by Rebecca York
When the driver turned off the highway onto a side road that bisected a line of low hills, he and Zeke began to argue.
She understood Zeke’s “Are you sure?” and the driver’s quick assertion to the affirmative.
In minutes they had left the metropolitan area behind for fields of corn, cotton and cabbages interspersed with white stucco houses. The hills above them were dominated by rocks and scrubby vegetation.
The road changed rapidly from blacktop to gravel, and then to hard-packed dirt. Again Zeke questioned the driver, and again he nodded vigorously.
They were heading toward the blue water of the Aegean. The lane ended abruptly at a little rock-rimmed harbor, where several tiny craft and a couple of larger vessels, perhaps a hundred feet in length, were moored. One appeared to be an old ferry boat, listing dangerously to starboard. The other looked like a luxury yacht that had seen better days.
About fifty yards away on the right, several dozen houses clustered together. On the left, the concrete skeleton of a two-story unfinished building shaded a flock of peacefully grazing sheep.
“Not exactly a bustling port,” Zeke observed. After several seconds’ hesitation, he opened the door. “The driver’s going to wait, in case I can’t do business with the skipper of the yacht. I’ll be right back,” he told Elizabeth.
She felt a clogging sensation in her throat. “You’re not going to leave me here,” she objected.
The sun had broken through the clouds, and Zeke shaded his eyes as he scanned the harbor. “I think that’s safest, until I find out the situation with the boat,” he answered. As he started to get out of the taxi, the driver protested loudly. Zeke switched back to Greek. After a heated exchange, he reached in his pocket for some drachmas. “It’s only half of what he asked for,” Zeke told Elizabeth. “He’ll get the rest when I tell him it’s okay to leave.”
Making for the harbor, Zeke climbed down a set of stone steps to the dock and started talking to a man with a red bandanna tied around his head.
It didn’t take too long before Elizabeth began to feel uncomfortable in the cab. The driver kept eyeing her in the rearview mirror. Then he turned and tried to start a conversation in slowly spoken elementary Greek. Telling him she wanted to stretch her legs, she climbed out and made a small circle around the vehicle.
On the dock a lean yellow dog lifted its head, then went back to sleep.
“You not so friendly, huh?” the driver asked through the window.
Elizabeth was startled that he’d finally spoken in English. Still, she didn’t want to get drawn into a conversation. Without responding, she took several steps toward Zeke, who was now talking to two men—the one with the red bandanna and another with salt-and-pepper hair and a short scruffy beard. She couldn’t hear what they were saying. But the body language and the gestures seemed to indicate bargaining. Watching the exchange absorbed her attention until she heard the driver’s door open. He strode around to the back, opened the trunk and dropped their luggage on the dirt road.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” she asked.
He gave her a narrow-eyed look before climbing back in the taxi and starting the engine.
“Zeke, come back!” she shouted.
Zeke looked up, saw what was happening and started running toward her. But he was too late. By the time he arrived, the cab had disappeared in a cloud of dust.
“So now what are we going to do?” she asked.
“Take a short cruise to Mythos. At least it’s not a fishing boat. We can have a private cabin.”
She glanced toward the dock. It now contained three scruffy-looking men. “They look kind of rough,” she murmured.
“What do you expect from smugglers?”
“Smugglers?”
“They’re smuggling us in—along with some other stuff.”
“Like what?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”
“You trust them?”
Zeke scowled at her. “They’re already going to Mythos. We’re just making the run more profitable.”
Before Elizabeth could comment, Zeke plowed on, “If you think I like making the trip by boat, you’re wrong. It wouldn’t take much to persuade me to look for a ride into town and start calling air transport companies. But we’ll lose valuable time—time Ariadne can’t afford.”
Elizabeth wanted to tell him she didn’t like the way events were shaping up and that he was letting his anxiety for his daughter override logical thinking. But she couldn’t get the words out. In the first place, she wasn’t sure her case of the jitters was justified. What if she delayed their departure and the consequences were disastrous?
“Okay?” he asked.
“Okay.”
Picking up their bags, Zeke started back to the dock. She followed.
As they drew nearer, she saw the name of the ship written on the bow in Greek letters. Sounding them out, she saw that they would be sailing on the Amphitrite. Elizabeth remembered she was the wife of Poseidon, the god of the sea. At least the captain had a fondness for the old Greek myths. Or perhaps he simply hadn’t bothered to change the name when he’d acquired the ship from its previous owner.
The men, who had been craning their necks toward her and Zeke, made an effort to appear relaxed as their passengers approached. One slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Another lounged against the stone wall ringing the harbor. Probably they were on edge because they needed the money, she told herself, glancing around the dilapidated dock area.
Still, the sailors were less reassuring up close than they had been from a distance. One had a wicked-looking scar down his right cheek like an old-time pirate. Another was missing two front teeth. And none looked as if they had taken a bath since the last time they’d fallen in the water—whenever that was.
The man Zeke introduced as Captain Icarus was a little older than the other—the one with the salt-and-pepper hair.
She stood back, letting Zeke do the talking, which was in rapid-fire Greek and much too quick for her to follow. Finally, it appeared a satisfactory deal had been struck.
“All set,” Zeke announced. “Let’s have a look at the cabin.”
“How long a trip will it be?” she asked, allowing him to help her down the flight of stone steps onto the deck.
“Six hours.”
“Kalimera, madame,” Captain Icarus politely wished her a good morning.
She answered in halting Greek. If she’d had some advanced warning about this trip, she would have brushed up.
In response to her best effort, he switched to English. “This way.”
They climbed down a short set of steps to a corridor with several narrow doors on either side.
The captain stopped at the third one on the right and ceremoniously swung it open as if he were giving a tour of the presidential suite at the Ritz. Stepping inside, Elizabeth found herself in a cramped stateroom. Although the walls were of expensive teak paneling, the only furnishings were two metal bunks, separated by a three-drawer chest bolted to the deck, and a recessed ceiling light. A layer of carpeting on the floor was so worn in places that the deck showed through. In contrast to the salt-tanged wind blowing across the deck, the atmosphere inside the little room was hot and thick and smelled of motor oil.
“Charming,” Elizabeth whispered. At least the blankets on the bunks seemed relatively clean. She could have done with pillows. No, cancel that, she thought as she pictured lumpy gray rectangles.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Icarus said. “I have duties.”
When he’d left, Elizabeth sat down on one of the bunks.
Above them, she could hear a rustle of activity. Apparently, now that they had taken on their passengers, the crew was getting ready to cast off.
Zeke eyed the other bed, then turned toward the door. “I’d better go up on deck and look interested—while I can still stand,” he muttered.
He’d said he wasn’t a good sailor, and she’d assumed he was si
mply preparing her in case he wasn’t at his best. Now she realized his problem might be more serious than she’d thought. “Let’s not do this,” she whispered.
“I have to.”
The finality of the words left no room for argument. She sighed. “Isn’t there something you can take for sea sickness?” she asked.
He glanced toward his duffel bag. “There are some tablets in my first-aid kit, but they’ll make me groggy, and I don’t want to put myself at that kind of disadvantage.”
She stood again. “I’ll go up with you.”
He escorted her back to the deck. As they made their way along a narrow walkway to the bow, she counted the crew members. Two were casting off ropes and another was lounging against the rail. The captain was at the wheel, which made four in all. Not the best odds, Elizabeth decided, if they had to fight their way out of here. Even as the thought surfaced, she dismissed it as paranoid. Why would they have to fight? She was simply letting her nerves rule her.
The ride was relatively smooth while the boat putted at low power across the rock-rimmed harbor. Once they hit the open sea, however, the craft began to buck against the waves, and Elizabeth had to hold on tight to the rail to stay in one spot. The sea was high, and the sun, which had been shining brightly when they arrived at the little port, had disappeared behind a wall of clouds. In fact, the whole sky to the west seemed to be turning angry.
She glanced at Zeke, and saw that his knuckles were white on the railing and his complexion had gone the color of key lime pie. If he was already feeling bad, he had a pretty grueling six hours ahead of him.
“I’d better lie down,” he said, when he caught her looking at him.
“What can I do?” she asked.
“Shoot me,” he quipped, in such a way that Elizabeth knew laughing at the joke would be a mistake.
She saw the sailors eyeing them and exchanging a few knowing snickers. Contempt for seasick landlubbers? Or was their attitude toward the passengers frankly malicious?
She ducked her head away and stifled the impulse to grab Zeke’s arm, as she followed him back to the cabin. He flopped onto the far bed and lay with one arm across his eyes and the other hand gripping the edge of the metal bunk.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “Unfortunately, this is worse than I remember.”
“Not your fault. Maybe the waves will get calmer,” she added optimistically.
She saw him grit his teeth, as a particularly large swell rolled the boat from side to side. “It looks like a storm is brewing,” he muttered.
Her gaze darted toward the dirty porthole. Everything looked darker than when they’d left the deck, but that might only be from the grimy film on the glass. She sat down gingerly on the other bunk, wishing she could do something for Zeke. She wanted to hold him. But from the anguished expression on his face she was sure that he didn’t want to be touched by her or anybody else. He lay rigid in the swaying bunk, his eyes closed and his jaw clamped. Apparently the major part of his concentration was going into keeping his breakfast down. Some fresh air would probably help, but the whole cabin would be soaked if she tried to open the porthole.
Hauling her overnight bag up onto the bed, Elizabeth wedged it against the bulkhead and used it for a pillow. She’d promised herself that on the trip to Mythos she and Zeke could rekindle the closeness of the previous night. Zeke wanted to reach out to her; she knew he did. But he hadn’t had much practice at intimacy, and he was still afraid of it.
Her heart gave a little tug. All she had to do was make him understand that she’d never let him down, the way everyone else had.
But nothing like that was going to happen now. Flopping back against the makeshift pillow, she closed her eyes and tried to relax. Perhaps the rocking of the boat made her doze off. Some time later, she heard Zeke calling her name and was instantly at his side.
“Are you worse?” she asked anxiously, leaning over him. Beads of moisture wet his brow. Digging a tissue out of her purse, she gently wiped them away.
“Thanks.” He made an attempt to smile and failed. “No, I’m not really worse.”
“Do you want something? Water?”
He shuddered. “No water. But I don’t like the idea of both of us stuck in this cabin. Could you go up on deck and take a look around? See how things look.”
She was reminded of a story her father used to tell about her mother asking him to watch a pot roast on the stove while she was out shopping. He kept going into the kitchen and lifting the cover of the pot, looking critically at the meat, but he didn’t have a clue what he was supposed to be looking for.
Unless the crew were standing guard with guns at the entrance to the lower deck or unpacking boxes of ammunition, she didn’t have any idea what she was looking for either.
As she walked toward the door, she could tell that the sea was rougher than it had been before.
“Take a jacket,” Zeke told her.
She dug a windbreaker out of her bag, then looked toward the door. It was definitely the only one in the cabin. “I…uh…suppose there’s got to be a bathroom on board,” she said to Zeke.
“If we’re lucky. Behind one of the doors farther down the passageway.” He shook his head. “You probably won’t like it much.”
“What choice do I have?” She exited the room, trying to move with the swaying of the ship as she looked for the facilities. Zeke was right; the bathroom she found wasn’t up to her standards. Trying to hold her breath, she used the toilet—then made a beeline for the fresh air outside.
When she reached the top of the companionway, she was glad she had dressed warmly. The sky was dark, the temperature had dropped and the wind was whipping up spray from the gunmetal waves.
Ducking her head, she stepped onto the deck and grabbed a handhold to steady herself as she got her bearings. When she felt a bit more confident on her feet, she started her tour of the boat. But she found her path was blocked by the sailor with the scar on his cheek. Perhaps he had been assigned to keep an eye on the passengers. Or perhaps he had simply chosen to lurk around the entrance to the cabins.
In response to her apprehensive glance, he smiled at her, showing an expanse of yellow teeth. The smile and the look in his eyes sent a chill through her that sank all the way to her bones. Deliberately, as if she’d simply changed her mind, she pivoted away and started in the other direction along the stern. To her dismay, she realized he was keeping pace behind her.
Chapter Eleven
Elizabeth could feel her heart pounding in time to the echoing footsteps. Spray hit her in the face as she looked out over the water, which had changed from blue to gray to match the clouds overhead. There were no other craft in sight. And no hint of land. The Amphitrite pitched as it climbed the trough of a wave, and Elizabeth grabbed at the rail. Inside the wheelhouse, she could see Captain Icarus’s salt-and-pepper hair and the darker head of another crewman. They appeared to be watching her progress and that of the man behind her. Yet neither of them made a move to interfere.
Well, if the captain wasn’t worried, perhaps she was simply overreacting, she told herself as she reached the bow of the ship and stood facing into the wind. Deliberately, she kept herself from glancing over her shoulder at the man. Maybe he was simply going about his business—and she had the misfortune to be heading in the same direction. That theory evaporated as she made her way back along the other side of the ship, the wind shoving her from behind. Scarface was still there, a few paces in back of her, his footsteps audible above the sound of the sea.
Still, she had no proof that he meant her harm—besides the intuitive knowledge that he was enjoying the silent game of stalking her. She sped up her pace, trying to get back down the companionway stairs to the safety of the cabin. She almost made it. Before she reached the entrance to the lower deck, however, he made his move, pushing past her and blocking the opening with his body. She stopped in her tracks to keep from hurtling into him, clutching at a railing when the treacherous sea came to his
aid and tried to deliver her into his grasp.
He grinned and held out his hand, displaying a big ugly ring with a skull with staring eyes. “I’ll help you,” he said in Greek.
Pretending not to understand, she flattened herself against the exterior bulkhead. A quick glance in either direction told her that he’d waited until they were alone to make his move.
For several seconds they stood regarding each other—his expression predatory, hers as blank as she could make it when her heart was pounding so hard it threatened to crack her ribs.
Scarface licked his lips and took a step toward her. “Nice breasts,” he said, his gaze fixed on the front of her jacket. “Don’t hide them.”
He reached toward her, the ugly ring flashing, his fingers curled toward her chest. Instinctively, she slapped his hand away. As she did, the edge of the dull metal skull dug into her flesh, making her gasp. Her panic—and the sound of her pain—made him grin.
“You can’t get away from me. Unless you jump over the side,” he told her cheerfully.
She took a step back, wondering if she could make it to the wheelhouse. Not a chance. He’d bring her down before she got more than a few feet away.
He understood all too well that he had the advantage. He was larger and stronger, and he was used to operating on a swaying ship. If she screamed for help, the wind would only carry her shouts away over the gray water.
Her mouth was so dry that she could hardly speak. Yet, with all the coolness she could muster, she raised her head and gave him a frigid stare. “Let me pass.”
The confidence in his eyes made her insides twist “We get to know each other better—you and me,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” another voice answered from below. Zeke. It was Zeke, she realized with a surge of joy. A heartbeat later, Scarface pitched forward, flying through the air and hitting his shoulder against the rail before slipping silently to the deck. He lay stunned for long seconds, then groaned and crawled several feet away before pushing himself to a sitting position.