Page 80 of Murder Island

Not pirates. Fishermen.

A slender brown-skinned man was leaning over the gunwale, both hands reaching out.

I grabbed Kira under the arms and towed her over. The man grabbed her right wrist. Then a woman in aheadscarf appeared and grabbed her left. Together, they hauled her up the side of the boat and onto the deck.

I reached for the rail with one hand. Pain shot through my shoulder as I muscled myself partway up. The man and woman grabbed me by the belt and pulled me in the rest of the way. I flopped down on the deck next to Kira, spewing saltwater.

Suddenly, the man and woman backed off. I realized that I was still holding the cutlass. I stuck it back through my belt and held up both hands.“Rafiki,”I gasped. “Friend.”

“Friend,” the woman repeated. She bent down to help Kira to her feet. The man did the same for me. They half carried us into the boat’s low-roofed cabin and laid us down on thin foam mattresses. Then the woman took over. I felt my wet clothes being tugged off. Then I felt a cool cloth on my head and the sting of antiseptic on my arm. I looked over. Kira got the same treatment. The woman covered our bare bodies with a blanket and backed out of the cabin with our clothes. “Friend,” she repeated.

I tucked my cutlass close to my side, then felt for Kira’s hand under the covers. I closed my eyes. My brain was spinning. Maybe I had a concussion or sunstroke. Maybe I was delirious. None of this felt real. But if it was a dream, it was a good one.

And if I was dead, maybe this was heaven.

CHAPTER 102

I MUST HAVE slept for twenty-four hours. When I blinked awake, the sun was almost in the same place it was when we arrived. I could smell smoke and heard the sizzle of something cooking. Kira was already awake. She poked my arm. “Look,” she whispered. “Somebody’s here.”

I lifted my head off the mattress. Two young kids were peering into the cabin. A boy and a girl, maybe seven or eight years old. Skinny. Barefoot. In shorts and T-shirts. The boy whispered to the girl. She whispered back, then doubled over, laughing.

The woman from yesterday appeared in the doorway and nudged the kids aside.

“What’s so funny?” I asked. “What are they saying?”

The woman grinned, showing a bright smile with a gap in the middle. “They say you’re a very big fish.”

She tossed our clothes onto the blanket. They were clean and dry and warm from the sun. And the holes hadall been mended. We got dressed under the covers and then crawled out onto the deck.

The man was busy at the stern baiting hooks. Kira turned to the woman. “You speak English?”

She shrugged. “Mostly Arabic and Somali. But enough English to get by.”

The man set his fishing pole in a socket and walked over, sure-footed on the tilting deck. The woman grabbed his sinewy arm. “I am Ayann. This is Dahir, my husband.” She pointed at the kids. “Our son, Hani. Our daughter, Halima.” They were both standing at the stern with their skinny legs apart, holding long heavy-duty fishing poles.

I rubbed my head. Was I crazy? “The kids,” I said. “Where were they yesterday—when you found us?”

“They were hiding in the hold,” said Ayann, “until we knew it was safe.”

“Want food?” asked Dahir.

“Yes!” said Kira. “Anything.”

There was a small propane stove in the middle of the deck with a smoking pan on top. Dahir lifted the lid and reached in with a fork. Ayann pulled two metal plates from a bin. Dahir speared two fillets of fish out of the pan and served them up. Ayann reached into a battered cooler and pulled out two icy bottles of mineral water.

Kira and I sat back against the cabin and wolfed down the fish. It was charred and flaky and delicious. I polished off my water bottle in one long gulp. Ayann handed me another. “Your names?”

I hesitated. Should we make something up? Did we need new identities? Could these people be trusted?

No hesitation from my partner. “I’m Kira,” she said. I guess she was tired of hiding.

“Okay then. I’m Doc.”

Dahir was wiping the grease from the cooking pan. He stopped and looked over. “You are a doctor?”

I shook my head. “Not the useful kind.”

“It’s a nickname,” said Kira. “Family tradition.”