hit her head so hard it sent her reeling, bleeding…”
“This was not on my boat,” Zacharias said. “No woman got killed on my boat.”
Marco eyed him from the foot of the gangplank. The captain stood at the top, barring the way.
“Then she is dead,” Marco said quietly.
Zacharias’s expression turned to shock. “She is not dead,” he said, deciding quickly he had better tell what happened. “Only almost. I think not much longer and she will be. She drowned,” he added, to further clarify the position. “My crew found her, got her out of the water. She must have fallen off some tourist boat, smashed her head open. It was not good,” he added with a deep sigh because he saw no way out of this with the authorities.
“Then if she’s not on your boat, where is she?”
“On another boat. Big. Expensive. They came to pick her up.”
“The name of the boat?” Marco demanded, impatiently.
Zacharias shrugged. He had not taken notice, in fact he did not remember even seeing a name, he’d been too involved with getting rid of the girl.
Marco knew he had to get to the girl first if there was any chance at all of her being able to speak. If she was even, please God, still alive. He was witness to what was probably going to turn into murder, not simply a violent attack. Somebody had to protect this young woman’s rights. Somebody had to help her and it looked like he was the only one who could do it. But first he had to find that boat.
12
In New York, Martha was lingering over her usual morning macchiato and sesame bagel in the deli near her apartment, prior to meeting a client to go over the revamped designs. This was the third set and Martha suspected the total might rise to four. Or even five. Some of these women were too rich even to know their own minds, let alone make up their minds. One day it was this, the next that; in fact the grass was always greener. It paid, in Martha’s opinion, to have less and enjoy what you had, but ever the diplomat, she was always concerned for her clients’ well-being, striving to make sure they were, in the end, happy. That was her job, and despite its frustrations she loved it and found it creative.
Anyhow, for once her mind was not on her job; it was back in Turkey with Marco. Marco and Martha. It sounded like a cartoon, an animated movie that would make people laugh. Marco had called her again about the girl he supposedly had seen fall off a boat and drown, and since then she’d been worried about him. This was a girl, Marco also said, who had been beaten around the head. She was bleeding as she fell; a girl he had searched the sea for—and not found.
Spooning up the froth on her macchiato Martha wondered if there had been such an incident. Since no missing person had been reported she had questioned Marco as to exactly what he thought he had seen.
“Not thought, ” he’d said, sounding angry, something she had never heard in his voice before. “ I saw a girl fall from a boat. A black yacht. Her head was bloody. She had red hair. I got in the dinghy and went to look for her.”
And never found her, Martha thought. And that was the problem. She sighed as she took a sip of the coffee. It was too hot and she burnt her lips. She slicked on her cherry Blistex to take the sting away, which of course made the coffee taste awful. She sighed again. She had never known Marco like this, so concerned, so adamant as to what had happened. About the large black boat from which the girl had fallen. About her red hair floating in the sea. And the extent of his despair when he was unable to find her. It was as though Marco felt guilty, that somehow it was his fault that an unknown woman had “disappeared.” Yet no one had been reported as “disappeared.” No one was lost. No one found. No one drowned.
Martha’s phone rang. She checked it quickly. It was her youngest sister, Lucy. “Hi,” she said, answering. “What’s up?”
“I met a guy.” Lucy’s voice
“This was not on my boat,” Zacharias said. “No woman got killed on my boat.”
Marco eyed him from the foot of the gangplank. The captain stood at the top, barring the way.
“Then she is dead,” Marco said quietly.
Zacharias’s expression turned to shock. “She is not dead,” he said, deciding quickly he had better tell what happened. “Only almost. I think not much longer and she will be. She drowned,” he added, to further clarify the position. “My crew found her, got her out of the water. She must have fallen off some tourist boat, smashed her head open. It was not good,” he added with a deep sigh because he saw no way out of this with the authorities.
“Then if she’s not on your boat, where is she?”
“On another boat. Big. Expensive. They came to pick her up.”
“The name of the boat?” Marco demanded, impatiently.
Zacharias shrugged. He had not taken notice, in fact he did not remember even seeing a name, he’d been too involved with getting rid of the girl.
Marco knew he had to get to the girl first if there was any chance at all of her being able to speak. If she was even, please God, still alive. He was witness to what was probably going to turn into murder, not simply a violent attack. Somebody had to protect this young woman’s rights. Somebody had to help her and it looked like he was the only one who could do it. But first he had to find that boat.
12
In New York, Martha was lingering over her usual morning macchiato and sesame bagel in the deli near her apartment, prior to meeting a client to go over the revamped designs. This was the third set and Martha suspected the total might rise to four. Or even five. Some of these women were too rich even to know their own minds, let alone make up their minds. One day it was this, the next that; in fact the grass was always greener. It paid, in Martha’s opinion, to have less and enjoy what you had, but ever the diplomat, she was always concerned for her clients’ well-being, striving to make sure they were, in the end, happy. That was her job, and despite its frustrations she loved it and found it creative.
Anyhow, for once her mind was not on her job; it was back in Turkey with Marco. Marco and Martha. It sounded like a cartoon, an animated movie that would make people laugh. Marco had called her again about the girl he supposedly had seen fall off a boat and drown, and since then she’d been worried about him. This was a girl, Marco also said, who had been beaten around the head. She was bleeding as she fell; a girl he had searched the sea for—and not found.
Spooning up the froth on her macchiato Martha wondered if there had been such an incident. Since no missing person had been reported she had questioned Marco as to exactly what he thought he had seen.
“Not thought, ” he’d said, sounding angry, something she had never heard in his voice before. “ I saw a girl fall from a boat. A black yacht. Her head was bloody. She had red hair. I got in the dinghy and went to look for her.”
And never found her, Martha thought. And that was the problem. She sighed as she took a sip of the coffee. It was too hot and she burnt her lips. She slicked on her cherry Blistex to take the sting away, which of course made the coffee taste awful. She sighed again. She had never known Marco like this, so concerned, so adamant as to what had happened. About the large black boat from which the girl had fallen. About her red hair floating in the sea. And the extent of his despair when he was unable to find her. It was as though Marco felt guilty, that somehow it was his fault that an unknown woman had “disappeared.” Yet no one had been reported as “disappeared.” No one was lost. No one found. No one drowned.
Martha’s phone rang. She checked it quickly. It was her youngest sister, Lucy. “Hi,” she said, answering. “What’s up?”
“I met a guy.” Lucy’s voice
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