Mermaid

by Margaret Millar

  Traffic was light. The fishing fleet had departed hours ago and the pleasure boaters seldom went out before the afternoon winds began. Even when the Spindrift reached the open sea there wasn’t enough wind to take over the job of moving the boat. Donny ordered the sails raised anyway.

  Working silently and swiftly, Velasco and Gomez raised the sails and Donny pronounced the boat now ready for the wedding ceremony. It was a picturesque setting, but the bride and groom were missing.

  “Cleo,” Donny shouted. “Where the hell are you? Time to get married.”

  Cleo appeared on the starboard deck wearing a white chiffon nightgown she’d found in one of the cabin drawers. The gown was too long and she had to hold it up with her left hand while she carried the .22 in her right. Her hair was combed but she’d forgotten to wash her face and her cheeks were still tear-stained.

  “I don’t feel like a bride,” she told Donny.

  “You don’t look like one either,” Donny said. “Where’s Ted?”

  “I couldn’t get his hands untied. You made the knots too tight.”

  “Oh for chrissake, can’t you do anything right? You don’t have to untie them. Cut them with a knife.”

  “I don’t want to cut them. They’re my shoelaces. They’re practically brand-new.”

  “All right, all right, you hold the gun on our guest here and I’ll go and get Ted.”

  “Hello, Cleo,” Aragon said. “Do you remember me?”

  She stared at him, frowning. “No.”

  “You came to my office not too long ago.”

  “Why?”

  “To ask me about your rights—how to register to vote, for instance. You told me about your brother and his wife and about your counselor, Roger Lennard.”

  “Poor Roger is dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “I mustn’t think about that now. I’m supposed to be happy. It’s my wedding day.”

  “No, it isn’t, Cleo. There’s no one on board qualified to perform the ceremony and you don’t have the necessary blood tests or license. And even if you had all these things, the marriage wouldn’t be legal anyway because you and Ted are related.”

  “I won’t listen to you,” she said. “I think you’re a nasty man.”

  Donny came back with Ted. Ted’s hands were free and he was rubbing his wrists where the nylon laces had bitten into his skin. He looked angry and confused and he’d wet his pants.

  “What’s happening around here? I wake up and my hands are tied. My hands are tied, for chrissake. What for? I thought we were having a party.”

  “That party’s over,” Donny said. “We’re about to start another one. Cleo has decided she wants to get married, and since she’s a little short of bridegrooms since Roger died,

  she picked you.”

  “Me? For chrissake, why would she pick me?”

  “Because she says you’re the father of her baby.”

  “That’s impossible. There isn’t any baby.”

  “Oh, Ted, there is so,” Cleo said reproachfully. “It’s still very tiny, maybe like sort of a grain of sugar or a grape seed.”

  “There isn’t any baby, dammit. We had only started to make love when my father barged in. I didn’t even pene­trate. You’re still a virgin.”

  “Ted, you know that’s not true. We were doing it exactly like in the movies, no clothes and everything. So now we have to get married.”

  Ted appealed to Aragon. “Whoever you are, they’re both crazy. We have to get out

  of here.”

  “Stay cool, and play along,” Aragon said quietly. “That’s our only chance.”

  “Why should I marry some half-wit because she thinks she’s pregnant? Whatever

  happened—and God knows it wasn’t much—happened just a few days ago. I tell you, she’s still a virgin. And even if she weren’t she’d have no way of knowing so soon that she was pregnant.”

  Cleo was crying again. She cried as easily as a plastic doll with a water-filled syringe in her head. “He doesn’t want to marry me, Donny. What should I do now?”

  “Ask him again, real sweet and polite.”

  “Nobody wants to marry me.”

  “Maybe he’ll change his mind.” Donny pointed the Luger directly at Ted’s chest. “Go on, ask him again, Cleo.”

  “Ted, will you marry me?”

  “No. Get it through your thick head, we didn’t have complete intercourse. You are not pregnant. You’re still a virgin.”

  “But we had all our clothes off and everything exactly like the movies.”

  “You’re crazy,” Ted screamed. “The whole damn bunch of you are crazy.”

  The first bullet from the Luger grazed his right shoul­der. He turned and ran toward the railing. As he jumped overboard a second bullet struck him on the left arm.

  Two more struck the water at the same time that Ted did. Cleo began screaming with excitement and jumping up and down until she tripped on the hem of the white nightgown that was her bridal costume. The .22 fell out of her hand and slid across the deck in Aragon’s direction.

  “Don’t move,” Donny told Aragon. “It’s a bad year for heroes.” And to Ocho, who was turning the boat around and heading back toward Ted, “Keep on course. Let the bastard drown.”

  “Throw him a life jacket,” Aragon said.

  “Why? A dip in the ocean will cool him off. Maybe he’ll have a change of heart and decide Cleo isn’t so bad after all.”

  “He might be seriously injured. And if there are any sharks in the area, the blood will attract them.”

  “I bet those sharks would be pleasantly surprised to find two guys instead of one,” Donny said. “Suppose you go in after him, amigo.”

  “We’re at least a mile from shore. I can’t swim very well.”

  “Learn by experience. That’s what they’re always telling us at school—learn by experience.”

  “Give us a sporting chance,” Aragon said. “We need two life jackets.”

  Donny took two life jackets from a forward hatch and threw them at Aragon. After removing his shoes and pants Aragon put one of the life jackets on over his shirt. Then, holding the other jacket in his hand, he jumped into the water.

  Ted was some hundred yards from the boat, not yelling for help or trying to swim. His eyes were closed and Aragon thought he was unconscious until he saw that Ted’s legs were moving slightly to keep him from rolling over on his stomach.

  The water temperature at this distance from shore and beyond the thick kelp beds that paralleled the coast was still well below sixty degrees. This might be low enough to slow the bleeding of Ted’s arm and help numb his pain. But it might also be low enough to cause both men to suffer from exposure unless they were picked up within an hour or so. Even without the complication of Ted’s wounds, hypothermia could be fatal without quick treat­ment.

  The Spindrift was turning away, its engine accelerating as it headed southwest. Watching it pull away, Aragon had a moment of panic. He knew he would be unable to drag Ted over the kelp beds and in to shore, and their only hope was to be spotted by a passing boat or one of the low-flying helicopters that serviced the oil platforms.

  Both were possible. The sea was calm, with a long smooth swell and no whitecaps to hide any floating object.

  This was Aragon’s first attempt to swim while wearing a life jacket and he found it difficult to move his arms. He rolled over on his back and used his legs as propellants.

  He shouted, “Ted, can you hear me?”

  Ted opened his eyes. He looked dazed and terrified. “Shot me—arm—”

  “I want you to help me get this life jacket on you.”

  Ted kept saying, “Shot me—shot me—” as if he was more overcome by surprise than by a sense of danger or by pain.

  “Put your injured arm through here fi
rst. Then I’ll pull the jacket around your back and get the other arm through. It may hurt but it has to be done.”

  “Shot me—shot me—”

  “Stop that. You have to cooperate. Understand?”

  It took several minutes for the life jacket to be put on and fastened. Ted was gradually becoming more rational and more aware of the danger they were in. He asked about the Spindrift.

  “It’s gone,” Aragon said. “Move your right arm and your legs as much as possible to keep your blood circulat­ing.”

  “Didn’t know—had any left.”

  “You have lots left.” He wasn’t sure whether this was true or even whether he’d given the correct advice to Ted to keep moving. He only knew that the water was incredi­bly cold. His original estimate of being able to survive an hour or two without much damage now seemed ridiculous. He was already numb below the ankles and suffering from what was called in his boyhood an ice-cream headache. He’d never taken a lifesaving course or even one in first aid, and he wished now he had paid more attention to some of his wife’s lectures on practical medicine.

  Ted said, “You shot?”

  “No.”

  “‘What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to cool off.”

  “You got it.”

  A great blue heron flew overhead, his neck folded, his long legs stretched out stiffly behind him like a defeathered tail.

  Ted had closed his eyes again and the wind was picking up. These were both bad omens. The rougher the sea, the more difficult it would be for anyone to spot them, and the greater the chances of Ted choking on salt water.

  “Ted, keep moving.”

  “Can’t—tired.”

  “A boat will come along any minute.”

  “Tired. Leave me alone.”

  Ted’s youth was a plus factor. But there were too many minuses. Before he was shot he’d spoken of a party on board, and it was obvious then that he was suffering a hang­over from alcohol or drugs or both. Also, he probably hadn’t eaten in many hours and his resistance was lowered.

  “A boat will come along any minute,” Aragon repeated. “We’ll be rescued. Do you hear me, Ted?”

  If Ted heard, he didn’t believe it or didn’t care enough to open his eyes.

  “Are you listening, Ted? By this time Whitfield will have gone back to the harbor and found his boat missing. He’ll send the Coast Guard out after it right away. They should be passing us any minute. Hear that, Ted? Any minute. Hang on. Don’t give up, Ted. Move. Try harder. Move.”

  He kept saying the same things over and over like a coach pep-talking one of his players during a game.

  The wind was still rising, and now and then his voice was choked off as a wave slapped his face. The increase in wind velocity would have the effect of luring the Lasers and Mercuries and Lidos and Victories, the Hobie Cats and Alpha Cats and Nacras. But these smaller craft usually stayed inside the kelp line. The larger craft, like the fishing fleet, had departed much earlier in the day, going out under power, some as far as the Island twenty-five miles offshore, to return in the afternoon under sail.

  Aragon continued talking, using both his hands to hold Ted’s head as far out of the water as possible. The numb­ness had spread through his whole body and he was feeling hardly any discomfort. He remembered reading that people who froze to death didn’t suffer pain the way people did who burned to death.

  He heard his own voice coaxing, ordering, questioning, demanding, and he wondered if it was all being wasted on a dead man.

  “Cut it out, Ted. Now open your eyes. You’ve got to cooperate. Get in there and pitch. Keep kicking your legs. We’re going to be rescued. Any minute. Any minute. You hear? Open your eyes, dammit, open your eyes.”

  But his voice was getting weaker and the numbness seemed to have reached his brain like a dose of Pentothal. When he finally heard the engine he was only mildly interested, and the men yelling at him seemed to be making a fuss over nothing. One of them had orange hair and looked a little like some woman, someone he’d known a long time ago. A long long time ago . . .

  The orange hair emerged from the fog like a sunrise. It had a face in the middle, not a young face or a pretty one, but familiar and reassuring.

  “You really blew it this time, junior,” Charity Nelson said. “I brought you some carnations. That’s how I know you’re awake. I put one under your nose and your nostrils twitched.”

  He struggled to speak. His voice sounded as if it were coming from under water. “How—Ted?”

  “Hush. The doctor told me not to let you talk when you woke up. How’s Ted Jasper? Still alive in the Intensive Care Unit and his mother’s with him. That’s all I know.”

  He turned his head to one side and saw the cot beside the window, looking as if it had been slept in.

  “Your doctor’s been with you all night,” Charity said. “I sent her out to get some breakfast. How are you feeling?”

  “All right.”

  “Smedler gave me the whole day off to help look after you. I was a nurse once. I don’t remember much about it but I can still plump pillows, give a bath and hold your hand. Want me to hold your hand?”

  “More than I want you to give me a bath.”

  “I’ll overlook that remark, junior. Are you hungry? Of course you are. How about something revolting like poached eggs and mashed potatoes? You’re supposed to be on a soft diet.”

  “Why?”

  “Beats me. If I were in charge of your case I’d give you steak and french fries. There’s nothing like a long cold swim to sharpen the appetite.” Charity leaned over and peered into his face. “Everything considered, you don’t look so bad. Maybe your doctor will let you have steak and french fries after all. She’s very sympathetic. Cute, too. In fact, a real knockout, with blue eyes and black hair and dimples. Dimples yet. I’ve always wanted dimples. When I was in high school I sent away for something advertised in True

  Romances guaranteed to make dimples. For one buck I received a little piece of metal I was supposed to stick in my cheek with adhesive plaster every night. I used it and in the morning I’d have a dimple for fifteen min­utes. That’s the story of my life—none of my dimples lasted more than fifteen minutes.”

  “Laurie,” he said. “You were describing my wife, Laurie.”

  “Of course I was. I called her yesterday afternoon as soon as I heard what had happened. Smedler himself went to pick her up at the airport. How’s that for a first?”

  “Laurie.” He put his arm over his forehead so Charity wouldn’t see the tears welling in his eyes.

  She saw them anyway. “Now don’t get sloppy and senti­mental. Here’s some Kleenex. Or maybe you’ll need a towel if you’re going to pull out all the stops. Incidentally she seems crazy about you, too. She doesn’t see as much of you as I do—that may explain why.”

  He wiped his eyes with the piece of Kleenex she handed him. “Who rescued—?”

  “Don’t ask questions and I’ll tell you what I know. The harbormaster became suspicious when you didn’t come back from the Spindrift. He tried to contact the boat by phone and couldn’t. Then he saw it speeding out of the harbor and he notified the Coast Guard. They sent the cutter after you. Ted Jasper was in bad shape by that time, suffering from loss of blood and shock and hypothermia. You had some degree of hypothermia but they warmed you up and stuck a few needles into you and here you are.”

  “What about Cleo and Donny?”

  “They’ve both been arrested. That’s all I was able to find out.”

  Donny Whitfield. He thought of the fat, morose boy he’d first seen outside Holbrook Hall. If it wasn’t for one small mistake, Donny might still be there, sitting under the oak tree eating corn chips and chocolates. It’s my fault. I made the mistake. I left the keys in the ignition. My fault—

  “My fault,” he said and
began shaking his head back and forth as if to shake off his guilt.

  “Stop that,” Charity said, readjusting the oxygen mask none too gently. “Any more acting up and I’ll call the nurse to jab you with another needle.”

  “Car key—”

  “What do you want your car keys for? You’re not going anyplace. Now shut up or I’ll resign from your case. This Florence Nightingale bit is a drag. Where do you want me to put the flowers I brought you?”

  He told her.

  “Junior, that’s not nice. But since irritability is one of the first signs of convalescence, I’ll overlook it this time. I may, however, bring it up in the future when you’re asking for a favor at the office. By the way, congratula­tions.”

  “What for?”

  “You were hired to find Cleo. You found her.”

  There was a knock on the door. Charity said, “Come in . . . Oh, he’s doing fine. Weepy, hungry, crabby. Can’t ask for better signs.”

  “Thank you, Miss Nelson.”

  The voice was pleasant and cool; the hand that touched his forehead was soft, the fingers on his pulse gentle.

  “I’m Dr. MacGregar,” she said. “I’m in charge of your case and I don’t believe you need that oxygen mask on any­more. Mind if I remove it?”

  “Laurie. Laurie. It’s really you.”

  “Please don’t get emotional—Tom, you might have died. You might have died.”

  They held each other close for a long time, unaware that Charity was watching from the doorway. She would be expected to describe the scene later to all the girls in the office and she wanted to make sure she didn’t miss any details.

  Rachel Holbrook knew what was coming but she was not sure when or what form it would take: perhaps an invitation to appear at the next board of directors meeting in two or three weeks, or a formal letter from the execu­tive committee, or a long-winded legal document full of whereases and therefores. What she didn’t expect was a phone call from Smedler, her only longtime friend among the directors.

  Smedler didn’t waste time on amenities. “Have you seen today’s papers, Rachel?”

  “No.”

  “The reporters and photographers are having a field day with this. The L.A. Times has it featured as their leading story, and in the local paper there’s a whole page of pic­tures, a rundown on everyone involved and even a history of the school. There’ll undoubtedly be an editorial within the next few days crying for blood. Some of it is bound to be yours, Rachel.”