O’Keefe said, pronouncing Cork as “Caark” and adding the particularly Irish query at the end of his sentences. He was sitting comfortably in a padded swivel chair bolted to the steel deck of the wheelhouse as he piloted the Mary Deare southwest across Mount’s Bay toward Land’s End, running blind through the gray, dreary sheets of rain, one eye on the radar screen to his left, the other eye on the floating compass needle in front of the old- fashioned wooden wheel. Holliday stood at O’Keefe’s side, dressed in borrowed clothes from the Irishman’s wardrobe. They were close to the same size, although the arms on the red-checked flannel shirt were a little short. “You run the ship alone?” Holliday asked. They’d been aboard for almost an hour and he’d seen no sign of any crew. “Mary’s more a boat than a ship, yeah?” O’Keefe said. “But yes, there is no crew, if that’s what you’re asking. We’re quite alone.” “Must be tough,” said Holliday. “Not so much.
What do You think about The Templar Throne (2010)?
