by Arne Bue
"Another problem with them?" Sewell boomed.
The gypsies rushed from the observation lounge.
"Man, those two are weird. See what they were doing?"
"They say anything?"
"The woman. She's a guy, Captain, a guy. Keeps saying he wants to try on my boots. No way."
Sewell headed after them.
He'd not seen the college girl aboard before, not like some of the others, like the elderly man and his wife from Maryland, the bird-watchers. But this was a new one. Gypsies aboard the Tustumena. He toured the ship, deck by deck. They were avoiding him. He did not have a passenger list with him, so he couldn't tell whether they had a stateroom. His Purser, Anna, would know. But for now, he'd give Elaine an update, have her follow up on the gypsies and she can have a talk with the Nelsons about the pot smoking. The Nelsons get messed up on drugs, she'll lock them in their staterooms. They could fall over, messed up like that.
Captain Sewell banged on Elaine Miller's door.
The door swung open. She followed across to his office.
"You heard from the Troopers, more on Dick?" she asked.
"Both Juneau and the Troopers are ordering us to continue to watch Mr. Nakano, no arrest. By the time we get back to Homer, we should have a pretty good idea of what he's doing."
"Or not doing, John. He's no drug runner. You take a look at him lately? His legs went bad or something."
"Nakano's been making the Chain run on this ship for at least five years. He hops off the ship at five in the morning in the middle of a storm in King Cove, limps along there behind a building. Makes a phone call."
"We all use the phone. All he does is take pictures," Elaine said.
"Something's not right. Someone murdered Dick. The guy that drove the Sentra off the ship didn't have a clue. Says a man in Sand Point paid him to pick up the Sentra."
"Think they're not telling you all they know?" Elaine asked.
"Yep, that's what I think," Sewell said. He ran his hand through his hair. "We got a morale problem building."
"I know, John. Crew's worried. Some think it happened between Sand Point and King Cove. Most don't think Nakano had anything to do with it."
"You seen those vagabonds? Gypsies?"
"I don't think I'd know a gypsy if I saw one, but I think I know who you mean. The middle-aged couple and their son?"
"The woman's a man dressed like a woman. They're shaking down our passengers. I want you to have a talk with them."
"Shaking them down?" Elaine asked.
"I saw them trying to take a pair of expensive hiking boots from a college girl."
"The waitress was talking about them," Elaine said.
"Judy. I know."
"She said they were asking for money or jewelry or something from the Bergers."
"There's another problem. The Nelson's," Sewell said.
"Oh, yeah, the Nelsons. But they sobered up a long time ago. I saw them yesterday. They looked fine."
"Not a little glassy-eyed?"
"Well, they were drinking coffee in the side lounge. They looked OK to me," Elaine said.
"Smoke coming out of their stateroom. Smelled like dope. You better talk to them, too."
"OK, Captain. I'll give them a little chit-chat."
***
Elaine Miller did not talk to the gypsies. She didn't have to, because she saw the purser Anna Knight dressing down the man dressed as a woman.
Anna was saying, "So if I have any more complaints from Judy, any of the crew, any passengers, I'll report you to the bridge. They'll call ahead to the next port. You'll be taken off this ship and put under arrest."
A dark, rouged look from the man dressed as a woman was the only answer. He grunted and wandered off down the passage in his tent-like cotton dress.
Elaine approached Anna. "Captain wants me to talk to them, too," Elaine said.
"I've got them under control. They've got a stateroom, and they're going there right now. Won't be any trouble," Anna said.
"Sure?" Elaine asked.
"My job. I can keep them in line," Anna said.
"There's another problem. The Nelson's. Captain says he smelled pot. They're supposedly smoking up a storm."
"Just saw them in the side lounge," Anna said. "They looked to be in fairly good shape to me. But I'll stop by, see how everything's going with them, just to be sure."
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
In this weather, as Mr. Nakano remembered from other trips, the voyage to False Pass would consume at least five-hours. He looked forward to seeing the area again. His sketches of the area had always delighted his wife Misako. False Pass was a village on the east end of Unimak Island on Isanotski Strait. From his previous trips, Mr. Nakano learned from local people the Bering Sea portion of the strait was shallow and could not accommodate large vessels, and the name False Pass had grown up around that. The area was treeless except for patches of thickets and willow growing near a few streams. A heath-like mat covered much of the land.
Mr. Nakano suspected the countryside would be nearly gold in color this time of year in the subdued light of Fall. On other trips, Mr. Nakano had seen through his binoculars bears prowling near the community. Shorebirds frequented beaches, tidal flats, the shallow areas. St. Catherine's Cove was a favorite bird-watching spot. He'd sketched the harbor seals in the northern shallows of the bay last trip here.
As usual, he might meet with the cold, untrusting one, the man called Snake of Akutan, in False Pass. It was understood that if this man was not here, he'd be waiting in Akutan. No problem either way in Mr. Nakano's estimation: either here at False Pass or in Akutan. Mr. Nakano looked forward to this meeting because he'd get more money. He thought of his wife's medical expenses yet unpaid, and his son's first year of college, not so very far away. But looking out, he figured the weather could be a problem.
Around eleven in the morning, Mr. Nakano gauged the increase in wind and the heights the waves had reached. The ship entered what looked like a bay, a brown reach of land, a red marker on a promontory that looked like a hand resting in the surges of the ocean, enough color for a photo. Though the wind howled, the ocean smoked, white caps surrounded the ship, and waves cuffed the bow and sent quakes through the ship's spine, the ship did not noticeably roll. The ship's Captain, Mr. Nakano knew from past voyages, had extended the stabilizers.
The Tustumena exited what turned out to be a corridor between landfalls. A check of his watch told him this was too early for Ikatan Bay. To the port, Mr. Nakano saw what he thought must have been the open Pacific. The seas grew. He made out in the howling spray what could have been an island, but he wasn't sure, for the ship was plowing, and great fields of white and gray thundered.
At noon the ship submerged, and foaming brine concealed the forward section of the entire ship, and rose and followed to the superstructure and over the solarium where Mr. Nakano was attempting photos. He retreated to the safety of the forward observation lounge.
The Bergers were holding a storm rail, looking over the bow into the storm.
"We've sailed the world," Mrs. Berger said. "We've even done the Antarctic. Been more or less expecting something like this."
Mr. Nakano looked at her. Her face was narrow, her eyes dark and watchful. Mr. Berger had thick, silver hair.
"I was in the Navy," Mr. Berger said. "Our Captain used to pull behind an island, lay over for the night. Years later I found out the guy got seasick when he tried to sleep, and that's why he put us behind those islands."
Mr. Nakano felt the sea's hypnotic weight, as though the waves were taking power from him. The authority of the storm delivered a wordless utterance, which called up his father, Etsuo, counseling from the grave, pulling him down to another level of life, offsetting, dark and hopeless.
There really is no control, only the illusion, his father was saying.
Mr. Nakano swayed in the passage and again climbed with painful legs to the solarium. He must capture the violence, make the po
wer his on film.
The immense sea had, like a monstrous hand, invaded the deck aft of the stack, and had ripped a lid from one of the life preserver boxes. Hinges dangled like broken teeth. The lid lay flat on deck. Sea water sloshed in the open box, bobbing the orange vests. Another such wave, the cover would disappear.
Mr. Nakano took the stairs to the sun deck and on down to the foyer, gripping, sliding along hand rails, his knee tender, his chest hurting again.
Billy Sullivan, the Porter, looked up at him.
"There is an accident," Mr. Nakano said.
"What?"
"Solarium. A wave has damaged a box. The lid is on the deck and will wash away."
Mr. Nakano had forgotten to use his poor English. Billy Sullivan was looking at him.
"OK," Sullivan said. The Porter drifted off through the Crew Only door.
Mr. Nakano sat on the curving red metal bench in the flat light of the foyer, and heard the ocean bothering against the ship. The Purser's Counter was closed.
Third Mate Gary Quinsen entered the foyer. He looked at Mr. Nakano. Billy Sullivan stood behind him. They said nothing.
They climbed the stairs.
Mr. Nakano, in much pain, followed. He stopped twice to loosen his knee. How grateful he was this was the last trip.
Quinsen and Sullivan surveyed the damage, watchful of the sea. They gathered the lid, and together took the cover below deck.
There could be no repairs in this weather.
Sullivan said, over his shoulder, "Thank you, Mr. Nakano."
The Third Mate said nothing.
The ship's ride of the ocean changed. Mr. Nakano worked down to the sun deck, and followed the passage to the open door astern. He looked out past the steel car lift at following gushers, and felt the shift of the 296-foot ship. He observed the pale turquoise wake mixed with slate-gray streaks. The waves were laced with white streamers and topped with churning whitecaps. Land floated wraith-like about the ship.
Ikatan Bay.
Perhaps photos from the solarium. He climbed again. After this, he must take the Advil and rest his knee in his bunk, for it throbbed as though they, also, had heartbeats. The land, though a short distance off, was difficult to see. The howling about the ship tore at whitecaps. Veils lifted. Rain poured in embittered sheaths. A peninsula emerged in the distance on the port side.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Captain Sewell worked the bow-thruster controls, turning the ship, feeling its response, gauging how much control he could wrestle from the storm. But the bow thrusters were not strong enough. The wind made the ship unmanageable. He could do $50,000 damage to the False Pass wharf if he tried to nuzzle the Tustumena too close in this gale.
Captain Sewell looked over at Second Mate Lingenberry. "What's the latest fax?"
"She's blowing straight down the Chain, all the way to Dutch."
"Wind, seas?" Sewell asked.
"We've got over fifty knots," Lingenberry said. "Out there it's maybe the same. Could go up to maybe sixty. Seas twenty-five. Maybe up to thirty feet or forty out there, the odd wave."
"Make an announcement," Sewell said. "We're not docking in this. We're going on to Dutch."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A man's stentorian voice rumbled from the speaker. In the wind and the laboring groans from the stack and the twin engines, Mr. Nakano did not hear clearly, and he could not identify the voice disguised by the metallic ringing of the speaker.
...quite a bit of motion about the ship. Thank you.
The announcement may be important. Mr. Nakano descended two decks down to the foyer. He rested his knee in the curving red metal bench. A seaman looked out the foyer exit at the storm.
Mr. Nakano said, "What was the announcement? I could not hear too well in the solarium."
"Captain's not going in. He'll try again on the way back from Dutch," the seaman said.
Mr. Nakano looked out at the False Pass gale. A small fleet of commercial fishing boats labored against their anchors. Gusts tested their hawsers, pointed their sterns ashore. Searing winds and tearing waves rendered the wharf defenseless. The Tustumena would ravage the dolphins, grind the piles, split the wharf face.
The ship turned.
The Captain was taking her out through Ikatan Bay, into the depths of the sea.
The Snake of Akutan, if he was waiting in False Pass, would have to wait. But he could be in Akutan, and if so, they'd meet there.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Second Mate Harry Lingenberry, together with a helmsman and a lookout, worked the bridge while the Captain went to the mess for supper. Lingenberry took the Tustumena through the Ikatan Bay gale, past Cape Pankof. The ship's manifest said there were cars to offload at False Pass, but they'd have to do that on the way back from Dutch Harbor, after the stop in Akutan.
The old man was right, Lingenberry thought. He was always right. He never made mistakes with the ship in weather. The voyage to Dutch would be a ride in following seas, a sliding journey. Some of the passengers would probably think they were in Disneyland, but they'd be comfortable. The Tustumena would not be heading into it, pounding forward into thirty-footers. They'd travel through the hours of night, and most of the passengers would stay in their bunks and sleep.
Lingenberry looked over at his helmsman, Peter Toloff, who stood with feet spread at the wheel. Peter's look was of one who'd lost his own spirit somewhere in the middle of sea. A face drawn and pale with a sickly a reddish hue which came mostly from the red night light. Peter stared ahead into the roaring ocean. Pete and Dick had sailed together for years. The look of Peter told Lingenberry that Peter wanted to speak of his dead shipmate, but Lingenberry did not want to be the one to bring up the subject. That would be up to Peter.
"This sea will rise as we get out a little further," Lingenberry said. Peter knew this, of course, having been one of the first ones to study the weather fax. But Lingenberry had spoken to break the silence, try to get the helmsman to say something. After all, Lingenberry needed to know his helmsman was alert, even though the whole crew was living and working with shock and grief.
"Who do you think did it?" Peter said, the black eyes not moving. He'd spoken slowly, a low, quiet voice reserved for this dreaded thing.
"Could have happened at Sand Point," Lingenberry said.
"Where's the Troopers?" Peter had the wheel in a death-grip. "We re going on as though not one damn thing happened. Dick was a shipmate, sir."
"The old man and the Troopers are working this. We've got to keep going."
"And then what? Let whoever murdered Dick get away?"
"We've got to have faith. We've got to pray the old man and the Troopers have this situation well in hand," Lingenberry said.
"But what if they don t?" Peter asked, looking out into the gale. "I mean, don't you know or even suspect who did it?"
"We're to keep an eye on Mr. Nakano, the professor," Lingenberry said.
"It's not him," Peter said.
"Who, then?" Lingenberry asked.
"The gypsies did it," Peter said. "Everyone knows that."
As the ship drew into the ocean, Lingenberry thought to make an announcement to warn the passengers and the crew working the dining room. He was about to turn the ship. The ship would roll a great deal. Everyone had better hold on and sit down.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
At 6:14 p.m., Mr. Nakano sat in the dining room. He'd ordered the clam chowder. The flat, inflectionless voice of Second Mate Harry Lingenberry drifted from the speakers:
We are making a sharp turn, so we have the sea behind us. We might experience a roll or two. Please, get comfortable, and stay in a safe area, so you don't fall down. And also in the galley if you can hear me: make sure everything is secured. We might experience a good roll there, so...thank you.
The food did not slide, stuck before him on a storm mat.
The Second Mate's words again floated through the speaker:
Prepare to roll. Hang on and
sit down and don't move around until we make the turn. Thank you.
The great ship paused as though to catch itself and reach for power. The seascape rose about the storm deck and the dining room. Waves loomed as gray, hungry mountains, and the ship swayed, tilted, and turned. The wind blew astern at sixty-five knots. The Tustumena was on the way to Dutch Harbor, a thirteen hour roller coaster ride, plates, silverware, coffee cups held in place by storm mats.
***
Lingenberry got through to Trooper Henderson in Homer, Alaska.
"Yes. Dressed as a woman. Williams, they say," he said.
"That's not the name I've got here," Henderson said. "They're the Vlasoff family. They're trouble. But they also go by the name Williams."
"What'd they do?" Lingenberry asked.
"They're wanted here in Homer and about a dozen other places in the Lower 48. They run scams. They cheated an old couple out of their life savings here in Homer. Then they disappeared."
Lingenberry nodded knowingly. I knew it. They probably killed Dick.
Lingenberry gave Peter a look, turned back to the radiotelephone.
"Well, we're stuck with them now. You want us to put them under ship's arrest?"
Lingenberry heard Sergeant Henderson snort.
"I'm not going to tell you what to do on your own ship. I'll leave that up to you and Captain Sewell," Henderson said. "I'm in enough trouble with your Captain as is."
"What sort of trouble?" Lingenberry asked.
"It's more a turf situation, Mr. Lingenberry. I'm not at liberty to discuss it at this time. Where you located?"
"Heading to Dutch," Lingenberry said. "Are they suspects? I mean, regarding Dick?"
Henderson did not answer right away. From the muffled voices coming over the speaker, Lingenberry assumed Trooper Henderson was probably talking to someone off-line and had placed his hand over the microphone.