. Like… almost too shocked. He cried. He threw up. That was later. He'd been going to ask me to throw the cans off the bow, out as far as I could. Then he was going to try to plink them from the stern as we went by."
"And you decided right then to leave him as soon as you docked?"
"Not right then. No."
"Something else happened that last week?"
"Oh, no. I mean I think I'd sort of decided even without the rifle part. Maybe without falling overboard, or the voices, or the girl who wasn't there."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Neither do I. Oh, God, Trav, I'm drunk. I can't say words right. I'm seeing two of things. You got me drunk."
"You mean that it wasn't going so well, as a marriage."
"Please let me sleep!"
"Okay. You can have a nap. I'll wake you up."
"I mean really go to bed. Please. And you go away, huh?"
"Not until we get through all of it."
"What in hell else can there be? You're turning me inside out on these things."
"You said you had to find out something. We're trying to find out."
"I've got to go wash my face and get out of these clothes. I get all sweaty thinking of how scared I got."
"Make it fast."
She came back in ten minutes with scrubbed face and brushed hair, wearing a shorae caftan in a big flower print. She was barefoot, and she was drugged and dazed by drink and weariness and strain.
She plumped down on a stool, fists between her knees, and swayed, yawned, and said, "Honest to God. Really McGee. I just…",
"Did Joy have moles?"
"Huh? What?"
"Moles, marks, visible scars, insect bites, any kind of flaw when you looked at her through the finder?"
"N-no."
"The laughter you heard. They were both laughing at you. Right?"
"Yes. Yes, they were."
"And you're no damned good in bed."
She peered at me. "Huh? Whaddaya mean? I was pretty much okay with Scott. You could say I was a lot better than okay. Chee, you jump around so."
I remembered Scott was the boyfriend who flunked out when her father was killed. "But nowhere near okay with Howie."
She reached and got her glass. The ice was long melted, the drink still strong. She drank and made a face. She told it piecemeal, the first pieces the most difficult. Good old Uncle Travis.
She had wanted every part of the marriage to be great. Howie was a strange person. You wanted to know him. He was like a little house with a door in the front and a door in the back. One room. He'd let you in his house and it was fun. Chuckles and games. No pressure. So you wanted to know him better and so you went through the doorway into what was going to be the next room of his personal house, but you found yourself back out in the yard, and the little house looked
"Probably three-oh-eight?"
"Right! Sometimes they get funny about a gun and you have to let the customs people keep it for you while you're in port, but in a small boat usually it's okay. Which you already know. We were a week from Honolulu, dead flat calm, grinding along at about six knots, which is the best for stingy, on automatic pilot. I was sitting on the roof, forward, reading and drying my hair. BAM! Out of nowhere! I spun around and he was in back of me, not eight feet away. He had the rifle and he had a couple of empty cans in the other hand. He had a dazed look on his face. He said he thought he had unloaded it. He didn't know how it went off. Anyway, it was pointed almost straight up when it went off, he said. But I know how that thing sounds when it's straight up or out to the side or pointing away from you. It's more like whack. Or smack. Not like BAM. This ear still isn't right. It rings a lot. Trav, I think that slug was inches from my head."
"How did he act?"
"Really shocked. Like… almost too shocked. He cried. He threw up. That was later. He'd been going to ask me to throw the cans off the bow, out as far as I could. Then he was going to try to plink them from the stern as we went by."
"And you decided right then to leave him as soon as you docked?"
"Not right then. No."
"Something else happened that last week?"
"Oh, no. I mean I think I'd sort of decided even without the rifle part. Maybe without falling overboard, or the voices, or the girl who wasn't there."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Neither do I. Oh, God, Trav, I'm drunk. I can't say words right. I'm seeing two of things. You got me drunk."
"You mean that it wasn't going so well, as a marriage."
"Please let me sleep!"
"Okay. You can have a nap. I'll wake you up."
"I mean really go to bed. Please. And you go away, huh?"
"Not until we get through all of it."
"What in hell else can there be? You're turning me inside out on these things."
"You said you had to find out something. We're trying to find out."
"I've got to go wash my face and get out of these clothes. I get all sweaty thinking of how scared I got."
"Make it fast."
She came back in ten minutes with scrubbed face and brushed hair, wearing a shorae caftan in a big flower print. She was barefoot, and she was drugged and dazed by drink and weariness and strain.
She plumped down on a stool, fists between her knees, and swayed, yawned, and said, "Honest to God. Really McGee. I just…",
"Did Joy have moles?"
"Huh? What?"
"Moles, marks, visible scars, insect bites, any kind of flaw when you looked at her through the finder?"
"N-no."
"The laughter you heard. They were both laughing at you. Right?"
"Yes. Yes, they were."
"And you're no damned good in bed."
She peered at me. "Huh? Whaddaya mean? I was pretty much okay with Scott. You could say I was a lot better than okay. Chee, you jump around so."
I remembered Scott was the boyfriend who flunked out when her father was killed. "But nowhere near okay with Howie."
She reached and got her glass. The ice was long melted, the drink still strong. She drank and made a face. She told it piecemeal, the first pieces the most difficult. Good old Uncle Travis.
She had wanted every part of the marriage to be great. Howie was a strange person. You wanted to know him. He was like a little house with a door in the front and a door in the back. One room. He'd let you in his house and it was fun. Chuckles and games. No pressure. So you wanted to know him better and so you went through the doorway into what was going to be the next room of his personal house, but you found yourself back out in the yard, and the little house looked
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