She had.
He pulled the scabbard from under the mattress, triumph circling in his belly.
“Hail the Camelot.”
Galen jerked around at the male voice coming from the dock.
“Permission to come aboard . . .”
Galen didn’t understand. But he knew danger when he heard it. Would the ones who came for him call out to announce their presence? He pulled the sling over his head and slid his arm out, gripping the eight-inch knife. With his left hand he tore the strap from around his ribs.
Footsteps thunked on the deck above. Choices. Go up to meet the danger or wait in ambush? But the quarters were tight here. No room to for his sword to swing, biting flesh and hacking bone. He slid the blade from the scabbard with a hiss. He’d have to fight left-handed. More reason to fight in the open. He wasn’t as precise with his left hand. He gripped the knife with his right hand. It had no strength, but if it got to close quarters, he might do some damage.
There was a knock at the hatch up to the deck.
A knock?
That changed things. He stood under the hatchway, deciding.
“Anybody home? I saw your lights last night.”
“Gd mergan,” Galen called up. But he didn’t put his weapons down.
“Oh, you must be German. . . . Sorry. I don’t speak the language.”
Galen didn’t understand the man, but the voice was not threatening. He stepped up onto the ladder, shifted his sword to his bad hand along with the knife, and unlatched the hatch. He pushed it up. One set of legs was visible on the forward edge of the square trough through which you entered the cabin. He hadn’t heard more than one set of footsteps. He shifted the sword back to his good hand, letting it drop to his side where it was less conspicuous, and put down his knife. Hacking up innocent visitors would only draw attention.
Galen stepped up the ladder cautiously into the square trough in a brisk wind. A doughy man with sparse, pale hair was outlined against a blue sky edged with fast-moving dark clouds. It would rain soon. The man stepped back in surprise as Galen emerged. His pale eyes widened. Galen watched as they roved over Galen’s hair and beard, settled for a moment on his bandaged shoulder, darted to the other bandage on his thigh, registered the fact that he was naked.
The man started to turn his head away, then saw the sword. He raised his hands, palms out. “Wow, didn’t mean to . . . to interrupt anything here.” He backed across the small deck.
Galen smiled and shrugged, all the while examining the pudgy man for signs of deceit. “Ic ne understand Englisc.” Not their kind of Englisc anyway. He stepped toward the ladder up to the main deck. He did not want to be at a disadvantage, even with this pudgy man.
The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed under his fleshy neck as he watched Galen climb the ladder. “Your neighbors . . . well, one of your neighbors, just wanted to know who was here. This boat . . . well, no one’s ever taken it out. And no one has ever stayed aboard, either.”
Galen raised his brows politely at this torrent of anxious words. Sweat had broken out on the man’s forehead. Now that they were on the same level, Galen towered over him.
“Well . . . well, if there’s anything you need, just let me know. I’m almost always at the Quik Stop up on the highway.”
Galen watched the man back awkwardly over the line railing. He raised his right hand as far as he could in what he hoped the man would interpret as a friendly salute, ignoring the stabs of pain that shot through his shoulder. The man turned and walked down the dock, glancing back over his shoulder often. Galen registered another figure, tall and angular, browned by the sun, coiling rope down at the far end of the dock near one of the boats lighted last night when Galen was up on deck. As the pudgy one hurried to the gate, the brown man glanced up, then stared down at Galen before calmly going back to his work. He was a man who would not back down from trouble. Galen had known such men all his life and he recognized one of them instantly now. Galen watched the pudgy man until he got into a cart that was not cared for as well as Lucy’s and drove away up the dirt road. Galen retreated below decks. He got the hatch secured and collapsed onto one of the soft benches across from the table, breathing raggedly. Curse his weakness! If that small excuse for a man had been the lean and brown one down at the other end of the dock—or even if he had meant harm and had a weapon—
Galen would have been in dire straits. He’d better get his strength back fast, before Lucy’s lover and his friends came calling. . . .
Lucy pulled into the parking lot in the strip mall on the edge of Novato, now dressed, courtesy of the bathrooms at the Safeway, in jeans and layered T-shirts, a pink elbow-length-sleeved one with lace at the neckline over a white long-sleeved one, a windbreaker, and tennies. She didn’t smell like blood at all. Things were looking up. The clerk two registers over at the Safeway had heard Lucy asking about pepper spray and recommended a store called Surveillance Unlimited, right on her way to the freeway. This wouldn’t take but a minute, just to check and see if they had it. The store lurked in the corner. She swallowed. The guys who hung out in places like this were mostly semi-loons. But then that included Jake, and she liked Jake just fine. She screwed up her courage and got out of the car.
The store had the kind of windows where you can see out but not see in, which made it look a lot like Darth Vader. She pushed open the door. A buzzer sounded. The place was filled with fancy binoculars and telescopes, cameras with long lenses, tape recorders, and electronic equipment she didn’t recognize. A skinny guy behind the counter wore a T-shirt that advertised some long-completed 10 K run. He looked surprised to see her. Probably didn’t get many women in here who didn’t wear fatigues or camo cargo pants and Doc Martens.
“Uh . . . can I help you?”
“I’m looking for pepper spray.” God, she hated that her voice sounded small.
The guy, who was only marginally creepy looking, gave her a big grin. “Sure.” He rummaged around in a drawer behind the counter. “You know this is serious stuff.”
“Good. I’ll feel safer just knowing I have it.”
He drew out several tiny spray cans. “I recommend the ‘Halt’ brand myself.”
“That’ll be fine.”
“Pepper spray is no substitute for a weapon, of course.”
This guy sounded like Galen. But he wouldn’t be able to even hold up the sword Galen swung to such deadly effect on the battlefield. “I have a gun.”
The guy gave her a patronizing smile. “Twenty-two pistol?”
“Glock nine millimeter.” She enjoyed the look on his face, but it only lasted a second.
“So, why do you need pepper spray?”
“I . . . I don’t feel comfortable using a gun when pepper spray would do the job.”
“Well . . . I can see how you wouldn’t feel comfortable with a Glock.” He didn’t think she could handle a gun like that. That made her mad. But there was nothing she could say. She’d already told him she wasn’t comfortable with it. “You ought to put in some time at a range.”
“I just might do that.” Like hell she would.
“You live around here? I could take you over to Home on the Range for a little practice.”
Uh-oh. A come-on. “How much is the spray?”
“Thirty-five. Sorry. The good stuff is hard to get these days.”
“No problem.” She laid two twenties on the counter and wandered away to the bookshelves in the back to avoid further conversation. Like he was going to be deterred.
“Take a look around,” he called. “We got all the standards. The Anarchist Cookbook, Revenge Unlimited. Mostly stuff about how to use the system against itself.”
Lucy scanned the shelves. “Isn’t that Cookbook one about how to make bombs?”
“No big deal. Everybody knows how to do it these days.”
That was a comforting thought. Wait. Lucy spied a big orange book about three inches thick, right next to a book about emergency war surgery. Medical Surgical Nur
sing. Now this might be useful. She pulled it down. It was some kind of textbook. She flipped to the index. W. Wounds. Dressings, debriding infection, stitches, removal of—She flipped to page 360 and scanned. Yup. Just what she needed. She turned back to the counter. “Can I get this, too?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Sure. That’s sixty bucks.”
“Sounds about right.”
He rang it up. She waved away a bag, gave him a salute, and ducked out to the Chevy.
Chapter 9
The sky behind her in the west had grown dark and threatening. They were in for some rain. This whole thing had taken longer than Lucy thought. Galen had been alone for hours. What if he overdosed on Vicodin or something? She pushed her speed up to seventy all the way to the turnoff from Highway 37. Past the Quik Stop, she took the dirt road at more like twenty but still faster than was probably safe and parked in the gravel lot. She gathered an armload of bags and let herself in through the gate. Down at the other end of the dock from the Camelot, a very suntanned, older, sailor-looking guy worked on his boat. He looked up but didn’t greet her. Just as well. She and Galen weren’t supposed to fraternize. A kid maybe sixteen came up on deck from a boat about halfway down, followed by a huge black wolf-looking dog. Who kept a dog that big on a boat? She hurried past as they played tug with a piece of old rope.
At slip eighteen she stepped aboard and climbed down into the cockpit. The hatch to below decks wasn’t locked. Had she forgotten to lock it? She groped for the ladder juggling her bags. No sound of the television. At least Galen had learned to use the remote. Unless he just threw the television against the wall when he got annoyed with it.
At the bottom of the ladder one very naked Viking brandished the very naked blade of Jake’s sword in one hand and a carving knife in the other. She gasped and froze. Where was her pepper spray? Somewhere in the bags . . . But his glower turned to obvious relief.
“You return,” he said in Latin, laying the knife on the table.
She breathed again. For a minute there . . . “Well, yeah,” she muttered, trying to still her thumping heart while she stacked her bags on the table. Maybe the mattress wasn’t an entirely original hiding place for the sword. Now it looked glued to his hand. Not a chance she’d be able to pry it away. She glanced at the sling, its buckle torn from the strap, lying on the floor. “Why are you not in bed?” she managed in Latin.
“A man came here.” Galen sat on the sofa.
She turned on him. Oh, this was bad. “What man?”
“A small, soft man.”
Well, that let out the sailor she’d seen working on his boat and even the kid. And you couldn’t say either Brad or Casey was small or soft. “Did . . . did he attack you?”
“No. I think he wanted to be a friend.”
“Did you attack him?” She nodded to the sword, imagining fountains of blood, a body hacked to pieces and thrown overboard.
Galen looked affronted. “I did not attack him.”
“Well, what . . . what came to pass?” Boy, this Latin thing was sure getting annoying.
Galen lifted his chin. “He grew frightened and left.”
That sword would frighten anyone off. As a matter of fact, Galen, seen through a stranger’s eyes, was pretty fearsome with his naked, muscled frame, his wild hair, his barbarian braids, and his beard. Who could it have been?
“He had a cart also, but with more dirt than yours.”
A car. Someone not from the marina then . . . It was the nosey man from the convenience store Jake had warned her about, dollars to doughnuts. Galen would cause talk, and she didn’t want the man spreading stories of wounded Vikings from here to next Sunday.
“Okay, okay.” She had to do something about this. First things first. Get the rest of the bags in from the car, give Galen something to eat. She needed to think anyway. “I will return.”
She carried in two more armloads of supplies while she thought. The man at the convenience store would tell everyone who came in and they’d tell someone, who’d tell someone, and pretty soon . . . Well she didn’t want to think what would happen if the police heard about Galen. Brad and Casey had to have the word out. Okay. Okay. Just stay calm. This was bound to happen sooner or later. First see the man from the convenience store. Make up some story to keep him from gossiping. And what would that be?
Galen watched her rummage through the bags. She pulled out the three-pack of boxer shorts, one in black-watch plaid, one plain navy blue, and one hunter green. She tossed him the plaid. They hit him in the belly and slid to the floor, since he was still hanging on to that sword for dear life. “For you. Put down your sword.” She said it in English without thinking and was amazed to see that he understood. He laid his sword down and painstakingly reached for the boxers. Fierce as he looked with a sword in his hand, he was still injured. It had been less than forty-eight hours since he’d had surgery on his shoulder. He should be flat on his back. That he was not spoke to the fact that he came from an age where weakness was rewarded with death.
He turned the boxer shorts around. His eyes widened as he found the elastic waistband. He examined the fabric. “Es ful gd. Hwer . . . ?” Then he found the slit for relieving oneself. One corner of his mouth turned up. The smile softened his face. He looked up at her under one arched brow.
She blushed. “Put them on.” She spoke in English because she couldn’t recall the Latin for “dress yourself.”
He got the idea. He laid his sword reverently on the sofa. He put his bad leg into the boxers and marveled that the elastic stretched to accommodate his other foot. “Hwaet es this?”
“Elastic,” she said.
“Elastic.” He pulled the boxers up to his knees and then stood, a little shaky, and pulled them over his hips. The elastic snapped against his ribbed belly.
Lucy sighed. No more X-rated scenery. That should be a relief. She would never have gotten used to it. Was it a relief? She rummaged in another bag and pulled out a pair of sweatpants. “If you are cold.” She handed them to him.
Again he examined the cloth. He pulled it and marveled at the stretch. He looked for the elastic at the waist and pulled it. “Elastic.” He put the emphasis on the first syllable.
She chuckled. “Yeah.”
“Ne cyld.” He laid them aside.
Hmmm. That was pretty clearly “not cold.” The words they understood together were mostly one syllable—the Old English roots of the modern language. The basics lived on. She’d heard the f word was Old English, and the c word for female genitalia, too. Bet you won’t find those in any modern Old English dictionary.
He watched her put groceries away. She popped open some herring and sour cream and a package of crackers. “Lunch,” she announced, and handed him a plateful and a fork. It had seemed a very Viking kind of food when she’d bought it.
“Herring,” he said. “Es gd.” His attention turned totally to his food, and he stabbed it as though it were still swimming.
Enough delay. There was no use putting off her trip to the Quik Stop any longer, even though she had no idea what she would say. Every moment she wasted was time the guy could be telling people about the crazy naked guy with the sword down on the boat in slip eighteen who looked like a Viking. She switched to Latin. “I go. I will be back. With greatest haste . . .”
Galen barely glanced up from his food as she left. It was less than a mile to the convenience store, but she took the car. She didn’t want to be away longer than she had to be. Look what trouble Galen had gotten into already. The sky was really dark now and the wind had kicked up. They were in for some Northern California March weather.
She had no idea what she would say to the Quik Stop guy. If he was gossip central, he’d for sure tell the other people at the marina. Only two boats had been lighted last night, but that didn’t mean only two were occupied. Jake said anyone who stayed on a boat in the winter was hard-core. The lean, brown sailor looked like just the kind who would know someone like Casey. She felt a shudder
start down her spine and stifled it. She was getting as bad as Jake.
She got out of the car in the little asphalt parking lot outside the Quik Stop. Cars whizzed by on Highway 37, mostly trucks going over to Vallejo and Richmond and locals in their pickup trucks. The area was really rural and agricultural until you got up into the wine country, and that was just a more touristy kind of agriculture. The Quik Stop probably made its money off wine tourists in high season.
She pushed into the store, still not knowing what she’d say to the guy. She couldn’t stop the rumor mill. Hmmmm. But maybe she could use it. What would keep hard-core types from ever wanting to bother her and Galen? If she said he was a soldier, they’d want to trade war stories. If she . . .
Wait. Oh yeah. She knew what would keep hard-core types a hundred miles away.
The little man behind the crowded counter could be described as small and soft. The radio blared with pop music. He gave her a big grin. She glanced around. There were mail slots behind the counter. This was where their passports would show up tomorrow. She’d better buy something to give her an excuse to talk. Unsurprisingly, the store came equipped with a deli counter to sell unconscionably expensive picnic supplies to tourists. The goods looked a little thin and not quite fresh this time of year.
“Hi there,” she said. “Can I get a pint of the olives and some goat cheese?”
“Sure,” he said, rising. “You on your way up to the wine country?”
Here we go. “Nope. I’m staying down at the marina.”
His eyes lighted up. “With the German guy?”
She let her eyes go soft and gave the sappiest smile she could muster. “Yeah.” Don’t even tell him Galen’s a Dane. She cleared her throat. “He’s my husband.” An image of what a wedding night might be like with Galen started winding itself down her spine. She couldn’t help the blush that rose to her cheeks. Oh, well. That works.
“Newlywed maybe?”
She nodded. He cut off a slab of goat cheese. “We were in Acapulco on our honeymoon.” How did he get hurt? Shark attack? Too dramatic. “We were powerboating. He went overboard and got sliced up in the propeller pretty bad.” Was that even believable? “The first day we got there.”
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