Dead in the Water (29 page)

Creutz thrust forward his jaw, turned on his heel and walked away. Reade chuckled.

“He’s a hot one, that. But I’ve tamed him.”

Donna blinked, said nothing. What
could
she say?

A few moments later, Creutz returned, dragging a wooden captain’s chair beside a more comfortable-looking office chair. “Madam,” he invited, gesturing for her to sit.

“Thank you,” she said as Reade stepped in front of him and made a show of bending over the back of it, as if there were somewhere to scoot her to. She knew he was peering down her front. Damn dress.

“I have some business to attend to,” Reade said. “I’ll be a few minutes. Enjoy the view.” He gestured at Creutz.

Donna settled in and tapped the book. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll read.”

Reade hesitated, then inclined his head. He sure was hung up about the damn thing. Grinning, she opened it randomly as the two men walked toward the other side of the bridge.

But the sight of the lights on the deck below was magical. The lines were illuminated for the night, and the crow’s nest was like a little crown of diamonds high in the darkening sea sky. People chatted and milled around the pool; others danced. Tiki torches around the perimeter burned and smoked.

Dark gray shadows lurked on either side of the water—something under the surface? Whales? She turned to ask Reade.

But he was staring at charts and printouts, speaking to them in sea talk about degrees and millimeters and knots. They responded in kind, garble-garble.

She sat back and looked for a few more seconds at the deck. Then she settled back and flipped the pages of the book.

Something caught her eye. She stopped. There was a listing for a Creutz, Lorentz. A drawing that resembled the man on the bridge. What, was he famous? She raised the book closer to her eyes, compensating for the low light, and—

Reade slipped into the chair beside her.

“Sorry,” he said. She shrugged and shut the book. She’d check it out later.

Stars peeked out from layers of gray on gray. Almost as
they watched, the sky blackened and the diamonds glittered. Donna found herself thinking of ice, and she shivered, suddenly uneasy. Ice, what was there about ice that could bother her?

The
Titanic
hit an iceberg, she thought. The sucker cut a gash in its side like a can opener. The bisque doll’s head lolled at the bottom of the sea inside her mind. She shook herself and listened to the captain.

“The stars are clear and bright tonight, aren’t they?” he asked. “You can see the sky voyagers. I’m an Ophicus. The astrological calendar is actually comprised of thirteen signs. Did you know that? That was discovered some time ago, but no one’s bothered to get it right. This era is so lazy.”

“You don’t believe in astrology,” she said with faint dismay.

“Oh, I’m quite the occultist,” he replied. He cocked his head at her. “I think you’d be surprised how valid it is in our situation. I mean, in this day and age,” he added. “People think of the occult as some medieval nonsense, but there’s really a lot to it.”

“Like 666 and that?”

“Oh, that’s Satanism, not occultism,” he said seriously. “I’d never make a pact with the devil.”

“That’s reassuring,” she said dryly.

“I’d never jeopardize the
Pandora
that way,” he went on, and she wasn’t sure he was joking. “I carry precious cargo.” He leaned toward her with a smile. “Would you like something? A drink? Some champagne?”

“Oh, please …”

“No trouble. That’s what the crew are for.” He chuckled. “Oh, yes, that’s what they’re for.” He raised a hand.

A man Donna hadn’t noticed before glided silently toward him. He inclined his head and for a moment she thought he was the same steward who’d walked her to the captain’s cocktail party. He bore a close resemblance, but it was a different man.

“Champagne,” he said, and checked for her agreement. Nifty.

“Yes,” she said. What had happened to her bottle on the
Morris
? And the fake bottle, with the thong in it? It seemed like years since she’d left Long Beach.

“At once, sir.”

The man glided away. Reade said offhandedly, “Being the captain of a vessel like this is sometimes like being a country squire.” His smile grew. “Or maybe even Odysseus.”

“Must be nice.”

“Oh, it is.”

Behind them, something made a beeping noise and something else clanged. A man spoke into the telephone and said something about degrees lat and long. The helm was nothing more than a joystick, and that was disappointing. She’d expected some kind of wheel, not brass and wood, to be sure, but something more dramatic.

The captain moved his chair closer to hers, but she barely registered it. She rested her cheek on her fist and gazed at the stars. Astrology and astronomy both were beyond her. She never saw the silhouettes of bears or bulls or archers. What she saw was what was there: a pile of stars. Beautiful in their own right, and no need to gussy them up with mysticism.

“Do you believe in life after death?” Reade asked her.

She pulled herself back from her reverie. “I’m afraid not,” she said without looking at him. “I wish I did.”

“Maybe someday you will.” He paused. “Someday soon.”

“Mmm.”

More shadows moved over the
Pandora
, moon clouds and moonbeams. Gradually thickening, they crossed one another over the bow, the water, until they appeared substantial. The people who walked the decks below reminded Donna of flies caught in a web, and she and the captain were the spiders.

“I believe in life after death,” he offered. “In fact, I have proof of it.”

Donna tensed. He wasn’t going to lay some Christian testimony on her, was he? She hated that kind of shit, people pushing their religion down other people’s throats. She didn’t suppose that went with studying the occult. Well, she didn’t want to hear about his crystal-gazing, either. As far as she was concerned, all the people who meditated on their belly
buttons could do a lot more good for their karmas if they’d get involved with their communities, help a kid to read or set up a Neighborhood Watch program, something like that. All this other jazz was a bunch of time-wasting mind candy.

To her relief, he said nothing, stared out to sea.

The bulky shapes in the water glided on either side of the ship.

“What are those?” she asked.

“Torpedoes.” She blinked, and he laughed. “Shadows of the conning tower, that’s all. From the moonlight. Ah, here’s the champagne.”

In silence they watched the steward pop the cork in a napkin. He filled two glasses and handed one to Donna, the other to his captain.

Reade raised his glass to Donna. “ ‘That the rude sea grew civil at her song.’ ”

She accepted the compliment with a nod and took a sip. “It’s nice,” she said.

“Moët and Chandon,” he told her, and she smiled faintly.

“I brought a bottle of that on board the
Morris
. They’ve probably drunk it up by now.”

“How did you happen to be aboard the
Morris
?” he asked.

“My vacation. A sister-in-law of someone I know works at a travel agency. She told me about freighters and I thought I’d check it out. I thought it’d be fun.”

“Were you in for a shock.”

She smiled ruefully. “Well, I thought the damn thing would float, at least. I mean, on a regular basis. But it was one damn thing after another. Things were pretty weird aboard without the accident.” She finished her champagne and he poured her another glass, listening intently.

“Such as?”

She wasn’t sure if she should go into much of anything, not wanting to embarrass Ruth. “A general tension. People had lots of bad dreams, and—”

“Did you?” he cut in, leaning toward her.

Across the bridge, Creutz lifted his head, turned slowly toward her. She almost gasped: a ghastly green light from the radar monitor washed his face into glowing green bones that
floated in the darkness. His face shifted, seemed to dissipate. He moved his mouth as if he were trying to tell her something.

“Did you?” the captain repeated.

Startled, she paused. The captain, with his back to Creutz, had not seen.

Seen what? She thought of John and his stress-created face in the fog. Mentally shrugging, she said, “No.” Not on the
Morris
, anyway. Last night … 
The very deep did
 … did what? She couldn’t remember it now, but she knew she’d had a bad one.

Creutz’s face dissolved as he turned back around.

“They got really jumpy when the fog hit,” she added.

“Ah, the fog. Captain Esposito mentioned how thick it was. Freaky, that.”

She nodded. “You couldn’t see anything. It was just like being blind.” Her stomach did a loop as she remembered her blackout in the stateroom. Freaky
that
. Shit.

“You traveled alone?”

“Yup.”

“Ah. I thought perhaps you were married to Dr. Fielder when you first came aboard.”

She hid her grin with a sip of champagne. “No. Just shipmates, passing in the night.”

A curious expression lit up his face—recognition, pleasure, she wasn’t sure.

The black shapes moved along, moved along, like dark escorts or bodyguards. The moon hung in the sky, fat and orange. A glowing cloud encircled it.

She gestured toward it with her champagne glass. “Look at the moon. Doesn’t that ring mean it’s going to rain?”

“That’s a harvest moon,” he told her. “That’s what we seamen call a moon like that.”

“But it’s April,” she said.

“The sea doesn’t know about seasons. Or time. It only knows about one thing.”

“And what is that?”

“I’ll tell you later.” He filled her glass again. “In the morning.”

“Uh,” she said, and closed her mouth. She could wiggle out of this without a direct confrontation. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

“Yes?” he prodded.

She yawned. “I’m afraid I
will
have to wait until morning to find out what it is. I’m totally fagged out.” She moved her head in a slow circle; it cracked as she lowered it to her chest. Tight, constricted, sore. What she wouldn’t give for a backrub.

“Ah,” the captain said again, and there was understanding in his tone. And good humor. Good. It was nice to have a thick-skinned man around, and that he didn’t take the rebuff personally.

“Well.” She rose. “Thank you for the champagne. And the company.”

He, too, stood. “I’ll walk you back to your stateroom.”

“You don’t have to.”

He took up her hand and placed it on his arm. “Please. I do. I’m British.” Picked up their champagne glasses, handed hers to her, and hefted the bottle over his shoulder.

“What a load of horseshit,” she said, laughing. He flinched, and she ignored his reaction. If he didn’t like her swearing, fuck him.

So to speak.

They went down the elevator. Once out, he turned her this way and that, until she began to suspect he had no intention of taking her back to her stateroom. The Protozoa Suite. Who the hell was Proteus, anyway? She’d have to look it up, too.

When they reached the museum, she was sure he was taking a more circuitous route than necessary. He lingered by the closed door, cupping his hands around his eyes and pressing his nose to the glass.

“Checking on your bottle?” she queried, stifling a yawn. She was becoming very drowsy. Her hands weighed a thousand pounds each. She wished he’d hurry up and let her get into bed.

In the stateroom. The
weird
stateroom. A ripple of unease danced underneath her breastbone.

That was last night’s weirdness, she reminded herself. Survivor’s weirdness. Everything was fine now.

Past the disco. The captain peered in. Gyrating couples bounced aimlessly around; no one over twenty-five really knew what passed for dancing anymore. A Madonna look-alike sang some old song that was vaguely familiar; a spot-light blasted her directly in the face, draining the color from her skin so that she was dead-white, eyes and cheeks and lips. A mask of paper; it was very unattractive.

“Do you ever have jazz singers?” she asked.

He raised his brows. “Are you applying for the job?”

She was startled, assuming that he knew her secret. Then she realized he was teasing her. She shrugged.

“Just curious.”

“We always have room for a good singer.”

She twisted her mouth in a half smile. “Well, I’m not a good singer.”

“That I doubt. I’d like to hear you, madam mermaid. You must, soon.” He puffed out his chest. “A command performance.”

“You’d keelhaul me.”

He guffawed, and she walked on. But it occurred to her she could do something like that; hell, why not try? Not on the
Pandora
, maybe, but when she got back, why not go for it? Glenn wasn’t …

Glenn …

“Miss Almond? Are you all right?”

Wordlessly she nodded, her clenched fists at her sides. She was all right. She was.

They passed the library, where a few people sat reading or writing letters. Donna peered over the shoulder of an elderly man who sat at a desk near the door. He wrote,
We’re so excited to be aboard on her shakedown cruise. Nothing could ever sink this marvelous ship
.

Donna raised her brows as she turned to the captain. “Is this your ship’s first voyage?”

He made a gesture for her to lower her voice and steered her down the corridor.

“That’s Mr. Hare,” he said. “He’s a little confused.”

“Oh?” She thought for a moment. “I though the ship’s doctor’s last name was Hare.”

Reade laughed quickly. “Mr. Hare is his uncle.”

Donna nodded, said nothing.

They went past some closed doors. A low, sad note crooned through them, mournful and lonesome and …

“Yes?” the captain was saying.

She tilted her head.

And nothing. No note. She shrugged. “I thought I heard something.”

“Some people think the
Pandora
’s haunted,” he said. “I myself didn’t hear anything, just now.”

“Neither did I,” she shot back, grinning, and walked on.

And then finally, they were at her door.

“Well,” she said, “thanks again.” She paused. “Good night.”