Buzz Cut (26 page)

In the walnut-paneled conference room, Capri Deck. Down some stairs from the bridge, sitting around the long shiny table. Burgundy leather on the chairs. Sampson, Thorn, Lola, Gavini. Sugarman having to explain who the hell Thorn was. Telling them he was his investigational assistant. Fetching for something more impressive, but the words wouldn't come. Tongue-tied. Everyone looking at Thorn in his silly outfit, the red striped shirt, baggy green shorts in some kind of material that made wax-paper noise when he moved. Thorn, uncomfortable from their scrutiny, said, "I'm working undercover."

Sampson leaned forward, staring at Thorn. "Why wasn't I told about this person?"

"He's my associate," Sugarman said. "My partner."

"And this is Rafael," Lola said, nodded to the long-haired lad in the jacket. "My cohost."

"Charmed, guys," Rafael said. He made a gun of his hand and fired a greeting shot toward the head of the table. Clucking his tongue as he did it. "You know, I was thinking. We should make an announcement, see if any of the passengers had their videocams going during that near miss. We could go with it tomorrow on
Lola Live
, a kind of America's Scariest Videos. I bet we'd get a bump in the ratings. Perk us up for the rest of the week. The buzz it would start."

"He's out of here," Sampson said. "This is a security meeting, not a TV matter."

"Hey, now. I don't see . . ."

Sugarman brought his hands up, formed them into twin six-shooters and aimed them at the kid, then swung them toward the door. "You're outgunned, buddy. Now go. Outta here. Now."

When Rafael was gone, Sampson cleared his throat, put on one of his corporate smiles, stood up at the head of the conference table and asked Sugar where David Cruz was.

Sugar said he didn't know. He'd sent McDaniels looking.

Lola's arms lay on the table extended before her, fingers laced, eyes down, like she was praying. Sugarman trying not to stare at her, but having trouble shifting his gaze anywhere else for long.

Rhoda Metzger, the ship's doctor, a prim woman in her fifties, was invited in to give a brief report on the injuries suffered when the
Eclipse
made her hard left turn. Too early to tell for sure, people were still arriving at the infirmary, but so far there were two cracked ribs, a half-dozen sprains, a broken arm, five passengers requiring stitches.

Sampson moaned quietly, then said, "Well, I suppose it could be worse."

The doctor glanced at her watch. "Will that be all?"

Sampson told her she was free to go. She made a motion to the door then swung back around. "Someone needs to make an announcement. Reassure the passengers nothing's wrong. There's a great deal of anxiety floating around the ship at the moment, Mr. Sampson."

"I'll do that at dinner. Now thank you, Doctor. You may go."

When the door shut behind her, Gavini began to discuss the navigational system. He was convinced there was some kind of malfunction in the autopilot circuit board. Under normal circumstances dropping speed below ten knots would automatically shut down the autopilot. But that hadn't worked, nor had the emergency stop button functioned properly. He believed there was an insect in the system.

"Bug," Sampson said. "You mean bug."

"I have my engineers testing the hardware at this moment," Gavini said. "We will find this insect very soon, I am sure of this promise."

"Are we currently on course?" Thorn asked.

"Certainly," Gavini said.

"So we're going on to Nassau, not turning back?"

Sampson eyed Thorn. Worked up a small smile on his behalf. "That's correct, Mr. Thorn. We're going on as scheduled."

"Look," Sugar said. "It isn't any damn bug in the system. We're bullshitting ourselves if we think that. Our friend had this whole thing rigged. He knew exactly how close to come to the other ship. Knew exactly when to give back control to avoid a collision. This isn't an engineering glitch. This is a very carefully orchestrated scheme."

Sampson was still on his feet, presiding. Giving Sugar some of the leftover smile still lingering on his lips. As he stared back at Sampson a tingle of recognition went through Sugar's head. He played with it for a moment without success until it whisked away and was gone.

"Well, as for me," Sampson said, "I tend to side with our captain. Maybe our culprit has found a way to tamper with some of the computer programs, plant a couple of devices like the one you found. He may have discovered a way to temporarily override the systems, but it's nothing more serious than that. Pranks. Once the engineers track down the intrusions, we'll be fine. What you should be focused on, Mr. Sugarman, is how we root out this person."

Sugarman shook his head.

"You're forgetting," he said. "I found that transmitter in the media room and I yanked it out of there, but that didn't keep him from speaking over the intercom or the PA, did it? The guy's got a plan. He's got backup systems. He's been on this ship once a month for the last seven months. Maybe more that we don't know about. We shouldn't underestimate him."

There was a loud knock on the door and Sugarman got up to open it. A compact young man with neatly trimmed coils of red hair stood in the doorway. He was wearing the gray overalls of the belowdeck engineers. The young man glanced around, saw the distinguished gathering, and took a half step back.

"Blaine Murphy, sir," he said to Sampson. "Assistant chief engineer. I need to speak to the captain, sir."

"This is my fault," Lola said.

"Lola, please."

"It is. It's my fault."

Sampson pointed a finger at Murphy, executed a little turn-yourself-around-and-get-the-hell-out-of-here gesture, and the man stepped back outside and shut the door.

With her eyes down, Lola said, "I should have seen this coming."

"How could it possibly be your fault?" Gavini said.

"Lola is simply distraught, Captain. She's been looking forward to this cruise for months. Working very hard organizing it, inviting the luminaries. She's—"

"He's my son," she said. "His name is Butler Roger Jack. He served on the M.S.
Comet
for several years. I believe you knew him, Captain."

"Your son, Butler Jack?"

"Yes, that's right."

"I remember this boy." Gavini frowned at the recollection.

"I'm sure you do," Sampson said, finding another smile in his collection. This one merry and bright, a tinge of irony.

"I don't always remember my crew. But I remember Butler Jack. I fired him."

"Yes," said Lola.

"Why wasn't I told that Mr. Jack was your son?"

"We didn't want preferential treatment," Lola said. "We wanted him to succeed on his own merits. Or fail."

Sugarman came back to the table, took his seat.

"Why'd you fire him?" Thorn asked.

"An incident," Gavini said. "He exercised very poor judgment, put the ship at risk. Caused extensive damage."

"What happened?"

"Is this relevant?" Sampson said. Still on his feet, but the authority draining away fast.

"Mr. Jack was sent down to the engine room to make a minor repair to the plumbing system. We were coming into port at the time, I was at the helm. We were making our final preparations dockside, using the bow thrusters to ease into our space between two other ships. It is a tight maneuver, but routine, one that I have performed hundreds of times. Mr. Jack selected that moment to confuse the main water shutoff valve with the hydraulic valve. He turned off all the ship's oil hydraulics. Leaving me unable to steer the ship at a crucial moment of the docking procedure."

"The
Eclipse
rammed the
Transcendence
broadside," Lola said. "Caused a great deal of damage."

"Three and a half million dollars' worth," said Sampson. His smile dimming by half. "When you add time out of service, personal injury suits, lost bookings."

Lola pushed her chair back and stood. She stared across at her husband. "They need to know, Morton. We have to start telling them the truth."

Another hard knock sounded at the door.

Sampson sank into his chair as the door swung open, his robust smile was gone. A sickly counterfeit lingered.

McDaniels stood in the doorway, breathing hard. His face was sheened with sweat. He tried to speak, but his breath wouldn't come.

"What is it, McDaniels! What's wrong?"

He pressed a hand to his chest and raised his right hand to call time for a minute.

McDaniels was assistant security chief under David Cruz. A retired marine sergeant, he had a serious oral fixation on a drinking straw. The man chewed on the goddamn thing every waking hour. Probably slept with it too. A couple of months back when Sugarman told him he looked unprofessional as hell with that straw in his mouth all the time, McDaniels explained that he'd survived in Vietnam because of a straw like that one, stayed out in a swamp three days, leeches sucking him dry, Viet Cong camped ten yards away, that straw his only lifeline. Sugarman told McDaniels he was free to chew on the damn thing all he wanted.

Blaine Murphy, the assistant engineer, hovered behind the old Marine.

"Come on, Barney, what's wrong?" Sugar could see McDaniels' usual ruddy face had turned the shade of sour milk.

"David Cruz," he said, a catch in his voice. "He's dead. I never saw anything like it. Butchered. This is bad, sir. Bad."

Something inside Sugarman's chest turned over.

"Make that two killings," Murphy said, stepping through the door. "Robbie Dorfman. He was hanged. In the engine room."

Lola sat down heavily. Mouth open. Her hand rising to her throat as if she meant to strangle herself.

"David Cruz was murdered?" Sugarman felt himself lose hold, begin to drift. Becoming a wistful spectator on the moment.

"That's right. Slaughtered."

"Cruz," Sugar said. "Oh, my Jesus."

Sampson continued to grin obscenely at the far wall. Running a finger back and forth across his lips as if grooming his smile.

"Well, I'd have to agree with Lola," Thorn said. "Seems like this might be a damn good time to start hearing a little truth."

"He steals the money and gives it away to charities," Sampson said. "Some misplaced altruism he got God knows where. Thinks he's Mother Teresa or somebody. Lives like a bum in a rundown Winnebago. Hardly spends a nickel on himself, donates everything to those hunger organizations. Now I ask you, how were we going to throw this boy to the wolves? Call in the police, the FBI. Tell me. How am I going to do that, my wife's son? Not to mention what would happen if the papers got a hold of it. Yes, the boy's disturbed, a tad unbalanced, yes, no doubt about that, but he's still a good kid. I watched him grow up. I watched Lola raise him. He's eccentric, sure, but basically a good kid."

Gavini was shaking his head. Staring around the table at these people, these stark raving lunatics. That's how it looked to Thorn too. Annual board meeting of Zombies International. Everybody looking lifeless, paralyzed. Sugar's eyes particularly strange, like they'd rolled inward, gotten a glimpse of something harrowing, and rolled back out, dulled. Sugar in shock.

Lola stared up at a portrait on the wall. An English squire in red jodhpurs holding up a string of dead rabbits. McDaniels with his straw, munching full speed. The kid, Murphy, full of idiotic zeal, eyes shifting around the table, silly smiles coming and going on his lips. Couldn't believe where he was, at the big people's table.

Thorn said, "He's killed three people, tried to sink a couple of cruise ships, seriously injured a few dozen passengers. He's attempting to hijack the
Eclipse.
In my neighborhood we don't call that a basically good kid. We call that a killer, a goddamn maniac."

Sampson's mouth came open, but he caught himself and sucked back his angry words. He drummed his fingers against the table and somehow managed to dredge up a patient smile. Thorn had met a couple of people like him before, people who had an array of calculated smiles they used to manipulate difficult opponents and deflect awkward truths. It was a kind of madness to respond to calamity with such smirks and grins. A response so totally inappropriate that it kept adversaries off-balance, unable to strike full force.

Sampson settled back comfortably in his chair. "Now let's try not to get ahead of ourselves. We don't know for certain it's Butler who's responsible for these deaths. We've had some serious tensions among the crew members. Fights, assaults. And we don't know Dorfman's mental state. He might have been suicidal, a drug user, who knows? These events could be completely unrelated to Butler. Then again, perhaps the boy is being coerced, someone exploiting his knowledge of the ship's systems for their own nefarious plan."

"Oh, fuck that," Thorn said. "You heard him on the PA. He wasn't under duress. He's getting off on this. And I wouldn't put any store in this feeding-hungry-kids-bullshit either. Sounds to me like this is about revenge. Getting even with the people who fired him. Show them what he can do."

At the end of the table Blaine Murphy raised his hand, kept it straight in the air.

Sampson's smile withered a fraction. "What is it, Mr. Murphy?"

"Butler was down in the engine room walking around. I saw him on the closed circuit video just before I discovered Dorfman's body. Afterward he came into the control room. We talked. He as much as said he'd done Robbie. Butler had a grudge against him. Made a lot of threats when he was fired."

"You talked to him?" Sugarman said.

"Yeah, he kind of issued a challenge. Catch-me-if-you-can kind of thing."

"Great," Thorn said. "A fucking game."

"Somebody should get down there." Sugarman looked around the table forlornly. "One of the nurses, somebody."

"There's no hurry," Murphy said. A chipper look for each of them. "Dorfman's dead. I checked. He's completely dead. I cut him down. Had to drag him all the way back to the control room. The Malaysian mechanics were too spooked to keep working with him hanging there in the engine room."