Distress Signals

by Catherine Ryan Howard

  She did, however, immediately begin to jerk and struggle.

  Keeping his right hand over her mouth and her body locked against his, he ran his left hand down to her abdomen, up under her T-shirt, down inside her waistband, pressed it against her bare skin.

  She felt the same.

  If she was pregnant she’d be at least a couple of months gone by now, maybe three. Wouldn’t she be bigger there? She felt the same as she always did, but then it was difficult to tell when she wouldn’t keep still.

  Romain pushed his hand lower, inside the front of her trousers, down over the front of her underwear.

  And felt the bulge of a sanitary pad.

  Sanne had her period.

  She had got rid of his baby.

  What’s the point?

  That’s what the darkness wanted to know. It demanded to. It pressed Romain for an answer as he stood there, holding Sanne against the railing on the Celebrate’s deck, keeping her in an arm-lock, the wind whipping at his face, nothing but a dark abyss of black ocean all around.

  What’s the fucking point?

  He’d spent his childhood trying to please a mother that had hated him before he was even born, that should never have had him in the first place. Then his adolescence doing time for a crime that was really only a moment of madness. Bastian had provoked him. He’d been asking for it. Romain was only trying to protect Jean. But Mama didn’t see it that way, of course. She even testified against him at the trial, weeping about how she regretted not doing something with him before, back when he’d hurt Mikki. Then he’d agreed to Tanner’s experimental treatment and done everything he was told, only to be abandoned by his father and falsely accused of Jean’s murder just a day after his release, destroying both his own freedom and Tanner’s reputation. Then Sanne had changed everything, but now she’d changed everything back again.

  What was the point?

  There was none, as far as Romain could tell. There’d never been.

  He closed his eyes and let the darkness in, let it crash down on him in waves and splash up against him and cover him, soak him, drench him.

  It felt warm and comforting, like a hot bath.

  He relaxed into it. He wouldn’t resist it any more.

  The darkness was all he had left.

  Then he opened his eyes, bent at the knees, picked Sanne up and threw her over the railing.

  All his life, Romain had tried to be good.

  He was done with that now.

  Adam

  The signs were there, if you knew to look for them.

  Crew members hurried about, eyes solemn above their smiles. Those stationed behind bars, poised beside restaurant tables and manning cash desks whispered to each other, their expressions serious. Their trademark aggressive friendliness and toothy smiles had been taken down a notch. The number of visible security guards moving through passenger areas seemed to have doubled and they all strode past with one hand on their radios, anticipating a sudden burst of communication. Passengers who queried why France was getting big in the windows again were taken to one side and spoken to in calm, reassuring tones. There was no anger or outrage, only wide eyes and understanding nods. Whispers about helicopters and the French coast guard, a young woman thought to be tragically lost at sea.

  I saw this happening in every corner while I walked the ship, searching for Peter, systematically moving from lounge to lounge, restaurant to restaurant, store to store. Then I walked the corridors and took the elevator up a deck, started again. When I reached the top, I started working my way back down, repeating the process in reverse.

  But I didn’t find him.

  Meanwhile, the sun sank in the sky.

  By the time darkness fell, the Celebrate had settled back in the bay of Villefranche, dropping anchor in much the same spot where it had the day before.

  A tannoy announcement informed passengers that the ship was dealing with a security issue and that its itinerary was now subject to a minor delay. Complimentary drinks were being served on the open decks, and if anyone had any questions they were free to approach the nearest crew member. Sincere apologies, circumstances beyond their control, we’ll endeavour to keep guests abreast of this ongoing situation, etc. etc.

  Sarah had had none of this. But then, she wasn’t American.

  Just before nine o’clock I returned to my own cabin, exhausted by my search for Peter and all out of ideas as to where I might look for him next.

  My cabin looked exactly like I’d left it, except for the deepening dark outside. I turned on a few lamps and checked to make sure. Earlier I’d untied the scarf from the railing, put it inside the plastic bag that had been lining the wastepaper bin and then stuffed the lot down the bottom of my bag. I’d washed my hands in the bathroom sink afterwards and then left the cabin. Now, I retraced my steps with a small bottle of hand sanitiser I’d picked up in the Crescent Store, hoping it would be enough to remove fingerprints or DNA or whatever else the FBI might find.

  I wasn’t going to let Peter lead them to me.

  Instead, I was going to lead them to Peter.

  I swung my bag over one shoulder and went out onto the balcony. I had to get inside Peter’s cabin and, if I couldn’t go through the main door, well then . . .

  Frosted-glass privacy screens were all that separated my balcony from the ones on either side. They ran from the floor right up to the underside of the balcony above. The only way to go was around.

  I stood for a second facing my half-open sliding door, looking at my reflection in the glass. Was I really going to do this? I was planning to climb from one balcony to another, eight decks up on a gigantic cruise ship, with nothing below me but open sea.

  Do you think you can do this?

  It didn’t matter whether or not I did. I had to. For Sarah.

  For Megan now, too.

  Making sure I had a good grip on the railing, I stepped up onto its bottom rung and leaned as far over as I could. It offered me a view of part of Peter’s balcony, but not of his sliding door.

  Dammit.

  I’d just have to take the chance that he hadn’t locked it from the inside. If he had, well, I’d cross that bridge – or railing – when I came to it.

  I stepped up onto the balcony railing with both feet.

  I tried not to look down, or think about not doing it. I tried to put all thoughts of ‘down’ out of my mind altogether.

  I swung one leg over the top of the railing and onto the other side. The outside.

  If I fell I wouldn’t only fall to almost certain drowning, but I might ricochet off a few things on the way down first: canopies of lower balconies, lifeboat fixtures, the hull of the ship.

  Don’t think. Just do.

  I swung the other leg over.

  I was now clinging to the outside of my balcony’s railing with nothing but air and death below me. Outside of the balcony’s shelter, the wind picked up.

  I couldn’t help it. I looked down.

  The water was several storeys below my feet. If I hit my head and so hit the water unconscious, I’d have no chance at all of surviving the fall. In the dark no one would see me drop. They’d never find my body.

  I shuffled to my left, ducked my head around the privacy screen. Peter’s cabin looked empty but then he might just be in the bathroom.

  I took a breath, held it, and moved my right hand from the railing on my side of the screen to the one on Peter’s as quickly as I could.

  Then I moved my right foot over too.

  Okay, okay. I exhaled slowly. So far so good. You’re halfway there, practically. Halfway done. Just keep calm.

  The gear-bag began slipping from my shoulder.

  The wind was picking up.

  Before I could think too much about it, I pulled my left hand and leg off the railing, shifted to one side and tried
to replace them on Peter’s stretch of railing before I plunged towards the sea. My hand caught the top rail okay but my foot slid off, leaving me with one leg dangling off the side of the Celebrate for a second.

  A second too long.

  Somehow I kept calm, kept my grip and kept breathing, all at the same time. Then, with some effort, I managed to hoist myself back up into a standing position with both feet firmly on the bottom rung of the railing, still on the outside, staring into Peter’s cabin. I could see no movement inside.

  I’d done it. I’d made it across.

  Now I just had to make it in.

  I climbed over the top of the railing, slowly but steadily, sweating and panting, and then let go, falling back onto the floor of Peter’s balcony, spent and exhausted. The adrenaline that had propelled me thus far dissipated in an instant, and I started to violently shake and shiver.

  Hold it together. Don’t lose it now.

  I stood up and ventured a peek over Peter’s balcony railing. Christ, it was a long way down. I felt sick just looking. I shook my head and turned to try the handle on the sliding door.

  It gave.

  Thank fuck for that.

  I let myself into the cabin. It was empty; Peter wasn’t there. I dropped the bag on the floor and extracted the blood-stained scarf, careful not to touch it without having the plastic bag I’d wrapped it in between the scarf and my skin at all times.

  I dropped it on the carpet and pushed it under Peter’s bed with my foot.

  Then I stood there for a long moment, thinking.

  Was I really going to do this? Was this really me? Planting evidence in someone’s room? But then it wasn’t planting, was it? It was returning, and all the evidence did was its job: tied the right man to Megan’s murder.

  I pictured Sarah’s face, smiling at me in the car outside the airport the Sunday morning before last.

  She’d chosen me, Ethan said. She’d picked me.

  I slung the now empty bag back over my shoulder and went to exit the cabin the easy way, through the door.

  But then I saw the white envelope lying on the desk.

  It was the same envelope I’d accidentally pulled out of the wardrobe with the blanket the night before, the one that I knew contained Estelle’s passport and the fake note.

  I picked it up now and carefully withdrew the items inside, wanting to see for myself that my memory was correct, that the writing Peter had pretended was Estelle’s was the same that I’d seen on the archive boxes back at the Beau Soleil Palais.

  I flicked to the last page of the passport. The note was still stuck in there.

  I’M SORRY—E.

  It was so obvious, now that I studied it. The writing was identical. How could I have possibly missed that? Why hadn’t Peter made more of an effort to disguise it? Maybe he didn’t normally write in block capitals, had forgotten about the labels on the boxes. Or maybe he thought that showing it to me right after sharing his theory that the same man who had murdered his wife had also murdered my girlfriend would be effort enough.

  And he’d been right, hadn’t he?

  I didn’t hear the door open behind me.

  I hadn’t realised that Peter had returned until I heard his voice.

  ‘Adam, what are you doing in my room?’

  I looked up and saw his reflection in the balcony doors. Peter was standing behind me, his Swipeout card in his hand. He’d already closed the door behind him.

  I turned around.

  ‘I’m making sure the FBI get the right man,’ I said.

  There was no response. He just looked at me.

  I studied his face but I saw no emotion in particular. He didn’t seem scared or nervous, nor was he angry or threatening. He didn’t even seem surprised. He just looked . . .

  Resigned.

  ‘You killed her, didn’t you?’ I said.

  His eyes dropped to the floor.

  ‘Last night,’ I said. ‘You weren’t sick. You were just faking it. But I wasn’t. You slipped something into my drink. That’s what you did after I left you at your apartment, right? Went and got something to knock me out? What did you give me?’

  Peter didn’t respond.

  ‘Then, when I went to the bathroom, you whispered something in Megan’s ear, telling her that I liked her but that I was too shy to say so. We had to bring you back to your cabin and then, when I started to feel unwell too, she helped me into mine. Once I was unconscious, you let yourself in. You had a key because of the mix-up with the Swipeout cards. You did that on purpose when we boarded so you’d have access to my cabin too. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s how you got in to leave the scarf, to leave the door open. We didn’t pick up the extra set until the following day, but that was fine, because the first night you were able to go and hand over your ID and, hey presto, here’s a key for the cabin that Peter Brazier is supposed to be staying in, which is actually mine. Then last night, after I was knocked out, you came in and’ – my voice cracked – ‘you killed Megan.’

  It was the first time I’d said it out loud. Bile rushed up into my mouth behind the words.

  ‘What did you do?’ I demanded. ‘Push her overboard? What did you do before that? Where did you get all the blood that was on the scarf? How could you even . . .’ My voice cracked again. ‘That’s what you meant, wasn’t it, back outside the bar? When you said that she was perfect. I thought you meant it was great that she could help us, but you meant it was perfect that she was American. Her disappearance would bring the FBI. You told me that yourself. And the FBI are the only men for the job when it comes to catching a serial killer, right? That’s what you were talking about with all that shit about doing whatever it takes. You killed Megan to find out what happened to Estelle, and you lied to me so you could get on this ship in order to kill Megan. I know about the passport, Peter. I spoke to Becky. And I know that you found Ethan the very first night. And I know what he told you. He couldn’t have had anything to do with Estelle’s disappearance, he wasn’t even here. And Sarah left him the first night of the cruise, and she left him that note in their cabin.’

  Peter flinched.

  ‘What’s the endgame here?’ I pushed on. ‘What happens now? An American is dead, the FBI are coming and, what? All the evidence points to me so that I can take the fall? How does that work in your grand scheme of things? Is it because I’ll protest my innocence by telling them everything? That I’ll have to convince them that there’s a serial killer murdering women aboard the Celebrate because, if I don’t, it’ll be my freedom that’s at stake? Have you done this to me so that I’ll have no choice but to make them listen? Where will you be? Waiting in the shadows to find out the truth? Is that your plan? Is it, Peter? Is it?’

  Peter’s legs crumpled beneath him and he sank to the floor. He put his face in his hands.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Adam,’ he said through his fingers. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Oh, don’t apologise to me. It’s Megan’s family you should be apolo­gising to. Shit . . . Oh, God. Oh, shit.’ I started pacing. ‘Peter, you’ve killed an innocent woman. Do you realise that? Do you realise what you’ve done? You’re just as bad as he is, this man, this monster we’ve been searching for. Do you get that? Do you get that you’ve made Megan suffer just as much as Estelle did? That you’ve taken a life, an innocent life, just so you could find your wife? Jesus Christ, Peter. I can’t even . . . I don’t know . . . What the fuck were you even thinking?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Peter said. He took his hands from his face. His cheeks were wet with tears. ‘I’m sorry, Adam. I . . . I thought she was American.’

  ‘What? But she was Ameri—’

  I stopped.

  No.

  The champagne bottle in my cabin.

  A cabin registered in Peter’s name.

  A perk that was only for returning passen
gers, Megan said.

  ‘She didn’t suffer,’ Peter said. ‘I made sure of it. I promise. She didn’t suffer. I did it quick. I don’t think she even knew what was happening. I’m so sorry, Adam. I am, really. But I thought she was American! I did because he was.’

  The passport started fluttering in my hands.

  No.

  I looked down at it, at the note.

  I’M SORRY—E.

  Just like mine, except for the initial.

  I’M SORRY—S.

  If Peter had written it, if he’d just made it up to get my attention, to forge some link between his missing wife and my missing girlfriend . . .

  Then how did he know what to write?

  ‘I thought she was American,’ Peter repeated, ‘because he was.’

  How could he possibly have known what it was that my note – Sarah’s note – said?

  No.

  The cabin interior blurred in front of me as my eyes filled with tears.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Adam. I’m so sorry. He was, so . . .’

  ‘Who was, Peter?’ I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear him say it. I wanted there to be no mistake. ‘Because who was?’

  Peter looked up at me, his face streaked with tears.

  ‘Ethan,’ he whispered. ‘Ethan.’

  I don’t remember walking out onto the balcony but I ended up there, looking out over the dark sea.

  This was the starboard side. The hills of Nice were hidden from my view off beyond the Celebrate’s stern. The tiny village of Villefranche was a mile behind me. All I could see was a seemingly endless expanse of dark sea and, above it, darkening sky.

  I gripped the railing with both hands, trying desperately to gulp down deep breaths of oxygen, trying to slow my pulse, trying to think, trying to think, trying to think.

  Peter killed Sarah.

  He killed Megan too.

  All in the search for Estelle.

  I felt his presence behind me, his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Please, Adam. Let me explain.’

  I swung around in a fury.

  ‘Explain? Explain why you murdered my girlfriend and then pretended to want to help me find her killer? Used me and my money to get on this ship so you could kill someone else, an innocent woman whose only crime was having an American accent?’