Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (6 page)

North Atlantic Ocean
Aboard the RMS Titanic
April 14, 1912

Henry Dodge patted his breast pocket, the envelope still secure on
his person. Yet at this moment, he felt anything but. The sight of the two men,
bold as brass, within sight of him, making no attempt to hide themselves, had
his heart racing since Astor’s spotting of them.

And his
heart had only just recovered from his initial scare before boarding.

This
trip, which he had been looking forward to for months, was turning into the
most terrifying, stressful event of his life. He was by no means a courageous
man. He had never joined the military, had never charged into a fight, verbal
or otherwise. If he had to describe himself, he would lean toward the almost
timid side.

He
definitely took after his mother.

Which
might be why his wife seemed to think she could control him.

He
looked in the mirror, adjusting his tie.

If I survive
this, there’s going to be some changes at home.

He took
a long breath, squaring his shoulders and inflating his chest.

Perhaps
a little more intimidating than normal?

He
narrowed his eyes slightly, wiping any trace of good humor from his face.

Definitely
more intimidating.

He
pictured the two bruisers, their suits barely containing their bulging muscles.

Now
that’s
intimidating.

He would
be no match for them in a fight. Of that there was no doubt. And they were most
likely armed, which would put a quick end to any contest should it occur.

If only
it were wrestling.

His
father had insisted on trying to make a man of him when he was younger, forcing
him to join the Greco-Roman wrestling team. He had been quite good at it,
actually. He never won any tournaments, though always placed decently, never
humiliating himself.

Yet he
had hated it.

Grappling
with sweaty boys was not his idea of a good time and the locker room had always
been a horror show of bodies developing far faster than his.

Baldy.

He
frowned, looking down the mirror slightly.

If
they could see me now.

He
chuckled, shaking his head, noting it the first time he had genuinely laughed
since receiving the envelope under his door.

So
sad considering the amount spent on this voyage.

One
final check in the mirror and he opened his cabin door, stepping into the
hallway, nodding to an elderly couple heading to the deck, arm-in-arm.

“How do
you do,” said the gentleman, Dodge returning the greeting. He let them pass and
was about to follow when he saw the bruisers at the end of the hallway.

His
stomach flipped as they spotted him.

He
turned the other way, rushing as gentlemanlike as he could to the far end of
the corridor, making his way to the deck in a more roundabout fashion. He
hadn’t intended to go outside, it too chilly for his liking, yet if there was
one place he could be certain there would be plenty of people at this time of
night it would be there.

He hoped
the eyes of the passengers would protect him.

The air
was bracing, the North Atlantic a cruel mistress to those not prepared for her
harshness, and his attire certainly left him unprepared.

He
shivered.

The
pounding of footsteps behind him had him rushing down the deck, away from the
door he had just stepped through. Crossing the width of the ship to the
starboard side, he tried to put some distance between himself and the men but
it was no use, he knew.

Suddenly
somebody stepped out in front of him from the shadows, startling him.

It was
Astor.

He
stopped.

“They’re
after me.”

He
nodded, looking down the deck. “They searched my room during dinner.”

Dodge
frowned. “Did they find anything?”

Astor
shook his head. “No, I put the papers in the ship’s safe. I knew they’d try my
cabin the first chance they’d get should anyone be aboard.”

“A
prescient move.”

Astor
smiled. “Indeed.” He frowned. “Here they come.”

“Go,
nothing must happen to you.”

Astor
shook his head, popping his cane up, grabbing it tightly in the middle. “I’ve
never shied away from a fight, and I’m not going to start tonight.”

Dodge
suddenly felt inferior to this man in yet another way. His wealth, power and
accomplishments were probably unmatched on the ship, yet his courage appeared
to be as well.

Dodge
turned toward the men, looking about for a weapon, finding none.

The two
men stopped in front of them.

“Gentlemen,
our employers would like their property returned,” said the first, smaller than
the second, though to suggest he was small would be a mistake.

“I’m
sure we have no idea what you’re referring to,” replied Astor, thankfully, Dodge’s
tongue stuck to the top of his suddenly dry mouth.

Somebody
shouted far above them, the words inaudible.

The man
smiled, revealing a cracked front tooth, what remained black as coal. “Mr.
Astor, sir, please don’t waste our time. You know exactly what we are referring
to.” He held out a hand. “If you would kindly hand it over, all will be
forgotten.”

More
shouts from above, again inaudible, their tone though clear.

Something
was wrong.

But no
one seemed to notice, the casual strolls continuing, even their own little
confrontation going unnoticed.

Astor
jabbed the air with his cane. “Do you honestly believe that if I did have
whatever it is you are looking for, I would be stupid enough to carry it on my
person? Do you honestly believe either of us would be stupid enough?”

The
envelope in Dodge’s pocket suddenly felt ten pounds heavier.

The
sound of the engines changed and he could feel the boat begin to turn to the
left slightly, the shouts above continuing.

Yet no
one, including Astor and the bruisers, seemed to notice.

Something
is definitely wrong.

What
that could be, he had no clue. He peered down the deck but could see nothing,
the lights too bright to see if anything was in their path.

The
larger man opened his lapel, revealing a shoulder holster. “We must insist,
gentlemen. Either you provide us with the papers you stole, or take us to
them.”

The ship
vibrated then shook, Dodge reaching out for something to catch his balance as a
strange sound rapidly approached.

And that
was when he saw it.

A massive
iceberg, passing by the starboard side, towering over their heads, impossibly
close. The noise grew as it neared them, chunks of ice scattering across the
deck much to the shock and surprise of those casually strolling only a moment
before.

Dodge
looked at Astor, fear on his face, but felt almost reassured at the calm on the
older man’s face. Suddenly Astor’s cane whipped out, smacking the larger man on
the side of the head, the man collapsing in pain, grabbing at the point of
impact as Astor raised his weapon for a second blow.

The other
man was shocked at first, it unclear whether or not it was from the iceberg or
Astor’s attack, but a growl erupted and Dodge reacted, surprising even himself.
He rushed forward, leaning over, shoving his shoulder into the man’s midriff,
lifting him off the ground as he wrapped his arms around his opponent. Surging
toward the railing as the iceberg passed their position, he roared as the man
began to fight back.

They hit
the railing bringing Dodge to an immediate halt. He released his grip on the
man’s back, his foe’s momentum carrying him backward and over the side. He
didn’t hear or see the splash as the man hit the water, his eyes drawn to the
shocking sight of the iceberg continuing down the side of the ship.

Out of
the corner of his eye he saw Astor’s cane swing again.

The man
was down, blood flowing from his head. Astor bent over and pulled the man’s gun
from its holster. He looked at Dodge. “Help me.”

Dodge
stepped over and helped Astor lift the man to his feet. “Is he dead?”

“Not
yet.”

Dodge
looked around to find no one paying attention to them, all eyes on the iceberg
and the ice scattered on the deck. “Then we have to hurry,” said Dodge, his
decision made. These men meant to kill them, and once the excitement of the close
encounter with the iceberg was forgotten, their opponent would have the
opportunity to try again.

He
grabbed the man’s belt and hauled him toward the railing, shoving him over the
side, Astor’s surprised expression leaving him slightly uncertain as to whether
or not it had been a wise move.

“I do
believe I have underestimated you, Mr. Dodge.”

Dodge
said nothing for a moment, instead shaking uncontrollably as both the cold and
the adrenaline fueling his momentary bravado took hold. “I-I think I su-surprised
myself.”

Astor
looked about then took Dodge by the arm. “Let’s get inside. We’ll report them
as having fallen overboard when the iceberg hit. No one will doubt us.”

Dodge
nodded, allowing himself to be led inside by the older man, still stunned at what
he had just done.

You
killed two men!

He
rubbed his hands together as the warmth began to return to his body. His hands
continued to shake and he was at a loss as to how to calm his heart, now
hammering in his chest.

Two
crewmembers rushed by, concern written on their faces.

It
wasn’t until they were almost out of sight he noticed they were wearing life
vests.

“I think
something’s wrong.”

Yet
Astor seemed to already know.

“I have
to get to my wife; she will be upset, I’m sure.”

“But
shouldn’t we be telling the Captain about what just happened?”

Astor
looked at Dodge.

“I fear
none of that will matter in a few hours.”

Collette Court, Odenton, Maryland
Present Day

“I dunno, looks the same to me.”

Steve
Wainwright sat at his desk, the painting discovered rolled up in his
grandfather’s basement clipped to an easel poached from his wife who stood next
to him. On his computer screen was a Wikipedia article about the most valuable
item lost on the Titanic, a painting that looked, to his untrained eye, identical
to the one standing before them.

“Me
too,” agreed his sister Judy. “It’s either the same painting or a very good
forgery.” She looked at his wife, Sally. “You’re the artist in the family, what
do you think?”

“I’d
hardly call myself an artist.” Sally shrugged. “I don’t know. To me it looks
identical, but I wouldn’t know where to begin to figure out if it’s real or
not.”

Steve
looked from the screen to the painting, sighing. “Then where should we begin?”

Judy
scratched the back of her hand. “I think we need an art expert.”

Steve
was
not
an art buff. “Okay, where the hell do we find one of those?”

“Art
gallery?” suggested Sally.

“No
way!” Steve shook his head emphatically. “I wouldn’t trust them to not claim it
was a fake and steal it.” He tapped his chin. “No, we need somebody impartial,
not motivated by money.”

Sally
put a hand on his shoulder. “An academic. Like from the university.”

Steve
snapped his fingers. “I’ll give Greg a call! He’s the dean of St. Paul’s and
they’re not that far from here.”

“Who’s
this Greg?” asked Judy.

“Young
guy, forty something, met him at a charity event, fundraising for wheelchairs.
He’s in one. Gunshot wound to the spine.” He began to Google the university.
“Sharp cookie. He’ll know exactly who we need to show this thing to.”

“How was
he shot?” asked Judy as Steve looked up the number, grabbing the cordless phone
off his desk.

“Not
sure,” replied Sally. “It was in New York City, I think. Just wrong place at
the wrong time, I guess.”

Judy
shivered. “New York City. I’ll never go there, too violent.”

“It’s
not like it used to be,” said Sally as Steve dialed. “You used to not be able
to walk around in Times Square but now it’s family friendly.”

Judy
turned her nose up. “Can’t imagine taking my grandkids there.”

“M&M’s
has a huge store there.”

Judy’s
face brightened. “Really?”

Steve
held up a hand, killing the conversation. “Hi, can I speak to Dean Milton,
please?”

“Who may
I ask is calling?”

“Steve
Wainwright. We met at the Wheelchairs for Veterans fundraiser last year.”

“One
moment, please.”

Muzak of
some type began to play and he turned in his chair. “I’m on hold.”