The Wheel of Darkness (25 page)

Too bad it all seemed to be going sour.

After the discovery in the Belgravia Theatre the night before— which he had witnessed—it was immediately clear to him that the ship’s personnel were in over their heads on this matter. Not only had they no idea how to investigate the killing or track down the murderer, but they seemed incapable of responding to the fear and panic that were beginning to spread through the ship, not just among the passengers but—Bruce had noticed with dismay—among the service staff as well. He’d been on enough ships to know that seafaring workers were often possessed of peculiar and superstitious maritime notions. The
Britannia
had become a fragile shell, and he was convinced that just one more shock would plunge everything into chaos.

So he had sat down after lunch with Welch, Sharp, and Ms. Dahlberg—she had insisted on being involved—and, true to form, they had come up with a plan. And now, as they strode down the plush corridors, Bruce in the lead, he took some measure of comfort in knowing they were putting that plan into action.

The small group made their way up through the decks until they reached a forward passageway leading to the bridge. There they were stopped by a nervous-looking security guard with watery eyes and a whiffle cut.

“We are here to see Commodore Cutter,” said Bruce, producing his card.

The man took the card, glanced at it. “May I ask what it is in reference to, sir?”

“In reference to the recent murder. Tell him we are a group of concerned passengers and that we wish to see him immediately.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, somewhat embarrassed, “Ex-captain, RN.”

“Yes, sir. Just a moment, sir.”

The security guard hustled away, shutting and locking the door behind him. Bruce waited impatiently, arms folded across his chest. Five minutes passed before the guard returned.

“If you’ll please come this way, sir?”

Bruce and his people followed the guard through the hatch into a much more functional area of the ship, with linoleum floors and gray-painted walls framed in fake wood, illuminated with strips of fluorescent lighting. A moment later they were ushered into a spartan conference room, a single row of windows looking starboard across a stormy, endless ocean.

“Please be seated. Staff Captain Mason will be here shortly.”

“We asked to see the ship’s master,” Bruce replied. “That would be Commodore Cutter.”

The guard ran an anxious hand over his whiffle. “The commodore is not available. I’m sorry. Staff Captain Mason is second in command.”

Bruce cast an inquisitive eye on his little group. “Shall we insist?”

“I’m afraid that would do no good, sir,” said the guard.

“Well then, the staff captain it is.”

They did not seat themselves. A moment later a woman appeared in the door, in an immaculate uniform, her hair tucked under her hat. As soon as he was over his surprise at seeing a woman, Bruce was immediately impressed by her calm, serious demeanor.

“Please sit down,” she said, taking as a matter of course the seat at the head of the table—another small detail that did not escape Bruce’s approval.

The banker got to the point immediately. “Captain Mason, we are clients of and representatives from one of the largest banks in the United Kingdom—a fact I mention only to impress on you our bona fides. I myself am ex–Royal Navy, former captain, HMM
Sussex
. We are here because we feel the ship is facing an emergency that may be beyond the ability of the crew to contain.”

Mason listened.

“There is great anxiety among the passengers. As you probably know, some people have begun locking themselves in their rooms. There’s talk of a Jack the Ripper–style killer aboard.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

“The crew, in case you haven’t noticed, is spooked as well,” Emily Dahlberg interjected.

“Again, we’re aware of these problems and are taking steps to handle the situation.”

“Is that so?” asked Bruce. “Well, then, Captain Mason, may I ask where the ship’s security is? So far, they’ve been practically invisible.”

Mason paused, looking at each of them in turn. “I’m going to be straight with you. The reason you see so little security is that there
is
very little security—at least, relative to the size of the
Britannia
. We’re doing all we can, but this is a very, very large ship and there are four thousand three hundred people on board. All our security staff are working around the clock.”

“You say you’re doing all you can, but then why hasn’t the ship turned around? We see absolutely no choice but to head back to port as quickly as possible.”

At this, Captain Mason looked troubled. “The closest port is St. John’s, Newfoundland, so if we were to divert, that’s where we’d go. However, we’re not going to divert. We’re continuing to New York.”

Bruce was aghast. “Why?”

“These were the commodore’s orders. He has his . . . well-considered reasons.”

“Which are?”

“Right now we’re skirting the edge of a large nor’easter sitting on the Grand Banks. Diverting to St. John’s will take us into its heart. Secondly, diverting to St. John’s will also take us straight across the Labrador Current during the July iceberg season, which, while not dangerous, will require us to slow our speed. Finally, the diversion will only save us a single day. The commodore feels that docking in New York City would be more appropriate, given—well, given the law enforcement resources we may require.”

“There’s a maniac on board,” said Emily Dahlberg. “Another person could be murdered in that ‘single day.’ ”

“Nevertheless, those are the commodore’s orders.”

Bruce stood. “Then we insist on speaking directly with him.”

Captain Mason also stood, and as she did so the mask of professionalism slipped away for a moment and Bruce glimpsed a face that was drawn, weary, and unhappy. “The commodore can’t be disturbed right now. I’m very sorry.”

Bruce glared back at her. “We’re sorry, too. You can be assured that this refusal of the commodore to meet with us will not be without repercussions. Now
and
later. We are not people to be trifled with.”

Mason extended her hand. “I’m not unsympathetic to your point of view, Mr. Bruce, and I’ll do all I can to convey to the commodore what you’ve said. But this is a ship at sea, we have a ship’s master, and that master has made his decision. As a former captain yourself you’ll surely understand what that means.”

Bruce ignored the hand. “You’re forgetting something. We’re not only your passengers—and your customers—but we’re your responsibility as well. Something can be done, and we plan to do it.” And, motioning his group to follow, he turned on his heel and left the room.

P
AUL
B
ITTERMAN STEPPED OUT OF THE ELEVATOR, SWAYED, AND
steadied himself on the polished chrome railing. The
Britannia
was in heavy swell, but that was only part of the problem; Bitterman was struggling with the combination of an exceedingly heavy dinner and nine glasses of vintage champagne.

Still gripping the railing, he looked up and down the elegant Deck 9 corridor, blinking, trying to orient himself. Raising a hand to his lips, he eased up a belch that tasted—revoltingly—of caviar, truffled pâté, crème brulée, and dry champagne. He scratched himself idly. Something didn’t look right here.

After a minute or so, he figured it out. Instead of taking the port elevator, as he usually did, in the champagne fog he had somehow taken the starboard, and it had gotten him turned around. Well, it was easily fixed. Humming tunelessly, he fumbled in his pocket for the passcard to suite 961. Letting go of the railing, he struck out a little gingerly in what he thought was the right direction, only to find the room numbers moving in the wrong direction.

He stopped; turned around; belched again without bothering to raise a covering hand this time; then headed back the other way. His head really was remarkably fuzzy, and to clear it he tried to reconstruct the series of events that had brought him—for the first time in his fifty-three years—to a state approaching intoxication.

It had all started earlier that afternoon. He had been seasick ever since waking up—hadn’t been able to eat a bite—and none of the over-the-counter medicines offered in the ship’s pharmacy seemed to help in the least. Finally, he’d gone to the ship’s infirmary, where a doctor had prescribed a scopolamine patch. Placing it behind one ear, as directed, he’d gone back to his stateroom for a nap.

Whether it was the miserable night he’d passed, or whether the patch itself had made him drowsy, Paul Bitterman didn’t know. But he had awoken at nine-fifteen in the evening, blessedly free of seasickness and possessed of both a dry mouth and a superhuman hunger. He had slept right through his normal eight o’clock dinner, but a quick call to the concierge had secured a reservation at the final seating for the night—at ten-thirty—in Kensington Gardens.

As it turned out, Kensington Gardens appealed greatly to Bitterman. It was more trendy, youthful, and hip than the rather stuffy restaurant he’d been eating in, there were some truly delicious women to look at, and the food was excellent. Surprisingly, the restaurant wasn’t full—in fact, it was almost half empty. Ravenous, he proceeded to order chateaubriand for two and then consume the entire portion. An entire bottle of champagne had been insufficient to slake his thirst, but the attentive wine steward had been only too happy to supply him with a second.

There had been some strange talk at the table next to him: a worried- looking couple, discussing some corpse that had apparently turned up. It seemed he might have slept through some serious event. As he made his slow and careful way down the Deck 9 corridor, he decided the first order of business tomorrow would be to get to the bottom of it.

But there was another problem. The room numbers were now headed in the right direction—954, 956—but they were all even numbers.

He paused, gripping the hallway railing again, trying to think. He’d never find 961 at this rate. Then he laughed out loud.
Paul, old buddy, you’re not using your noodle
. He had come out on the starboard side, and the odd-numbered staterooms, like his, were all on the port side. How could he have forgotten? He’d need to find a transverse corridor. He set out again, weaving ever so slightly, the fog in his brain offset by a delightful floating sensation in his limbs. He decided that, deacon or not, he’d have to drink champagne more often. Domestic stuff, of course—he’d won this trip in the YMCA raffle and could never afford bottles of vintage French on his teacher’s salary.

Ahead and to the left he could see a break in the line of doors: the entrance to one of the midships lobbies. This would lead to the port corridor and his suite. He stumbled through the door.

The lobby consisted of a brace of elevators opposite a cozy lounge with oak bookcases and wing chairs. At this late hour, the place was deserted. Bitterman hesitated, sniffing. There was a smell in the air here—a smell like smoke. For a moment, his sense of lazy euphoria receded: he’d attended enough safety drills to know that fire was a ship’s worst danger. But this scent was unusual. It was like incense, or, more precisely, the joss sticks he had once smelled in a Nepalese restaurant in San Francisco’s Chinatown.

More slowly now, he walked through the lobby to the port corridor that lay beyond. It was very quiet, and he could both hear and feel the deep thrum of the ship’s diesels far below his feet. The smell was stronger here—much stronger. The strange, musky perfume was combined with other, deeper, far less pleasant scents—moldy fungus, maybe, along with something he couldn’t identify. He paused, frowning. Then, taking one look back at the lobby, he turned into the port corridor.

And stopped abruptly, inebriation vanishing in an instant.

Up ahead lay the source of the odor: a dark cloud of smoke that blocked his path down the corridor. Yet it was like no smoke he had ever seen, strangely opaque, with a dense, dark grayish color and a rib-like outer surface that reminded him—in some bizarre and unpleasant way—of
linen
.

Paul Bitterman drew in his breath with an audible rasp. Something was wrong here—very wrong.

Smoke was supposed to
drift
through the air, curling, and shifting, attenuating to faint wisps at the edges. But this cloud just sat there, man-sized, strangely malignant, motionless, as if confronting him. It was so regular and even that it looked solid, an organic entity. The reek was so strong he could barely breathe. It was impossible, alien.

He felt his heart suddenly accelerate with fear. Was it his imagination, or did the thick cloud have the
form
of a man, too? There were tendrils that looked like arms; a barrel-like head with a face, strange legs that were moving, as if dancing . . . Oh, God, it looked not like a man, but a
demon
. . .

And it was then the thing slowly stretched out its ragged arms and—with a horrible, undulant purpose—began to move slowly toward him.

“No!” he shouted. “NO! Keep away!
Keep away
!”

The desperate shouts that followed quickly opened stateroom doors up and down the port-side corridor of Deck 9. There was a brief, electric moment of silence. And then, the sound of gasps; shrieks; the thud of a fainting body collapsing on the carpet; the frantic slamming of doors. Bitterman heard none of it. All his attention, every fiber of his being, was riveted to the monstrous thing that glided closer, ever closer . . .

And then it was past.

L
ESEUR STARED FROM
H
ENTOFF TO
K
EMPER AND BACK AGAIN
. He was already feeling aggrieved that the commodore had shoved this problem onto his plate—he was a ship’s officer, after all, not some casino employee. Not only that, but this problem wouldn’t go away—it just kept getting worse. With at least one murder, and perhaps as many as three, he had more dangerous and alarming things to deal with than this. He shifted his stare from Hentoff to Kemper and back again.