Heather was sitting in the bow, Sly slumped on the next thwart along. Jim was about to jump in when he realized that he’d messed it all up.
“Heather, take the tiller and steer us. Sly, in the front. Carrie, sit where he was, and I’ll take this pair of oars at the back.”
There was instant confusion. Sly screamed out in a thin little voice as the boat wobbled from side to side, but Jim managed to grab his hand and steady him. “Oh me, oh me, oh me…”
“You’re fine. Sit down and keep still, Sly.”
Heather was far more nimble, sitting at the stern, hand on the tiller. Carrie had her oars into the oarlocks, while Jim was still trying to get his in place.
Behind them, in Eureka, he heard someone shout. Another yell. Running feet.
“Son of a bitch… Right, let’s go.”
Fortunately his daughter had the sense to realize that the two adults needed guidance in keeping time with each other. “In and out and in and out…”
The water whirled under the blades of the oars, and Jim Hilton had the exhilarating feeling of movement. “Yeah, kids, we’re off,” he hissed between clenched teeth.
They were clear of the end of the jetty, the girl steering out to sea, putting as much distance as possible between them and the shore. Where there was more shouting and a woman screaming.
“Found the bodies,” panted Carrie.
Facing backward, Jim could see what was happening. The setting sun behind them painted the town bloodred, showing a number of men scrambling toward the rest of the boats. They were less than a hundred yards off. A gun cracked, but Jim couldn’t tell where the bullet had gone.
“Keep rowing,” he said, shipping his oars. He glanced over his shoulder to see to his relief that the sun was almost completely gone. Full darkness was moments away.
He drew the Ruger and fired three careful shots, trying to allow for the movement of the rowboat as it began to encounter larger waves. A man went down, and he saw with great satisfaction that the rest of them had dived for cover, abandoning their attempts to get more boats launched.
He tucked the empty gun in his belt and resumed rowing, pulling with all his strength, wishing for a moment that Henderson McGill was there to help them with his powerful muscles. But two more shots from the shore, one kicking up a tiny fountain of spray only a yard from the starboard side of the boat, concentrated his mind most wonderfully.
They were now close on three hundred yards out, moving smoothly into the crimson trail of the sun. “Keep us straight out. Head north in a few minutes.”
“We safe?” said Sly.
“Believe we are… for the time being.”
There were no more shots.
NANCI SIMMS WATCHED Mac’s face as he stared through the glasses at the tiny boat disappearing, unpursued, toward the ruby blur of the dying sun.
Going into the darkness of the far west.
“Is it?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, lowering the binoculars. “Yeah, it is,” he said.
II
Chapter Twelve
It was a starry, starry night.
Jim had carried on rowing for another quarter hour or so after Sly Romero had finally given up. The lad had battled bravely, the oars rising and falling steadily as the boat made its slow way north. But eventually he’d begun to cry, almost silently.
“Hands hurt, Jim,” he whispered, his voice barely audible above the gentle lapping of the Pacific against the keel.
Now they were drifting.
Heather was curled up in the bow, head pillowed on her arms. A sliver of moon peered through the wrack of high cloud, making her face look as pale as death.
Carrie Princip was also asleep, head resting on the forward thwart, one arm hanging over the side of the boat, fingertips nearly trailing in the cold water.
Sly was sitting with his back to Jim, locked into that half world between wakefulness and sleep, staring out over the stern, toward the south where the faint lights of Eureka had long disappeared.
Jim Hilton could just hear the teenager mumbling to himself, repeating the same thing over and over again.