Chapter 6: The Hull

Two men got out of the Lincoln.

The driver was Renato's nephew, his sister's boy, twenty-four years old, in a leather jacket too thin for Maine.

He had a temper the whole family made excuses for.

The other was a soldier I knew only by his neck. He stood behind Renato at every christening.

The nephew walked straight to the gray Honda and looked in the window.

Then he looked up at the yard.

"They know I'm here," I said. "That's the housekeeper's car. They know."

Sandro was already moving.

"Come on."

He didn't take me up the ramp.

He took me along the float, under the edge of the wharf, where the pilings were black with weed.

A ladder went up the side of the wharf into the back of the shed.

He went up first and reached down for me.

His hand closed around my wrist.

It was the first time he'd really touched me, and it was to haul me up a slimy ladder.

Inside the shed it smelled like cedar and varnish.

The half-built boat sat on her blocks in the middle of the floor.

"In there," Sandro said.

"In the boat?"

"In the hull. Under the canvas. Lie down flat in the bottom and don't move."

He boosted me over the side.

The bottom of the hull was curved and covered in sawdust.

I lay down between the ribs.

He threw a paint-spattered canvas over me and tucked it fast.

Then his hand pressed flat on top of the canvas, right over my heart, just for a second.

"Don't make a sound," he whispered. "Whatever they say."

Then he was gone.

I heard the big door roll open.

Gravel. Two pairs of shoes.

The dog, barking. Sandro, telling her to quit.

"Ferlito," the nephew said. He said it slowly, like he was tasting it. "Sandro Ferlito. The dead guy."

"You've got the wrong yard."

"Nah. I got the right yard. I've seen your picture my whole life. My uncle keeps you in a drawer."

Something hard rapped against the hull, near my feet.

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