Lorraine stayed on the open deck of the boat and watched the lights of El Mirador gradually disappear. She stood there for some time, trying to make sense of what had happened in the past hour. It seemed that only minutes ago she’d been enjoying a wonderful meal with her father, becoming acquainted with the man she’d believed forever lost to her. Her face reddened as she recalled the way she’d complimented his “housekeeper.”
This business with the Kukulcan Star was a complete shock—and made her feel even more idiotic. It was entirely clear now that Jason Applebee—if that was his real name—had used her to corroborate his story. He’d tricked her into lying on his behalf, knowing that the authorities were looking for a man traveling alone. No wonder he’d wanted her to tell the police they were married. She groaned at her own stupidity. She’d believed in his innocence right to the bitter end—when she’d learned that the artifact had been found in her luggage. That certainly didn’t say much for her ability to judge character. As for his appearance, he could easily have cut and dyed his hair. And as for placing the artifact inside her suitcase, he could have done that when she’d climbed on the bus and he’d loaded their bags onto the roof.
How convenient for Jason that he’d come across such a naive trusting American. If there was anything she should’ve learned from the past month, it was not to trust appearances. Now, because of him and her own naiveté, she was on a boat with this…this overgrown whatever he was. Jack Keller looked like an unkempt surfer who’d spent too much time in the sun. Apparently he lived on his boat. His hair was bleached blond, his body tanned to a bronze hue. Even if she’d just reminded herself that there was no use in relying on appearances, she couldn’t help it with this guy. He seemed so shiftless and irresponsible. Her father must’ve been desperate to have brought her to such a misfit.
They’d been at sea for more than an hour before either spoke.
“Find me something to eat, would you?” Jack called from the flybridge.
His tone of voice rankled—he sounded as if he expected her to be at his beck and call. She thought about setting him straight but stifled her irritation. He was, after all, doing her and her father a favor.
“Where would you like me to look?” she called back.
“Try the galley,” he said, as though she should have figured that out for herself.
The boat pitched and heaved with the swells as Lorraine made her way belowdecks, which was no easy task because the steps were incredibly steep. Once below, she was in the saddest, smallest excuse for a kitchen she could ever have imagined. She took a moment to glance around and found a toilet and shower, crammed into an impossibly tiny space. The only other room, if it could be considered that, was obviously where Jack slept. There was a narrow bunk, littered with clothes. Books lined the walls and he’d hung several firearms there, next to the light. Never having been around anyone who owned a gun, Lorraine had no idea what kind or caliber these were, but they didn’t resemble any she’d seen in the movies.
Returning to the galley, she discovered a wrinkled orange in the tiny refrigerator, along with four or five beers. She pushed those aside—with a fleeting recollection of Katharine Hepburn in The African Queen methodically dumping out Humphrey Bogart’s booze. Further investigation netted her a dried-out tortilla and an open can of sardines, the smell of which disgusted her.
With no other choice, she peeled the orange. By the time she’d finished that small task, her stomach was queasy.
“I…seem to be getting seasick,” she said when she brought him the orange. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“When you vomit be sure you do it with your head over the side. If you get sick on this boat, you clean it up.”
“Thank you for that charming advice,” she muttered as she walked carefully back to the main deck. The ocean wasn’t calm anymore, the way it’d been when they set out, and it tossed the boat viciously. Scotch on Water—ridiculous name for a boat—surged up and down with the waves, and with every bounce her stomach heaved. Determined not to throw up, Lorraine sat in the only chair on the deck, pressing her arms against her stomach. That didn’t seem to be helping. She was shaking with chills and sweating, both at the same time.
It wasn’t long before she vaulted out of the chair and dashed to the side of the boat. What little she’d eaten at her father’s before the police arrived was soon gone. Still retching, she closed her eyes. Finally it seemed to be over. She straightened and moaned loudly, no longer caring if Jack heard her or not. She was too sick to maintain any pretenses.
“Feel better?” he asked.
“No. Worse.” She swore the man sounded amused. She would ignore him, she decided, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Go ahead and lie down, but I don’t suggest you do it belowdecks.”
She had no intention of sleeping in that horrible bed and there didn’t seem to be anyplace else. If she hadn’t felt so deathly ill, she might have pointed that out.
Jack disappeared and came back a couple of minutes later with a blanket and pillow. He threw them to her in the chair.
“Thank you,” she managed to say, rolling her head from side to side, more miserable than she could ever remember being.
He hunkered down beside her, but in Lorraine’s opinion didn’t look too sympathetic.
“How long will it take to reach the States?” she asked in a weak voice.
He didn’t answer immediately. “Longer than either of us is going to like,” he finally said.
Lorraine already knew he was right.