AGUILLARD
I Love Lucy Universe
Grenada
May 2047
Wednesday
Ignoring the aches and pains of his recent beating, ten-year-old Baptiste Bedeau crept aboard a sailboat berthed near the far end of a dock in Grenada’s Prickly Bay. Swelling had nearly closed his left eye—the spot where Aguillar’s angry fist had landed.
The boy considered slipping into an aft berth below deck. Cecil’s soft snoring told him the old man was asleep, though, and Baptiste didn’t want to wake him. He thought of boarding the boat tied up immediately ahead. But something in the tone of Marta and Marshall’s conversation drifting through an open hatch suggested that he shouldn’t interrupt.
So, he lay down at the bow of Somewhere Over China and closed his eyes.
He tried not to eavesdrop. But when he heard Marshall say, “Really, Marta, I don’t mean to kill them. It just . . . happens. You know?” Baptiste had to learn more.
Thursday
Everyone familiar with Marshall Grissom and Marta Hamilton knew Marta was the scary one.
Marshall towered six foot seven and was as wispy as a soda straw. Clumsy, self-effacing and kind. In contrast, Marta stood barely five feet, sinewy, built like a marathoner. Although her romantic liaison with Marshall had softened some of her bristles, she could be as mean as a mamba snake and unforgiving as a loan shark.
Once she’d allowed someone to pick their way through her tangled emotional defenses, though, her loyalty was fierce. Which was why she was quick to respond when she heard a man yelling from the dock beside Cecil’s boat, Somewhere Over China.
“Come on, old man! Come out here!”
Marta scrambled to the deck of Dontchaknow—a thirty-two-foot Bavaria tied bow to stern with Cecil’s ketch-rigged Tayana in Grenada’s Prickly Bay Marina. On the dock a hulking man, his belly peeking out from under a T‑shirt that strained to contain beefy biceps, swayed a little, like a long-distance sailor who hadn’t quite found his land legs.
“Come out, you, and bring Baptiste! His mama want him home right now,” Cecil’s would-be assailant bellowed in a Caribbean-Creole accent.
Cecil emerged onto his boat’s deck, brandishing a speargun.
“Stop right there, Ignace Aguillard,” Cecil said. “Baptiste doesn’t have to go anywhere with you. You hit this boy. Go away, or we’ll call the constable.”
“I’m da only father he got,” Aguillard answered. “Boy sass me, need to get hit. Boys gotta learn respect. Put down that toothpick you holdin’, you, or I come up there and stick it up your ass.”
Marshall clambered up on deck after Marta. “What’s going—”
The question died on his lips as Baptiste peeked from behind Cecil, revealing a black and purple shiner that closed his left eye.
“Marshall,” Marta said, “go below and get the flare gun.”
Instead, Marshall vaulted over Dontchaknow’s lifelines, landing with surprising agility onto the narrow dock.
“Marshall, no!” Marta called.
Aguillard turned to confront this new threat.
“Now you in trouble, you!” Baptiste shouted with all the venom a ten-year-old could muster. “Dis da one I tell you about. He a famous killer, not afraid a’ da likes a’ you.”
Aguillard glanced at Cecil, still pointing his speargun, then back to Marshall. He laughed. “You who dis boy been yappin’ about? I break you like a stick.”
Marshall looked around, blinking, as if surprised to find himself in the middle of this confrontation but quickly collected himself. “You hurt Baptiste? He’s just a little boy.”
“Believe me,” Aguillard said, “gonna hurt you a lot worse.”
Aguillard took a step forward.
Bugger, thought Marta. Her only weapon, a flare gun, was below deck. She saw Cecil lean forward, the speargun steady in his hands.
“What are you doing, Marshall?” she said. “You can’t—”
Aguillard charged with Marshall dead in his sights.
“Run, Marshall!” she yelled.
Marshall appeared frozen, paralyzed with fear.
“Oh no!” Cecil called, tracking Aguillard with his speargun, finger on the trigger.
Marshall flinched but stood his ground as Aguillard gathered momentum.
Marta wondered if Marshall wanted flowers at his funeral.
At the last instant before impact, though, Marshall stood tall—almost on tiptoe—and executed an elegant spin, like a matador’s pase natural, allowing Aguillard to brush past him, only a whisper of space between them. As he passed, Marshall gave Aguillard a backhanded nudge with just enough pressure to alter the big man’s trajectory.
Aguillard careened off the dock into fifteen feet of warm, green water, then came up sputtering and cursing. Marta appeared at Marshall’s side, carrying an aluminum dinghy oar. Aguillard swallowed a mouthful of seawater and gagged. Marta swung the oar with all her might, striking him on the head.
Baptiste had leapt onto the dock and stood beside Marshall and Marta as they watched Aguillard sink. Bubbles drifted to the surface, their wet little pops waning in frequency.
Eventually, Baptiste said, “Somebody don’t do somethin’, he gonna drown.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Marta said.
Cecil joined them. They regarded her with imploring eyes.
“Oh, all right,” she said. “Marshall, go to the beach.”
Marta dove in, grabbed Aguillard by his hair and kicked toward shore.
Marshall helped haul him onto the gleaming sand where Aguillard lay unmoving, turning a curious shade of blue.
“Um . . . shouldn’t we, you know . . . do mouth-to-mouth or something?” Marshall asked.
“Not my mouth,” said Marta. “And not yours either, if you want it to have anything to do with mine.”
“We can’t just let him—”
“Oh, I suppose not,” Marta said.
She jumped into the air, then using her whole weight, slammed her elbow onto Aguillard’s chest, which made a cracking sound. Water spewed from his mouth as he gagged and gasped.
“Roll him onto his side,” Marta said.
“Okay, now what?” Marshall asked.
“If he doesn’t get up and walk away in an hour, we’ll call someone to haul him off.”
“I think,” Marshall said, “the tide’s coming in.”
“Then I guess he’d better hurry.”
“Baptiste”—Marta held a cold compress to the boy’s eye and cheek as Marshall and Cecil looked on—“why did you tell Aguillard Marshall is a killer?”
The four had retreated below deck on Cecil’s Somewhere Over China.
“Last night, after Aguillard show up, I snuck onto Cecil’s boat to hide, but it was late, and I don’t wanna wake Mr. Cecil. So, I lay on da deck. I hear you and Marshall talkin’ about all da people Marshall killed. I need to scare Ignace, so he don’t come after me again.”
“Those were accidents,” Marshall said. “I’m not a tough guy, Baptiste. I never meant to hurt anyone. I’m certainly no match for someone as big as Aguillard.”
“What does your mama have to say about this?” Marta asked.
“She don’t say anything. Sometimes Ignace hit her too. Mostly when Ignace around, I stay away. My bad luck he show up when I was there a few days ago.”
“What did he mean when he told Cecil he’s the only father you have?” Marta asked.
“Common-law what they call it,” Baptiste said. “Not married by any church or judge. But Aguillard been comin’ and goin’ so long, he think he in charge a me.”
They heard a powerboat passing on its way to a berth, followed by a single bump as its wake broadsided Cecil’s boat.
“I’m goin’ to the magistrate later today, dontchaknow,” Cecil said. “See if I can get permission for Baptiste to stay with me while we sort this thing out.”
“Is that what you want?” Marta asked Baptiste.
“Dis where I like best,” Baptiste said.
“What about your mama?” Marshall asked.
“She keep lettin’ Ignace come back,” Baptiste said. “Don’t know why.”
“How often does Aguillard hit you?” Marta asked.
“He smack me when he get da urge,” Baptiste said, “but not so it shows. Lotsa time, I’m too quick. Dis time, he drunker or higher than usual and use his fist.”
“Why doesn’t your mama go to the police?” Marshall said.
“She scared. She not like Miss Marta. She don’t know how to fight.”
Cecil and Baptiste were both ready for sleep, so Marta and Marshall headed back to their own boat.
When they were below, Marta turned to Marshall.
“Pretty nifty move,” she said, her voice laced with suspicion.
Marshall offered a sheepish shrug.
“Almost,” Marta said, “like you knew what you were doing.”
The argument Baptiste had overheard went like this.
“Really,” Marshall said, “I don’t mean to kill them. It just . . . happens. You know?”
She studied him through narrowed eyes.
“You confessed. You told me Gillis was right. You are a secret super-assassin, trained to kill in ways—”
“I thought we were about to die,” Marshall said. “The bomb was seconds from going off. I wanted you to think, at least for that final instant, that I was a tough guy.”
They sat in Dontchaknow’s cockpit, keeping their voices low. The cabin lights in Cecil’s boat, Somewhere Over China, had gone out, and they didn’t want to disturb the old man’s sleep.
The last vestiges of sun glow painted a lonely gray cloud’s lower half with pink luminescence. Cloud and ocean were tethered by a single shaft of light—a golden sword stabbing the heart of the Caribbean Sea.
“Look at the evidence,” Marta said. “Raul Hinojosa—”
“I didn’t know Raul was in the trash can,” Marshall said.
“Jason Pratt?”
“I confused a pistol with a Taser.”
“You killed Phillip Lucre during a fight.”
“With a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. How could I have planned that?”
“Then there’s Whatshisname on the boat,” Marta said.
“He jumped in front of his partner’s bullet when I smashed his toes. And I don’t care what Gillis thinks. I would never harm you, Marta. I love you.”
“Good,” Marta said. “And remember, I love you, too, in case you ever decide to put me on your list.”
“I don’t have a list,” Marshall said. “I’m a clumsy doofus. I’m not really good at anything.”
“Well,” Marta said with a suggestive grin, “we both know that’s not true.”
Marshall reached for her and proceeded to prove her point.
Friday
Delon James, chief magistrate of Saint George parish, stood almost as tall as Marshall but packed a muscular two hundred and fifty pounds onto his frame. His shaved black scalp covered a bullet-shaped head. His eyes and smile could combine to convey either comfort or menace. He spoke with a crisp British accent.
“And you hit Aguillard over the head with an oar?” he asked Marta from behind his desk in an office adjacent to a courtroom.
“An aluminum oar.”
“We got him to shore before he drowned,” Marshall added.
Cecil said, “I was gonna shoot him with a speargun, dontchaknow, but I was afraid I’d hit Marshall.”
The smile flickered with an instant of warmth, then retreated as James’s stare became intense. “I don’t need any more evidence than looking at this boy. And Ignace Aguillard’s reputation precedes him. We can bring him in—”
Baptiste, sitting next to Cecil, said, “Please, Mr. Judge, you don’t do anything to make Ignace mad, you. I be okay if I stay with Mr. Cecil while Ignace cool down.”
“Mr. Cecil,” James said, “are you up to looking after Baptiste for a little while?”
“Baptiste spends time at my boat anyway,” Cecil said. “I’ve got things he can help me with. I’m glad to have him.”
“Then I’m placing him in your temporary custody while we see how to work this out. Baptiste, you do what Mr. Cecil says and stay away from your mama’s house for a few days. I’ll talk to her. Ms. Hamilton, Mr. Grissom, please wait with me a moment.”
“Thanks,” Cecil said. He guided Baptiste outside. Marshall fought a wave of emotion as the little boy took the old man’s hand, their figures outlined in the office doorway.
When Cecil and Baptiste had gone, James said, “I hope you two can help keep an eye on this situation. I’m not sure a man as elderly as Mr. Cecil can keep up with a ten-year-old.”
“Our boats are berthed together,” Marshall said, “so we’re right there.”
James turned his attention to Marta.
“And you, Ms. Hamilton, must refrain from hitting people over the head with oars.”
She nodded, but added, “I will protect myself and my family.”
“Be careful,” James warned. “You should take charge of Mr. Cecil’s speargun, at least while Baptiste is there.”
As they left the magistrate’s office, Marta asked, “What were you thinking when you jumped onto the dock?”
“I . . . well, I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
As he reflected, though, Marshall recalled a vague, unsettling image—a spear piercing Aguillard’s chest. He dismissed the thought. “Somebody had to do something. I . . . I was gonna reason with him. Then you brained him with an oar.”
“An aluminum oar.” Marta crossed her arms and stopped walking. Marshall stopped as well.
“You don’t reason with people like Aguillard,” she said.
“You don’t hit them with oars either.”
“I was afraid he’d climb onto the dock and come after you again.”
“You thought you had to protect me?” he asked.
“Honestly? No. I thought I had to protect Aguillard.”
“From me?”
“Yes.”
“So, you hit him with an oar?”
“An aluminum oar.”
“He could have drowned.”
“But he didn’t. I intervened because I didn’t want you to kill him.”
“How was I gonna kill him?” Marshall said. “I was unarmed on the dock. He outweighs me by a hundred pounds.”
“Marshall,” she said, “every time you get in a fight, you end up pulling some miracle out of your ass and croaking the guy.”
“Marta, come on. I’m not—”
“Look, Marshall, we can get away with killing guys like Whosits and Whatshisname on the ocean where we can sail away. If either you or Cecil had killed Aguillard, you’d be spending a long time in a third-world jail. I’d have to recruit Gillis to help break you out.”
They walked a few more steps. Marshall took her hand and said, “In the judge’s office, did you call me your family?”
Marta smiled and gave his hand a squeeze.
