by Arne Bue
"Henderson? You still there?" Lingenberry asked. More muffled words.
Trooper Henderson came on again: "We re not ruling out anyone at this stage. Put them under ship's arrest if Captain Sewell wants. Whatever he wants when it comes to the so-called Williams family."
Elaine relieved Second Mate Lingenberry of watch at 8 p.m. It was Friday, September 30.
"Anything I should know?" she asked him.
Harry said, "I talked to the Troopers in Homer. Sergeant Henderson. He says those three people are wanted by police.
"Captain Sewell know?" Elaine asked.
"Going to talk to him now," Lingenberry said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
John Sewell liked to imagine he'd gained a fundamental appreciation of reality from his parents. From them, he believed he was raised in a coldly perfect world, controllable with a conditioned mind that anticipates. And he had a natural respect for consistency of behavior. Made him feel safe, somehow in control. His early years on the fishing grounds molded him, as did the storms at sea. Character, Captain John Sewell liked to say when he berated an errant crewman, was formed in the ocean's torrents.
In his bunkroom, Sewell watched a movie on his DVD and fell asleep in the slide and motion of his ship. He dreamed of the smell of low tide and the docks of Wrangell. And he heard the clop of an ax, his dad putting in a supply of wood for the winter. On sunny days, his mother used the clothes line in the back yard. The hanging clothes made soft, snapping sounds in the breeze.
He was saying goodbye to his parents and boarding one of the fishing boats. The crew would eat. He heard the sound of food scraped from the plates. But he could not eat. He'd heard another sound, a sustained whine of an ambulance siren. The dream changed and opened for him as if a curtain had been ripped aside. His father's heart attack. The sound came closer. But it was not his father. Joyce was lying there in his arms, bleeding all over him. The siren. They were coming for Joyce.
Sewell bolted up, sweating. He turned off the DVD, headed to the mess for coffee. The roll of the ship told him all was well. One bell sounded, 8 p.m., as he poured the cup. Elaine would have taken the watch by now.
Lingenberry came in, sat down.
"Captain," Lingenberry said, "I know about those thugs, the ones shaking down our passengers. I called and checked on them with a Trooper in Homer."
"You talked to Sergeant Henderson?"
"Yes," Lingenberry said.
"Did he say anything about the Japanese man in Sand Point? Did they make an arrest?" Sewell asked.
"No. But he knew all about those muggers or gypsies or whatever they are that we got aboard."
"They still bothering my passengers?"
No," Lingenberry said. "They've been pretty quiet. Anna probably chewed on them. But like I said, I called the Troopers to see if there's anything they know about them."
"What'd Henderson have to say?"
"They're trouble, Captain. They're running from the law. They cheated some old people out of their life savings in Homer."
"So now Henderson wants me to arrest them?"
"Henderson didn't say that. He said it's up to you what to do with them. It's your ship."
"Right," Sewell said bitterly. "He wants them arrested in Dutch Harbor. Elaine's on the bridge, right?"
"Yes," Lingenberry said.
"Have Elaine call Henderson. Tell him I am ordering his Troopers in Dutch Harbor to be dockside and waiting at attention for me and my ship in Dutch."
Lingenberry seemed to swell with the words. "Yes, sir," he said.
"What's our ETA?" Sewell asked.
"Following seas, Captain," Lingenberry said. "Making good time. We'll be in about 5 a.m."
"You have watch during docking, right?"
"Yes, Captain."
"I want a seaman guarding their door. We'll arrest them an hour before we dock. Quinsen and Elaine will escort them off."
:Captain," Lingenberry asked, "did the gypsies kill Dick?"
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
In his stateroom, Mr. Nakano thought to spend time entering notes in his journal. His knee throbbed. Advil helped but little. He reviewed the Japanese code used to track checks issued in Anchorage to The Kenso Company for deposit in his Bahamian bank account, and he went over the list of Alaska banks, amounts deposited, each check under $2,900.00, unsuspicious amounts to the eyes of tellers, bank auditors, federal officials. But inner disturbances ate his composure.
Mr. Nakano attempted other activity.
He opened his back-pack, checked the insides, rearranged clothes spread about his top bunk. He recounted his money and remaining shabu. But he was wasted and confused. He sat in the canvas chair the Purser-woman gave him, setting up the small tray, intending to work on sketches, but the ship swayed and turned, and though motion sickness usually did not bother him, the constant throw and pitch made his stomach turn. A sour ambient air suffocated him.
Although Mr. Nakano swore allegiance to the criminal organization, at this part of his life he knew beyond all doubt he would give his life for wife and son, rather than the men with whom he'd worked all these years. Before now, Mr. Nakano believed he controlled his life and his dangerous, illegal route. In Tokyo, when conflict arose with associates, Mr. Nakano believed if he calmed himself, controlled his emotions, conflicts subsided. Thus, Mr. Nakano strove to appear at peace.
Nevertheless, the storm on the ocean and his own disgust at the flaws apparent in his creation, his drug route, twisted him. The incident with Dick the watchman: a mistake, a loss of control. And he shouldn't have spoken of Jeffrey Johnson's non-existent problems to boss Shige Nishimoto. During that meeting he'd misread Nishimoto's mood, intending only to give Shige Nishimoto a short summation of Mr. Johnson's personality, and sum up how he could regain control. But Shige Nishimoto showed his drunken anger, revealing the dangerous side lurking always beneath a thin surface.
And Yasumasa Uchigama, the accountant. Something not right there, his carping attitude over the phone. And the assassin Kiichi Sugimoto, living in Sand Point. But Kiichi Sugimoto could be anywhere. He could be in Dutch Harbor. And cousin Ochi, who made the false identification papers and the fake Alaska driver's licenses, and financed the extra shabu for this last of all voyages: Did Ochi betray his own family to Shige Nishimoto? Also, there is Redbeard, his hand-picked supervisor for the route. By now, Redbeard certainly has heard what happened to Jeffrey Johnson. George in King Cove knew, so Redbeard also knew.
Enough of this mental hurricane, Mr. Nakano thought. I must regain control.
He imagined himself as he would rather be, his voice well-modulated, rather soft, never harsh, as though one who sympathetically counsels a friend or imaginary student about a personal problem. Though he did not wish to speak to Deck Officers, Mr. Nakano gladly spoke, though rarely, to passengers about seabirds and whales, for most tourists fade after voyages, do they not? A peaceful place to direct one's thoughts. He knew much about seabirds. He'd identified them through the binoculars, photographed and sketched them, worked on renderings in Tokyo during the winter. Although he'd tried to work on the sketches and given up because of the pitch and yaw of the ship, he'd try again. He opened a sketchpad, the one used last year, and set the works on his bunk, and he opened a binder containing the charcoal sketches he'd started this season. He spread them on the cabin deck.
Black Legged Kittiwake, Northern Fulmar, Fork Tailed Storm Petrel, Pelagic Cormorant, Thick-Billed Murre, Horned Puffin, Pigeon Guillemot, Whiskered Auklet, Cassin's Auklet, Marbled Murrelet, Ancient Murrelet, Least Auklet, Parakeet Auklet, Crested Auklet, Tufted Puffin, Common Murre, Red Legged Kittiwake, Glaucous Winged Gull, Leach's Storm Petrel, Red Faced Cormorant.
Passengers thought him a naturalist or teacher as he sketched seabirds. But Mr. Nakano stopped seeing his drawings, for the disturbing thoughts returned to howl and turn with the ship.
Gang members cast envious eyes, for Mr. Nakano traveled. He sensed jealousy, for he appeared in cont
rol while, perhaps, they were not. They lost tempers, fought. When his contemporaries attempted to rile or ridicule him in front of others, Mr. Nakano found a way to control the situation. He soothed them, made light of jibes and remarks in a civilized way. Few made him lose his temper.
Mr. Nakano's boss, however, looked upon this demeanor as a sign of poor leadership qualities, a poor choice for promotion. Simply a common route manager.
All yakuza near his rank have insurance coverage for their families. The organization provides this, but not for him. Shige Nishimoto simply wrote off his wife Misako when Mr. Nakano revealed her illness. Wrote her off. Get another one, as though wife Misako counted for nothing but property.
Mr. Nakano decided his knee had rested enough, though somewhat sore. He must walk about, outside on deck, get his heart and mind slowed, seek peace. He'd relieved himself of Dick, the watchman. A walk may well relieve him of a stormy heart. He will walk carefully, hold the rails, concentrate on his footing. He will use the roar of the gale about him to make his mind settle, and again become calm, like a lake.
CHAPTER FORTY
Mr. Nakano exited the foyer directly into the raging storm raging. On the starboard side he grabbed wet rails and dogged forward, listening to the hiss of the sea.
As he reached the port side, a movement drew his attention.
Two people clambered up outside steps and disappeared into the howling blackness. Passengers should not be up there exposed in this weather. He decided to follow. On the top step, he concentrated keeping his feet stationed, his grasp firm on the rail. His knee ached from the short climb, his heart thumped in his chest.
The ship's stack issued a rhythmic thrum. Forward, he recognized exposed steps along the superstructure to the boat deck. He climbed. There, the solarium protected him from the weather as the Tustumena heaved and slid in the following seas.
A door to inside stairs leading below deck beckoned. The passengers probably took these stairs, so he decided to take them, too.
He heard voices. Curious, he peered around the staircase housing.
The orange light from overhead heaters revealed two men and a woman. One man held a handrail. The other man was Louie. He stood flat-footed and braced with his arm around Donna's waist. Curiosity drew Mr. Nakano closer. The man holding the rail was the Third Mate, Gary Quinsen.
Louie and Donna could take too much of their drink and drugs, fall overboard and drown. One may drink in staterooms, or in the lounge, not on deck, he recalled one of the crew saying on one of his earlier voyages.
However, Quinsen wasn't chiding them. The orange light from the overhead heaters allowed Mr. Nakano to see the edges of American currency in Louie's hand. Quinsen stuffed the bills in his pocket as he handed Louie a bag, round as a man's fist.
The shadowy outlines of the young couples' faces slid around. Donna laughed, high-pitched and metallic. They'd seen Mr. Nakano.
Louie said to the Third Mate, "Yeah, Gary, sure. Thanks loads for the - uh - gloves." The dark outline of the Officer's head moved slightly. Mr. Nakano was sure he was looking at him.
Mr. Nakano smiled benignly, his eyes on the deck, and he attempted a humble and polite bow, and backed toward the entrance to the stairwell. He heard the ocean and the twin engines. He heard his own breathing and the pounding of his own heart. He heard the door to the inside stairs burst open. Light from the stairwell blazed across the solarium.
From the graceful body shape, he recognized Chief Mate Elaine Miller. Mr. Nakano wished to pass by her and head down the stairs. The stairwell lights struck her face. She peered past Mr. Nakano at the Third Mate.
She closed the door, and advanced on them.
Mr. Nakano flung open the door, hobbled down the stairs and limped to his cabin. He double-checked the lock on his door.
Perhaps the gods did not wish Mr. Nakano to sleep during this stormy night.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Earlier, on the bridge, Elaine Miller figured the seas wouldn't top forty feet, but instrument data told her occasional waves reached 37, a fairly good ride. They'd dock at Dutch around 4:50 a.m. with the wind blowing astern like this. The helmsman and lookout stayed coffee-primed.
Lingenberry showed up early.
"Can't sleep, Harry?" she asked.
"The gypsies," Lingenberry said. "The old man wants you to call the Troopers in Dutch, have them standing by. He's going to put them under ship's arrest."
"Exactly who's doing the arrest?" Elaine asked, her voice coming up.
"You and Quinsen escort them off. Toloff's on guard outside their stateroom. Captain says they don't need cuffing. Toloff will keep an eye on them, keep the bridge posted. I have the watch coming into Dutch. Sewell will dock."
"Does Quinsen know?"
"Not yet," Lingenberry said.
"I'll wake him up, let him know after my watch."
Elaine, Gary Quinsen and Harry Lingenberry had been to Sitka for training on procedures for making an arrest, the correct way to get cuff, mace, and stun. She'd used this training once on a guy high on drugs, probably PCP. Maced him, cuffed him to a stanchion on the car deck, let the guy scream for three hours. The guy finally fell asleep. Troopers took him away in Homer.
So, here we go again, she thought. This time, gypsies. They're not on drugs, not wild like the PCP dude, so this shouldn't be a big deal. She looked over to Lingenberry.
"You better get a little sleep."
"I wouldn't be too relaxed about this, Elaine," Lingenberry said. "The Troopers say they might be suspects in Dick s murder."
The gale blew the ship further down the Chain.
Lingenberry relieved Elaine at 4 a.m.
Elaine figured now would be as good a time as any to wake up Quinsen, discuss, step-by-step, how the situation with the gypsies would proceed.
She knocked on Quinsen's door. No answer. She opened the door. Not there. He wasn't on the bridge, either. She checked the forward observation lounge on the promenade deck. She took the stairs, checked the passages on the sun deck, and continued up the stairs.
She pushed open the door and stepped into the solarium. She almost collided with Mr. Nakano, bowing and backing up. He slipped past her, and limped down the stairs. Elaine looked around the stairs and forward into the solarium and saw Quinsen.
Looked like he'd just handed something over to the Nelsons, maybe like a cellophane lunch bag, hard to tell. It all happened so fast. From the outline of his head, she guessed Quinsen was staring at her. The way the outline of his body was, poised in a hunched sort of way, like a football player on the line, it looked to Elaine like the Tustumena's Third Mate wanted to attack her.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
"What's going on?" Elaine asked, over the diesels. Following winds carried from the stack an engine discharge that left the taste of oil on her tongue.
"Hey, ma'am," Louie called out. He gave her one of his waves.
"Shut up, Louie," Donna hissed.
"Little too stormy for passengers. I thought I saw someone come up," Quinsen said.
"What did you give them, Gary?" Elaine asked. "Looked like you gave them something."
"Gloves," Donna called out. She did one of her heavy-metal laughs. "Just a damn pair of gloves."
"Yeah, that's it," Louie said, "gloves!"
"Gloves," Quinsen confirmed. "And they're going back to their stateroom."
Donna and Louie bolted down the stairwell.
"Something not right, Gary," Elaine said. "I find out anything funny going on, I tell the bridge. You and Captain Sewell aren't on that good of terms as it is."
Quinsen lead the way down the stairs, ignoring her.
Elaine said, "Maybe you want to talk a little, Gary?"
"I got nothing to say, Elaine. You got nothing on me."
"I didn't say I had anything on you, Gary."
Gary was in the passage of the quarterdeck, heading for his quarters.
"You still writing to that girl in Guam?"
"Yeah.
Why?"
"Heard she's about due. And you're the daddy?"
"Get out of my face, Elaine. None of your business."
He held the rails, the ship yawing. He shut the door to his quarters.
Quinsen opened the envelope, wrinkled from opening and closing so many times. He looked at the pictures of her. She was getting pretty big, and she was wearing that ear-to-ear grin like always.
Jesus, why'd she have to get knocked up? There's the knocking. That Elaine, why don't she give it up?
Gary opened the door.
"Hey, I'm sorry," Elaine. "It's been a long season, and I'm piano wire, know what I mean? Dick getting murdered like that. Shit."
"How many days without a break, Gary?" Elaine asked.
"Seventy-three days. Last break I had lasted three days. I tied one on in Seattle."
She was looking at the photos. "That her?"
"Yeah." Gary put the photos back in the envelope.
"She looks like a nice girl. Why don't you do the right thing?"
"Come on, Elaine. I go to sea. That's what I do, go to sea."
"OK, OK, Gary. Just asked. Anyway, what I'm really here for, is, Captain has a job for us."
"Not another damn drill."
"No. There's a family aboard. The Williams family, according to the passenger list. They're wanted by police in Homer and down in the Lower 48 under another name. They've been shaking down our passengers, asking for money, binoculars, camera, hiking boots. Anything of value."
"The Captain's throwing them off the ship?" Quinsen asked.
"Anna's already talked to them. They're in their stateroom. Tolof is guarding the door. We're taking them off in Dutch. Turn them over to the Troopers. If they killed Dick, Sewell will see to it the ship gets credit, not the Troopers."
"Think they did it?" Quinsen asked.