Sargasso

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Sargasso Page 7

by Russell C. Connor


  Carlos took the stairs up to the main deck two at a time, feeling broken, humiliated and a little dizzy from the teeth-loosening blow. Jorge’s laughter followed him out. The salt air hit him, helping to wake him out of his stupor.

  This was family?

  He put the pistol back in his waistband and started toward the stern. As he passed by the narrow opening leading to the maintenance hatch for the engine room, he almost ran into Ray.

  “We need to talk,” the other man said.

  “Jesus. What now?”

  “I’ll make this quick and simple: you need to get off this ship. Disappear at the next port. You’ve never fit in around here, and you ain’t never goin to.”

  A sudden moment of panic speared Carlos. Leaving on his own terms was one thing, but getting outcast? He clung to the one thing that could save him. “Yeah, and what’s Lito gotta say ‘bout that, homey?”

  “Don’t know, and don’t care. Lito still thinks you’re a child who’s eventually gonna grow up, but you and me…we know different, don’t we?”

  Carlos tried not to let the shock—or worse, the truth—show on his face. “You can’t do nuttin to me.”

  Ray nodded his head thoughtfully. “You should remember, Carlos: it’s Lito that gave up on violence, not me. Now get up front. We’re about to make a move and as long as you’re still here and gettin a cut, you’re gonna work for it.”

  He shoved past Carlos and shouted downstairs that it was showtime. Carlos waited until the others had filed out and then glanced back at the maintenance hatch as an idea began to form. He made a sudden pledge to himself.

  Whatever else happened tonight…not one of his fellow crewmembers was coming back from this alive.

  4

  “The best story I ever heard about the Bermuda Triangle goes like this.”

  Eric took another hit off the huge bong, then passed it and his lighter to Cherrywine. “Guy comes through here back in 1970, probably right about where we are now. He’s sailing around the world or some shit like that. Anyway, in the middle of the night, he comes up on this old ship just floating, free-anchor. And when I say ‘old,’ I mean Mayflower-Spanish-Armada kind of old.”

  “I don’t think I wanna hear this,” Cherrywine whimpered, smoke dribbling from her nostrils.

  Amber wasn’t sure if she did either. She’d never been the skittish type—she hated those girls at school who insisted they couldn’t watch horror movies—but she was beginning to feel uneasy again.

  She declined the bong this time as it made a circuit around to her. Eric had built a cozy campfire in the pit at the stern of the yacht, and they’d sprawled on the four benches around the crackling flames for a couple of hours, eating sandwiches from the fridge, drinking Red Stripe and blazing through the bag of weed Eric had gotten on the island. She was already buzzed far beyond her usual limit, but it just felt so good to turn off her mind for a while. School felt deliciously far away, and, in an effort to forget all her problems, she’d made a point of avoiding eye contact with Justin across from her.

  Eric ignored Cherrywine and continued. He’d obviously been waiting for just the right moment to tell his ghost story. “This guy, his name was Bidwell, he boards this ship, intending to claim it under maritime salvage. He said the thing looked brand new: no barnacles, no mildew or rot, food still on plates, not even spoiled, the whole deal.” He held up a finger and lowered his voice. “So he’s trying to figure a way to tow this thing into port when he starts hearing these moans from the holds downstairs.”

  Justin motioned for him to continue, eager for blood the way only a guy can be.

  “He goes down with only a flashlight, but something attacks him. He doesn’t get a good look at whatever’s in there. There’s too many, they’re moving too fast, and all he sees are shadows coming after him.”

  Cherrywine covered her eyes. Amber tried closing hers, but her dizzy head amplified the slight rocking of the boat. She had to open them before she got queasy.

  “Bidwell gets scratched on the arm by whatever it is, drops his flashlight, and takes off. He runs without looking back, jumps onto his ship, and sails for the horizon. He marks the location on a map and radios in to the Coast Guard. Help gets there, he takes them back to the area where he found the ship…but there’s no trace of it.”

  “That’s it?” Justin shrugged. “That’s lame, it sounds just like every other Triangle story.”

  “Yeah, except I think this one’s actually true.”

  “How come?”

  “Three reasons.” Eric leaned forward on the bench. “First of all, the guy was some kinda wall street tycoon. Got no reason to lie about it.”

  “Yeah, unless he just wanted the attention. Or he’s nuts.”

  Eric shrugged. “Second, he was very specific about the fact that he dropped his flashlight aboard that ship.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “So it’s just the kind of little detail that rings true to me. Most of the other stories you hear are so vague.”

  “He probably got drunk and dropped it in the ocean. What’s the third reason?”

  “Okay, so get this: the only reason anybody knows this story at all is because Bidwell talked to this reporter for a local paper when he got back to land to get his arm stitched up. After that…he disappeared. Nobody’s seen him since.”

  “You think he went back to the Triangle?”

  “No way, the guy was terrified. But the reporter said he was sick during the interview, like he had the flu or something. And the manager at the hotel where he stayed that night said some very men-in-black-type government guys came and took him away. They probably quarantined him. Or interrogated him. I mean, who knows what he really saw out here?”

  Justin still looked skeptical. “Where’d you hear this one anyway?”

  “Found it in a library book about conspiracy theories when we were in high school.”

  Amber let a harsh bark of laughter escape her. “Sounds like a reliable source.”

  Eric jumped to his feet, but not before Amber saw the scowl on his face. Little baby didn’t like having his precious Bermuda Triangle stories doubted. He made a show of stretching and said, “Time for bed. Let’s go Cherrywine.”

  “But I’m not tired yet!”

  “That’s good, cause we’re not gonna be sleeping.”

  He grabbed her wrist and pulled her up, all but slinging her over his shoulder like a caveman.

  Sudden panic knifed through Amber. She stood on wobbly legs and ran to cut them off before they made it to the stairs. “Wait, wait, don’t you wanna stay up a little longer? We can…we can…uh…toast marshmallows?”

  “Oh, I love marshmallows!” Cherrywine squealed.

  Eric snorted. “What’re you, in the fifth grade? Besides…” He shot a knowing glance at Justin that made her stomach drop. “I think your boyfriend over there wants some privacy. So he can make the biggest mistake of his life.”

  “Shut the fuck up, man,” Justin muttered.

  Eric went past her, still dragging Cherrywine behind him. The girl whispered to Amber as she went by, “Remember sweetie, just be honest.”

  Honest. Yeah, right. Anyway you sliced it—no matter how delicately she chose her words—this week cooped up on a boat was going to get incredibly long and uncomfortable after she told Justin he might as well take that huge diamond and toss it in the ocean Titanic-style for all the good it would do him.

  Unless you just say yes for now…and then tell him the truth when you get home.

  That option seemed even crueler. Unbelievably so.

  As they reached the stairs, Eric flipped a switch on the deck that shut down the floodlights, leaving them in the glow from the last few burning embers of the fire. The stars seemed to jump out at her from the heavens. “For ambiance,” he said, pronouncing the word like a snooty French waiter. They disappeared below deck.

  5

  Lito waited until the crew was gathered on deck before handing out assignments.
He’d spotted no more of the blue flashes, and from what he could see on the yacht, the party was winding down for the night. The floodlights were off, and the deck looked empty.

  “I want this to go smooth. No bloodshed, and no gunfire if possible. First and foremost, they do not see our faces. As long as they’re on this ship, everyone wears a mask. Got me?”

  They grumbled agreement.

  “Who’s goin over, Cap?” Jorge asked.

  “Rabid. Just Rabid,” he added quickly, before anyone could protest. To the Australian, he said, “Take one of the rowboats, get on board, and get those kids under control. Bound, gagged and blindfolded. When you signal the ship is yours, we’ll dock. The prisoners come over first. Mondo, you’re on jailer duty. Everybody else, transfer cargo over to the holds. Once the ship is stripped down, Ray will pilot. We’re not stoppin till we’re in port at Miami. I’ll call Dully when we get close and let him know we’re comin. Any questions?”

  There were none. The group broke up. Carlos stomped away without looking at him. Rabid—who had put on a black leather biker vest to cover the majority of his tattoos—headed to the port side of the ship, where two fiberglass rowboats were lashed to the deck. Lito and Ray lowered one into the water while Rabid pulled on a black ski mask and checked the cylinder of his magnum. The huge gun was one of the few that looked correctly proportioned in his hand. Jericho offered him one of their walkies, but Rabid refused.

  Lito stopped him as he swung a leg over the Steel Runner’s side.

  “Don’t hurt ‘em if you don’t have to. That includes the women, Rabid. They’re just a bunch of college kids out lookin for a good time. Threaten ‘em a little, they’ll be eatin outta the palm of your hand.”

  Rabid’s grin was a perfect example of how he’d gotten his nickname. “Oh yeah, Cap’n. Those two sheilas over there are gonna be eatin somethin all right, but it won’t be my hand.”

  He dropped over the railing and landed with a thud in the smaller boat below.

  6

  Amber turned back to face Justin. “I know I’ve told you this before, but…your friend is a real dickhead.”

  Justin gave her a slightly drunken wave. “You gotta understand, his father…he didn’t have an easy life.”

  “Oh yeah, poor little rich boy, woe is me. What, did Daddy not fork over his allowance on time every week?”

  He raised his beer bottle and blew across the top, producing a lonely whistle, then said, “You try having a father that’s the head of one of the last mob families in Philadelphia and see how normal you turn out.”

  “What? How do you…did he tell you that?”

  “Nope. He hardly ever talks about his old man. Never let me meet him. I found out when we were twelve or thirteen, and his father got indicted. His face was all over the news for like a week. I was too young to really understand what it meant, but my parents didn’t want me to hang out with Eric after that. His dad beat the charges and kept a pretty low profile since, so not a lot of people even remember that about Eric.”

  And Amber got the feeling the only reason she was getting the inside scoop now was because the alcohol had loosened Justin’s tongue.

  She made a show of checking her watch. It was just rounding to ten. “So you wanna go to bed too?”

  “Not quite yet.”

  “You sure? We don’t have to sleep either, you know.” She tried on a seductive smile. As awful as it sounded, it would be so much easier to fuck him right now than talk to him. Anything to delay what must be coming. She’d even be willing to do that thing with her tongue he loved so much.

  But instead, he patted the bench beside him. “Why don’t you come over here? I feel like I haven’t been able to spend any real time with you since the plane ride.” He frowned. “Plus, I’m not too eager to listen to Eric and Cherrywine get it on.”

  Because that one wasn’t exactly on her wish list either, Amber went. She sat next to him. He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her over against his bare chest. There used to be comfort in that, but now…it felt empty. It was like there was a switch in her head, one that had been flipped by the mere sight of that ring in his bag.

  “You okay?”

  “Uh huh.” She couldn’t do this right now. Her head was swimming from the booze and weed. The boat’s motion was beginning to feel like some carnival tilt ride, even with her eyes open.

  “You seem tense. You’ve seemed tense all day.”

  “Just…school.”

  “You’ll be fine. You’re one of the most smart, capable people I’ve ever met. That’s one of the things I love about you.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Her stomach felt like the inside of a washing machine.

  “I’m really glad we got a chance to do this. It’s kinda romantic being out here, huh?”

  Gag me, was this it? Was this really how he was going to do it? It sounded like the speech she’d gotten from the guy who took her to prom, his not-so-subtle way of trying to finagle a blowjob. She wasn’t the type to expect her proposal to be written in the sky with fireworks like in a movie, but the reality was sadly hysterical.

  Amber started laughing against him. She tried to smother it and couldn’t.

  “What’s so funny?” Most guys would’ve been annoyed, but he sounded amused, a perfect prince, and she hated him for it and hated herself for hating him.

  She opened her mouth to say something, anything to derail this train before it could pull into the station with its bomb attached, and instead felt her stomach throw the works in reverse. It was all she could do to reach the back of the boat and lean over the guardrail before chunks of half-digested sandwich spewed from her lips. They hit the water below with tiny splashes.

  “Oh honey.” Justin was there, brushing her hair back out of her face, helping her back to the couch. She sat down heavily, and he knelt in front of her to rub her bare thighs. “Was it the beer, or are you just seasick?”

  “I don’t know. But I feel better now.” And she did; the fog in her head was dissipating.

  “Okay, good. Because, well…there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

  His hand stole down to the cargo pocket of his shorts. It seemed to happen in slow motion. She would give anything not to have to face this moment.

  And then her wish was granted, as a huge man in a ski mask appeared over Justin’s shoulder.

  7

  Cherrywine—whose real name was actually Cheryl Windsor, although she hadn’t gone by it since she left home at the age of 16—allowed herself to be dragged into the master cabin in the bottom of the yacht. Once inside, she rushed past Eric with a giggle and flopped down on the king-size bed with its fluffy comforter and kicked her legs in the air.

  Who would’ve thought she’d end up in a place like this? Certainly not her mother (whose only other pearl of wisdom seemed to be that her daughter’s head manufactured stupid faster than the Chinese did everything else) or her stepfather (who was still, to this day, the only man she’d been in a relationship with for longer than a month) or any of the other girls at the club. And yet here she was, jetting through the Caribbean with a man that wasn’t even twice her age.

  She looked up. Eric stood in the doorway, watching her with an intense, spaced-out grin on his face.

  Cherrywine thought about what Amber told her, that there was a debt to be paid for this trip. And now, she was about to get the bill. She’d known sex would be required, and it really didn’t bother her; she’d fucked other guys for a lot less.

  The thing was though, Eric really was gorgeous…and rich…kind of overbearing, sure, but funny…and she thought she liked him. And if she wanted this to last, then maybe she shouldn’t treat the situation like normal. She should make him respect her. She couldn’t remember what women’s magazine she might’ve read this in, but the idea seemed sound.

  “Poor Justin,” she said, desperate to make conversation. “I feel bad for him.”

  “Poor Justin what?”

  “He’s gonn
a ask Amber to marry him.”

  “You know about that?”

  “Yeah. Amber does too. She’s gonna turn him down.”

  To her surprise, Eric laughed. It had a mean-natured ring to it. “Good. Asshole needs to have his heart broken. Then maybe he’ll learn the one thing women are truly good for.”

  With that, he stalked toward the bed, shrugging out of his unbuttoned shirt to reveal a chiseled six-pack, and dropping his swim trunks. His dick wasn’t quite erect but getting there, dangling from the trimmed thatch of his pubic hair. Something about his brazen intensity was frightening.

  “Hey, wait,” she said, propping up on her elbows.

  “What for?”

  “I was thinking—”

  “Don’t.”

  “…don’t what?”

  “Think. You ain’t so hot at it, honey. It’ll just get you into trouble.”

  She blushed with embarrassment. She hated when people called her stupid. “Maybe we could…you know…talk a little bit. Get to know one another. Kind of…take it slow.”

  He grunted. “Yeah, right.” Eric grabbed hold of her ankles and yanked her to the edge of the bed. His hands—rough hands, she was suddenly aware—slid down her waist, found the thin band of her bikini bottoms and jerked them down, manhandling them off her feet.

  Sudden panic kicked in. Cherrywine squirmed and tried to cover herself. “No, stop, I don’t wanna do it like this!”

  “Too late for that.” He grinned savagely, but his eyes were glassed over in a way that completely changed his rugged face into a blank mask. Her struggles only seemed to excite him more. She felt the tip of his cock pressing at the cleft between her legs as he held her against the bed.

  This was unexplored sexual territory for her. The bouncers at the club had always kept the grabbiest guys off her, and, even at the age of 15, when her stepfather first began his midnight excursions to her bedroom, the acts had been consensual.

 

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