He was a Parker and Parkers were Catholic. But attending mass on Sundays was as far as his devotion had taken him. The rituals of public worship and penitence had a certain resonance—he had always appreciated the gravitas of ceremony and tradition—but the more mystical aspects of faith made as much sense to him as sitting on Santa’s lap at the shopping mall and asking for a gift. Life at sea hadn’t altered his habits much. Even sudden storms didn’t inspire him to pray, only to batten the hatches and trust his sailing instincts and the workmanship of the hardy Swedes who built the Renaissance to stay upright and afloat on the heaving sea. After thirty hours in captivity, however, he found himself reciting the rosary. At first the words arose in him unconsciously, like an effervescence of the heart, but it wasn’t long before he embraced them with intention. The sailboat that had been his dream—and Quentin’s rebirth—had become their prison. The Somalis were all around them like a virus in the bloodstream, their incessant chatter, the shine of their weapons, and the stench of their unwashed bodies infecting everything.
