The Memory of Eva Ryker (31 page)

The Old Man's eyes grew red and misty. I tried to remember how I'd felt an hour earlier, before he arrived. The avenging angel armed with Truth. And already I felt tarnished. I had the Norman Touch; the opposite of King Midas' talent. The gold was turning into shit even as I watched.

“In any event,” I said lowly, “all my second-guessing is academic. The Eddingtons' scheme went wildly astray. By the time their cipher reached you in Pittsburgh, the
Titanic
had already carried fifteen hundred people to their deaths.”

I kept my eyes on Eva as I rose and returned to the tape recorder. “Are you sure you want to hear the rest?”

“No, I'm not entirely sure at all.” She nervously brushed the hair back off her face. “Even with Dr. Sanford's help, it's not easy. For years I've been fleeing the bogeyman in the dark. One step ahead of its snapping at my heels. Now you want me to stop in my tracks, turn around, and ask ‘who's there?'” Eva turned up to me. “Would you have that kind of courage?”

“I don't know.”

“Noncommittal candor. A Norman Hall trademark.” Eva's lips hinted at a smile. “Go ahead.”

“I don't want to play it straight through. As you know, the session with Dr. Sanford became increasingly … disjointed. And it's restrictive in viewpoint, if we're to get some idea what happened on the
Titanic
early that morning of April fifteenth.” I tapped the recorder. “That's why I'll stray away from this if it becomes too fragmented or too … painful.

“Eva, you were a sound sleeper that night. Totally oblivious even to the murder of Georgia Ferrell. A slight crack of an opening door was the only thing that disturbed you …”

Snug under the covers, Eva Ryker opened her eyes. There was nothing but the blackness of her bedroom and the low rumble of the
Titanic
's engines.

Reassured, she buried her head in the pillow.

Eva heard a small hiss from the corner of the cabin. She peeked over the covers.

Another tiny hiss. And another. And another. It was breathing. Inhale, pause. Exhale. Inhale-pause-exhale. Inhale-exhale. Inhale-exhale. Damp and hot, by her ear.

She sat up, crying, “Georgia! Georgia, is that you?”

A hand grabbed her throat, fingers digging for the carotid artery as it forced her face into the pillow.

“No, no!” Eva screamed, thrashing out of bed. As she jumped off the mattress another hand, unseen in the darkness, clutched at her. The corner of the end table hit her above the right brow, but Eva felt nothing. Blood trickled from the cut into her eye, pooling in the socket as the pillow pushed over her face. She struggled uselessly. Eva tried to fight, to run, to stop her descent into the swirling maelstrom, sucking her down through the frothing water, turning to black.

Eva fell through the abyss and was gone.

27

The light hurt her eyes. Eva raised a hand to shield them. A star burst of yellow light focused into a lamp on an end table. The open orifice of a Victrola's horn yawned from one corner. Two shadowy giants loomed overhead.

Eva's fingers dug into the bedsheets beneath her as a woman's hand reached out to examine the cut above her eye.

The shadow giants turned slightly and light fell across their faces.

“Oh Lisa, Lisa! I had an awful nightmare …”

“It's all right, darling.” Lisa cradled her head by her breasts and stroked her hair. “Ssssh … ssh. Don't cry. Everything's all right.”

Her sniffling slowed, then stopped. Jason sat on the bed next to her.

“Hey, Eva,” he smiled gruffly, tweaking her under the chin. “Big girls don't cry, do they now?”

“Nope.” She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her nightdress, not noticing the bloodstain. She glanced around at her surroundings and frowned. “What am I doing here?”

Jason looked serious. “We hoped you could tell us. You came pounding on the door, screaming something about Mr. Martin and a fight. You passed out for a few minutes. We were about ready to call a doctor. That's a nasty cut on your eye.”

Eva grimaced and held her hand over the scar. “I can't remember. I thought I was asleep. Someone was …” Breath quickening, she stared around her. “Where's my mother? And Georgia?”

“I don't know Eva.” He rose and went to the door. “But I'm going to find out.”

Jason looked at his pocket watch.

Eleven-forty.

In the
Titanic
's, crow's nest Lookout Frederick Fleet glanced away from his watch. Only twenty minutes left in his shift. His eyes strained out beyond the ship's bow. But there was nothing except the stars and the black becalmed sea.

Mist clouded out of his cheeks. He turned to Reginald Lee, partner on his watch, who grinned and shivered in sympathy. Neither man noticed the faint black-on-black patch in the ship's path.

He returned to examining the horizon, slowly scanning left to right. His eyebrows raised at the dull gray vision straight ahead. Must be seeing things, he thought. No … he wasn't. It was small, just a chunk. No … no, by God, Christ, it was a monster!

Fleet spun and rang the crow's nest bell three times, then lunged for the bridge telephone. The patch grew even as he grappled with the receiver.

“What did you see?”

“Iceberg right ahead.”

“Thank you.”

On the bridge First Officer Murdoch heard the news. Fast, fast, a voice yelled in the back of his skull as he yanked the brass telegraph handle to “Full Speed Astern.”

“Mr. Hitchens!” he yelled. “Hard-a-starboard!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” The Quartermaster's hands flew at the wheel.

A quick hard jab at the button brought down the watertight doors.

Alarms rang down in the bowels of the ship. Stokers glanced up, startled.

Fleet put down the phone, stood by Lee, and waited.

It was closing … closing … by God, we'll never make it … the engines are throbbing, spinning … it's not so big really, maybe we'll mow it under … this ship's strong, unsinkable … Sweet Jesus, how big is that thing … fifty … no seventy … almost a hundred feet out of the water … white and craggy like giant salt crystals … closer … we're still not turning … Goddamit, how slow can a ship be … closer … high and threatening above the forecastle … turn … turn … my God … TURN!

Shearing through the water at over twenty knots, the
Titanic's
bow began to come around. Slowly, agonizingly. Swinging to port.

Underwater, white knuckles of ice swept past the
Titanic's
hull. Gliding, scraping, ripping. Steel buckled, crumpling like foil.

Engineer and fireman jumped up at the sound of alarm bells ringing throughout Boiler Room Number Six. The side of the ship peeled open with a groan of tortured steel. Encroaching water churned among the gauges and fittings. The sea at waist level, both men cleared the watertight doors before they ground shut.

Like a thousand trash cans rolling down stairs, the noise rang through the steerage quarters, toppling screaming women out of their bunks.

Jason braced his feet on the carpet and listened to the long ripping noise. Lisa watched the shivering chandelier overhead, mouth agape. Eva felt the bed quivering beneath her but was strangely unafraid. She threw open the porthole and stuck her head out into the darkness.

The iceberg reared above the
Titanic
's stern, silhouetted by the stars. It vanished in the night even as she watched.

“Eva, close that!” Lisa slammed the glass and settled her on the bed.

Jason said, “I'm going to find out what's going on. You two stay here.”

He shut the door behind him. Lisa bent down by Eva and smiled weakly. They both examined the cabin, as if plumbing it for safety.

In the smoking room, men filtered back to their highballs and bridge, reassured that the ship seemed as safe as ever.

In the galley Chief Night Baker Walter Belford swore feebly and picked up Parkerhouse rolls littered across the deck.

Marching down the B Deck corridor, Jason approached the steward on duty. “Say, what was that noise all about?”

John McFarland smiled in reassurance. “I've heard talk about an iceberg, sir, but I'm sure it's nothing serious.”

Jason's eyes hooded over, his voice hollow. “Yes, you're probably quite right. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.” With a nod and a smile McFarland continued on his way. Jason watched the steward go, his face tight and unconvinced.

The
Titanic
, ablaze with lights, still raced through the water as Captain Smith ran from his cabin near the wheelhouse to the bridge.

“Mr. Murdoch, what was that?”

His face was slightly shaken. “An iceberg, sir. I hard-a-star-boarded and reversed the engines and I was going to hard-a-port around it, but she was too close. I couldn't do any more.”

“Close the emergency doors.”

“The doors are already closed.”

Captain Smith stepped closer to the light, worry lurking in the corner of his eyes. “Stop all engines, Mr. Murdoch.”

The first officer nodded. “Stopping all engines.” His hand wrenched the telegraph.

The ship's three props, ninety-eight tons of steel churning the sea white in their wake, glided to a halt.

The wind ceased its whistle through the wireless antenna stretching far above the smokestacks.

Walnut and teak paneling in first-class cabins stopped the telltale squeaking that had lulled passengers to sleep since the ship left Southampton.

The glass dome covering the A Deck foyer no longer clattered within its frame.

Eva Ryker felt the gut-deep purr of the ship slow, then die.

“We're stopping.” She sat up and peered out at the blackness beyond the porthole. “Lisa, why are we stopping?”

Lisa took her by the hand. “Lie down, dear. I'm sure it's nothing.”

Laying in bed, Eva solemnly regarded her. “Where's my mother? I want my mother!”

“Yes, I know, dear.” Lisa patted her forehead gently. “I know.”

With a thundering hiss that cut through the freezing night air, three of the four funnels shot steam from the boilers into the blackness as the
Titanic
stood still amid the millpond calmness of the ocean.

Jason Eddington stood on the Boat Deck and studied the funnels and the starlit sky. He was one of the handful of people wandering about. Jason looked over the railing, down the rows of lighted portholes, to the water far below.

“Well, Mr. Eddington, what do you think?”

He glanced over his shoulder to see fellow passenger Jack Thayer, dressed only in an overcoat and pajamas. His adolescent face looked tremendously excited.

“Oh, hello, Jack.” He gestured casually at the ship around him. “I don't know what's going on. Everything looks all right.” He buttoned up his coat, mist clouding by his lips. “I've heard some chatter about an iceberg, but…”

“It's more than chatter! Haven't you seen the ice?”

Jason scowled, shaking his head.

“Come on!” Thayer led him all the way forward on A Deck, where they looked down on the starboard well deck near the foremast. Steerage passengers tumbled laughing among tons of crushed ice on deck, like characters in a Currier and Ives engraving.

“You see?” Thayer laughed. “It's a major tourist attraction. Christmas in April!” His laughter died when he saw Jason's frown.

Captain Smith wasn't smiling either. From the bridge he watched the playful passengers, then turned away and looked evenly at Fourth Officer Boxhall. “Go down and find the carpenter and get him to sound the ship.”

Boxhall was saved the trouble. Carpenter Hutchison brushed past him on the bridge ladder. He panted as he stood in front of the captain. “She's making water fast!”

Captain Smith said to Boxhall: “Get me Mr. Andrews.”

Thomas Andrews, Managing Director of Harland and Wolff, the builders of the
Titanic
, sat in cabin A-36, surrounded by a pile of papers and blueprints of the ship. The phone rang. Andrews glanced up from a floor plan of the first-class writing room, then turned back to his work. It rang again. And again.

“I hear you, I hear you,” Andrews muttered, grabbing the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mr. Andrews, the captain wants you.” Boxhall's voice was crisp. “Quickly please.”

Jason Eddington smiled patiently at Jack Thayer as they stood gazing down at the
Titanic
's bow.

“No, I don't feel like souvenir hunting, Jack. You go on.”

“Okay, Mr. Eddington!” Thayer ran for the stairs leading below decks. “I'll save you a piece!”

“You do that,” Jason murmured absently. Standing alone, he took one more look around him. There was nothing more to do out here. Maybe he could corral one of the officers and learn something.

Turning his collar up around his ears, Jason wandered back toward the stairs.

In an effort to avoid curious passengers, Captain Smith and Thomas Andrews clambered down the crew's stairway leading to the innards of the ship.

They inspected the flooded mailroom on F Deck, then moved down to G Deck and stood in the spectator's gallery of the squash court. Seawater sloshed over the floor of the court like a big shallow bathtub.

“Eleven fifty-five.” Andrews checked his watch. “A little over ten minutes after the collision.” His voice was dry; he studied the water, then swallowed, and met Smith's eyes. “Let's see how the boiler rooms are doing.”

Coming down the grand staircase in the A Deck foyer, Jason glimpsed the huge clock, flanked by bronze nymphs symbolizing Honor and Glory. Nearly midnight.

His eyebrows raised in surprise as he saw the crowd, clad in everything from Gimbels long johns to ermine stoles, standing around waiting for some word. No one seemed troubled, he thought. Just curious. Probably being silly, getting worried …

His thoughts were interrupted by the passage of Captain Smith and Thomas Andrews through the foyer. No one asked any questions. Something about the two men's faces told them not to. People simply stood and sniffed the air for any omens. As the men left, on their way to the bridge, the crowd chattered softly in bright, hearty speculation.