An Incident At Bloodtide m-12

by George C. Chesbro

  Wrong. When I got back to the house and used Garth's binoculars to check once more on the tanker, it was gone from its mooring.

  Chapter Ten

  The disappearance of the tanker disturbed the nasty little man very much, and I kept peering out into the driving rain, looking for some dark shape, the glint of anchor lights, unable to believe that Julian Jefferson not only would have weighed anchor two days before his scheduled departure but would be getting under way with both a thirty-knot wind and the tide against him. Stunned, thinking that maybe the blow to my head had affected my vision, I kept adjusting the focus of the binoculars as I scanned the river. But there was nothing wrong with my eyes, or the binoculars; the tanker was definitely gone.

  Obviously, Mother Carver had called Sonny to warn him that trouble was brewing, and Sonny had gotten on the horn to tell Julian Jefferson to haul ass immediately for the open sea, where he would be immune to the further attentions of the nasty little man, and virtually anyone else for that matter.

  I hurried to Garth's office, picked up his New York directory, and looked up the number of the Coast Guard Command on Governors Island. I started to dial the number, then slammed down the receiver in disgust and frustration. I knew exactly what the Coast Guard was going to do-nothing. Richard Marley had already rejected my request that his agency investigate Tom Blaine's death, dismissing the idea that it could have been murder, and there was no way they were going to stop a seven-hundred-foot-long, multi-ton tanker-which, considering the haste of its departure, might not even be carrying purloined water-just because a certain private investigator wanted to talk to its captain.

  I glared at the phone, thinking of my brother lying in a coma in the hospital, of Tom Blaine's horrible, lonely death, and the fact that the tanker and captain that were an integral part of the affair were getting closer to the open sea with every second that went by. Once the ship got out into the Atlantic, I suspected there was little likelihood it would ever again enter the territorial waters of the United States, or that I would ever be able to find Julian Jefferson. Not that it would make any difference if I did. I had no proof of anything but water theft, absolutely nothing else to go on but suspicions and a loose thread who called himself Sacra Silver.

  Checkmate. Carver Shipping and Julian Jefferson might or might not eventually be called to account for pollution and water theft, but it was looking more and more likely that the whole cast was going to get away with murder and attempted murder. Black magic indeed.

  Without the slightest notion of just what it was I intended to do, knowing only that I had to do something and do it now or forget about it, I slammed out of the house, got into my car. I jammed the gears into reverse, spinning my tires on the gravel driveway as I shot out into the street. At a decidedly unsafe speed, I headed toward 9W, the narrow, twisting, and dangerous highway that ran roughly parallel to the river. I glanced at my watch. I had been at the hospital a little more than two hours, and the tanker had been at its mooring when I'd gone back. I had no idea how long it took to get something that size under way, but I presumed at least a half hour-maybe more, if it had begun taking on water after dark. So 82Q510 had been under way for ninety minutes or less. With the tide and wind against it, I didn't think it could have gotten all that far.

  I caught up with the ship, faintly backlit by lights from towns on the opposite side of the river, at Haverstraw Bay just below Croton Point, six miles or so from the Tappan Zee Bridge. I couldn't be absolutely certain that the dark hulk, dimly outlined by the white points of its running lights, was the tanker I was after, but I was certain enough; I had seen no other traffic on the river, and the chances that Jefferson had continued north toward the narrow section of the river at Bear Mountain were nil. Although it might have been wishful thinking, considering the poor visibility, it looked to me like the tanker was ploughing heavily through the water, riding low, as if it might have greedily taken on one last load of illegal cargo before trying to scamper away. That was potential good news, if I could find anybody in authority who cared one way or another.

  It would be hours before the massive tanker chugged into the choppy waters and swirling tides of New York Harbor on its way to the sea. I had plenty of time to get to Governors Island to rant and rave at Captain Richard Marley, or whoever else was on duty; if the Coast Guard still refused to stop the tanker pending an investigation of whatever it was I could get them to investigate, then I would start placing calls to every influential person I knew, looking for one soul who might be able to persuade the Coast Guard to intervene, to stop the ship just for an hour or so to inspect its illicit cargo, and then maybe. .

  Right. All my ranting and raving was going to get me, along with a buck and change, was a ride on the New York subway, along with a loss of credibility and influence with anybody I asked to intervene to stop a ship I claimed was carrying a great big load of. . water. I had zip. The lumbering tanker I was now leaving behind me might as well be on another planet for all the good my chasing after it was going to do; by midmorning it would be out of sight of land, beyond the reach of any United States authority. I was just wasting my time, gas, and bridge tolls.

  I found all of this highly aggravating, which undoubtedly explains why I abruptly cut off 9W onto the access ramp to the Tappan Zee Bridge when I saw the flashing yellow lights in the middle of the great span, indicating construction in progress. The problem of the tanker and its rogue captain was, I thought, going to require a much more personal, hands-on approach than I could ever hope to persuade the Coast Guard to take; I suspected that among the construction equipment I hoped to find on the bridge would be something I could use to try to facilitate just such a direct approach.

  I was certainly angry-but not so angry as to be blind to the possible consequences of what it was I planned to do. The least of these consequences would be a parking ticket and tow charge, and so I simply pulled into the far right-hand lane of the bridge, on the wrong side of a string of reflective cones and flashing warning lights, and parked right behind a bright yellow New York State Thruway Authority electrical generator truck. I shut off the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition, and got out, leaning into the wind and driving rain. I'd left the umbrella behind at the house, but it wouldn't have done me much good on the bridge anyway. Although I was thoroughly soaked, rage and the adrenaline being pumped at the thought of what I was about to do were warding off the chills I had begun to suffer. I thought I might be running a slight fever, but I had no time to worry about it at the moment.

  There was a considerable amount of scaffolding and other rigging around the area where they were replacing the roadbed, and it didn't take me long to find a suitable length of rope, two hundred or so feet of it, that wasn't serving any critical function. I snaked out the entire coil of rope to remove any kinks, then tied a bowline on a bight at one end to serve as an impromptu bosun's chair. Next, I jury-rigged a pulley system around a section of railing directly over the middle of the wide central span. I set up the bosun's chair and rope in the pulley the way I wanted it, then crossed the road to the opposite, upriver side of the bridge. I climbed over the railing and squatted down behind one of the great support beams, where I would not be seen by passing motorists.

  Forty-five minutes later the tanker loomed out of the night, rain, and mist about a half mile away, near the lighthouse in front of the General Motors plant in Tarrytown. I trotted back across the roadway, slipped the loops of the bosun's chair around my legs, snug against my thighs. I climbed over the railing, grabbed the length of rope on the opposite side of the pulley, and stepped back into the wet night, slowly lowering myself hand over hand down through the rain and windswept darkness.

  As I had learned from sailing on the catamaran, the Tappan Zee Bridge acts as a great disrupter of wind, tide, and current, sometimes focusing the natural elements, at other times causing them to clock and swirl around at varying speeds. I had intended to lower myself to the appropriate height, then simply slip out of t
he bosun's chair as the ship passed under me. I'd lowered myself no more than fifteen feet when I realized it wasn't going to be all that easy, and that what I was about was very dangerous business indeed. Gusts of wind lashed raindrops that felt as big as marbles across my face, while at the same time swinging me back and forth and spinning me around, first in one direction and then another, like some battered pendulum. If I was not careful-or even if I was careful-there was a good chance I was going to smash into one of the loading cranes or other equipment on deck, or even miss the deck altogether and end up in the water. With no life jacket, my chances for survival next to a moving tanker in the foaming, roiled river below were not good, to say the least.

  I was hanging onto my control rope with both hands as the wind spun me around and swept me back and forth in great arcs across the central span of the bridge. With no way to wipe the water from my eyes, or shield them with a hand, I was effectively flying blind. I judged that I had descended approximately half the distance to the water. I lowered myself some more, arching my back and trying to shield my face in my left armpit at the same time as I tried to look down, behind, all around, on the watch for anything that might be moving.

  My little impromptu journey had temporarily cured my headache, and it had also dampened, as it were, my rage; sheer terror is a most powerful distraction from whatever else it is that's ailing you.

  The wind continued to spin me around and swing me. I squinted against the rain, looked down between my legs, and when I saw a yellow glow below me that had to be one of the ship's running lights, I knew I had seriously misjudged my position, and distance left to go; I was at least forty feet above the great foredeck, which was rapidly passing beneath me, and there was a good chance now I would smash into a crane or the tall superstructure at the stern end containing the wheelhouse-that is, if I didn't miss the tanker altogether and have the ship chug merrily along on its way without me. That could leave me in a most unpleasant situation, since I doubted I had the strength and stamina to pull myself back up to the bridge. There was no time left to gauge wind, distance, or anything else. I loosened my grip on the control rope and felt the nylon filament burn my palms as I plummeted in what I hoped was a controlled drop calculated to land me on the deck at a velocity just slightly short of that which would break my back or neck.

  I landed hard, the wind and my momentum driving me due north on the foredeck of the tanker, which was heading due south. I immediately released the control rope as I was thrown forward, rolling like a lumpy bowling ball down the length of the foredeck. There had been no time to get my legs out of the loops of the improvised bosun's chair, and after my third bounce and roll I was hopelessly entangled in the line. I had not tied a knot at the end of the rope, and with luck the line would simply pass freely through the pulley up on the bridge railing, drop into the water, and trail behind the tanker. Then again, there were all manner of sharp metal angles on the bridge and construction equipment above to snag a flailing rope, or a trailing rope might be sucked down and become entangled in the ship's great props. If either of these unfortunate events occurred, I would either be unceremoniously dragged off the tanker to drown or pulled along the deck until I got caught in some equipment or rigging, and I would end up a bloody skin bag full of broken bones and crushed organs long before the rope broke.

  These were the happy thoughts that flashed through my mind as I caromed off something that was rounded and hard, bounced and rolled some more, and finally banged to a stop against a wooden pallet loaded with diesel-oil drums. Impossibly entangled from head to toe in the rope, there was nothing I could do but wince and wait for a tug on the rope that would signal the beginning of a second, brief and ignominious journey. But the tug didn't come. The line had passed through the pulley and was-for the moment, at least-trailing freely alongside of or behind the tanker.

  Suddenly two oilskin-clad crewmen loomed out of the darkness and bent down over me. They looked at each other, then began to speak rapidly in Spanish. I wriggled a little bit, found that despite the fact that I felt like one great bruise, there didn't seem to be anything broken. I wriggled harder, trying to free myself, but finally gave up. I looked up at the two crewmen, grinned. "So?" I said. "What's the problem? Take me to your leader."

  Chapter Eleven

  I couldn't tell if they were amused, because I couldn't even be certain they understood me, but it did seem certain that they considered the unauthorized presence of a hog-tied dwarf on board their vessel a sufficient reason to seek the counsel of higher authority. They proceeded to untangle the line from around me-no easy proposition, and done none too gently-and then perfunctorily grabbed me under the armpits and hauled me to my feet. Then, keeping a tight grip on my arms, they hustled me around the oil drums, across a section of the foredeck, then down a sloping companionway into what appeared to be the crew's quarters of the ship, which looked like an outtake from a cheap submarine movie and smelled of engine oil and cooking grease.

  As I was half marched, half dragged along I became aware of a new problem, one that not only was causing considerable discomfort but also posed a real danger. Hypothermia. It was early August; the night was quite warm, despite the wind and rain. However, I'd been walking, waiting, dropping, swinging, bouncing, and rolling in that wind and rain for nigh unto two hours, and my body had decided to register a protest; it was saying that I had been knocked seriously unconscious earlier in the day and that I was supposed to be resting; it was saying that if I was so stupid as to flagrantly ignore the doctors' orders, then it was going to take matters into its own hands, as it were, and shut me down until such time as I got more sense into my head-or died, whichever came first. My body was going to lower its core temperature and see how I liked them apples. I was suddenly very cold and began to shiver uncontrollably. I didn't know the Spanish word for towel, but I asked for one anyway. Due to the language barrier or indifference, or both, I didn't even get a response, much less a towel. We just kept marching along.

  We marched down one long, narrow corridor, then turned right and marched down another one, which ended at a scarred wooden door with a slatted portal. The man on my right, who had pushed back his hood and whom I now recognized as the sallow-faced crewman I had seen at the railing earlier in the day, used his free hand to knock on the door. Without waiting for a response, he opened the door, and I was pushed through it.

  The captain's cabin was spacious, somewhat baroque with its walls of dark oak, matching rolltop desk, and large chart table set up in the middle of the floor. To my immediate left was a bunk bed bolted to the wall. Indeed, with its four quaint, barred portholes to provide a scenic view, the cabin would have seemed to me a most pleasant floating studio apartment, were it not for the smell: a mixture of disgusting odors that served to amplify my already screaming headache into something even louder, and made me nauseous. Underlying the stink of rotting food, an unwashed body, and spilled liquor was the even more acrid odor of vomit. This was no seagoing pied-a-terre but a sickroom; the man swaying unsteadily in his chair at the chart table, which was littered with half-empty liquor bottles, unwashed dishes, and greasy papers, was obviously sick, and had been for a long time. He wasn't likely to get any better as long as Carver Shipping, incredibly, kept him on the payroll and afloat in what had become for him nothing more than a steel tomb.

  Although this man had, presumably, initiated plans to kill Garth and me not too many hours before, he gave no sign of recognition as he stared at me. One of the crewmen said something to him, and then both turned and walked out of the cabin, closing the door behind them, leaving me alone with the balding, bloated, pasty-faced drunk. He kept staring at me, bleary-eyed and swaying back and forth, then spoke to me in a hopelessly slurred mumble. Not having brought along my jiffy Universal Translator, I suspected we were going to have some difficulties communicating. But then he repeated it, and I thought I got the general drift.

  What the fuck are you?

  What the fuck was I, indeed? I w
as damn cold was what I was, and without further ado I stripped off the shirt that was pasted to my skin, grabbed a blanket off the unmade bunk bed, and wrapped it around me. The blanket felt greasy, and smelled as foul as everything else in the room, but at least it would help to preserve my rapidly diminishing body heat. Captain Julian Jefferson didn't protest and was in no position to do anything about it if he did; I doubted he could stand. I pulled up a wobbly wooden chair and sat down across from him at the wobbly chart table cum bar. The other man's dark brown eyes were glassy and occasionally rolled in his head as he tried to fix his gaze on me. There seemed no easy way to slide into the topic I wished to discuss, so I decided to dispense with any talk about the wretched weather, get right to the subject at hand, and see what happened.

  "My name's Frederickson," I said through chattering teeth. "I'm investigating the death of a man by the name of Tom Blaine, who got chopped up by some very big propeller blades not too many weeks ago. I believe it was this tanker that killed him. Uh, the state police and Coast Guard are following right behind me, but they don't like working in the rain. I want to know why you started up your engines while the ship was moored and you were washing out your holding tanks. Now, I know you're shipping-"