by John Straley
I checked the lock again and punched the button on the tape machine and lay down. For a few minutes I listened to the voice of a child reading the story of God commanding a worm to nibble the roots of the fig tree that was shading Jonah.
There was a knock on the door and I turned off the tape. I went to the door and could hear Rosalind whispering. I opened the door and she was smiling a beatific smile as if she had just stepped out of the hot sun.
“I found him, Cecil. I just know he can help you.” And she pulled on the arm of the man standing next to her.
Cyril walked into the room.
“I don’t know if you remember him, Cecil. This is Cyril. We . . . well, you know, we walked in on him and that awful woman early on in the trip. Cyril was worried that I might tell so he came to talk to me about it, and you know we . . . we became friends.” Rosalind was holding Cyril’s hand and Cyril was smiling down at his shoes.
With his eyes cast down I suddenly knew something. Cyril was Rosalind’s angel.
“Hey, Cyril,” I said. “You befriend her to keep her from talking and you cut off a hand and serve it to me in an ice bucket. What’s up with that?”
Cyril looked startled. “No, sir. I never did cut off any hand.”
“What? You just found a dead girl’s hand lying around?”
“No, sir,” Cyril repeated and he walked toward me. “You make trouble for us down here. Why is that now?” The knife was back out and Rosalind stared at Cyril in disbelief. Cyril came closer.
“I never meant to cause trouble down here, Cyril,” I told him and stood my ground. “I just assumed you had cut off that dead girl’s hand to scare me.”
“Is this what you are telling the police then?” I could see Cyril had not slept well the last few nights. His eyes were rimmed red and he was having a hard time keeping them open.
“I told the police nothing,” I told him truthfully.
“He say if we just let everything calm down a little we be fine.” Cyril was motioning toward the pictures on Mr. Worthington’s wall. “No one going to miss a sheep doctor. No one left to care about that doctor now.” He held his knife almost carelessly, as if he were waiting for a potato to arrive before cutting his steak.
“Did you slice that dead boy’s throat, too?” I wanted the answer and I watched the knife.
“I swear to God, sir, I did not.” Cyril folded up the knife and put it back in his pocket. He stepped back, closed his eyes tight, then rubbed them as if he had been holding off tears for several days. “Oh dear God,” he mumbled. “I don’t know how I got into this. I truly don’t.”
Rosalind stepped forward. She rubbed the back of his neck and he let out a low moan.
“You better take me to Mr. Worthington then,” I told him.
“He’s not here.” Cyril’s eyes were still shut. A fat tear formed on his ebony cheek. “He’s getting ready to go ashore.”
“I need to speak with him,” I said as forcefully as I could to the crying man. Rosalind looked questioningly at me.
“We’ll go then,” Cyril said and he backed toward the door.
I was walking ahead of Cyril and Rosalind, and as I turned the corner of the narrow hallway I ran straight into David Werdheimer’s chest.
He did not say anything. He did not jump out of the way, nor did he hesitate. He pulled his arm back and punched me in the throat. I dropped to my knees. My head felt as if it were filled with bees. I clutched my throat and tried to suck in a breath. I did not succeed. Word kicked me in the crotch and I lay down.
“I got very cold in that cooler, Cecil.” Word was speaking calmly in almost a friendly tone. His voice had a nasal quality, so I think he was consciously trying to talk more from his diaphragm because of his injury. “It took them almost an hour to let me out,” he added without a trace of anger as he pulled his foot back for another kick. I tried to scramble away from him, clawing the sides of the wall.
“Calm down now,” Word said. The bandages were falling loose from his face and when I looked up at him from the floor he looked like a kid going out for Halloween in a hurry.
“I was right, Cecil, you really are a scamp.” Word leaned over me. “I can almost forgive you for breaking my nose, but I can’t let you run around loose, because we’ve almost got a deal. Just a few more hours and everything is wrapped up.” He stepped on my hand and put his full weight on it. There was a gentle pop as my thumb came out of its socket. Rosalind gasped.
Word looked up and saw Rosalind clutching onto Cyril’s shoulder. Now, Word looked as if he were going to cry. “Not another sheep!” He shook his head and just pointed above his head as he snapped a directive to Cyril. “Get her out of here. Upgrade her. Horizon Deck. I don’t care. I don’t want to deal with her right now.”
Cyril and Rosalind backed away. David Werdheimer started kicking me in the stomach and the head, falling into a workman’s rhythm alternating blows.
When I woke up I was in a dumpster along the wharf in downtown Juneau. The bees in my head had spilled out onto the smelly walls above my bed. All I could see was a flurry of tropical fish darting about in the darkness and a split of light above me.
I elbowed my way out of the garbage and stood waist-high in the dumpster. It was raining gently. The Westward loomed above me. Its immense white hull was lit by the streetlights. A string of colored lamps swung in the fresh breeze between its stack and fantail. Marine signal flags fluttered. There was a raven standing flat-footed on the dock some ten feet from me. He called and bickered at me standing there in his garbage, hackles up, feathers ruffling with the wind.
“I’m sorry,” I said lamely, and the raven waddled away like a barrister, to another, less occupied, dumpster.
Off to my left a very small Filipino man stood gesturing to me. “Come. Come,” he said and he pulled his hands to his chest as if he were calling a puppy. “Come. I take you.”
I crawled out of the garbage and as I did the pain in my chest flashed everything red and when I woke up again I was looking into the face of the Filipino man. “I cannot call 911. Police come and I go. You come with me. I take you. Come. Come.” And he lifted my throbbing elbow, helping me to my feet.
We walked without speaking. No one seemed to notice us on these dark narrow streets. Downtown Juneau had been built as a mining town, with wooden streets and old boardinghouses. The ghosts were used to seeing men lumbering home supporting one another. But tonight, revelers from all over the world were drinking and shelling peanuts onto sawdust floors. Music spilled from every bar and wealthy retirees rushed past the Indian men sleeping near the covered transformers. Pretty Filipino girls were laughing and tripping in their high-heeled shoes. Dark men in new warm-up jackets nodded as their friends strolled by. Drunks looked for fights and lonely state workers looked for conversation. The fudge store and hamburger stand stayed open. Up and across from the old steam laundry the discotheque thumped out bowel-shaking dance tunes. Cars drove slow; men looked for women. Women hunched against their stares or laughed them off.
My guide took me to a small restaurant away from the din where there was a karaoke machine in the front with one fat young white girl who was flipping through the book and absently twirling the cordless microphone. There was a beaded curtain in the back of the room. My guide pointed. “Back there. Okay?” he said and I walked through.
There was an alcove off the kitchen with a large round table. Magazines were stacked in the center, next to three glass ashtrays. Mr. Worthington sat at the table with his back to the corner, his jet-black features resplendent over his dark blue suit and white shirt open at the neck.
“You look terrible, sir,” he said and gestured at me to sit down.
Looking at me, he shook his head as if I were living proof of something he long suspected. “They believe in their authority. It makes them stupid sometimes.” Then he threw a menu across t
he table to me. “You eat something then. I’ll take care of it.”
An older woman gave me a glass of water. I took a sip, swirled the lemon-water in my mouth, and spit it out. The water turned red. The woman brought me another glass of water and a dry cloth with some ice. She pantomimed that I was to use the cloth and the ice on my face.
I wrapped the cubes in the cloth and when I raised it to my head, was surprised by the new shape of my face.
“Mr. Worthington, I have been stupid in this,” I said. “I’ve run into some trouble and I’ve come to you for help.” I worked my tongue along each of my teeth, checking for gaps.
He smiled and for the first time I noticed a row of gold caps far back in his mouth.
“I sent for you, sir, because you have been very useful to me and I want to help.” He leaned forward. “You are the detective then. Did you figure out your case, yes?” He did not look worried.
I was very tired and my head hurt more with each beat of my heart. I thought I had two seriously loose teeth. I was not going to dance with Mr. Worthington.
“Here is what I think . . .” I looked down at the white cloth in my hand and saw only a smudge of my own blood. “Cyril says he did not mutilate the bodies, and I suppose I believe him. You have a carpenter’s saw in your toolbox and I doubt there is a stick of wood on this boat you’d be cutting with it.”
Mr. Worthington kept smiling broadly. “This is so.” He spread his massive hands on the shelf-paper tablecloth. His expression was starting to change as he watched my battered face and listened to my voice as I laid it out.
“Mr. Worthington, you knew about the doctor and the euthanasia groups.”
He held up one hand to stop me.
“I am not a foolish man, Mr. Younger. I know the difference between what they call ‘passive’ and ‘active.’ This man, this . . . doctor was not just letting the sickness take its course. Neither was he treating their pain and letting the drugs beat the disease to the end. I am not a zealot, Mr. Younger. Nor do I blame the doctor’s patients for what they want. I know of people’s suffering when they leave this world and they are the blessed, you know, sir.”
“But the doctor was working on a schedule, wasn’t he?” I said and I shifted the position of the ice against my jaw. The older woman brought me some custard I had never asked for and I tasted it and kept talking.
“The patients on the Westward wanted to end their lives precisely at the moment when they finished their business. They wanted to go out to sea and never come back. But some of them lost their resolve. They were ambivalent and maybe they didn’t know what they wanted. But the doctor, he couldn’t just let them all wait until the last days of the trip. He had to make things work so as not to draw attention to himself. Or the company.”
The custard tasted wonderful. I mashed it around in my mouth with my tongue, not wanting to touch any of my teeth, then swallowed.
“Dr. Edwards was treating more and more of these patients. He found himself having to work them through during each cruise. If they all waited until the end, it could be a problem. They couldn’t have six or seven ‘natural’ deaths at one time. That would bring questions.”
Mr. Worthington smiled steadily at me. He spoke with confidence. “So they start pressuring the patients. They get them to go early. Then they can keep it manageable.” Mr. Worthington was brought a plate of red beans and rice with a large plate of pork ribs.
“So you began to mutilate the bodies to draw attention to the deaths,” I said.
Mr. Worthington stared down at his pork ribs. “You know that they would have to investigate a body with a hand cut off. The police anywhere in the world would think that strange, don’t you think, sir? Sure, I did that. I couldn’t talk to the police myself. I’d be off the boat for sure then.”
We sat and ate in silence. Down in the streets I heard glass breaking on the sidewalk and some men shouting. I heard the tinkle of a woman’s laugh.
Mr. Worthington continued, “I took that poor dead girl’s hand in Ketchikan. I thought sure somebody ask questions. But they make her disappear. They fake her name and they burn her quick. So . . .” He shook his head.
“So you send the hand up to me in an ice bucket.”
“Sure, crazy I know, but I figure this get your interest. You are the detective, after all.” He chewed carefully on a rib. Then he picked at a tooth with the nail on his little finger. He made a soft sucking sound.
“Did you throw the doctor overboard?” I asked out of genuine curiosity.
“Naw.” Mr. Worthington shook his head. “I came up just after. But ask yourself, man, who would be angry if the doctor was moving up the dying list too fast?”
I held the spoon of custard in front of my lips. I was trying to work through this problem when the beads behind me parted and the captain of the Westward and Sonny Walters walked in.
The captain gave a gesture so that we could stay seated even though neither Mr. Worthington nor I ever offered to stand. Sonny Walters looked as if he were living one of those horrible test-taking dreams where you are not prepared and can’t believe how you got back into the class.
“Gentlemen,” the captain said in a lighthearted voice. As he sat down he got a good look at my face and he grimaced. Then he turned angrily to Sonny.
“This is your fault, you know,” the captain snapped.
“My fault! He’s my guy, for crying out loud. It was your thug that did this to him,” Sonny whined.
The captain waved away Sonny’s voice as if it were a bad smell.
“So,” he said and turned to Mr. Worthington. “I understand we have an understanding.”
“This could be true,” Mr. Worthington replied.
The captain placed a black athletic bag on the table. It rattled the flatware. “This is the wages due you up to this point. And for the rest of the season, which you do not have to work.”
Mr. Worthington smiled but did not reach for the black bag. The captain cleared his throat and continued. “There is also the bonus we mentioned. All in US currency. We will have all of your gear delivered to the airport here in Juneau. We will provide you with a plane ticket to Miami. From there you will have to deal with the cash yourself in order to move it back to the islands.”
Sonny Walters sat forward and stabbed his finger at Mr. Worthington. “In exchange for this you have to sign this contract agreeing to cooperate with both our companies’ direction. You will talk to no police agencies, no journalists, no other parties in any potential suits. In other words—to no one. You are not to discuss any of the medical practices on the ship, including medications, diagnosis, or record keeping. You will not mention anything about falsifying death records or any subject relating to any deaths on board ship. Do you understand?”
Mr. Worthington nodded but did not look at Sonny. Undaunted, Sonny kept on. “You will be listed as an employee of the cruise line and will be held liable to all our personnel policies.” Sonny reached inside his blue blazer and took out a stapled sheaf of papers. “And if you don’t sign this or refuse to meet all the terms of our agreement, we will turn you over to the authorities in the US and we will seek extradition for the mutilation of the bodies and as a suspect in the murder of the ship’s doctor.”
“What about the poor doctor after I sign this?” Mr. Worthington took the pen Sonny offered him and began reading the agreement.
“We believe the doctor’s death to be accidental in nature. Alcohol involvement, no doubt. Perhaps a suicide attempt gone . . . right.” The captain looked at me and his massive eyebrows arched over the merry gleam in his eyes.
Sonny Walters was getting impatient. “Just sign the damn agreement. It’s a standard employee agreement. What . . . you want your lawyer to go over it?” His voice squeaked with sarcasm.
“Health insurance. I’m going to have it.” Mr. Worthington
slapped down the pen.
“No way.” Sonny slapped his hand on the table. He looked nervously at the captain. “No darn way am I putting a low level seaman who will not even be really working for us on our company health plan.”
“Then I’m sorry, Mr. Walters.” And Mr. Worthington pushed the papers back. “I’m going to need insurance for my Martha to go to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota. No point to this otherwise.”
The captain scowled at Sonny and shook his head, then grabbed the agreement and drew a circle and wrote something in the margins. “Do it,” the captain said and pushed the papers back in front of Sonny Walters, who hung his head and begrudgingly initialed the changes.
“Excuse me,” I piped up. “But what about me and my party?” I asked, sweet as pie.
The captain did not even look at me as he spoke. “You’ve been upgraded. Horizon Deck. Full service.” Then he scowled at Sonny Walters. “As for the rest of it, you have to deal with . . . your boss.” He said those last two words as if he were spitting piss out of his mouth.
“Cool,” I said and slapped Sonny on the back in a sign of filial loyalty. Sonny slumped down in his chair and sighed.
After Mr. Worthington signed the agreement, the captain and Sonny did not stay to watch him finish his meal, but left abruptly like men with things to do. I was not one of those men so I stayed with Mr. Worthington and we exchanged addresses. He offered me a place to stay on the Island if I ever visited and I said I just might. When I finally pulled myself up, I offered him my hand and he took it.
I hobbled down the street slowly. The noise of the street parties was abating. The few men left out on the sidewalk were mostly too drunk to be festive. The women out on the street would curl up and sleep there till morning. I could smell popcorn in the air and some spilled beer.
As I walked near a knife store I heard a voice in a darkened doorway.
“Hey! Did they take care of everything then?”
It was Isaac Brenner. He was not smoking his fat cigar but was standing with a windbreaker pulled up on his neck. The tips of his leather shoes just caught the light from the street. I stopped short and looked at him. I did not answer. My brain felt as battered as my body. Brenner looked back at me and did not try to hide from my stare.