Dead in the Water (39 page)

The music was slow, and Reade took her in his arms. They danced for less than half a minute before Donna said, “I’m worried about the van Burens. John and I have a theory—”

“The van Burens aren’t in your jurisdiction,” he interrupted, and it took her a moment to understand he was gently chiding her. His features softened. “It’s hard to go off duty, isn’t it, Miss Almond? You should learn to relax. Enjoy life. It’s a very precious thing, life. One never knows how long it will last.”

She said nothing, because she hated sermons like this. She knew how to relax, damn it, and as for life being precious and uncertain, all she had to do was think of Tahoe to remember that.

“Okay,” she said after a beat. “Okay, but I have something else to talk to you about. The toxic dumping? John and I think we’re having some kind of reaction.”

“Oh?” He looked concerned. His eye patch wasn’t centered and for a moment, she scrutinized it with the revolted
fascination people saved for traffic accidents. Knock, knock, Captain. What’s in there?

“Yes,” she said. “We’re so damn jumpy. And John …” She trailed off, squared her shoulders. “Everyone’s having bad dreams, or something.”

“A stress reaction,” he stated.

“I don’t know. But I’d like to talk to Diaz, find out just what was in those barrels.”

Reade made a moue of apology. “He doesn’t know. Captain Esposito claimed he didn’t, either. But they’re working on the case in Hawaii. You can discuss it with them when we get to Australia. And besides,” he went on, “Dr. Hare examined you all and found you in good health.”

Yeah? Well, what about her blackout? She pressed her lips together in frustration. The guy was smooth; you had to give him that. When he didn’t want to talk about something, he didn’t.

“I wouldn’t worry, if I were you.” He pulled her a little closer and a tang of sexual tension came into the air. She flashed on an image of him and her together in bed and rejected it instantly.

His face clouded with disappointment. What, could he read her mind?

“You’re irritated with me,” he said disarmingly, smiling.

“Yeah.” No sense lying. “This could be really important. We might need special treatment.”

“Oh, if you did, we’d make sure you got it.” He led her in a circle.

“No offense, Captain, but you’re not a doctor.”

“And neither are you.” A beat, then, “You’re a puzzling woman. I would really like to know more about you. Your experiences in Viet Nam, for example.”

“My—” Oh, God, she’d forgotten all about that. She choked back a guffaw and kept a straight face. Glenn would love this.

“I don’t really like to talk about it,” she said.

“The metal plate.”

She couldn’t help it. She was wound up and tense, and his gullibility struck her so funny she started to laugh.

He raised his brows. Hairs showed above the patch. “I say. Were you having me on?”

“I’m sorry.” She made herself stop, wiping her eyes and sniffing. “I’m known as a practical joker back home. No one ever believes anything I say.”

“I, as well.” He inclined his head.

“Really? I’d never guess it.”

“No?” His smile was slow to grow, long-lasting, as they moved around the room.

“What will you do back home?” he asked. “Does someone wait for you?”

Oh, hey, a bit too personal. She cocked her head. “That’s classified. Sorry.”

“I like a woman who keeps her options open,” he rejoined. “People who are receptive to … possibilities are always more interesting.”

“Mmm. I don’t know if I’d say that about myself. I have a fairly one-track mind, and right now, it’s on those barrels.”

“Perhaps that’s why,” he said, half to himself.

Donna waited. When he said nothing more, she said, “Why what?”

He jerked back from some reverie. “Why I can’t … figure you out.” He smiled slowly. “Very well.”

She turned her head. “The music’s …” She paused. The music had stopped, but it hadn’t …

“Miss Almond?”

She ignored him, listening. And for a moment …

Pain, and a suffering that didn’t go away, not ever, not even when you put time on your side, and whiskey in your gut; and not even, not ever; and it was a kind of failure on your part …

for a moment, a dusky voice that sang you toward it, and promised you if you just came down, got down, lay down, it would free you. And you would float …

Donna stiffened and eased herself away from him.

“Donna?” He waited.

She shook herself. “I’m sorry. I was thinking about something.”

“Well, I hope you’ll stop taking on all these unnecessary
responsibilities,” he said. “You should enjoy what our ship has to offer.”

Asshole. She’d have to do her own investigating, that was clear.

“Hmmm?” he drawled, taking her elbow.

She roused herself. Walked a bit fast, so she lost contact with him.

“Donna Almond, you’re a challenge,” Reade said, trailing after her. “The biggest one I’ve had in a long time. I like that.”

Thomas Reade, was she thrilled. It was her dream in life to be his number-one challenge. She pretended she didn’t hear him,

just like that other voice; she didn’t hear that either

and joined the others at the table.

The French dinner segued into drinks, with Captain Reade in a wanky, squirrelly mood, alternately gazing at Donna and staring off into space with a loopy grin on his face. No one else seemed to notice, which Donna found almost as unsettling as his Captain Nemo act.

The group broke up after about an hour of that, and by then Donna was as fidgety as Reade. Goddamn, she was geared up to set a few things straight. She’d had just about enough of the twilight zone, much grass, hombre; and it was about time she rounded up her Indians and made sure everybody was okay. Then she’d go back off duty, until she got the hell back to San Diego and went back on duty. Shit. Some vacation.

She listened to the clack of her heels as she marched along the wooden deck. The moon and stars were out; beautiful, distracting. She kept her eyes open for those old familiar faces, didn’t see them. But the sea was silvery black and

Inviting

nice, real nice.

She clacked on. Her Achilles tendons were beginning to ache and she almost missed the incredible ugliness of her cop clodhoppers. Yeah, well, hard to accessorize a nightstick.

Past people who bobbed their heads at her, past open hatches, shut doors. Shiny white railing. No rust on this lady.

Damn; she had to get these shoes off. Okay, back to the stateroom. She could call Phil and Elise from there, too. If they didn’t answer, she was going to find them, if it took all night and she had to tear the ship apart to do it. There were too many weirdnesses: twenty-three days, and psychic solos for Cha-cha, and one by one, everyone was disappearing. Reasonable cause for search, right on, as Chach would say.

John had excused himself about three minutes after Matt left for the bathroom, and neither had returned. Ruth said she was tired and going to bed early. Donna would call them, too, and to hell with it if they were already asleep.

Through the corridors and down some stairs, whoopsie doopsie, what a maze; and finally Donna stood in front of her stateroom door and fought down the dread, got the door open, and shut herself in. Stood, as always, and took in her surroundings. Bed covers drawn back. Porthole windows closed. Drawers shut. Book—

She frowned, crossed to the white lacquer nightstand.

She had closed
Flotsam
. She remembered doing it. But now it lay open.

Dropping her purse on the bed, she flicked on the lamp. Drew back. Someone had been reading about the
Titanic
. A two-page black-and-white photo of the wreck gleamed on the glossy paper. No caption, but she knew it was that big expedition, the Ballard one, that she’d read about the other day.

She didn’t recall any photo like this in the book. And she was certain she would have, when flipping through it. The paper was different; the book fell open naturally to these pages.

They gave her a chill. Cold down there; and if you were trapped, you felt the thunder of the descent; you knew it was
curtains as the icy depths rushed at you. Did you pray? Did you panic? Did you try to hold your breath?

“Damn maid,” she muttered, and decided to check her gun. If they felt they could mess around with her stuff, then there was no telling what they’d paw through.

Angrily, she yanked open the drawer and pushed the box of Kleenex and the towel out of her way. She caught her breath.

The .38 Special was gone.

She reached for the phone, stopped. No, she wouldn’t inform the captain just yet. Thus far he shined on everything she told him. Hell, he probably took it.

But he was in charge here; she had a duty to tell him.

She ran her hand through the drawer again, just in case she’d made a mistake. Started searching the entire stateroom: drawers, closet, under the bed. Nightstand. Not there.

A sick, queasy anxiety flooded through her. This was one of the things cops dreaded; that someone would take their gun, shoot someone with it. That had happened to Martinez’s old partner: perp grabbed it, fled, shot a bystander in the mouth. Young runaway, probably one of the perp’s girls. The round blasted the back of her head off. Brains everywhere. The partner had drunk himself off the force.

The bullets. They were missing, too.

“Goddamn, goddamn it,” she said, reaching for the phone. Cleared her throat to talk to the operator. She had to tell Reade, even if he was acting like he was on drugs.

There was no one there. There was nothing, no dial tone, no buzz, just dead air.

“Hello?” she demanded. She clicked the plungers. Nothing.

Dead phone, missing gun. She took a deep breath. Listened, felt, waited.

Nothing.

“Christ,” she said, yanking off her heels.

Sometimes death comes in disguise
:

as shallow water that you dive into because it looks deep
.

as a smooth glass surface that rears up like a monster
.

As ice-cold, death-cold, when all seems warm, and safe, and inviting
.

Come to me, Donna. Look for me
.

Solve me
.

Come aboard, and be my life
.

There was a ribbon-candy ice cream parlor, red, white, and pink; and John and Matt sat in one of the booths, eating banana splits instead of snails and hamburgers. The place was half-empty, but there were lots of kids, moms and dads, and their laughter was a constant irritation to John. He fervently wished he and Matt could have had this talk in their stateroom, but the vibes hadn’t been right.

When he’d found Matt in the head, sobbing into the sink, he’d pulled his boy against his legs and cried, too. And it was a long time coming, the ability to speak, and Matt was the first to say anything:

“I want to be a real kid.”

Real kids ate banana splits. As soon as they could handle it, they left the bathroom and went to the ice cream parlor.

Now they sat, both finished and slightly ill from all that sugar on empty stomachs. Matt’s legs dangled in the air and he swung them back and forth, trying for nonchalance, but his face was twisted with unhappiness. Didn’t want to talk, John guessed. Neither did he, but he supposed they should. It was past time.

“Matty.” His son looked up at him, and John faltered. What to say? How did you be a father? How did you be a man for your boy?

“Matty,” he tried again. “I want what’s best for you.”

“I don’t care what’s best,” Matt blurted. He doubled his fists and smacked the shocking pink Formica tabletop. “I …”

John covered Matt’s hands with his. “Son, I know it’s not fair. I know you’re afraid.”

“So are you,” Matt accused. “And I wouldn’t be, if you weren’t.”

John bowed his head. Ashamed, he withdrew his hands,
heard Matt’s breathy protest. Took his small fingers in his and squeezed, not too hard.

“I’m trying not to be.” A damn tear welled in the corner of his eye. He couldn’t wipe it away, and it spilled down his cheek, in plain view of Matt.

“You’re crying because you think I’m going to die,” he accused with a tremor in his voice.

“No. No, I don’t. I—”

“Dad,” Matt said sternly, “don’t bullshit me.”

John’s mouth fell open and an automatic parental rebuke flew to his lips. He stifled it in time, and nodded.

“All right. Yes. I am afraid.” He paused, squeezed. His heart skipped a beat. His ulcer went into overdrive.

“I can’t help it, sweetheart. I … I …” I’m supposed to make you live, he wanted to say. I’m supposed to heal you.

Physician, heal thyself. Do whatever it takes. You said once, you’d sell your soul. You said you’d do anything.

Had God sent them to the
Pandora
? Jesus, he was crazy if he believed that. But wasn’t he a Catholic, lapsed or not? Didn’t he believe in the magic of the mass? Weren’t miracles and mysteries possible?

He took a breath. He didn’t know what he wanted to say, but what he
did
say was, “Matty, have you had any … do you think there’s something about the
Pandora
that—”