by Steven Moore
“It surely does, partner,” agreed Clive, and the men once more clunked together their tumblers and beers, all-bar-none of them wishing for some kind of dreamy life like that for themselves.
Megan was genuinely tired, though not as tired as she made out to R.B., and it took no more than fifteen minutes to fall into a deep sleep. The ten miles she’d run that morning were taking their toll, and she was out like a light. Which meant she didn’t hear the audibly loud click of the door as it opened.
The man who’d followed her earlier knew the doors weren’t very secure, even when locked, and using a credit card and an unfurled paperclip he’d picked the lock of Megan’s door in less than twenty seconds. There was a chance she’d hear the door opening, but he’d be upon her so fast it wouldn’t matter. But she didn’t hear the door open, and she didn’t even twitch when he closed it behind him. She lay facing away from him, which was a bonus, and he stepped silently towards her bed, stopping just a couple of feet short. His heartbeat rose just a tiny fraction, but not from nerves or exertion. He was excited. This was not his first rodeo, and what he had to do would come easily and guilt free. It was just another job, he told himself, and there had been many and there would be many more. It was a shame she was so pretty, but not that much of a shame. He reached over to the bedside chair and grabbed Megan’s sweater, wadding it up into a thick clump of material, clutching it now in his left hand. With his right he reached inside his black leather jacket and pulled out his KA-BAR Becker BK2 hunting knife.
Then he paused again, savouring the moment before the kill.
“Well son, I might just be able to raise ya,” said Clive. “I was down in Cuba with some buddies for the annual Hemingway Fishing Competition in, what year was that, ninety-six maybe? And what d’ya know, I only went and pulled in a marlin weighing almost fifteen-hundred pounds. Won me the title and a hundred grand in prize money.”
“That’s awesome,” said one of his crew mates.
“Goddamned lucky son of a bitch,” added another.
“Oh yeah? Really? Well that’s only half the damned story.” Clive shook his head then, as if it was not lucky at all. “You know who took more than half that prize money? Damn Cuban government, that’s who. Took sixty damned percent. And by the time I paid the crew of the fishing boat, the boat rental, my flights down there, my accommodations for me and my family ... and let me tell ya, my wife’s tastes ain’t cheap ... time I got home I was damned near ten grand in the hole. You call that a win? No siree, not a win at all.” He kept his face deadpan for a whole five seconds, watching the other guys’ expressions, until he cracked up laughing, quickly followed by the raucous laughter of his crew mates and R.B. Even the normally stoic captain joined in.
“It’s a true story, I’m telling’ ya, but I gotta look on the bright side, right? I did get my picture in the paper, and my fish beat the great man Ernest damned Hemingway’s personal marlin record by forty-eight pounds. Now that’s what I call a win.”
The table erupted in a cacophony of whoops and hollers, and Clive set about pouring another round of the potent rum they were all so fond of.
It was time. The man took a deep breath and raised his killing arm. His usual tactic was to countdown from three seconds, and he did so now.
Three…
He stared at his target; Megan Simon’s neck.
Two...
He took a final step forward and reached out the wadded jumper to smother her screams.
One…
Then suddenly the ship’s alarm rang out, its piercing sound shattering the silence.
The man dropped the jumper, and as Megan first twitched, then sat bolt-upright in bed, he dove under it, scrambling out of view a second before she saw him.
“What the—” she said, clutching her hands to her ears to lessen the painful screech of the siren. Megan threw back the sheets and staggered out of bed towards the door. Pulling it open, she entered the corridor and rushed along the hall to investigate. There was no one around, and she didn’t know exactly where R.B. was. The noise was horrendous, and with her hands still held tight over her ears, she raced back along the corridor, past her cabin and to the other end. Still she saw no one.
Back inside the room, the man scrambled from under the bed, and was about to leave in a hurry when Megan raced back past the open door. He ducked behind the door frame, breathing hard. She hadn’t seen him. He took his chance and rushed into the corridor, turning left. But he had only gotten a few yards when Ryan Bodean entered the corridor from the other end.
24
Man Overboard
The man kept his head low as Ryan Bodean surged past him towards Megan, their shoulders almost crashing into one another. But neither man turned, and the would-be killer had soon disappeared out of sight.
“What’s going on, R.B.? What’s happening?”
“I don’t know. You okay?”
Just then a flurry of bodies swarmed into the corridor, streaming around R.B. and Megan like a river around a rock. “Man overboard!” one of them shouted, “all hands on deck.”
Megan looked at R.B., her eyes wide in fear. R.B. nodded.
“Let’s get up there.” They turned and followed the crew to the deck, where they found a manic scene as the crew prepared their rescue mission in what were testing, stormy conditions. Somebody had evidently fallen overboard, and since it was unseasonably cold they had to get him out of the ocean quickly before he succumbed to hypothermia, a horribly painful way to die.
R.B. spotted Clive. “Hey, anything we can do to help?”
“Not at the minute. Please just stand back and let us do our job, okay? But thanks.”
R.B. and Megan stepped back, huddling against the strong wind and stinging rain. Luckily the ocean surface wasn’t too rough, and they watched on as the crew lowered a small rescue boat over the side, and continued watching as one crew member started the small engine and steered the boat over to the body floating on the surface. Thirty seconds later, they’d hauled him aboard the rescue boat, and one man got straight to work performing CPR, desperately trying to revive the stricken crew member. For several long minutes, the crewman routinely pumped the man’s chest and attempted to give him the kiss of life, as the others watched on with ever-increasing panic. But it was all to no avail. After five minutes, the exhausted first-aider slumped back against the side of the boat, panting from his exertions, and tears welling in his eyes. His fellow sailor was dead.
The small boat motored back alongside the freighter, and ten minutes later the boat, along with the rescue crew and the body, were back aboard.
R.B. watched as the captain approached the huddled mass of crew around the rescue boat. “Who is it?” he demanded, and the group of bodies parted so he could see for himself. “No. Oh, no.” he said, and there was devastation in his voice. It was Nate, the young kid R.B. had chatted to the other morning.
Evidently the captain had never lost a crew member in all his years at sea, and was clearly taking the tragic loss hard. He turned to the gathered crewmen and women. “How the hell did this happen?”
“Looks like he just fell overboard somehow, Cap’n.”
“No. People don’t just fall overboard. Impossible.”
R.B. gazed on as the scene around the body became tense. The captain was clearly devastated, as were the other crew members, though they all believed it was just an unfortunate incident.
R.B. wasn’t so sure. For some reason his mind flashed on images of Barnaby Quinn. He had found the old man in the water, and it looked like he’d drowned. Until R.B. found the knife. On a hunch, he approached the cluster of men.
“Captain, if I may?” he asked, to which, evidently still in shock, the captain nodded. “Clive, give me a hand?” R.B. asked the most senior crewman, the captain’s second in command. Realizing what R.B. was doing, Clive obliged. They rolled the body over, and R.B. lifted Nate’s t-shirt, revealing his torso.
And there it was. A two-inch knife wound, righ
t in the center of his chest.
A fatal wound.
25
Another Murder?
“But that’s ... that’s impossible,” stammered the usually unflappable captain. “Who ... who would do such a thing?” He looked aghast, scanning the eyes of the crew members standing around him. “I know every single man and woman aboard this ship, and have done so for many years. The only one I didn’t know was young Nate. I’m fairly certain the poor kid didn’t stab himself.” The captain’s cheeks reddened, through both a combination of rage and anguish. “I ... I have no choice. All non-essential crew must remain on lockdown for the rest of the night. Go. Now!” He watched on as a dozen men and women trudged off to their quarters below decks, distraught for their newest—and youngest—colleague, Nate. They were also annoyed at being made to suffer because of someone else’s terrible act.
Neither R.B. nor Megan were under suspicion, based on their friendship with the ship’s owner George, but they too were banished to their cabins. After all, there was a killer onboard.
Once the non-essential staff had gone, the captain ordered his security detail to run a thorough search of the entire ship, with distinct orders to leave no stone unturned in the search for the cowardly killer. It was the worst moment in the captain’s long and illustrious career, and one he’d never forget. He returned to the bridge with his most trusted security man, and after double-checking the coordinates for the journey, he poured himself a large scotch. It was going to be a long night.
After reporting back to the captain every thirty minutes, and after several hours of diligent searching had taken place, Mister Sanders, head of the four-strong security team, had to inform the captain they’d failed to find anyone suspicious on board the freighter. “Impossible. People don’t just turn up with a stab wound after falling into the ocean unless foul play is involved. I just can’t accept it. Keep looking.”
The security team did as they were ordered, and repeated their search of the entire ship. Hours later, as dawn arrived with the light of a new day, one of the men finally spotted something. He raced to the bridge, and found a tired-looking captain still in his chair, though he’d traded the scotch for a mug of strong coffee.
“What is it, Sanders?”
“Captain, I think you’d better come and see this.”
Five minutes later, the captain and his security team were crowded around an area of the railing at midships. “I have to say, Captain,” said Sanders, “it looks like the kid might have just had an accident after all. Not sure how he did it, but it looks like he slipped, caught himself here on this cleat, hence the wound and this blood on the rails, and fell overboard.”
The captain stared hard at the rail, and the dried blood on the cleat. It was so improbable, but with no evidence of any foul play, he had little choice but to accept it. For now. But why is there still blood there? he mused. When the alarm was raised last night it was raining, which would have washed the blood away. Wouldn’t it? It didn’t add up.
After mulling it over for a while back on the bridge, the captain sighed. It was probably just an accident. He made a trip down to Ryan Bodean’s cabin to update him on what he thought. “So it appears what happened to Nate was just an accident after all.”
“You don’t look convinced, Captain.”
“Really? That transparent, huh?”
“I’m afraid so,” said R.B. “And for what it’s worth, nor am I.”
“But Mister Sanders and his men carried out a thorough search and found zero evidence of foul play. There wasn’t a weapon to be found anywhere on this ship. However, Sanders and his team will be vigilantly monitoring everyone aboard the freighter for the duration of the voyage. We’ll undertake daily check-ins, and I’ll unfortunately have to implement a nightly curfew. I’m sorry to cause you and Miss Simons any inconvenience. But rest assured, we’re over half way to Spain now, and you’ll both be safe and sound until our arrival ... four days from now. Just make sure you’re never alone outside your cabins, okay? Good day, Mister Bodean.”
“Thanks, Captain.”
R.B. went and knocked on Megan’s cabin door and explained the update.
“Well, at least we’ll be safe. Right?”
“Right,” he agreed. But something niggled R.B., though he didn’t share it with Megan. Ever since he’d met Barnaby Quinn, and since he’d given him the mysterious map and artifact, and especially since he’d found the old man’s body, R.B. had felt as if something sinister was happening, something he couldn’t understand and that was very far out of his control. He would have to remain vigilant too. He cared too much for Megan, and their search for Atlantis, to let anything—or anyone—get in their way.
26
Stranger Things
R.B. dry-heaved into the bucket beside his bed. Nothing came forth this time, but only because there was nothing left in his guts to throw up. He felt so terrible that he had hardly left his bed for three days.
It was now late on day nine of the voyage, and since the night after Nate’s ‘incident’ R.B. had been laid low with a serious bout of seasickness. The weather had deteriorated considerably and the swells were huge, even for a ship of this size. He’d never had a particularly strong stomach for the ocean, despite how much he loved the water. In truth he’d much rather be flying over it than sailing on the surface, but that was the situation and there was little he could do about it now.
The security had slacked off over the last couple of days and the curfews had been lifted. Nothing untoward had been discovered, and any suspicions of the crew had faded away to nothing. So all staff and crew, as well as R.B. and Megan, were allowed freely about the ship. But each time R.B. attempted to go to the galley to eat, the only thing he got, other than some mild teasing from the more rugged and experienced crew, was a bout of diarrhea and serious stomach cramps. It was the worst seasickness he’d ever known, and he felt like death.
By his side the entire time was Megan Simons. To begin with she felt safer in R.B’s cabin anyway. He’d told her he wasn’t at all convinced Nate had suffered an accident, and R.B. insisted she stay close. But then overnight he’d fallen sick and she wanted to stay with him in case he needed anything. Which he did. Often.
And yet Megan wasn’t convinced it was mere seasickness. She wasn’t a medical doctor, but the symptoms as far as she knew were more aligned with food poisoning. She’d suffered that herself a couple of times, and knew how awful it was. But the problem with that diagnosis was that no one else on board was sick. And that didn’t make sense either. She hadn’t raised it with R.B. yet, but she was starting to think he’d been deliberately poisoned.
After yet another long and arduous night, the weather finally improved. By the time the dawn had given way to the light of day ten of the journey, R.B. had finally recovered sufficiently to get out of bed and walk around a little, and man was he hungry. Megan escorted him to the galley, keeping hold of his arm since his legs were still a little unsteady. After two rounds of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and of course coffee, R.B. felt almost human again.
“Man, that was rough. Never known seasickness like it.”
Megan smiled, but R.B. spotted something in her eyes that betrayed that smile. She had noticed the chef’s eyes lingering on R.B. a little longer than was comfortable. That didn’t mean he was guilty, obviously, and maybe he was just concerned someone thought his cooking wasn’t up to scratch. But of course it was. He’d been working on this ship under this captain for close to a decade.
“What is it darlin’? Something troublin’ ya?”
“I’m fine. Well, not really. I think ... " She leaned a little closer, making sure she was out of view of the chef behind R.B. “Well, I think you weren’t just seasick. Maybe a little of that. But the symptoms you showed were more indicative of food poisoning.”
“Food poisoning? I don’t think so. You know I’m not good at sea, Meg, and it was pretty rough there for a few days.”
“It was definite
ly rough,” Megan agreed, nodding. But she couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to it. “I concede that if one person gets food poisoning, normally others do too, especially aboard ships. It’s a major problem on cruises, for example. But what if it’s not normal food poisoning. What if someone poisoned only you?”
“Why’n the hell would someone do that? Come on now, Meg, don’t you think that’s a little far-fetched?”
“Is it? Really R.B.?” She paused, and took his hand, leading him from the galley’s dining area. Once they were back to R.B’s cabin, she continued. “First the old man gives you a map. Then he’s murdered. Then Mister Wyatt suggests that the search for Atlantis is real and many people will kill to find it. Then that kid goes overboard the other night, with what you thought was a knife wound? Far-fetched? Really?”
R.B. fell silent for a moment, thinking about what Megan had said. She had a point. There had been a whole string of strange occurrences in the last few weeks. It didn’t prove anything, but something was definitely up.
“Listen, Meg. You might be right, so we’ll have to be extra vigilant, okay? The captain and his security guys found nothing suspicious, and no one on the crew is suspected. Which suggests it’s an inside job, right, someone on the crew and someone trusted by the captain. And how many people actually have access to the kitchen, except the chef and his assistant?”
“Right. Dammit. I’m scared R.B. What are we going to do?”