I was on my own.
On my own-but not for long.
As I pulled myself up over the midship’s railing, I could see a lifeboat stowed sideways against the railing, the ship’s aft derrick, a trash can, a couple of what looked to be empty 50-gallon drums that weren’t secured-odd. Or maybe not. Harris had said this was a dirty ship run by a nasty skipper.
Something else I could see was a tall man hurrying toward me, arms waving up and down for balance, as if he were brachiating, traveling from one invisible limb to another, and he called to me in a heavy Jamaican accent, “What de fuck you doin’ climbin’ aboard this vessel without my permission, man? I supposed to be in charge a this watch, and nobody done told me nothin’.”
He was close enough for me to speak without raising my voice, but I still couldn’t see him clearly because of the poor outboard lighting. He looked as if he might have tattoos on his face. Or unusually spaced birthmarks.
I stood there relaxed, my right hand feeling the grip of the Glock that I’d wedged between the small of my back and belt. If the guy gave me a hard time or tried to sound an alarm, I’d either club him with the gun or use it to force him into one of those 50-gallon cans. They’d make a handy makeshift lock-up.
I said, “I have permission. I’m with the guy who got aboard just a little while ago. My friend Jimmy. Didn’t the captain tell you? She was supposed to.”
The Jamaican flapped his hands at me, disgusted. “She don’ tell me nothin,’ man, that fat woman don’t. She don’ tell nobody nothin’. Never does post a schedule, just the duty list, so everything just random around here, man. Fuckin’ random-you never know what she do next, man. This ain’t no squared-away vessel, that much I can say for certain!”
In a ballooning gust of warm wind, I caught the heavy scent of marijuana that was on him. I said, “Where can I find Jimmy? Any idea?”
He was already walking away; seemed to be headed for the ship’s house. It was brightly lighted, and towered five stories above us.
“Is that the big man that wear the face bandage? I never knowed his name, but I reckon they on D deck. I know they got some business going on, ’cause she tell me to keep that deck secure. Nobody allowed up there.”
He waved to me, telling me to follow. “Come on, man. I point you the right way. I ain’t standin’ out here in the darkness no more. I goin’ into the lounge with the resta the crew to spend my time. ’Cause if I ain’t in charge of this watch, then nobody in charge. So fuck ’em.”
I followed the Jamaican up steel steps to the first level, where, through thick storm glass, I could see men inside an open room. They were watching a television screen-a fishing trawler was battling mountainous seas-playing cards and smoking, bottles of beer on the stainless table. The seamen’s lounge.
“You go up two more flights, that be D deck,” the Jamaican said. “I’d take you myself, but that fat woman, she’ll find somethin’ new for me to do if she sees me. But if you don’ find them, man, you come back, and I’ll help.”
I said, “I’ll do that.”
I waited until he’d disappeared into the lounge before sprinting up the stairs.
I entered D deck through a locking, watertight door, and stepped into a dimly lighted hall that smelled of paint and diesel. Almost every room on all commercial vessels is labeled, and I could see that D deck was the ship’s specialty area because of the names stenciled on the doors that I passed: ELECTRICAL. AIR CONDITIONING /
HEATING. LAUNDRY. STORAGE.
I moved from door to door, putting my ear against the cold metal, listening for voices inside.
Twice I stopped because I thought I’d heard a muted scream. It was a distant, feral sound that I seemed to hear with my spine, not my ears. It had a cat-whining pitch, something you’d expect to hear from the limbs of trees, high above.
I stood motionless, not breathing, my head moving experimentally for the best reception.
Then I heard a third, muted crying scream, and I was running again, gun out now.
The door was marked INFIRMARY. Someone inside the room was crying, and there was a second person talking, very angry, but keeping the volume down.
I tested the handle to make sure it wasn’t locked, then kicked the door wide and stepped into the room, sweeping the Glock at the same pace that I swept the room with my eyes.
I was disgusted by what I saw.
I’ve been in many infirmaries, aboard many ships, but I’d never seen one equipped like this. There was a surgical microscope on wheels positioned between two stainless-steel operating tables. Both were draped, ready to be used. Above both were also duplicate I.V. tubes, cages to hold bags of whole blood, and all the accompanying pumps, gauges, oxygen cylinders, and theater lights that any serious surgery requires.
But this room was equipped to handle two patients, not one. It was specially laid out to facilitate taking parts off one human being, and sewing them onto another.
Someone had paid to have this tramp freighter outfitted-Lourdes-and for his own sick purpose. Just as bad, in my mind, though, one or more people aboard the freighter had allowed him to do it.
I was fairly certain I was looking at one of the people responsible right now.
On the floor was a tiny woman with short black hair that was expensively styled. She was dressed as if ready to head out the door for a jog-shorts, knit shirt, running shoes. Instead, she was balled up in a corner of the room in a fetal position.
It was a defensive posture because a much larger woman was crouched over her, with a right hand drawn back as if to slap. The big woman wore jeans and a grease-stained red T-shirt, and her shoulders looked as wide as mine. In her left hand, I noted, she held a ball-peen hammer. There was no blood that I could see, so she’d only used it to threaten. So far.
Harris had said the master of the Repatriate was a nasty one. This woman looked about as nasty as any I’d ever seen.
Pointing the 9 mm Glock at her face, I said, “Hold it right there, skipper. Step up against the wall; drop the hammer. I’ve just taken control of your ship.”
The last thing I expected was for her to scream, “Kiss my ass, you son-of-a-bitch!” and charge me with the hammer.
That’s what she did.
I’d never touched or hit a woman in my life in anger, but I hit this one.
I ducked under the hammer’s hatchetlike stroke and heard it whap against the bulkhead where my head had been. She whirled and tried to nail me a second time, but I caught her wrist just before she connected.
Still screaming at me, her piggish-wide face throbbed a violet red as she tried over and over to knee me in the groin. Sick of it, I held her away momentarily at arm’s length, then let her lunge her chin toward me. That’s when I hit her with a short left that numbed my elbow, but also dropped her to the deck as if she’d been shot.
The sound of her head hitting the steel floor didn’t bother me a bit.
The tiny woman in the jogging shorts was on her feet now, breathing heavily and wiping at her face. Her eyes had a glazed look, as if she might be in shock.
She said, “Are you the police? Thank God you’ve finally come.” Then, staring at the woman who lay groaning on the deck, she added, “She’s just awful. Maybe the cruelest human being I’ve ever met in my life. Do you have any idea what she was asking me to do? Awful… disgusting things. And she hit me!”
The hysteria in her voice was the only clue I needed. I grabbed the lady before she could move toward the fallen woman, and then held her, hugging her as she began to cry, whispering into her left ear, “It’s O.K., Dr. Santos. You’re going to be all right. I’ll get you out of here. But get hold of yourself. I need you.”