Through Waters Deep (19 page)

Saturday, November 8, 1941

Lately the sea felt more stable to Jim than land. Here on the
Atwood
, things ran as they should, but once he stepped off the gangplank, he felt ill.

In the captain's office, Jim stared down into his cup. The gentle motion of the ship at pier rippled his coffee, the same deep brown as Mary's hair. He wanted to go back to sea.

Two weeks for resupply and repairs, they said. The storms had ripped off life rafts and ladders and lockers on the deck. The Navy Yard was also replacing the old Y-gun with six new K-guns to fire depth charges. Since the Navy needed every possible destroyer on escort duty, work proceeded quickly.

Lieutenant Commander Durant flipped a page in Jim's report. “Everything looks fine, Mr. Avery.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Durant set down the papers and folded his hands over his flat belly. “Have you given any further thought to your career direction? Now that you've had some time at sea, some experience?”

“Yes, sir. I think I might be good in training, perhaps in personnel.”

“Why do you say that?”

Jim swirled his coffee, competing with the ship's motion. “I work well with people, motivate them.”

“Those traits are needed in a line officer too.”

“Yes, but . . .” He sipped his coffee. How could he put the truth into words?

Durant sat in silence, but his silence never meant he'd forgotten the question.

Jim's sigh ruffled the surface of the coffee. “I don't trust my ability to be bold in a crisis. I told you when I first came on board I've always floated through life. I'm easygoing. That's a great trait until Mr. Easygoing has to make a hard decision. Both times in my life I've tried to be bold and decisive, someone's gotten hurt.”

“Ozzie Douglas.”

“Yes, sir.”

Durant's blue eyes held a strange concoction of compassion and scrutiny. “Could that have been avoided?”

“He would have lost two fingers. That couldn't be helped. But he didn't have to lose all four.”

“What if that sound contact had been an actual U-boat? What if they'd attacked?”

Jim's grip on the cup handle tightened. “I know. I know.”

“You made the right decision.” The pigeonhole cubbies on the captain's steel desk held envelopes and supplies in perfect order, the sign of an organized mind, a man who knew the right thing to do.

Jim took a sip of lukewarm, bitter coffee. “I know I made the right decision, but I don't like how I made that decision.”

“Explain.”

He shoved the cup away, disgusted by the contents. “I started that cruise with one intention—to be a bold, competent officer.
That's what drove that decision. I wanted to be seen as bold.” But he hadn't prayed. That's what hurt most. Nehemiah always stopped and prayed. Always. That's what made him such a powerful leader.

Durant scratched his chin. “Did you weigh the consequences of both decisions?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did you consider the needs of Ozzie Douglas? The needs of all the men on the
Atwood
? The role of the
Atwood
in the convoy as a whole?”

Jim closed his eyes and tried to remember. “Yes, but—”

“If you weighed your options, considered the good of all—not just one man, not just your own reputation, but the ship as a whole and our role in the war effort—then you made the right decision and you made it well. You only had one minute to make that choice. Don't expect too much from yourself.”

Jim scrunched up his nose. One minute was plenty of time to pray.

“Enough of that.” The CO raised a smile, but one without humor. “Remember, that same day I made a decision that doomed three men to death. Do I wish I could have saved them? Absolutely. But I'd make the same decision again, and I won't beat myself up about it. An officer can't afford to do that.”

Jim nodded. Not one man on the
Atwood
doubted the captain's decision to abandon those men in the water. And come to think of it, after Marvin Hill's initial resistance, not one man had criticized Jim's decision to drop those depth charges.

“Your hands are weakened.”

“What?” Jim spread out his fingers. Looked fine to him.

“Remember our friend Nehemiah? When his enemies spread lies and rumors, Nehemiah said they were trying to weaken his hands so the work wouldn't be done.”

The scars on Jim's palms broadcast his ancient fear that if
he made waves, people would be hurt. And that fear weakened him and held him back.

“What did Nehemiah say?” Durant's voice held both power and kindness.

Jim's fingers coiled, the muscles working, covering the scars, warming him inside. “‘O God, strengthen my hands.'”

“Yes.” Durant slapped his knees and stood. “Now, I intend to enjoy my Saturday night out. I expect you to do likewise.”

On the outside Jim smiled, but the warm feeling oozed away. If only he could enjoy his evening.

Arch wanted to see the new detective film
The Maltese Falcon
. He insisted they take Mary and Quintessa. The ladies would expect them. They knew the
Atwood
was in port. They knew the men would probably get liberty.

Staying on board would be cowardly. But so tempting.

Jim made his way down the passageway to the cabin he shared with Arch, dreading the upcoming land-sickness.

Last week Mary acted as if she were bequeathing Quintessa to him, and Quintessa acted as if she'd granted him a huge favor by bestowing her affections on him. Well, where was his say in the matter?

Jim banged the door open.

Sitting on his bunk, Arch jumped and stared at him.

“Sorry.” He offered a limp smile.

Arch stood and grabbed his cover and overcoat. “Are you ready?”

“Suppose so.”

“You sound like a man heading to the gallows rather than a man about to spend a night on the town with his dream girl.”

Jim shrugged and punched his arms into his overcoat.

Arch straightened his collar in the mirror. “Dream girl isn't so appealing after you've spent the majority of 1941 falling in love with her best friend.”

Jim's jaw clenched to see his heart splayed out in front
of him. Playing the fool, once again. “She doesn't see me as anything but a friend. She made that very clear to me. She's thrilled that Quintessa is interested in me. Thrilled. Does that sound like she's interested in me herself?”

“All right. Let's leave Mary out of the equation.” Arch led the way down the passageway. “What about Quintessa? Is she everything you remember?”

“More so.” Every bit as sparkling but less silly, tempered by time and heartbreak.

But she wasn't Mary.

Jim huffed out his breath and climbed the ladder to the main deck, where crisp autumn air tickled his nose. Yes, he had to leave Mary out of the equation, because Mary didn't want to be in the equation. That left Quintessa.

The lovely Quintessa Beaumont, who came all the way to Boston to see Jim. “I'll see what happens with Quintessa. It's only fair.”

Arch trotted down the gangplank. “You're floating again.”

Only a month earlier, he'd stood in this same spot, waving to Mary, his lips warm from her kiss. He snapped. “What do you expect? Mary doesn't want me, but Quintessa does. So leave me alone.”

Two blond eyebrows rose. In over five years of friendship, Jim had only snapped at Arch a handful of times, and usually during final examinations.

An apology was expected and deserved, but Jim dug his hands into his overcoat pockets and marched down the pier. Later. He'd apologize later.

He'd been testy with Mary too. She didn't deserve it either. She was only being honest with him. How could she know she'd hurt him? She didn't know he loved her. He'd never told her, and now it was too late. If he told her now, he'd make a fool of himself, embarrass Mary, and hurt Quintessa. He might even damage the ladies' friendship.

A fine mess he'd floated into.

Now he'd snapped at Arch for telling the truth. Jim's sigh turned white in the cool air. “Sorry, buddy.”

On Chelsea Street, Arch raised an arm to hail a cab. “Perhaps each of us should refrain from commenting on the other's love life.”

Jim chuckled. “Perhaps.”

They climbed into a cab and directed the driver to the ladies' apartment. Arch insisted on waiting in the taxi, and Jim drew a deep breath of fortitude and climbed the steps.

“Jim, darling!” Quintessa pulled him inside and kissed him on the cheek. “I'm so glad you're here. Please tell me you're here to take me out. It's been a dreadful week at work.”

“Arch thought you ladies might like to see
The Maltese Falcon
.”

“I'd love to. Humphrey Bogart is the tops. Let me change into something pretty. Won't take but a moment.”

Quintessa dashed to the bedroom, and Jim turned to find Mary curled up in a wing chair by the bay window with a book in her lap.

He refused to be testy with her again. Besides, he missed her. “Hi, Mary.”

“Hi, Jim.” Her voice sounded deep and husky.

Everything inside him wanted to buck the current. He motioned over his shoulder with his thumb. “What are you waiting for? Go get ready. Arch can entertain Quintessa, and you and I can catch up.”

Her light eyes widened, then she smiled back. “How kind of you to include me, but I'm still not well. I've been home from work all week, and I should rest.”

Compassion drew him closer, and he sat on the couch across from her. She looked pale and tired, her hair tugged back in one of those net-like things. What were they called? “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you. I should be able to return to work on Monday.”

“Good.” He took off his cover to give his hands something to do. “Anything new in the investigation?”

“I haven't been to work all week. How's your family?”

Back to her old trick, eh? Turning questions back on others so she wouldn't have to talk about herself. He hadn't heard anything about the sabotage case in over a month. Surely something had happened. But he'd play along. “My family? They're doing well. Rob's still in San Diego, and Dan's out at sea.” Rumor was the USS
Vincennes
had been assigned to escort a convoy of Canadian troops to South Africa in the first leg of their journey to India.

Mary covered her mouth and coughed. “San Diego must be nice. And the others?”

“Ed and Charlie are busy with school, and Lucy with her home. But Lillian . . .”

“What's wrong with Lillian? I thought she just graduated from college.” Her pink lips pulled together, no less tempting without lipstick.

Jim flipped his cover in his hands. “Yes, in June, but she still can't find a job. She's getting discouraged.”

“Oh.” She closed her book, her eyes darting about, more like the Mary he knew—and loved. “She's a pharmacist, isn't she? Do you think she'd be willing to move to Boston?”

“If it meant a job, sure.”

Mary unfolded her legs, set her sock-clad feet on the floor, and leaned over her knees, her eyes bright. “Dixon's Drugs on Main Street is looking for a pharmacist. Down by City Square. You should inquire.”

“Great idea. Thanks for the lead.”

“Oh! If she'd like, she could live here. We'd love a fourth roommate to help with the rent, and there's so little housing in town.”

“I'm sure she'd like that.” He grinned, hoping she'd reciprocate and reestablish their connection.

But she glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, Quintessa, don't you look lovely? I knew that dress would be even prettier on you than on the hanger.”

Jim stood because it was expected.

Quintessa twirled in a wine-colored dress, asking for attention, for a compliment. Mary never asked. Not once had she asked, and now he'd give anything to shower her with attention and compliments.

“I knew it,” Mary said. “I told you Jim would be speechless.”

Quintessa struck a pose, one hand on her hip. “I'm sure you can come up with something, Jim. An intelligent man like you.”

An intelligent man sticking his oars into the current, fighting the flow. Why were these women making assumptions, putting words in his mouth, assigning thoughts to his silence?

The earth rocked beneath him. He'd prefer a good storm at sea.

If he didn't compliment Quintessa, she'd feel insulted. “You look nice. Are you ready?”

“Oh, I am. What a treat. A night out with not one, but two handsome officers.” She sighed and gave Mary a sympathetic look. “Next time, when you're feeling better, you can join us and keep Arch company.”

Mary curled up with her book again, covered her mouth with her fist, and coughed. “We'll see.”

Where was the Mary he knew? The Mary who couldn't wait to discuss the sabotage case with him? The Mary who wanted to know all about his life at sea while respecting the limits of censorship? The Mary who loved a night on the town and an afternoon exploring the city?

A cavity formed in his chest, aching. Why hadn't he said anything when he had the chance?

“Are you coming?” Quintessa stood by the door, pulling on her gloves, a quizzical look on her face.

With a nod, he joined her. Because he'd failed to walk the path he'd chosen, that path had closed and another had been marked out for him.

He had only himself to blame.

Monday, November 10, 1941

A month from today, two destroyers were scheduled to be launched and two more laid down, so Mary had four ceremonies to coordinate.

At her office desk, she broke into a coughing fit, then waited for the light-headedness to pass. Perhaps she wasn't well enough to return to work, but a week away had put her behind schedule. Besides, work would take her mind off Jim. How she missed him as her companion and sounding board.

If only she could follow Jim and Quintessa's wishes and double-date with them. At least she'd enjoy Jim's company. But she wasn't mature enough or strong enough. In time, she'd accidentally reveal her feelings, and the pity, awkwardness, and attention would be unbearable. No, she'd keep her distance.

Mary reviewed her checklist. The sponsors had already been arranged. Today Mary would order the flowers for the sponsors and write the first drafts for the ceremony programs. By the end of the week, she needed to deliver the final programs to the printer.

She opened her planning notebook to find the florist's telephone number and blinked her eyes from the heaviness.

Thank goodness her fever had dissipated along with her feverish delusions. A whole week with nothing to do but read and pray helped her sort out her thoughts and intentions.

Had she been prideful in joining the choir? Not at all. She was using her gifts to glorify God, and somehow he'd even see her through the Christmas pageant.

What about with the investigation? No, she was doing good work for a good purpose and trying to stay invisible for her own safety.

With Jim?

Mary sighed and rested her eyes. What was wrong with hoping the man you loved could come to love you? Misguided, perhaps, but not prideful.

All she'd done this year was change direction, tack into the wind. She could still smell the salt air from that day sailing. She could still feel the resistance at the helm as she changed tack and the sails luffed and jangled. She could still hear Jim's deep voice in her ear: “When the sails start luffing, you can't let the noise and motion distract you. You have to keep moving.”

That's what was happening in her life. She'd changed directions, tried new things. Some luffing was to be expected. She couldn't get distracted. She had to keep moving.

And her next move would be away from Boston. While home last week, she'd called a long list of shipyards on the Great Lakes, far from destroyer bases. Several asked for her resume and a letter of recommendation. This morning she'd worked up the nerve to ask Mr. Pennington. He'd objected but promised to write a letter today. Tomorrow she'd send everything out in the mail.

The phone rang, and she picked it up. “Mr. Pennington's office, Miss Stirling speaking.”

“Ah, Miss Stirling. Agent Sheffield here. I'm glad you're back at work. May I speak to Mr. Pennington, please?”

“Yes, sir.” Mary transferred the call to her boss's line. Since her call to the florist would have to wait until they got off the phone, she rolled a sheet of paper into her typewriter and organized her notes for the launching ceremony programs.

“Miss Stirling?” Mr. Pennington stood in his office doorway with concern on his face. “Agent Sheffield has requested your shorthand skills again. This is the third time, and I don't like how he puts you in the middle of danger.”

“Oh.” Mary chewed on her lips. Would her boss's worries keep her from an exciting new assignment? “What did you tell him?”

He waved one hand to the door. “How can I say no to the FBI?”

“Why does he need me? What's happening?” She sat up straighter, her toes tapping.

“You won't believe this. I certainly didn't. The FBI received an anonymous tip last night. They searched Mr. Winslow's home and found a bomb.”

Mary gasped and covered her mouth. “A bomb?”

“I find it hard to believe. A civilized young man like that.”

“Oh dear.” Apparently he had the expertise after all. She'd underestimated him.

“They arrested him last night, and they brought him to his office this morning for some reason. They want you to take notes.” He tugged down his suit vest. “Do me a favor, young lady, and tell this FBI agent to hire his own secretary.”

How sweet he was. If he weren't her boss, she'd kiss him on the cheek. After she thanked him, she grabbed her pen and notebook and hurried to the drafting room.

Just inside the doorway, George O'Donnell and Frank Fiske stood talking together.

Mr. Fiske greeted Mary. “Did you hear the news? Mr. Winslow got himself arrested.”

“I heard. I can't believe it.”

“I can.” O'Donnell crossed his big arms over his chest. “Always knew that pansy was up to no good.”

Fiske shook his head. “Never thought he'd be building bombs in his basement. They found a whole crate of equipment down there. Didn't know he had it in him.”

“Excuse me. Agent Sheffield is expecting me.” A polite smile, and Mary headed into Mr. Winslow's office.

Agents Sheffield and Hayes stood in front of the desk, and Mr. Winslow sat in his chair, his head in his hands, his suit rumpled.

When she entered, the agents looked her way. “Thank you for coming, Miss Stirling. Shut the door and have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Mary did as asked and readied her pen and notebook.

“I swear it isn't mine.” Mr. Winslow dug his fingers into his unkempt hair. “It's my friend's.”

“Is it common for your friends to bring bombs to Sunday night supper?”

Winslow groaned and shook his head in his hands. “It was a meeting, nothing more. English expatriates and Anglophiles like me. We discuss ways to aid Britain, ways to show America the dangers of trusting Nazi Germany. Peaceful ways.”

Sheffield released a hard chuckle. “Nothing more peaceful than a good bombing.”

Winslow raised his head, revealing dark shadows under his eyes. “It's my friend's. I—”

“Your friend Cyril—”

“Cecil. Cecil Dalton. Yes, he wanted to set it off at an America First rally, but I talked him out of it, talked him into
giving me the bomb. I planned to dismantle it and dispose of it today. Then you showed up.”

“So we did.”

Mary frowned as she transcribed their words. Mr. Winslow was lying. His story didn't explain the crate of bomb-making equipment in his basement. He was either building the bombs or providing a location for Cecil Dalton to do so.

Mr. Winslow opened his drawer and rummaged inside, shoving aside items.

“Looking for this?” Agent Sheffield pulled an amber prescription bottle from his suit pocket.

Winslow's face stretched long, and he reached for it. “Please. I need it. I have pains in my arms and legs from an old childhood illness. It's a legal prescription, I assure you.”

Mary ducked her chin. Her conscience had led her to call Agent Sheffield last week to report what she'd seen and heard at Dixon's Drugs.

The agent turned the bottle in the light from the window, inspecting it. “Codeine sulfate, one-half grain. Your physician verifies this is a legal prescription, but said you use more and more every year. In fact, this past month, you've doubled your dose.”

Winslow let out a series of rough breaths, and his fingers tangled with each other. “My nerves have been acting up with the upheaval here at the shipyard. I need it to do my job.”

“Addicts . . .” Agent Sheffield narrowed his eyes. “Addicts behave erratically.”

Tremors ran through Mr. Winslow's arms. “I do my job, sir. I do it well.”

“Tell you what.” He tossed the prescription bottle to Agent Hayes. “You cooperate, and we'll give you a pill. Sound like a fair trade?”

Winslow's hungry gaze bored into Agent Hayes. “I have
cooperated. I let you into my house last night without a search warrant, didn't I?”

“You did, didn't you?” Sheffield flicked his chin in Hayes's direction. “Give the boy a cookie.”

Mary swallowed the nasty taste in her mouth. She might have to transcribe the conversation, but she didn't have to like the interrogation techniques.

Mr. Winslow swallowed the pill like a starving man. Then he smoothed his hair and stood. “You said you'd bring me here to compare my original plans to the blueprints. May we please get started so I can return to the comforts of my prison cell?”

Agent Sheffield unrolled a blueprint on the desk. After Mr. Winslow read something off the blueprint, he went to a filing cabinet. In a minute he pulled out a large drawing covered with numbers and notations.

“You see the coordinating number and date.” Mr. Winslow pointed to the bottom corner of each diagram. “Let me examine them. The bolts . . . the bolts . . .”

“The drawings should be exactly alike,” Agent Sheffield said.

Mary resisted the urge to lean forward and examine the diagrams herself. She was a secretary right now, not a detective.

“There!” Mr. Winslow jabbed his finger at the blueprint. “Look right there. See, on my original, the numeral one. On the blueprint, the numeral four. And here, the five is an eight. And here. And here.” He cussed, then shot Mary an apologetic look.

She chose not to record those words.

The FBI agents inspected the diagrams, and Hayes took notes in a small notepad.

“I told you. It isn't me.” Winslow strode to the window and spun to face them. “It's O'Donnell. He's the one. He
altered my plans to sabotage our ships and to frame me. That's why he always refused to let me inspect his work. Why'd I let him bully me? Why?”

Agent Sheffield straightened. “O'Donnell has worked on all the affected blueprints?”

“Yes, sir. That's his assignment, the Fiske crew.”

“Hayes?” Sheffield cocked his head to the door.

Agent Hayes opened the door and leaned out. “Mr. O'Donnell. Would you please join us?”

Mary tucked her crossed ankles under her chair. Things were about to get explosive.

O'Donnell entered the office, a smug smile on his face, and he opened his mouth.

“Come here.” Agent Sheffield motioned him over, apparently not in a mood to listen to O'Donnell taunt his boss. “We've found some discrepancies between Winslow's original plans and the blueprints you drew. See here, and here, and here.”

The draftsman bent his iron-gray head over the papers, silent. “Those aren't my marks. Look here—I close up my fours—these are open at the top. And these eights—someone added a line to a five. I always make eights with two circles. That's what I learned in drafting school. See? These are my marks.”

“Hmm.” Sheffield looked closer, and Hayes made more notes.

So did Mary. Could O'Donnell have deliberately made such marks? Or had someone else done the alterations?

“Look. These marks are thicker than mine too. Someone altered the draft after I finished, but before the blueprints were developed.” O'Donnell leveled his gaze at Winslow. “Nice try, boss. You failed.”

“You think I'd alter my own plans? That's poppycock.” Winslow ran shaking hands over his trousers. “If you didn't do it, one of your friends did. Perhaps your buddy Fiske.”

“Frank? You've got to be desperate to accuse him.” O'Donnell's thick eyebrows twisted. “I know it was you. I leave the plans on my desk. I never thought I needed an armed guard.”

Winslow's mouth and eyes went hard. “If you were at your desk more often . . .”

“It could be anyone here.” O'Donnell swept his arm in the direction of the drafting room. “You, any of the draftsmen, that French girl who's always around here. For crying out loud, it could be the janitor. We don't lock this room.”

“The French girl,” Agent Sheffield said. “Yvette Lafontaine? You mentioned her before.”

Mary's breath turned solid in her lungs. Why must he accuse Yvette again? And why did Agent Sheffield remember her name?

“Yeah, some froufrou foreign name like that. She wants us in the war, you know. Wants us to fight her country's battles. Why should we? We need to protect ourselves first.”

Mary turned the page in her notebook and coughed.

“What exactly are you doing, Miss Stirling?” O'Donnell asked.

“Me?” Her face tingled as the blood drained out.

“She's an excellent stenographer,” Agent Sheffield said. “I asked her to transcribe today's proceedings. You don't mind, do you?”

“Why would I? I have nothing to hide.” But his dark eyes scrutinized Mary's notebook.

“We have what we came for.” Agent Sheffield stacked the blueprint and the original and rolled them up. “Mr. Winslow, let's go back to your cozy cell.”

“Good.” O'Donnell jutted out his chin. “He wants you to think someone else altered his drawings, but remember, he's the one who got caught making bombs.”

“Possessing a bomb, Mr. O'Donnell. He got caught in
possession of a single bomb. If you're going to spread gossip, get your facts straight.” Agent Sheffield opened the office door. “Miss Stirling, I'll expect that transcript tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir.” She attempted a benign smile, but her lips trembled. Her cover had been smashed to pieces. From now on, she'd have to be far more careful.