by Sarah Sundin
The target pulsed in and out of vision as the destroyer rose and fell. Two or three giant pieces of wreckage, but no oil on the surface, no men or small craft in the sea. It appeared to be an older wreck. So where did the distress call come from?
One piece of the wreckage drew his eye, smooth and cylindrical, rather than jagged and tilted.
Arch’s heart thudded to the floor of his stomach. “Sir! A conning tower! Surfaced U-boat bearing zero-one-five.”
His voice was overpowered by shouts from starboard, a call for left full rudder, orders called out in the pilothouse.
The destroyer veered to port. On the main deck, sailors leaned over the lifeline, pointing, shouting, “Torpedo!”
Arch braced for impact, gripping the railing in one hand and the binoculars in the other.
A phosphorescent streak glanced by, stern to bow. It came from the south, not the east.
A second U-boat.
They’d fallen into a trap.
Boston
Another prescription for terpin hydrate with codeine cough syrup? Lillian glanced at the clock—8:46. She had to fill it, so she forced a smile. “That’ll be about fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll wait.” The middle-aged gentleman turned and covered a cough.
Mr. Dixon hadn’t left yet. He was still poking around in the stockroom and writing on his clipboard. He’d stay until nine, and then she’d have to call from home. What if he stayed after she left and destroyed the evidence? In fact, that would be smart.
Lillian pulled out the graduated cylinder she’d just washed and set up weights on the scale.
“Finally done for the night.” Mr. Dixon came out of the stockroom with a paper sack and his clipboard. “I’ll send Miss Felton home. You can ring up the final purchases.”
“All right.” Her sudden relief lent a nice note of cheer to her voice. “Have a good night.”
In jail.
Without his presence making her nervous, Lillian compounded the cough syrup quickly. Thank goodness the patient didn’t have any questions, and she sent him on his way.
Five minutes until she could close the store. She grabbed the phone and dialed the police department. “May I speak to Detective Malloy?”
“He’s gone home for the day. I’ll have him call you in the morning. Name and number?”
“No.” Lillian pressed her hand to her forehead. “That won’t do. This is Lillian Avery at Dixon’s Drugs on Main Street by City Square. I just found out my boss, Cyrus Dixon, is running a massive ring that sells drugs to sailors. His nephew, Charles Leary, is the source at the Navy Yard. The ring is connected to the murder of the sailor this morning. All the prescriptions, the evidence—it’s here at the drugstore. I need someone to come here immediately.”
“All right then . . .” The officer sounded confused.
Lillian winced. Her story must sound bizarre. “Please, sir. I think Mr. Dixon might leave town tonight. Or he might come back after the store closes and destroy the evidence. It can’t wait until morning.”
The policeman sighed. “Listen, lady. All our officers are busy. I’ll send someone as soon as possible, but it could be a few hours.”
She peered down the aisle. “The store closes at nine, and I’m leaving. I’ll take the prescriptions with me to protect the evidence.”
“No, ma’am. Don’t do that. Go home, but do not disturb the evidence. Why don’t I tell the officer to meet you at home?”
That would have to do. Lillian gave them her address and hung up.
Two minutes before nine. Close enough. The prescription area was clean and neat, prepared as if someone would actually work there in the morning.
In the stockroom, she took off her white coat and grabbed her purse, with her evidence notebook tucked inside. Then she locked the stockroom, the door to the prescription area, and the side exit in the main store area.
Down the aisle she strolled, glancing down each aisle, but no customers remained. Miss Felton would have locked the front cash register, so Lillian only had to turn off the lights and lock the front door behind her.
One last customer stood in the front display area, a shorter gentleman in work clothes, inspecting an item on the shelf.
Keys in hand, Lillian checked her watch. Nine o’clock sharp. Thank goodness. “Excuse me, sir. Would you like to make a purchase?”
He didn’t face her. “Why? Is it closing time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’m the last customer in the store.”
“That’s right, but—”
He spun around and waved out the window.
Lillian’s breath turned to icy shards in her lungs. The man—Arnold Smith, one of the phenobarbital patients.
Another man jogged across the darkened street.
Lord, no! Help me. She lunged for the door.
The man in the street got there first. Tall, lanky—Hank!
Deep inside, a scream welled up.
A hand slapped over her mouth. The shorter man yanked her to his chest and jabbed something hard into her rib cage. “Shut your trap, sister. That’s a gun.”
Oh no, oh no, oh no. Lillian’s breath huffed over the man’s gloved fingers, and she groped the air in front of her.
Hank shut the door behind him and snatched the keys from Lillian’s hand. “Get her to the back. I’ll hit the lights.”
“Move it, sister.” Her captor shoved her forward, his hand and the gun firmly in place.
Help me, Lord. Help me, help me, help me. Lillian stumbled toward the back of the store. She had no choice. If she broke away or collapsed to the floor, he’d shoot her.
“Got the clipboard, Hank?”
“Sure, I got it.”
“Dixon said follow it to a T, or Chuck kills us slow and painful.”
“Relax, Shorty. You worry too much.”
Hank unlocked the door to the prescription area, and Shorty pushed Lillian inside.
“Don’t turn on the lights,” Shorty said. “Flashlight by the door to the stockroom, Dixon said.”
“What do you say, girlie? Do we need to gag you, or will you keep your mouth shut?” Hank shone the flashlight in Lillian’s face.
She slammed her eyes shut and tried to nod in Shorty’s tight grip.
“See, if we don’t gag you, and you scream, we’ll take our time killing you, have our fun. Promise not to scream?”
Lillian nodded.
Shorty eased his hand away from her mouth.
She wiped her tingling lips. “Why do I have a hunch you’re going to kill me anyway?”
Hank laughed and pressed his index finger to her forehead like a gun. “Sure, but you be a good girl and be quiet, and it won’t hurt a bit. You scream, and it’ll hurt a lot.”
“Come on, Hank. Hurry up. We’ve got a lot to do to make this look like a robbery gone bad. Get the twine and tie her up.”
“Who made you boss?” Hank set the flashlight on the counter, pulled a coil of twine out of a sack, and wrestled Lillian’s arms behind her back while Shorty pressed the gun barrel to her ribs.
Lillian’s throat swelled. She was all alone. Her boss had betrayed her and ordered these men to murder her. Her family loved her, but they weren’t here. Her roommates didn’t know she was in trouble. The police wouldn’t come for hours, and they’d go to her apartment instead of the store. And Arch . . . she’d driven him away forever.
The rough twine bit into her wrists.
“Now her feet. Sit.” Shorty shoved her down.
Her knees struck the wooden floor, and she bit back a cry.
“Hey now.” Hank shone the beam at her legs. “We don’t have to tie up her feet. We just have to take one off.”
“For once, you’re thinking. She can’t run away on one leg.”
The men laughed together. They pushed Lillian onto her backside, yanked her feet in front of her, hiked up her skirt, and untied the laces of the leather harness around her thigh.
Lillian jerked her head to t
he side, her chest burning with fury and humiliation.
Shorty tugged off her prosthesis and groaned in disgust. “That’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“When’d you last look in the mirror?” Hank laughed at his own joke. “But hey, the rest of her ain’t bad. What do you say me and you have a little fun before we knock her off?”
Lillian’s stomach convulsed, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
“What’s wrong with you? She’s a freak. Even you can do better than that.”
With a loud grumble, Hank shoved the prosthesis aside. “Fine.”
Lillian curled up against the wall by the door to the stockroom. Just like the night with Gordon by the river. The night he’d conned her into taking off her prosthesis. The night he’d tried to have his way with her. The night the college boys shamed him into leaving her alone.
They’d called her a freak. They’d told Gordon he could do better.
She pressed her cheek to the wall. Without her prosthesis, she was weak and incapacitated. Without her prosthesis, her stump was cold and ugly.
Just like her heart.
And it was all over.
41
South of Long Island
The torpedo sliced by the bow of the Ettinger. No contact.
But no time for Arch to catch his breath. He dashed into the pilothouse. “Surfaced U-boat, bearing zero-one-five.”
“Two of them.” The captain addressed the talker. “Forward guns train on forward target. Aft guns train on starboard target. Commence firing when ready. Fire at will.”
Arch gripped the threshold, his breath spotty and ragged. Not again. Not again.
All around, men hustled, thinking well, acting well. And Arch stood frozen. Lord, get me through.
If he couldn’t overcome his combat neurosis, the ship would be better off with him confined to quarters, where at least he’d be out of the way.
He had a job to do. A job. What was it?
Junior officer of the watch. The log. He had to keep the log.
Arch shoved his feet forward, dried his hands on his trousers, and made notations for contact with the enemy, his handwriting barely legible.
“First target approaching from behind the wreckage.”
Arch glanced through a rain-smeared porthole. The searchlight illuminated the sleek hull of the submarine. Small figures scrambled out of the conning tower. “Sir, they’re manning the deck gun.”
“Number one, number two, commence firing on the double.”
The talker relayed the message to the gun captains, and more orders flew—to the helm, to the damage control parties, to the radio room to send an “SSS” message.
A loud rumble, and the aft guns fired, rocking the ship. Toward the bow, the forward guns rotated, and the barrels rose. Circular orange flashes, a blast of noise, and both guns fired.
Two shells splashed into the water beyond the U-boat. Arch winced. They’d missed. In the gun director above the pilothouse, gunnery officer Miles Gannett would be adjusting fire.
And still the figures remained on the U-boat’s deck, hunched around the gun. Why wasn’t that first sub firing torpedoes? Maybe she was at the end of her tour and had used them all. The two U-boats had probably hoped to lure an unsuspecting tanker with the fake distress call—not a destroyer.
The Ettinger’s .50-caliber machine guns opened fire.
Light flashed from the U-boat.
A crash of noise overhead.
Arch landed on the deck on his side, and his sore cheek struck his outstretched arm. He scrambled to his knees. The pilothouse was intact. Most of the personnel had fallen.
Captain Buckner pulled himself to standing. “Report casualties. Mr. Vandenberg, check on the signal deck and gun director.”
“Aye aye, sir.” On the wing of the bridge, Arch glanced up, shielding his eyes from the rain. The gun director sat like a steel cap on the bridge superstructure. The forward top corner was peeled open, wicked teeth biting the wind. “Gun director hit, sir! Send damage control and medical parties.”
He climbed the ladder to the signal deck. Wind whipped by. Rain slashed his cheeks. The aft 5-inch guns fired one after the other, and Arch struggled to stay on his feet. Two men lay sprawled on the signal deck, while their buddies performed first aid.
“How many injured?” Arch said.
“Two, sir.”
“Medical party’s coming.” He stepped into the gun director housing and climbed the ladder. “Damage? Casualties?”
The rangefinder operator looked at him, spatters of blood on his face, his eyes wide and haunted. “Mr. Gannett—he’s dead, sir. His head—right there in the corner . . .”
Arch squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. “Any wounded?”
“Only minor wounds. We lost director control. Guns are on local control.”
“Telephone working?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell the bridge Mr. Gannett’s dead, two seriously wounded on signal deck, minor injuries in director. I’m heading to the bridge. We’ll send someone to remove . . . Mr. Gannett.”
Arch made his way back to the pilothouse. Machine-gun fire shattered the air, a German shell whistled overhead and splashed into the sea, the destroyer veered to port, someone screamed about a torpedo miss off the starboard bow.
In the pilothouse, Captain Buckner spun to face him. “You didn’t get my order. Back to the director. Replace Mr. Gannett.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He turned for the door and paused. Arch had been trained in gunnery, but he’d rarely served there. In time of battle, they needed someone excellent. Someone like Jim.
But Jim was in the engine room, deep in the bowels of the ship. If Jim went to the director, then Arch . . .
He pressed his shaking hand to his twitching eye. “Captain Buckner, sir? Send Mr. Avery to the director. He knows gunnery well, far better than I do.”
“We need him in the—”
“I know engines. I know them well.” Arch lowered his hand and faced his captain. “I’ll take his place. It’s for the good of the ship.”
“Very well. Forward engine room, on the double.” Buckner waved him to the door, then turned to the talker. “Tell Mr. Avery to report to the gun director on the double.”
Arch descended to the main deck. What had he done?
He’d chosen to trap himself.
Through the pelting rain, Arch strode to the hatch to the forward engine room, dodging sailors. This was the right thing to do, for the sake of the Ettinger, the crew, and Jim as well. If the ship sank, Jim would want to go down with guns blazing, not fighting blind below decks.
Machine-gun bullets whizzed overhead, and the 5-inch guns heaved shells toward the enemy.
Arch cranked the hatch open and stared into the abyss.
Everything in him screamed not to enter. But he had to. He had to show God he trusted him enough to allow the anchor to drag him to the bottom of the sea.
Maybe this was how he was meant to die.
“So be it,” he whispered.
Boston
Hank held open a sack, and Shorty scanned the shelves with the flashlight, checked Mr. Dixon’s clipboard, and scooped prescription bottles into the sack.
Hunched against the wall in the darkness, Lillian watched them, helpless. When she was weak, then she was strong? God promised he’d be strong for her. For what reason? So she could die well?
Die well . . .
An incongruous joy lightened her chest. She was going to die tonight, so why not make some good of it? But how?
“This is taking too long.” Hank jiggled the sack. “All these long words and Dixon’s stupid map.”
“Idiot.” Shorty grabbed a bottle and tossed it into the sack. Glass clanked on glass. “We gotta do this right. Get the drugs and the cash to make it look like a robbery. Get the prescriptions to cover our trail, make sure they don’t find Stan’s forgeries. Then kill the girl to shut her up.”
Lillian’s jaw tightene
d. Shut her up? Maybe she should scream after all. She’d alert anyone in the vicinity. Hank and Shorty would kill her, but they might be caught, or maybe they’d panic and leave some of the evidence behind.
Then she’d die well.
But what if no one heard? What if the thugs didn’t panic? Then Dixon and Scar and the rest of the gang would get away with it.
Staying quiet would buy her time to think. Lord, if your strength is made perfect in my weakness, then you have the perfect opportunity.
Somehow she had to make sure Dixon was arrested. She was the only one who knew his role. She’d told the police officer on the phone, but he hadn’t asked her to repeat her story, so he probably hadn’t taken notes. When they found her dead in the morning, would the police remember any details from her call?
If only she could write a note. It wouldn’t have to be long: “Dixon runs drug ring. His nephew, Charles Leary, is Scar. Talk to Arch Vandenberg, USS Ettinger.” Then Arch would make the connection and fill in the rest of the details.
Could she write with her hands tied behind her back? Lillian twisted her bound hands around to her hip bone. If she put a piece of paper on the floor beside her and leaned back a bit, she could write. It wouldn’t be pretty, but it would get written. Then she could stuff the paper in the back of her skirt waistband for the police to find.
The wooden floor creaked beneath her. Hank and Shorty didn’t even look at her as they gathered more bottles from the shelves. They thought her so weak they had nothing to fear.
A little smile poked up. That was indeed a strength. They underestimated her.
How to get paper and a pen? The wastebasket sat in front of her by the door to the main store area. Even a small piece of paper would do. She could back over there on her rump and stick her hands inside. But would that make too much noise?
What about a pen? She peered around the dark pharmacy. If only she were still wearing her white coat. She had a pen in the breast pocket—she could pull it out with her mouth.
She also had a pen in her purse. Her purse? There it was—on the counter by the door. Hank must have tossed it there when he tied her up. She could scoot over, stand up, and find her pen. And her notepad was in her purse. She could record her message inside with the rest of her notes.