Buzz Cut (25 page)

"Use the manual phone," the captain ordered.

The second officer picked up the receiver on the side of the control board and gave the crank several turns.

"Dead," he shouted at the captain. "Line's dead."

The other second officer was bent over a screen on the starboard panel. "Rate of turn at five degrees per minute, Captain. Six degrees now, seven. Turning sharp, Captain."

"Mother of God," Sampson said.

Hurrying to his side, Lola asked him what it meant.

"Rate of turn more than five degrees a minute can tip the ship. We keep turning like this we'll flip on our fucking side, sink like concrete."

"Go to batteries," the captain said. "Electrical shut-down."

"Can't do it, Captain. Nothing's responding." The first mate stood behind the control panel. Arms at his side, staring bleakly at the array of switches and LED lights that had begun to wink on and off. There was a moment of stunned silence, then the blare of the small overhead speakers mounted in each corner of the bridge.

"Wish you were here to join our fiesta. Fiesta Cruise Lines where every minute is a party."

Butler Jack's off-key voice filled the wheelhouse.

"Where every minute is a party."

They'd moved so close to the sister ship that Thorn could make out the faces of the passengers lining the rail, some of them waving their arms, some scurrying away for cover, a few with videocams catching every second of this.

"Got it back, Captain. Controls are hot."

The first mate pushed the joystick and the LED numbers flickered to life and began to change quickly.

"Starboard rudder full," Gavini said. "Push it. Push all of it. Bow thrusters, stabilizers, everything."

"We need to move the passengers to the starboard rail, Captain. As many as possible. Ballast. You need to make an announcement."

"No announcements!" Sampson shouted. "They'll panic."

"Too late for that," Gavini said. "Starboard rudder full, do you hear me, Mr. Vincetti! Eight degrees, nine, whatever it takes. Bring it around. Stabilizers on."

"We'll tip, sir."

"Do it, Vincetti."

It was probably his imagination, but Thorn thought he could feel a mild shudder in the giant ship, a faint noise that sounded like distant prop wash. He watched as the officers in their white uniforms standing outside the bridge of the sister ship flapped their arms. He could even make out their gold braids.

Then the
Eclipse
rocked hard to port. Everyone on the bridge fumbling for a handhold. Lola was slung sideways, falling to her knees before the kid in the silk jacket grabbed her arm and helped her up. Shouts came from the deck below. Screams. A coffee cup slipped off the console and crashed to the deck.

"Eight degrees, Captain," the first officer said.

The kid and Lola climbed up the inclined floor and held to the teak rail mounted next to Sugar and Thorn. The alarm buzzer continued to throb.

"It takes a mile to turn this thing," Sugarman said quietly.

"We haven't even had the fire drill," one of the second officers moaned. "No one knows where to go. Life boats, preservers, none of it."

"Shut up, Hugo," the red-haired man said.

Thorn watched the distance between the two ships shrink, five hundred yards, four. The
Eclipse
began to register the jarring wake of the other ship.

"Nine degrees, Captain."

"Bring it down."

"Down, sir?"

"Starboard rudder half. Bring it down to five degrees. We're clear of them."

"Clear, sir?"

The captain was no longer consulting his instruments. He'd planted himself at the forward window and was dead-reckoning their course. Several more agonizing minutes passed before the alarm buzzer shut off and it was clear the ships would not ram. The gap had stopped narrowing the moment the captain spoke.

"Jizz," Thorn said to Sugar.

Sugar nodded. "Guy's got a good eye. A good feel."

"Thank God for that."

The sister ship peeled off slowly to the south, while the
Eclipse
eased north. At their closest point only two or three hundred yards had separated them. But it had seemed very close. Very very close.

"We have full instrumentation, Captain."

The overhead speakers crackled again, and everyone on the bridge pivoted to stare.

"Well, so much for our little demonstration," the voice from the speaker said. "And now our party has begun. For the time being, let's all just try to relax, get on with our merry cruise. But I hope my demonstration has made it clear to you—Butler Roger Jack is the captain of this ship."

Morton Sampson cocked back his arm and slung the heavy glass at one of the overhead speakers. It shattered against the pale gray wall.

Sugarman stepped over to Sampson, put his hand on the man's shoulder, and gently turned him around. Though his smile was still lingering faintly, Sampson's face had gone whiter than his hair. A dull haze filled his blue eyes as if he had been staring into the sun.

"We need to talk," Sugar said. "Right now."

Butler's testicles were swollen three times their normal size. He could barely walk. They throbbed. Two tennis balls pumped tight with blood. He was sick. Vomiting for hours in David Cruz's cabin. Puking through the night, there with the corpse, watching the sun rise. His testicles pulsing with every beat of his heart. Writhing on David Cruz's bed, legs spread, building up his courage to press ice to his balls, ice in a wash cloth.

Then later, twisting against the sheets, trying to scrub away as much of the blood from his hands and arms as he could manage. Unable to move. Depressed and in agony. Certain the plan was finished, destroyed. Unable to sit up, walk to his cubbyhole to transmit his messages, get things going.

He spent the day in David Cruz's cabin. The deadbolt on. People knocked, called out Cruz's name, but Butler made no move. Lying in his painful sweat, balls aching, growing ever larger. In the mirror they were becoming grapefruit. He was hungry and sick. Paralyzed on David Cruz's bed. Until finally late in the afternoon the mooring lines were cast off, the ship pulled away, set off to sea. The party beginning, but Butler lay on the bed moaning. Sick and aching. Everything wrong. Everything lost. Years of planning. Because of his balls. Because David Cruz had kneed him. Because his balls were about to explode.

But then an hour out to sea, things miraculously eased. The pressure abated. He could stand. He could move. Still suffering but it was endurable. As if some heavenly power had interceded on his behalf. As if his plan had found favor. The sea parting. His balls stopped throbbing. Celestial morphine. He could move. He could walk, take awkward steps. He could trek to his designated spot, broadcast his message to the masses. Tell them his name. In the beginning was the word and the word was Jack. Hijack.

His balls were huge and bluish black and they bulged in his pants, but they were shrinking back to tennis balls. He could move. He spoke to the passengers, told them who was in control. The plan moved forward.

Then his quick visit to the engine room and the control room. Robbie Dorfman. Blaine Murphy. Just to say hi. Hi, Blaine. Hi, Robbie. Making a couple of minor adjustments in the operations of the ship.

And the lurching of the ship as Gavini averted disaster.

It was working.

***

At a little after six o'clock Butler unlocked his cabin door and stepped inside. Monica was gone. Bowlegged, he walked directly to the bathroom. He stripped off the thick rubber tips on his fingers, the Velcro, the wires and battery pack of his zapper. Peeled out of the gray jumpsuit he'd found in David Cruz's cabin, took off the bloody clothes beneath, bundled them in a Fiesta laundry bag. Butler got the water as hot as it would go and held the dagger under the hard stream, watching the flecks swirl down the drain.

Then he stepped into the shower, scoured away the red smears on his arms, the blood caked in the curly blond hairs at his wrist. Wrung out the wash cloth. When he was done, he dried off thoroughly, moving the towel gingerly against his nuts. He washed his hands in the sink, washed them again. He squeezed out some toothpaste and brushed his teeth, rinsed with mouthwash then brushed a second time. Flossed. Shaved with a disposable razor, dried his hair with a towel, fluffed it by hand, combed it out. Experimented with a part on the right side, but didn't like the look and parted it as usual in the middle.

He had to stand on the lid of the toilet to examine his testicles in the mirror. Golf balls now. The blue-black shine of a crow, a yellow tinge beginning to appear.

He selected a pair of roomy white shorts, knee length, stepped into them carefully. Put on a black button-down shirt, long sleeves to conceal the wires. He reconnected the zapper. Fastened the battery pack to his belt. Put on white Top-Siders. Through the whole exercise he kept his brain in short focus. The thing before him. The toothbrush, his hair, the shorts, the zapper.

When he was dressed he stood before the mirror and studied himself, tried to detect anything unusual in his face. But there was no hint of his new condition. He went into the cabin.

Monica had betrayed him, but the glow had not died. If anything, it had intensified. A flare on the surface of the sun. Her treachery combined with the pain in his testicles was fueling him. He was soaring now to yet a higher pinnacle, his energy level shooting heavenward. In pain, yes, but he was infused, flushed, supercharged. Surprised to find it so. She'd been his guiding light for half his life. And in an instant he was finished with her. The booster rocket falling away, Butler soaring on. Free.

Inside the cloud of pain he felt a clean, pure current of joy. Blood surging. A great wave of confidence growing. After the near collision with the other cruise ship, Butler Jack had hobbled through the
Eclipse
tip to stern, eavesdropping on the anxious talk. Women sobbing, children with their numb looks. A disaster narrowly averted. Almost everyone had witnessed it or knew someone who had. And still no one from the crew had explained anything to them. The captain remained silent, Lola and Morton were mute. What was happening?

Butler roaring inside. Holding it in, his power over these people, these privileged, extravagant people. Their destinies in his hands. Supreme commander. His power on graphic display before all of them. His mother, his lost Madonna, all those who had thought him weak and incompetent.

Now he stood, legs spread wide. Butler listening to the spellbinding chant that filled his veins. It was working. It was working. It was working. Every detail going off as he'd planned, the timing perfect, the broadcasts. All of it perfect.

He had killed David Cruz. Blood everywhere. Carved him open and sank his hands into the cavity of his enemy's chest. Electricity in one hand, steel in the other. Splashed with the man's blood, awash in it, smelling it, inhaling the dying breath of his foe. Touching the man's heart.

It was ambrosia. An exhilaration that rippled through him still as if a thunderbolt had fired across the sky and Butler had shot his hand out and seized the lightning, snapping it from the clouds. Filled with it now, its bright white juice.

With a groan, Butler squatted over his athletic duffel. Worked his way through three or four of the zippered compartments before he found the list. He unfolded the piece of paper and took it to the dresser and spread it out. He read it over once, his mantra, then turned and snatched up a pencil from the desk and scribbled a final line. Watching himself from afar as his hand formed the words. Butler Jack hovering over the moment. Dislocated. There, not there. The transfusion of strength holding steady. Butler adjusting to its heady power, second by second learning to modulate it, bathe in its glow while smoothing off the ragged edges, the frantic rush. He'd always had energy, always had drive, but this was different. This was a new realm.

Butler sat on the desk chair, refolded his list.

He went to the dresser mirror and looked at himself. Reached out, touched the cool glass. Left a smudge over his eyes. Maybe he was insane. Maybe he had stepped across that threshold. Lost connection. But no. He knew the words. He knew all of them and they did not describe this power he felt. This strength.

Insane was from the Latin
sanus,
for healthy.
In
meaning not. Not healthy. Or
mad
from Old English
gemacdde.
Meaning foolish, vain, boastful. Ruinously imprudent. But Butler felt healthy, knew he wasn't foolish or boastful. And no
psychopath
either. Psycho for mind and the Greek
pathes,
or
pathos
, was suffering. A suffering mind. Or
crazy
from Middle English
crasen,
which meant shatter. Break into many pieces. A cold word of Scandinavian origin. None of those described him or the white-hot juice circling his veins. The intensity.

Butler put the list back in the duffel.

Standing in the middle of the room, his heart clanging. A terrible burn in his belly. Like hunger, only greater. Like the accumulated appetites of all his children, two thousand of them, their bellies swollen from starvation, their teeth gigantic and useless in their shrunken mouths, two thousand of them, while around him, on board the
Eclipse,
this ship of shame, two thousand others glutted themselves, ate meal after meal, seven a day, gorging until their bellies bulged with fat, grease dripping from their mouths, crumbs on their lips, licking the butter from their fingers, sucking away the sugar, the sour cream, the meringue. Consuming, stuffing, squandering. Dazed by excess. Filling themselves with the stolen bounty of the world.

***

Sitting this close to his mother, Sugarman was tongue-tied. An awkward kid, a whole shitload of things he'd always wanted to say, always wanted to know swelling up inside him, practically choking off his breath. At a distance it'd been easy. What he'd said to Thorn, not needing to get involved with her life, all that, it was true. He'd been pretty nonchalant. But this was the first time he'd been in this proximity', and he was having trouble finding anywhere to put his eyes.