The Memory of Eva Ryker (36 page)

The news traveled fast. The ether crackled between the Atlantic ships—
Frankford, Olympic, Mt. Temple, Virginian, Burma
—relaying the impossible news toward the shore.

Telegraphs and phone lines buzzed across the country, and the news was forged into hot lead for the presses.

Clamoring headlines hit the stands. New York
Times
. Chicago
Tribune
. Los Angeles
Times
. Pittsburgh
Post-Gazette
.

William Alfred Ryker sat behind the desk in his Pittsburgh hotel suite, staring out the window at the smoke smudging the city skyline.

A yellow Marconigram lay under his outstretched hands on the desk top. Next to it was a lockable volume, much like a diary, opened to a page which contained a cipher key. The key rendered sense from the jumbled letters on the Marconigram.

WE HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER STOP IF YOU WANT HER ALIVE BE AT SINGER BUILDING LOBBY NOON AFTER TITANIC DOCKS NEW YORK WITH LATEST SHIPMENT STOP NO TRICKS STOP

Ryker didn't speak. Or move.

The doors flung open and Richards, his manservant, bolted into the room, fighting for any remnants of aplomb.

“I … I'm very sorry, sir. I had to see you … I mean to tell you …”

He held out a copy of the Pittsburgh paper.

Ryker frowned at the shadow cast over the enciphered message on his desk. Looking up, he saw the front page in Richards' outstretched hands. Ryker took it and studied the headlines.

Neither man said a word. Ryker let the paper fall on his desk. He looked up at the butler.

Ryker giggled. Helplessly. Peeling laughter over and over as he slumped on the desk, oblivious to Richards' astonishment.

“Are you all right, sir?”

Guffaws shook him as if stricken. Rolling on the floor, he held his sides.

“May I please be excused, sir?” His face grew red around the collar.

Whooping laughter ran on and on as if Ryker was gagging. He waved a hand in dismissal.

Richards turned on his heel, took his coat from the closet, went down the hall, rang for the elevator, rode down to the lobby, and left the hotel, searching for the nearest bar.

Jason Eddington leaned against a davit strut and watched the field ice gliding past, a mere two hundred yards away as the
Carpathia
steamed southwest for New York. His lips were pressed tight to keep his teeth from chattering as the wind blew his hair. He was alone. No one else would brave the cold without a reason.

But Jason had a reason. The deck on which he stood led to the wheelhouse and the captain's quarters.

A tiny figure appeared at the opposite end of the deck, marching toward him. It grew in the corner of Jason's eye. Turning, he stood in the figure's path.

The man halted at the sight of Jason, then pushed on. As he drew near, John McFarland's face was murderous. And a little frightened.

“Get out of my way, Eddington!”

He smiled lazily. “Where're you going, John?”

The steward didn't answer. He brunted past.

Whiplike, Jason grabbed his arms and pinned them both behind his back, forcing McFarland hard up against the rail.

“You don't have to tell me,” he whispered in his ear. “I already know. You're going to tell the captain all about me.” He pulled harder on the arms and McFarland's joints creaked.

The steward gritted his teeth but said nothing.

“I wouldn't try it, John.” Jason's grin flashed white. “A push over the railing. That's all it'd take.”

“You can't do a damn thing to me,” McFarland spat. “The last thing you can afford is another murder on your hands.”

“Very clever, John. You're a regular detective.”

“Then let me go.”

“Oh, I can't do that. Not until you listen to me. You're not going to tell anyone what you saw on the
Titanic
.” His grip tightened. “Because it's your word against Lisa's and mine. And both my wife and I lie beautifully. You'll have no backup witnesses. No evidence. Least of all Eva. I talked with Dr. McGhee. The kid can't even speak. All you'll have is your word and a police investigation that'll end in a smear on your work record for slandering a passenger.”

The courage drained from McFarland's face.

Jason released him, smiling as McFarland straightened his clothes. “I'm glad you have some common sense. It's such a rare commodity these days. Now get the hell out of my sight.”

“How did it go?”

Standing on the poop deck with his wife, Jason glanced away from the
Carpathia's
wake, dribbling along the edge of the ice that stretched whitely to the horizon.

“McFarland shut up quickly enough,” he said. “He won't be making any more trouble.”

Lisa Eddington turned her collar up against the wind. “That's the least of our worries right now.”

“I know.”

“Ryker will have men waiting at the dock in New York.”

Jason eyed the
Carpathia's
superstructure. “Maybe not.”

“What do you mean?”

He tapped her shoulder and pointed. Lisa followed his finger up two decks, where Second Officer Bisset was leaning over two women in shawls, a clipboard cradled in his arm.

“So?”

“He's compiling the survivors list. They'll wire it to New York.”

Lisa still looked baffled.

“Ryker will only be after us if he thinks we're alive.”

Second Officer Bisset swore under his breath as he fought with the clipboard sheets whipping in the wind. Thank God this was almost over!

Bisset leaned over the railing. There was a couple on the poop. God knows what they were doing out in this cold. Impossible to see who they were. Ah well, he'd better check it out!

The couple smiled at his approach.

“Sorry to intrude,” Bisset said, “but I'm compiling the survivors list. You are from the
Titanic
, aren't you?”

Lisa nodded happily, both arms around her husband's waist. “Boats Four and Thirteen.”

Bisset warmed to her infectious smile. “You're very lucky. I've talked with a lot of widows this morning.”

“We're just thankful to be alive,” Jason said.

The second officer held his clipboard, pen point poised over paper. “Your names, sir?”

Jason tightened the embrace on his wife. “Mr. and Mrs. Albert and Martha Klein.”

Sobbing women and frenzied men thronged the front of the White Star Line's New York office on Broadway, ringed by a human chain of police reserves, blocking the path of William Ryker's black Packard limousine.

Not waiting for the car to stop, Ryker jumped from the back, running past newsboys hawking the April sixteenth paper. Their cries reaffirmed the huge black headlines.

He had no luck shoveling past the mob until someone recognized him.

“It's Ryker.” The words whispered from lip to lip. “Ryker … Ryker … Ryker …”

The crowd slightly parted, making a path to the front door.

About to pass through, he was pushed aside by a school of reporters, all trailing long pieces of paper as they scattered in all directions.

The White Star Vice-President, Phillip Franklin, still stood in the foyer. The door to his office stood open to reveal total chaos. Telephones yammered throughout the building.

“Mr.… Mr.… Ryker.” Franklin looked near collapse from exhaustion. “I had no idea …”

“What were those men carrying?”

Franklin dazedly brushed hair from his eyes. “It just came in. Relayed from the
Olympic
.” He picked up a page from the reception desk. “It's the survivors …”

Ryker tore it from his hands. All he saw were the names, in neat rows:

Rheims

Robert

Rolmane

Rosenbaum

Rothes

Rothschild

Ryerson

Ryerson

Ryerson

Ryerson

The entry leaped at him. “Ryker, Eva (child).”

Even as he spotted the name, Ryker noticed an absence. No Mrs. William A. Ryker. She wasn't there. Swallowing hard, his eyes flashed up the list. Hawksford … Hays … No Herrick.

He smiled savagely. “The bastards are dead.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

Ryker paid no attention as he spun and slammed the door behind him.

On Thursday night, April eighteenth, Albert and Martha Klein braved the night air of the
Carpathia
's deck, watching the Statue of Liberty's torch cut through the night.

Ten thousand people watched the ship's approach from the Battery. Tugboats surrounded her, each weighed down with reporters yelling questions at Captain Rostron and the crew through megaphones.

The ship remained silent to the reporters as it turned up the North River to Cunard Pier 54, where thirty thousand milled under umbrellas in the pouring rain. Police cordons struggled with the mob. Hoofs clomped on rain-slicked cobblestones as mounted policemen rode down scattered men and women scrambling to get closer to the pier.

Outlined against a red sign flashing on the Jersey shore, the
Carpathia
crept to the dock. The umbrellas jiggled in excitement at her approach.

Finally visible under the spotlights, the ship bumped against the pier and every photographer triggered his flash-lamp. The gangways were eased across under the magnesium glare.

One by one the survivors filed off the ship. Seventy widows. Henry Sleeper Harper and his dog, Sun Yatsen. Irish farmers and Turkish peasants.

William Ryker watched each face as he stood at the foot of the gangway with his personal physician.

He then spotted his daughter on top of the ramp. Carried by Dr. McGhee, Eva blinked fearfully at the magnesium flares and the searchlights and the roaring voices around her.

McGhee gave her to Ryker. His tears and kisses were ignored. Eva's face remained blank.

“I've got to get her out of this rain!”

“Go on!” McGhee nodded, yelling above the crowd. “I want to have a word with your doctor.”

With Eva in his arms, Ryker ran back to the Packard.

McGhee unfurled his umbrella, then held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Doctor …”

“… Stevens.”

“… I need to give you some facts about your patient.”

“Yes?”

“From what I can determine, Eva's not physically ill. Run down from exposure, of course. And she has some nasty abrasions and contusions which I've tried to deal with. But it's her state of mind I'm worried about.”

Dr. Stevens nodded. “She looks very frightened.”

“Frightened! During the past four days she hasn't said a word! Not one word. I don't understand it.” McGhee glumly rubbed his five-o'clock shadow. “Or maybe I do and don't want to.”

Under his dripping umbrella, Stevens scowled. “What do you mean?”

“I've given Eva a rather thorough examination. She's no longer … intact.”

“I … I don't follow.”

“Goddamit, man,” McGhee snapped. “Don't give me that! Of course you ‘follow'!”

“Such an occurence isn't unusual, considering the strenuous experience …”

“Trust me to know some simple anatomy, Dr. Stevens.” His voice lowered to an indignant whisper. “I'm familiar with the clinical details of … cases like this. What I
don't
know is the emotional stability of her father. You'll have to decide when—and if—he should be told.”

Dr. Stevens looked uneasily over his shoulder. Ryker stood one leg on the Packard's running board. The car's exhaust smoked impatiently.

He listened for a long moment to the rain drumming over his head, then turned back to McGhee.

“Thank you for your advice, Doctor.” Stevens formally pumped his hand. “I'll have to think it over.”

With a final parting nod, he headed back to Ryker's car.

Albert and Martha Klein stood at the head of the
Carpathia's
gangway and watched the red tail lights of the Packard vanish in the rain. Walking arm in arm, they sidled through the crowd.

Up on the Boat Deck John McFarland studied them until the blond heads were lost in the field of shiny black umbrellas.

Ten days later, in St. Petersburg, Florida, Mima Heinley eased open the screen door of her apartment off Central Avenue. “Yes? Could I help you?”

The Kleins stood together and smiled diffidently. Albert spoke up. “The apartment next door's for rent, I hear. Folks downstairs said you have a key.”

“Sure do! Be right with you.” Mima scurried into the bathroom and fished the key from Fred's pants.

“What now?” He grunted from the tub.

“A young couple to see the apartment.”

Fred splashed soap off his handsome black mustache. “More trash, I suppose.”

“Oh, hush up!” She playfully slapped his muscular shoulders. “Fact is, they look real nice. The clean bright type this neighborhood needs.”

As Fred dried himself and yanked on his pants, he heard Mima's high, thrilled voice in the living room. “Oh, I just know you're going to settle right in and make yourselves a fine home!”

30

“… unfortunately, the exact method of escape off the
Titanic
used by Jason and Lisa is lost in the past.”

I walked across the den and opened the window, breathing the cool afternoon air. Lurking mental cobwebs blew away.

“We know from Eva's tape that Jason Eddington wound up in Boat Number Four, one of the last to leave the ship. Lisa made her exit earlier in the evening, although it's impossible to pinpoint the exact boat. Both of them were very good at covering their tracks.”

Sitting behind my desk, I drained the last of my whiskey glass. I held it up to the window light. Water beads dripped coolly between my fingers.

“So, after the rescue by the
Carpathia
, we had another metamorphosis. From Steven and Julie Herrick to Jason and Lisa Eddington to Albert and Martha Klein. One can't help being struck by their audacity.” I cocked an eyebrow at Ryker. “They knew their only chance of escaping your vengeance was to lose themselves among the anonymous ranks of the seven hundred five
Titanic
survivors. Of course, from the beginning, their identities as the newlywed Eddingtons had been a cooked-up façade to serve their purposes aboard ship. But it took a very peculiar sense of irony to adopt the names of Albert and Martha Klein.