Dan Fairview [Fairview - Finding Vengeance

J ohn Finder pulled a hunk of raw fish from the bucket and slapped it onto the cutting board. Gentle waves slapped the hull of the boat as gulls called to one another overhead like a crowd of excited men telling their buddies about free beer. Viata's second moon, Banta, made its way down as the sun peeked over the horizon. John paused for a moment to take it in. It promised to be a beautiful day, except for the lone dark cloud that loomed ominously behind him.

Sunrise and sunset were his favorite time of day. There was something about beginnings and endings. The anticipation of things to come and the wonder of what's next had kept him moving forward ever since the death of his wife Melanie. Grief had threatened to capsize and drown him many times since then, but some days, he believed the worst was behind him. Today was one of those days.

The boat rocked gently as John chunked up the fish to use as bait. The rhythm of his strokes added a counterpoint to the cry of the gulls. He tossed a few of the smaller chunks to the gulls who swooped gleefully to retrieve them, then hooked a large piece on the end of each of the two poles he had waiting. He scraped the mess that was left on the cutting board into a bucket. The odor of fish guts mingling with the smell of fuel filled John's nostrils. He dipped his hands into a bucket of seawater to rinse, then used his wrist to rub the itching scar on his nose. He was tempted to wipe his hands down the front of his charcoal gray Barnacle Bill tee shirt but didnt. He pulled a rag from the back pocket of his brown cargo shorts and used that to dry his hands instead.

You about done there? Kurt asked.

Just about, John said. Thanks again for inviting me.

The fighting chair protested and squeaked as Kurt rose and faced John. He rubbed his graying beard. Anytime, son, anytime. Its good to have the company.

Kurt wore rugged blue jeans with a white tee shirt, stained from rubbing his hands along the hem. The end of a red bandana poked out of his shirt pocket. He pulled it out to dab his forehead.

John set their poles into holders and was about to say something when he was distracted by loud music carried across the water from an approaching boat. A blood-red speedboat dropped to an idle about eight hundred yards out.

Kurt shuffled over next to John. Would you just look at that! All this water and he has to stop here.

John grunted and shaded his eyes, trying to get a look at the person in the speedboat. John was facing the sun, so the glare made it impossible to see clearly. A muscular figure raised a long object, putting it to his shoulder.

John ducked instinctively, pulling Kurt to the deck.

What the... Kurt tried to say, but the fall knocked the wind from him.

A projectile struck the boat, sending shards of wood and fiberglass spraying into the air.

Whoever it is isn't much of a shot, John thought.

An engine roared to life, and John jumped up as the boat raced away. He helped Kurt to his feet. Scarlet blood dripped from Kurts grizzled nose staining his shirt, and John rushed to the rear of the boat to grab a clean rag. When he came back, Kurt already had his bandana pressed to his nose and was calling the Shore Patrol on his comm unit. John wordlessly handed Kurt the rag, who nodded.

When Kurt finished his call, he asked, Why would that guy take a shot at us?

John's eyes drifted to the deck. I'm afraid he was trying to kill me.

Kurt gave him a long look. Why?

Its a long story. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you in danger.

Kurt waved that away. I didn't think that for a minute. You being an ex-detective, youre probably used to being shot at, but its a new sensation to me.

They sat down on a bench seat, and Kurt checked to see if the bleeding had stopped. It had slowed.

There was a long silence.

Sorry about the nose, John finally said.

You probably saved my life. Whoever that was couldve just as easily hit me. Kurt leaned back against the seat and tilted his head back.

John agonized silently over putting Kurt in danger. He had hoped to put the events of the last few months behind him, but had been a fool to think Dick Taylor would give up and leave him alone. He should have known better and not accepted Kurt's invitation. A knot formed in his gut.

As they waited for Shore Patrol to arrive, the single storm cloud overhead rumbled and dumped marble-sized raindrops, soaking them.

* * *

John waved as Kurt pulled away from the dock below Barnacle Bill's bar. The drone of his engine slowly faded as he headed out into the blue-green waters of the bay. John glanced toward his own boat at the end of the dock, where he had been living for the past couple of months. Everything seemed fine.

The ride back had dried his clothes and it was lunchtime, so John climbed the path to the bar to get a bite to eat and say hello to his friends.

Bill's place was John's favorite hangout. He loved the relaxed tiki bar atmosphere. He had stumbled on it by chance a few days after arriving on Viata and the staff had quickly adopted him. They were his second family, especially since he had sent his daughter, Clarissa, to stay with his sister on Earth.

He picked his usual table next to the kitchen door and sat on a creaky wicker chair. From this position, he had a good view of the place and across the bay. The sound of customers conversations filled his ears like the buzzing of gnats.

Sabrina, Bill's newest bartender, brought a bottle of cold water and set it down in front of him. She wiped moisture from her hand onto her shorts and unconsciously adjusted the knot she had tied her shirt into that exposed her navel. A sharp clatter of dishes caused her to flinch and turn in the direction of the kitchen. She turned back to John, smiling and shaking her head. The pencil holding up her brown hair threatened to slip free.

What can I get you?

I'll need something stronger to drink, he said, and can you get me a bowl of clam chowder?

Sure. Coming right up.

She came back with a shot of rum, and John enjoyed his chowder and considered what to do about his problem. He could pack up and go back to Earth, but that seemed cowardly. Besides, he liked it here. The heat suited him, and he had total freedom to live by his own rules here. No, he would stay and fight, and he was forming an idea of how to handle it.

The owner, Bill, came over and pulled up a chair next to him. He was a large, virile man, a good six inches taller than John. He wore a crisp white apron over Bermuda shorts and a loud, floral button-up shirt. John had never been able to reconcile the mans style with his personality.