“I’m going to search this boat. Go. If you’re waiting for a kiss goodbye, you’ll be waiting forever.”

“So you think.” He kissed his hand and blew the kiss in my direction. I tried not to let him see me smile. Cherub hobbled off, and I climbed the gangway. There was a lump in my throat the size of a plum. I turned away from the light in the pilothouse, eased open the first door I found, and slipped belowdecks.

The hold was packed with Barbie’s liquor, enough to keep New York drunk for a week. How many guns would these casks buy, and where? Just before the stern, I found an unlocked door that led to a cramped, tightly organized little room. On the metal desk beside the bunk was a photo of Juliette and Edith Copeland. Beside it was a leather-bound notebook. Inside were long strings of numbers written in Galen Copeland’s hand. It was a code or naval coordinates—or he was simply practicing his arithmetic. I was trying to puzzle it out when I heard shouting up above. The ship gave a lurch, the engines groaned into life, and we pulled into the Hudson River.

Fourteen

I locked the cabin door as quietly as I could and pressed my back against the wall. I checked my bag. One gun. Three bullets. It would take at least four men to make me leave.

Footsteps in the hallway. Two sailors, maybe more. They stopped, uncomfortably close to my beating heart. The doorknob rattled. A fist banged twice against the door.

“What’s got you angry?” asked a guttural Irish voice.

“This door, why’s it locked?”

“Who cares?”

“I care, okay? Isn’t that enough?”

“That’s the captain’s cabin.”

“The captain’s dead.”

I stood on Copeland’s bunk, bracing myself against the bulkhead, pistol in hand. The knowledge crept over me that I wasn’t entirely sure how to use a gun.

“You hear what happened to that poor bastard Koszler? Him and his partner, beat half to death by some silly little girl.”

“They’re gonna live, aren’t they?”

“You say that like it makes it all okay.”

“Well it does, don’t it?”

“You ever get stabbed in the kidney or knocked out of a tree? So you’re going to live. Great. Agony is agony.”

I pushed the hammer back with the heel of my palm. My hand was sweaty. The hammer slipped.

“Help me break it down,” said the Irishman.

“I am absolutely not doing that.”

The hammer fell. The gun would have fired had my hand not gotten in the way. My mouth opened in a silent scream. I yanked my hand away, leaving a chunk of skin behind.

“Shift your feet, moron, and let’s get back to work.”