The Raft

  #

  For all parties concerned, it was lucky break that the Senator happened to be out of town when Horus jumped the six-foot fence surrounding his home, brandishing a .45.

  The maid who was home, however, was almost terrified beyond her wits at the sight of Horus the Brontosaurus storming into the spacious home, waving around a gun and demanding an audience with the Senator.

  He triggered a number of silent alarms. The Seattle Police responded, and after a brief fifteen-minute hostage situation, Horus surrendered without firing a shot. Cuffed and dejected, they took Horus, barefoot, downtown for processing, where he promptly refused to answer any questions until he'd first spoken to his Magistrate.

  The police provided Horus with his constitutionally guaranteed Public Defender, but Horus was adamant: he'd speak to no one other than his Magistrate. It baffled the police. Magistrate? They decided to treat the demand like a request for an attorney. At least that they had a protocol for.

  All this came to Rachael over the phone from her husband – officially, as a Seattle Police Detective.

  Two in the afternoon had come and passed as the Soft Cell floated adrift in the currents of the Sound, a good distance away from the Kalakala and its slowly reconstructing protective island. With the Coast Guard gone, the Rafters began to return, wary, but eager to get back to business.

  The Soft Cell was heading for no place in particular, floating free. Maggie was below deck catching up on the television broadcast news as Rachael, on deck, perched in the pulpit with her iPhone at her ear.

  “So this clown is letting no light in,” Peter said over the phone. “Guy breaks into the home of a sitting US Senator, and now he thinks he can make demands... crazy, anyway, no one here can make heads or tails of what he's talking about. He wants his Magistrate, whatever that means, before he'll give a statement.”

  “It's Maggie. Maggie is his Magistrate. At least one of them.”

  “Well good,” Peter sighed. “At least now we know that much. What is she? Some sort of lawyer? I thought you said she was the Raft police?”

  “No, neither... well, both. It's hard to explain.”

  “But this is the guy, right? The one you told me keep an eye out for? The guy who killed that Rafter girl?”

  “Yes, it's him.”

  “Then, ask and ye shell receive, my love: he's sitting in a holding cell as we speak.”

  “Thank you, Peter,” Rachael said truthfully.

  “So, when can Maggie come sort this guy out? The sooner he tells us why he broke into Senator Hadian's house with an automatic, the sooner we can charge him with attempted murder.”

  “Well...” Rachael looked over her shoulder towards the companionway. “Well, she can't.”

  “Huh?” Peter grunted over the phone.

  “She's a Rafter, Peter.”

  “I thought you were trying to get her off, before the Raft exploded? Well, this is a perfect opportunity.”

  “I know, but she won't come ashore. She won't give up her exempt status simply because you caught Horus.”

  “But isn't that all just bullshit?”

  “Yes, but not to Maggie – not to all these Rafters. They really think they're exempt from the law. As I said, they're crazy. You should have seen them a few hours ago, they caught sight of an IRS Agent... they're not scared of the FBI, men with rifles, but the IRS...”

  “Well, she'll have to make an exception. If she's this guy's lawyer...”

  “You'll need to work out some sort of amnesty. Like diplomatic immunity.”

  Peter laughed. “You're kidding, right?”

  “No, seriously. Talk to that FBI guy, Galahad. Who just came out here with all the warrants. You know who he is?”

  “Kid Galahad? Sure.”

  “Well, he and Maggie struck up some sort of rapport. Get him to set up a twenty-four hour amnesty.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “'Cause twenty minutes alone with Maggie and this guy will confess to shooting Lincoln. And Maggie's no lawyer, there's no client privilege. You can record the whole interview.”

  Peter was silent. Thinking. “You're sure she'll get a confession out of this Horus character?”

  “I guarantee it,” Rachael answered with a peculiar sort of pride.

  “She's that much of a badass?” Peter chuckled.

  “Oh, yeah,” Rachael laughed.

  “Stop, I'm getting jealous.”

  “Peter... it's not like that.”

  “No, no, I know,” Peter backpedaled. “Okay if I give the FBI your number?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. Love you.”

  “I love you, too,” Rachael said, and the line went silent.