Sargasso

by Russell C. Connor

  He pulled a newspaper out of the dumpster and used it to wipe the worst of the blood from his sandals and legs, then started back to the boat.

  1

  The MishMasher pulled out of dock at Prince George around two in the afternoon, with the sun straddling the ocean off the port bow and casting ripples of golden fire across the water. The sky was still gorgeous and clear besides an ink spot of dark clouds to the south. Eric throttled the engines up to a steady roar, blasting the yacht over the surface at close to 40 miles per hour. Within minutes, Nassau fell away behind them, the whole island sinking into the pencil-thin line of the horizon.

  The solitude made Amber feel a little helpless. She imagined how they must look from high above, a tiny speck on an endless blue field. She’d been on boats, but always within view of a shoreline. Out here, with only ocean on all sides…it was a little disorienting. She tried to compare the experience to long road trips she’d taken—one in particular through the Mojave, where the only things around had been scrub grass and sand dunes—but being miles away from civilization in a boat wasn’t like being in a car; you could get out of a car if you needed to, and it wouldn’t ever sink out from under you.

  More than anything though, it just made her feel trapped. Sort of smothered. She finally had to push these thoughts away before she freaked herself out.

  Eric remained upstairs at the controls, blasting Pantera and Megadeth over the boat’s stereo system. Cherrywine spent the time stretched out on one of the deck chairs, sunbathing with her top off. Usually behavior like that would’ve annoyed the piss out of her, but the new Amber—the one that had looked through the fly’s eye and come out the other side—found it amusing. She couldn’t help but think how much easier it would make things if Cherrywine seduced Justin…and maybe they slipped away…and then Amber caught the two of them together, giving her the perfect, guilt-free excuse to break up with him.

  Yeah, right. As far as she could see, the big boy scout wasn’t even trying to ogle anymore. Was it so much to ask for him to just cheat on her?

  For the first time, the odd sense of apathy for him that had been growing in her since last night was replaced by full-on annoyance.

  He tried to get her to go to the back of the boat, where they’d have some privacy, but she grabbed her textbooks and took a seat near the front, overlooking the brilliant blue water as it rushed beneath them. The wind in her face felt wonderful. She took off her hat to enjoy it, freeing her short mop of dark hair. Justin followed like a little lost puppy, taking the opposite end of the bench, and that annoyed her, too.

  “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?” he asked, leaning close to her and shouting over the sound of music, motors and wind.

  She pointed at her ear, shook her head, and buried her nose in her studying.

  At some point, she dozed, and the next time her eyes opened, the world had been painted with black. A bloated spring moon hung in the sky, surrounded by more stars than she’d ever seen in her life, each one with a duplicate reflected on the face of the black water surrounding them. Across from her, Justin was passed out with drool glistening at the corner of his mouth. His eyes fluttered open and he gave her a smile.

  The music snapped off and the engines throttled back, leaving them in silence save for the splash of the boat’s wake. Their speed slowed drastically as water sucked at the hull. Floodlights blazed down on the deck from the top of the control booth.

  Amber checked her watch, pressing the button on the side to light up the face. Just before seven o’clock. It was chilly now that the sun had gone down, and the air felt crackly with the threat of discharge. She thought she caught a faint whiff of ozone on the breeze. Amber rubbed at the goose bumps spreading up her arms, and a giant spark of static electricity jumped from the vinyl back of the couch to her bare flesh. She couldn’t stop a small squeak of surprise from escaping her, but no one noticed.

  Eric came down with a beer in one hand and a joint in the other. He blew a ream of sweet smoke into the crisp sea air. “Welcome to Sargasso, ladies and gentleman.”

  “Ewww!” Cherrywine’s voice came from the railing, where she was tying her skimpy top back on. Eric started toward her. Justin and Amber followed, leaning over beside the stripper as she asked, “What is that stuff?”

  “That is what gave this place its name,” Eric said. “‘Sargasso’ means a whole shitload of seaweed.”

  Around the boat, as far as the floodlights could reach, the calm, even surface of the water was interrupted by floating mats of vegetation. Amber figured they must be brown or green, but they had an oily sheen in the light that almost made them look blue. Their previous speed had created a wave that shoved the plants out of their path, but now that they were drifting, the seaweed crept back in to caress the side of the hull at the waterline.

  A wave of fresh goose pimples moved up Amber’s arms.

  Justin stuck out his tongue. “Ugh. I guess going for a night swim’s out.”

  Eric grinned. “Plenty of stories about this stuff too. Sailors used to be scared of it.” He grabbed the waist-high railing and twisted his hands on the metal. “Just think: every part of the Bermuda Triangle legend—every boat or plane that’s ever disappeared—happened right out here.”

  “I thought all those stories were fake,” Amber muttered.

  “I said most. Still a few mysteries they haven’t solved, and people gone missing. Think about it: their bodies are probably right under our feet!”

  “Must be nice to pick and choose what you believe.”

  “What can I say, I’m a skeptic that wants to be proven wrong.”

  “I don’t like it!” Cherrywine complained. “Can we go somewhere else?”

  “Not while it’s dark. I don’t wanna get this stuff caught in the props. This is where we set up shop for the night.”

  Amber thought that excuse stank of bullshit—a way to make sure they stayed put until morning—but she said nothing.

  “Where are we, exactly?” Justin asked.

  “About halfway between the Bahamas and Bermuda. Three hundred miles from the closest land.”

  “You’re sure you know how to get there?” Justin sounded a little unnerved himself. Maybe Amber wasn’t the only one feeling claustrophobic.

  “Dude, what do you think, I’m navigating by the stars? This ship has fully-functional GPS. I don’t have to know jack shit.”

  “And we have enough gas?”

  “Jesus, yes, what the hell’s wrong with you, man? Your dick fall off on the way here?”

  Amber was only half-listening to this exchange as she watched the endless stretch of ocean ahead of them. Everything was a flat, featureless landscape beyond the floodlights, but, for just a second, she could’ve sworn she saw a tiny blip in the distance, a shape silhouetted against the bruised purple line of the horizon. She scanned the darkness, trying to pick it out again.

  Eric passed the joint to Justin, who took a hit. “All right people, let’s party.”

  2

  Lito harbored no hope of keeping up with the rich kids’ boat. The Steel Runner wasn’t made for speed, but it didn’t matter. The GPS screen beside him showed the exact location of their prey, thanks to the tracker Jericho put on their hull. It took another two hours after their dot stopped moving to catch up, even with the Runner’s engines opened all the way. When the distance between them closed to ten miles, Lito throttled back to a crawl but continued forward until he spotted the gleam of their running lights ahead.

  He took a pair of binoculars from under the wheel and trained them on the yacht. The Halverson blazed out there. Figures moved around on the deck.

  “Jesus, it’s like these kids wanna get jacked,” Ray said in Spanish behind him.

  “I know. That’s what money does to these rich assholes. No self-preservation instinct.”

  “They’ll learn tonight.” Ray chuckled and lit up a cigarette, then offered the pack to Lito, who declined. “You decide what we’re gonna do with �
��em?”

  Lito shrugged. They’d never attempted to take an entire boat. It was much easier to board, subdue the passengers, strip the ship down, and leave. Taking prisoners was an added complication…but that gleaming white yacht—parked a good three or four hours from help of any kind—was too tempting to pass up. “Dump ‘em in the water off the nearest port, I guess.”

  “Alive?”

  Lito paused to think about that. “Unless they force us to do otherwise.”

  “Guess that would fuck up this whole yin-yang thing you got goin, huh?”

  Ray’s tone, not to mention the smirk on his face, told Lito how funny he thought his friend’s recent interest in the eastern philosophies was. The rest of the crew hadn’t taken too kindly to his avoid-murder-at-all-costs edict either. “Well, killin is bad for the soul, Ray, but this is more about business, plain and simple. The more tourists turn up missin or dead around here, the sooner we’re gonna have Coast Guard and police boats shoved up our ass on routine patrols.”

  “Yeah, like just takin their half-a-million-dollar boat is gonna be any better.” Ray shook his head. “In any case, you better tell the others the plan then. Rabid and Jorge are downstairs right now playin poker to decide who gets the blonde.”

  “Where’s Carlos?” Lito tried not to sound too interested.

  “Locked in his bunk like a fuckin teenager.”

  “He is a fuckin teenager.”

  “He’s a disrespectful shithead who don’t belong here, Lito. He ain’t cut out for this lifestyle.”

  “Give him time.”

  “We’ve given him two years. I don’t trust him. And that’s not ever gonna change.”

  Lito said nothing, just stared out the wheelhouse window at the distant lights of the yacht off the starboard bow. Ray smoked his cigarette down to the filter and asked, “If we manage to move that boat for three-hundred thou, your cut will be somewhere just north of a hundred. What’re you gonna do with that much money?”

  “Fix up the Runner, probably. You?”

  Ray took his time answering. “Been meanin to talk to you about that. This whole deal goes okay…I’m out. Headin into the states.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I’m serious, Lito.”

  “Believe it when I see it.”

  “It’s true. I’m goin, and Jericho’s comin with me. Maybe Mondo, too.”

  Lito frowned. “Really? They said that?”

  “Yep. Woulda asked Rabid and his little sidekick, but they’re a bit too trigger-happy for the straight life.”

  “But why now, all of a sudden?”

  “Because we’ll have the cash. Because that fucker back in Cuba was a wake-up call. The Dominican wants our blood, and sooner or later he’s gonna get it. We’ve had a good run, but I want out before I end up dead. Or worse, like Brewster.”

  Brewster, their last captain, had been caught by the Coast Guard down south of Key Largo just a few weeks after Lito and Ray had stolen the Steel Runner. Due to some jurisdictional quirk of the maritime law, he’d been remanded to Mexico, where he was serving out his time in a fleabag prison that only saw sunlight for fifteen minutes each day.

  Ray said, “You could come too, you know.”

  “And do what?”

  “Me and Jericho wanna open up a shop on the beach. Maybe in California. Fixin boat engines. Mondo can sell sandwiches to the tourists.”

  Lito burst out laughing.

  “What’s up?” Ray sounded pissed.

  “Sorry man, I was just imaginin the three of you livin together like the fuckin Cleaver family.”

  Ray’s lips puckered. “Yeah, well, suit yourself, man. I’ll go get the others ready to move.” He walked out of the wheelhouse, then poked his head back in. “And just so you know, if you decide to come, Carlos ain’t invited to tag along.”

  Lito was still laughing, but it soon tapered. He’d been friends with Ray a long time. He couldn’t imagine what life would be like without the man watching his back, or the Steel Runner with a new crew.

  He turned to watch the rich kids’ yacht…and that was when he saw the stuttered explosion of blue light somewhere far beyond the other ship.

  “Whoa. What the hell?”

  The sky lit up in an irregular series of muted flashes, like lightning wrapped in the heart of thick clouds, except, judging by the angle of its fade, the origin had to be somewhere on the water’s surface. The color was beautiful, the pure blue of a clean-cut sapphire. He’d seen green flashes before, the phenomenon that occurs at dusk on the high seas, but, besides the fact that this was the wrong color, it was far too late in the day for one to appear, and they were one single burst rather than quick blips. These faded away as fast as they’d begun, cycling down like the last reverbs of an echo.

  His stomach gave an odd twinge, as though dinner wasn’t quite sitting right.

  Lito stepped out of the wheelhouse and walked to the bow of the ship. The night was still and utterly silent, the sky clear except for a high bank of building thunderheads that blotted out the stars behind them, to the southeast. Barely a wave stirred the unending mats of seaweed. The ocean was like a sheet of black glass.

  But the breeze carried a hint of something sharp and almost bitter.

  He scanned the horizon to the west with the binoculars. It did no good; with the moon only a crescent above, the night was pitch. It was doubtful the rich kids would’ve seen the distant blue sparks with their floodlights on, but he kept an eye on their boat for movement anyway.

  If there was another ship out there…they would have to reconsider their approach to this operation.

  3

  Carlos locked himself in his microscopic bunk after leaving port, but he’d gotten no sleep. He just stared at the ceiling and, to keep from remembering the way Diego had screamed, he daydreamed about how things would be different once this ship was his.

  But how the hell was he supposed to carry out Santiago’s orders? It all seemed so easy when he was standing in front of the man, but, then again, he supposed the prospect of climbing Kilimanjaro in your underwear looked like a cakewalk when the alternative was torture and death. Now though…? He couldn’t just walk out there and start shooting. He wasn’t the greatest shot, and he had no doubts a straight firefight against the entire crew would end badly for him.

  And issat somethin you could really do anyway? Kill ‘em all in cold blood? They the closest thing you had to family since your mom died.

  Rather than answer, he tucked the pistol in the back of his pants, pulled the tail of his wife-beater over it, and stepped out of his bunk.

  A small common area was just outside. Rabid, Jorge, and Jericho sat at a rickety folding table amidst the remains of several cases of beer and two bottles of tequila, playing cards. Mondo stood at the ancient range stove against the bulkhead, grilling up hamburgers that always tasted like fish and copper to Carlos. A cloud of cigarette and weed smoke hung over the scene.

  Rabid’s eyes rolled up from his cards to Carlos. “Well well, mates, the li’l bunny rabbit poked his head outta his hole. Whatcha think bunny, we gettin six more weeks of winter?”

  Jorge cackled. Mondo turned and gave him a squinty stinkeye. The old man was pissed about Carlos bugging out earlier.

  “That’s groundhogs, you Aussie redneck,” he muttered, and headed for the stairs up to the main deck.

  Rabid was up in a heartbeat, throwing down his cards and shoving the table aside. He put one thick arm across the door. A hammerhead shark stretched from wrist to elbow. Behind him, Jorge sat forward to watch. Jericho groaned and said, “Leave de boy alone and let’s play, Rabid.”

  The hulking Australian paid no attention to them, just leaned down and snarled, “What’d you say, you faggot?”

  Carlos knew the smart thing to do. Rabid was that special steroid brand of nuts, where a person’s brains leaked into their muscles and got converted to pure violent fury. Provoking him was as dangerous as poking a sleeping bear with your dick.
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  But things felt different today. He felt different.

  “Get your arm out my way, muhfuckah,” he said slowly. “Or else.”

  “Else what? You’ll go tell daddy on me?”

  “Lito ain’t my father.”

  “That’s right. You don’t know who your bloody father is, do ya?”

  The pistol was in Carlos’s hand before his brain registered he was reaching for it. He pressed the barrel against the forehead of the wolf tattooed in the middle of Rabid’s chest. Jorge’s snickering laughter stopped.

  “You pointin a gun at me, son?” Rabid leaned into him, forcing Carlos to push even harder. His hard eyes glittered.

  “Don’t,” Carlos warned. The trigger of the gun felt like ice beneath his finger.

  “You better not ever pull a bloody gun on me unless you got the balls to finish business, mate. Cause unlike Lito, I don’t give a shit about you. I got no qualms about breakin every bone in your body while you’re asleep, slittin your throat, and dumpin you overboard for the barracudas while you’re still squirmin.”

  Carlos wanted to kill him. Pow. One bullet straight through the heart, and one of his six problems was solved.

  But if he did, there would be no turning back. He’d have to finish as many of them as he could right now.

  Rabid didn’t look intimidated in the least. “I’m givin you one chance, you li’l pig fucker. Put that pussy peashooter away and get outta my face.”

  Carlos let the weight of the gun drag his arm down.

  Rabid’s open hand came up and then smashed across his cheek. Carlos was spun halfway around by the force of the belt. He touched the right side of his jaw, which already felt swollen. Without a word, Rabid went to sit back down at the table and resume his game.