Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

Was it Johnny? She looked at him as he lay with his feet together, his hands crossed on his chest. He looked, she thought, like the carving on an Egyptian sarcophagus; at times he seemed almost as cold and remote. There was no question of trusting Johnny; she needed his strength. She was flat broke and four thousand miles from home. She didn’t trust him, but that meant little; she couldn’t trust anyone until she delivered Howard’s letter.

Her hand flew to her waist. She felt the envelope under her wool skirt, still tucked in the waistband of her slip, pregnant with her husband’s revenge.

Even after death, she thought, Howard leaves the dirty jobs for me. She pictured his tight scrawl across the bottom of the envelope; In the event of my death, please forward. And the letter itself:

“In three years my premonitions have grown stronger instead of weaker. Each morning I wake up surprised to find that I’m alive. Each night I go to bed feeling that I’ve stolen a day and must pay some horrible penalty for the delay.

The delay will end soon, I think, and that’s why I sent for you. Since I’ll be dead when you read this, I ask you to serve as my hands. I’ve written all I know about the organization, its methods, and its people. Take it to the authorities, not in the Islands, but in the States...

The six-page letter had made her feel that she was gazing into a cesspool. Bombings, fires, bribes, murders, and nearly fifty names. Howard had a good memory for names. The letter would blow a gaping hole in the organization; it was like having a hand grenade tied to her stomach.

But it was Howard’s last request and she had to carry it out if she intended to live with herself. He was weak and erratic and unfaithful and maybe he’d deserved to die. Oh, God... Her mind recoiled from the horror she’d found in the hotel. It might have been her lying in that pool of blood instead of that poor girl of Howard’s...

She caught her breath as Albert moved. She watched him rise to his elbow, gaze at her for a moment, then drop his head. He began to snore.

She sat still for several minutes, waiting for her legs to stop trembling. Then she spread her blanket on the floor and lay down beside Johnny. She tried not to touch him but the gentle rocking of the boat kept pressing her against him. She couldn’t relax; it had been too long since she’d lain beside a man.

She jumped as his arm slid around her. “Please don’t.”

“Why did you come down here?” he asked.

“Your boatman watches me. He’s been watching me all night.”

She felt him turn. “Albert! Take your blanket and sleep out on deck.”

Oh, Lord, she thought, he’s jumped to the wrong conclusion. She lay tense as Albert stumbled out, swearing in patois.

“Better?” asked Johnny.

“Couldn’t you... push him overboard?” Her voice sounded strange and distant.

“A good boatman is hard to find.” He laughed gently. “Come here.”

Slowly, she gave in to the gentle pressure, of his arm and turned to face him. I must be the worst kind of bitch, she thought. This is only my first day as a widow...

Daylight pressed against her eyelids when she awoke. Her mouth was dry and her bones ached from sleeping on the deck. Inside, she felt a sweet relaxation which had been missing for three years.

She opened her eyes and saw Johnny working at the little stove, wearing a pair of green swim trunks.

“Where’s Albert?”

He answered without turning. “He took the dinghy to the village for supplies.”

“Oh.” She relaxed, feeling the prickle of the blanket against her skin. Oh, Lord, I’m naked. She put her hand to her stomach and caught her breath. The letter... She groped under the blanket and found the woolen suit wadded at her feet. The letter was crumpled in the side pocket.

She took a slow breath. Have to keep my head, she thought, and stop behaving like a love-starved widow...

She pushed down the blanket and stretched, forcing her fingers through tangled hair. “Johnny, could I have my suitcase?”

She watched him pull it from a compartment beneath the bench and thought: It’s nice to have a man around.

He set the suitcase beside her and she saw that his face was drawn, his lips tight.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

He’s lying, she thought. Maybe it was no good for him. She watched him set a basin, soap and towel on the bench. “Did I do something wrong?”

He shook his head. “You can wash up on deck. We’ll eat when you’re done.”