But nothing happened. “Nothing in here,” Ridley called down, and then he dropped back onto the corridor’s portside wall, kept his balance. “Just another empty stateroom.”
“Huh,” Court said. “Guess I was wrong.”
He looked farther down the corridor, unwilling to believe that his eyes had deceived him. About ten feet down, on the portside of the ship, another door hung open. Harrington maneuvered down the corridor, leaning on the skewed deck and walls to support himself. Stopped above the open doorway and bent over, best as he could, to peer inside.
“Ridley,” he said, his heart racing even faster. “Come have a look at this.”
The stateroom looked lived in. As in, after the wreck. There was a pile of bedding in the corner, a stack of empty Coke cans, some candy bar wrappers.
“This is a nest,” Court told Ridley. “Someone’s been in here.”
“Could have been that dead guy,” Ridley replied. “Or Christer Magnusson’s crew.”
Court considered this. His whole body was tired, his mind, too. His chest ached, his head was kind of swimming, and all he really wanted was to crawl into his bunk.
But still.
“Maybe,” he said. “But then, who’d I see staring out at me just now?” He struggled to stand. “Come on. McKenna’s not back yet. We can keep looking.”
THEY WERE COMING CLOSER.
The men had discovered his sleeping space. Now their curiosity was inflamed. They would know they’d seen a man in that stateroom, and they would want to find him.
They would send him back to Japan. The yakuza would likely kill him. And the salvage crew would find the stolen bonds, earn a nice bonus on top of the salvage award.
Fifty million dollars. Your money.
Okura backed down the corridor, his mind working supersonic. If he were forced to shoot the men, the noise would alert their friends. The Coast Guard would be called. They would bring guns of their own.
Damn it.
But he didn’t have a choice. If the men found him, he would have to shoot them, and hope the noise of the shots died in the still air within the ship. Then he would retrieve the briefcase, and…
And what?
Okura couldn’t afford to waste time on that question, not now. The men were still approaching. He thumbed off the pistol’s safety. Retreated from the bulkhead, searching the darkness for any sign of the men.
64
The galley stank.
Something was rotting. Scratch that: everything was rotting. The Pacific Lion had been adrift for weeks now, and just about everything in the kitchen had spoiled. Court pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth, tried not to breathe as he limped into the mess, their headlamps cutting swaths through the dim.
“If there’s somebody on board this ship, lad,” the engineer said, coughing, “I really doubt he’s hanging around here.”
Court glanced back at him. “I mean, the guy’s gotta eat, right?” he said. “Unless he really is a ghost.”
They’d peered into every stateroom off the main corridor, looking for more signs of a stowaway. Found nothing. But Court remained unconvinced.
“Come on,” he told Ridley. “Better than freezing our asses off on that deck up there, anyway.”
Ridley looked like he’d beg to differ, if he hadn’t been focused on trying not to throw up. The wreck of the Lion had wreaked havoc on the galley; there was food spilled everywhere, pots and pans on the floor, unidentifiable liquids pooled at the confluence of deck and wall. The scene was of chaos at an impossible angle. The smell only compounded the disorientation.
Court poked through a pile of empty cans, a half-eaten chocolate cake that had smeared on the floor and congealed into something else entirely. Made his way to the dry-goods locker and peered inside.
“Not much in here at all,” he called back to Ridley. “I guess they were due for a shopping trip when they reached America.”
There was something wrong here. Court was sure he was missing something, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.
“Guess he’s not here, whoever he is,” Ridley said.
Court started to agree. Then he noticed the freezer, a walk-in, sliding door open a couple of inches. “Unless…”
“Oh no,” Ridley groaned. “Lad, nobody in their right mind would be hiding in there.”
“Only take a second to check,” Court replied, climbing across the galley toward the freezer. “Set our minds at ease, right? Why not?”
HIROKI OKURA waited in the back of the freezer, wedged between a wall of spoiled ice cream and a couple of slabs of beef gone very, very ripe. The smell was appalling, unbearable, and Okura felt he might die if he didn’t breathe fresh air soon.
But he had more pressing concerns than air quality. He could hear the men outside in the galley, hear the clatter as they pushed through the debris toward the freezer door. They were coming.
They would find him.
He wedged himself against the ice cream. Raised the pistol and aimed it at the freezer door. Wondered how it would feel to shoot someone, wondered how he’d allowed himself to get to this place.
He waited.
COURT HAD JUST REACHED the freezer door when something moved in the corridor outside. Both men stiffened, spun to the doorway, expecting to see the stowaway or, barring that, the ghost.
Instead, they saw Stacey Jonas, braced against the portside wall and looking in at them, quizzical.
“What the heck are you guys doing?” she asked. “The Coast Guard chopper’s topside. Everyone’s waiting on you two.”
Ridley shrugged, turned to Court, who’d paused, his hand on the freezer door.
“We thought we saw something in one of the staterooms,” Court told her. “Thought we should investigate.”
Stacey raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“And, I guess,” Court said, “I guess we found a nest?”
“What, like a bird?”
“A person,” Ridley said. “A bundle of bedding wedged against the wall. Someone was sleeping there, after the wreck.”
“Probably that sailor who came back with Magnusson,” Stacey said, shrugging. “He was on here for a few days, remember?”
“Right,” Court said. “But then he died.”
Stacey waited for the punch line.
“I swear, I saw a face in that stateroom,” Court continued. “Just now, while we were waiting. And then we find that nest? Can’t be a coincidence.”
Stacey shifted her weight. “It’s probably your mind playing tricks on you, Court,” she said. “You had a concussion, for Pete’s sake.”
“Stacey—”
“Anyway, the Coast Guard’s burning fuel waiting on you two,” Stacey said. “And the skipper is already pissed.”
“Roger,” Court said, turning back to the freezer. “Just let me check—”
“Court.” Stacey’s voice was sharp, and it stopped Court cold. “Did you hear me? I said McKenna is pissed. It’s time to go.”
Court paused, torn. Hand on the door.
“If there’s anything in that locker, it’s long dead by now,” Stacey said. “Just like your ass will be, if you don’t bring it topside.”
Court sighed. “Damn it,” he said, sighing. “I know what I saw.”
But he let go of the freezer door. Turned away. And struggled to follow Stacey and Ridley back down through the galley toward the door.