Dead in the Water (24 page)

“Are you all right, Mr. van Buren?” the captain asked, humor in his tone.

Phil jabbed his finger over his shoulder, back toward the figureheads. Then he shook his head and lowered his hand, and staggered toward his wife.

Ignoring him, Elise swept out the door. They all trooped out, Donna last.

The captain pulled her aside and murmured something to her. She smiled lazily and joined the others, and John tried to
decide what to do about that dress, and his itch, and the pope.

Donna was feeling pretty good as they left the museum and headed down the corridor. First John and now the captain. And there’d been Ramón, of course, but he didn’t count because he was on a mission from El Pocket Rocket, Hispanic god of sex. Back home she was impervious to flirtation because it was just the guys, just the cops she worked with, and it was like flirting with her brothers.

With one notable exception.

Anyway, the captain had invited her to be his guest at breakfast, and she’d agreed.

She caught up with John and strolled alongside him, suppressing a desire to whistle the theme from
The Love Boat
. Matt trotted ahead, chattering about rediscovering the sailing-ship playroom his father, but no one else, had seen, and Phil and Elise trudged behind like two hanging victims on the way to the gallows. Must be lotsa kicks in their bedroom. On the other hand, this could be the kind of stuff that got them off. Donna had handled enough domestic situations to expect anything.

The corridor was dimly lit, the lights yellow against the white walls. That hideous carpet. Officer, issue this boat a design citation. Put that rug in the
Guinness Book of Bad Taste
. Better yet, throw the decorator in the—

Suddenly John crowded close to her and hunched down as if the ceiling were too low for him. She waited, expecting him to scratch his leg or tie his shoe.

“Your ulcer hurt?” she asked. To her surprise, he ignored her.

Behind them, Phil and Elise crowded each cheek by jowl, walking like hunched old ladies. Matt minced stiff-legged with his arms close to his sides, pulling in his shoulders as if to avoid something.

“Guys?”

“What?” John said, and they all spread out again, filling up the corridor.

“Did I miss something?” she asked, glancing around.

John looked at her. A beat, then, “I’m sorry?”

She held out her hands. “You all squeezed in. Like the hall had gotten smaller … oh, forget it,” she said at their confused expressions. “I must’ve imagined it.” She made a gesture with her hands. “At least I’m seeing things, instead of not seeing them.” Before John could say anything, she held up her finger and said, “First thing tomorrow. I promise I’ll see Dr. Hare.”

“Good. I’ll come, too, if you want.” They walked on. He asked casually, “What did the captain want?”

“Huh?” He pulled her out of her reverie—the way they’d scooted in. As if the hall had gotten smaller. Maybe the shadows had fallen just so, and they’d reacted to the optical illusion. Christ, who knew? Who cared? It was just so peculiar.

She waved her hand. “Oh, breakfast,” she said airily. His face fell. To be kind, and also because it was true, she added, “I wanted to talk to him about this thousand-mile thing. That sounds bogus, don’t you think?”

Glumly he nodded.

Men, she thought. They walked on.

But they
had
bunched up. She knew they had.

“He’s an asshole, isn’t he?” she added.

John brightened. “Yeah, he is.”

Donna smiled to herself.

Men.

At the elevator, Phil said, “I think I’ll have a nightcap, darlin’. I’m too keyed up to sleep.”

His wife shrugged. The elevator came, and she went in with the others, leaving him in the hall.

“I won’t be late.”

“Good night,” Donna said. The doctor and his son chorused the same. The doors closed on Elise’s cool, composed, uncaring face.

He shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t. He was already drunk. But he didn’t want to go back to the stateroom, not with her, and lie back to back in the dark, knowing that in her mind she was trying the captain’s cock on for size. Just for yucks, and his stupid-ass heart would break all over again.

He noted a door he assumed led to the promenade deck. He was fairly certain there was a bar out there, a few steps down and to the right. The longer he was married, the better his sense of direction when it came to places where he could forget his troubles.

Yes, the promenade deck. It was enclosed with a thick wall of glass or plastic on the water side to keep the bad weather out. Empty deck chairs lined the bulkhead, a colorful green and white blanket folded and lying on each one, and the deck was a varnished lane of teak. Very pretty, with an old-fashioned feel to it. You could almost imagine ladies in bustles and floppy hats strolling by for the benefit of young men in derbies and spats, one eye on the girls and the other on a pair of dice or a deck of cards.

He walked to the center of the deck and stood with his feet apart, admiring the fat, pink moon that glowed through the barrier. Even on this immense ship, you knew how danged insignificant you were. It was like riding a button down the Mississippi. Did God care?

You’d think she’d have some sense of mortality. Some need for him. They could’ve died.

Tears ran down his face. All he wanted was to be loved. But the longer they were married, the more she hated him. She was so cruel, leaving them notebooks everywhere, her goddamn lists of all his material goods.

The tears fell harder. He couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help it. His cock wasn’t twelve inches long and his chest wasn’t shaped like a washboard, and he got rattled around strangers and he didn’t like it when she screamed at the help. Was that so terrible? Was that grounds for …

for … her not loving him anymore?

All he wanted was to be loved. Poor old Glaucoma. Woman he loved turned into a monster.

Knew exactly how he felt, poor cracker.

The moon sparkled on the water. He thought he heard the rush of wings—

—could birds fly this far out? Where the hell
were
they, anyway? On the way to goddamned Australia?

The deck rocked, and he made four little running steps to
the left. Goddamn, he was drunker’n a skunk. Moonshine in the mountains, boys, Phil’s ridin’ a comet, yeah, boy.

All he wanted. All he wanted was a sweet girl to love him.

The rush of wings—

Whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh
.

Phil lurched right with another swell. What was that?
Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh
. Like something cutting through the water.

And way back in his ear, a soft hoot whispered, an echo-memory of something that made him murmur “Dixie.” It played a poignant counterpoint to the
whoosh-whoosh-whoosh
.

And way, way back, just about too far back to detect, another noise: a … no, it was gone.

He listened for a moment. Everything was gone. His ear-drums probably had the D.T.’s. Well, a beautiful night like this was wasted on a melancholy man. Time to get happy.

He staggered to the right. Saw the glow of yellow light farther down. Yes.

His footsteps were lonely on the deck. He was surprised no one else was out tonight. Ah, but someone was: he heard footfalls behind him, coming up fast, practically beside him now. He turned his head.

There was no one there. He cocked his head. Must have been mistaken.

Something brushed his hand—

—nothing.

He came to a door. It was shut, but the light he had seen beamed from a transom above it. “Smoking Saloon” was painted in the center of the door in elaborate curls of gold.

Whoosh-whoosh, whooooo
.

Then the undersound.

He went in.

The red-flocked walls glowed beneath the oil lamps, and the oil painting of a naked woman over the bar seemed to undulate with the shifting light. Her breasts were huge and perfectly round; she had a Victorian tummy. With a jolt, he saw that her legs were spread open and everything painted in, the rosy little conch shell and all. Only then did he see her
face, and he knew he’d seen that gentle face before: deep-set brown eyes, a small, upturned nose, a cupid mouth with a charming overbite. A demure wanton, Virgin Mary and the rock star Madonna. Every man’s dream.

And then he noticed the woman who was sitting at the bar. The hairs on the back of Phil’s neck rippled. Yes, he’d seen the face in the picture before. It was the face of the woman who now sat before him—

—and whose lacquered eyes had blinked in the museum (had
blinked, yes, they had!
)

—and who had smiled across the dining room until the shadow of a passer-by had dipped it in decay, and it had turned gray and mottled and the flesh had slid—

Dang, he was drunker’n a dead possum. He couldn’t think straight, sure as hell couldn’t see straight. His gaze returned to the painting. Had to be her. Had to be.

“Good evening, sir,” the bartender said, and Phil jumped, not having noticed the man before. The man had a spectacular handlebar mustache and he looked vaguely familiar, though Phil couldn’t place him.

The woman flattened her palm against the bar and gave herself a half turn so that she directly faced him. Her dress was pink, soft and silky, clinging and hinting, nothing sharp, nothing dangerous.

Whoosh
.

“Um, may I sit down?” he asked. She dimpled.

“If you like.”

Phil put down his empty port glass and eased himself onto the stool beside hers. Well, it was sure enough that he was much drunker than he felt, that much was clear. Self-conscious, he licked his lips and asked for bourbon and branch.

The woman crossed her legs. Her upper thigh pressed against the fabric of her dress and displayed the tone of her muscles. Good tone, as good as Elise’s. Better, he thought defiantly.

“So, you’re a survivor,” she said.

“Aren’t we all?” he quipped, his voice slurring.

She picked up her drink. It was a hurricane glass—

—no, it was, had been a martini glass. Hadn’t it?

He frowned and stared at it. Something, a wisp of green—some kind of parsley? A flash of red. His lips parted. He pointed.

“There’s a fish, a fish in your—”

He looked again. No. It was a plain martini glass, tinkling with ice.

“Yes?” she said. He shook his head. God, he’d better get to bed. He started to slip off the stool—

—had a sensation of falling, a thousand fathoms down, of sinking, and sinking and sinking—

—he caught his breath and steadied himself against the bar.

“Here’s to ships,” she said in a soft, husky voice. Her deep-set eyes bored into him, looked shyly down. “Ships that pass in the night.”

He raised his own glass and sipped.

“I—I was hoping you’d walk in here,” she confessed.

Phil warmed. His body quivered. She was attracted to him! In her own sweet way, she was flirting with him.

“So was I,” he replied.

“The captain told me I’d meet someone nice on this cruise.”

Phil glowered. “What would
he
know about it?”

The bartender pushed his bourbon toward him. The woman smiled at Phil and raised her glass. “To victory at sea.”

“Damn straight.” He socked it back.

And inhaled.

“Well,” John said to Donna. They stood close together in front of her door, close enough if he got up the nerve, but then Matt yawned. The green dinosaur rested in his arms, and both were ready for nighty-night.

“Well,” more briskly. John crossed his arms over his chest. “I guess we should go. It’s very late.”

“Nemo might have had the kitties,” Matt added.

“Call me if she did?” Donna asked.

Matt nodded. “Good night.”

The two trooped out the door.

“See you tomorrow.” She shut it after them and pressed the lock. Turned and faced into the stateroom.

Something was not quite right.

Cops have a sixth sense, and a seventh, when things are out of whack. A strange feeling rattled up the backs of her legs and tapped her on the nape as she surveyed the room. The white lacquer furniture, the pictures. The bedside light on, the covers turned down. Did the steward do that, or was there a maid? No matter. That wasn’t what was wrong. That worked. The rose in the water glass worked.

What didn’t? The feeling gnawed at her. Anywhere else, she’d assume it was a prowler.

Anywhere else, she’d have her gun. It lay inside the nearly empty bureau, revolver in one drawer, bullets in another, hidden under extra towels and a box of Kleenex.

She held her breath, listening. The
Pandora
was much quieter than the
Morris
, but there were still creaks and groans. She thought she heard a band, some kind of Dixieland, and figured she must be above a club or bar. There were several on the ship, and Captain Reade had spoken proudly about a “West End-caliber” revue. So that was all right.

Maybe it was the memory of her sudden loss of vision that was freaking her out. Reluctantly, she touched her right eyelid. Terrifying. John was right; she should get checked. But she wasn’t sure the ship’s doctor would know any more than John did. He didn’t strike her as a Harvard grad kind of guy; just what caliber of doc ended up tending sunburns and seasickness on a cruise ship, anyway?

She took a step into the room. The hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up. Donna shivered, cast her gaze left, right.

Nothing.

In the bathroom, then.

Swallowing, she forced herself to move across the room and go in, flick on the lights, and look.

Towels, sink, toilet, tub. Mirror on the medicine cabinet. Fluffy white bath mat on the floor.

She pulled back the shower curtain.

Nothing.

A cold sweat broke out across her chest and her face. She shivered, rubbed her arms, crossed back into the stateroom. This reminded her of her jitters on the
Morris
when the fog rolled in and turned Ruth Hamilton into a—

—a—

Say it, Donna: a dead, stiff little boy.

God. She shuddered hard and rubbed her arms. Her heart hammered. She could hardly bear to stay in the room. Anxiously she glanced at the door. Where else could she go? Was she going to demand another stateroom because she had the creeps? For Christ’s sake, Osmond, get it together. There’s nothing here. Nothing that shouldn’t be, except you, you lunatic.