Through Waters Deep (24 page)

Mack leaned over the lifeline. “Please, Mr. Avery. Please.”

“Mr. Avery!” Durant's voice sounded sharper than gunfire. “Get down here this instant.”

Jim drew a deep icy breath and gazed down at the captain he respected. “I'm sorry, sir, but I have to go back. I have to try.”

Boston

In the backseat of the taxi, Mary scribbled in her notepad, trying to piece together the puzzle. At 5:45, Mr. Winslow left home for the shipyard, and at 6:15, he called Mr. Bauer. Now at almost seven o'clock, Mr. Bauer would be at Dry Dock 2 as instructed.

Assuming Mr. Fiske was behind it all, what had he done? He'd told Mrs. Winslow to bring her husband's codeine to the shipyard, knowing his addiction would force the man to return for it. Mr. Winslow had sounded scared when he called Mr. Bauer—was he being forced to call at gunpoint?

Mary rubbed her temples. She couldn't let Nancy Drew plots invade her analysis. Only the cold hard facts, as Agent Sheffield would say. Plus an ample dose of intuition.

Why Dry Dock 2? What was the plan? Two destroyers were under construction, laid down side by side. Was he going to damage the ships?

His motive was clear—he wanted to keep the United States out of the war. The way events were going, he'd need something big and showy. Mr. Winslow wanted the United States
to join the war effort, so he was a natural target for Fiske. And Mr. Bauer? A German for Winslow to supposedly frame?

Complicated and messy. Just like everything else Mr. Fiske had done.

The taxi turned onto Chelsea Street.

Mary tapped the driver on the shoulder. “At the gate, please.”

“Are you sure, miss? It's dark, looks deserted.”

“A guard's at the gate. Thank you.” Why try to explain herself? She paid him and stepped out. A chilly breeze wrapped around her legs, and she tugged her coat tighter. The temperature was supposed to fall below freezing tonight.

Now to call in the Marines. She drew in a breath, approached the guard, and showed her photographic identification pass.

“Another one coming back after hours?” The young man shook his head. “You're the third in the last hour.”

“The others? A small dark-haired man in a nice coat? And a tall blond man with a German accent?”

“Yeah.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “How'd you know?”

Here was the opening she needed. Her sails puffed out. “Those two men are the reason I'm here. They're in danger.”

“Danger?” His upper lip twisted.

“I'm sure you're aware of the sabotage case. The saboteur lured those men down here as part of his plot. They're at Dry Dock 2. He means to damage the two ships under construction and to harm those men.”

The guard leaned closer and sniffed. “You been drinking, lady?”

Mary groaned. “Of course not. I've worked with the FBI agents on the case, and I know something horrible will happen if we don't stop him. Please send guards to the dry dock.”

“Listen, lady. I don't know what movies you've been
watching.
The Maltese Falcon
?
Suspicion
? But there ain't nothing happening tonight.” He raised his arm like a gate before her.

She had to act now. She had to force him to send guards. And quickly, before he decided she was crazy and arrested her.

Mary darted past him and jogged inside. “If you won't stop him, I will.”

“Come on, lady! What do you think you're doing?”

“Call the guards. It's an emergency, you hear? An emergency! Two lives are at stake.”

No, three lives. If he didn't call the Marines, her life could be at stake too.

She ran past the Muster House, past a storehouse, to the base of Dry Dock 2. Mary stopped, breathing hard, and she got her bearings. The street lamps that normally illuminated the dry dock were dark. The only light came from a half-moon and the little round pump house at the far end of the wharf.

Mary's breath seized. Were one or more of the men there?

What should she do now? The safe thing would be to wait for either the Marines or the FBI. But what if no calls had been made? Could she afford to wait?

Mary hugged herself against the night chill. “What should I do, Lord? Stay safely in harbor? Or sail into possible danger?”

A breeze came from behind her, lifting the hem of her coat and raising a wry smile. “All right, Lord. If anything happens, I'll say you pushed me.”

She was no soldier, no detective with a weapon. She was a secretary, an observer. So she'd observe.

Mary slipped off her heels and set them by a bollard. She also set down her purse with her notepad inside, outlining her thoughts. If anything happened to her, perhaps Agent Sheffield could use her notes to arrest Mr. Fiske.

She padded down the wooden pier. A brand-new pair of stockings, about to be ruined.

Her eyes strained into the darkness, and her ears into the silence. The familiar shipyard sights and sounds seemed foreign and forbidding—the giant cranes looming black overhead, the lap of water against the caisson gate at the end of the dry dock, the faint city noises in the background.

No motion met her eyes, no voices entered her ears. As she neared the pump house at the end of the pier, her steps slowed and she held her breath.

Sounds, metallic sounds, but from the caisson. Thumps, scrapes. From inside the caisson.

Mary studied the huge bowed steel gate that held back the seawater, a structure with pumps inside to remove seawater from the dry dock. The caisson contained portholes with pipes to the harbor. When those pipes were opened, seawater would flood in to float the ships.

Her mouth went dry. Was that Mr. Fiske's plan? Was he inside the caisson, preparing to open the pipes and flood the dock? If the destroyers were floated now, without lines securing them to bollards on the pier, the ships would tip over and be damaged. And where were Mr. Winslow and Mr. Bauer? What part did they play in the plot?

Mary crept up to the pump house and peeked through the window in the door. No signs of life inside, but she didn't dare open the door.

Someone moaned behind her.

She whipped around. The moans came from deep inside the dry dock. Mary rushed to the edge and dropped to her knees. About four feet of space separated the steel hull from the granite dock, filled with wooden scaffolding. At the bottom next to the caisson, over thirty feet below her, lay a dark figure, rolling around.

“Hello?” Mary said in a stage whisper.

“Yes? Hello? Who's there? Help me.” That was Mr. Winslow, his voice slurred. He groaned. “I'm tied up. My hand—I think he broke it.”

“Who did this? Where is he?” Mary glanced around, eyes wide and searching.

“Mr. Fiske. He's going to flood—”

“Shh. I'm coming. Be quiet.” The metallic sounds inside the caisson hadn't ceased, but she couldn't take a chance Fiske might hear her.

Mary found the stairs cut into the wall of the dry dock, angling toward the middle of the hull, and she made her way down.

The granite wall rose high on one side, the steel hull on the other. Almost no light penetrated the abyss.

Her breath ratcheted its way deep into her lungs. What if Mr. Fiske opened the pipes now, when she and Mr. Winslow were down here?

Mary climbed through the maze of vertical and horizontal beams supporting the hull, scraping her legs. Something jabbed the sole of her foot, and she bit back a cry. Silence was as vital as speed.

Her leg bumped into something soft and warm, and she gasped. A body? Mr. Bauer?

Mary fell to her knees. A man's body lay facedown, and she rolled him over. “Mr. Bauer?” she whispered.

No response. No movement. She pressed her fingers under his chin—a slow steady pulse met her fingertips. “Thank you, Lord.”

But how could she drag an unconscious man up the stairs?

Mr. Winslow would have to help. “Lord, please send the FBI, the Marines, or both.”

Leaving Mr. Bauer, Mary worked her way down to Mr. Winslow.

“Miss Stirling? What are you doing here?”

“Shh. Keep your voice down. How can I help?”

The man pushed himself up to sitting and leaned back against the caisson. “My feet. He tangled them up in electrical wire. I can't get free. That's the story he plans to tell, that I tangled my feet in the wire and plunged to my death. After I sabotaged the gate and made it look like Bauer did it.”

Mary found his feet and felt around. A mess of wires wound around both feet, but she couldn't see worth beans. “Come on, we have to hurry. You have to help.”

He hunched over. “I—I can't. After he knocked me out, he broke my hand, my right hand. I can't move it, and it hurts like—like the dickens.” The pain in his voice confirmed his words.

Mary slipped her fingers into a loop of wire and tried to loosen it. She stared up at the caisson hovering over her. The sounds inside continued. Perhaps Fiske hadn't heard them.

“Why are you here?” Mr. Winslow asked.

She didn't have time. “Never mind that for now. I know why you came—I talked to your wife—but what happened after you arrived?”

“Fiske was in my office. He said he'd found my . . . my . . .”

“Your codeine?”

A heavy sigh. “He said he found it here in the pump house with an odd assortment of tools. He wanted to show me before he called the FBI. Like a fool, I agreed. As soon as we stepped inside, he put a gun to my head.”

Mary's fingers stilled. He had a gun. “He forced you to call Mr. Bauer.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I'll tell you later.” She worked one loop over his foot and felt for another one. “What happened next?”

“He—he had a script for me to read to Bauer. He told me to say anything necessary to convince the man to come
here. If I failed, he'd shoot me. Well, I succeeded, so instead of shooting me, he brought me into the bowels of this dry dock and knocked me out cold.”

That loop didn't loosen at all, so she tried another. “Mr. Bauer's down here too. Unconscious but alive.”

“Oh no. He drugged him with my codeine. That's how he's framing me. He ground up about a dozen tablets in a mug and filled it with coffee. After all, how else could a weakling like me overpower such a man?” He sounded as bitter as codeine-laced coffee.

Mary murmured her sympathy and pried a loop over his foot.

“He's framing me.” Pain and anger frayed his voice. “He forced me to apply my fingerprints to the medication vial, the coffee mug, the tools he's using—and his gun.”

“Shh.”

“Now he's in the caisson. He said he painted ‘Heil Hitler' and swastikas everywhere. He wants it to look as if I did the damage, as if I wanted it to scream of Nazi sabotage. But everyone knows Bauer isn't a Nazi. Is Fiske that desperate? He honestly thinks the American public will attribute this to a crazy interventionist? That they'll rise up in furor and return to the false comfort of isolationism? That—”

“Shh. We have to make sure you and Mr. Bauer survive to testify against him.” No doubt, Mr. Fiske had become unhinged as his plans collapsed, one after another, and the country spiraled down into war. “Can you wiggle your feet, help me out?”

A mighty gurgle overhead, and water gushed out of a pipe, arching over Mary's head.

Cold water splashed her, and she squealed before she could stop herself. “Come on. We have to hurry.”

He wiggled, she pulled. Water splashed off the hull, drenched her back. Another loop, another. Mr. Winslow
kicked and squirmed, loosening the ties. Mary fumbled at them with cold wet fingers.

“There!” She yanked the last one free. “Come on. I need your help with Mr. Bauer.”

Water frothed around her feet, and she pulled Mr. Winslow to standing. He sagged back against the caisson and groaned. “My head. He hit me—he hit me hard.” He doubled over and vomited.

Although her stomach turned, she couldn't afford to be queasy. Their lives were at stake. “Come on. We have to get to Bauer, get to the stairs.”

The second pipe opened, baptizing the infant ship.

Mary headed toward the stairs, stepping over beams, ducking under scaffolding, each step plunging into icy water, her foot, her ankle. Her arms shook from the cold.

“Mr. Bauer!” Water lapped against his cheeks, and Mary lifted his shoulders. “Come on, Mr. Bauer. Wake up. Please wake up.”

“He won't.” Winslow's voice dipped lower than their chances of survival. “That much codeine will knock him out for hours. I should know.”

“You have to help me. We have to work together.”

“I—I'll try. My hand—”

“Use your good hand, here under his shoulder. I'll get his other side. The water's almost up to the lowest beam. We might be able to float him through.”

She sloshed through the knee-high water, banging her shins against the horizontal beams, cradling Mr. Bauer's head with one hand while she and Mr. Winslow guided his shoulders over.

A loud rush signaled the opening of a third pipe.

Mary's teeth chattered, and the water rose to mid-thigh, swirling the hem of her coat. If that became water-logged, it would hold her down. “Here. Support his shoulders. I need to take off my coat. You should too when I'm done.”

She shrugged off her coat and abandoned it. If she survived, she'd be happy she'd taken her old brown coat rather than her new red one.

After Mr. Winslow took off his coat, he helped her remove Mr. Bauer's. The less weight they had to drag, the better.

Above her, beams creaked.

“Oh no.” If the water rose enough to float the ships, the scaffolding would fall free, and the hulls would tip over.

“Come on, hurry!” Water rose to her hips, making her skirt balloon around her, but she had no time to worry about modesty.

The stairs had to be close. The water was almost up to the next beam, forcing them to submerge Mr. Bauer to get him through the opening. The poor man.

A loud thunk, and Mr. Winslow cried out and cussed. “Clobbered my head.”

“Shh! We still don't know where Mr. Fiske is.”

“I'm right here.”