Fenimore adjusted the sails. Dead-reckoning the compass, map and the stars themselves, he figured the trip would only take hours, maybe a day. The bullet wound was going to heal.
After committing the murder, Fenimore had tried to walk away, the pain causing an unnatural limp in his gait. He considered himself capable of feigning a limp to get sympathetic looks, but this was real gritty pain. Walking easily as possible with the embedded bullet oozing blood through a torn hole in his trousers, he pressed his hand on the wound.
He was walking as fast and normally as he could to get to the boat dock. Even though he used a silencer, the victim did not, and he was sure the neighborhood would be looking out to see what happened. Observing Fenimore walking the street at night wouldn’t faze them, for he planned this normal action in advance with nightly strolls.
Everything was planned down to the second. The only malformation was the intended victim having his own gun. “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men” came to mind, but he offered no smile of recognition. His revenge, although tainted by his wound, was sweet and complete at long last. He wondered how his lover would take the death of her new companion. Fenimore did smile now, thinking of it.