I'd pulled on the pants I had in my go-bag while Bridgett was driving us into Port Elizabeth, and when we hit the pier I jumped out of the vehicle and sprinted barefoot along the water until I reached The Lutra, in the process driving a splinter into the sole of my left foot. The gangplank was down and the woman was on the foredeck, in shorts and a tank top, coiling a rope. When she heard me coming she called out something in French, and her partner or lover or husband or whoever he was appeared at the stairs from below. He used the frame to block the right side of his body, and I knew he had a gun in his hand.
"Giselle's been hurt," I said, and when neither of them moved, I repeated it in my atrocious French. "Giselle ete blesse."
The man answered me in English, "Bring her aboard."
"I need help."
He spoke to the woman, coming the rest of the way up the steps and onto the deck. He was wearing shorts and sandals, with an unbuttoned tropical-style shirt. He tucked a Smith Wesson revolver into his waistband, then followed me back down the gangplank to the Jeep. Bridgett kept an eye out while we lifted Alena out of the vehicle, still wrapped in the sheet, and we carried her quickly on board. It was mid-afternoon, and we got a couple of stares, and I hoped that we'd be at sea before someone had the presence of mind to call the police.
Bridgett followed us, carrying the two go-bags, and the man led us from the deck down into the ship, leading us to a cabin where the woman had already pulled down one of the folding bunks. She had a basin of water ready, and an open first-aid kit. As soon as we had laid Alena on the bed, he spoke to the woman in rapid French, then went back out. Bridgett dropped the bags, and I gave her a quick nod, and she followed him up.
"I'm Carrie," the woman told me as she pulled the sheet from around Alena's body, exposing the mutilated leg. She sounded American, maybe West Coast.
"Paul," I said.
She nodded, tearing open a couple packets of gauze. If she cared that the name I'd given her was, in fact, a name she had helped to give me, she showed no sign of it. "When was the last time you released the tourniquet, Paul?"
"Fifteen minutes ago, maybe more."
"Unfasten it."
When I crouched by the bed, my head started spinning again, and I had to catch myself on the side of the bunk. I was still erect, and it hurt, and I tried to not care who knew or saw as I unfastened the tourniquet, allowing some blood to flow back into Alena's leg. The wound began bleeding again. It meant that the leg wasn't a total loss, but it also meant that unless something was done and soon, Alena would bleed out. She was still unconscious but beginning the journey to the surface, and when Carrie prodded the injury, pressing gauze against the torn skin, Alena rolled her head and made an almost inaudible moan.
Beneath my knees, I felt the boat begin to vibrate, the slight lurch as we pulled away from the pier.
"How bad is it?"
"I'm not qualified to say," Carrie told me. "She's lost a lot of blood, obviously, and she's going to need a doctor. Go up to the bridge, tell Jerry that he should call Bennet."
"Who's Bennet?"
"Someone who doesn't ask questions. He's in St. Vincent, we can be there in an hour. I'll stay with Giselle and watch the tourniquet."
I scooped up my go-bag and left the cabin, climbing the steep steps back to the deck, then climbing a short ladder to the bridge. Jerry was at the wheel, opening the throttle. Bridgett was at the rail by the ladder, watching him closely. When I got up to them, she tapped my shoulder and motioned back at the pier, which was rapidly disappearing in the distance. There didn't seem to be anyone milling about the Jeep, anyone intent on pursuing us.
"Carrie says to call Bennet," I told Jerry.
"Then we shall call Bennet." He took a hand from the wheel, reached over to the console beside him where a variety of electronics were resting. There was a small sonar array, and something that I presumed would feed him the latest weather, and a GPS reader. There was also a satellite phone, already on, and he picked up the handset and, with his index finger, began punching in a sequence of numbers. After a couple of seconds whoever he'd dialed answered.
"It's Gerard for Bennet. Quickly, please." He turned the wheel slightly, then let go of it long enough to open the throttle further. "Bennet, yes, I'll be there in an hour… gunshot wound, leg… no, no, clear out the office, it'll be me and the injured and two others… looks like shotgun… let me ask, un moment."
Jerry moved the handset down, poked the mute button on the satellite phone. "How much?" he asked me.
"Fifty U.S.," I said.
Bridgett opened her mouth to speak, probably objecting to my total lack of business sense, but Jerry nodded as if I'd named an appropriate price, took the mute off the phone again, and said, "Twenty thousand, U.S… bien, and no paper, Bennet, none."
He hung up the phone, went back to handling the wheel. "You will pay us before we arrive," Jerry said. "Give the money to Carrie."
"No problem." I headed back for the ladder, dropped back down to the deck. When I landed, my head spun again, and I wobbled, but this time didn't need to grab anything to keep myself from falling. I hoped that meant the Viagra was starting to wear off.
Bridgett followed. "Is there a plan or are you just flying blind?"
"We're going to get her stabilized, and then we're going to get her back to New York." We were moving along the water at a fast clip, and the wind was forcing me to raise my voice. "I have to get her secure, someplace where she can be defended. Then I'll figure out what to do next."
Bridgett produced her Ray-Bans from inside her jacket. She wasn't wearing her traditional leather, but the windbreaker was still black. Even though she'd hidden her eyes, her mouth had turned sour. "You think that sprung motherfucker's going to try again?"
"He ran because he lost control of the situation. You heard what he said, he's not going to stop."
"So you're not going to, either?"
"She hired me for a job. I'm going to do it."
"What the hell is going on between the two of you?" Bridgett asked.
I stopped counting out bills and looked up at her. The sun was behind her, and I had to squint. "You want to ask something, Bridie?"
"Were you honest with Oxford or was that a lie?"
"I don't think that's the question," I said, zipping the bag closed and standing up again. "You're not just asking if I've slept with her."
She ran a hand through her hair, looked away from me to the Caribbean. "You not banging her isn't really the assurance you might think it is after you've lived with her for four fucking months."
"You'd be happier if I had?"
"You're wound around her and she's yanking your chain. You're a goddamn pushover, you know that? You arm yourself so tough, you go diesel, you go fucking hand-to-hand with killers, and yet when you meet a pair of tits who bats her eyelashes and says 'help me help me,' you go all to putty."
"I hope you're including yourself in that," I said.
"Oh, I am. But I've never asked you to kill for me, babe. I never asked you to break the law."
"But it's fine when you've done it yourself."
"I'm not a killer. She is."
"Was."
Her laugh was sharp and mean. "Your wishing her a conscience doesn't change what she is. She's a fucking murderer, and you need to remember that."
"You should maybe wait until you have the facts before you go passing judgment."
"I have all the facts I need."
"Then we've got nothing more to discuss."
Bridgett finally looked from the ocean back to me. Her mouth had gone tight. Then she turned and walked away, heading for the bow and a view where she didn't have to look at anything she didn't want to see.
I took my bag and went down below, where I gave Carrie fifty thousand American dollars and then sat beside the bunk. She'd put a pair of shorts on Alena, and a shirt, and it made her look less vulnerable. Every ten minutes I released the tourniquet to let blood flow back into Alena's lower leg, and then I tightened it again. Carrie kept changing the bandages.