by Nancy Holder
“You may have noticed that things aboard the Pandora can be different.”
John took a half step backward. “Beg your pardon?”
Reade smiled and rubbed his chin, half shutting his eye. “Come now, I know you’ve felt things. Perhaps seen things?”
The water on the floor. The cork, or bob—
—or glass ashtray, John. Just an ashtray.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” John said. “Matt,” he called, a bit harshly. The boy said something to the woman and walked toward him on spider-thin legs. He was so pale and wan John thought the boy might keel over.
“If you don’t know what I mean,” Reade said, “then open your eyes, your ears, and most especially your mind.” He clapped a hand on John’s shoulder. John jumped.
“God sent you to this ship, Dr. Fielder. He knows your inner heart, what you pray for. God sent you here, so Matt could live. I know that in my soul. In here.” He made a fist against his chest.
As John gaped, the captain turned on his heel and headed for the elevator.
Through the looking glass, through the magic periscope that Reade had somehow fashioned, Ramón watched as the crumpled form of a man sagged at the feet of Captain Reade. The man wept and mumbled. Reade laughed.
“Curry, I must thank you for your latest service to me. You have been a worthy acolyte.” He looked straight at Ramón. “And now I must ask you, do you truly wish to die?”
Sobbing, the man named Curry picked up the sword Ramon had so recently dropped. “Goddamn you,” he whispered, and lunged toward the captain. But he was weak; the momentum threw him face forward onto the deck with a sharp crack. A cloud of blood bloomed around him and the sword clattered from his grasp.
“Try again,” the captain taunted as he picked up the sword and held it out to him.
“Just kill me,” the man begged.
“No. You must do it.”
Bastard, Ramón thought. Fucking chingadera asshole. He was going to kill that man; why not just do it? Reade was a fucking sadist, tricking the señora into killing herself with a bottle. And her husband, making him jump into a pot of boiling water. Why did he have to fool with them? Why not just fucking do it?
“Ay, Dios.” His mind numbed: what had Reade said? Only the living could kill the living.
“Oh, God, oh, God,” he said in English, over and over. He shook, hard.
Maybe Reade couldn’t kill them because he was not alive.
And if he couldn’t kill them. If he wasn’t alive …
He had to get free. He had to tell the others. He had to save them, save himself. Jesús Cristo, maybe Reade could do nothing to them. Nothing, unless they let him. If they didn’t believe what they say … if they understood it was all fake …
“Ayúdame, ayúdame.” Help me. Help me, God.
But God was not listening.
Perhaps He was dead, too.
Or a fake.
21
Through a Glass,
Darkly
Ruth cried out. In the tub, why was she in the tub in her stateroom? Why was her face under the water?
Why did it seem that something was pressing against the back of her neck? And what was she seeing? Beauty, beauty, fading—
The image of the captain’s face, when he had come to visit her, loomed large, burst like a bubble.
What was she doing?
Beauty, beauty; ah, no wait …
A knock on the door.
Ruth sat up. The water streamed off her face into the tub. But she couldn’t have bent low enough to put her head under the waterline. She was too old, too stiff, too …
The knock came again. “Yes?” she asked timorously. “Yes, who is it?”
A shape on the other side of the plastic curtain. A shadow, moving among the red and blue fish, the printed forest of seaweed.
A voice that she couldn’t hear, but suddenly she knew whose voice it was:
“Don’t go,” she pleaded, lurching forward. “Stephen!”
The doorbell.
The shadow faded.
Ruth put her hands to her head. Dreaming? Or awake? Why could she no longer tell?
“Ruth? Ruth!”
It was Donna. Ruth flattened her hand against the shower curtain. “Come back, come back,” she said.
“Ruth!”
She was alone now. She felt it, knew it. Carefully, she hung on to the railing above the soap dish and hauled herself to a standing position.
“Coming!” Her voice screeched, an old lady’s voice.
She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself. Stepped cautiously out and reached for her bathrobe.
The doorknob rattled. “Ruth? Ruth!”
She faced the tub. Was there anything in the room that could have cast a shadow against the shower curtain? A chair in the next room, perhaps, or the way the light fixture was adjusted?
For now, hearing Donna’s voice, she understood how … jumbled … she had been. Imagining all kinds of things. A gullible old woman’s hopes, amplified by the excitement of being lost at sea. Foolish hopes. No one had been hovering behind the shower curtain, least of all her missing husband. There was no supernatural force at work; there were no messages coming to her from beyond.
But what about what had happened on the Morris?
And why had she been sitting in the tub? She’d taken a shower not an hour before, in preparation for lunch.
And there had been a shadow on her curtain. A moving shadow.
“Ruth!”
Stirring herself, she walked out of the bathroom and crossed her stateroom. Glanced at the clock as she passed the dresser, and caught her breath.
Either the clock was wrong, or she’d sat in the water for three hours.
She opened the door.
“Hi,” Donna said. “I was getting worried about you. You all right?”
I don’t know, I don’t know, she wanted to cry. She nodded and said, “I am a little hungry, though. I … I missed breakfast.”
“Lunch, too, I’m afraid. It’s almost dinnertime.” She peered around the door. “Has John been by to see you?”
“No, dear. Ah, can you give me a few moments to dress?”
Before Donna could answer, she slammed the door shut and fell against it. Her heart spasmed; she was covered with goose bumps.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, and turned her head toward the bathroom.
A shadow on the curtain, moving slowly, slowly.
Waiting.
The icy water chilled his knees into two brittle disks of throbbing pulses as Ramón stared into the magic periscope and saw:
The captain and Dr. Fielder, walking, talking. Fielder looked guarded, yet he was clearly interested in whatever the captain was telling him.
Lies, señor. Lies. Take your boy and leave the ship. Leave, leave, as soon as you can.
Saw:
The museum, and a skeleton stretched within a cage of glass; she a creature of exquisite beauty, who raised her arms toward Ramón and sang. And Cha-cha with his old metal bowl, and spoon, and he was stirring a mixture of fingers and eyes; God, he was stirring.
Saw:
A woman with Matty. They were walking across a fogladen deck of some kind of barge, some Egyptian-looking thing, with velvet hangings and tassels and torches. The torches, something about them. Ramón flexed his knees, relaxed them. The torches. Fire. Heat.
With her arm around Matt’s shoulders, she raised her other hand and pointed to a cloaked figure who glided through the black torch smoke. He rode in a boat, and he guided it with a long pole. Ramón heard the woman murmur, “Charon.” Only that.
The figure raised its head. And Ramón felt a flash of shock that there was anything left that could terrify him.
But death terrifies everyone, even the dead. And the captains of the dead.
And the Desire of Death moved upon the waters, something bigger than they knew about; something beyond the captain …
Wanting.
> 22
Message
for Donna
The captain stood on the bridge. The sea opened her arms to him. He grit his teeth and thought about diving into her, and sinking deeply.
Do you hear me, Donna? he called, though the bitch wouldn’t listen. Do you hear me? I am gathering them, all your friends. I am putting them under
(way under; way, way under)
my spell, which is the ocean’s spell: a dream, a hope, the ebb and flow of their lives, which is the tide of their mortality.
And you can do nothing about it, you with your near-perfect imperviousness. You have a hard shell, but I shall penetrate you. I shall have you, and I shall take you, and I shall keep you. You will be Life-in-Death to my Ancient Mariner, the beautiful woman who never dies, but brings death. The captain’s woman.
You are the one. Do you not remember me, my darling? Whose hand pulled you to the slumber-deaths, with the boy I loved, the little boy in the cold, bottomless lake?
My lady of the lake, do you not know me? The companion in your watery grave, who calls to you with the song of a tempter? How you fought, my lovely, as I sought to keep you. How you hated me for taking the child.
And was it only fate that when she called me, the old widow called with her Desire, and gave form to Pandora, that you came back to me? Fate, or destiny?
They’re taking longer than I expected, your death throes. Much longer. How tired you must be. And how you fight me still! How you deny me!
But you shall tire. Everyone eventually does. And you shall accept my invitation. You shall come aboard. And after you’ve done with kicking and screaming and fighting to keep your head above water, we shall come together and I shall fulfill my Desire.
Do you know this poem?
Implacable I, the Implacable Sea
Implacable most when I smile serene
Pleased, not appeased by myriad wrecks in me.
Melville. It’s in that book, which of course I let you have. And of course, you’ve been too thick—thus far, at least—to make any connections: Bruce Smith was the master of the Titanic. Creutz commanded the Kronen, which sank in 1767. Such an odd name, yet you passed it off as nothing. The two times I used Marcus Hare, who went down with his ship Eurydice—a double clue, nay, a triple, as Eurydice herself went down to the Underworld—no matter. It was elegant, but lost on you. No matter. I am amused. That is why I bring them back, again and again. For my amusement. I would grow lonely without them, and I am fated—for I have sworn—to sail with a dead crew.
And after you cease to amuse me, the deluge.
So learn the poem, me beauty. Learn it word for word, because I shall make you say it, Donna me lass, Donna you bitch, you cunt you filthy whore I shall wound you I shall cut you I shall torture you and I shall make you sorry I shall drag you down a thousand times I shall I shall
Implacable
III
GOING DOWN
23
Here Comes Trouble
It was five-thirty in the afternoon of the fifth day aboard Pandora. Donna sat cross-legged on her bed with a glass of Scotch in one hand and the other on the phone. She was becoming seriously concerned.
Everyone was behaving strangely. Ruth crept around like a thief, obviously upset about something but afraid to discuss it. She hadn’t seen Ramón since they’d come aboard, and he apparently was never in his cabin when she phoned. Now Elise and Phil van Buren were missing. Or at least avoiding everyone they knew with the skill of a Mafia informant. One little, two little, three little Indians.
She told herself the van Burens had reunited and wanted to work things out in privacy: it would be easy to lose yourself among one thousand other people. That’s what she told herself, but it didn’t quite assuage her nagging doubts about their safety.
The thing that bothered her most was the change in John. Spacy, preoccupied, and distant, he kept a clamp on it, whatever it was, and the closeness they’d begun to share as friends, confidantes, potential lovers, was gone. Matty appeared very troubled, and he seemed to want to talk to her, but John never let him out of his sight.
Donna felt isolated, as if everyone else had some secret that she wasn’t allowed to share.
And she’d just told herself a lie, to help herself sleep at night: the thing that bothered her most was that the lifeboat hadn’t been found. When would they call off the search?
Oh, Cha-cha. Crazy old man.
She took a belt of Scotch and rested the glass against her cheek. Started to dial Glenn’s number. Heck, they could still talk like two cops, couldn’t they? He could set her mind at ease; tell her if anything was coming out in the news about the dumping, for instance. Give her something to do; make her feel less useless.
But was that really why she wanted to call him? Huffing, she took another sip of Scotch. And if Barb answered the phone, well, that would be pretty damn weird, wouldn’t it? Believe it, white girl.
There was a sharp rap on her door.
“Yeah,” she said. Maybe it was John.
“It’s Tom.”
Captain Reade, her mind filled in. Well well well. He’d made the leap to first names. She got off the bed and went to the door.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here. I think it’s time we talked about a few things.”
He didn’t hear her. “Come quickly.” His tone was urgent. “We’ve found the other lifeboat.”
“Oh, God. Just a sec.” Donna stepped into a pair of sandals and grabbed her room key. He was already halfway down the hall by the time she shut the door.
“This is great! I was just thinking about them. Just wishing we’d find it.”
Reade flashed an odd smile at her. “Really? It was sighted five minutes ago on the radar.” He strode down the hall, arms pumping. “We should be on it within the hour.”
That long? “Have you called the other rescue vessels?”
He nodded. She was on his eye patch side. “And I’m filing a report on their sheer incompetence. It must have passed a dozen vessels, and none of them saw it. Claimed the fog was too thick. Ridiculous!”
“Fog?” It had been clear and beautiful ever since they’d come on board. She remembered how the fog engulfed the Morris.
“The weirdest shit is going on.” She started over. “I think there was something really wrong with that stuff the Morris dumped. I think it might have contaminated us.”
“Oh?” He shot her a look as they strode along.
“Captain Reade, to the bridge, please,” a PA system voice announced. “Captain Reade, to the bridge.”
“Would you care to accompany me? Watch the operation from up there?”
“Sure.” Okay, okay, one thing at a time, and the lifeboat took precedence. For the moment.
A woman dressed in a long, white lace dress and a floppy hat with feathers on it waved from down the companionway. It was Mrs. Reinstedt again. Jesus H. Christ, she had a big butt. Donna blinked. It wasn’t her butt. She was wearing a bustle.
“Captain Reade! Hello! They’ve been found! It’s so exciting.”
“Yes,” he called back, waving. Half turned toward Donna as he kept walking, and did a double take.
“Do you see her?” he asked, with an odd, high-pitched squeal. “Do you see?”
“Huh?” Donna scratched her arm. See her? Of course she saw her.
“You do.” Reade broke into a wide smile. His eye jittered like he was on crack. Donna took a step away from him as Mrs. Reinstedt waddled around a corner and disappeared.
Covering his mouth with his hand, Reade burst into a gale of laughter. He fought for composure, succeeded, and straightened, wiping a tear from his eye. Saw Donna’s blank look and explained, “She’s getting ready for the shipwreck party.” Chuckled.
“Although I don’t know why she’s starting so early. She always wears the same thing. She’s a frequent traveler with us,” he added. It was clear he was straining not to laugh again.
“The what?” Donna
asked, astounded.
“The shipwreck party.” He waved a finger at her, gesturing for her to follow him around a corner. “Haven’t you been reading your Daily Program?”
“No. You mean, like on Gilligan’s Island? Should you have one of those on a cruise?”
“We have one every time we sail,” he replied. He beamed at her. “We’ve been doing them for years and years.”
“But …” She shut up. What did she know? But would an airline host a crash party? How absolutely bizarre.
“You’ll have to have a costume,” he told her. “You’re the guest of honor.” And this time he did laugh, a short, harsh guffaw.
“Huh?”
“Well, all of you, of course. Since you’re our real people. Shipwreck people,” he amended. His mouth twitched.
“Am I missing something?” she asked irritably.
“No, no, au contraire,” he said. “Au contraire.”
She rang a hand through her hair and put it on her hip. “Well, what’s so funny?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry. It would take too long to explain. Perhaps later, after we’ve got those men on board.”
She let it go. They hurried along until they reached the elevator and went up to the bridge.
“Captain on the bridge,” a man with a handlebar mustache announced. All the men stopped what they were doing and immediately saluted Reade.
He returned it, said, “What’ve you got?”
“It’s moving in very fast, sir,” said the man. He looked familiar to Donna but she couldn’t place him. He pointed to a radar screen. “Just like the other one.”
Reade cocked his head. “Curious.”
“Yes, sir. If you hadn’t recalculated, we’d have …” The man cleared his throat.
Reade looked at Donna. “We’d have missed you,” he finished.
Say huh? A ship like this would’ve missed her lifeboat? She didn’t get it, but she was more interested in watching the radar blip. The line whipped around and around on a field of glassy green. A blip appeared each time on the lower left quadrant. How did they know that was the boat?