Ded Reckoning

by William F Lee

  Hunter surveys the scene. The carnage is complete.

  He leans over, "God damn, Devorah. Gotta hurry, the timer is set. Devorah! Devorah! I'm sorry." He sucks in a gulp of air. "Gotta go."

  He pauses, lays Marnee's head on the floor and puts his weapon back in his waistband. Mutters, "Mission friggin' accomplished."

  EPILOGUE

  "Twenty years from now you will be more

  disappointed by the things

  that you didn't do than by the things you did do.

  So throw off the bowlines.

  Sail away from the safe harbor.

  Catch the trade winds in your sails.

  Explore. Dream. Discover."

  Mark Twain

  Hunter stands on the bridge with his crew chief and the two younger crewmen as they turn north and head for the Strait of Messina. The explosion itself has consumed the crew's conversation. Hunter reluctantly joins the chatter and excitement, but feels he must.

  Now, several hours later, the area is still aglow with some flames defying extinguishing. As a rule however, the glow is from spot lights and the dazzling display of emergency lights. The pandemonium from the activities can be heard through the clear night air to the sea.

  Hunter has showered, gotten rid of his clothes and weapon, everything that could tie him to the scene should they get stopped while at sea or a port along the way. He has packed and addressed the envelope with the hard evidence of Pisces' long history of treachery. It is ready to be mailed from the first port of call. He reported the mission accomplished, the deaths involved, and the condition of the villa. Suggested the bodies won't be found for hours, and when they are, it will probably take days before it is discovered that the explosion and fire were not the cause. As he sits in the lounge, he goes over the conversation in his mind. Joe also informed him that unless he chose to do so, there was no need to visit Capri, saying, "They're all leaving. Have the remains. Bradovich has everything under control. Damn good man, may try to recruit him."

  Hunter had asked, "What about the children?" He was always taught by his father, Corker Kerrigan, that kids were goats, children are children but somewhere along the line he had forgotten the lesson, until lately. "And what about the family? And of course, Maria?"

  Joe laughed at his question and tried to speak, then gagged a bit on his own chuckling. Finally he said, "Maria. Yeah. Maria. Well, in Brad's words, and I quote, he started laughing again, then, "His words were ... 'Maria is in love with wine and Polish sausage. Her wine. My sausage.' As he said that I heard Maria scold him in the background. Anyway, they're all gone. On the way back home. Kids are okay or as good as can be expected. Grandparents and the father are taking it extremely hard. And you're not well liked."

  I replied, "Sausage, huh? Not well liked. Well, so be it. It is what it is. What about MacBeer?"

  "He committed suicide. Was found in his new home in The Bahamas. Shot himself. Anyway, I did get the photocopies you sent. Just need the original stuff. And I'm going to call the President."

  "The package will be on the way tomorrow. We'll stop for fuel. To Ruth again. That's it. I'm outta here. Semper Fi ... and tell the President I said hello." And the call was over.

  Hunter leans back in the lounge chair, picks up the intercom phone, calls, "Anthony."

  "Yessa, sir."

  "Let's run her at eleven knots, cruising speed, and head for our first fuel stop. Then head for Genoa, then Nice. We'll not be going to Capri. Keep the coast in sight."

  "Yessa, sir."

  "I'm going to relax." He puts down the intercom.

  The Shanahan family pulls away from their mum's cottage. The moving van will follow them to Cork where the two lads hope to find work, perhaps in construction or the exploration field. A risk they are most willing to take, which is less than all the others of their lifetime. Their mum sits in the front seat of her husband's old 1962 Wolseley. It has seen many a better day as evidenced by his rusting grey painted body, fender mounted rear-view mirrors long gone as is the hood ornament. Two of four of the small, circular chrome hubcaps are missing as well. Danny is driving. Sean and Mary Kate, married by a sleepy priest, are in the back seat. Their honeymoon consisting of a few nights in Sean's bedroom where they tried hard to muffle Mary Kate's squeals and shouts, and his grunts.

  They face a long journey, nearly the length of Ireland, but will live in peace, yet miss their eldest brother, Paddy, and their Pa. A stiff price, perhaps unnecessary, for independence.

  Once through the Strait of Messina, and basically in the open sea, Hunter, who has gone to the bridge, is comfortable that all is under control. His crew chief, Anthony, and the two crewmen can handle the yacht throughout the night. They will shadow the Italian coast north. With its range the Marnie, at its easy cruising speed, can continue through the night and into tomorrow before needing to refuel. Hunter says, "Anthony, I'm goin' below again. Gonna' have some coffee and relax. Give me a holler if you need something. I'll let you know before I hit the sack."

  "Yes sir, bossa. Everything is purring like a content pussy cat." He smiles. Then adds, "We will rotate the helm, but I will bunk here throughout the night. No sweata."

  "Want me to bring up some coffee for you three?"

  "No sir. Notta yet. We will have some later. Grazi."

  Hunter, as a last check, glances out at the boat's running lights, out to the calm sea, no white caps, then looks off to the northeast toward the coast line. Shrugs, then turns and leaves.

  After pouring himself a mug of coffee, he puts it aside. Claps his hands, rubs them together vigorously and reaches in the cabinet for his bottle of Blume Marillen Apricot Eau-De-Vie. Pours a relaxing amount into his snifter, mutters, "Good stuff. From Austria. Might have to try a Baltimore Bang, or a Slope, or a Stone Fruit Sosc tomorrow."

  Hunter wanders into the lounge, sits on the overstuffed, beige leather sofa, kicks his loafers off and rests his feet on the beautiful mahogany coffee table which rests on part of the throw carpet of which there are several throughout the yacht. Mostly for protection. All the decking is teakwood, except for the heads and some working spaces.

  He takes a sip, murmurs, "Damn, this is good." Exhales audibly as he relaxes. Neck and shoulders lose their tenseness. He twists his neck, hearing the creaks and cracks. Takes another sip, then rests his elbow on the sofa's arm.

  "And who the hell is Devorah?" says a cooing voice from behind Hunter.

  Hunter stiffens, sits straight up, yanking his feet from the coffee table, and battles to keep the snifter from spilling or falling. "Damn, Marnee, you scared the B-Jesus out of me." He turns to see this beautiful creature standing behind the sofa in a sheer robe, hands on hips, and a pretense of anger on her face.

  "Well?"

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "You cried out her name when you were holding me in the villa? Who is that woman? A secret love?"

  "Come around here and sit." Hunter stands, holding a helping hand out to Marnee. "You actually shouldn't be up yet. You need rest. Certainly through the night. Actually, days. A week."

  "I feel ... well, pretty good. Who did this?" pointing to the bandages and sling.

  "Me. I'm good. Not pretty good, but damn good. Turns out no major damage, and I've loaded you up with antibiotics. Looked worse than it was. Lost some blood and you'll need time and rest." He pauses, then, "Hey, you need some food. Sit, I'll rustle something up real quick."

  "My goodness, a Marine, a doctor, and a chef. How lucky."

  "Yeah, well. You were lucky. We were lucky, but it's all over now. We're home free and on our way to Genoa and Nice. Stop for fuel on the way a few times. If necessary, get a doctor."

  Marnee moves close to Hunter, puts one arm, the one that isn't in a sling, around his waist and pulls him close. Brushes his lips with hers, bites him on the ear lobe and whispers, "Who is Devorah, Mister?"

  Hunter moves back a step, orders, "Sit." She does. Her robe slides open as she crosses her legs. The fro
nt of the robe is also open. Hunter murmurs, "Oh, geez, Marnee, don't do this to me."

  "Who?"

  "Oh, damn. She was a Jewish girl in a dream I had. A nightmare. She was killed. Not a real woman. Just a dream. You are my real dream. I love you. Now then, let me get you some chow, and I'll sit down and tell you about this nightmare I had. Before this mission. It was an omen. If truth be told, it was. Helleva tale."

  "So, you dreamed of a Jewish girl? And now you have one. What are your plans? Your intentions?"

  Hunter sits down, next to Marnee, on the edge of the cushion. "I plan to ask her to marry me. To sail away with me. To catch the trade winds. To explore one another. To dream. To discover. To love ... and to make Limoncello and apricot brandy."

  She kisses him full on the lips, grimacing some as he holds her. She pulls back, pecks Hunter on the tip of the nose and whispers, "And babies."

  He sits gazing at Marnee, a tear forms and runs down his cheek. He mutters, "Yes, children." He sighs, "God, I thought I lost you."

  She gives him another peck on the nose, brushes the tear from his cheek with her little finger. Whispers, "Now the food. Then we'll figure out a way to get started. I can heal anytime, but I must have you all the time. All my life. We are going to live. Live."

  Hunter gives her a peck on the nose and leaps up and says, "Chow's comin' up," and turns to go into the galley.

  Her voice trails after him, words catching him as he enters the galley. "And we are going to keep this boat, and, keep the name. I love it." Marnee picks up his snifter and is startled by, "Put that down." Hunter stops and turns around, "I'll get you a Limoncello. Just one for now." He opens the refrigerator's door.

  Joe Zachary sits at his desk. Red phone in his hand. Listening intently.

  Every few minutes he says, "Yes, sir, Mister President." After a few more moments he says, "I don't know, Mister President. He says he's finished. Going to raise lemons and make Limoncello."

  A moment passes, then, "It's a liqueur. From lemons of course. It's a staple in Italy and Amalfi lemons, that's where he's going to live, are known as 'Sfusato Amalfitano' and are prized as one of the best varieties in the world. They have ...

  "No, Mister President. This is not going to be an agricultural lesson.

  "Yes, sir. With the Hebrew woman. Marnee Kaslar.

  "Yes, sir. She will be fine. Her grandparents own and operate a huge lemon orchard on the Amalfi coast. Marnee, her mother, and Hunter are going to run it.

  "No, sir. But he did say to tell you that if you're ever in Italy on business or on vacation, come visit.

  There is a prolonged pause before Joe speaks again. Then says, "Yes, sir, I'll tell him you asked, and that you might not visit but you might call on him again."

  A pause. Joe listens some more.

  "Well, sir. He did say never. He was unequivocally specific, I think ... but ... you never know. Never know. He is one patriotic son-of-a-gun."

  Joe hears the click ending the call. Stares at the phone. "Good? What the devil does that mean?" He leans back once again in his chair, lets his mind drift.

  He'll be back.

  No he won't.

  Maybe.

  I hope. That's for sure, that's for danged sure.