Only coercion, and a beautiful government agent, could force Harry Thursday out of retirement. This time to find the mythical Mask worn by the Minotaur over three thousand years ago. The history of the mask resurfaces during the time of Count Bruno...
The sun brightly lit the shoreline as it had when Theseus set sail as a slave-prince bound for Crete. He too had planned a visit to that island and hoped Sara would finish her meeting with Toynbee and come to the island for a while.
The boat's horn bellowed for permission to continue out into the open seas. As the ferry sailed the blue-green water, he leaned over the edge of the boat and watched a discarded paper bag float past. It bounced on top of the white foamy waves and was lost in the swirling wake of the massive blades that propelled the vessel. He stared after it and waited for it to resurface, but it did not. Instead, he saw the same recurring vision of his beloved wife struggling with her assailant aboard a large fishing boat, fighting to save herself, to beat off her killer, screaming as her fragile voice blew away in the storm; screaming as her exhausted body fell into the violent and stormy waters off the coast of South America.
He struggled always with that image. Which idea was easier to digest; that she had fallen overboard in a storm by accident, or that she had been pushed in? Either way, the thought of her struggling in the rough waters watching her world sail away tore at his mind on the molecular level. He could have saved her, if he had been diligent enough, if he was there on deck instead of sleeping off his drunk; and he tried not to think of her last terrifying moments on Earth. Nancy, he always called her name when he thought of her as if hearing its sound made up for the fact her image was fading in his memory. What made him think of those terrible moments? Why is it we always remember the moment of death suffered by our loved ones? Is it consolation when he prays to have traded places with her? Is it guilt?
He was getting wet from the ocean spray on deck and he went inside to the main cabin where the passengers waited in relative comfort. Benches bolted down lined the cabin walls and people sat on them. Families on vacation, young travelers, and business folk stood or sat waiting for the waves to subside, for their stomachs to settle.
He stood at the door into the cabin and looked around. What was he looking for, who cared, who followed? Still, he felt trapped even with so many people around. If someone followed him, he would have to wait, having little recourse to do anything else, for the trip to end.
Who's chasing them? Was it the Hyperboreans? Was it Romanov? Or was his own government run by a group of Romanovs?
A little girl and boy ran past where he sat and dropped a wax bag of peanuts at his feet. The girl stopped running and cried. The boy picked them up and their mother came over tapping the nuts out of his hand. "Leave them there," she must have said, "They're filthy."
It would be good to see David and Chris, now. That would give them time to think. A lone woman sat next to him; dark hair covered in a plastic scarf. On her lap she carried a large reed basket, the kind one takes to the beach. He looked at her briefly and smiled in case she were to look back, but she didn't. She pulled a tiny bible out of the bag and opened it. From somewhere within that oversized bag she produced a small band of tiny glass beads, dark like the color of olives strung on a leather band, and she rolled them one at a time in her fingers, her lips moving as she did. The boat rocked back and forth ever so slightly. Her book was leather bound and had gilded edges, and out of it were at least six ribbons to mark her places in it.
A creaking door drew his attention, and an usher walked by slowly, asking for tickets. Harry felt his pockets for his but realized they were in the car. He went back outside to get them. He would need his passport too, he guessed.
He sat in the driver's seat, and put his head back and looked skyward. Seagulls careened overhead and dove towards the upper deck where people were eating. He watched them hovering, floating in mid-air with their wings twisting, jockeying to stay positioned above the food, fighting with the wind and with one another. Then the Ferry heaved up and slid over a large wave throwing a thin spray over the cars. A conductor stood over him and asked for the ticket. He had forgotten to look for it and reached into the glove box - glad he didn't take the pistol - and gave it to the man. The conductor stamped it gave the ticket back and smiled, and went to the next occupied car.
Tired, he thought smoking might keep him awake. He found a pack of cigarettes and pounded them against his wrist, packing the tobacco tighter for a better draw - a habit he learned from an old unrequited lover who used sex like Pavlov used food. She lived on her father's huge estate in a small house she called The Pines.
There were still several hours to go before the first port of call, and he leaned back and looked up at the birds and the clouds covering the sky. A young couple walked past his car close together, arms around each other. Her thin skirt fluttered in the breeze, and the young man's hand brushed down her side and held her close by her waist. She giggled and he buried his face in her shoulder.
A seagull floated close by with a French fry in its beak and another swooped in trying to wrestle it away. They squawked and floated up and away. He followed them and saw children on the top deck holding food in their hands for the gulls to take. Standing nearby was a man in dark clothes, or so he thought. But his eyes were heavy, and he closed them to moisten them, and when he opened them the man was gone.
He was tired. He slept.
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