Chapter 23

I was up, showered, and operating the boat from the fly bridge when Abigail put in her appearance in the morning. It was well after ten, and she looked like a night's rest did her some good.

"Good morning," I said softly, so as not to scare her.

She looked a little tired, a little lost, and a lot insecure. "Hello " was all I got.

I showed her the breakfast that I'd prepared and laid out on the table behind the helm. She settled down and carefully ate fruit, cereal, scrambled eggs, and turkey bacon, two pieces of the toast, and orange juice. She followed it all up with a hot cup of Columbian coffee and a warm cinnamon bun.

There was no conversation as she ate. Abigail was not sure of me, the circumstances, or what was next for her, and I appreciated her uncertainty enough to let her think things through, ask whatever questions she wished to ask, and decide for herself what was next for Abigail.

When she was finished, she took the plates and cups to the roof top sink, washed them clean, and put them in the cupboard beneath the countertop. All that time she kept her thoughts to herself, giving no indication of her mood, medical condition, or emotional state. It was hard to remain mute, but I forced myself to give her as much space as she needed and not push.

When she returned to her seat at the right of the fly bridge helm, she said, "What time did you leave me?"

Of all things she might have said, I wasn't expecting that. "I woke about eight and tried to lay quietly so as to not disturb you, but I got up about half past. It takes some time to get the diesel motors warmed up and everything on line to get underway. I used the time to make you some breakfast, because I was pretty sure you'd be famished this morning."

That comment caused her to almost smile. Then her face changed, and I suspected her stomach was acting up. She excused herself, and I didn't see her for about an hour, by which time she was showered, dressed, and seemed just a bit restless.

"Are you up to talking?" I asked, carefully. Abigail didn't respond, so I let it go.

At such a delicate time, I was trying to tip toe into the facts and get a handle on what to do with or about Abigail Vincent. Thinking about it, Vincent wasn't a Muslim surname, so I guessed it was her maiden name, which made sense since she was divorcing. It crossed my mind that she wasn't going to have to worry about a divorce action, because her husband wasn't going to be able to attend the hearing when I got through with him. It also crossed my mind that I needed to get Roy and his guys to handle this for me, staying far away and out of the line of fire, lest blame come to rest on me.

It gave me some pleasure to think about Mister Abigail having an end of life event at the hands of Roy and his team, but only after giving up the names and locations of his two co-conspirators. The fact was that they were three walking around dead guys, and the sooner the better, as far as I was concerned.

"I would like to ... talk. I would like to talk," she said almost as softly as me.

"Then tell me about Abigail," I said, settling in for a story.

She looked at me like I was simple minded, then almost laughed, but caught herself before it came to that. "My parents are from Greenland. I was born in New York, but only because my father came down with appendicitis while my parents were on a cruise. While my father was hospitalized after the surgery, my mother went into early labor, and I am American by birth.

"The customs and immigration people were extremely helpful, because the government wanted my father to use his patents to help design new guidance systems for near-space missiles. Since he was sought after by the defense people, my parents' citizenship came through in days, not years.

"We moved to South Georgia, once my father got over his surgery, and he worked for one of the giant companies that builds things for the military. My mother was an accountant, got her US license in Georgia, and opened a home accounting business. The government provided lots of customers to help keep my father happy and productive.

"He was very good at his job until he was killed in a very controversial industrial accident during a test firing. Nobody believes it was an accident, but nobody particularly wants to investigate it energetically either, so my mother received an enormous settlement and continued to file tax returns for customers sent to her by the government."

As Abigail talked, I studied her. She was about five-foot four, almost too slim but not quite skinny. Her hair was a buck skin brown and surprisingly full and thick. Her face was marred by the abuse, so it was tough to get a handle on her looks, but the rest of her was pretty much just right.

"One day, my husband came to our home to get his taxes done, and literally swept me off my feet. We were married long before I realized that he did it just to spite his father. He never acted quite right, but I was determined to be good at the wife thing, and treat him with respect and devotion.

"That didn't really work. He wanted me to act like streetwalker, and the more I tried not to, the madder it made him. Something drove him to want to expose me to his peers and make them jealous. Why would a husband want to offer his wife like that? I don't know, and I don't know that I will ever know " She huffed about that for a while, the continued.

"He liked to he well, Musawri liked to hear me make pain noises when we ... when ... well you know ... in the bedroom. I learned to be a little bit of an actress and give him what he wanted to avoid his getting rough and making me make those sounds for real. Some of his friends would look at me, and I could see, or thought I could see, the knowledge in their eyes. Musawri was bragging. I just knew it. He loved to brag and what better to brag about to his sexist, bigoted friends, than a wife he could make scream?

"When he filed for divorce, I thought it was all behind us. I imagined he gave his father what he wanted, and he would forget all about me. When the lawyers tried to settle, he went ballistic, calling me every dirty name you've ever heard and making vile threats against me. His lawyer tried to get him under control but failed miserably.

"The next day he walked in and hit me, then handed me over to those evil bastards."

Abigail drifted off into a world of her own, and I let her have some peace.

The boat was a joy to operate. The day turned out to be rainy, but that kept the traffic off the water and made the trip easier. I needed fuel and picked a well-traveled marina to pull into to avoid being caught alone if those low-life morons were following us. I would have been very happy if they had shown up, because my Glock and I were ready.

We were so ready to rumble.

It wasn't to be. The marina filled our fuel tanks, pumped out the holding tanks, and treated everything with the right and proper chemicals. Abigail wasn't up to going out in public, and I bought and brought lunch to her, and we ate while I drove but only after we were well out of sight of the marina.

By late afternoon I had all the necessary information to call Roy and set things in motion. He was happy to be of service, even if he had never heard of me, Kevin, Brian, David, John, or Carl. He had heard of the presidents that I mentioned by name and quantity, though, and that helped tremendously.

We set a price and he gave me payment information, which I promptly handled. Roy called back later and confirmed that half payment was in his account, and that the job would commence immediately.

After dark, we dropped anchor out in the widest part of the river, and Abigail was more talkative. We were enjoying the night breeze from the lounges, and Abigail simply began to speak. "Our wedding was a modest affair. Dad was dead, mother was alone, and I was hurrying into a questionable marriage, so we didn't go whole hog on anything.

"Musawri couldn't have cared less as long as his friends were invited, and there would be plenty of alcohol. My mother and I got it all together, and it went fine. Because I was not a Muslim, we were married by a judge and had the reception in a rented hall. It went on into the night, and we didn't get to slip away to our honeymoon room until very late. "I was no virgin, and Musawri and I had been intimate since the first, so there was no awkwardness or uncertainty, but he was certainly anxious to get me naked and on my back. We had sex for hours, and I was afraid I wouldn't be able to walk in the morning, but anyway, walking wasn't on Musawri's agenda. Eventually it was just too painful to continue, and when I cried out, he got so excited that he was finished anyway."