"Madre mia! Blood everywhere! How can there be so much blood?" cried Carlos Armando Garcia as he crawled out of the sailboat’s innards.

    It was early morning and the sun had just begun to spread its warmth like a creamy flan over the palm trees and mountainous jungle beyond the marina. In a panic, he tore off his blood-splattered shirt and used water from the faucet at the dock box to try to wash the incriminating stains from his hands and chest. Nervously, his eyes searched everywhere to make sure he was not seen climbing the ramp leading up from the boat slips; then he quickly walked down the deserted malecón to his office. He fumbled with the key to the door under the sign "Dockmaster", entered, pushed the heavy slab of wood closed behind him, and threw the bolt. Swallowing back the sour taste welling up in his throat, his fingers trembled as he dialed the familiar number.

    "Tío, is that you?" Carlos screamed into the handset. "Come quick, por favor! I need your help."

    His favorite uncle, Rodrigo Fernando Garcia, the Comandante de Policía was not too happy that Carlos had awakened him from another sound and peaceful sleep.

    "What has my stupid nephew gotten himself into this time?" he muttered as he hung up the telephone and reluctantly rolled his portly body to the edge of the bed. Pulling his pants on, he remembered back to when Carlos was nineteen.

    Umberto, Rodrigo’s wealthy older brother, had sent Carlos to a private college in the United States to study English and learn about business management. At the hands of some very aggressive American coeds, the handsome young Mexican earned a reputation as a much better lover than a student. He was allowed to graduate only because Umberto contributed large sums of money to the school’s scholarship fund.

    "To think it was me who convinced Carlos to return to Mexico. What a joke," Rodrigo laughed out loud. "How was I to know I’d have to keep cleaning up the little pendejo’s messes? Sometimes I wish my brother had never made me his eyes and ears in this God forsaken village." Rodrigo slammed the door behind him as he cinched the buckle of his gun belt under his belly, tried to stuff his white shirt in place, and strode across the cobblestones toward his Chevy pickup.

    The small harbor facility, which Carlos operated for a multi-national company owned by his father, contained 176 slips and 30 moorings. During the boating season from November to May, an additional 15 to 20 sailboats of assorted sizes and shapes would anchor in the protected area just outside of the rock breakwater. They did this because the marina was full, or they were only passing through and wanted to stop for the night, or they could not afford to pay the marina’s high prices. Nestled against the sleepy little village of La Cruz de Huancaxtle on the northern shore of Banderas Bay, the marina was about ten nautical miles from the bustling Mexican tourist city of Puerto Vallarta.

    As dock master at Marina de La Cruz, Carlos Armando Garcia wanted very much not to disgrace his family again. Attempting to reform from his previous lifestyle, he had instituted rules against noise and partying after ten o’clock, and two security guards patrolled the docks twenty-four hours a day. As a result the place was known to be one of the quietest, safest, and best run marinas in all of Mexico, a reputation Carlos was very proud of. And now this terrible thing — everything was going to go down the toilet; he might even land in jail.

    While Carlos waited for his uncle to arrive, he changed into a clean uniform as images of the previous day ran unchecked through his brain.

***

    "Olla, Marina de La Cruz. This ‘ere’s the sailing vessel LOCH NESS. We’re a comin’ from La Paz. Would ja hae a slip for us?" The captain’s deep voice crackled over the VHF radio in the marina office, his accent a peculiar kind of English that Carlos didn’t encounter very often.

    "LOCH NESS this is Marina de La Cruz. What size is your vessel?" Carlos wondered why anyone would name his sailboat after a legendary monster? He made a mental note to ask the question later.

    The captain described LOCH NESS as a 34-foot ketch flying a South African flag. Carlos assigned him a slip on "C" dock and told him someone would be there to catch his lines.

    Carlos always made a point of personally greeting each new vessel as they arrived. So he and Francisco, one of the marina’s security guards, were standing on one side of slip "C-24" as the dirty emerald green hull moved slowly down the channel and made it’s turn into the fairway between "B" and "C" docks. The main and mizzen sails were tied sloppily along their respective booms. Most of the deck was littered with junk. Assorted pieces of clothing were clipped to the lifelines to dry. Grey smoke and sooty water belched out of the exhaust on the starboard side. Carlos had seen a lot of ragged cruising sailboats anchored outside from time to time, but this was the worst ever to enter the marina. He wondered if the owner of the battered vessel could afford the marina’s rates.

    Standing on the bow holding a docking line was a striking young woman with long blond hair and steel blue eyes. She wore frayed cut-off denim shorts that exposed too much skin and a skimpy white halter-top that barely covered her ample bosom. Next to her was a small wiry Terrier type dog, noisily barking away in an annoying high-pitched sound. At the back of the boat was a shirtless muscular young man with crew cut brown hair getting ready to throw the stern docking line. At the wheel was a stocky character with a gray beard and a belly that rolled over his belt. Carlos guessed the younger people were a traveling couple, probably crewing for the older man as a way to get from one place to another and see the world.

    "Go grab the stern, Francisco," Carlos addressed his guard in Spanish. "I’ll get the bow." He smiled and tipped the brim of his hat as he took the line from the woman.

    After he and Francisco had secured the boat, Carlos walked back towards the cockpit, greeted the stocky man in charge, and gave him his normal speech. His mind raced as he thought about how he would present the part of his marina rules, which didn’t allow for noisy dogs and any laundry to be displayed. He decided to approach the subject later.

    "Welcome to Marina de La Cruz, señor. My name is Carlos Garcia, dock master. May I present you with a gate key?" Hoping the woman on the bow was watching, Carlos made a flamboyant gesture and handed the key attached to a yellow cork float through the lifelines. "If you need more, you can pick them up when you register. How long are you going to be with us?"

    "Damn if ye don’t speak the King’s English! Wish me Spanish was as good." The captain reached across several empty plastic fuel jugs to shake Carlos’ hand. "Name’s Sean O’Donnell. She’s me mate Cindy and ‘at one’s me son Kevin. Dog’s name is Nessie ... the real Loch Ness monster." He laughed and took a juicy bite out of his chewing tobacco. "A nasty passage, it were. We’ll most likely stay a fortnight. Got to hae work done on the engine before movin’ on south to Costa Rica."

    "Well, glad you made it, Sean. Crossing the Sea of Cortez can get bumpy and uncomfortable this time of year."

    He looked at the woman on the bow again, the obnoxious mutt yipping away at her feet. Carlos had sure guessed this one wrong. Cindy was probably in her twenties and the captain was at least 50. Years of hard living and drinking showed in the puffiness of Sean’s face and the size of his gut. Carlos wondered how such a pretty young thing could be attracted to such an untidy character. For a moment he saw what looked like a diamond in her navel, reflecting in the sunlight. He thought it was a strange place for a woman to wear such an ornament. Carlos would never understand gringas and the unpredictable things they did.

    "Francisco will get all the information about your boat. My office is over there by the lighthouse. Please come up in the next hour and sign in. We close for siesta at two o’clock." Carlos had seen the likes of Sean before and he knew it was better to get business out of the way before the drinking lamp was lit. He particularly hoped to go over the rules while the chunky man was still sober. "You going to put this on a credit card?

    "Cash, mate. Pay everything with cash, you know. At’s me motto. Revenue boys ain’t gonna ever trace ya if ya settle everything for cash."

    Sean held his beard, turned to one side, made a hacking sound, and spit over the stern rail. Then with a jerk of his right hand, his teeth tore another chunk out of his Bull Durham puck. Brown juice from the tobacco sifted down through his whiskers, adding another spot to obscure the green shamrock on the filthy gray tee-shirt that barely covered his belly.

***

    Cindy’s eyes followed the handsome Mexican as he turned and walked away in the direction of the gangway. Carlos’ white shorts were neatly pressed and he wore a short-sleeved yellow shirt with the marina’s logo embroidered over the left pocket. Under his wide brimmed straw hat were laughing brown eyes and a pencil thin moustache. His body was tight and compact like a tennis player. She wondered for a fleeting moment if the stories she’d read about Latin lovers were really true.

    Cindy Baker was twenty-two years old and had left Ontario, Canada to see the world after she graduated from college. She and Sean O’Donnell had gotten together four months ago, before leaving San Diego. It was one of those silly things you do when you’re drunk and want to travel and you think the man’s got a big sailboat and lots of money. It was also one of those spontaneous actions you live to regret. She’d met him at a cruiser’s send-off picnic on Shelter Island. Similar parties were held every November and her American sailing friends had told her there were always skippers looking for crew to help with the trip south to Mexico. If she was lucky she might even get to go all the way to Panama and maybe on to the Caribbean.

    At the party Sean had been drinking ale from an old Celtic pewter mug and telling tales in his Scottish brogue about sailing from the South Pacific to the Hawaiian Islands and on to California. His stories and his unusual appearance had fascinated Cindy. At the time, Sean’s beard was neatly trimmed and he was smoking a pipe and he was wearing a Scottish kilt and a tam-o’-shanter with a feather in the center. She had never been attracted to an older man like she was to this one. His arms and legs were so strong and muscular. His stocky frame and the kilt minimized the belly. She was ecstatic when Sean asked her to join him on his sailboat with the idea of becoming crew for the trip south.

    She remembered it was getting to be dark and they were incredibly intoxicated when the Scotsman rowed them out through the moored boats to where LOCH NESS was anchored. The small dinghy almost capsized twice. Each time when this happened, Sean laughed a roguish laugh and slapped his thigh. Cindy remembered the old saloon song and was certain he wasn’t wearing anything under his plaid kilt. When they got to the boat, she found out she was right. Sean’s sole criteria for selecting female crew, was how good they behaved in the bunk. That night Cindy tried to meet all of Sean’s expectations. It was no small task because he was an extremely virile and sexually demanding man. Their drunkenness helped.

    In the morning when the winter sunlight flooded through an open porthole and exposed her surroundings, Cindy wondered what she had gotten herself into. Sean’s hairy naked body lay next to her smooth creamy skin and they were crowded into the small vee-berth in the bow of the boat. There were no bed covers and she realized she was shivering from the cold. Sean was snoring and a dog was barking frantically outside. Cindy hadn’t noticed the dog last night, but in her intoxicated condition that wasn’t too surprising. She pulled her nightshirt back on and looked around the cluttered vessel, searching for the head.

    When she came out of the cramped toilet, Sean was awake. He wanted to have sex again and this time his demands turned ugly. When she said she didn’t feel good, Sean slapped Cindy on the side of her face and called her vulgar names. She thought her jaw was coming unhinged - it hurt so badly. He told her he was going to row ashore with the dog and go get his son at the airport. He yelled at her and said she better have the boat cleaned up when they returned. He had her Canadian passport in his possession and would report her to the US Immigration authorities and the police if she tried to jump ship. He’d say she had stolen something. Besides, the swim to Shelter Island was a long one and the water was very cold this time of year. Cindy, emotionally exhausted, cried for a very long time after Sean left.

***

    Young Kevin O’Donnell fell hopelessly in love with Cindy the moment he laid eyes on her. The voyage from San Diego down to Cabo San Lucas and then up to La Paz and finally across to the Mexican mainland, was pure torture. Initially, the crew was to be just Sean and Kevin - father and son. They had been estranged for a very long time and Sean had coerced Kevin into taking a year off work so they could spend some time together "for ol’ times sake" as he put it. They were going to sail to Mexico and eventually end up in the Caribbean, wherever the wind in their sails took them.

    When the two arrived at the boat, Kevin wasn’t surprised to find Cindy on board. Kevin remembered his father as an invincible soldier of fortune and a charismatic womanizer. All it would have taken was for Sean to meet the woman in a bar somewhere. His father had been chasing after skirts as far back as he could remember. The older O’Donnell would disappear for months at a time without telling his wife and son. They always suspected he was going somewhere to engineer a car bombing for some political organization wanting to make a statement, or traveling to unheard of places to train an army to fight private battles for rebel governments. He had boasted many times about making huge sums of money this way, most of which he said was deposited in secret bank accounts in Panama or the Caribbean.

    After they sailed out of San Diego, Kevin tried to get into the routine of shipboard life. He wanted to ignore the sounds of reluctant lovemaking, which periodically came from the forward bunk below. Sometimes he let himself imagine how it would be if he was the one with Cindy, instead of his father. Trimming the sails and standing watch for hours at a time seemed to make the days and nights go by faster.

    In spite of the good weather, the older O’Donnell appeared to be sullen and inebriated most of the time. He yelled at Cindy to do this and to do that and complained about the food she cooked and her appearance. Even though Kevin tried to ignore his father’s unpleasant treatment of such a beautiful woman, he couldn’t. Too many times in the past, he had seen Sean treat others, including his mother, in the same brutal fashion. Like a horrible monster crawling out of a swamp, his old feelings of anger for his father began to surface again.

    Now that they were finally tied to a dock in Marina de La Cruz, the younger O’Donnell vowed to help Cindy escape. He had seen the pleading look in her eyes many times during the voyage. He hoped she had the same feelings about him as he did for her. He knew that hidden somewhere on board the vessel was Sean’s money cache and their passports and visas. Kevin would find the purse and only take what they needed. They would leave LOCH NESS together, tonight after Sean became drunk and passed out, if she’d agree. Of course she’d agree — she would be silly not to.

***

    Late in the afternoon there was talk around the marina about a funny looking gringo buying rounds of drinks for everyone in Drake’s Cantina. The saloon was located just one cobblestone street east of the small town square and had the reputation of being a raunchy sailor’s hangout. A New Zealander and his wife, who had come into Banderas Bay several years ago on a catamaran, ran it. Carlos knew the owner, Terry Blevins, to be a red headed fellow with an uncontrollable streak of jealousy and a nasty temper. At thirty-eight years old, Terry had been a prizefighter in his previous life and the scars on his face and his twisted nose bore testimony to how tough he really was. His voluptuous wife Sandra acted as barmaid and liked to flirt. She always wore a colorful short pleated skirt and white peasant blouse, which accentuated her ample figure. Terry was known to get into a knuckle buster at least once a week with a new unsuspecting male customer who wanted to feel the merchandise and see how far Sandra would go.

    Unfortunately, being a marina manager also involved some diligence on his part. So before he closed for the evening, Carlos decided to send one of the security guards back down to LOCH NESS to ask Cindy or Kevin to come up to meet with him. While Sean was away drinking, he’d read them the riot act and expect them to get Sean to report to his office in the morning. He’d tell them, if Sean didn’t show up to pay his bill, Carlos would file a complaint with the Mexican authorities and have the Navy impound the vessel.

    "There is no one on the boat, señor Garcia," came the guard’s voice in Spanish over the marina’s radio. "I knocked on the side of the hull several times and no one is there."

    Carlos smiled as he thought to himself, "It is much better for Sean O’Donnell to get drunk and rowdy at Drake’s tonight rather than on the dock in my marina." Carlos was a lover, not a fighter, and Terry would deal with Sean in a manner that Sean would understand.

***

    Terry Blevins had seen men like Sean O’Donnell in his establishment many times before. As with most bartenders, he never touched the alcohol he dispensed and he secretly felt he was better than his patrons who couldn’t control their drinking. Bartenders also tend to act as a kind of Father Confessor and after several years of hearing the same stories over and over the role tends to become boring. From what he was hearing from this one, he figured Sean might have been a tough formidable soldier at one time, probably a real scrapper when he was younger. Now, the man was just a worn out blustery blowhard running from a reckless past that had finally caught up with him. Short of suicide, getting drunk was the only way out — the only way to numb the memories and dull the nightmares. Sean had been trying to drink away any sense of responsibility for his past life since the middle of the afternoon. In a peculiar way, Terry felt sorry for him.

    To see a Scotsman in Drake’s Cantina, sitting with his elbows up on the bar and his little dog at his feet, was quite the scene. Sean had cleaned up to some degree and was wearing his Tartan kilt, leather Sporran, and a tam-o’-shanter with a tassel in the center. He owned three of the knitted hats and they were amongst his few prized possessions. Terry used to think colorful drunks like this one were entertaining, but not any more.

    They were predictable, though. Early in the evening they would tend to tell tales of great daring and laugh easily and buy a round of drinks if they thought the guy on the next stool would listen. Soon the stories would start describing female conquests and get explicit and lewd. By the end of the night, before passing out, the inebriated patron would become belligerent and want to fight with everyone - if he lasted that long.

    As time wore on, Terry became impressed with Sean’s capacity for alcohol and the size of his bankroll. He seemed to slug one drink down right after the other, and he was paying with cash – greenbacks, good old American dollars. Most of Drake’s regular customers tried to get their booze on credit.

    Then, the unthinkable happened. It was early in the morning and getting close to closing time when Sean started making passes at Terry’s wife. He put a big hand on her behind and she laughed and threw her head back and turned away. With this, things began to get crazy. Terry got angry and lost control.

    "You bastard!" The New Zealander threw his apron down and came around the end of the bar in a fit of rage. "Keep your filthy rotten mitts to yourself!"

    Sean’s little dog, which had been quiet up until now, started growling and nipping at Terry’s feet. Terry gave Nessie a cruel kick that sent the Terrier yelping across the bar room floor.

    "Ye ain’t gonna treat me Nessie like that." Sean came off his bar stool swinging and punched Terry in the gut.

    What happened next was tragic. Sean, in his drunken state, was no match for the sober ex-prizefighter. Terry jabbed one fist after another into Sean’s puffy face and bearded chin until the aging Scotsman was cut and bleeding. His humiliation became complete when Terry threw him out of the Cantina and onto the cobblestone street. Sean picked himself up and vowed to come back and kill the bartender. Terry pitched the knit cap at the beaten man like a Frisbee and said that was just fine with him.

***

    Rodrigo parked his truck behind the marina office, rolled up the windows, and began to open the door. Carlos came running toward him with a VHF radio in his hand.

    "Okay, nephew. What’s up? What’s the panic?"

    "Listen, Tío." Carlos thrust the radio toward Rodrigo. "First thing this morning, I told Francisco to go to this boat and bring the man, drunk or sober, up to pay his bill. When no one responded to pounding on the hull, except a crying dog, the guard notified my office by radio." Carlos stopped for a moment and gasped for air. "Francisco climbed on board to see what was causing the dog such pain. When he looked below, my guard became ill and almost passed out. Someone has been murdered!"

    "Okay, calm down. Let’s go have a look."

    Sean O’Donnell, lying dead on the teak wood floor inside his boat, had a chrome Beretta pistol, fitted with a silencer, in his right hand and a hole in his chest. Blood and clutter was everywhere, like someone had been searching for something. The dog was pinned underneath Sean’s lifeless carcass with a bullet through her back and whimpering a mournful sound. Precious red fluid slowly drained from their bodies, leaking through the floorboards and into the bilge.

    Since the dead man was a foreigner, Rodrigo called in the Federales. And the coroner, Rodrigo’s other brother who was also the undertaker, came up from Puerto Vallarta.

    "Tío, I can’t handle watching this," Carlos said. "I’ll be in my office."

    "Okay, if you wish. But, do not leave, sobrino. I may need to talk to you." Rodrigo shook his head and began walking from boat to boat, asking questions.

    "I think I saw Kevin, Sean’s son, leaving around four o’clock yesterday afternoon." one of the other boaters on "C" dock said, sticking his head out from under a gray cockpit awning. "It didn’t look like he was coming back either, because he was carrying two rather large canvas sea bags, one in each hand. I ain’t seen Kevin or Cindy since."

    "Can you describe them?"

    "Sure can. She was a looker, a ten, and he was just an average guy with a crew cut."

    Rodrigo continued to search the docks. Gradually he was able to piece together better descriptions. He wanted to question Cindy and Kevin in the worst way. Meanwhile, the coroner dusted the inside of the boat for fingerprints. Smudges everywhere, though many good ones were found, including some that matched Carlos. Rodrigo did not like where this was going. He had to find Cindy and Kevin. It was becoming obvious they had fled, and he wanted to know why?

    Rodrigo had also heard the stories about Sean being a soldier of fortune and, since he was such a big spender at Drake’s Cantina that night, there might have been a huge stash of money hidden somewhere on board his boat. Somebody in the bar could have followed Sean back to the marina and tried to find the loot — but who? Even though a thorough search of LOCH NESS revealed nothing of value, Rodrigo was still determined to find out if anything was missing.

    In the back of his mind, though, the suspicion that his nephew was also somehow involved gnawed at Rodrigo. Could Carlos really be the killer? No — he was his brother’s only son, and Umberto was a very powerful and wealthy man — this could leave Rodrigo with an unfortunate moral dilemma. When the investigation was over, there was no conclusive evidence pointing to the murderer, only proof on Sean’s hand that he had fired the gun, so Rodrigo made sure the authorities ruled the death to be a suicide. At least that would give him some time, and in Manaña Land time was always on his side.

    Some of the cruisers took up a collection and buried Sean and Nessie in the village cemetery behind the Catholic Church. Afterward, rumors ran out of control throughout the foreign boating community. Some were convinced it was murder and wanted to mount their own investigation. The prime suspects were Cindy, Kevin and Terry, depending on whom you talked to.

    After a year or so, the gossip mill quieted down. Neither Kevin nor Cindy ever came back to claim the vessel, so it was finally towed out of the marina. LOCH NESS is probably still rafted along side the other small derelict boats in the fleet of confiscated drug vessels anchored in front of the Mexican Navy base — if it hasn’t sunk.

    Today, life in the sleepy little village of La Cruz de Huancaxtle has pretty well gotten back to normal. Sailors from all over the world continue to drink to forget their past mistakes at Drake’s Cantina, and Marina de La Cruz still retains its reputation for being one of the quietist and safest harbors in all of Mexico. Nothing has really changed – nothing that is, except for Carlos Armando Garcia.

***

    One hot Saturday afternoon, a year later, as had become their custom, Carlos and Rodrigo sat in one of the malecón restaurants, watching the marina and drinking beer.

    "You know, nephew, if it wasn’t for your father’s money and influence, you might be rotting in jail," Rodrigo grinned, as he squeezed a lime into the neck of his Pacifico. He had been badgering Carlos for months. "Don’t you think you should tell me the entire story of what really happened?"

    Carlos took a gulp from his bottle and set it back on the wet ring left on the table. "Si, Tío. I do," he said with a groan. He had endured enough.

    Rodrigo put both hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, smiling, ready to listen to what he already knew.

***

    It was around eight o’clock on that ill-fated night. After he had locked up his office, Carlos decided to walk the docks like he always did before going home. When he got to "C" dock, he noticed the interior lights were shining on LOCH NESS. He went over to check to see if anyone had returned. When he pounded on the hull, he was surprised to see Cindy stick her head up through the companionway.

    "Carlos, what a nice surprise." She was wearing a short filmy dress that looked more like a nightgown and her eyes projected a hurt and a yearning that Carlos found hard to resist. "Please come on board. I’m making myself a margarita. Would you like one?"

    "Sure. But only one." He normally would not go aboard any yacht in his marina, especially if the owner wasn’t there. But, for some reason this night was different, and he broke his rule. Besides, he was very intrigued and wanted to find out more about this gringa with a glittering stone in her navel.

    He could see that Cindy had obviously spent the afternoon cleaning up the inside of the boat. Carlos wondered why she hadn’t answered his security guard when he knocked on the hull earlier, but he didn’t ask. Anyway, the orderly cabin was a great improvement over the cluttered decks outside. They drank margaritas, Cindy snuggled up close to him, and Carlos didn’t resist - she was so available and smelled so nice.

    When Sean arrived back at his boat in the early morning hours he found the two of them naked and furiously making love in the forward vee-berth. In his drunken stupor he first thought it was his son Kevin cheating on him. He became outraged, lifted the navigation desk top, pulled the Beretta out and fired a shot in their direction. The little dog, standing on her hind legs, had positioned her front paws up against the bunk and was barking incessantly at the two lovers. The stray bullet slammed into Nessie’s back and she crumpled to the floor whimpering.

    Carlos discovered he was looking into the silencer of the small pistol as he pulled his pants on. Cindy held a portion of the sheet tight to her breasts and cowered behind the bedclothes, screaming. Carlos lunged at Sean and struggled with him for the weapon, hoping desperately that it wouldn’t go off again. Sean was weak from the fight at Drake’s Cantina and Carlos was able to control the chunky man, keeping the weapon between them, and pushing it away from his own chest. As the two men struggled, Sean tripped over his wounded dog and fell backward against the bunk. His arm hit the bulkhead and the pistol flew out of his hand, landing somewhere in the middle of the cabin. Carlos broke away from the Scotsman’s grip and landed butt first on the floor. His back was toward Kevin, who had just climbed down the companionway ladder. He didn’t see the younger O’Donnell pick up the gun until it was too late.

    Kevin’s hand shook and he was muttering something that Carlos couldn’t make out. The silenced Beretta popped again blowing a hole through Sean’s heart and splattering blood all over the Scotsman’s shirt and Carlos. The surprised Mexican, dazed and horrified, slid himself backward trying to get away from the dying man. The interior of the boat seemed to be spinning and he felt nauseous.

    For some reason, that Carlos didn’t quite understand, Cindy wasn’t crying any more. She had dressed, and without showing any emotion, she reached over the dead Scot’s kilt and unhooked the leather and fur Sporran pouch that looked like a purse. Then she carefully placed the gun back in Sean’s hand. Meanwhile Kevin overturned the settee cushions until he found the package he was looking for. There was no expression of any kind as the two quickly left the boat carrying only the pouch and package. Carlos thought it strange they didn’t have any luggage. He thought he heard Cindy speaking to Kevin outside on the dock and then came the laughter as the sounds moved away.

***

    The next day, Rodrigo went back to re-interview a sailing couple who had told him they remembered LOCH NESS from Cabo San Lucas and thought they saw Kevin and Cindy in Manzanillo on another boat. The name of the boat was "HARMONY" and a call to the Port Captain confirmed it was still anchored outside Marina Las Hadas. The Manzanillo Port Captain agreed to make sure the vessel and its crew would not leave until Rodrigo could get there.

Author's Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.