Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

T he following Thursday, clear sunlight broke through the lingering fog, and the autumn foliage was bright gold, orange, and crimson against the muted deep green of the pines as Gil made his way toward the wharf. It was easy to distract himself from the task at hand by thinking back to the stranger with the silvery-green eyes who he'd met at the Scallop. The spot on his neck still felt tender, and he grinned when he pressed on it.

When he'd arrived home from the bar that night, his first inclination had been to try to see the man again. Maybe he planned to be in the area for a while. Gil had quickly abandoned that notion, though. It was better if the charming, stylish guy who moved like a dolphin through the water, playful and lithe, didn't get to know him too well. No, let them both have the memory without the messy details that would ruin it.

Still, as Gil guided the Freya out of the harbor, squinting at the sun on the clear, blue water, he ached for someone to share the beauty with him, someone who might love this place as he did. He didn't think too long on the fact that he likely never would. He was an unemployed ex-con and even if he didn't end up back in jail, his future looked bleak. Best not to dwell on it. Instead, he focused on the directions Grady had relayed.

Soon he reached the open sea, and he took a deep breath of the salty air. He loved being alone out here. He also hated it.

Something hit the deck, and Gil flinched. He turned to see Mr. Brimstone standing in front of the cockpit, a glimmer in his eyes that Gil could only call satisfied.

"Oh, buddy. What the hell are you doing out here?" Gil bent and scooped the cat up. "How did you even get here? I swear, you're too smart for your own good. I wish you hadn't come, though. This could end up being dangerous."

Gil looked across the water, back toward Cutler. "Dammit, I ought to take you back. But if I miss this pickup, I can't even imagine what Grady might do… to me, to Uncle Doddie…. Shit. There just isn't time. I guess we might as well make the best of it."

The cat chirped and butted his head against Gil's chin.

"But if things start to go south, I want you to go into the cockpit and hide underneath the bench. Got it?"

Mr. Brimstone chewed on the drawstring hanging from the hoodie Gil wore above his overalls.

"I've been alone too long, buddy. I think I'm losing it. I could swear you understand everything I say. You're the only friend I've got."

As Gil buried his fingers in the cat's thick fur, Mr. Brimstone climbed up and sat on his shoulder. Luckily Gil was a big man. He felt strangely powerful, like a pirate out of a story, as he strode back to the helm with the cat balanced there. Bizarrely, he felt like if Grady or any of his accomplices saw Gil now, they'd think twice about giving him shit and calling him an ass-wipe and a dumb oaf. It didn't make sense, but the other prisoners had given Gil a much wider berth after he'd adopted Mr. Brimstone.

He reached up with his opposite hand and ran it down the cat's silky, sun-warmed back.

Their trip down the coast toward Rockport, Massachusetts was as perfect as a daydream. The sky stayed clear, the sun warm enough that Gil stripped down to a ratty T-shirt to feel it on his shoulders, and the water calm. He spotted one Coast Guard boat near Salisbury and took it as a good statistical sign that he wouldn't encounter another on the trip home… when it mattered.

After lunch, ham sandwiches and apple pie eaten cross-legged on the deck, Gil spotted the sleek, expensive-looking yacht with the Romanian flag Grady had told him to meet. Honestly, he'd had to look up the Romanian flag on the internet, but fortunately it was simple and easy to recognize. The boat, on the other hand, looked like hundreds of others in the water this close to Boston. The only thing suspicious would be Gil's battered little workhorse pulling up alongside it.

He followed the fancy yacht east, away from the shore, and when it cut its engines, he did the same. Heart hammering and hands tingling with nerves, Gil went to the portside of the Freya and waved his right arm over his head twice. His boat flew the U.S. flag above the Maine pine tree flag, also as agreed. A dark-haired man wearing a burgundy button-up and aviator sunglasses returned Gil's wave. They stood staring at each other, the waves lapping against the hull loud in Gil's ears. Maybe if someone came by, the owners of the yacht would get spooked. He wouldn't have to take the load, and it wouldn't be his fault.

Right now, he wasn't doing anything illegal. His boat held nothing but an old CD player, a change of clothes, a cooler full of sandwiches, and three beers.

But the man in the sunglasses yelled something in a language Gil didn't understand, and two other men appeared. One of them threw a duffel bag, and it hit Gil hard in the chest. He tried to close his arms around it, but he fumbled and it fell to the deck.

The man in the sunglasses bit out some words that were obviously curses. "Be more careful, you donkey!" he shouted in a thick accent.

"Sorry!" Gil called.

The men tossed two more long duffel bags, each one weighing about ten pounds. Gil calculated their value and shuddered. He hated being responsible for them.

Finally, the man in the sunglasses ended their meeting with what was either a wave goodbye or an obscene gesture. The big yacht circled around and headed south, back toward Boston or New York, probably. Heart hammering, feeling like a seal pup tossed in a pool full of sharks, Gil quickly stowed the duffel bags behind the faux wall he'd built in the Freya 's hold. It would look better if he could pull up a net full of some kind of fish to throw down there, just in case anybody wanted to know what he was doing out here. But the sun already hung low above the water. He'd tried to tell Grady it got dark too early this time of year.

When Gil climbed back onto the deck, he found Mr. Brimstone pacing, yowling in his strange, low voice. He stopped and met Gil's eyes, and Gil swore something passed between them… something that said, "We have to go."

"We won't make Beausejour tonight," Gil told his cat, thinking of the lonely stretch of beach at the north end of the Bay of Fundy, where the eerie ruins of an old battlefield and fort stood straddling the border between Nova Scotia and New Brunswick. "But I want to get the hell away from Boston. We'll try to make Brier Island. Shouldn't be many people around this time of year. We'll dock there and spend the night on the boat. Won't be the first time we've had to share a cot."

Gil stayed far from the coast until he passed Bar Harbor. It was getting dark fast, and they still had a long way to go. God, he hated this. Even though they hadn't seen another boat in hours, Gil felt watched, felt like everyone knew exactly what he had in his hold. His hands were sweaty on the wheel, and Mr. Brimstone stood at the bow, yowling mournfully, almost as if he was trying to communicate with the sea or the sky. Maybe he was just seasick. Still, the sound unsettled Gil.

"Wish you'd stop doing that," Gil muttered. Maybe it was just nerves, but the boat seemed to be pulling east, away from the coast. Gil knew these waters by heart, and he'd never experienced that before. The seas churned, the calm water bubbly with froth, high waves slapping the hull and even breaking over the deck, spraying it with spume.

As Gil watched from the cockpit, a curl of foamy water rose four feet above the bow and broke over Mr. Brimstone, sweeping the cat back toward the cockpit, smacking him against a stack of traps, and leaving him drenched.

"Shit!" Gil hurried to scoop him up and get him inside. He found a towel and began rubbing the cat's thick fur. "What the hell is going on?"

In answer, Mr. Brimstone released a single, mournful note that made Gil's blood run as cold as the rough seas around them. He wrapped the cat tightly in the towel and held him to his chest as the little trawler pitched from side to side, lifted on higher and higher waves and slapped back down.

"I'll make for Eastport," Gil said, clutching the wheel hard and giving the Freya all she had in an effort to fight through the waves that seemed determined to prevent them from reaching the shore.

Thunder cracked so loud Gil expected to see a chasm open up in the ocean. Never mind that it was at least two months too late for thunderstorms. It was suddenly as dark as night, black clouds blotting out what was left of the sun. A thick fork of lightning struck the water, the afterimage burned into Gil's retinas, blinding him for a few seconds. Rain fell so hard that it turned the surface of the water to mist and sounded like nails against the cockpit.

"Come on, come on." The boat couldn't muster the power to make it through waves that had to be ten, twelve feet high by now. She bobbed on their crests like a toy. Gil wasn't even sure he could hear the whine of the engine over the rain and thunder. Something struck the boat hard, and he wasn't sure if it was wind or water, only that she lay practically on her side for a few terrifying moments before she righted herself.

He should radio for help, even if it meant risking getting caught for what he carried. He'd lost all sense of direction, even before a massive wave left them underwater for a minute. Somehow, none of his instruments seemed to work, and all he could do was hold Mr. Brimstone tight to his chest and steer in the direction he thought the shore lay, though he was pretty sure the rudder had failed as static poured from the radio. They'd just have to ride this out.

Lightning flashed again, and Gil almost pissed himself when he saw what looked like a massive human form made of storm clouds rising out of the sea. He shook his head to clear it; he couldn't let his imagination run away with him, not now. He knew better than most that the sea played tricks on sailors' eyes.

"I'll get us out of this," he promised Mr. Brimstone. Saving his own crappy life might not be much motivation, but he wasn't going to fail this cat. There would be one being in this world who could depend on Gilbert MacNeil.

But the next bolt of lightning struck the Freya 's bow, and something beneath them smacked hard against the keel. With a deep groan and a snap, the trawler broke in half, water erupting like a geyser through the deep crack bisecting her deck from port to starboard. The next wave finished the job, tearing the entire front half of the boat away and flinging Gil into the freezing water.

All he could think to do was hold on to Mr. Brimstone as the shock of the cold almost ripped away his consciousness. He focused on moving his legs, trying to ignore the numbness spreading through his limbs. He broke the surface of the water and tossed Mr. Brimstone over his shoulder. Claws bit into his neck, but Gil barely had time to be glad the cat had survived. If they didn't get out of this water, they'd both die. Waves slapped his face like slabs of cement. Thinking of nothing else, he kicked his legs. Even when he lost all sensation, he forced himself to keep moving his legs. There was a light up ahead… maybe. Maybe it was just a patch of mist of the afterimage of the lightning. Maybe it was a mirage conjured up by his own dying brain.

But Gil moved his legs. What else could he do? The waves lifted his body and tossed him back down, over and over, sending him below the surface and forcing him to fight his way back up with one arm crossed over his neck to hold on to Mr. Brimstone's mane for all he was worth.

"Move your legs. Don't let go. Move your legs…." He wasn't sure if he said it out loud. Hell, he wasn't even sure he had arms or legs anymore. He couldn't feel a thing; they must've been in the water for hours. He was just tired… so tired he barely noticed the tide push him ashore. Vaguely, he knew he scaped along the rocky coast, but he knew it in a sort of theoretical way, like how he knew the Milky Way, now visible in the sky again, contained billions of galaxies and a hundred times as many stars… worlds. He knew it; he just couldn't comprehend how it could be possible.

Mr. Brimstone lay beside him, his brilliant eyes glossy, his pink tongue lolling out of his open mouth. Gone. Even that pain felt numb and far away. Gone…. That meant Gil didn't have to fight anymore. He could close his eyes….

"Oh no ye don't." Something grabbed Gil's arms and dragged him farther up the rocks, away from the water. Silvery-green eyes burned through the darkness and mist, drawing in every scrap of light and reflecting it back at Gil like beacons…

Except they looked at him from the face of a very handsome, very naked young man.