“All right.”
Slaton put both hands under the gunnel of the dory and heaved up with all his strength, raising it just far enough for Christine to maneuver the drum underneath. With the drum in place, he lowered the side of the boat to rest on it, creating a makeshift lean-to. He gave the arrangement a few shoves to ensure it was solid, then spread out a blanket under their newly formed shelter. Moving the rest of their belongings in, they found enough room to be able to sit up.
The wind calmed as the drizzle thickened to a steady, light rain. The fire was situated just outside their new shelter, its smoke drifting up and away, but the radiant warmth filling their refuge. Dinner was a loaf of French bread, tart cheese, and bottled water. They took the meager meal in silence, both enjoying the simple fare and, accordingly, the simple sound of raindrops tapping the thick wooden hull overhead. Afterwards, they watched as the fire’s flames danced and reflected obscurely off the rusted metal drum.
Christine spoke in a quiet voice, not wanting to interrupt the rain’s soothing echoes. “How long can we stay here, David?”
Their eyes met, and Christine noticed how completely he was looking at her. There was no caution, no glancing over her shoulder. The alertness that had always encompassed him was now completely gone.
“We can stay as long as we like.”
No other words were spoken. On their knees, they faced one another. She leaned forward and kissed him gently. She felt him tremble as she ran her hands up his arms to his shoulders. She slowly unbuttoned the front of his shirt, and with each unclasping he took a breath. When she finally removed his shirt and put her hands on his bare chest, he drew in a short, sharp gasp. It was as though he was being touched for the first time. Christine ran her hands along his naked back, feeling the hardness and the scars. Then she leaned back, unbuttoned her own shirt and pressed her naked chest to his. His hands began to respond, enveloping and stroking. Her own breathing quickened and they laid down.
The kidon’s hands trembled no more as he reveled in a glory he could scarcely remember.
Chapter Thirteen
The rising sun stirred them both from a deep sleep, its warming rays reflecting into their quiet retreat. Their bodies lay entwined in a blanket beneath the old fishing dory, still and close. Neither wanted to disturb the sanctuary they’d discovered, and so both maintained a deliberate silence. Words could only lead back to reality.
Christine was watching a seagull glide silently by when she felt him tense. He cocked his head, then sat up abruptly.
“David, what is it?”
Slaton scrambled over to the fire, which had long ago died out, and began shoveling sand over the spent ashes. Then Christine heard it too — the unmistakable sound of a helicopter approaching. With the fire well covered, he pulled her back as far as they could go under the boat. The noise from the aircraft got louder and louder, drowning out the sounds of the sea that had held them for so many hours.
“Do you think it’s the police?”
“More likely the military. I doubt they routinely patrol the coastline here, so it’s probably just a crew making a sightseeing run up the beach. But they could have some kind of infrared sensor. That’s why I doused what was left of the fire.”
“It burned out hours ago.”
“There might still be enough heat in the embers to contrast with the cool sand.”
The sound reached a crescendo, then changed in pitch as the helicopter passed overhead. They peeked out to watch the big bird. Christine saw it maneuver inland, then reverse course back to the coastline, a big sweeping S turn. The sound began to fade, and soon the craft disappeared into a curtain of haze.
“He didn’t seem very interested.”
“No …” Slaton replied.
They dressed and came out from under the shelter. Christine stretched her limbs while Slaton stood alertly, a hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the low eastern sun. His attention was still fixed on the sky, as if he expected the big machine to come swooping back at any moment.
“We’ve got to go,” he announced.
Christine said nothing. Of course they had to go, she thought. They had no food, the water was almost gone, and their accommodations were comical. Yet after last night, not running like a hunted animal, but feeling secure, relaxed, even loved. She wished they could stay here forever.
“They may have seen our car.”
“Would the engine still be warm?” she asked.
“No. But the car is metal. At dusk it cools faster and at dawn it warms more quickly than the sand and vegetation. It would stand out like a star in the night sky on an infrared scope.”
“So you think they saw it?”
“Actually, I doubt it. But there’s no way to be sure. If they did spot it, the fact that it’s parked back in the scrub would only make it more suspicious. We can’t take the chance. If we get caught out here in the open there aren’t many ways out.”
“All right,” she said. “Where do we go?”
“Back up the road, to Sidbury.”
“I almost hate to ask, but what are we going to do there?”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”
When the food came, Christine found she’d worked up a surprising hunger. She polished off her eggs and toast faster than Slaton, who wasn’t dallying, and now she was shoveling through a bowl of fruit.
“I see you’ve found your appetite,” he said.
“Being hunted like this,” she mumbled through a mouthful of cantaloupe, “it seems to crank up my metabolism a notch. Maybe when we’re all done and nobody is shooting at us anymore, I can write a diet book and get rich.”
Slaton grinned and flipped open a newspaper he’d purchased. He held up page four next to his face and Christine gagged when she saw it, a rough pencil sketch of him beneath the headline — KILLER STILL LOOSE!
“Good Lord, put that thing down!” she whispered harshly. Christine glanced uneasily around the half-full cafe.
“Nobody’s looking,” he said. “And besides, it’s really not a very good likeness.”
Christine had to admit the resemblance was poor, but it was still unnerving. “I suppose I should be happy my high school graduation picture isn’t right there next to you.”
“It will be.”
She frowned and was about to register her displeasure when the waitress scurried over to fill her coffee cup for the third time. The waitress moved on and Christine took a long, steamy sip. She was beginning to feel the zing. “You know, we can’t just run forever. We’ve got to do something. I say we go to the police, tell them everything.” She reached over, grabbed the newspaper and began scanning. “Here … ‘Inspector Nathan Chatham, one of Scotland Yard’s most experienced investigators, has been put in charge of the search for a suspect who’s wanted for —’”
“Christine,” he interrupted in a patient tone, “you’re right. We do have to take the initiative.” Slaton reached down to the floor and grabbed a large plastic bag he’d brought in from the car. “We have to figure out what’s going on, and I think it might start with this.”
Christine had wondered what was in the bag, but hadn’t asked, knowing he’d get around to it. Slaton pulled out a large, flat book titled Hammond’s World Atlas. He shoved aside their plates and opened it on the table. The page he selected covered the northwest coast of Africa and the adjacent Atlantic Ocean, the area where she’d first found him.
“Where did you get that?”
“I stole it from the public library in Southampton. I went there while you were checking into Humphrey Hall.”