Anchor in the Storm

by Sarah Sundin

  “I couldn’t hear the conversation, but he sounded upset. I hope everything’s all right.” Her voice actually carried the right note of innocent concern.

  “Just some problems at work.”

  Lillian picked up the next prescription on the counter, as if she were capable of reading it. “He works at the Navy Yard, doesn’t he?” Where he could arrange deliveries to sailors.

  “A good job. He’s glad to have it.”

  “I’m sure he is. After the Navy . . .” After he’d been burned in a boiler explosion. That explained the scar. “Such a shame.”

  “Yes.”

  Something told her to stop. Just enough curiosity, not too much.

  She forced her eyes to read. Lithium carbonate. She could do this. Her legs obeyed and carried her to the correct shelf, and her hands found the correct bottle. She checked twice.

  “I’m going to straighten out the stockroom,” Mr. Dixon said. “Albert left a mess.”

  “All right.” Lillian rested her forehead against the shelf.

  Scar was the perfect man to lead the ring. He used to run in a bad crowd, so he knew thugs to recruit. He worked in the Navy Yard, so he had access to ships and sailors.

  And Mr. Dixon . . .

  Lillian stifled a groan and hugged herself. Mr. Dixon was involved. Deeply involved.

  He knew correct prescription terminology, so he could give the forger the precise wording. He had samples of handwriting from real physicians. He could tell the thugs which doctors to target to steal prescription pads.

  And he could fill hundreds of prescriptions for thousands of tablets of phenobarbital—legally.

  That’s why he insisted Lillian never call the doctors. That’s why he didn’t want her to make deliveries. All along, he was involved.

  That’s why no other pharmacies were targeted. He wanted all the prescriptions, all the money.

  Cyrus Dixon loved only two things—money and his nephew.

  Nothing else mattered.

  No one else mattered.

  Certainly not a crippled girl pharmacist who knew too much.

  “Oh, Lord,” she whispered. “Keep me safe.”

  39

  South of Long Island

  Confined to quarters, Arch wrote hard and fast, every detail he could remember. A tremor distorted his handwriting, but he didn’t care. The same fury and grief that intensified the tremor fueled his urgency to finish the report.

  When the Ettinger arrived in New York later that evening, he and Parnell Lloyd and Earl Kramer would be taken into custody for interrogation. A complete written report could help the police capture Palonsky’s murderers.

  Stabbed.

  Arch convulsed as if the knife had pierced his own chest. The image ripped through his mind of his friend attacked, in pain, bleeding, abandoned.

  The thugs in the drug ring must have discovered he was a snitch. If they had, how much else did they know? Did they know Lillian’s role?

  He couldn’t protect her right now, but maybe his report could remove her from police scrutiny. It didn’t matter if Arch was locked up—he deserved it. But not Lillian.

  Arch planted his elbows on the desk and rested his forehead in his hands. Wooziness washed over him, as if he were adrift in a storm, tossed by wind and wave and current.

  “Lord, please anchor me.” He needed that stability. “For Palonsky’s sake, bring his killers to justice. For Lillian’s sake, show the police why she’s innocent, why she needs their protection.”

  He stared at his notes between his elbows. He and Lillian had started their investigation in late February. She’d noticed unusual prescriptions as soon as she’d started her job in early January.

  He shuffled through his notes. If only he had more details from Lillian’s end of the investigation.

  “January! Of course!” He jabbed his finger at the date. He didn’t know when the problems had started on the Ettinger, although the ring seemed established when Arch joined the crew. But Lillian had traced the prescriptions at Dixon’s back to January 1941. When she was at Ohio State.

  He shoved away from his desk. This proved she couldn’t have masterminded the plot. Since Doc’s case hinged on Lillian and Arch’s relationship and her medical knowledge and access to drugs, it might remove Arch from scrutiny as well.

  “That doesn’t matter.” He pounded on the door. “Pardon me. I need to speak to Captain Buckner immediately. I have new information on the case.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the guard said. “I can’t leave my post.”

  “I don’t expect you to. Please alert the next man you see. Please. It’s urgent.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  At the desk, Arch raced through his report at flank speed. How dare Doc accuse Lillian? Even if she was a gold digger—which he now doubted—she wasn’t a criminal.

  What was Doc trying to do? Deflect attention from his own involvement? Or . . . ?

  The look on his face when he saw Arch at Captain Buckner’s desk. He was scared . . . of Arch. Did he believe his own story? Maybe he and Arch had been investigating in parallel, avoiding each other out of mutual suspicion.

  Arch groaned and plunged into his report.

  The rhythm of the ship changed. The rpms slowed, and the ship tilted into a turn to port. Why to port? That would take them south instead of west. Were they changing sea lanes to avoid shipping traffic off Long Island? They weren’t due to arrive in New York until 2100, and it was only 1900.

  Without a porthole in the cabin, he couldn’t accurately judge direction. But the duration and tightness of the turn indicated a 90- to 180-degree turn.

  Arch tapped his pen on the desk, attuned to the vibrations after nine months in the Atwood’s engine and fire rooms.

  The turn leveled out, and the speed picked up, the destroyer bounding over the waves. Flank speed.

  His jaw clenched. Although general quarters hadn’t sounded, something had happened—a radar contact, a sound contact, a distress call. Trapped in his cabin, Arch had no way to know the situation.

  If they did go into battle, the last place Arch wanted to be was locked in his cabin. If the captain ordered abandon ship, all prisoners would be released. But what if he forgot? What if it was too late?

  Arch’s pulse galloped. He had to get out. Somehow he had to get out.

  Boston

  From the corner of her eye, Lillian watched Mr. Dixon in the stockroom. Her hands itched to pick up the phone and call the police, but he’d never let her get through.

  How could she endure the next two hours until the store closed? If Mr. Dixon left before nine o’clock, she’d call from the store. But if he stayed until closing time, she’d call from the safety of her apartment.

  Lillian’s fingers beat on the typewriter keys. She’d already ruined two labels for this medication, and she had to get this one right. She couldn’t look nervous or he’d know.

  The phone rang, and she jumped.

  “I’ll get it.” Mr. Dixon darted to the phone. “Dixon’s Drugs, Mr. Dixon speaking.”

  With effort, Lillian completed the label and centered it on the box of suppositories. “Mrs. Schaeffer, your prescription is ready.”

  A brunette carrying a new baby came to the counter. Lillian told her how to use her medication and cooed over the newborn, pretending not to listen to her boss. He only said yes and no anyway.

  Lillian stroked the baby’s silky soft cheek. “My sister had a baby about three weeks ago. She lives in Ohio, so I haven’t met my new niece yet.” Her voice choked. What she wouldn’t give to be in Vermilion right now.

  “I hope you can visit them soon.” Mrs. Schaeffer gave her a sweet smile, paid for her prescription, and departed.

  Another patient stood in line. A steady stream of work kept her from thinking about her situation too much, yet her situation made it hard to focus.

  Lillian inspected the next prescription for codeine tablets and plucked the bottle from the shelf.

 
“That plan we discussed,” Mr. Dixon said. “No, the last resort . . . Yes, that one . . . Tonight . . . Yes, that’s right . . . Yes.” He hung up and returned to the stockroom.

  What was he planning? Would he skip town? Hardly seemed likely, since the store was his fortune.

  The store. After she called the police tonight, her boss would be in prison and she’d no longer have a job, nor would the other employees.

  Lillian jerked her mind back to the prescription. Patient safety came first. That was her role as a pharmacist, to care for patients.

  She counted the codeine tablets, checked her work twice, dispensed the prescription, and took in the next one.

  Sounds of boxes scraping over the floor came from the stockroom.

  Where had Mr. Dixon gone wrong? Scar had been kicked out of the Navy for his nerves, and Mr. Dixon railed at the injustice, at how the Navy failed to treat his nephew’s condition. Had he taken his nephew’s care into his own hands and supplied him with phenobarbital?

  What if Scar had met with some of his old sailor buddies—at the Rusty Barnacle, perhaps—and his friends complained about their nerves? What if Scar slipped them some tablets? And they liked them?

  It could have grown from there. With Mr. Dixon’s knowledge and Scar’s naval and criminal connections, they could have formed the ring. Mr. Dixon might think he was helping the sailors, but he wasn’t. They couldn’t perform their duties. Poor Mrs. Harrison’s grandson had died.

  Now they were murdering sailors.

  Lillian blinked hard and stared at the prescription in her hand. Lord, don’t let me hurt any patients tonight.

  Mr. Dixon emerged from the stockroom with a clipboard. He didn’t talk to her or look at her, but he walked around the prescription area, taking notes.

  What was he doing?

  Lillian read the prescription for cough syrup, and she groaned. Not only would she have to do calculations and measurements in her addled state, but she’d use up precious rationed sugar.

  The last thing she wanted tonight was to draw Mr. Dixon’s ire for any reason. Was she in danger? What exactly did he know about her?

  He knew she’d questioned prescriptions at the beginning and had taken a delivery to Mrs. Harrison. He knew she had dated Arch, and Hank had seen Arch and Lillian visiting other pharmacies. They had to know Arch served on the Ettinger.

  Had Scar seen her outside his home last night? If he had, he’d know she’d followed Albert and Hank, which would be disastrous.

  Lillian gave her head a firm shake and gathered her ingredients and glassware.

  No, he couldn’t have recognized her. And it had been worth the risk. How else could she have learned Scar’s name? Arch didn’t know his name or his relation to Mr. Dixon. Only Lillian did.

  What if Mr. Dixon realized she’d put the puzzle together?

  Icy prickles raced up her arms. Scar’s gang had killed once. Would they kill again?

  40

  South of Long Island

  A rap, and the cabin door swung open. Arch sprang to attention. “Captain Buckner, sir. Thank you for coming.”

  “I was already on my way when Mr. Avery found me.”

  Arch’s cheeks heated at the thought of the entire crew knowing of his incarceration. “Sir, it’s about Lillian Avery. She moved to Boston from Ohio this January, but the prescriptions date back to January 1941. They’re filed at Dixon’s Drugs. This proves she couldn’t have—”

  “The police will want that information, and you’ll have the opportunity to give them your full report, but for now I’m releasing you and Doc. That’s why I came.”

  Relief coursed through him, tinged with dread. “Both of us, sir?”

  Buckner leaned against the open door. “Earl Kramer is upset about Palonsky’s death. The man you call Scar asked Kramer a lot of questions about Palonsky, friendly questions, mostly about Palonsky’s acting. Kramer thinks Scar realized the boy was acting, that he was a snitch.”

  The destroyer yawed, and Arch widened his stance. Had Scar recognized Palonsky from the night they went to the Rusty Barnacle in disguise?

  “Kramer wants Scar and his comrades to pay. He confessed to everything, and his report is consistent with yours and with Doc’s. By the way, he laughed at the idea that you or Doc might be involved.”

  Small comfort. But at least Kramer would be able to provide better descriptions of the culprits, maybe some names.

  “You and Doc aren’t off the hook yet,” Captain Buckner said. “The police need to do their work. But for now I need both of you on duty.”

  “The change in course. We’re heading east, aren’t we? And the seas are picking up.”

  The captain crossed his arms. “We received a distress call. Eastern Sea Frontier wants us to investigate. No merchantmen are supposed to be in that area and the call letters aren’t listed in the records, but that happens often enough. And yes, we’re heading into a squall.”

  Arch put on his mackinaw and life vest. A cargo ship could be in trouble, or a U-boat could be luring them into a trap. Either way, the Ettinger had to be prepared for an attack. “Where do you want me, sir?”

  “Junior officer of the watch.” He tipped up a smile. “On the bridge, where I can keep an eye on my prisoner.”

  “I’ll try to behave, sir.” He grabbed his report from his desk. “May I ask a favor? Would you please place my report in the ship’s log?” If anything happened to the Ettinger, the crew would do their best to save the log.

  “Excellent idea. I’ll do the same with Doc’s and Kramer’s reports.”

  The captain led the way up to the bridge. The sun had set, and heavy clouds blocked the stars. Captain Buckner relieved Ted Hayes at the conn, so the executive officer could go to emergency steering toward the stern.

  Arch’s eyes would take half an hour to fully adjust to night vision, so he reviewed the ship’s log and entered his data for the change in watch. Since the ship was nearing the coordinates of the distress call, they had slowed to two-thirds speed to allow for sonar readings. Rain tapped on the portholes, hard and fast.

  The captain ordered a call to general quarters, and sailors scurried to their battle stations on the rolling deck.

  “Captain Buckner, sir?” The radarman leaned out of the radar room behind the pilothouse. “We picked up something.”

  The CO motioned for Arch to follow him into the dark room, lit only by red light bulbs. A neon green line stretched across the round black “A” scope, and a blob of light pulsed down the length of the line and sent up a spike toward the end.

  “See, sir? Six thousand yards.” The destroyer’s SC search radar could detect planes and surfaced vessels to about sixty-five hundred yards.

  The radar pulsed again, but the pip at the end split in two. “What does that mean? The double pip?” Arch asked.

  “We’re pretty far away, sir,” the radarman said. “It might be due to the weather. Or it could be two targets—a cargo ship broken in two, a fleet of fishing vessels, or—”

  “Or a tanker and a U-boat,” the captain said. “Even a wolf pack of U-boats.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Send the range to the gun director. We need to be prepared.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Back in the pilothouse, Arch logged the time and radar contact. Six thousand yards—just over three miles. They’d arrive in about ten minutes, and they’d come into sonar range at twenty-five hundred yards. Soon they’d have visual contact—and they could also be seen.

  Arch flexed his fingers to ease the tremor, and he took slow breaths. Lord, whatever this night holds, see me through for the sake of these men.

  “Sir!” The talker whirled around in his telephone headset. “Forward lookout spotted what looks like a lifeboat off the starboard bow.”

  “Engines to one-third speed,” Buckner said.

  The helmsman rotated the handle on the engine order telegraph to the appropriate speed, which would be transmitted to the corresponding
telegraphs down in the engine rooms.

  Arch recorded the information in the log.

  The captain stepped onto the wing of the bridge and scanned the ocean with binoculars.

  “Sir,” the talker called out. “Forward lookout spotted the primary target on the horizon.”

  “Yes. Yes.” Captain Buckner peered ahead. “I see it too. Mr. Vandenberg, have your eyes adjusted? Has it been long enough?”

  Arch glanced at his watch in the red light of the pilothouse. “Only a few minutes short, sir.”

  “Take my position.” He held out the binoculars.

  Arch took his place. A driving rain beat down, the ship bucked beneath him, and his stupid tremor distorted his vision through the binoculars. He shook out his damp hands, huffed a breath, and tilted the binoculars to the eastern horizon. Soon he made out the target, nothing but a dark mass on the dark sea under the dark sky.

  Friend or foe?

  “Sir, the lookouts say the lifeboat appears to be empty.” The talker’s voice floated out, muted, from the pilothouse.

  “Very well. We’ll come back later to verify. Steady on course.”

  Over the next few minutes, the target’s shape became more distinct but not recognizable in the rain. Low to the heaving waters, divided, jagged—probably a wreck.

  “Sir, the sound room reports multiple sonar contacts, several at the target coordinates, plus a stray contact bearing zero-four-five, range two thousand yards.”

  Arch frowned. Submerged wreckage, most likely. And the stray contact—a broken-off section of hull, a whale, a pocket of cold air . . . or a lurking U-boat?

  He leaned into the pilothouse. “Sir, the target appears to be a wrecked ship.”

  “Very well. Left ten degrees rudder. Train the searchlight on the target. If a U-boat is in the vicinity, they’ve already seen us anyway. And we need to see what’s out there.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” The talker relayed the orders to the helmsman and the searchlight crew.

  The Ettinger made a gentle turn to port, and the searchlight’s beam sliced through the rain, destroying night vision but illuminating the scene.