She sat on the wide sill, grasped her knees and listened, her heavy pistol in her lap. She looked at her fancy weapon and smiled. It was loaded but no... primed. Useless. Her feet were cold, bare and cold. Moses is shot, probably dead. They want to kill me, I'm sure of it. Who are they? Friends of the man I shot? She shook her head. No, they're younger, that vulgar macaroni's pals, his friends. I'd bet on it. She nodded and fought to control her breathing, setting her gun aside.All they heard was. Not motorboat race. As soon as you started your engine you disqualified yourself."Up top, Grace hollered from the masthead, "Unless you were getting out of the way of a Laker or a Saltie."Her voice, filtered down through the dense fog, had a ghostly muffled echo to it."I know what a Laker is, what's a Saltie?" Ocean going vessel ... about 5000 tons, up the SaintLawrence river to Montreal, through the Casson Canal, they call it the Lachine Canal now." Grace hollered."Fuck!!" Are you going back. More

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