Seize the Storm (10 page)

“Shooting seagulls,” said Martin, “doesn't exactly sound debonair.”

“When I met Leonard, I realized what a really interesting man was like, and Clive was a thing of the past. However, right now, I can say that I'm glad we have a twelve-gauge super-mag on board.”

“Do you know how to use a gun?”

Claudette gave a warmhearted laugh. “My dad,” she said, “taught me how to use a gun before I could ride a bike. I bagged ring-necked pheasants, quail. I was one tough little eight-year-old.”

“That's reassuring,” said Martin.

But Martin associated firearms with trouble—drive-by shootings and liquor store holdups.

“The problem is,” Claudette was saying, “Leonard hid the shotgun in a bin somewhere, and I don't know what bin. To make matters worse, the twelve-gauge is in one locker, the shells are in another, and I have no idea where he keeps the keys.”

Martin had little experience with his aunt's family, a cheerful group of men and women who wore expensive cowboy hats and handmade boots. They had owned olive orchards in the upper San Joaquin Valley and lived in turreted Victorians like gentry before the housing subdivisions tore that way of life to pieces.

“You never knew what it was like to have land,” Claudette was saying. “Real land, hundreds of acres, for hunting, and riding—for anything you wanted.”

Martin's parents held the mortgage on a two-story house off College Avenue in North Oakland, with one cherry tree and a lawn the size of a throw rug. He knew that Claudette meant something larger, grander than that, and he felt a twitch of resentment, her old-money attitude making Martin feel scruffy.

Claudette did not wait for him to respond. “I put my share of the inheritance into stocks with Leonard and now we have two beans to rub together.”

Martin said that he was sorry to hear that.

“You,” said Claudette, “don't know what sorry is.”

Martin had not liked the way the mystery vessel had looked from far away.

He liked her even less up close.

M
ARTIN DIDN'T EVEN LIKE
the vessel's name, lettered in black script across the stern,
Witch Grass, Nawiliwili, Hawaii
.

Martin thought this was not an auspicious name for a boat. She rode high in the water, her communication antennas swaying with the motion of the sea. The hull was gray rather than white, and her brass fittings had been allowed to go dull. She gave the appearance of having been abandoned for a long time—perhaps months.

Claudette used the air horn, a piercing sound that was beyond loud in Martin's ears—an unbearable noise. After several shrills from that, she used the bullhorn, starting out with a cautious “Ahoy,
Witch Grass
,” sounding nautical and proper, ending up with frantic
hellos
as they drew closer.

They were close enough to hit it easily with a tennis serve when Axel cut the engine, and they drifted parallel with the silent vessel.

“I would guess she's fifty feet long, maybe fifty-five,” Claudette said admiringly. “I bet she'll reach fifty or sixty knots per hour easily. She's been painted a mud color on purpose—to make her hard to see.”

“Maybe someone's hurt,” said Martin.

“You're right,” said Claudette. “But you don't just climb on board an unfamiliar vessel. Besides, we have reason to believe that they are armed and don't mind shooting things.”

“Dogs, for example,” said Martin.

“For example,” agreed Claudette. She switched off the bullhorn and returned it to its place in the lazarette.

“A ship's crew used to share the proceeds of a prize,” prompted Axel. “In the old days.”

Claudette gave Axel a smile, severe but with the hint of something new.

“We're getting ahead of ourselves,” she said. “For all we know, the owners are passed out drunk and all we have to do is give them coffee and some Advil.”

“But we aren't sure,” said Axel.

“How much does that bother you, Axel?” asked Claudette.

Axel was aware of a challenge in Claudette's voice, something sexual and dismissive, as though Claudette might find Axel attractive, just like most other women, if she didn't have such a low regard for his character.

“It doesn't bother me at all,” said Axel.

Martin knew that he was lying. The strange vessel disturbed all of them.

As they drew even closer, they could see further signs of trouble.

A constellation of bullet holes punctured the side windows of the cabin. What looked like red paint was splashed down from the helm, along the hull. And an outline showed along the boat's rail, like a red glove that had been folded over the side. But this was not a glove.

It was a bloody handprint.

T
HIS EVIDENCE OF VIOLENCE
hushed them.

As the yacht edged closer to the powerboat, Martin felt cold—he wanted to be miles away. And yet, his conscience reminded him, what if someone has been shot and is too feeble to call out?

When they got closer, the streamlined bulk of the power cruiser bucked, a surge of wind catching the two vessels.
Athena's Secret
moved close, and the two crafts collided.

The crash was powerful enough to make Martin stagger, and Axel was quick to reverse the engines, backing the sailing vessel out of the way. The masts and the rigging swayed, and the yacht shrugged and shuddered along her length.

“I'm not afraid to board her unarmed,” said Axel. “How about you, Martin?”

“Wait,” said Claudette, “until we find where Leonard keeps the shotgun.”

“Looking for the gun might take a long time,” said Axel. “A boat like this carries valuables.”

He seemed to like that word, because he said it again. “Valuables that could be ours. If Martin wants to listen to his aunt's advice, I'll go right ahead all by myself.”

Martin's pride required him to say, “I'll go, too.”

*   *   *

Belowdecks, Laser was drowsily awake, lifting his head to see who was passing by. Susannah had made her patient a bed in a corner of the cabin, with a buffer of rolled-up quilts. Laser was a handsome animal, with tawny forepaws and flecks of gold in his coffee-colored eyes.

“Sorry about the little boating accident,” said Martin, adding a brief explanation of what was happening.

The dog licked the air in the direction of Martin's voice and settled his head back down.

“Martin,” Susannah said, “don't take any more risks than you have to.”

Martin took three yellow and black Motorola walkie-talkies out of the equipment case, along with a couple of flashlights. “It's a deal,” he said.

Martin was weak-kneed from the collision, and the effort of rescuing the dog had left him feeling drained. He was not ready to investigate anything, much less an unknown craft in the middle of the ocean. But he did not imagine Leonard recovering anytime soon.

“Axel will talk you into trouble, Martin,” she said.

Martin clipped a two-way radio to his belt.

He said, “It's not that simple.”

*   *   *

Claudette took the helm and eased the yacht closer.

Steering the yacht was more halting now, because Claudette was using exaggerated care, afraid of another crash. She gunned the engines, nearly stalling them, swinging the stern too close, backing up too quickly.

Claudette kept the yacht in place only long enough for Martin to clamber up and over the rail of the other craft. Axel joined him, making a point of not needing a helping hand, the two of them half climbing, half stumbling onto
Witch Grass
.

M
ARTIN KEPT HIS BACK TO THE SEA
, leaning against the side of the vessel.

He had never been less happy to be anywhere. Maybe Susannah was right. Maybe it was that simple: Axel had talked him into trouble.

Axel waited right beside him. Martin turned to gaze at
Athena's Secret
. He could see his fellow crew members, people who had become so familiar. How alive with curiosity they both looked, thought Martin. Claudette gave a wave. Martin drank in the sight of the beautiful yacht, her two masts red in the afternoon sunlight.

“Blood,” said Axel.

Martin followed his gaze.

Axel added, “And more blood.”

Red matter was spattered all the way up the steps to the helm, as far as Martin could tell without moving from where they stood. A splotchy, air-darkened trail of blood led into the cabin, where a door was held open, fastened by a bungee cord. The empty doorway was dark, with a wedge of sunlight that shifted as the vessel moved.

Martin called out, a cheerfully singsong
hello
. They listened for a response that did not come.

The cruiser had a different layout than the yacht, with two chairs in the stern, bolted into place, presumably for fishing. The helm, what Martin could see of it, was forward and up on the cabin, protected by a Plexiglas windscreen and a sunroof. The interior of the cabin, and whatever lay belowdecks, remained to be seen.

The vessel had an unfamiliar motion, too, swaying from side to side and pitching unpredictably, even in the relatively calm water. The deck was teak, weathered but high quality, seventeen or eighteen feet across, with a stainless-steel cargo hatch. The hatch had a small Plexiglas skylight, and the two of them knelt, peering into the dark interior, using their flashlights.

They could see nothing except for the answering circles of their two flashlights, several feet below. The smell in the air was of something that had burned—seared electronics and ozone.

“Empty,” said Axel. “No wonder she floats so high in the water.

A storage compartment, a metal trunk, was set into the vessel's aft, and Martin opened it. He saw what appeared to be a bright orange Avon life raft, folded and compressed, exactly as it had left the factory.

Their walkie-talkies sputtered and chattered, Claudette's voice sounding comically diminished.

“It smells like they had a lightning strike,” Martin told his aunt. “The storm probably knocked out their ignition, maybe killed their engine.”

“Do you see any survivors?” Claudette asked, sounding like someone far away, on the other side of the planet.

“Not exactly,” said Martin.

“Martin, tell me what you see.”

“The life raft is still on board, unopened,” said Martin, “so it doesn't look like they safely abandoned ship.”

He didn't want to mention all the blood. He felt squeamish, but that was not the problem. Talking about the blood made it more real, and more unavoidable, and brought Martin closer to actually setting eyes on evidence of death.

But Claudette was persistent. “Do you see any more signs of trouble?”

“We're taking care of it,” said Martin.

“How are we going to do this?” Axel asked when Martin had reassured his aunt that they would report every significant observation and replaced the walkie-talkie onto his belt.

“You're a lot more courageous than I am,” said Martin. His voice was a raspy noise he scarcely recognized as his own. “I'll go check out the helm,” said Martin. “And you—”

“You want me to look at the cabin?” said Axel.

Axel was deferring to Martin, letting him take the lead, and Martin appreciated this. He also realized that this kept Axel in Martin's favor. It also guaranteed that if anything went wrong, it could be blamed on Martin.

“Be careful,” said Martin.

M
ARTIN CLIMBED THE STEPS
to the pilot house, forward on the cabin structure.

The steps were slathered in darkening blood—more of the stuff than Martin would have thought possible. He crept up the side of the steps, clinging to the rail to avoid stepping in the gore.

The pilot house was high, overlooking the prow and the ocean, and swayed even more drastically from side to side than the rest of the vessel.

He smelled the dead body before he saw it.

The man was not dead so much as completely reduced from a living being to a lifeless assembly of limbs and clothing. He wore a puka shell necklace, a blue all-weather poncho, and a pair of Levi's, with black K-Swiss running shoes. His jaws were parted, exposing a steel tooth.

Martin examined the details of the clothing carefully because he did not want to look directly at what else was there—the man's face and the rain-diluted blood on the metal grid of the flooring.

The pilot house was designed to give the impression that the vessel was a spaceship. A tall seat upholstered in black leather overlooked a console with a computer screen and many dials, along with a Lowrance sonar fish finder. A radio was built into a console, the entire setup more sport- and fishing-oriented than anything on
Athena's Secret
. A side chest of melting ice was packed with Red Bull and Dos Equis. Many of the cans were empty.

A Panasonic transponder was attached to the underside of the console, a metal box with a glowing red light, no doubt kept working by battery power. Otherwise, none of the equipment was turned on, or else the electricity was out, flash-burned by lightning.

Martin called to Axel, but his voice was too weak with the strain of his discovery. He called again, and at last used his most piercing whistle, two fingers in his mouth.

When Axel appeared from inside the cabin his lips were set in a grim line, an upside-down smile, and his cheeks had new shadows.

“Come up here,” was all Martin could say.

Axel carried himself carefully, putting his hand on the rail as he came up the stairs in uncharacteristic caution.

Martin stood aside so Axel could take a look.

Axel was silent. He plainly did not like what he was looking at, either, but he knelt beside the dead guy's handgun, a large automatic lying on the crosshatched, slip-proof-metal flooring of the pilot house.

“A Glock nine-millimeter,” said Axel. “This is the guy who tried to shoot the dog.”