Troubled Waters td-133

by Warren Murphy

  "Hello?" Somehow it always came out sounding like a question, as if Morgan's contact never quite believed the telephone had summoned him away from whatever he did to pass the time.

  "It's me," the travel agent said. No names were ever given on the phone. It was a simple matter of security. "I've got another customer, if you have anyone available."

  "How soon?" his contact asked. "This afternoon, if possible."

  "I'll see what I can do."

  The line went dead, and Morgan cradled the receiver, letting out a sigh. Already he could feel himself beginning to unwind. He told himself that it was out of his hands now; there was nothing he could do to change the fate of Mr. Remo Rubble and his pretty little wife.

  And for a moment, Howard Morgan almost managed to believe it.

  THE WORST PART, MEGAN Richards told herself, was that you really could get used to anything. It made her vaguely ill to think that way, but there was simply no denying it.

  A mere four days had passed-or was it five?-since she had been aboard the Salome with Barry and the others, lost at sea, and they had seen another boat on the horizon. Four days, maybe five, since Tommy Gilpin told them that the captain of the "rescue boat" had raised a Jolly Roger flag, and men with guns had stormed aboard the yacht, to send her whole life spinning on a crazy detour into Hell.

  When she thought about it, even sitting in the filthy hut, with nothing but an oversize man's shirt to cover her, it still seemed like some kind of crazy dream. A bad trip, maybe, from the crummy acid you could pick up on the streets of Cambridge, guaranteed to turn your head around, but all bets off when it came down to quality.

  I wish I had a couple tabs of that right now, she thought, but even as the whim took shape in Megan's mind, she knew that she would need her wits about her in the hours and days ahead, if she intended to survive.

  Survive. The word itself was a joke to her now. She didn't have a clue where they were being held, except that they were obviously on an island where their captors had no fear of being taken by surprise or running into the police. It was the kind of place where anything could happen-had happened-and no one in the outside world would ever know.

  At first, Meg had supposed her kidnappers-she still had trouble thinking of the men as pirates-had some plan to hold her and the other girls for ransom, but the days kept passing, and no one had yet seen fit to ask their names. That was her first clue that the nightmare could go on indefinitely, while the three of them survived.

  And that had been her short life's first true moment of despair.

  Meg's knowledge-that she had been snatched from privileged youth into a life of slavery, pain, humiliation-might have driven her insane, but she surprised herself by calling on a deep reserve of inner strength she had not known she possessed. The others were reacting in their own strange ways, Felicia slipping into something like a catatonic state, while Robin wept and muttered to herself. Four days, five at the most, and Meg could not have sworn that either one of them was still completely sane.

  Whatever they were feeling, though, she guessed that precious little of it had to do with grieving for their dead boyfriends. Megan hadn't seen Barry die, but knew that he was gone. She had been shocked and hurt, of course, made no attempt to hold back bitter tears, but that part of her grieving had been relatively brief. Before the Salome had left his riddled corpse a hundred yards behind, Meg was already looking out for number one.

  So much for love. She had suspected that the way she felt for Barry Ward was mostly about sex, mixed up with some kind of infatuation, and the past few days had proved her right. If Meg had truly loved him, surely she would think about him more than once or twice a day, in passing. Even then, she found the image of his smiling face had started to recede, grow vague and hazy in her mind. He was a fading memory, their summer fling no more important now than Meg's first day at school, her senior prom, the first time she went "all the way."

  For ten or fifteen seconds, she was moved to wonder what that said about her as a person. How could she have shared her bed with Barry, done so many things with him and let him do so many things to her, and still dismiss him from her mind so quickly when his life was snuffed out by a gang of thugs? The answer was self-evident, so simple that it nearly made her laugh out loud. Disaster had a way of making you grow up. It took you to the deep end of the pool and tossed you in, sometimes with cinder blocks chained to your feet, and you could either fight your way back to the surface or relax and drown.

  Meg had discovered that she was a fighter, and the knowledge startled her as much as anything that she had ever learned.

  Of course, she had to choose her battles carefully if she was going to survive. The first two times that men had come for her, she lashed out at them furiously-kicking, scratching, spitting, cursing them with words she had not even realized she knew but it was all in vain. They beat her down and took her anyway. It was a futile effort, and she quickly learned to stand apart from what was happening, detach herself and get it over with. Immediate survival took priority, ahead of anger, self-respect, fear of disease. Her mind was focused on the next few hours, the next few days. Whatever happened after that was so far in the future that it felt like science fiction.

  "What time is it?" Felicia asked. It was the first time she had spoken in a day or more, and Megan took it as a hopeful sign.

  "They took our watches, stupid!" Robin hissed. "You know that. They took everything!"

  "It's morning," Megan said, resisting an impulse to snap at Robin, tell her to shut up if she couldn't control herself. If they couldn't help one another in the present crisis, there was truly no hope left.

  "What time?" Felicia said again.

  "For God's sake-"

  "Quiet, Robin!" Meg was both surprised and pleased when Robin shut her mouth and turned away. To poor Felicia she replied, "It's getting on toward ten o'clock, I'd guess. They haven't started setting up for lunch yet."

  When Felicia nodded, it was like a puppet, or like one of those spring-loaded toys you sometimes saw in the rear windows of old people's cars, heads bobbing up and down. Except the plastic heads were always grinning, and Felicia still looked numb, a blank expression on her face.

  "Thank you," she said.

  "You're welcome." Megan waited for a moment, letting the surrealistic moment pass, before she spoke again. "You know," she said, "the only way we're ever getting out of here is if we put our heads together and work out some kind of plan."

  "Get out?" Robin pronounced the words as if they had been uttered in some foreign tongue. "You must be crazy, Meg. They'll never let us go. They're having too much fun."

  "I didn't plan on asking their permission," Megan said.

  "Oh, right! There's only thirty-five or forty of them, all with guns and knives and... Jesus, Meg, you wanna get us killed?"

  Meg answered with a question of her own. "You call this living, Robin?"

  "I'll help," said Felicia, speaking in a voice more like her own than Meg had heard her use since they were captured on the Salome, almost a week before. "Just tell me what to do."

  "Robin?"

  "Shit, you're right. This isn't living. What's the plan?"

  "First thing," Meg said, "we have to find ourselves some weapons. After that..."

  THE TWO COMBATANTS CAME together with a clash of steel, grim, sweaty faces close enough to smell each other's rancid breath if they hadn't been focused single-mindedly on spilling blood. Each pirate used his free hand, clutching at the sword arm of his adversary, seeking an advantage in the struggle that could easily result in sudden death.

  Szandor was taller, heavier, Flick was lean and quick, making the two of them a nearly even match. It would have been a different tale if they were wrestling, even boxing, but the blades they wielded were the perfect equalizers. The briefest lapse by either duelist could leave him stretched out in a pool of blood.

  It did not have to end in death, of course. A point of honor could be made by simple bloodletting, provided
that both parties to the duel agreed. Considering the adversaries, though-both men with fiery, brutal tempers, prone to quarreling at the best of times-it seemed to Thomas Kidd that one of them had to surely die this morning.

  That meant one less crewman for their raiding, one less pair of hands to help around the camp, but Captain Kidd, for all of his authority, couldn't prevent a righteous duel from being played out to the death if the combatants were agreed. It was a sacred point of law among the buccaneers, and he could violate it only at the risk of sacrificing his command.

  The present quarrel, predictably, was over women-or, to be precise, one woman in particular. Both Flick and Szandor coveted the tall blonde taken from their latest prize, and while the wench was technically available to any man who paid the captain's price, an argument had broken out as to which buccaneer she favored of the two. It seemed a bit ridiculous to Kidd, grown men imagining a slave girl truly cared a whit for either one of them, but stranger things had happened in the world. Besides, he knew that logic had no place where lust held sway among the sort of men who followed him.

  The challenge had been mutual, duly received and answered. Captain Kidd was not empowered to prevent the duel, although he might postpone it temporarily, in the event all hands were needed for a raid, or to defend their island stronghold. In the present circumstances, though, he would invite a mutiny if he denied the duelists their rights or kept his men of a diverting show.

  Kidd had a ringside seat for the engagement, lounging in his high-backed wicker throne, the cutlass that was both a weapon and his badge of office resting on his knees. There were no rules in such a fight, per se, except that no one else could interfere to help either combatant. If another member of his scurvy crew so much as raised a hand in aid of either Flick or Szandor, it would be Kidd's task-indeed, his oath-bound duty-to step in and cut down the bastard.

  There was small chance of that occurring, though, when most of the assembled buccaneers had placed bets on one swordsman or the other, and the few not wagering were glad enough to simply cheer on the fighters. It wasn't often that they had a full-fledged duel in camp-six months since the last one, if his memory was accurate-and everyone enjoyed the show.

  Last time, prompted by an argument about some missing loot, the winner had been satisfied to draw first blood and let it go at that. Kidd had an inkling that this morning's duelists wouldn't be so easily deterred from murder, and while he was loath to lose an able-bodied crewman, the matter was out of his hands. As captain of the brotherhood, the best that he could do was to sit back and enjoy the show, keep one eye peeled for cheaters and assume that either Flick or Szandor would survive.

  The captain's final thought had barely taken shape, when Szandor gave a mighty shout and threw himself at Flick, his sword thrust out in front of him to skewer the smaller man. Flick saw it coming, though, and sidestepped just in time to save himself. His own blade flashed toward Szandor's face, then dipped aside before his enemy could parry, swooping down to gash the taller pirate's thigh.

  Szandor recoiled, now limping, and his roar of fury had become a howl of pain. Blood spurted from his wound, but it wasn't a mortal blow, the artery undamaged. Still, it slowed him and made his footwork clumsy, as his cunning adversary had to have planned.

  There were no time-outs and no substitutions in a duel of honor. If a man was wounded, he could either keep on fighting, or throw down his weapon and beg mercy from his adversary. Sometimes, he who scored first blood was satisfied to see his enemy in pain, and let it go at that. This morning, though, Szandor didn't throw down his sword, and Flick displayed no evidence of magnanimity.

  The fight went on, and now Kidd knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it would be a battle to the death.

  One leg of Szandor's torn and faded denim pants was soaked with blood from thigh to ankle, yet he kept on fighting, lurching after Flick like some demented creature from the pit, too stubborn and too hateful to admit defeat or give his enemy the satisfaction of knowing that he hurt. In fact, while he was slowed by the wounded leg, his slashing thrusts still demonstrated the same power that had made him one of Kidd's most deadly fighters. Flick would be in trouble yet if he allowed himself to fall beneath that flashing blade.

  There was a scowl of concentration on the smaller pirate's face as he continued fighting, dancing rings around Szandor in an attempt to wear out his adversary. Sadly for Flick, it seemed that Szandor had attained that place on the plateau of suffering where pain no longer made a difference. His movements might be clumsy, but they showed no evidence of flagging, even as fresh blood continued pulsing from the deep gash on his thigh.

  The wound was killing him, Kidd knew, but Szandor seemed determined not to fall before he settled with his sprightly foe. He aimed a roundhouse swing at Flick's bald head, a move so telegraphed that a blind man could have seen it coming, but when Flick attempted to sidestep the slash, Szandor reversed himself with stunning speed and rammed his long blade home between the smaller pirate's ribs.

  Flick stiffened, biting off a scream, and brought up his free hand to seize the blade where it protruded from his abdomen. Szandor was trying to withdraw his sword and strike again, to finish it, but Flick would not release the blade, in spite of fresh blood spilling from between his lacerated fingers. Stepping closer to his enemy, he seemed to drive the long blade even deeper, through his vitals, in his grim determination to strike back.

  Szandor gave up, released his sword and was about to step back out of range, but he had stalled too long. Flick's sword came whistling down with all the little pirate's weight behind it, biting deep into the flesh of Szandor's shoulder where his neck joined with his trunk. A startled grunt escaped from Szandor's lips, immediately followed by a jet of crimson blood that struck Flick in the face and dribbled down his chest.

  As Kidd and company looked on, the two men fell together, slumping to their knees, like lovers locked in an embrace, before they toppled over sideways, linked by the sharp blades that pierced their flesh. Both clung to life for several moments longer, but there was no power on the island that could save them now, no medicine or magic that could heal those massive wounds.

  A groan went up around the killing ground, as disappointed gamblers realized all bets were off. Both men were dead, their deaths so nearly simultaneous that no one could have named a winner if his life depended on it.

  Two men gone, and while the bout had been exhilarating, Kidd could not help thinking that he had no ready means of filling vacancies these days. Of course, they ran across the odd rogue every now and then who jumped at a chance to join the band, but they were few and far between. Most killers with that kind of nerve were operating on their own, freelance, or working for the syndicates that smuggled weapons, drugs and men among the islands, or to the United States.

  Kidd was about to rise up from his throne when Billy Teach stepped up beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. Kidd turned to face his first lieutenant, scowling at the hand until it was removed.

  "Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n, but we've got another prize comin' our way."

  "Says who?"

  "Our man in Puerta Plata. Morgan."

  "Well," Kidd said, "he hasn't failed us yet. We'd best be getting ready to receive more guests."

  "Aye, sir."

  "And, Billy?"

  "Sir?"

  Kidd nodded to the corpses stretched out on the ground within a few short paces of his chair. "Have someone haul that rubbish out beyond the reef, will you? Sharks have to eat, the same as anybody else."

  Chapter 10

  The sailor's name was not Enrique. Standing on the pier beside the Melody, Howard Morgan introduced the slender, twenty-something man as Pablo Altamira, and it hardly seemed worth Remo's time to ask for ID to verify the name. Remo didn't overlook the stylized tattoo of a sailboat on the web of skin between the young man's thumb and forefinger.

  Among Latino gangs of the Caribbean and South America, he knew, that symbol indicated that its bearer was in
volved in smuggling, typically of drugs. So far, so good.

  Tattoos aside, it would have taken psychic powers to peg Pablo as a bad guy at first glance. He had movie-star looks and wore his hair long, tied back in a ponytail that hung below his collar. Perfect teeth flashed in a smile as he was introduced to Remo first, then Stacy and finally Chiun. The old Korean, for his part, merely glared at them all from the helm, like an unpleasant sea captain forced out of retirement. Their so-called guide was casual but stylish in a chambray shirt, new Levi's jeans and a pair of spotless deck shoes worn without the benefit of socks. "Pablo knows all the islands hereabouts," Morgan was telling them, while his companion smiled and nodded in agreement. "You've my word that he'll show you things the average tourist never sees."

  "I'm counting on it," Remo said. "How much?"

  "A very modest twenty-five per day, U.S.," said Morgan.

  "Very modest," Pablo echoed.

  "It's a deal," said Remo. "When can we get under way?"

  "Immediately, if not sooner," the travel agent answered.

  "Great. Let's do it, then."

  Remo endured another flaccid handshake, slipping Morgan a fifty-dollar tip that put some extra wattage in his smile. "Most generous, I'm sure," the travel agent said. "If I can ever help you with your travel needs again, don't hesitate to call."

  "We'll definitely be in touch," said Remo, who read the insincerity in Morgan's behavior like he read the white letters on a red stop sign.

  Pablo stood with them and watched as Morgan made his way back down the pier. When he was beyond recall, the newest member of their crew turned on another gleaming smile and nodded toward the Melody.

  "Shall we be going, then, senor?" he asked.

  "Suits me," said Remo, turning to include his "wife" in the exchange. "You ready, darling?"

  "As I'll ever be," said Stacy Armitage.

  Remo spent several minutes showing Pablo around the Melody, from her controls to such essentials as the galley, heads and sleeping quarters. The new member of their crew said little, but Remo had the feeling that he was sizing things up, taking the measure of the multimillion-dollar cabin cruiser and her passengers.