When she didn't answer, the man with the black bushy hair leaned toward her. He whispered something in her ear and she spat at him. He turned to the governor and said something, softly, and they started back toward the town, Emer stumbling behind, tugged by her bound hands. David followed, all the while looking at Emer's face and trying to gain some sort of idea, any idea, of what to do. She looked genuinely terrified, and said only one thing he could understand before the three men put her onto the back of a cart and took off.

She said, "French b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

The small prison smelled like death-a mix of s.h.i.t and sweat, gangrene, vomit and fear. Emer was locked in a cell by herself, the only light a reflection from above where one small window, too skinny for escape, graced the stone wall. She could hear nothing but the m.u.f.fled sounds of the village outside and the few other prisoners moaning.

When David came to see the governor to plead for her freedom, at the risk of his own, he was sent away before he had a chance to speak.

"Do I look like a stupid man to you?" the governor asked. "I know who that is is down there." down there."

"But-"

David was ushered out by the Frenchman, who smiled at him the whole way and spoke only when he reached the door. "She's mine," he said. "Forget about her."

Two days pa.s.sed before anyone came to see Emer. She'd been given no food or water, and had lapsed into a determined trance. She sat cross-legged with her arms folded in her lap, refusing to lie down in the filth. She prayed a little, but knew that no matter how hard she prayed, the Frenchman would return and she would have to endure him. When she heard footsteps outside her cell door, she tensed and readied her body for what was about to happen.

But he only reached in and grabbed her by the hair, pulling until she finally regained enough balance in her numb legs to walk behind him. Before they came to the prison exit, the Frenchman pulled two wrist cuffs from his pocket, twirled them on his fingers, and fastened them tightly around her. He straightened her hair with his greasy hand and caressed her left cheek.

"We meet again, my little Irish girl. This time you will not run away, I a.s.sure you."

He walked her upstairs to the governor's small office and stood her in front of him. She shivered in her own sweat, looking pathetic and felt a louse crawl in her hairline.

The governor was a slender man, too skinny (Connacht skinny in Emer's eyes), with a pointed face and large ears. He wore an excessive amount of jewelry for a man, and a ruffled blouse with an enormous collar.

"Do you admit, now, to the charge of murder, woman?" he asked, spreading his ringed fingers before him, tapping his fingertips. "Are you hungry enough?"

Emer thought about this for a few seconds and nodded her head. Hungry or not, she wasn't ashamed of murder anymore.

"Can you not speak?"

"She has little English," the Frenchman offered.

"Are you an ignorant, then?"

Emer stretched her shoulders and made a clinking sound with the cuffs.

The governor turned to the Frenchman, laughing. "Some good she'll do you as a wife, man! How will she know what you want for your dinner?"

Emer eyed two sweet pastries on the governor's desk. "Do you want these?" he asked her.

"When is my trial?" she asked.

The governor looked over to the Frenchman, raised his eyebrows, and shrugged.

"Two weeks," the Frenchman said.

"Two weeks," the governor said.

"Can I go back to my cell now?"

"I don't see why not," the governor answered, looking to the Frenchman for clues. "Would you like to take her back?"

He grabbed her roughly and walked her back to the prison below. When they reached the entrance, he left the cuffs on her and ran his hands over her body, stopping twice at her bosom and once at her bottom, where he squeezed her and left bruises. "G.o.d you stink, woman," he said. "We'll have to wash you before you board my ship."

"I'll be swinging in two weeks," Emer said, "so you had best get your fill of me while I'm alive."

"Oh, you silly girl!" He unlocked her cuffs and kicked her into the tiny cell and locked the door. "You still don't understand anything, do you?"

Emer sat in her cell for two weeks. Once a day they brought a bucket, a handful of dirty animal fat, and a small cup of sour water. She spent her time thinking about everything-the Frenchman, the governor, the prison, but mostly about David and her crew. Had they taken her share and gone back to the cruising ground?

What had the Frenchman meant when he'd called her a "silly girl"? She'd seen how the governor relied on him. She'd seen how the Frenchman seemed to be the one in charge. Would he steal her now and finally make her his slave? She thought about killing him.

Four weeks later, she'd seen no one but the guard who brought her food and water. Two months later, she took to sobbing at night, wondering what would become of her life. Four months after that, she made a plan to bribe the judge and governor. Six months pa.s.sed, then eight months.

Ten months since her capture, and Emer still sat cross-legged in the small cell. She'd lost so much weight and energy that she could hardly do more than sleep. Her legs suffered from a lack of circulation and one of her toes had begun to rot. The stink was unbearable-a sort of inner stench, which she could taste in the back of her throat-and she wondered if she'd live long enough to hang at all.

One day she heard more than a single set of footsteps approaching her cell at feeding time, and two voices mumbling to each other. The Frenchman took one look at Emer, gasped, and turned to the prison keeper.

"What the h.e.l.l have you done done to her? You d.a.m.ned idiot! She's nearly dead!" He stormed back toward the stairway and up the steps. Emer could hear him cursing and yelling the whole way, saying things like, "She's no good to me now! How would you like it if I killed to her? You d.a.m.ned idiot! She's nearly dead!" He stormed back toward the stairway and up the steps. Emer could hear him cursing and yelling the whole way, saying things like, "She's no good to me now! How would you like it if I killed your your woman?" woman?"

She sat very still and put her hands to her face. Bones jutted from every angle and her eyes blinked uncontrollably. Did she really look as bad as she felt? As bad as she smelled?

When the Frenchman returned, he carried two blankets. He unlocked the cell and helped Emer crawl out. Her limp leg dragged behind and embarra.s.sed her, but he didn't seem to notice. She felt nothing in one foot below the ankle, and her muscles were so weak she couldn't move from exhaustion. The Frenchman wrapped the blankets around her and picked her up like a small child. Only then could Emer feel how weightless she'd grown. In the light of the stairway could she see her legs-skinnier than any in Connacht, not to mention a lot more discolored. Emer had gone green and yellow-not just on her feet but everywhere. Just a glimpse made her head flop down, and she went unconscious.

When she awoke in the governor's office, she was alone. Since she was too weak to escape, they hadn't handcuffed her or tied her to any furniture. On the desk, there was a plate of fruit and a large washing bowl of water. She heard quarrelling in the next room.

"You wanted her imprisoned. I did what you wanted."

"I didn't want her dead."

"If you wanted her healthy and strong, why didn't you take her with you?"

"You fool! You brainless idiot!"

"What did you expect from me? It's not my fault she was left for nearly a year!"

"You could have given her more to eat! You could have let her walk a bit."

"I have no say in what they feed the sc.u.m down there. And I most certainly took your orders seriously when you said not to let another man touch her. Did you think I could do that if I was parading her around the prison at the same time? You told me to keep her safe. I kept her safe. She's not dead. You can have her now. There's nothing so wrong with her that food can't cure."

Emer heard movement and a loud slap. "Not dead? dead? You come with me. Come look at this ... this ... You come with me. Come look at this ... this ... thing!" thing!" The door of the office swung open and the two men entered. The Frenchman pointed. "Look at The door of the office swung open and the two men entered. The Frenchman pointed. "Look at this this. This is not not a woman! This is a ghost, Robert! You have given me a ghost for all my trouble! We had a deal- a woman! This is a ghost, Robert! You have given me a ghost for all my trouble! We had a deal-this was no part of that deal." was no part of that deal."

"I said I would make sure she was here when you returned. She is is here, is she not?" here, is she not?"

The Frenchman pulled a loaded pistol from his waist and pointed it at the governor's left leg. "I'll have that map back now, and those rings."

"Don't be ridiculous."

The Frenchman fired the pistol, and the governor fell onto his desk in agony. "The map," the Frenchman said, holding his left hand out, palm up.

The governor reached into his desk and grabbed a rolled map. He handed it to the Frenchman, and when he did, the Frenchman peeled the rings from his fingers. He picked Emer up and walked through the door, gently so she wouldn't hit her head.

When they were free of the stone building, the sun beat down on Emer's dying body and her head went limp. The Frenchman hurried to the dock, up the gangplank of his own frigate, the Chester Chester, and screamed for the ship's doctor. His first mate, the man Emer had once thought was his servant, reached out to help steady his captain.

"Hurry! The woman is dying!" the Frenchman cried. Emer lost consciousness again, puzzled at the irony that surrounded her-puzzled about how she should feel about her rescue-puzzled about what would become of her if she lived.

Fred Livingstone inspected his chin in the rearview mirror.

"That b.i.t.c.h," he said, rubbing the red mark where he'd collided with the head of his beautiful bikini girl.

You certainly made a mess of that, Fred.

"Shut up."

You looked like a creep.

"Just shut up."

You should watch where you're going, Fred. You never know who you'll b.u.mp into.

"You think this is funny then, do you?"

It is is funny. funny.

"Just shut up," Fred answered, and he turned on the radio.

He drove home and parked the car in the garage, went quickly to the bar in his office, and inspected his chin again in the mirror. He fixed himself a large drink and sat down on the nearest barstool, resting his head in his hand.

"I blew it."

No point in fretting, Fred. She'll be gone in a week or two. You'll find plenty more after that and forget she ever existed.

"No. She has to pay. She has to pay for turning me down. No woman ever turns me down!" He gulped from the gla.s.s. "I'll take her out and get her drunk. She'll fall for me then. They always do."

Fall over, you mean, right? Because of the drugs you put in her drink?

"Oh, shut up, will you? You're always mocking me, and where are your your good ideas? You never have anything good ideas? You never have anything good good to say, do you?" to say, do you?"

I said something good this morning.

"Oh, you did?"

Yeah. You should see a shrink.

Fred's voices were interrupted by a knock at the front door. He tried to see from the corner of his gla.s.s wall who it was, but the bougainvillea had outgrown its original position and now blocked his view, so he walked down the stairs and looked out the peephole in the door. There was no one there, so he returned to the office.

I was right, you know. You should should see a shrink. see a shrink.

Before he could answer, the knock sounded again. He went back downstairs and looked through the peephole again. Still, no one was there. He unbolted the door and opened it roughly, but saw nothing. He walked out to the patio and looked both ways. No one was there.

Hearing things, Fred?

"Oh, shut up. You heard it too."

He walked back to the office and sat in his leather chair, swigging a sip of his bourbon and melted ice and swirling the crystal gla.s.s around.

"She can't turn me down! Not after turning me down in the bank!"

She can and she will, Fred. You're wasting your time. She's a little girl. You're an old man.

"I'm middle-aged."

You're old. You're old and you're a queer.

"I'm-" Before Fred could answer, the knock came again. He raced down the stairs, growling, and swung the door open only to find Rusty, out of breath and wagging his tail.

"d.a.m.n you! f.u.c.king dog!" He brought the crystal gla.s.s down on the dog's head, shattering it. "You f.u.c.king a.s.shole!" he spat, kicking Rusty in the ribs. The dog jumped back up with a yelp and moved away. Fred pursued him and grabbed out for his neck. Rusty avoided each grope, one after the other, until Fred gave up and went back inside. He returned to his office, fixed another gla.s.s of bourbon, and sat down in his yellow chair. When he leaned back and closed his eyes, he pictured Saffron in her coral bikini, scolding him.

You shouldn't hit your dog like that.

"Let me make it up to you," he answered.

Make it up to me me?

"Let me take you to dinner."

She said you shouldn't hit the dog, Fred. She thinks you're an a.s.shole.

"Shut up and let her answer! You'll see!"

I think you're an a.s.shole.

"What?"

She put a hand on her slender hip. I said I think you're an a.s.shole. You shouldn't hit your dog. I said I think you're an a.s.shole. You shouldn't hit your dog.

See? I told you! She thinks you're an a.s.shole!

"No, you you think I'm an a.s.shole." think I'm an a.s.shole."

I do too, she agreed.

"Well, f.u.c.k you both, then. I'll show you just how big of an a.s.shole I can be."