Beast Read Free Page B

dealing with island labor, which would have delayed them.
    Delayed them from what?
    He cursed and heaved against the first bolt. It was corroded, and the wrench skidded off.
    With its way gone, the boat slewed broadside to the sea and fell into a rhythm of steep, jerky rolls. A cupboard door flew open, and a stack of plates skidded out and crashed to the deck.
    He tightened the wrench and leaned on the handle.
    The bolt moved. He managed half a turn, then the wrench handle butted against the bulkhead. He yanked the wrench off, refitted it and turned again. The water rose.
    In the cockpit, Elizabeth lay facedown on the fantail, spread-legged, her feet braced against the roll. One of the dish towels was balled in her fist, and she felt along the hull for the two-inch opening in the exhaust outlet. She could barely reach it with the tips of her fingers, and she tried to jam the towel inside. The pipe was too big, the towel too thin. It slipped out of the hole and floated away.
    She heard a new sound, and paused to decipher it. It was the sound of silence. The bilge pump had stopped.
    Then she heard Griffin’s voice below. “Bermuda Harbour Radio … this is the yacht Severance … Mayday, Mayday, Mayday … we are sinking … our position is … Fuck!”
    Elizabeth pulled the shirt from under her chest and balled it with the second dish towel, and again felt for the hole in the stern.
    The boat yawed. Water rushed over the stern, and she skidded. Her feet lost their grip. She was falling. Her arms flailed.
    A hand grabbed her and pulled her back, and Griffin’s voice said, “Never mind.”
    “Never mind!? We’re sinking!”
    “Not anymore.” His voice was flat. “We’ve sunk.”
    “No. I don’t—”
    “Hey,” he said, and he gathered her to him and held her head against his chest and stroked her hair. “The batteries’re gone. The pump’s gone. The radio’s gone. She’s gone. What we’ve got to do is get the hell off before she slips away. Okay?”
    She looked up at him and nodded.
    “Good.” He kissed her head. “Get the EPIRB.”
    Griffin went forward and uncovered the raft lashed to the cabin roof. He checked to make sure all its cells were inflated, checked the rubberized box screwed to the deck plates, to reassure himself that no one in some out-island port had stolen their flares or fishing lines or cans of food. He felt his belt to make sure his Swiss Army knife was secure in its leather case.
    A five-gallon plastic jug of fresh water was tied to the boat’s railing, and he untied it and set it in the raft. He debated going below to retrieve the small outboard motor stowed forward, then decided: Forget it. He didn’t want to be caught below when the boat sank.
    As he undid the last of the raft’s lashings, Griffin felt a weird satisfaction: He wasn’t panicking. He was acting precisely as he should—methodically, rationally, thoroughly.
    Keep it up, he told himself. Keep it up. And maybe you’ve got a chance.
    Elizabeth came forward. She carried the plastic bag containing the boat’s papers, their passports and cash, and in her other hand the EPIRB, the emergency beacon, a red box covered with yellow Styrofoam, with a retractable antenna on one end.
    The deck was awash now, and it was easy for them to heave the raft over the low railing into the sea. He held the raft with one hand and with the other steadied her as she jumped aboard. When she was seated in the bow, he stepped off the sailboat’s deck and dropped into the stern of the raft. He sat, flicked on the switch on the EPIRB, pulled out the antenna and fitted the device into an elastic strap on one of the rubber cells.
    Because the raft was light and the northwest wind was brisk, it moved quickly away from the crippled sailboat.
    Griffin took Elizabeth’s hand, and they watched in silence.
    The sailboat was a black silhouette against the stars.
    The stern sank lower, then slowly disappeared. Then, suddenly, the bow rose up like a