Dead in the Water (19 page)

Ramón sidled up, tousled Matt’s hair. “She will be fine,
hombre.
”

The diver straightened and cupped his mouth. “She’s here. We’ll bring her up inside the boat, okay?”

“Thanks!” Matt smiled up at Ramón and her. “Whew. That was a close one.”

“Yeah.” Donna’s knees wobbled some more. “I gotta lie down,” she said to no one in particular, and sank into Ramon’s arms.

She woke up staring into the face of the nurse.

“Hi,” she murmured groggily. “What happened?”

The nurse dropped something into a Dixie cup and set it on a white lacquer nightstand. “You passed out,” she chirruped. “We brought you to your stateroom.”

Donna lifted her head. She lay in a king-size bed in the middle of a room the size of the dining room on the
Morris
. The walls and carpet were a soft beige trimmed with a border of brown and blue seashells, and the furniture was white lacquer. A watercolor seascape hung on the wall across from her, and it wasn’t just a print. There was another smaller one beside the lacquer dressing table, which had a full-assault makeup mirror bounded by lights.

“This is our Proteus suite,” the nurse said. “It’s our best quarters. You have a stereo, a VCR, even your own balcony. It wasn’t booked, so the captain ordered you put into it.”

Awkward sentence. Made it sound as if the captain had ordered Donna to stay there. Donna yawned. “Thank you. It’s very nice.” Touched her forehead. “I feel dead.”

“I should imagine.” The nurse lifted her wrist and checked her pulse. Donna looked down at herself. She wore a light blue nightgown. Her gazed flicked to the nurse, who angled a thermometer in the light from the lamp beside the bed.

“Ship’s boutique,” she said. “We’re washing your clothes.”

“Thanks.”

Donna yawned and the nurse slipped the thermometer under her tongue. Donna pulled it back out.

“How’s Ruth?”

“Absolutely all right,” the woman said. “We pumped her full of salt water.”

“What?”

“She was a little dehydrated.” The nurse reached for the thermometer. Donna held on to it.

“The
Morris
?”

The woman hesitated. “I think you’d better wait to speak to the captain.”

“But—”

The thermometer went in. Glowering, Donna rolled her tongue along the smooth surface.

“He’s very anxious to talk to you.”

Around the thermometer, Donna asked, “When?”

“As soon as you feel up to it.” She picked up a metal medical clipboard and made some notes. Pulled out the thermometer and read it. “Good. Let’s check your blood pressure.” From the white lacquer table beside the bed, she picked up a cuff.

Waving her away, Donna sat up. “I want to talk to the captain now.”

The woman smiled calmly. “After the doctor examines you.”

“Now. I want to talk to him now. The
Morris
was taking on lots of water. If you haven’t found any other survivors …”

“The captain is questioning First Officer Diaz right now,” the nurse said.

Donna huffed at herself. She didn’t know shit about ships, and here she was demanding to throw in her two cents’ worth. Taking on water. Get out, who the hell did she think she was? Doing her typical bossy cop act. Right, Ms. Macho,
who had fainted like a Southern belle right there in front of God and everybody.

The nurse wrapped the cuff around Donna and squeezed the rubber ball attached to it. “But the captain does want to speak to you,” she emphasized. “Very soon.” She spoke as if the man had personally singled her out to discuss weighty matters with him. Donna smiled at her own vanity—or her obvious need to be considered important—and lay back.

“I’ll pencil him in,” she drawled. Sat up again. “I need to call some people, let them know I’m okay.”

“Relax.” The nurse urged her back against the pillows. “No one’s heard about it.”

If she knew that, she must know something about the
Morris
. “Look—”

“You must be hungry.” The pressure on the cuff increased; Donna could feel the pulse in her arm, hear it as it lurched toward her ear. Boompa, boompa, a little sluggish, perhaps?

“Yes, I’m hungry. But I’m also concerned about what’s going on.” Donna yawned. The room rocked. Natural, she told herself, after being in the lifeboat for twenty-four hours.

“What do you mean? Nothing’s going on.” The nurse squeezed the ball. “We’ll bring you a tray. What would you like?”

What do you want?

“No, no, I’ll get up.” Hell with her. She’d talk to the captain soon enough, get her answers from him. Boompa, boompa, wasn’t that enough? The cuff constricted her arm painfully. Donna frowned at it.

“Almost finished.” The nurse squeezed the ball again. Again. Her arm throbbed. “And the doctor wants all of you to stay in bed for the rest of the day.”

Donna flashed with irritation. “But I’m all right.”

“Now, now, doctor’s orders.” That professional smile. That officious voice. Donna knew them both from a hundred visits to the emergency ward. Usually reserved for the patients, while, as a law enforcement officer, she got to deal with the real people behind them. It was galling to be on the other side of the sheet.

Damn, that thing really hurt. And there was something
forced about the nurse’s bedside friendliness. Didn’t like her, Donna guessed. No big deal.

Her stomach growled. The nurse ripped the Velcro fastening and folded up the cuff, put it and the ball in a plastic box.

“The doctor will be in shortly.” With a snap, she shut the box and picked up it and the Dixie cup. Something rattled in the bottom of the cup, like a nail or a marble, and Donna was about to ask her what it was when another wave of dizziness washed over her and she lay back against the pillow.

“I hope you enjoy your stay with us,” the nurse said, and trotted out of the room. “I’ll order a tray for you.”

“Wait.” Donna tried to raise her hand. It lay at her side, tired and heavy.

Fuck it. Closing her eyes, she let herself sleep.

In the darkened stateroom, John cuddled Matt as the boy snored loudly. Captain Nemo curled at the foot of the bed. Barely awake, John smiled and sighed against the back of Matt’s head. The cat licked the big toe of his right foot, pushed from beneath the bedclothes; her rough tongue tickled and he shook his foot to discourage her. She batted it with her paw. He shook it again. She raised herself up and caught it, giving him a remonstrative though restrained nip before she settled down to licking it again.

Nibbling, nibbling, mousie. Who’s nibbling at my housie?
John had been reading
Hansel and Gretel
to Matt; there was a picture book somewhere on the bed, open to the page where the witch caught them. Nibbling, nibbling, catsie, who’s nibbling at my toesie?

John, his eyes heavily closed, smelled his son’s hair and started to drift back down into dreams. Nemo licked his toe.

All was right with the world, and his stomach didn’t hurt too much. Hare had given him some Tagamet. They were safe, and he could sleep.

Drip
.

Drip drip. Drip
.

John opened his eyes again, to darkness. Rearranged his glasses and rolled onto his back, smoothing his hair away
from his forehead. The porthole was open, the moon soft and pink in the frame of the metal circle. Light brown curtains rippled in a tropical breeze.

Drip drip drip
.

Damn. They’d told him the captain would be in in a few minutes to talk with him. That must have been hours ago.

And what was that dripping?

Gingerly, he slid his arm from beneath his son and sat up. Put his hand on the nightstand beside the bed.

There was something wet on it. A flat piece of cork—a bob, a coaster?—and he picked it up at the same time he turned on the light.

In his hand he held a glass ashtray, perfectly dry.

Confused, he cocked his head. A long, metallic echo shuddered through the room,
drrrrrr—

from one corner,

—iiiiip

from another. Then a steady trio of drips just above his head. Louder, so loud he covered the crown of his head with his hand and gazed up as he swung his feet to the floor.

Right into a deep, cold puddle. The water splashed on his arches, so icy it stung, and the floor beneath was scaly and crusted.

“Hey,” he blurted, lifting up both feet.

“Daddy?” Matt bolted upright, squinting. The Hansel and Gretel book fell off the bed, landing with a splash.

“Oh, my God!” John cried. He leaned over and groped with his fingertips. Sinking! Sinking. Jesus Christ!

“Daddy?” Matt shouted, rising on his knees.

John’s hand touched the smooth, soft carpet. It was dry.

And the dripping had stopped.

There was a muffled knock on Ruth’s door. She looked up from the old Agatha Christie paperback the nurse had thoughtfully brought her. Though she read the text, her mind was working on another mystery altogether. Something about Stephen, something very real, yet unreal, if only she could remember it …

Another knock, insistent yet not intrusive. “Yes?”

“It’s the captain, madam. May I come in?”

Oh, my, the captain himself. Such a deep voice. And a lovely British accent, like that other man’s, the subcaptain or whatever he was. Ruth primped her hair and rearranged her bathrobe, also provided by the nurse, who had given her a sponge bath as well. Thank goodness. She wouldn’t want someone as important as the ship’s commanding officer to see her in the condition she’d been in after twenty-four hours in a lifeboat.

“Yes, please do,” she said brightly. “Please, Captain, come in.”

The door opened.

Pain roared through Kevin as he sobbed with terror. Oh, jumpin’ Jesus, how did he get here?

Kevin had snuck into the hold of the
Morris
with a big black sailor named Eskimo, to buy an O.Z. of the best buds this side of Maui; and they stayed down there testing the merch and getting pretty wasted. The next minute, water smashed in every which way, the sea blasting over their heads. Fish smacking him and seaweed and cold, gray water; and the fog rollin’ in, man, like a son of a bitch; and he stood there screaming while Eskimo shouted, “All hands turn to!” totally freaking out, and the next minute—

Holy fuck, the next:

He was writhing on the wet deck in a soot-black section of the hold that reeked of sweat, grime, and oil. The overhead was so low the group around him had to—

—the group around him
. Seamen in tatters, their faces dried up like forgotten apple cores. He couldn’t tell if some
of them had eyes in their shrunken heads. They hung like string puppets abandoned in an attic, their chins tipped downward.

Those chins streaked with blood as they stared at him. Light flickered over their faces; the sound of an explosion rattled the floor beneath him. Christ, the ship was blowing up!

In agony, Kevin tried to sit. The flare light played over his body. He was naked. His bare stomach was gouged with cuts and scratches; black dots and rings covered his arms.

His head throbbed and fell back on his neck, bashing the floor. Grunting, he raised it again.

Welts—burns—whorled around his pelvis. Thick, open sores rimmed with charred hair. New flesh, raw and bloody and marbled with muscle.

The muscle.
The muscle
. Where …? His gorge rose as he strained himself up on his elbow. Stomach acid sloshed into his chest cavity and his heart stopped, literally.

Jesus, it was gone! His dick was gone!

Shrieking, he collapsed onto the deck. His fingers stuck into his thigh. Sank into it up to his wrist. A geyser of black blood shot into the air, splashing the men who loomed over him. It sprayed the ceiling and dripped down in viscous dribbles.

And they dove for it, they fucking bolted and started licking it up, and slurping it and—

“Getta doc!” Kevin grabbed at himself. A pulsing rope slithered between his pointer and middle fingers, oozy and slimy; holy fuckin’ Jesus, it was an artery.

Kevin screamed. He yelled and bellowed, making noises he had never heard a human being make.

And then the screaming rose with the geyser of blood until a hurricane pummeled those withered, zombie faces, and they tipped back their heads and opened their mouths, because his blood was gushing in a tidal wave, a fuckin’ tsunami, and it was his life shooting out of his body; right out, pooling on the floor. It ran and pumped, though his shaking hands clamped down as hard as they could, which wasn’t very hard at all, ’cuz he was dyin’, man, dying.

NO! He had to do something, had to do …

had to do …

His head thudded hard against the blood-drenched deck. Holy fuck, he was going to fuckin’ die.

Across the hold, someone sniggered, low and cruel. Lips parted and air sputtered in a series of soundless, plosive chuckles.

Laughing at him. Laughing ’cuz he was hurt bad,

gonna die gonna die gonna die gonna—

His dick, oh, Christ, his dick—

The laughter grew. Kevin vomited a stream of bile. It steamed, mixed with his blood.

Laughing, laughing, laughing.