Small Town

When the fifth case of bottles had been filled and transferred to the open deck, the Carpenter cast off the lines securing the boat to the pier and maneuvered the Nancy Dee out of the Boat Basin. When he was perhaps twenty yards from the nearest of the moored vessels, he cut the engine and let the boat drift. Then, with a match, he lit the little kerosene lantern.

It was a handy thing, a black sphere eight inches in diameter, flattened on the bottom so it would stay upright, with an adjustable wick at the top. The Carpenter had taken it home from a construction site, where it burned at night to keep trespassers from stumbling into a pit. Now, lit and properly positioned, it greatly simplified the process of lighting the wicks of his firebombs.

He checked his watch. The hour was right, getting on to three in the morning. The Boat Basin was dark and silent. The party had ended in the large houseboat at the southern end of the basin, and the celebrants, like the other houseboaters, were tucked into their bunks. The owners of the other vessels, who lived elsewhere, were either awake or asleep, but in any event they were not here, and thus were of no concern to the Carpenter.

Who picked up a gasoline-filled beer bottle, lit its fuse, and lobbed it high in the air, aimed at a ramshackle houseboat some thirty yards distant.

Before it landed, he had a second bottle in hand.

He was on the verge of consciousness when the first explosion roused him. He opened his eyes, blinked, registered that he was naked, with his right hand cuffed, the other bracelet hooked to the brass pull of the bottommost drawer in a brassbound chest of drawers.

He pulled, but the drawer wouldn’t move, and he saw why. The vertical sides of the chest had extensions that were locked in place to keep the drawers from rolling free in uneven seas. By the time he figured this out there had already been a second explosion, and now there was a third.

And something was burning. He could smell it, and the cabin was unevenly illuminated by the flames.

What the hell was going on?

Molotov cocktails, of course. He’d seen the makings earlier, the bottles and rags and cans of gas. He didn’t see them now, but he heard them, exploding one after the other.

He had to do something. He swung around, braced his feet against the chest of drawers, tried to pull hard enough to break the drawer loose, or yank the handle from the drawer. All he got for his troubles was a sore wrist.

Where were his clothes?

He saw them, on the deck at the far end of the cabin. He stretched out full length, levering himself along the deck with his left hand, reaching out with his feet. He caught hold of a piece of clothing, pinning it between his two bare feet, and drew his legs back, trying to reel in the garment. He lost his purchase on it but then regained it and brought it close enough to grab with his free hand, and it was his jacket, and he went through the pockets and didn’t find a thing. His cell phone had been in one of those pockets, and it would have been useful now, but it was gone.

He stretched out again as far as he could, hurting his right wrist in the process, reaching with his feet, wishing he could see more clearly what he was doing. He caught hold of more cloth, brought it closer, grabbed it with his left hand. His pants, and one pocket held some coins, and what the hell was he supposed to do with them? But another pocket contained his key ring, and he was almost certain he had a handcuff key with him. He held the key ring in front of his face, dropped it, picked it up again, and yes, there was the key, and—

And the explosions had stopped, he realized that, even as the hatch opened. Scrambling, he tucked the key ring under his backside, kicked the trousers away.

And lay there, naked and unable to move, as the Carpenter came into the cabin.

“You’re awake,” the Carpenter said. “I thought you might be dead.”

“What were the explosions?”

“You know what they were.”

“I saw the bottles, the gasoline. But what was the target?”

“Oh,” said the Carpenter, surprised at the question. But you couldn’t really see much from where the man was lying. You could see that something was on fire, but wouldn’t know what it was.

“The boats,” he said.

“At the Boat Basin? Why would you want to burn them?”

The answer was too complicated, and the Carpenter decided not to waste time on it. The man’s trousers lay by his feet, not where he’d left them. He asked the man what he was looking for.

“My cell phone.”

The Carpenter pointed to the dresser top. “Right next to the pistol. Mr. Shevlin’s pistol, I was going to shoot you, but there must be something wrong with it.” He drew the revolver from the holster. “I hope there’s nothing wrong with yours,” he said, and pointed it at the man, interested in seeing what his reaction would be.

But there was no reaction. He might as well have been pointing a flower at him. Instead he asked another question. “Why are you doing this? Not just the boats. Everything. Why?”