Dead in the Water

by Nancy Holder

  “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.”

  His mouth turned up on one side. Very charming, very gallant. He took her wrist and steadied her glass as he poured her one more glass of champagne.

  “For the road,” he said. Then: “I hope you’re feeling better tomorrow.”

  “I feel … thank you,” she amended. If that was the game—that she wasn’t up to it—that was fine.

  “Good night. Sweet dreams.”

  “Thanks.” She fished in her purse and found her key, unlocked the door. Hesitated.

  Once again, she didn’t want to go in. The hairs on her forearms stood on end and a stripe of ice coated each cheek, her scalp, the small of her back. She didn’t want to go in, not at all. Haunted …

  “Officer Almond?” he said.

  She shook hands and held up her glass. “Good night.”

  Pushed the door open to a dark room. Stood on the threshold. Swallowed.

  Looked back toward Captain Reade. He was already walking away.

  She took a step inside the door. In the light from the companionway, she saw something moving around her feet. Wispy, and smoky and insubstantial, something that curled around her ankles on

  little

  cat

  feet,

  pussy willow-gray.

  “Jesus!” She jumped back into the hall. Her heart jackhammered her rib cage as she peered into the blackness. She glanced left and right. Now what?

  “Shit,” she muttered, darted forward, and felt along the left side of the wall for a light switch. Her forefinger nudged the edge of a switch plate and she hurried to find the switch itself, suddenly sure that if she didn’t move fast, someone—or something—was going to grab her hand—

  —or chew it off her wrist—

  Damn it! Somehow she missed the switch. Huffing, she tapped the wall with her palm.

  Heavy breathing. And a waft of heat against the back of her hand, oh, fuck—

  She pulled back her hand; and as she did so, the lights magically snapped on. She cried out, heard herself, and made a tight, angry face.

  Because there was nothing in the goddamned room, no dry ice on the floor, no monster salivating over her wrist. Christ on a crutch, what was the matter with her, and did it have anything to do with her blackouts?

  And then goose bumps flooded over her like an ice-water waterfall as she walked into the room and slammed the door shut. She trembled violently, from head to toe, as she stomped across the room,

  and she swore to God something moved as she passed by the foot of the bed to the closet; she could almost see the covers ripple.

  But when she yanked them back, there was nothing there. Because there was nothing there.

  Of course.

  Chatter-scrabble.

  The captain froze. Listened. What was that bloody noise? On occasion, he heard it; on occasion, his heart raced at that sound. Its familiarity, its … treachery.

  No. An engine. Nothing more. It was nothing.

  Chatter-scrabble.

  No, he was

  Alone, alone, all, all alone,

  Alone on a wide, wide sea

  and between him and the gull he had summoned with his magical incantations, yes, together they had ripped open the shroud, and uncorked the bottle he had caused to appear.

  He touched his chin. Singing. Had someone called to him, sung a lovely song—

  No. That was Donna Almond, on the other side of the door, practicing her music because she wanted to be a chanteuse. It had always been Donna.

  And so strong. He sighed, smiled. How she fought against the lines he drew around her. He would keep her a long time; as long as forever proved to be. But tonight he had other fish to fry, as they said nowadays.

  As they said.

  Chatter-scrabble.

  “Nothing there,” he said in a booming voice.

  Nothing there at all.

  18

  Rubbing It

  Ruth had been correct, back on the Morris: something had lurked in the companionway outside her cabin door.

  And now, in the chimera-black mirage of night, it lurked outside Elise and Phil’s suite on the Pandora. It slithered within the fog that blanketed the companionways and forecastles and stacks and cabins, in the gray mass of dream-cloud wherein it had its being; as it moved, chatter-scrabble, as it curled and crawled with its bird-beak pincers; as it sought out the flesh and the blood; and the dreams, and the traitor,

  chatter-scrabble, chatter-scrabble,

  its hunger fierce, its yearning terrible, its agony unbearable.

  Its anger, a crucible.

  * * *

  Elise sat in bed, surreptitiously fondling the invitation a steward had delivered to her while Phil fussed in the bathroom:

  Meet me.

  T.R.

  The paper was thick linen, luxurious to the touch, romantic. She smiled to herself. Of course she had no intention of going, but it was nice to be asked, all the same.

  If Thomas Reade wanted to ignore her publicly in favor of that meter maid, let him suffer the consequences. All day, she had made herself available, sunning by the pool in the most outrageous bikini, and he had never come by, not once.

  Phil’s electric razor buzzed and hummed, and her smile slipped. Her husband was hoping for sex. He went through the same precise rituals whenever he wanted her, and in the same order: combed his hair, washed his face (the only man she knew who did so), shaved, brushed his teeth. God, God! Maybe if he’d do something different—comb his hair last, or not comb it all; Jesus, if he’d just stop being so predictable, and so goddamn spineless—he never came and asked her, or told her, that he wanted to make love. He just combed his hair and primped like a woman, hoping, she assumed, that it would arouse her.

  With the anger came the guilt. She was horrible to him. Last night she’d practically grabbed the captain’s crotch right in front of him. Why did he put up with it? Any man would—

  Any man would do what her father used to do. Reflexively, she touched her jaw. It had hurt worse when the doctor pushed it back into the socket than when her father dislocated it.

  Oh, was she screwed up. To equate such sadism with manliness …

  The razor went off. Now he was gargling. New fury seethed through her, though she didn’t understand it. On their honeymoon, he had folded his clothes as he had removed them, garment by garment, aligning the creases in his trousers, rolling his tie. Would’ve folded hers, too, if she hadn’t ordered him to leave them on the floor, for God’s sake.

  The cap of the deodorant bottle.

 
The fist of his breath spray.

  By the time he came to bed, she was so angry she wanted to slap him. And when he shyly tried to mount her, she gritted her teeth and said, “I’m not feeling too well.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, darlin’,” he said, climbing off without a protest, though his erection was jabbing her in the thigh and surely he must be ready to explode. “Can I get you anything?”

  Meet me.

  Raging, she shook her head.

  Within an hour, he was fast asleep. He was making her do this, she told herself. You didn’t go looking for it if you got it at home, and it was a male conceit that women were more likely than men to remain faithful though unsatisfied. Lots of her friends back home had something going on the side, with the pool man or the gardener or their kids’ soccer coach. It was part of being married to worker bees: even if their husbands owned the hive, they were drones, and a queen bee needed a special kind of jelly to keep her royal.

  No, she didn’t believe that. She knew she was a tramp, treated him abominably. But why the hell didn’t he kick up a fuss?

  Yet even her shame could be exciting. Dressed in white slacks and a cashmere sweater, and nothing underneath either, she pulled open the door and darted into the hall, shielding the light with her body. She stood for a moment, assuming he would come to her. Surely he didn’t expect her to know where to meet him.

  Only what to do when she found him.

  She took a few steps to the left and looked down the hall. The passageways were so long they dipped, which gave the Pandora a less-than-solid air she found unnerving after her ordeal at sea. Once they landed in Australia, she would never set foot on any kind of vessel again.

  “Captain?” she whispered; and, more softly, “Thomas?”

  She heard a creak behind her. Thought he could sneak up on her, eh? She stayed as she was, allowing him to enjoy the element of surprise. Creak, creak, and the tread of shoes on the carpet.