The man at the wheel pulled back on the throttles and the big boat settled to a stop. He double-checked his navigation readouts. “All right. Anywhere in here,” he growled.
The mate went into the cabin, then came back out struggling with two metal boxes, one under each arm. They were painted yellow, each about the size and weight of a car battery. He lumbered to the stern of the boat and, with a final nod of approval from the bridge, heaved the boxes unceremoniously over the transom. They disappeared instantly into the inky blue water, the mate silently wondering how long it would take them to sink two miles.
The skipper put the diesels back in gear, and with a sweeping right turn they were soon battering through the ocean again, now on a reciprocal course to that which had brought them here.
“How long back to Morocco?” the mate shouted over the roar of the engines.
“Sixteen hours.”
“Then what?”
“Then we wait.”
With Windsom gliding purposefully on her new, northward route, the tension eased considerably, and Christine was confident her situation had improved. She and this stranger had become two sailors — certainly not friends, but a crew with a common goal. They worked together to navigate and tune Windsom’s rigging for the new run. Still, Christine had the sense he was always watching her.
And she, in turn, watched him. He wasn’t a seasoned sailor, of that Christine was sure. He moved around steadily, though, and seemed to have a rough idea of what to do around a boat. To his credit, he never made any major changes without asking first. She also noticed he was tiring rapidly. Recovery from his ordeal was far from over. Presently he was up top, seated by the tiller, and engrossed in the navigation control panel.
Christine was getting tired herself, having not gotten much sleep the night before. And she felt grubby after wearing the same clothes for two days. She went into the forward cabin and closed the door that separated the boat’s only two compartments, making a point of engaging the metal hook that latched it closed.
She picked out some fresh clothes. A pair of cotton khaki pants, a T-shirt and a heavy cotton sweatshirt. It would get colder soon as they made their way north. She grabbed a washcloth and doused it with cold water from the small sink, then stripped down and rubbed the cloth over her face and arms, finally leaving it to cling soddenly at the back of her neck. It felt cool and wonderful. She was completely naked when the door burst open.
Christine gasped and her heart seemed to stop. She nearly screamed, but was stilled by fear as they stood facing one another an arm’s length apart. His eyes fell to her body — only for an instant, but it seemed like an eternity — before he turned away.
Christine ripped a towel from the rack and desperately tried to cover herself.
“Get dressed,” he said.
She held the towel with her chin as she fumbled to pull on her underwear, pants, and finally the sweatshirt.
He stood facing away and spoke over his shoulder. “Tell me when you’re decent.”
“Decent?” she said contemptibly. “You should ask that before you go smashing through doors. All right. I’m dressed now.”
He turned. His expression was contrite, but the tone authoritative, a headmaster setting the rules. “You closed the door and locked it. I can’t let you do that. I can’t trust you that much.”
Christine looked at the remains of the door as it hung limp and crooked on its hinges. The metal latch was torn away, lying on the floor among splinters of wood.
“Well, as far as locked doors go, that won’t be a problem anymore. There was only one on this boat and you’ve taken care of it nicely.”
“I’ll fix the door. But no locks. If you need to be alone, ask first.”
Christine wanted to protest, but relented. Now was not the time. “All right.”
He looked at her appraisingly for a moment and she tried to gauge what he was thinking, but the man gave nothing away. Apparently satisfied, he turned and made his way back up on deck. Like nothing had happened.
Christine slumped against the bulkhead and took a deep breath. Calm, she thought. If she was calm and reasonable, he would respond in kind. Christine needed something to get both their minds off what had just happened. Looking around the cabin, her gaze settled on the galley. Food! That was it! The way to a man’s heart. Remembering the emptiness of his stare, she wondered if this brute even had one.
Christine was rummaging through the pantry minutes later when he came below.
“We’re not going to eat now,” he said.
She thought he looked pale as he leaned heavily against the stair-well. His gaze, however, was sharp. Christine acquired her “doctor’s orders” tone.
“Look at you. You need food. I’ll fix something for both—”
“Lie down,” he commanded, pointing to the bunk.
Those two words shattered whatever fragile confidence Christine had been able to build. “I’m not tired,” she said, her voice cracking.
“I am, so lie down.”
Her hands instinctively balled into fists and every muscle in Christine’s body tensed. She was steeled to fight if it came to that.
Her posture was obvious enough, and he clarified his motives. “Look, don’t misunderstand. I apologize for my bad manners. I’m very tired.” He busied himself spreading out the sheets on the bed. “It will take us three days to get to England and I’m still recovering. I need sleep.” He found an extra pillow and tossed it on the big double bunk. “Since I am hijacking your boat, I can’t trust you out of my sight. If I doze off with you running around, doctor, I imagine I’d wake up lashed to an anchor.”
“No, I’m not the keelhauling type.”
“Neither am I.” He gestured again to the bed, this time with overt politeness. “When I sleep, you sleep. That’s all.”
Christine searched his eyes. Somehow what he was saying made sense, at least from his point of view. If he had wanted to molest her he wouldn’t ask. He’d just do it. Still, the mere idea of sleeping next to this thug repulsed her. She eased warily toward the bunk and sat down.
“You’re on the inside,” he said.
She scooted to the far side of the mattress, not taking her eyes off him.
“I told you. Behave and I won’t harm you.”
He laid down close beside her and she half-rolled away. She felt him come to rest against her back, felt the warmth of his body through their clothing — and she hated it. Christine wished to God she had never come across this person. Why couldn’t she have been asleep when he drifted by? Why couldn’t that storm a few nights ago have blown Windsom a little farther south?
“I’m going to put my arm over you.” He did so slowly. “If you move, I’ll know it.”
“You expect me to get rest like this?”
“No, I expect to get rest like this. You can get yours now, later, when-ever you like. It’s almost noon. Don’t get up until three.”
Christine closed her eyes, her heart racing. His arm lay draped across her waist, heavy, like the lead weight belt she used for diving. She tried not to move as she lay facing the little digital alarm clock. The minutes advanced with glacial speed. Gradually, she felt his body relax, his breathing become more rhythmic. After ten minutes, she was quite sure he was asleep.