by Chris Pauls
“Lou!” Weiss shouted, hoping his voice could still carry across the water. It has to be you; you’re my last hope. Weiss prayed she would understand, and that he was not sentencing her to death. “Fourteen trunks!” Weiss cried. “It’s the lady with the fourteen trunks!”
Lou looked puzzled—perhaps Mr. Weiss had become delirious. Why was he shouting about Lady Cardeza? Was there something in one of her trunks? But no one had been allowed any luggage …
Lou scanned the passengers in her lifeboat, and then she understood—there was Lady Cardeza’s silver-blue hair, askew as always, but it was atop the head and body of someone decidedly larger and more rugged. It was a man, in fact, hiding beneath that shawl and disguise. Mr. Weiss was alerting her to Hargraves in a way that the thief wouldn’t understand.
Lou started worming her way past the other passengers to the back of boat. Hargraves seemed to be staring off elsewhere, not moving, apparently huddling against the cold. A hawk-nosed woman grabbed Lou and tried to pull her down into a seat, lecturing her on the dangers of rocking the boat. Lou escaped the woman’s clutches and kept moving.
“You’ll sit like you’re told!” commanded McCarthy, one of the two seamen rowing the boat. He reached for Lou, but she squirted past. “There’s no time for monkey play!”
Lunging out of his seat, McCarthy latched onto Lou’s collar just as she reached Hargraves and snatched the blue hair from his head.
“Imposter!” Lou cried.
The other passengers gasped. “Coward!” shrieked the hawk-nosed woman. “Women and children first!”
The exposed spy calmly rose to his feet and reached inside the shawl, producing the pistol he’d stolen from Kaufmann and training it on Lou. “You are proving to be quite an irritant, young lady,” the Agent said. He then swung the gun toward McCarthy, who was reaching into his vest. “Keep your hands away from that pocket, sir. I have six shots, and at this range, that means six dead.”
“Hell you say!” came a shout from behind the Agent. A sharp elbow cracked the back of his head as Margaret Brown (or Molly, as her friends called her) sent the man sprawling to the deck of the lifeboat.
The gun flew from his hand, but that wasn’t what caught Lou’s eye. A stainless-steel cylinder also fell from beneath the Agent’s woolen shawl to rattle along the lifeboat floor. Quick as a blink, Lou pounced on the Toxic before the Agent had time to recover.
“Mr. Weiss!” Lou shouted, holding the tube high above her head. “I’ve got it! What we’ve been searching for!”
A surge of hope warmed Weiss’s freezing body, and he swam with renewed vigor. The impossible had happened—they’d recovered the Toxic! And the able seamen had stopped rowing, allowing Weiss to close the distance with Lifeboat 6. He might find his cure after all.
Yet Lifeboat 6 now rocked with the tussle between McCarthy and the Agent over the pistol. Then a gunshot split the air, and McCarthy clutched his gut and crumpled to his knees. The Agent trained his gun on the other able seaman before raising a foot and kicking McCarthy into the ocean.
“There will be no more heroics,” hissed the Agent. He swept his weapon from the front of the boat to the back, finally training the firearm on Molly Brown. “You will not receive another warning.” Then he turned the gun on Lou. “Return it now. Do you really think I won’t shoot a child?”
No one else can die, Weiss thought. Even in his head, the words moved slowly. It’s time to put an end to this.
“Lou!” called Weiss. “Throw it into the ocean!”
The Agent cocked the gun. “That,” he said, “would be a very bad idea.”
Lou agreed, though not because she was afraid of any gun. Let him shoot me, she thought, so long as he wastes more bullets. One day, Mr. Weiss would tell her story, and how she saved the day.
“I won’t, Mr. Weiss!” Lou hollered. “You worked too hard! We all did! You can still find a cure!”
“I can’t save anyone, not now,” managed Weiss, shaking uncontrollably, the bitter-cold water freezing his veins. He mumbled, “But you can …”
“Don’t be a fool,” the Agent said to Lou as he inched down the lifeboat toward her. Two women fainted at the sight of the gun, while others cowered in their seats. “Return what belongs to me … and you will live. You have my word.”
Lou cocked her arm back as if to throw a newspaper, stopping the Agent in his tracks. “Don’t move!” Lou shouted. “Shoot me, and I’ll send this into the water, understand?” The Agent raised his gun but didn’t fire.
Then a sickening, gurgling whooooosh caught everyone’s attention. Titanic’s stern, now nearly vertical, was being dragged below the surface of the Atlantic. A violent whirlpool formed as the back half of the monstrous ship sank, pulling down everything in its wake. Screams mixed with the rushing, roaring sound of the drowning vessel.
“Mr. Weiss!” Lou called. “Here’s your cure!”
With a hop and a heave as mighty as she could manage, Lou sent the canister flying into the air … and well above Weiss, who watched the Toxic sail over his head and land dead square in the center of the suction created by Titanic.
“No!” shouted the Agent. In a panic, he shed his shawls and dove heedlessly into the water after the Toxic. He was a powerful swimmer, but the whirlpool sucked him deep beneath the Atlantic. He did not surface again.
Weiss looked to Lou, standing triumphant in the lifeboat. The Toxic was gone, never to be retrieved. Destroying the vial was the closest Weiss would come to a cure.
“Now swim!” shouted Lou. “Please! You can still save yourself!”
But Weiss knew that time had passed. Perhaps if he had escaped another way in the first place. Perhaps if he had sought the captain’s help earlier. Perhaps …
Weiss whispered, “Thank you, Lou.” He could barely see the boat.
“We can make room for you, there’s room!” Lou pleaded, tears in her eyes. “But you gotta swim!”
Weiss was too tired for swimming.
“Go back for him!” Lou begged the seaman with the oars.
Weiss lay back in the water and found his sister in the night sky. He tried to speak, but Sabine shushed him with a pale finger to his blue lips. Then, as if she were sitting in the crook of a branch in their favorite climbing tree, she held out her hand.
Weiss’s life-jacket was slowly pulled back into the suction. He unbuckled the vest and reached up. Something like the afternoon sun blinded him, and he felt unburdened. Theodor Weiss closed his eyes as his twin pulled him to a higher place.
Lou stared at the spot where Weiss disappeared, waiting for him to resurface. The girl held her breath and counted silently in her head, not knowing how many seconds a man could stay underwater before needing to breathe again. Near three hundred, she inhaled sharply, gulping the night air. Then she sat and fought back tears, determined not to cry because it never made things any better.
The ocean was smooth and black. The screams of the poor souls still trapped in the frigid water soon dissipated altogether. Other lifeboats littered the horizon, but Lou could see no liner coming to their rescue. Some lady in the back of the boat was sobbing. The remaining seaman put a comforting hand on Lou’s shoulder. The hook-nosed woman tried to put a blanket around the girl but she shrugged it off. She wanted to feel the cold.
No one said a word.
46
NEW YORK CITY, WALDORF-ASTORIA HOTEL.
FRIDAY, APRIL 19, 1912. 10:40 A.M.
Senator William Alden Smith of Michigan asked several questions about the nature of the collision and exactly how fast Titanic was traveling, but J. Bruce Ismay claimed limited knowledge of such things.
In fact, he still appeared to be in shock. His eyes only met the senator’s to express profound grief over the lives lost in the terrible disaster. In a voice barely above a whisper, Ismay claimed that he was only a passenger, just like all the others enjoying Titanic’s maiden voyage, and he had insufficient knowledge to explain the hows and whys of the tragedy.
The head of the White Star line claimed to have no idea the ship had an inadequate supply of lifeboats. He further went on to say that he never ordered anyone to push Titanic up to full speed.
Senator Smith turned his attention to Ismay’s rescue. The court stenographer noted their exchange:
SENATOR SMITH: What were the circumstances, Mr. Ismay, of your departure from the ship?
MR. ISMAY: In what way?
SENATOR SMITH: Did the last boat that you went on leave the ship from some point near where you were?
MR. ISMAY: I was immediately opposite the lifeboat when she left.
SENATOR SMITH: Immediately opposite?
MR. ISMAY: Yes.
SENATOR SMITH: What were the circumstances of your departure from the ship? I ask merely that …
MR. ISMAY: The boat was there. There was a certain number of men in the boat, and the officer called out asking if there were any more women, and there was no response, and there were no passengers left on the deck.
SENATOR SMITH: There were no passengers on the deck?
MR. ISMAY: No, sir; and as the boat was in the act of being lowered away, I got into it.
SENATOR SMITH: Naturally, you would remember that if you saw it? When you entered the lifeboat yourself, you say there were no passengers on that part of the ship?
MR. ISMAY: None.
SENATOR SMITH: Did you, at any time, see any struggle among the men to get into these boats?
MR. ISMAY: No.
SENATOR SMITH: Was there any attempt, as this boat was being lowered past the other decks, to have you take on more passengers?
MR. ISMAY: None, sir. There were no passengers there to take on.
The senator motioned for the stenographer to stop documenting the proceedings. He approached Ismay and paused a long moment before continuing.
“And now, Mr. Ismay, off the record,” he said. “Is there anything else you’d care to discuss? The committee has heard certain rumors, several of them of a particularly disturbing nature.”
Ismay’s eyes looked haunted. “I’ve spoken about all I know,” he said hoarsely. “The event was a horror. Everyone sees things differently in such total chaos, and memories of terror are usually the flimsiest. The mind is desperate to move on—and for good reason.”
Senator Smith knew then he would never get any more truth from J. Bruce Ismay.
The inquiry went on for seventeen more days, but outside the hotel, New York’s daily papers were already passing judgment.
“Coward of the Century!” hawked a newsboy, holding up a paper with a picture of a defeated Ismay for all to see.
A young girl stopped to read the headline. She was about the same age as the newsboy, with a skinned nose, worn skirt, and rusty hair. She flipped a coin in the air and took a copy of the paper to read later.
While walking down the bustling streets of New York, she stared at the faces as they passed by, one after another, bright and full of life. She was ready to journey to Iowa, to start her own life anew and grateful for the chance.
EPILOGUE
LAS VEGAS, ZEPHYR RESORT HOTEL AND CASINO.
FRIDAY, APRIL 13, 2012. 1:30 P.M.
“Nervous?” Maggie Liu asked. The attractive director of entertainment for Las Vegas’s Zephyr Casino held a clipboard in her right arm. “We’re looking forward to a huge run.”
The Man in Red laughed. “Nervous? Me? Never. We’re ready to go. You know what Titanic Resurrected’s numbers were in Vancouver? And in Nashville and San Francisco?”
Maggie smiled. “I do. That’s why you’re here. Zephyr only wants the biggest shows. We only bet sure things. Maybe you’ve heard, but in Vegas, the house always wins.”
“I have heard that, but the great thing is there’s no way we can lose. Let me show you why.”
For the next half hour, as his crew feverishly bolted the plywood platforms and polished the Plexiglas displays, the Man in Red gave Maggie the grand tour, winding through historically accurate recreations of a first-class passenger suite, an elaborate dining hall, the grand staircase, and case after case of artifacts that had been raised from the wreck. Billed as “a historical voyage of romance and intrigue!” Titanic Resurrected was massive in scope and scale, the biggest collection of Titanic artifacts ever gathered. Tomorrow was the 100th anniversary of the Titanic’s sinking, and the Man in Red had planned a special event to mark the occasion.
“So, this is the big mystery?” Maggie asked, walking over to a finished Plexiglas display. Inside, positioned in a satin-lined case, was a cylindrical, stainless-steel container. “Doesn’t look like much.”
“We know something’s inside. Scans showed a smaller, liquid-filled tube, probably glass. I’ve had the top Titanic experts weigh in, and no one recognizes it or knows what it might have been used for. We’ll find out tomorrow when we uncork it.”
“Won’t it be a big disappointment if it’s only ink or water or something boring?”
“Well, the show’s run is almost sold out already, and the pay-per-view is going gangbusters, so we make money either way. But ultimately that’s not what interests me. Whatever it is, we’ll learn something.”
“Yeah right—like anyone learns anything in this town.” Maggie laughed.
“You’re about to learn something right now,” he said, lifting a key ring dangling from a belt loop and unlocking the back of the case.
“What do you mean?” Maggie responded.
“What, you think I haven’t opened the cylinder before?” The Man in Red grinned. “Do you want to see it or not?”
Maggie gave him a practiced, casual nod.
The Man in Red reached in, carefully lifting out the stainless-steel cylinder. “The only thing I won’t do is open the vial,” he warned. “Don’t tell anyone I did this for you.”
As his hand wrapped around the top of the canister to unscrew it, the floor began to shake. He stopped short and looked over at Maggie.
“Just a little earthquake,” she said with an easy smile. “Nothing to worry about. This property is more than a match for a tremor like that.”
“Fine for your casino,” said the Man in Red. “I have priceless displays of china and crystal to worry about.” He quickly placed the cylinder back into the display case.
“Wait here. I’ll be right back,” he told Maggie, and then he ran off to check his other displays.
Maggie slyly glanced around. He’d left the case unlocked, and no one was watching. She grabbed the cylinder, spun the cap off, gazed inside, and frowned. Turning the cylinder upside down, a much smaller glass tube slid into her waiting hand. She put the cylinder down.
Staring at the jet-black fluid inside the tube, she shook her head, unimpressed—a bunch of ink, that’s all. Some big mystery.
Then her phone rang. Impatiently, she set the glass tube on a neighboring table, turned around, and answered the call.
As she did, a mild aftershock shook Las Vegas. The table behind her wobbled, and the tube rolled slowly toward the edge.
Chris Pauls and Matt Solomon are regular contributors to popular websites and national publications. They live in Madison, Wisconsin. This is their first novel.
Copyright © 2012 by CHRIS PAULS and MATT SOLOMON
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-4521-1914-4
Designed by EMILY DUBIN
Illustrations by LYDIA ORTIZ
Chronicle Books LLC
680 Second Street
San Francisco, California 94107
www.chroniclebooks.com
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