Don't Go Alone
Page 20
“Ready.”
She held her breath as he opened the door. The valise hung heavy in her grasp. Bryan checked the passageway and then ushered her out. Jane moved past him and led the way, familiar with the layout of the vessel after so many days aboard. Treading lightly, they nevertheless dashed along the gangway, ducked into a stairwell hatch and made their way above decks. The April night air chilled her instantly and Jane wished she’d thought to take her coat, but there was no turning back. Nearly everyone would still be sleeping, unaware they’d reached port, but at least one or two of the crew would be on deck. They crouched low, hoping to avoid being spotted. Everything depended on it.
Captain Gavriil had left a whip-thin, cruel-eyed man named Paolo to guard the gangway. The tip of Paolo’s lit cigarette glowed orange in the dark. Bored, pistol jutting from a holster at his side, Paolo did not seem like a man fearful that a murderer might attempt to rush him. Nevertheless, there was that gun, and Jane had seen the way the rest of the crew became uneasy when Paolo entered a room. Idle or not, he was dangerous.
She handed Bryan her valise and gestured for him to remain in the darkness beside the chart house. Hugging herself against the cold, she walked toward the gangway, making no effort to muffle her footfalls. Paolo turned and stared at her. He drew a long puff on his cigarette, bright tip flaring, and watched her approach but did not draw her gun. What threat did she pose?
“Could I have one of those?” she asked.
He glanced down toward the dock as if to be sure Gavriil would not suddenly appear and then reached inside his jacket for the pack.
“Trouble sleeping?” he asked.
“Every night since…well…it gets stuffy down below. Now that I’m up here, of course, I realize I should’ve brought my coat.”
She took the cigarette he offered and leaned in as he lit it for her. Drawing the smoke into her lungs, she felt instantly warmer.
“We’re waiting for morning to disembark?” she asked.
“Harbormaster doesn’t arrive for at least an hour,” Paolo said, gaze turning lustful as he studied her. “We’re stuck here till then. You do look cold, miss. Let me give you my coat.”
Jane smiled at him, one corner of her mouth curling upward to add a hint of coquettishness. “I wouldn’t say no.”
As he slid out of his jacket, she shoved him overboard, reaching for his gun as he tipped over the railing. Her fingers missed and she came away with neither gun nor jacket. Paolo shouted as he fell, but not loudly, perhaps too shocked to do more than bark a little. She hated herself in that moment, said a silent prayer while he plummeted, and then thanked heaven when she heard a splash and not the crack of bone against the wooden dock.
She ran down the gangway, trusting Bryan to catch up. When he did, she took the valise from him and cradled it against her chest as if it held her daughter’s life within. They ran up the dock and she listened for Paolo, hoping he would surface, weighing Franca’s life against the cruelty in his eyes. Would she be damned for what she’d done, if Paolo died?
It mattered not at all. Not in the balance of things.
Neville snorted loudly as he came awake, staring up into the face of Cesare. The man’s long mustache made him look a bit like a walrus and with his eyes wide, he seemed about to unleash some kind of Arctic mating call. Sleep cluttering his thoughts, Neville pushed Cesare away.
“What are you—“
Then the puzzle of information around him clicked together. Still dark beyond the porthole. The panic in Cesare’s eyes. Neville swept back his covers and swung his feet over the edge of the bed.
“Tell me,” he said.
“We’ve reached port and—“
“What?”
“The captain’s gone for the police, wanted to do it before we all woke to surprise the killer, so I’m told.”
“All the better,” Neville said. “He’s a smarter man than I’d have guessed.”
Cesare shook his head, wetted his lips with his tongue. This wasn’t what had him so fearful.
“He set a guard. Paolo. But now the man’s disappeared, and so has Bryan. Patrick and I woke and he wasn’t in the cabin. We went searching, even knocked on Jane’s door but—“
Neville frowned. “Why would you…”
He caught the look in Cesare’s eyes, surprise that he hadn’t known and a trace of pity because they all knew that Neville was more than fond of her.
“Bryan’s been to her cabin before,” he said, and saw the confirmation in Cesare’s face. “All right. So you went searching for him there. What did Jane say? Has she seen him?”
“Jane isn’t there either. They’re both missing.”
Cursing loudly, Neville reached for his boots.
They went directly to the hold. The first mate had beaten them there, along with a raggedy-looking crewman named Volk, who had a rifle cradled in his arms. The metal hatchway was still locked up tight, and Captain Gavriil and the mate had the only keys.
“Open it,” Neville demanded.
“Not until—“ the mate began.
Neville rounded on him, fury and a hundred ugly thoughts storming about inside his head. “Open the fucking door. We’re in port already. Volk can shoot us if we take anything that isn’t ours!”
The first mate opened the hatch.
Inside, the cargo was undisturbed. The crate that Neville had shepherded all the way from Turkey remained sealed. And yet…was there a certain amount of scoring around the edges of the lid? Panic surged through him as he snapped orders at Cesare and Volk, even as Patrick arrived to aid them. They had the lid off in moments.
A few moments more and Neville’s worst fears were realized.
The crate lay empty.
Someone had stolen the jar. His heart sank as he began to understand, and he wondered how long ago the jar had been taken. But only the captain and the first mate have keys! he thought, and the whole, terrible truth struck him. The thief had stolen the jar before the hold had been locked, even before they had left port in Hawaii.
Jane had been planning this from the moment she had learned that her daughter was dying.
He wanted to be furious with her, but he understood. He might have done the same thing if it were his own daughter whose life flickered like a candle nearly at its end. But of course, the myths about the jar were just that, and Jane had made a terrible mistake. The police would be after her now. But they weren’t the only ones. Whoever had killed the Turks and the others––the barbaric son of a bitch who had slit their throats and taken their eyes––would be pursuing Jane as well.
Neville leaned on the crate, exhaling loudly. He'd once believed that he might be in love with Jane. But there was nothing he could do for her now.
"What do you think––?" Patrick said, but a sound cut him off. A roar of rage, a scream of unrelenting grief, Neville had never heard its like before. It echoed around the hold and multiplied, seemingly growing louder instead of quieter.
Neville and the others staggered, not knowing which way to look or run because the cry came from everywhere. Then he spun around to face to doorway into the hold, and the shadow he saw there loosened his bowels and sent a chill through him like an electric shock.
There, the murderer, the killer, he thought, but it's no woman or man, not human at all. As the scream faded at last and the shadow flitted from view, Neville realized that Jane's fate was already sealed.
Heavy, doom-laden footsteps sounded through the ship as the figure raced away, and he experienced only a shred of selfishness feeling glad that it was not coming for him.
"Hurry," Jane said. "Hurry!"
"Not too fast," Bryan replied. "Jane, take it easy. Take it slow. I know you want to get home to Franca, but you won't do that if you're caught. If we run into Gavriil and the police, and they get us, what's going to happen?"
She stared at him, valise clasped to her chest.
"What's going to happen, Jane?"
Bryan nodded. "They'll take it away from all of us."
A pre-dawn glow smeared the eastern skies above the city, vibrant colors destined to be dulled by factory smoke. They were huddled behind a pile of cargo waiting to be loaded onto ships, heavy wooden crates and thick hessian bags bulging at the seams. A few dockers were already wandering to work, smoking and laughing and cracking crude jokes. But it wasn't those people that Jane was worried about. It was Captain Gavriil, who had proven wiser than she had assumed, and the police he had gone to fetch. With several murders on board the ship––and, so the captain hoped, the murderer still safely asleep––he would be rushing as fast as he could.
But Jane's fear was twofold. First, that the murderer was something she could not quite understand, and that he or she was even now following their trail, the lure of the jar as strong as it had ever been. And second, she was filled with a burning terror that everything was happening just a moment too late. She would arrive home and Franca would be lying in her bed, still warm even as the heat of life bled from her, eyes still shining, skin still flushed.
A moment too late. That was her greatest fear.
Clutching the bag against her chest, one hand inside holding the gun, she nodded to Bryan and headed out across the waterfront.
They moved quickly and cautiously, trying to appear as if they belonged. Several men glanced their way, but none took a second look.
"How far to your place?" Bryan asked.
"A couple of miles. Out of the docks area, then south to the Mission District."
"Streets should still be pretty quiet," Bryan said. "Maybe we can––"
"There!" Jane whispered. She had seen Gavriil running from behind a storage building further along the dock, and several police came with him. At first she thought they were actually chasing him, and she hoped that the danger to her and Bryan might have been shifted. Then she realized that they were all running to reach the ship, and it was Gavriil who moved the fastest. Yet another way in which she had underestimated him. He was a big man and heavy around the waist, but that did not mean he wasn't fit.
They ducked behind several wagons loaded with goods, crouching so that she could see the running men through the wheels. She glanced at Bryan and they both remained motionless, fearing that any sudden movement might attract attention. Gavriil would be hoping they were all still aboard ship, but he would also be alert. If he saw them, Jane knew, he would barely break his stride.
The men ran along the dock and disappeared behind piled cargo. Urgency bit at Jane. As soon as they were out of sight she moved off at a crouch, ignoring Bryan's whispered warning to give them more time. Franca was sick and might not have time.
A moment too late, Jane thought again. She straightened and started running, hearing Bryan sprinting to catch up. He was a fit man––she knew that well enough––but her own exertions were driven by desperation. He would have to keep up.
She almost ran into the policeman. He emerged around the side of a storage unit as she ran for the corner. A big man, fat, red in the face and struggling with the effort, he gasped as she skidded, slipped, and finally fell. Jane's instinct was to protect her head and body, but good sense prevailed, and her arms hugged tight around the valise.
To have it smashed open now... She almost laughed at the idea. None of them knew for sure which jar this was, and yet she intended to present it to her sick daughter, open it, exposing the world to whatever lay within, in an effort to cure one person's ills.
"Careful, Ma'am," the policeman said. "Here, let me––" He held out a hand but Jane knocked it aside, scampering back on her behind and pushing herself upright against the wall.
"Don't!" she said. The policeman's eyes went wide, then narrowed again, his expression cooler and more considered than before. She might have fooled him, she supposed, if she'd reacted better. But now she had raised his suspicions, and his eyes flickered down to the bag clutched against her chest.
"Jane, no," Bryan said. He pleaded. And as she drew the gun from the bag, she wondered just what he thought her capable of.
"Anything," she whispered, pointing the gun at the man's chest. Her hand shook, but his fear was very real. "I'll do anything for her. You understand?"
The policeman didn't, but he nodded anyway.
"Go that way," she said, nodding across the dock to where the others had disappeared. "Don't look back. I'll know if you do. You believe that?"
He did not, but he nodded again. Then he went, hurrying, and Jane knew he would be feeling a hot spot on his back just waiting for the bullet. She pitied him for a moment, but Bryan gave her no longer. He grabbed her arm and pulled her around the building. She thought he might take the gun from her, try to assume control, but he did not. He knew what she was doing and how determined she was.
"Fast as we can," he said. "We probably don't have very long."
They ran, no longer caring what the arriving dockworkers thought of them.
Two minutes after she sent the policeman on his way, Jane heard a terrible scream, rising from terror to agony before being cut off at its height.
"What the hell was that?" Bryan asked.
Am awful thought occurred to her. "We're being followed," she said. "The killer. After this." She tapped the jar.
"After it or protecting it?"
"You really believe that curse?"
"If someone else believes it and acts on it, that makes it true."
They left the docks behind and entered a network of streets, and Jane considered what Bryan had said. Patrick and Cesare had translated and read the curses carved into the catacomb walls, so was there a possibility one of them had taken it to heart? The dangers of what they had found had been discussed again and again, and while none of them openly professed belief in the supernatural aspects of the jar, she knew they all harbored secret hopes. She most of all, or why would she be doing what she was doing now?
But they had all agreed that there might be very sound scientific reasons why the jar should only be opened in a controlled, sealed environment. If it was the so-called 'good' jar, then maybe it would contain tinctures and medicines from long ago, many of which had faded from memory in the intervening centuries. They could prove useful again––imagine a cure for polio, or the plague. But if it was the bad jar, it might have been filled with all manner of infections, illnesses, and germs. One inhalation of the jar's ancient contents could seal the fate of humankind.
She knew the three specialists well, and Bryan more than she had known any man since Michael had left her. But it was still entirely possible that Patrick or Cesare had taken it upon himself to protect the jar. Perhaps even as far as murder.
It was a mile to her home, maybe a little less. Her stomach ached with excitement at seeing Franca again, and the boiling terror that she would be that moment too late. Nothing mattered now but Franca, and the jar, and although Jane knew all the dangers that hung around it, her vision was blinkered, tunneled towards her daughter being well again. That was all that mattered, and the rest of the world could go to hell.
"Something's following us!" Bryan said.
Jane spun around and looked where he was pointing, back along the street. They had passed people on their way to or home from work, and to some extent, being near others had given her a sense of safety. But no more.
Bryan's use of the word something instead of someone rang so true.
A shadow moved along the street. It flitted back and forth across the road, seeking the darkness between buildings, avoiding angular patches of light thrown by oil lamps, moving quickly and smoothly. It passed a small group of men and only two of them paused and looked up, as if none of them had seen it, and only a couple heard or sensed something amiss.
"What do we do?" Bryan put his hand to his throat, subconsciously trying to shield it from the blade.
"We run," she said. "Follow me. We can shake it."
But whatever it was, she was nowhere near certa
in of that.
She knew these streets well, and the alleys and yards behind the streets even better. She had been born and brought up in San Francisco, and while she hadn't lived in this neighborhood as a child, she'd had friends here. They had stolen fish from the dock markets and fruit from street vendors, and a fast and secret getaway route had always been vital. Sure, a few of them had been caught one time or another. But she dug down now in her memories, seeking those retained maps and hoping things hadn't changed much in the intervening years. It had been some time since she'd needed an escape route from anything.
"This way! Follow me, keep fast and low, and don't look back." She slung the valise handles over one shoulder and pulled out the gun, unconcerned whether anyone saw it. She was too damn close to home to care about anything other than getting there.
Jane ducked between two ramshackle wooden houses, nudging against a gate with her shoulder when she saw it ajar, rushing across a yard and out through another gate. She heard Bryan behind her, breathing hard but keeping up, and a rush of gratitude washed through her. She wasn't sure that she loved him, but right then she felt that she owed him everything.
They emerged into a narrow alley, dark and shadowed in the pre-dawn, and she immediately turned right. Memories formed a map she followed subconsciously, sensing the ghost-whispers of old friends urging her on. She kicked through something wet and stinking, heard the rattle of chains, and then a dog leapt at them, barking and foaming at the end of its chain. Jane kicked out and connected with its side, but it was a big beast and felt no pain. They dashed past without suffering a bite and the hound barked them along the alleyway.
Reaching a wall, Jane pocketed the gun and searched for familiar handholds. They were still there all these years later, and climbing the wall felt like a dream. There was no hesitation. She pulled with her hands, pushed with her feet, and, reaching the top, she looked over into the small square on the other side. The trees there seemed taller, and there were several automobiles parked outside some of the houses, but otherwise it was as it had been twenty years before.