Becalmed
Marshall Grissom braced himself for the onset of scurvy.
Any time now.
He and Marta Hamilton sat becalmed in the Dontchaknow, a 32-foot Bavaria drifting without purpose on the Caribbean Sea, its jib and mainsail limp.
Marta wore her favorite sailing attire—a Seattle Mariners baseball cap and bikini bottoms. Marshall wore swimming trunks and, in deference to the Caribbean sun, a long-sleeved Doc Ford’s Rum Bar and Grill T-shirt.
Initially, Marshall tried to convince Marta she should dress more conservatively when they sailed. “Look at us,” he said. “What will we do if someone comes by?”
“We’ll wave,” Marta said. “Women go topless in the islands all the time.”
“What about me? I’m in no condition to . . . to . . .”
“To what?” Marta grinned her most lascivious grin.
“. . . to . . . repel boarders. What if we’re boarded by pirates?”
“Pirates? I lived in the Caribbean for eighteen years. I didn’t encounter a single pirate.”
After a few weeks, as pirates failed to materialize and most people who saw them just waved back, Marshall grew accustomed to Marta’s island-inspired hedonistic tendencies, particularly after the lustful Dr. Dingus Doonaughty—Marta’s demanding imaginary friend—joined their crew.
Up to that point, Marshall had been a reluctant sailor. He liked having a sailboat. He’d enjoyed shopping around until they finally decided on the Bavaria. Marta chose the broad-beamed little vessel because its twin helms created a roomy cockpit, and even light winds could send it rushing over the water.
Marshall was not so thrilled by that rushing-over-the-water thing. He believed a sailboat’s best use was sitting along a dock behind Cecil’s ketch-rigged Tayana, where he could sip rum and watch pelicans.
Sailing made him nervous.
“Why?” Marta asked.
“I grew up in the desert. I guess I don’t trust water.”
“You enjoy snorkeling,” Marta said.
“Yes. But that’s here. In the bay. Not out where water . . . misbehaves.”
“Misbehaves?”
“You’ve never heard of hurricanes?” He pointed to a lonely cloud on the distant horizon.
“I promise we won’t sail in any hurricanes.”
“Okay, there’s scurvy. People who go out on the ocean get scurvy.”
“Have you ever had scurvy?” Marta asked.
“No. I don’t go out on the ocean.”
“People only get scurvy if they are becalmed, run out of oranges and suffer a vitamin C deficiency,” Marta said.
“What if we’re becalmed?”
“We’ll start the engine.”
And now, here they were, becalmed without an orange in sight. A good five miles from Grenada’s Prickly Bay Marina. They did not, however, start their engine.
Dr. Doonaughty, it seems, had demands.
W
Marta had reached a critical point in their becalming when Dontchaknow’s radio crackled to life.
“Dontchaknow, Dontchaknow. This is Somewhere Over China. Over.”
Below deck, flat on his back, Marshall reached the radio’s handset without unduly disturbing Marta’s progress.
“Hi, Cecil,” he said, a little breathless. Marshall had not yet mastered radio protocol. “Um . . . over?”
“Hi, Marshall. Are you folks anywhere close? You got visitors, dontchaknow. Over.”
“Visitors?”
There followed an interval of radio silence until Marta, between gasps, said, “You . . . you gotta . . . say . . . ‘over.’”
“Oh, yeah. Over.”
“What should I tell ’em?” Cecil asked. “Over.”
“We could be back in, maybe, an hour. Over.”
“Hour and . . . a . . . half,” Marta said.
“Roger. And tell Marta to put on her shirt. You don’t want to shock the congressional delegates. Over and out.”
“What congressional delegates?” Marshall asked.
“He . . . he . . . already over-and-outed you,” Marta said between gasps. “I’m in . . . the middle of . . . something here. Pay attention.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
Five minutes later, eyes closed, Marta lay on Marshall’s chest, her breasts squished and slick with sweat. Thus entangled, they personified “ebony and ivory.” Marta, a native of Nevis, stood barely five feet tall with a sprinter’s build and glowing mahogany skin. Marshall—Marta often observed as she slathered him with sunscreen—was about as white as a white person could get. At six-foot-seven, he towered over her, but was wispy as a soda straw.
Marshall absently ran his fingers over her back as her breathing eased and her heart’s pounding slowed.
“Great becalming,” she said. “I’ve never been quite so becalmed in my—”
Her attention snapped to the cabin ceiling.
“What’s—” Marshall began.
Marta gave him a warning glance and put a finger to his lips. She bent low, whispering. “Didn’t you feel that?”
“Feel what?”
She pointed upward. “Somebody’s on our deck.”
“Are you sure?” Then he, too, sensed a presence. Dontchaknow shifted under an intruder’s weight.
“Maybe,” he whispered, “they’re checking to see if we’ve got scurvy.”
“Marshall, you never board someone’s boat without permission. If they were checking on us, they’d have announced themselves.”
“But I didn’t hear another boat—”
“I don’t care. We’ve been boarded.”
“What do we do?”
Marta slipped off him, stepping lightly to the cabin floor.
“We repel them.”
In the absolute calm of a mirror sea, Marshall discerned subtle movements above them. Clearly, their intruders were attempting stealth.
Marta opened a cabinet, withdrawing an orange box. She removed a fat-barreled pistol and inserted a flare. “Two people. Moving from midships toward the cockpit. When I open the forward hatch, move around, make some noise. I’ll come up behind them.”
“Are you sure they’re not—” Marshall asked.
“I’m sure.”
“Then we should put on pants.”
“You put on pants,” Marta said. “And make some noise.”
Marta positioned herself in the V-berth, below the forward hatch. He dropped to his feet and stepped into his shorts. Marta eased the hatch open, laid her flare gun on the deck, nodded to Marshall, then pulled herself up.
He opened a cabinet door and rattled some pots and pans. He found his K55 Louisville Slugger resting against the navigation table, kept handy for shark attacks.
Marshall hefted his bat. He moved toward the stairsteps leading to the deck. Two hairy legs appeared. A bare foot eased itself onto the first tread.
Everything happened at once.
He heard a man’s voice yell, “Watch out!” as he slammed his bat down on trespassing toes with all his might. When his victim screamed, he heard the simultaneous hiss of a flare and bark of a gunshot, followed by another yell, then a splash.
“Marta!” Marshall raced up the stairs to find a man lying on his back beneath the Bavaria’s twin helms, the toes of one foot pointing in several directions. Marta stood over Toe Guy holding a smoking flare gun.
This sight of a sweaty, naked woman brandishing a weapon over a perpetrator before a background of green sea and blue sky momentarily struck Marshall as the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. That impulse was swiftly overcome by a wave of remorse.
Toe Guy didn’t appear well at all.
Marta leapt to grab the discarded pistol in case Toe Guy still posed a threat.
He did not.
“Are you okay?” Marta asked.
“Yeah. Where’s the other one?”
Marta nodded toward starboard. “Overboard. I think I hit him with the flare.”
“Should we hunt for him? Or get this guy to a hospital.”
“Hospital won’t do any good. He’s dead.”
“He died of smashed toes?” Marshall asked with shock. “You’re not telling me I killed another one.”
“Well, sort of. When you bashed his toes, he jumped straight into the path of his partner’s bullet.”
Marshall gripped his baseball bat, staring open-mouthed. “I did it again! I hardly ever raise my voice. I’ve never gotten a parking ticket or been the least bit disorderly. How do I end up killing people?”
Marta recalled Gillis Kerg’s theory that Marshall was not the good-natured klutz he appeared to be, and that Marta should watch her back. Gillis claimed Marshall could be the most skilled assassin, most gifted actor they’d ever encountered.
“Technically, you didn’t kill this one,” Marta said.
“At the very least, I aided and abetted. I wouldn’t have smashed his toes if I’d known it would kill him.”
“Well, I’m glad you did. If you hadn’t, we’d probably both be dead now. Help me get him over the side.”
“Marta, we can’t do that. We have to take him in. Tell the police what—”
“No, Marshall. Did you see his face?”
He’d been avoiding that bit of unpleasantness. Marshall studied Toe Guy’s familiar visage. “That’s . . . that’s . . . Whatshisname. From the Historical Research Initiative security staff.”
“Yep. You realize what this means? Someone sent him here to kill us.”
“Why would . . . Whatshisname want to kill us?”
“I don’t know. But it’s somehow connected to the time travel project. We can’t go to Grenadian authorities. The only person we can notify is Wishcamper, and he isn’t here. So, help me shove Whatshisname over the side.”
“Should we say something?” Marshall asked as they watched Whatshisname gurgle, then slip below the surface.
Marta waved. “Bon voyage. Don’t be a stranger.”
“What about the other one?” Marshall asked.
“Get binoculars. Do a 360-degree sweep while I swab the cockpit.”
“Shouldn’t you put on clothes first?”
“No,” Marta said. “I can wash blood off me. It’s harder to get out of clothing or”—she pointed to his feet— “boat shoes. So, watch your step.”
While Marshall conducted a futile search for survivors, Marta opened the Bavaria’s stern transom, filled a five-gallon bucket with salt water and washed blood into the sea.
“We’ll give it a good scrubbing with bleach at the dock,” she said.
She pulled the intruders’ dinghy to Dontchaknow’s stern. “Get me a big knife from the galley.”
Marshall complied. As she prepared to puncture the dinghy, he asked, “Shouldn’t we . . . um . . . leave it here? Just in case that other guy—”
“He’s on his own. I’ll start the engine. You radio Cecil and have him tell the congressional folks we’re running late.”
An hour later, Marshall tucked Dontchaknow behind Somewhere Over China on a long finger dock in the green water of Prickly Bay. Cecil greeted them with a wave, taking the stern line from Marta as she stepped onto a wooden walkway. Once the lines were secured, Marshall joined them.
“Sorry we’re late,” Marta said.
“Think nothin’ of it,” Cecil said. “It’s Senator Mumford and Libby. We had a nice visit, dontchaknow. I sent ’em to The Nutmeg where they’d be more comfortable. Told ’em I was sure you’d be along soon.”
“Any clue as to why they’re here?” Marshall asked.
“They said it’s a social call.”
“Uh-oh,” Marta said.
