Dead in the Water

by Nancy Holder

  “Come on back into the lounge.”

  “Our fish!” Cha-cha protested. “Officer Donna, it’s in there, eating up all the little babies!”

  An image came queasily into Donna’s head. Yuck. She tugged on Kevin’s arm and said, “If you’re hurt, come with me. I’m going back to the lounge.” And sit down, goddamn it, and relax.

  Kevin walked beside her. He reeked with the smell of dope and she flashed with anger. Christ, did the captain allow drugs on his ship, or was he so incompetent he didn’t know about them? She thought she heard a steady dripping on the deck—blood?—and hurried her pace. If Kevin was stoned, he might not realize it if he was seriously injured.

  “It’s a sea monster!” Cha-cha shouted. “A damn sea monster!”

  “Tried to take my fuckin’ finger off at the bone,” Kevin muttered.

  There was a loud splash. The shark must have leapt back into the water.

  And a funny, wet plop on the deck. Donna thought of the fish in the net, escaping the clutches of the “sea monster” only to suffocate on the deck.

  “At the fuckin’ bone,” Kevin said, groaning.

  She sighed. This had certainly turned into a fun evening.

  She stepped over the hatch lip into the galley and shepherded Kevin to the sink. He’d wrapped his finger in the corner of his jeans jacket; the denim had soaked to red. Donna’s senses went on alert. With that much blood, it had to be more serious than she’d realized.

  “C’mon,” she said, gesturing for him to unwrap it.

  Slowly he obeyed, wincing as he undraped his hand. He drew the jacket away and showed her.

  She inhaled sharply. On either side of his thumb, the flesh had been ripped away. A full inch of his first metacarpal gleamed like a piece of ivory; on the other side, the flesh between his thumb and forefinger was severed into two long, bleeding flaps.

  Forcing herself to remain calm, she turned on the water and put his hand under it. He cried out.

  “You going to faint?” she asked calmly. He shook his head.

  “No.” Kevin’s face was papery white. Behind him, the fog tumbled into the galley, crawling up and over the lip and cascading along the floor. “Dr. John. Get Dr. John.”

  She cupped some cold water and splashed it on the nape of his neck. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

  She dashed out of the kitchen and through the lounge. Phil had his arms around Ruth as she sobbed against his chest.

  “… pincers!” she said, catching her breath. “Sharp, and I stepped on it!”

  Phil looked up with a puzzled expression on his face.

  Donna said, “Kevin’s had an accident. Go to him.” Threw an expression of disgust at Elise, who was standing apart from her husband and Ruth, and hopped over the transom to the hall.

  She popped on the door. He opened it at once, as if he were expecting her. Maybe he’d heard the shouting; if so, why hadn’t he come to check on it? “Yes?” he asked.

  “Your turn.” She jerked her head. “You’ve got a chomped-up hand in the galley, and Ruth in hysterics in the lounge. The rules of triage say you should go to the galley first.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right there.” He started to shut the door, but she stopped him.

  “If you need me, send H.R.H. Elise for me. I’m falling-down tired.”

  “Okay. Matt,” he said over his shoulder, “I need to …”

  The rest of his sentence was lost to her in the foghorn. With a sigh, she lifted her hair off the back of her neck and continued down the hall. Ruth’s monster was there somewhere. She kicked the fog, trying to clear a view to the floor. Nothing. As she expected.

  Feeling only slightly guilty about leaving all the mess to John, she flopped on the bed. Raised her leg and worked off the sneaker on her right foot with the toes of her left.

  The foghorn bellowed.

  And beneath it, a roll, crack. Roll, crack. Something was loose. Probably the same mop that had scared the bejesus out of Ruth.

  Roll, crack. Shit. She’d never get to sleep, listening to that.

  Roll, crack.

  A bird beak, she thought drowsily. You could step on a large beak and think it was pincers.

  Yeah, so? Did that mean a bird had flown into the companionway, somehow crashed to the floor, and now lay flat on its back with its beak pointing to the stars?

  Roll crack. Roll crack. And a funny little chatter-scrabble, chatter-scrabble, up and down the hall.

  In five minutes, she was gone.

  6

  Birth of

  a Legend

  April 10, 1797

  Thomas Reade, formerly the captain of the Royal Grace, in the sea, in his own boat of Charon, dying.

  Blackness.

  Thirst. The two words echoed through his being; they shook and rattled the water. They vibrated beneath the waves in a titanic plea to the gods.

  The sea, alone, all alone, with his death shroud wrapped around him.

  And then, a bottle bobbed upon the water.

  Blackness, thirst.

  The sea, and Thomas Reade; and his lips shredded inside the shroud as he chewed on the canvas, the blood and brains of the boy a dried paste that cracked and peeled off like a second skin. The cabin boy, Nathaniel, his beloved, his darling, his treasure.

  Roll, crack! The belaying pin he had dropped when they came for him in his cabin, saw what he was doing. Roll, crack along the deck, like the cadence of the death watch! While they beat him and sewed him into the shroud, deaf to his explanations, his entreaties, his threats.

  Nathaniel, his love. Him he had given to her when she asked, Salome to his Baptist.

  No, not Salome. Maria. Maria, most holy, virgin of the waters. Stella Maris. Oh, she. She, who gave the ocean life. She had come to him in his dreams, and told him what to do. She had promised so much; she clung to the exquisite vessel of his reasoning like an exquisitely carved figurehead, whispering, pledging. She would not let him down. He knew she would save him.

  Reade’s cock sprang into an erection. He stopped chewing and grabbed it through his salt-stiff trousers. Oh, yes! Yes! When she came for him, he would be ready.

  He wanted with all his heart to fuck the sea.

  And know ye, all ye dead men who tell no tales:

  Desire is a kind of Spirit.

  And the Spirit moves upon the waters.

  En route to the Owhyees, and a bottle bobbed beside the boat, beautiful and green, with golden tracings and sparkling jewels, smacking against the side of the dinghy—

  —roll crack!—

  —as the dying man lay in his shroud. A wave lifted it up, up, up; it gleamed like a crown atop the crest! and tossed it into the vessel—

  —just as a huge, white bird swooped down from the sky and grabbed it, cawing with glee.

  Then something wrapped around the bird’s leg. Alarmed, the bird flapped its wings harder. The leg was ripped off. The bird shrieked in agony. In a spray of blood and tendons, the bottle fell inside the boat

  —crack—

  And Thomas Reade, emerging from his prison, picked up the bottle and shouted, “She comes!”

  7

  Bottle, Bottle,

  Who’s Got

  the Bottle?

  It was psychedelically beautiful. Green with sparklies, his net treasure.

  The minute Cha-cha saw it fall out of the fishing net and roll down the foggy deck, he knew King Neptune had sent it to him. Sendin’ out an SOS. And he’d grabbed that sucker and stuck it in his jacket, yessir, all the time Kevin was going ballistic over his hand, ’cuz Cha-cha knew it was a great big secret, just between him and His Sea-ness.

  As Cha-cha lay in his bunk, he raised the bottle toward the single bare bulb that swung back and forth from the ceiling of his cabin. Rock, rock, rock, and roll. A memory surged: a vase made out of a 7-Up bottle, purple wildflowers. A house-boat.

  Rocking, rocking, rocking. Before the Vietnam Conflict, the house like a baby in a macramé hammock. And he’d b
een happy there. His scene had been beautiful. Psychedelically beautiful.

  Yeah, and if you put the bottle up to your ear, it spoke to you in His Voice.

  And it told you what to do.

  What to do next.

  Come to me, Cha-cha. A thousand times a thousand.

  “Yessir, Your Highness,” Cha-cha told King Neptune.

  8

  The Logs:

  Diaries

  and Messages

  en route to Hawaii, past and present

  I

  April 21

  … checked the stitches this morning. The cut was quite severe. Kevin swears something bit him, but there’s no sign of teeth marks. Donna told me there was a knife involved, but in all the excitement, it’s been lost. Cha-cha said it was his favorite, sharpest one, and has charged “Officer Donna” with finding it.

  That man gives me the willies. He keeps making all kinds of sly comments about something he found in the net. I wouldn’t be surprised if he cut Kevin himself.

  The fog still hangs around us. We’re going into our second night of it and it’s making all the passengers edgy. Crew, too, though they’re trying to hide it from us. Capt. Esposito ordered us not to move around outside. There’s something very unsettling about not being able to see where you’re going.

  At dinner (steak and pasta; Cha-cha, amazingly, can cook very well), Elise VBH (H, you peasant, H) confronted the captain and demanded he explain why we had all this fog. He just looked at her with contempt and said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t control the weather.” And she looked at him like she wanted to ask, Why the hell not?

  Matty slept like a log last night, but he was listless all day. I think he had nightmares, but he won’t talk about them. Cha-cha, bless his bizarre old soul, located Capt. Nemo, who is now curled next to Matt on the bed. Both are asleep. Nemo is purring. I didn’t know cats purred in their sleep and I wouldn’t have guessed she’d let him near her, pregnant as she is.

  Ulcer’s flared up again. I’m running out of Tagamet. Don’t think the captain’s got any in his slop chest.

  I think I had a bad dream last night, too. It seemed to have had something to do with a man. Maybe after Ruth’s hesitant confession last night, I appropriated the image of her husband. I boozed her up a little to stop the tears and she told me he disappeared eleven months ago, in these very waters. How gruesome! She’s going to Hawaii to consult a medium who claims to have received messages from him indicating that he’s alive. Poor Ruth. At least she’s highly skeptical of the whole thing. On the other hand, she is going all the way to Hawaii to check it out. I guess you do desperate things when you love someone.

  I know you do. I’d do anything for Matty. I’d sell my soul if I could.

  Dear God, don’t let him get sick again.

  Dear God, take care of him.

  If you listen to lapsed Catholics, God, listen to me.

  Later—

  Can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I jerk awake. I keep thinking I hear talking, something about a bottle? Some kind of dream—nightmare, really. I feel threatened, and then I wake up. I think Matt might be in it. That makes sense, about feeling threatened, with Matt in the dream, I mean.

  He and the kitty seem to be snoozing through it all. A while ago, Donna came by to ask for a sleeping pill. Looked worn out. She’s a honey. Mmm, been a long time. I think Matty’s falling for her, too. ’Course, she lets him win at checkers. She doesn’t let the big boys get away with anything. I think Ramón wants her to hurt him. Ha!

  Oh, yeah, we never did find anything in the corridor, though Ruth insists something was there.

  I almost told her about the face. I know I imagined it, but at the time, it seemed real. But I was too embarrassed—guess I don’t want Donna to know I still think about it.

  But I do think about it.

  II

  Assets.

  Liabilities.

  With a shaking hand, Elise poised her hand over the page of the Steno pad she’d purchased from the captain’s “slop chest” (charming name) earlier that evening. Continued the list: the condo in the city, the house on Fire Island. The Jag. The stocks, the bonds, the bank accounts. Jewelry, art.

  So many assets.

  So little love.

  Dots of ink marred the paper as she held the pen above the last item on the list. It swung back and forth between her fingers as if on a gimbal.

  Tears blurred the ink.

  She closed the steno pad and stuffed it in the nightstand, aware that Phil might find it there and know exactly what it was. Her face impassive, she capped the pen and set it beside her pack of cigarettes. She pulled one out and lit it, watched the blue smoke rise. The tears fell at a forty-five-degree angle down her face, dampening her earlobes.

  The cabin door opened and Phil blustered in, whistling, carrying a tray loaded with porcelain cups and a coffeepot.

  “Cha-cha made hot chocolate,” he announced happily, like a kid.

  “Great.” She took a drag and pushed the smoke out through her nostrils.

  “They’re going to show another movie later on.”

  Elise turned her head. “Another one?”

  Bastard. Blind bastard. Couldn’t he see her tears?

  She thought about the list in the nightstand drawer.

  She thought about it a lot.

  III

  Alone in his cabin, Kevin held the corner of the paper in place with his elbow and chewed gum loud and hard while he wrote:

  … crazy dude. Now he’s saying the king gave him a present in the net and “the time is at hand.” So I go to the mate and he just laughs. Everybody thinks he’s a harmless old guy. But he’s scary, man. Only thing was in that net were some fish and some damn shark or something, the one who chomped my finger off, practically.

  The lady cop is right about one thing: if something does happen, like if King Neptune tells Cha-cha to go for it, I don’t think the crew will be any help at all.

  Shit, I’m freaking myself out. We’ll be in Hawaii in two days. Just one more night. Since I got bit, I can’t work in the galley, which is cool. I don’t have to hang around Cha-cha anymore.

  I hope I see you again, Sandi.

  Fuck, I’m weirding out. Of course I’ll see you.

  Love ya,

  Kev

  IV

  Blackness.

  Thirst.

  Loneliness.

  V

  The ship pitched through the raging storm; waves like cliffs crashed over the decks as the vessel hurtled through the thunder and lightning. The sails were tatters, the masts shattered bone. Banshee wind shrieked, insane and vicious.

  “No, no, no,” the captain moaned. His eyes as he stared over his shoulder rolled like a calf’s on the way to the slaughterhouse. Without looking, he looped a piece of line around and around his wrist, securing himself to the wheel. The lightning danced in his eyes, reflecting back a figure that glided toward him, a tall man in a cape.

  The captain sagged against the wheel and sobbed.

  The man, the tall stranger who had killed the others—

  The demon—

  Donna yawned and idly looked out the window at the fog. Monster movies weren’t her thing, even if Frank Langella did make a sexy Dracula. (She’d only seen the John Carpenter movie about the fog to please her nephew, Bob, whom she’d been baby-sitting at the time. She used to spend a lot of time baby-sitting her brothers’ kids. Other people’s kids.)

  Well, it was still better than all those Viking movies Ramón watched. He must have had two dozen of them. They were the weirdest damn things, made in Spain with German actors, made in Germany with Italian actors. Dubbed into English and truly wretched. Kevin told her Ramón had posters of Vikings in his cabin, too. Donna had drawled, “It must be some kind of homoerotic thing,” and Kevin had laughed so hard she thought he was going to pass out. Watching him she had thought, Fuck singing. She was going for stand-up comedy.

  Now Dracula was coming
after the captain. Now he was a wolf, hoo-wah. Not her bag.

  She got out of her chair and walked to the hatch. She was the only passenger in the dining room; the rest of the chairs and the sofa were occupied by officers and crewmen, leaning avidly toward the TV. The colors played on their faces, rainbow fog.

  Ramón saw her. Quickly she waved good night before he could get up. She was too tired to deal with him. That, or too bored. There was nothing to do, and she felt drained and listless. Wasn’t sleeping well, tossing and turning. She wasn’t a reader, like the van Burens, and she didn’t knit, and Matt had declared that he was sick of checkers.

  What she wanted to do was run, take a good jog around the ship; but Captain Esposito had ordered the passengers to stay inside the superstructure, where they could be accounted for. No one could see outside in the fog; if you got hurt, or fell overboard, they’d never be able to find you.

  So she was reduced to working out in her cabin, and despite the fact that it was larger than Ruth’s, it was still awfully cramped. But there was no way she’d exercise in front of the crew.

  She pushed open the hatch and meandered down the companionway. It stood clear of fog (finally), and there was nothing on the deck.

  She heard crying, from Ruth’s cabin.

  She got as far as making a fist to rap on the door; then she lowered her arm and walked on to her own cabin.

  Despite Ruth’s observation, she was not a social worker. Besides, some things—like grief—were private. Okay, maybe not for people like Lady Day. Damn, if she was going to be a singer, she was going to have to loosen up.

  The foghorn blared and she barely flinched. They were all used to it.

  She faced her door and got her key out of her shoulder bag. Her gun was in there, too—her old .38 and not the natty little Sig she packed on the job. She’d lied to the captain about carrying one—not too smart, she guessed, but she loathed the thought of giving it up unnecessarily. The guys aboard this ship weren’t the brightest bunch she’d run across; what if one of them got put in charge of taking care of it?

  She faced the door with her key in her hand. Paused. The crying next door was louder. Between sobs, Ruth was saying something over and over. Bad dreams. Again, Donna considered checking on her, again decided to leave her alone.