vanessagalore: (!Precipitation)
[personal profile] vanessagalore
NOTE: This chapter was posted at Fanfiction in June, and linked from my journals. More chapters are coming.

TITLE: Panacea (25/?)
AUTHOR: [personal profile] vanessagalore
CHARACTERS: Veronica, Logan, Keith
RATING: PG13 for this chapter
SUMMARY: Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'.
SPOILERS: Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.
WARNINGS: Cursing.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. This chapter never beta'd. All errors are my responsibility.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for your patience. Sorry about the delay in updating.

AUTHOR'S NOTE (cont'd): 1~Precipitation 2~Precarious 3~Paranoia 4~Prevarication 5~Probation 6~Predicament 7~Paradox 8~Please 9~Perilous 10~Palpitation 11~Precipice 12~Perspiration 13~Peregrination 14~Pursuit 15~Plexus 16~Pier 17~Perception 18~Phantasm 19~Phantasm 20~Pyromania 21~Prognosis 22~Paternity 23~Premeditation 24~Paralysis

AUTHOR'S NOTE (cont'd): I know all the sailing jargon can be confusing, so I'm including a few images to help with understanding. Veronica is a noob at sailing, so some of the terms are supposed to be going right over her head (so it's okay if you're a little confused). All the images can be embiggened by opening them in a new window. If there needs to be more images, let me know in the comments. I'm trying really hard to describe them from the point of view of someone who has zero experience. Also, it's quite possible that I screwed up some of the boating things; let me know if you think I did. Or cut me some slack, and assume that Veronica is way confused.

Click here to read a summary of the whole story from the beginning. And for just the last time on 'Precipitation': (Highlight to read ~OR~ click here to skip directly to the new chapter)

Veronica morosely goes to work after vetoing the plan to sail to the Caribbean while Logan considers his plastic surgery options. Work is tedious and soul-crushing, despite Veronica's nemesis Jeff having transferred to another store.

Jane Kuhne, along with two other girls, walks in to J. Crew. Jane immediately recognizes Veronica, despite Veronica's accent and protestations. Quickly leaving work, Veronica phones her dad and says she's changed her mind about sailing. Once home, she and Logan prepare to flee as they wait (interminably) for Keith to return with a stolen car.

Chapter Twenty-five: Panacea

Eight red crescents scar my palms—I'd almost drawn blood clenching my fists as we waited for Dad for two and a half hours. I roll my neck, trying to get the muscles to stop screaming at me.

I'm cowering, lying on the back seat out of view—we mustn't look like three desperate fugitives, and I'd volunteered to lie down, although my nausea is making me regret that choice. Dad is driving our stolen car, aggressively but legally, while in the passenger seat Logan clicks through bookmarked webpages on the laptop. It'll be three and half hours of driving to Norfolk, where Logan said there were at least three boats that were possible.

"And if none of them are okay?" I'd muttered.

Dad said, "Then we'll figure out something else." He'd tersely told us that a security guard pulled up just as he was going to slim-jim a Honda Civic, and he'd walked away, taking the shuttle to another long-term campus parking lot to steal this Chevy Impala. The lump of concrete in my chest refuses to dissipate—this is twenty million Joltin' Javas with Red Bull chasers, and my head's going to explode from all the we-should-haves and why-didn't-I's.

There's a lull in Logan's muted conversation with my dad about weather and boat types. "What about Wallace?" I ask.

"What?" Dad's foot on the accelerator lets up momentarily before we resume our speed.

"Should we warn him not to talk to Jane? I mean, if I was an FBI agent, I'd be monitoring Wallace's phone and email. I trust Wallace, but just a message from her and... Maybe a text from one of the prepaids?"

Dad's eyes meet mine in the rearview. "Maybe. He could call her first to 'catch-up,' prevent her from leaving a message that would set up some alarm bells. Even if they don't have an active tap, they'd at least be monitoring the phone numbers of incoming calls."

We discuss possibilities, and finally I send a text from the last disposable phone I'd bought in Chicago.
hey papabear...ran into jane in the craziest place! she's really out of the loop & told me to say hi. c u tonite.
"Give it," Logan says, putting out his hand. I pass him the cell, and he pulls out the SIM card and tosses it out the window. He asks Dad, "How are we on gas?" Logan twiddles the phone, clearly wondering if we should take the time to smash it as we've done so often.

"Five-eighths. We'll make it on one tank. Dump the phone later." Dad glances at Logan. "Go over the boats again."

"This's perfect. It's rigged for offshore, with all the safety equipment we need, plus a few nice extras, autopilot and windvane. It's pretty small for three people, but the price is right. 'Ready-to-sail,' the ad says."

I ask, "So why are they selling it?" I can't let go of my doubts, and having to do this in a hurry is making it worse.

"Don't know. We'll ask when we get there. Might not be very fast—but we don't want fast, we want stable and sturdy."

Dad frowns. "The other two?"

"This one's a lot more money. A 41-foot Morgan. It's a good boat."

"What's 'a lot more?'"

Logan pauses. "It's $65,000 versus $38,000. You're paying a lot of money for two cabins and things like air conditioning, which we could do without. It doesn't leave a lot of room for provisioning, or any repairs in the future."

"No way," I say.

Dad adds, "So that one's more of a luxury boat than we need. We're looking for meatloaf, not filet mignon."

Logan shrugs. "It's late in the season. We might be able to get a great deal on any of these."

I ask, "What about the last one?"

"It's in between the other two, 36 foot, $45,000. There's not much information on it, but it says 'need to sell.' Sounds like they're ready to negotiate. And that's probably a perfect size for us, small enough that we can handle it, but not so small that we'll want to murder each other after a couple days. We need a decent galley and a good berth so we can get enough rest if the seas are rough."

I've gathered that a berth is the bedroom, a galley the kitchen, and the head is the bathroom. So much jargon to learn. Testosterone—what is it about men and their lingo? "How are we going to know if any of these boats are going to be safe?"

Dad glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Veronica, honey, we talked about this."

Logan says, "We hire a surveyor to look over the boat. We get a boat history report, just like a used car. Then we spend a couple days close to shore before we take off and push her hard—we make sure everything works right, and we learn how to run the boat."

"Great. And if something breaks when we're in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle?" As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn't.

In the mirror, Dad's eyes bore into mine. "Are you changing your mind?"

"No. You're right, we'll manage."


We dump the stolen car at a mall and take a taxi to a cheap motel about a mile from the large Norfolk boatyard where the three possibilities are up for sale. I change my hair to dark brown and Dad shaves his head again. Logan says a ball cap is the best for him—he never wore them in his old life. We're all worn down from the effort to stay hidden, and Dad warns us that now is when we're likely to make mistakes. "Stay alert. Don't attract attention. Act normal," he stresses.

Dad and Logan pretend to be father and son looking for an offshore boat to take down to the Caribbean in the autumn, which apparently is the normal thing to do. Logan explains patiently that it only means that most people are trying to avoid winter in the Northern Hemisphere, and it's not impossible to sail there now—but we will have to watch the weather. To cover our tracks when we set sail, they pretend that we'll be heading up to Newport for a 'shakedown cruise.' Of course, we'll hang a right and head for Bermuda instead.

While they shop for our transportation, I've been put in charge of sending the video to Gory Sorokin's father, and I consider how to get it into his hands. A physical DVD sent by the mail could be traced to here, and we're hoping to completely disappear off the face of the earth. Yet if we ask someone to forward it to him, we're placing them at risk if Sorokin contemplates reprisals. Dad thinks the remailing services are too spotty—chances are that the DVD wouldn't even be sent, and there's always a chance that some enterprising employee would keep a record of the originating address.

I decide to send it electronically, as the very last thing I do before we set sail, just in case something goes wrong and they're able to track our IP address. I can't find a direct email for Sergei Sorokin, so I'll use Tor protocols again to send an electronic link to one of the Sorokin senior's dry cleaning businesses, with the video itself uploaded onto the file-hosting service Megaupload. The subject line will read "Important-view immediately" and I'll use an email spoofing service to create an address that matches that of Sorokin's attorney.

I don't think about what Papa Sorokin might do to Gory once he views the video.

With that decided, I go shopping while they look at the boats. First Logan gives me a list of books on sailing and boat maintenance. Some I find in a used bookstore in nearby Virginia Beach, others in several Barnes and Noble bookstores in surrounding towns. Dad thinks it's worth the extra money to buy several other books—finance, travel, living off the grid, whatever—to disguise the significance of the boating books if someone does recognize me. Then I begin provisioning the boat, buying economical food that will keep for several weeks and be easy to prepare while underway. I buy a couple bags at a time at different groceries and schlep my purchases home on the Norfolk public transportation system. There are long lists of other necessities, made in consultation with our new sailing library—foul weather gear, bathing suits, flares, fishing tackle, first aid kits, hand tools, and lots of duct tape.

Our cash reserves are getting appallingly low. I realize that I've been subconsciously hoping that something would happen to change our plans, but with each dollar I spend, our choices narrow to sailing or turning ourselves in.

At night, before we crash, exhausted by stress and fatigue, Logan makes me practice three knots, the figure-8, which is easy, and a bowline (bo-lin) and a rolling half-hitch, which are harder. I fumble with the rope like a child, frustrating myself with my ineptitude, and he puts his hand over mine. "You can do it. Take your time and give yourself a chance to get it." When I finally master the bowline, he turns off the light and extends his wrists to me. "Now do it in the dark. I'm going to get you through this, Veronica. Tie me up, baby."

"Trust you to turn this into a sex game," I snark.

Dad snorts from across the room, where he's using Photoshop to make us new passports. With each iteration, he has me check the screen and I point out every errant pixel. These documents have to be perfect. The new passports use the covers and as many pages as possible from our former, thankfully pre-Patriot Act credentials. Even the staples are recycled for the new versions. Wielding an Exacto knife and straight-edge and sporting magnifying lenses, Dad sweats over every aspect of the reconstructions. The printer hums, and hums again, and light blue sheets that aren't quite right stack up—I'll be shredding and dumping them tomorrow.

When Dad completes my new passport, I rub the scuffed blue cover, realizing that the last link to Veronica Mars was gone. This is happening—we won't be scuttling off to Spokane or hunkering down in Hoboken. Vicky Donahue is heading for the Caribbean.

We don't discuss the Sorokins or Vinnie. Our life has been reduced to knots and Photoshop and shopping lists: with no energy left for relationship drama, the three of us are just existing in a maelstrom of survival. We have to do this. And we have to get it right. One chance.

But make no mistake—Dad and Logan are excited underneath their stress and fatigue. I am petrified. I'm certain I'll make a mistake that will get us all killed. There's no takebacks on the ocean.

The sailing lingo is seeping into my consciousness: spinnaker, foresail, mainsail, reef, boom, line instead of rope, halyard, mast, stays, helm. I'm supposed to stay away from the boatyard until we set sail, but Logan tells me about the boats and shows me the pictures on the website. Peering at the small pictures, I can't imagine cramming the three of us into the small space available; the galleys look impossibly cramped, and I picture pots and pans flying around as we battle the ocean. But the hi-tech electronic gear somehow reassures me: it at least looks comforting and professional.

Of the three boats in which we were interested, two seem acceptable, the cheapest and the median-priced. The most expensive is going to be too much work to handle with only a three-person crew, Logan decides. It might be a little faster in the water, but it's not worth the extra money—he thinks it's more of a racing boat, and we want something stable, safe, and easy-handing.

The cheapest, the 30-footer listed for $38,000, has a problem with its roller furling system (whatever that is) and Logan declares that it's something we'll definitely need and might take time to repair, and the space below would be awfully tight. But Logan thinks we can get the 36-footer listed for $45,000 much cheaper, because it has some cosmetic defects—worn cushions and scraped decking, and the interior fittings aren't very luxurious. All the mechanical elements look really well-maintained, he swears. The broker hints that the owners, heirs trying to settle an estate, don't want to put more money in the boat and have moaned about the cost of maintaining a dockage. The marine surveyor passes both boats and their history is clean. Dad dummies up a corporation in which to register the boat. We put in bids on both, but I know that Logan wants the 36-footer. "Instinct," he says with a shrug. "I just have a feeling that it's the boat for us—I've liked it since I first came across it on the Internet."

It's happening. This lunacy is going to happen. We haven't even left shore, and already I feel slightly nauseated at all times. I pick up a large supply of Dramamine and the candied ginger recommended by one of Logan's books.

After five days of surveys and negotiations, the deal is made. For $37,900, we—or rather the 'International Contracting Corp.'—are the proud owners of a 36 foot Westerly Corsair. Dad and Logan set sail from Norfolk, and they pick me up with the dinghy at a marina in Virginia Beach. No one in Norfolk has seen three people shopping for a boat, just a father and son who appear to be extremely close.

So the first time I see the boat is from the water. In the little rubber boat, we sidle up alongside and Dad extends a hand to haul me onboard. Our sailboat is both smaller and bigger than I'd thought. It's not sleek like some of the other boats in the harbor, but it looks solid and sturdy.

"She," Logan reminds me. "Not it."

She is called Panacea.


Virginia Beach is in the rearview and Panacea is making good 'headway,' leaning to one side with the sails pulled in tight. Logan calls it 'heeling.' I'm huddled in the cockpit, hoping I won't trip over one of the masses of ropes—oops, lines—congregating in the center of the boat. Sparkling seas surround us, with light waves that jostle the boat and a steady breeze blowing. I see flags fluttering on shore far away, and an occasional boat tipped just as we are.

Logan, steering, announces casually, "Ready about." Dad, hunkered down towards the front of the cockpit, glances back and nods.

Logan says, "Hard alee," and turns the steering wheel. As the boat turns ninety degrees, Dad lets out a rope and drops his head, and the heavy metal rod holding down the bottom of the bigger sail suddenly flies to the opposite side of the boat. Dad clambers over me and pulls another line in tight using a metal drum attached to the deck. It seems impossible to figure out which rope is attached to what.

From sailing with Duncan, I know that this is a 'tack,' a change in our relationship to the wind direction. Duncan's boat had a small sail, on a two inch pole, in a little boat—if it overturned when we screwed up, we stood up on the board extending from the bottom of the boat, got it straightened up and continued on our way. I'm pretty sure Duncan tipped the boat on purpose more than once to dump me in the water. However, there's clearly no way to right this much bigger boat if it flips over.

The rod on this boat's sail, which I now remember is called a boom, is a dangerous thing, heavy and unpredictable except to people who can read the wind and understand what the hell the boat is doing. A man-killer, if you didn't know it was going to come flying across the boat. At the very least, it could knock an unsuspecting 5'1" former detective right off her ass into the Atlantic Ocean.

The boat is now heeling to the opposite side, and I hear the wind rattling in the sails. How are we not falling all the way down to the water? I can't imagine trying to cook down in the galley with the boat tipped like this. We hit a larger wave with a 'whomp' and I suppress a little shriek.

Logan says, "So if someone says, 'tacking,' or 'coming about,' that's what's going to happen. You always watch your head if you're on deck. The boom can come fast if the wind is strong. Let's trim the jib. Remember? The sail in the front."

I look at him with dread.

"Find the line that goes to the jib." With a sigh, I scramble over to the lines and pick up a few of them until he indicates that I've selected correctly. It's a double rope that connects to the corner of the sail, with one line going to the right side of the boat and the other to the left.

(I know, I know...starboard and port. Cut me some slack will you?)

"That metal thing is called a winch, and the jib sheet—" I glare at him, and he amends, "sorry, the rope, called the jib sheet, should be wound going clockwise, two turns is okay for now, in heavy winds you might need more. It's called a self-tailing winch, that means you tuck the rope in those teeth so that you need the least exertion possible. Take that handle," he says, pointing.

There's a large metal implement, resembling a large socket wrench handle, in what looks like a cup-holder attached to the cockpit. I hold it up and he nods. "Slot it into that winch and use it to crank the line. There's a switch on the top—try both settings, so you see what it does. It's easy to have it set wrong, so just check it if it feels hard to trim the sail." Once I've got it placed, he says, "Watch those little pieces of yarn up on the sail." Shielding my eyes from the sun, I see twin parallel pieces of string fluttering up at the top of the sail. "When the sail is tightened just right, they'll flow back horizontally. You find the best possible direction available considering the wind direction, set your course, and then adjust your sails to that setting. Why don't you experiment with it a little, let the sails out a little and watch the tell-tales, and then pull them back in again?"

I try it, and finally I kind of get it. If the sails are exactly right, the boat seems to surge ahead a little; a little too tight, or a little too loose, and the boat speed drops off. "That's it, you're getting it," he praises. "Eventually you'll be able to do it mostly by feel."

"It's just one thing," I mumble. "What about everything else?"

"You'll get it. Let's just practice for awhile. Every time we tack we have to adjust the sails. You'll get good at it fast. And then you can try steering."

He has me go to the opposite 'high' side, saying that he'll release the line holding the jib on the starboard side as we turn, and then I'll have to wind it in on the port side, first by hand, and, then when it gets too hard to pull, wrapping additional turns and using the winch. I don't feel at all ready, and when the sail rustles over to the port side, the rope eludes me. I finally get a few turns on the barrel and slot the handle into the winch, but cranking it is impossible.

Dad says, "She's got an override."

Logan leans to look, and I realize that instead of neat rows parading up the side of the metal drum, I have lines wrapped over each other, and they are holding firm, defeating the mechanical advantage of the winch. I pick at the ropes with my fingers, and Logan says sharply, "No!" I pull my hands off and I feel the boat turn and slow down, with the sails beginning to flap. "It happens to everyone," he explains. "You have to be careful of your fingers. Always pull lines with the heel of your hand closest to the winch. I've headed upwind, that means the load is off the line, and now you can safely fix it."

I flush, and struggle to get the line right, unwrapping and rewrapping, feeling more embarrassed at my ineptitude. Interminably later, it's okay, and as Logan turns the wheel and the sails fill, I winch in the line until the sails look and feel right. He says, "The wind and the sea are stronger than us, stronger than the boat. If something goes wrong, you let go. Let the line go, let the wheel go. Watch." He lets go of the wheel and, of its own accord, the boat slowly turns and the sails begin to flap again, our vessel losing speed. He spins the wheel back, the sails fill again, and we heel and take off. "Let's try something else. Let the line go. Just let it go. Unwrap it from the winch."

Nervously, I uncleat the line holding the jib and spin the rope off the winch, letting it snake onto the deck. Simultaneously, Logan releases the rope attached to the mainsail. It's not quite like hitting the brakes, but it's dramatic: we've been harnessing the force of these elements, and by releasing these ropes, the elements have lost some of their power to harm us. "Don't lose your fingers, Veronica. Sometimes you just have to let go, not hang on."

For an hour, we turn back and forth, practicing. Dad takes the helm for a while and Logan makes minute inscrutable adjustments to various lines while I practice winching in the line after each tack.

I'm starting to get nervous—the process of buying the boat and provisioning it took much longer than I'd anticipated, and I assumed we'd be running towards Bermuda by now. But Logan shakes his head. "We stick to the plan. We're just going to practice today and anchor somewhere before we really go offshore. Tomorrow, when you're ready, we're going to do 'man overboard' drills."

"It'll be okay, Veronica," Dad says. "Nobody paid any attention to us in Norfolk. We've got to do this. I'm rusty, and you've never done this. You're not the only one who's worrying about safety."

After practicing trimming sails for another couple hours, I steer for about twenty minutes. Logan shows me the compass and other dials to be watching, and truthfully, it's not that difficult mentally, but it's fatiguing to be constantly watching and making a thousand minute adjustments to our course. I realize that it's going to be much harder in a storm. Of course we have an autopilot that we'll be using, but Logan doesn't have to explain that I need to learn what to do if it fails. For the first time, having just three of us is a problem. In these light winds, it seems like somebody is always having to do something, and the others have to help keep watch. It will be a million times harder in a strong wind. How will we possibly have enough rest if we are doing this for the nine to sixteen days that Logan says it might take?

Reading my mind again, Logan announces that there's a small public marina off the eastern coast of Virginia that would be a good place to anchor for the night and try out our galley. He exchanges a glance with Dad and adds, "If we have any problems, Chesapeake Bay is going to be our best bet to get things fixed, so that's why we're staying close for the first day or so. And we're all exhausted. We need a good night's sleep, maybe two, before we go offshore. A hot meal would be awesome, too."


Logan's face betrays his fatigue, and I insist he take a nap while Dad and I make dinner. On the tiny propane grill bolted to the rear of the boat, Dad grills steaks from the little marina grocery, while I microwave baked potatoes and frozen broccoli. The sun is just beginning to dip in the sky when I rouse Logan. We sit in the cockpit and eat as if we'd been fasting.

Few boats are anchored here near the Barrier Islands, with no one very close—we'd purposely selected a mooring farthest away from the marina. I've been holding my breath ever since I ran into Jane, but here at the edge of the ocean it seems preposterous that a random encounter could be so life-threatening. It already feels very solitary even before we've completely left shore. The Virginia coastline is beautiful and serene to the west and the sea to the east seems inviting and complacent: a wide expanse of possibility all around us after the claustrophobia of Chapel Hill.

Logan disappears down below and emerges with a book for me. "Here's your homework." It's a thin volume called Invitation to Sailing by Alan Brown. "First two chapters and quizzes, please. Do you need a highlighter?"

"Hah. Aye-aye, Captain."

I settle in on deck with my book as the sun slowly sets. Dad and Logan are below, monitoring the radio. There's a man named Herb who runs a volunteer weather forecasting service for sailors. You're supposed to email him with your course and then check in with him on the radio every day, giving him your coordinates and weather observations. He tells you the forecast and suggests course headings. But Dad and Logan decided, and I agreed, that having someone know our exact location at every step of the way was too big a risk, if somehow our boat purchase was discovered. None of us can shake the image of Vinnie waiting for us on the dock once we get to the Caribbean.

So they've decided to listen to all the radio conversations with the amateur forecaster, and find a boat to shadow during our journey. It's a risk—if the other boat is faster or slower than us, we might find ourselves unexpectedly in bad weather that Herb didn't mention. I hear the muted radio conversations and an occasional cryptic comment from Dad or Logan as I try to puzzle out the points of sail: reaching, beating, and running.

I'm sick of running...

I shift a little, leaning back against the mast and letting my book drop. The Atlantic is gray compared to the Pacific. Even on a sunny day like today it doesn't come close to the deep blue of the waves off the PCH. There are no rocky promontories jutting into white-capped water, but rather wind-swept sand and scruffy beach shrubs. It's odd to have the sun setting over the land instead of the water: the eastern sky's colors are an anti-sunset, a gentle gradient reflecting the sun's rays, not the domination of a burning orb disappearing below the water line.

The fragility of the ecosystem of the Barrier Islands means few human settlements. The land is infinitely mutable; you can't count on that sand bar being there even next week if a storm comes. It's the possibility of change and renewal amid destruction; hang on too tight, and the sand might slip right through your fingers. Float with the wind and the water and you just might survive, might even prosper in the new terrain.

I remember standing in the water off Dog Beach on election day, the sand shifting beneath my feet and my whole world disappearing as the rain pelted me into oblivion. All gone. This boat and the three of us are what's left after the hurricane.

"Hey." Logan startles me as he emerges from below deck. "We've got two boats identified that are heading for Bermuda. If we leave day after tomorrow, we should be able to track along with them." He peers over my shoulder. "This is the best sailing textbook. Making any more sense?"

"Some," I admit.

"Look in this picture—see how all the sails are at the same angle to the wind? It's just that the boat has turned underneath the sail. It's all vectors, you know." He motions with his hands and explains a little more, until it starts to get dark and we can't see the text. "Want to sleep up here on deck? It's such a nice night."

We spread several cushions and blankets on the front part of the boat ("foredeck, silly" he whispers indulgently) and lie down, his arms holding me tight. "It's going to be amazing. And you're going to do fine." Panacea rocks gently in the water, and the stars above us appear to float from side to side in a purplish cashmere sky, exquisite and humbling, vertiginous and spiritual. A hushed murmur of waves hitting the sides of the boat is punctuated by the rhythmic ding of metal on metal as the breeze blows through the rigging of the boat.

Logan's fingers curl into mine, just as they ought to. Somehow, with all the headlong rushing to get away, run away, we've forgiven each other for disagreeing about this plan. The wake of a passing motorboat jostles Panacea, and I tumble a little closer to him as the boat rocks, at first violently, then gradually diminishing back to the normal sway. We hang onto each other, our breath mingling as we float upon the waves.

And it feels as if we might have a future.

Continue reading...Presentiment


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