That night was dark and quiet. Hayes patrolled the boat with his second favorite rifle in his hands. They were running dark again--all the ship's lights were off, but Hayes kept his flashlight at his side and risked the occasional beam of light to make sure no one with the same idea was sneaking up on them. At one point, he imagined he could hear something else out on the water, but he chalked that up to an overactive, whiskey-enhanced imagination and the sound of their own engine.
Hayes wasn't used to standing and pacing this much, so his legs were growing tired. He sat down on the picnic table bench to rest for a few minutes and found himself drifting closer and closer to sleep. Until, that is, he felt the cold tingle of a metal cylinder pressed against the back of his neck. That seemed to perk him up.
"Don't yell," said the man called Hemingway. He was told that killing would not necessarily be required for this job. He definitely was not averse to killing, but he was wearing a new suit. The man called Hemingway had learned a long time ago that bloodstains never come out.
"Get up," he said.
Hayes was about to comply when the man called Hemingway felt the cold tingle of two metal cylinders pressed against the back of his neck and shivered. He had never realized how cold that actually felt. It was quite annoying.
"Put the gun down," said Philip. The stranger lowered his weapon, and Hayes wrestled it from his hand. "Who are you?"
The man called Hemingway said nothing. He just smiled.
"Maybe you'll be more inclined to talk in the morning," said Philip. Hayes hit the stranger hard in the back of the head with the butt of his rifle, and the man called Hemingway crumpled unconscious to the hard deck.
When the stranger woke up, he found himself tied to a chair in the cabin of the boat. Philip, Hayes, Vitus, and Jenn all stood around him, watching him and waiting for any sign of consciousness. As soon as his eyes opened, Philip started asking questions.
"Who are you?"
The stranger said nothing.
"Who are you working for?"
The stranger said nothing.
"Went through your boat this morning and found this," said Hayes, holding an attache case aloft.
The stranger's eyes widened.
"Yeah," said Hayes, "thought that might get your attention."
Philip turned to the antique-dealer and his partner. "We should step outside for a little while," he told them, and they agreed.
Once Hayes and the stranger were alone, Hayes began searching through the case. "There's some interesting stuff in here," he said. He pulled out a bundle of papers that were bound together with a leather cord. "Especially this."
"My manuscript," muttered the stranger.
"Oh, it's yours, huh? So you're a writer?" Hayes flipped through the pages.
"Did you read it?" the stranger asked.
"Most of it," said Hayes.
"What did you think?"
"What?"
"Your honest opinion, please. What did you think of it?" asked the stranger, obviously more concerned about the quality of his writing than the fact that he was tied to a chair.
"It's rough," said Hayes, as he rolled the up the meticulously bound stack of papers. "Pacing was all right, I suppose. You need to work on your voice some. It's almost as if you were tryin' too hard."
"Oh," said the stranger, dejected.
The manuscript was rolled taut.
"And one more thing: you use too many damn adverbs. They're unnecessary and repetitive as long as you establish the proper context," said Hayes, and then he began brutally, mercilessly beating the man called Hemingway with his own manuscript.
Hayes wasn't used to standing and pacing this much, so his legs were growing tired. He sat down on the picnic table bench to rest for a few minutes and found himself drifting closer and closer to sleep. Until, that is, he felt the cold tingle of a metal cylinder pressed against the back of his neck. That seemed to perk him up.
"Don't yell," said the man called Hemingway. He was told that killing would not necessarily be required for this job. He definitely was not averse to killing, but he was wearing a new suit. The man called Hemingway had learned a long time ago that bloodstains never come out.
"Get up," he said.
Hayes was about to comply when the man called Hemingway felt the cold tingle of two metal cylinders pressed against the back of his neck and shivered. He had never realized how cold that actually felt. It was quite annoying.
"Put the gun down," said Philip. The stranger lowered his weapon, and Hayes wrestled it from his hand. "Who are you?"
The man called Hemingway said nothing. He just smiled.
"Maybe you'll be more inclined to talk in the morning," said Philip. Hayes hit the stranger hard in the back of the head with the butt of his rifle, and the man called Hemingway crumpled unconscious to the hard deck.
***
When the stranger woke up, he found himself tied to a chair in the cabin of the boat. Philip, Hayes, Vitus, and Jenn all stood around him, watching him and waiting for any sign of consciousness. As soon as his eyes opened, Philip started asking questions.
"Who are you?"
The stranger said nothing.
"Who are you working for?"
The stranger said nothing.
"Went through your boat this morning and found this," said Hayes, holding an attache case aloft.
The stranger's eyes widened.
"Yeah," said Hayes, "thought that might get your attention."
Philip turned to the antique-dealer and his partner. "We should step outside for a little while," he told them, and they agreed.
Once Hayes and the stranger were alone, Hayes began searching through the case. "There's some interesting stuff in here," he said. He pulled out a bundle of papers that were bound together with a leather cord. "Especially this."
"My manuscript," muttered the stranger.
"Oh, it's yours, huh? So you're a writer?" Hayes flipped through the pages.
"Did you read it?" the stranger asked.
"Most of it," said Hayes.
"What did you think?"
"What?"
"Your honest opinion, please. What did you think of it?" asked the stranger, obviously more concerned about the quality of his writing than the fact that he was tied to a chair.
"It's rough," said Hayes, as he rolled the up the meticulously bound stack of papers. "Pacing was all right, I suppose. You need to work on your voice some. It's almost as if you were tryin' too hard."
"Oh," said the stranger, dejected.
The manuscript was rolled taut.
"And one more thing: you use too many damn adverbs. They're unnecessary and repetitive as long as you establish the proper context," said Hayes, and then he began brutally, mercilessly beating the man called Hemingway with his own manuscript.
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