The House Lost at Sea by R.J. Blain

Author:R.J. Blain
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pen & Page Publishing

Nineteen

I had a mean streak at times.

I gave the kid enough cash to mail my phone to the United States, and I found a pair of gloves on the Wanderer that would keep him from leaving his fingerprints everywhere while avoiding unwanted attention. I located a quiet little dock near a town, dropped him off, and took my ship out into deeper waters to wait for his return.

After two hours, I suspected Abrahan wouldn’t be coming back, but almost three and a half hours after I sent him on his errand, he ran onto the dock, and I brought the ship in to pick him up.

“That took longer than I thought it’d take.” I waited for him to scramble on board before easing the Wanderer back out to sea, her engine purring as I guided her out of the harbor to the safety of the open ocean.

“Had to bribe someone to get the box sent without it getting checked through customs.”

“You had enough for it?”

“You owe me fifty.”

I pulled the cash out of my wallet and handed it over. “Good job, kid.”

“So, what’re you going to do with me now?”

I left him waiting for thirty minutes, which I spent guiding the ship out to waters deep enough to drift safely while I looked over the navigation charts inside the cabin. Abrahan followed me, his eyes widening as I spread the papers out over the cabin’s single table, made to sit two comfortably, possibly three or four in a pinch.

Fool that I was, I hoped to find that third or fourth body to fill the space, cramp the cabin, and drive me crazy—or force me to buy a new, larger ship. Or steal Lucretta O’Malley’s.

Stealing her ship—and her Ricardo lookalike—would make up for a lot of my problems. Lighting it on fire would do the trick, too.

I had a mean streak at times.

While modern maps included most of Earth’s islands, the charts lacked any notation for my cluster of tiny islands, most of which weren’t fit for anything. The reefs surrounding them were flagged as a danger zone to be avoided, which likely justified their exclusion from the charts. Too small to be used for naval or aviation purposes, too barren for anyone to survive long without supplies, and lacking wildlife worth notice, they only existed on the most accurate maps, and even then, I doubted they had a name, and I doubted anyone cared enough about them to investigate their secrets.

I pointed to the reef. “We’re going here.”

“But there’s nothing there.”

Shaking my head, I tapped the part of the chart where the gap in the reef would allow the Wanderer to slip through without her hull being torn apart by the rocks and corals lurking beneath the waves. “There’s a group of islands here. Hundreds of years ago, it was used as a pirate isle, a launching point for crews hunting the seas of South Africa and India. They would take supplies that kept well and store them on the island, replenishing their stock without having to return to the major ports.

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