Third Strike by Philip R. Craig

shady and dangerous, and you can’t ignore it.”
    â€œI guess you’re right,” he said. “I couldn’t ignore it. So I told you. I did my civic duty. So will you do it?”
    â€œMe?” I shook my head. “Oh no. Not me. Us. Whether you like it or not, we’re going to handle this together.”
    He shook his head. “Aw, man…”
    â€œYou and me, Larry.”
    â€œNot if I don’t want to. And I don’t. I don’t want to. You can’t make me.”
    â€œYou want to be responsible for somebody getting blown up or something? Is your—your anonymity, or whatever you call it, your privacy—is that worth it?”
    He looked at me, then shrugged. “Yeah, I guess I knew you were gonna say that. Okay, then. What are we going to do?”
    â€œRight now,” I said, “we’re going to go to sleep. It’s the middle of the night, and that wine has reached my brain.”
    Larry gave me a crooked smile. “Mine, too. Whew.”
    â€œTomorrow night,” I said, “we’ll go back to the pond, hide in the bushes. I’ll bring my cell phone. If that boat comes in, we’ll call the Coast Guard.”
    â€œWhat if they don’t show up?”
    â€œWe’ll go to the Coast Guard anyway, tell them your story.”
    â€œYou could go back to the pond without me,” said Larry. “I showed you how to get there.”
    â€œMaybe I could. But I’m not going to. It’s gonna be you and me.”
    â€œYou don’t understand,” he said. “I need my life to be simple. I need my privacy. I can’t—”
    â€œThink of it this way,” I said. “If I go there without you, and if they spot me and catch me and shoot me, how will you feel?”
    â€œOh, man,” he said. “I just wish to hell I’d never gone flounder fishing that night.”
    â€œWe’ll take care of it in the morning,” I said. “Right now, I’ve got to go to sleep.”
    â€œYou take the bed.” He pointed his chin at the bed. It wasn’t much bigger than a cot, but it had what looked like a clean blanket and a plumped-up pillow on it.
    â€œWhat about you?” I said. “I can’t take your only bed.”
    â€œI sleep outside in the hammock in the summer.”
    â€œWill you feel, um, safe, sleeping outside?”
    He smiled. “Rocket will be with me. He’s not much of a watchdog, but he’ll howl like crazy if he hears noises in the night. You ever hear a basset howl?”
    I smiled. “Doesn’t it get a little chilly for sleeping outside this time of year?”
    â€œThat’s how I like it.” He stood up, staggered, and braced his hand against the wall. “Wow. My wine’s pretty good, huh?”
    I stood up, too. When the room began to spin, I sat down again. “Your wine,” I said, “is positively lethal.”
    He grinned.
    I stood up again, more carefully this time, and after a moment the room righted itself.
    Larry and I went outside and peed in the yard. The sky was bottomless and full of stars, and the air was chilly.
    â€œSure you’ll be all right,” I said, “sleeping outdoors?”
    â€œI’m used to it.” Larry grinned. “All that wine, I bet I could sleep through a nor’easter.”
    After we zipped up, he said, “I don’t want to talk to anybody, Brady. Do I have to?”
    â€œI’ll be with you,” I said. “It’ll be okay.”
    He nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I trust you.” He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me hard. “Thanks, man.”
    I patted his back. “It’s what lawyers are for.”
    Then I staggered inside and went to bed.

Chapter Five
    J.W.
    F ather Georgio Zapata headed one of the dozen or so small churches on the island that offered religious services to the growing Vineyard population of people of