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Authors: Paisley Ray
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chest. “Did you shoot him?”
“No. The only thing I had on me was the oyster brooch.”
“Who, then?”
“I don’t know. Someone followed us into the woods.”
“Was he dead?”
“He was when the alligator snapped him up and dragged him under.”
I’d never known Travis to be at a loss for words, but the at that moment, he was incapable of speech, and clutched me to his chest while tears spilled down my face and onto his shirt.
NOTE TO SELF
I am spending the night alone with Travis. In the future must be more specific with wishes.
CHAPTER 11
M arooned
L ike an old movie, the dead of night cast variations of black and white: stone walls, the river, the boat. And just like a silent movie slinking through reels of film, other than the sound of the motor’s dull chug, it was eerily silent. Boating is not a popular night sport.
“The way I see it, we can do as GG asked and meet Edmond and her in Stratford-upon-Avon. Assuming we can get there without incident,” Travis said.
“That’s one option,” I said.
“You have another in mind?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Gem people must be like restorers.”
“Theft, bait and switch, hoarding.”
“Travis!”
“Sorry.”
“They specialize, know a lot about what’s out there, what’s coming up for sale, that sort of thing. Maybe we can talk to this Sonny guy at Garrard’s; he may know about gems and relics, anything that went missing during the Crimean War. That sort of thing.”
“You’re mental.”
“Do you have a better idea?” I asked.
“Yeah, I do. Drive this thing to Stratford without sinking and hope to hell your grandmother shows up.”
“She’ll be there.”
“If she’s not, we’re screwed. Our passports and tickets are in our luggage—in our rooms.”
The current rose and fell in a frantic motion, unable to decide its course, and a set of ripples bobbed the vessel. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about than our passports.”
“Like what?” Travis said sarcastically.
“Like the waterfall ahead.”
Water could be heard churning, and a sign on the bank read Danger—Waterfall Ahead, Do Not Pass. “This must be one of those locks that GG mentioned.” Pointing to the right of the falls, Travis instructed, “Steer for it. Pretend you’re parking a car in a garage.”
“Why don’t you come take the tiller and show me how it’s done?”
“It’s your grandmother’s boat.”
“It’s a rental.”
“All rentals have a few dings, right? Just go slow. Once we’re in, hit reverse till you stop, then shift to neutral,” he said.
Pulling into a chamber-like dock, the boat light illuminated upon a closed gate sign that read, Cuckoo Weir. I cut the engine. “Now what?”
“Ahoy there,” Travis shouted.
“It’s two in the morning.”
He shrugged. “You never know.”
Standing at the tiller, I couldn’t shake the river’s chill that had stiffened my limbs. “One of us needs to get out. The water ahead is below us. See if there’s a button to open the gate.”
“Is that safe?” he asked, seeming less than enthused about exploring the dock for the gears that controlled the lock.
“I’ll take a look around,” I said, thinking that moving would at least warm me up.
“You know you have a knack for freak accidents.”
“I do not,” I protested as I wound myself up for a leap onto land. In the dark, I didn’t see the decorative metal rope anchors and tripped, pancaking myself on soft turf. Jumping to my feet, I was glad Travis’s back was turned to me. He stood in the cockpit, trying to keep the boat off the walls of the lock.
To my right was a path. To my left, Her Grace.
“What do you see?”
“Nothing. I mean there aren’t any controls.”
“There have to be. Something controls the water so the gate can open and shut.”
Fatigue washed through my arms, and my fingers were stiff from the vice grip I’d had on the tiller. “Okay, there’s a knee-high
“No. The only thing I had on me was the oyster brooch.”
“Who, then?”
“I don’t know. Someone followed us into the woods.”
“Was he dead?”
“He was when the alligator snapped him up and dragged him under.”
I’d never known Travis to be at a loss for words, but the at that moment, he was incapable of speech, and clutched me to his chest while tears spilled down my face and onto his shirt.
NOTE TO SELF
I am spending the night alone with Travis. In the future must be more specific with wishes.
CHAPTER 11
M arooned
L ike an old movie, the dead of night cast variations of black and white: stone walls, the river, the boat. And just like a silent movie slinking through reels of film, other than the sound of the motor’s dull chug, it was eerily silent. Boating is not a popular night sport.
“The way I see it, we can do as GG asked and meet Edmond and her in Stratford-upon-Avon. Assuming we can get there without incident,” Travis said.
“That’s one option,” I said.
“You have another in mind?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Gem people must be like restorers.”
“Theft, bait and switch, hoarding.”
“Travis!”
“Sorry.”
“They specialize, know a lot about what’s out there, what’s coming up for sale, that sort of thing. Maybe we can talk to this Sonny guy at Garrard’s; he may know about gems and relics, anything that went missing during the Crimean War. That sort of thing.”
“You’re mental.”
“Do you have a better idea?” I asked.
“Yeah, I do. Drive this thing to Stratford without sinking and hope to hell your grandmother shows up.”
“She’ll be there.”
“If she’s not, we’re screwed. Our passports and tickets are in our luggage—in our rooms.”
The current rose and fell in a frantic motion, unable to decide its course, and a set of ripples bobbed the vessel. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about than our passports.”
“Like what?” Travis said sarcastically.
“Like the waterfall ahead.”
Water could be heard churning, and a sign on the bank read Danger—Waterfall Ahead, Do Not Pass. “This must be one of those locks that GG mentioned.” Pointing to the right of the falls, Travis instructed, “Steer for it. Pretend you’re parking a car in a garage.”
“Why don’t you come take the tiller and show me how it’s done?”
“It’s your grandmother’s boat.”
“It’s a rental.”
“All rentals have a few dings, right? Just go slow. Once we’re in, hit reverse till you stop, then shift to neutral,” he said.
Pulling into a chamber-like dock, the boat light illuminated upon a closed gate sign that read, Cuckoo Weir. I cut the engine. “Now what?”
“Ahoy there,” Travis shouted.
“It’s two in the morning.”
He shrugged. “You never know.”
Standing at the tiller, I couldn’t shake the river’s chill that had stiffened my limbs. “One of us needs to get out. The water ahead is below us. See if there’s a button to open the gate.”
“Is that safe?” he asked, seeming less than enthused about exploring the dock for the gears that controlled the lock.
“I’ll take a look around,” I said, thinking that moving would at least warm me up.
“You know you have a knack for freak accidents.”
“I do not,” I protested as I wound myself up for a leap onto land. In the dark, I didn’t see the decorative metal rope anchors and tripped, pancaking myself on soft turf. Jumping to my feet, I was glad Travis’s back was turned to me. He stood in the cockpit, trying to keep the boat off the walls of the lock.
To my right was a path. To my left, Her Grace.
“What do you see?”
“Nothing. I mean there aren’t any controls.”
“There have to be. Something controls the water so the gate can open and shut.”
Fatigue washed through my arms, and my fingers were stiff from the vice grip I’d had on the tiller. “Okay, there’s a knee-high
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