Storm Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 4th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series

by Charles Dougherty

  Paul leaned around to look at the instrument display above the helm. "Damn. Forgot," he muttered.

  "I'm still doing the same thing. Can't get used to the display being dead. It's around 7:30, if that's what you were looking for. I checked the clock when we were below, getting them settled."

  "Yep, that's what I was looking for. It must have been 5:30 or so when we spotted the raft."

  "Probably. Few minutes before sunset, anyway. What are you getting at?"

  "Just curious. When you said an hour, it seemed like a lot longer, but I guess that's about right, given how long it took us to get them aboard."

  "It does seem like a lot longer. Lots of activity packed in a short time does that to you. They're lucky we happened along. If I understood what she was trying to say, they were in the raft for two days. I wonder where they came from."

  "You thought that other boat was nearby. Blue Something?”

  "Wing," Connie said. "Blue Wing, it was called. But the guy who was checking into the weather net said they had four people on board when he was chatting the other day after the net. They'd taken on a couple in Annapolis for the passage to the Virgins."

  "Hmm," Paul said.

  "Hmm, what?"

  "Just thinking. You're probably right, though. If they came from Blue Wing, where are the other two?"

  "If they came from Blue Wing, they'd be the crew," Connie added.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Come on, Lt. Russo. Why'd I say that?"

  "I remember you telling me about them, but I was busy trying to figure out how we were going to get the people out of the raft. I'm afraid I ... "

  "Not even married yet, and you're already tuning me out." Connie shook her head, a teasing grin on her face.

  "I ... um ... "

  "This would be a good time for you to invoke the Fifth, detective."

  "Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. What did I miss?"

  "Oh, don't look so wounded. I was just having a little fun with you. I know I was babbling when we were approaching the raft. I was nervous."

  Paul smiled. "Me, too."

  "Anyhow, what you missed was that they just celebrated their 48th wedding anniversary a few days ago. The people who owned Blue Wing."

  "Right. I remember your saying that. You started teasing me about being an old man and got me confused."

  "Senility. If this couple came from Blue Wing, they'd have to be the crew, right?"

  "Right. I don't think the sum of their ages would make 48 years."

  "She looks a lot younger than he does," Connie said.

  "Yes. He looks like he packed some hard living into a short life, though."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "His tattoos."

  "What about them? Lots of people have tattoos now, grandpa."

  "Not like those."

  "Now you're an expert on tattoos?"

  "All cops learn to recognize jailhouse ink. He's been inside."

  "Inside?"

  "He's done time. Based on the number of tats just on his arms, I'd say years. That kind of stuff takes time."

  "Why does it take time?"

  "The tattoo artists inside don't have modern equipment. They use ink from ballpoint pens and scratch it in with a needle, or something else sharp. It's pretty distinctive, because most of them do pretty crude work — not like the stuff you see from a tattoo parlor."

  "So you think he's an ex-con?"

  "I'd bet my pension on it."

  "That's worrisome," Connie said.

  "Don't borrow trouble. Just because he's done time doesn't mean he's going to cause problems."

  "I hope you're right."

  "Me, too. You okay to stand watch for a couple of hours?"

  "Sure. I'm too keyed up to sleep, anyway. Think you can get some rest?"

  "Yes. You worked me hard today, skipper, and then made me cook your supper."

  "And a fine supper it was, Mr. Russo. Sleep as long as you can; I'm fine for a while. Sweet dreams."

  6

  Trying to slake her overpowering thirst, Georgina unscrewed the top of the water bottle. She was frustrated by the trickle that she could get through the little snap-open top. Pushing herself almost to a sitting position, she put the threaded neck to her lips and tipped her head back. The boat rolled, and she gagged on the slug of liquid that gushed into her mouth. She swallowed and put the top back on the bottle. Setting it on the bed, she peered around in the dim light.

  The bed was narrow; her head was jammed in a corner. The ceiling was too low for her to sit up all the way. She rolled onto her side, continuing to survey her surroundings. Someone had brought her here; she remembered them helping her into the bunk, asking if she was okay. A man and a woman, she recollected. Harry and Marilyn?

  No, she told herself. They're dead. She shuddered at the recollection of Harry with the hatchet sunk into his skull. She shook her head. Dalton, she thought. Where's Dalton? She remembered being in the raft with him; he'd still been tweaking when they'd abandoned ship. She put a hand to her cheek, still tender, and remembered that he'd hit her before he'd crashed. He'd pitched a fit, looking for his backpack. That's when he'd thrown all the shit out of the life raft.

  What about these people who must have picked them up from the raft? Who were they? More alert now, she ran a hand over the ceiling along the side of the bunk. Varnished wood of some kind. There was a single porthole, admitting a beam of moonlight that moved to and fro across the wall as the boat rolled. The rolling was smooth, steady — nothing like the jerky motion of Blue Wing. This must be a much bigger boat, she thought.

  Her stomach clenched in a painful spasm; she recognized the familiar pang of hunger. She'd known it most of her life. How long had they been in the raft, anyway? Two days? Three? She couldn't figure that out.

  She watched the circle of moonlight play across the interior of the cabin and realized that she'd never seen such fancy woodwork, except when she had sneaked into movies. This must be a real yacht, not just a big sailboat like Blue Wing. These people would feed her, whoever they were.

  But they'd no doubt ask her a lot of questions. What should she tell them? She wished she could talk it over with Dalton. He always knew what to say. Where was he, anyhow? She rolled over, lowering her legs toward the floor, but they didn't reach. She felt around with her bare foot, finding a ledge a couple of feet below the edge of the bunk.

  She tested it with her weight, and it held. She put her other foot on it, and stepped down with the first foot, finding the floor. She stood for a moment, letting herself adjust. There was a bunk beneath the one she'd been in, with a canvas panel that mostly closed it off.

  What had Marilyn told her that was called? A cloth of some kind, like somebody's name. That confederate general her father had always talked about? Lee? Right. A lee cloth. That was it. She saw that there was one on the bunk she'd been in, too. Kept you from rolling out of bed when the water was rough. Why Robert E. Lee? She shrugged and peered over the lee cloth into the lower bunk, making out Dalton's tangled mop of filthy, shoulder-length hair.

  She considered waking him and thought better of it. No telling what shape he was in. She didn't need him hallucinating right now. Better to let him sleep; she'd seen her mother sleep for days straight after tweaking like Dalton had.

  Her stomach growled again. She decided to go look around — see if she could find somebody, or maybe something to eat.

  Connie was sprawled behind the helm, enjoying the sense of being alone with the sea. This was how sailing was meant to be. At times like this, Paul would say, "This is what we paid the money for," and he was right. She leaned back against the cockpit coaming, her arms draped along its varnished rim and her left leg stretched out on the cockpit seat. Her right foot, bare, rested on the varnished teak of the helm. Through the sole of her foot, she could feel Diamantista II responding to the play of the wind and waves as she sliced through the rolling sea.

  The night sky was clear; the storm a di
stant memory, except when she looked at the dark instrument panel. They'd survived with no injuries and minor damage; that was all that mattered. Even with their navigation and communications systems out of action, they were still better off than sailors had been for centuries. They had a sextant and tables, thanks to Paul, but all they had to do was follow the compass south. They'd spot one of the islands that stretched east from Puerto Rico for hundreds of miles to Antigua. Then it was just a matter of deciding where they wanted to land.

  Before they picked up the couple from the raft, they had decided on St. Martin. That would be the easiest place to deal with repairing the storm damage. Antigua would do as well, but it would be more expensive, and parts wouldn't be as readily available. Now, though, they had two undocumented guests aboard. Depending on who they turned out to be, Paul had suggested that it might be better to stop in the USVI, where he could call upon some of his contacts in the Department of Homeland Security for help with repatriating their passengers.

  She shook her head. That was a problem for later. For now, she had a glorious early morning watch to enjoy, alone with the endless array of stars. The moon had set a few minutes earlier, and the cloudless sky was filled with pinpoints of light. Every time she thought she had found a spot that was empty and black, she would stare until she began to pick out more stars. This far from land, there was no ambient light to spoil her stargazing. Although she had spent many nights at sea with no moon and no light pollution, she still found it amazing that there was enough light from the stars to let her see the details of Diamantista II's rig in her peripheral vision.

  She was startled from her reverie by a flicker of movement at the opening of the companionway.

  "Um, excuse me, ma'am."

  "Well, hello," Connie said, looking at the battered face of the woman in the dim light. "I'm glad to see you up and around. How are you feeling?"

  "Uh, okay, I reckon," the woman mumbled.

  "I'm Connie. My fiancé is Paul; he's asleep right now. You're aboard Diamantista II, about 100 miles south of Bermuda."

  The woman nodded. "I'm Gina," she said. "Georgina's my real name, but ever'body calls me Gina. Reckon I should thank you. Y'all really saved our asses ... uh, er ... I mean, well ... "

  "You're welcome," Connie said, smiling. "You hungry?"

  "Oh, yes'm. I sure am. Starvin', more like. We ain't had nothin' to eat since the day before we got in the raft."

  "Let me lock the helm, and I'll come below and find you something." Connie slid from behind the helm, continuing to talk, trying to put the woman at ease. "Paul does the cooking. I'm afraid I'm not much of a chef, but I make a mean peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

  "I'd sure like that," the woman said, stepping aside as Connie climbed down the companionway ladder.

  Dalton's teeth chattered as he trembled. He had awakened in pain, the taste of blood in his mouth from where he had chewed the inside of his cheeks. Now he had the shakes, and every muscle and joint was a source of pain. He looked around, wild-eyed. The demons were here; he hadn't been dreaming. He tried to scream, but it came out as a soft, mewling sound. Frustrated and terrified, he watched them as they writhed and slobbered, their fangs clicking together as they snapped at one another.

  He didn't recognize this place; he couldn't take the time to assess his surroundings. If he didn't watch them, they'd be on him in an instant. He'd learned that last time. The experience had left him with bloody sores all over his body, the flesh torn where he had pulled them away. Their fangs ripped through his skin with a sound like heavy paper tearing.

  This wasn't where he had gone with the girl. He couldn't afford the time to think about that, but he knew it, somehow. That place had been soft, pliable, and it had been in constant motion. The undulations had a liquid quality that reminded him of being in the womb, or maybe a waterbed. The idea formed in his frenzied mind, and was gone as quickly as it had come. Girl. Gina. She had been with him. He knew this was happening because of something she did. What had she done?

  "Arrgh!" he screamed, as one of them sunk its fangs into his left forearm. But he knew he didn't make any sound; he had learned long ago to scream silently, to keep it inside his head. Otherwise, the sound would bring more of them, like blood in the water brought sharks. Sharks. They had been on a boat. He saw Gina with his backpack. If he could reach it, he could do some crank and make them go away, at least for a while.

  The shaking passed; the vivid images faded. The repetitive motion was soothing. He felt himself dropping off to sleep. He jerked awake; he dared not sleep. They'd get him, for sure. He chewed the inside of his cheek again, tasting blood, trying to stay alert, but he slipped into oblivion.

  7

  Connie sat on the bridge deck, her legs dangling through the companionway opening. From here, she could maintain a lookout for other vessels and still converse with Gina, who sat at the chart table, just below and to the starboard of Connie's feet.

  "Anyways," the girl said, "that there boat turned clean over. Stuff crashed all over ever'whar. Shit busted ... 'scuse me, um ... stuff busted open like a bomb had went off. Never seen such a mess, and it just kept on rollin', over and over. Felt thataway, ennyhow." She paused and took a bite of the second sandwich.

  Connie had studied her as she wolfed down the first one, too hungry to talk. She decided that Gina couldn't be long out of her teens, although her face and manner bore the marks of a rough life. When she and Paul had carried her below, Connie had guessed her to be in her thirties. Now, getting a better look at her in the dim glow of the red night light at the chart table, she revised her estimate.

  Gina had kept up a stream of chatter while Connie dug out the peanut butter and jelly. When she had opened the locker and taken the bread out, the girl had said, "I kin do it. You go on and sail this here boat. I'll be fine."

  Connie had nodded and taken up her position at the top of the companionway ladder to keep watch. When Gina paused for breath, Connie had asked, "About the boat you were on — "

  "Never been so skeered in my whole life," the girl had interrupted, and hadn't shut up since. Gulping bites of sandwich, she had choked the food down between words, offering Connie no chance to ask her anything.

  Deciding that there would be plenty of time to ask questions later, Connie let her ramble. So far, the girl had given up no information of consequence.

  "Dalton got a lick on the head when we rolled over the first time. Lost his sense; skeered me purty bad, see, 'cause of him bein' on them drugs." She looked up in alarm, catching a quick glimpse of Connie's face.

  "Medicine, I mean. Not drugs like dope or nothin'. He's got one of them mental things goin' on, see. Not crazy, mind you, but he's one of them what they call maniac depressions. Got high highs, and low lows, so he's gotta take this here medicine, help him stay even. Been thataway since he was 'bout 15, I reckon. And that's why he's so fuc ... um, messed up now. He run out of medicine, and he's got what they call the withdrawal, now. Like the DTs kinda. I mean, I ain't never had nothin' like that. I never done no drugs or likker or nothin' like that, but Pappy, he was a bad drunk. He was always having them 'lucinations, they called it. DTs, Mama said. Didn't never draw a sober breath, I don't believe. Used to whup us young ‘uns all the time. Sometimes worse than just whuppin', if you get my meanin'. Ennyhow, that's how come I run off soon's I could."

  After a few seconds of silence, Connie glanced below. Gina had dropped off to sleep in mid-sentence, her head resting on her arms, the last bit of the second sandwich smeared across her cheek. She considered trying to move the girl to one of the sea berths in the main cabin, but decided against it. She was wedged securely in the corner of the seat behind the chart table, and the boat was heeling to the starboard, which would keep her from falling out. She would let Gina sleep until Paul came up to relieve her.

  "Ready for a break?" Paul asked, as he climbed out into the cockpit.

  "Sure. Did you get some rest?" Connie asked.

  "Slept like a b
aby. Any sign of life from our new guests?"

  "She's not there?" Connie asked, standing so that she could see past him to the chart table.

  "Huh? Where?"

  "The girl," Connie said. "She woke up an hour or so ago, hungry. I got her some p.b.&j., and she fell asleep eating. Last I saw, she was curled up in the corner of the seat at the chart table."

  "Hmph," Paul said. "Must have gone back to bed. You learn anything about them?"

  "Not really. Her name's Gina, short for Georgina, and his is Dalton. She was running off at the mouth the whole time she was awake. Never gave me a chance to ask any questions. It was deliberate, I think."

  "That's odd."

  "It was. After I got a closer look at her, I think she's younger than I thought at first."

  "Yeah?"

  "Maybe late teens, even."

  "I would have put her at 30," Paul said.

  "Me, too, until I got a better look at her. She's just a kid, though. Looks like she's been living hard."

  "Few days in a raft with no food and water might do that to you."

  "Not that way. Of course there's that, but she's got some bruises on her face that look like somebody punched her — even a leftover black eye."

  "Uh-oh," Paul said. "What else?"

  "Her manner. She's not very sure of herself; she was really deferential and tentative."

  "Say anything about him?"

  "Yes. She said he's 'one of them what they call maniac depression,' and he's in some kind of withdrawal because he hasn't had his medication."

  "Maniac depression? You mean, manic depressive?"

  "That was a quote, Paul. She's not particularly well spoken."

  "Guess not. Anything else?"

  "She said he was hallucinating. Likened it to when her father had the DTs."

  "Oh, boy," Paul shook his head. "The DTs?"

  "That's what she said. And that's why she ran away from home as soon as she could. She hinted at abuse."

  "You got quite a bit out of her, then, without asking any questions."