Demon Lover by Kathleen Creighton

weak and her hands shaky, but she managed to get silently to her feet and back to the beach before collapsing onto the sand beyond the rocky point, out of sight of the camper.
    Oh God, she prayed silently, what am I going to do?
    It was so much worse than she had imagined. Not coyotes—terrorists. Who were they? Leftists? From Central America? Cuba? Not that it mattered. All that mattered was that a squad of guerrillas planned to launch a terrorist attack on the Pan American Exposition in Los Angeles. And she was the only hope of preventing it.
    A gust of wind buffeted gently against her back, lifting sand to sting her bare ankles. Julie drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees as she gazed across the little bay toward the beached boats. Dangerous or not, those boats were still her only chance. It was hard to judge from a distance how big and heavy they were, and she didn’t dare go closer. They had outboard motors but didn’t look very large. Could one person launch one of them? The surf was very flat; even with the wind kicking up white caps the waves slapped gently at the sand. If she could just get a boat to the water’s edge…
    There was a burst of masculine laughter, and the camper door banged shut. Julie stayed crouched where she was, and after a while the three men appeared on the opposite curve of the bay, making their way down the beach toward the boats. There were shouts, and a fourth man emerged from a wooden hut in the main cluster of dwellings to join them—an older man, this one, with gray hair and a beard. The child Julie had seen earlier skipped at his heels, and several dogs dashed in joyful circles, scattering the seabirds and kicking up sand.
    Her heart sinking, Julie watched strong men put their shoulders and backs into the launching, two to a boat. How foolish she was to think she could manage it alone. Once the boats were afloat the men still pushed, wading in the shallows, guiding them through the gentle surf to water deep enough to float the outboard motors. And then at last, perhaps a hundred yards out, the motors were lowered, the men scrambled aboard, and the racket of small diesel engines ricocheted off the rocks at Julie’s back. The fishing boats aimed for the hazy island shape on the horizon, followed by a screeching, wheeling cloud of seabirds and the frenzied yipping of the dogs.
    Julie got to her feet, absently brushing sand from her rear end and shading her eyes against the sun. As she moved slowly down the beach, she gazed thoughtfully after the disappearing fishermen.
    So the bay was shallow. Another reason why it wasn’t a thriving fishing or tourist spot? Not more than knee–deep, even a hundred yards out. It must be low tide now.
    Julie moved closer to the beached boats. The child and the dogs had gone back up the beach to disappear among the huts. The seabirds, those too complacent to follow the fishermen, had settled back on the gunwales of the remaining boats and ignored Julie as she wandered among them. Only one or two were discomfited when she bent to put her shoulder against the bow of their roost and give it a hopeless push.
    To her surprise and delight, and to the disgust of the birds, it moved.
    She pushed harder, and the heavy wooden boat slid a good foot toward the water. Julie knelt and brushed away the sand beneath the boat’s keel and discovered a layer of poles—a rolling platform. A launching ramp!
    By God, she could do it! It was only a few feet to the water, and with one of those poles as a lever, she could do it. She must do it, and soon.
Tonight.
She would need food, drinking water or beer.
Rita.
She would need to get help from Rita, or at least learn from her where the camp stores were kept. Tonight she would head north, toward San Felipe.
    Julie’s stomach gave a loud rumble, reminding her of more immediate needs, and she almost laughed aloud with the exhilaration she felt at the thought of finally taking