A Trace of Revenge

by Lyle Howard

  The room filled with “Oohs” and “Aahs.”

  “For those of you who have prearranged with us to remain in Bermuda for a visit, rest assured that your luggage will be waiting for you at your hotel. The rest of you will be flown back early tomorrow at no expense on two jets I’ve chartered for your convenience. The Hydra will remain in King’s Wharf for a few days while our staff confirms that she performed as expected.” Mason tapped his forehead. “I almost forgot. For those of you daring enough, I invite you wholeheartedly to experience the most spectacular walk you will ever take. The concept of the Oceanwalk was always a dream of mine, but I’m here to tell you that dreams do come true, and if you’re brave enough, I encourage you to give it a try. Feel what it’s like to have the ocean racing forty feet beneath you with nothing between you and the water but four inches of glass! Just a warning,” Mason smiled. “Once you step off, there’s no turning back!”

  Mason could hear the mumbling from his guests as they argued if they were up to the dare. People were actually taking bets and challenging each other to give it a try. While some seemed up to the test, others shook their heads defiantly against it.

  This was what it was all about for Peter Mason. He would have loved the same enthusiasm from the crowd at the ballpark, but that was a miscalculation that would easily be fixed once the cargo was unloaded and the payment wired into his account. By the time they arrived in Bermuda, he would have more than enough to build his new ballpark, and maybe a hockey arena to boot.

  “Whatever you choose to do,” he announced, “We will be rounding you all up in about two hours to enjoy a sumptuous dinner created by our outstanding culinary staff. There will only be one seating, so we will be shutting down the tours while the food is being served. At that time, Captain Karrlson and I will be coming by each of your tables to see how you’re enjoying yourselves and to answer any questions you might have about the Hydra.”

  The crowd gave Peter Mason his second standing ovation of the evening. He blew kisses and waved to his adoring audience All of the critics who had written and badmouthed him about being the son of a hippie drug trafficker who was handed everything and achieved nothing on his own, well, they could all go straight to hell. Tonight that all ended.

  52

  The bridge of the Hydra was like nothing Roy Sowell had commanded before. The technology was so advanced, he had no doubt that the ship could have been outfitted to run itself. Gone was the traditional wheel that had long since been replaced on modern vessels by buttons, dials, and throttle levers. It was an eerie juxtaposition to sit in the captain’s chair and be reactive instead of proactive. All Sowell seemed to be doing was authorizing orders instead of commanding them. Times were changing. Time was passing him by.

  Every bulkhead was covered with screens that monitored every facet of the Hydra’s environment. To Sowell’s left, monitors displayed engineering and mechanical information. To his right, weather and sea conditions were continually updating through uplinks to NOAA atmospheric and ocean monitoring satellites.

  Through the panoramic windows, Sowell watched the day turn into night. He had been onboard for almost six hours and had never left the bridge. An elegant dinner had been delivered, consisting of a twenty-ounce ribeye, baked potato, and five thick spears of asparagus. They, along with a hefty slice of Godiva chocolate layer cake, remained untouched on a shelf in the back of the cabin. The hot food had long grown cold, and the dessert was no longer palatable to him.

  Spread before him were nearly two dozen screens, manned by two Mason employees whom Sowell had recently learned had no naval experience whatsoever. They were technicians trained on the equipment that guided and steered the ship along with every other aspect of the ship’s operation. Three people; that’s all it took to run the Hydra, and Sowell was beginning to believe that the chair he sat in was only there to appease any passengers who might tour the bridge on future trips.

  The technicians appeared to have their tasks divided evenly. The tall one on the left, who had introduced himself as Hassan, was a wiry fellow of East Indian origin who wore thick Buddy Holly glasses and carried a computer tablet that Sowell hadn’t seen him put down since he arrived. Manning the right side of the console was a shorter, more affable technician who had introduced himself as Jean-Baptiste. His accent was thick with Carribean flair, and he tended to smile a lot more than Hassan did.

  “Captain,” Hassan said, “All systems are functioning normally, and we have word from below that all guests are onboard and the gangway has been secured, sir.”

  Hassan stared at Sowell expectantly. “All systems are in the green and ready to go, sir.”

  Sowell turned his attention to Jean-Baptiste. “How’s the weather?”

  “Zero chance of precipitation, Captain, seas are one to three feet near the Gulf Stream, and wind is out of the southeast at eight.”

  Sowell grasped the arms of his chair. “Let’s take her out nice and smooth, then. We don’t want to rattle their champagne glasses. Ten percent on the bottom and five percent on the thrusters. Let’s raise her slowly and give them all a thrill.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hassan replied. “We have inflated all fourteen pods to ninety percent capacity, and the pressure is holding steady across the board. It looks good.”

  Sowell nodded. “Once we reach the ocean, I want the pods fully inflated and the bottom to fifty-five percent and the thrusters at thirty. I want to see how she handles with the extra ballast before I open her up. Carrying passengers is a completely different ballgame. We need to keep this ride smooth, boys. Don’t want the celebs bouncing around the ballroom.”

  Jean-Baptiste smiled. “Understood sir, we’ll keep her trimmed and level.”

  The Saint John’s river weaved its way eastward with subtle bends and turns to its geography. As this moderate speed, it would take twenty minutes to reach the mouth of the Atlantic, and then the audition would begin in earnest. While the surface of the river was calm and confined by land on both sides, the open ocean was always erratic, and even the most sophisticated equipment could not predict its temperament.

  “What kind of traffic do we have on the surface between Bermuda and us?”

  Hassan walked over to the wall of monitors on the port side and put his finger up to the screen. “Some small pleasure craft close to shore, and it looks like some heavier tonnage heading south out of Norfolk, most likely navy ships. Four of them.”

  “Are they in formation?”

  Hassan shook his head. “Negative, Captain. Two are heading southeast, one northeast, and one is hugging the coastline north. There is some commercial traffic, but it’s very far out. Nothing to worry about.”

  “And what about the Dobrinski? What is her position?”

  “She is holding steady at thirty-one degrees north and seventy degrees west. That’s about halfway to Bermuda. She’s been there for a few hours now.”

  Sowell leaned forward in his chair. “Don’t let her remain stationary. She’ll arouse suspicion. Make sure she keeps moving until we get closer.”

  “I’ll let her know, Sir.”

  There were fewer lights along the shore as the river twisted out to the Atlantic.

  “We’re passing Sisters Creek, Captain,” Jean-Baptiste announced. “She’s running smooth and level, and everything is still in the green. The passengers shouldn’t be able to hear or feel a thing.”

  “That’s what it’s all about!” Sowell sang.

  The two technicians looked at each other.

  “The Hokey-Pokey…that’s what it’s all about. Come on guys, you’ve never moved your left foot in, and moved your left foot out?”

  Hassan and Jean-Baptiste shrugged naively.

  Sowell put his head in his hands. “How is that possible?” He muttered.

  The technicians turned back to the monitors in front of them. “Passing Sherman Point, Captain. Heading i
nto the Mayport Cut.”

  Sowell scratched his head, and his fingers came away with a lock of thin gray hair caught between them. “I don’t need to be informed of every course correction you make. Just keep her steady.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sowell studied the stray strands of hair in his hand. They were dried out and brittle. “Pull up the perimeter cameras on screens one through three. I want to see if we still have an escort.”

  The camera located on the stern of the ship revealed a yacht filled with reporters and cameramen still trailing behind, while the port side camera showed an orange Coast Guard Zodiac, complete with a machine gunner standing on the bow. That was the standard operating procedure for the Coast Guard since September eleventh. They would tag alongside until the Hydra reached the Atlantic safely.

  Sowell lifted himself slowly out of his chair and walked over to the waste receptacle built into the starboard bulkhead. He pushed open the cover and let his hair fall into the plastic bag.

  “Are you alright, Captain?” Jean-Baptiste asked.

  Sowell turned and nodded. “Sure. What makes you think I’m not?”

  “Well, you didn’t eat your dinner, and you’re looking a bit peaked.”

  Sowell shuffled over and stood next to the technician. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Jean-Baptiste. But I would appreciate it if…” The words caught in his throat as he began to cough uncontrollably.

  Jean-Baptiste and Hassan each grabbed one of his arms as Sowell bent over in convulsions. Hassan reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to the Captain who stood slowly to catch his breath.

  “Wow, that was intense,” Sowell admitted, as he wiped his lips.

  “Are you sure you’re alright, Captain?” Jean-Baptiste asked again.

  Sowell tried to stand up straight but his eyes were still tearing, and his equilibrium was off. The two technicians carefully led him back to his chair.

  Hassan and Jean-Baptiste stood wide-eyed as Sowell regained some stability.

  “Why are you two staring at me like that? I said I was fine. I just choked a bit, that’s all. No big deal.”

  The technicians continued to watch him skeptically.

  “What’s the matter with you two? Haven’t you ever seen a person have a coughing jag before?”

  In unison, they pointed timidly at the handkerchief…

  It was drenched in blood.

  53

  As the Hydra headed out to sea, the tours of the ship began. Employees dressed in tuxedoes and gowns and sporting name tags escorted guest around the unrestricted sections of the boat. The brave ones were anxious to experience the thrill of the Oceanwalk. Many did it on a dare, while others had no compunction about stepping over the water churning below their feet. A perimeter of docking lights located just above the inflatable pods illuminated the dark blue waves so that even during a moonless night like tonight, the passengers could sense the exhilaration. The passengers were guided one at a time on both sides of the ship, but when the waiting lines grew too long and impatient, the escorts reluctantly allowed handfuls of guests to make the walk simultaneously. Some posed for pictures, while others moved at a speedy clip just to be able to claim that they had completed the disorienting expedition.

  In the dining room, many guests chose to sit and sip champagne and sample the hors-d’oeuvres being offered from table to table. Lauren King and Scott Simms were two of the crowd that decided to remain. Looking over the lip of her water glass, the detective scanned the room guardedly. The first passengers to draw her attention were Nicholas “Nicky the Knife” Coltello and his enforcer Jimmy Diaz. She wondered what a pair of low-life bottom-feeders would be doing at such a first-class event. They stood at a port side window talking to another man wearing a tuxedo. Lauren didn’t recognize the third man, but got the impression he was a Mason employee from the way he appeared to be pointing out some of the boat’s features to the mob boss and his lackey.

  Across the room, Matt and Simone stayed seated as well, having met an older couple who knew sign language but had both chosen to have cochlear implants at a younger age to help them hear.

  Simone was full of questions, skeptical about the couple’s motives. She felt that “fitting in” was their priority, and boosting their communication skills was much less important to them. Many deaf people felt betrayed by this technology, believing that deafness wasn’t some sort of disease or disability, but a way of life, like a person’s religion or culture. It wasn’t anything to be ashamed of any more than it was to be embarrassed by your race or gender. How many people would choose to change one of those traits if the technology were available? Not many, Simone believed.

  They politely discussed the topic, with Matt interrupting every so often, feeling much like a referee at a wrestling match. He was part of both of these worlds, and he understood the commitment each side felt. Simone wasn’t happy that Matt didn’t defend her views, but she knew why he could empathize with both opinions.

  Simone continued to ask questions about the implant procedure and whether the couple thought it had actually enhanced their lives, but Matt’s attention was suddenly drawn elsewhere. The baseball team had entered the dining room and had taken their seats at an oversized table just to the right of the stage. The players were members of the Jacksonville Jumbo Shrimp, and none of the Major Leauge players were in attendance. The young pitchers, catchers, and fielders were of no consequence to Matt; his focus was on only one person sitting at the table.

  Anthony Magnetti put his arm around the player sitting on his left and laughed heartily at a joke he had just told. Instead of champagne, an ordinary can of domestic light beer rested before him. Matt watched his parents’ murderer survey the room, taking in all of the pomp and circumstance and appearing to look bored to death by it all. When their eyes finally met, Matt noticed Magnetti’s head tip from side to side, perhaps in recognition, but more likely with just a fleeting sense of déjà vu.

  Matt also spotted someone else he never expected to see. The detective was here, talking to a man he didn’t recognize. Her husband or boyfriend perhaps? Was it a coincidence that she just happened to be here, or was she following them? In a way, he was glad to see her, but at the same time, he wondered what her motives were. Matt figured that if she was here, then the Doctor couldn’t be far behind. He scanned the room but didn’t see him, guessing he was probably on one of the tours. Matt decided to focus on one problem at a time

  A small orchestra was playing traditional songs from Benny Goodman to Benny and the Jets. A smattering of couples danced on the parqueted floor, but most people were involved in personal conversations centering on the latest celebrity gossip and trends in the country’s economy.

  From an entrance on the starboard side of the dining room, Peter Mason entered with the Captain of the Hydra decked out in full dress uniform, including an oak-leafed peaked cap to reinforce his sense of importance.

  Scott Simms wiped the corner of his mouth with his linen napkin and excused himself from the table.

  “Where are you going?” Lauren asked, grabbing his arm.

  “I want to talk to the Captain.”

  The detective stood up. “You’re not going anywhere without me.”

  Simms pulled out her chair. “Suit yourself. Just let me do all the talking. You’re on my ocean now.”

  Lauren noticed a sudden determination in Simm’s demeanor. She was used to playing second fiddle to Toby whenever he picked up a scent, but seeing the same resolve in the Petty Officer took her by surprise.

  The Captain stood alongside Peter Mason greeting a long line of guests who had quit their dancing and conversing to meet them. Simms and King patiently waited their turn as hands were shaken and superfluous questions were asked and gladly answered.

  Captain Oskar Karrlson greeted each passenger with a vigorous handshake or kiss to both
cheeks. He was, for the lack of a better description, jolly-looking. Santa Claus in dress whites with epaulets and enough fruit salad covering his chest to melt down and make another anchor. Peter Mason made sure that the line kept moving, reminding the guests that the Captain had a ship to run.

  Karrlson gazed at Lauren’s flowing red hair and took half a step back. “My dear,” he sighed in a thick Nordic accent, “you are just radiant. You are a fortunate man,” he added, barely giving Simms a glance. “What is your name, my dear?”

  “Lauren King, Captain. Detective Lauren King of the Jacksonville Police Department.”

  Peter Mason’s head turned like it was on a swivel. Simms hung his head, knowing full well that the detective had received the reaction she was hoping for.

  “Detective,” Mason interrupted, holding out his hand. “It’s terrific that law enforcement is represented here tonight. I invited the Sheriff, but it seems that he had a prior engagement. I’m so glad that someone from your department could make it. I have the utmost respect and admiration for the job you and your fellow officers do. I wish I could have invited every first responder to take this inaugural trip. I think I should create a special discount for those who serve the Jacksonville community so selflessly.”

  Lauren smiled. “That sounds like a great idea. I’m sure my fellow officers will take full advantage of your generosity.”

  “I will make a mental note of it.

  The detective took Peter Mason’s hand. “I will hold you to your word. The last thing you want is to lie to the police.”

  Mason laughed, but the humor was cut off in his throat when he realized that Detective Lauren King appeared to be deadly serious. He made a slight bow and turned his attention to Scott Simms, who quickly shook his hand and nudged the detective to move on.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Simms grumbled as they crossed the dance floor. “I told you to keep a muzzle on it while I did all the talking.”

  “The Captain gave me a compliment, what was I supposed to do?”