Free Ocean Burning by Henry Carver

Purple creaked serenely as it swayed like a hammock in the breeze.
    I tiptoed down the hall, pushed at the third door down. It lead to the second guest stateroom. The room sat all the way up at the bow and had an odd triangular shape that made it smaller than the other guest room. It reminded me of the fourth bedroom of a three bedroom house, up in some kind of converted attic and dormered to the point of being uncomfortable. Our new guests were sharing this narrow room, but so far I hadn’t heard any complaints.
    The door knob twisted in my hand, then ground to a halt short of a quarter-turn.
    The bastards had locked it, I realized. The keys to the rooms were hung on a hook inside each, labeled clearly, as the doors couldn’t be locked even from the inside without one. Since no one was in there, the door must have been locked from the outside, the key pocketed. Rigger or Carlos must have it tucked safely away somewhere. I had no extras, except in my locker back at the marina. No one had ever lost one before. Of course, if they had I would have just kicked the door in. Boat doors are paper thin, designed for privacy more than security, with an eye on keeping down the weight.
    For a second I thought about doing just that, breaking it down. Even my thin-soled shoes would smash it to pieces at a stroke. I needed to be a little more discrete than that, I knew. Coming back to the door broken down would send the wrong message to Rigger and Carlos. And if this suspicious feeling in my gut amounted to anything, keeping those two in the dark would be more important than ever.
    I probed the edge of the thin wood with my fingers, searching for a tiny gap though which I might reach the latch, but the door melted into the bulkhead just as though they had been made as a single piece. There had never been a need to jimmy the lock before; I had no idea how.
    I needed the key.
    Each stair on the way back up on deck seemed to groan under my weight. Up in the sun, I glanced quickly towards the beach.
    No change there. Carmen had flipped onto her back, but Ben hadn’t moved.
    I used each foot on the other and pushed my canvas boat shoes off by their heels. Barefoot, I made slow progress along the narrow port walkway, pressing myself into the shadows there. The boat turned a bit on her anchor line and my hiding place swung out into the sun. With no other choice, I moved out fast and low, taking quick, muffled strides.
    Rigger still snored in my drinking chair, his face turning red either from burn or booze. I had to hope he had the key—if it was in Carlos’s pocket I would lose my only chance—and that I could find it without waking him up.
    Keys are often kept in the same pocket. The particular pocket varies from person to person, but that same pocket is always reserved for keys, even between pieces of clothing. I had noticed on myself that it was the left front pocket, because it was secure (and so made them hard to lose) and because I was left-handed. And because no one likes to sit on a set of keys. Rigger’s arm in a sling limited him to one side. His right arm was free, so the keys would be on that side.
    My legs spread wide underneath me as I crouched, balance my highest priority. I needed to lean over him but not touch him in any way. I stood four feet away, then two feet, and finally I was standing right over him.
    The boat twisted on her anchor line again. We rotated, and my shadow passed over Rigger’s face. He stopped snoring.
    I froze.
    Rigger snuffled at the air, a wildebeest spooked by a scent, and for a moment I felt sure to be caught. Then he settled his weight to one side, let out a great sigh, and started to snore again.
    His right side lay a bit lower now, a little more under him, but it seemed I could get to it. I reached out and slipped my index and middle finger into his pocket. I pushed them in, and felt nothing.
    The pocket was tight, and I waited for Rigger to exhale. Just then, I pushed them in a little farther.