Fire And Ice (8 page)

He marshaled crude references, eyeballing the sun by

day, the stars at night, estimating direction by the wind and the trades rollers. The canoe's leeward drift west, the counterequatorial current east, and his speed north he guessed from the trail of Dutchman's logs he dropped astern like abandoned children. The only constant would be the zenith of Betelgeuse, if he could see it. By the fourth night—when the tuna had gone rotten and Stone had tapped the final coconut and finished all but a few ounces of taro—he hoped the bright red star was standing directly overhead. And it probably was—he cursed aloud—several thousand light years above the cloud bank that had rolled in at sunset like the sliding roof of an all-weather stadium. At midnight, God favored him with a thin smile. A hazy opening appeared in the clouds, and Betelgeuse glared down through it, orange as a pumpkin. Stone lay on the bridge deck and stared aloft. The little orange dot seemed to be overhead, but the canoe was pitching in the choppy seas stirred between the counterequatorial current and the trade wind rollers. Before he could be sure, the clouds closed in again. Devastated, afraid to commit, he stared, cold and tired and hopeless, at the sea. There was light in the water. He looked up, but there was still no starlight to reflect. Then with excitement thickening in his throat he realized it sparkled deeper than reflections. Backwash streaks—long streaks of green light that pointed west like arrows.

"The glory of the seas," the islanders called them. Phosphorescence kicked up by backwash waves. And backwash streaks only occurred between eighty and a hundred miles upwave of an atoll.

Stone cast loose the sheets, set the mainsail over the port side and the jib over the starboard, and turned west. Sailing wing and wing, he began bashing into the counterequatorial current, on the long run downwind to Angaur. SARAH LEANED OUT THE SLEEPING CABIN PORT, TO MAKE SURE

no one was watching from the bridge or the main deck, before holding Ronnie's GPS

under the sky. Far below, she could see the life raft canister on the afterdeck. It gleamed white in the morning sun, beckoning. Escape, if she dared. Suicidal, until she knew for sure they were near the shipping lanes.

"They're coming!"

The GPS hadn't been out long enough to lock onto the satellite signals, and its screen was a riot of moving numbers. One and a half days after they had capped the gas leak, she could only guess by the sun that the ship was still making for Shanghai. And only hope they'd enter trafficked waters soon.

"Hurry!"

Sarah shoved the GPS back in Ronnie's Snoopy backpack and was dog-latching the port when the captain of the Dallas Belle flung open the door without knocking. His quick eyes noted her at the port, Ronnie backing from the door, and Mr. Jack, still as stone in his bed.

"You're needed down in sick bay, Doc. We got an injured man." Sarah picked up her bag and reached for Ronnie's hand. "Leave the kid."

"She comes with me," said Sarah.

"Not in sick bay."

"Ronnie has assisted me since she was eight years old," Sarah said firmly. "She's the best qualified nurse on the ship.The captain blocked the door. "Take my word for it, Doc. You don't want her down there. Not this time."

Sarah hesitated. Something grave and troubled in the captain's expression made her believe him. "All right. Ronnie, stay with Mr. Jack. I'll be back soon."

"But—"

"It's okay, hon. Your mom'll be fine. She's just gotta help somebody."

"I'm hungry."

"Cook's pullin' muffins outta the oven. He'll rustle you up some breakfast right away. Let's go, Doc."

Mystified, Sarah followed him out of the owner's suite and into the elevator. They descended four decks to the dispensary.

"How's the old man?"

"He should be in hospital," she said automatically. In fact, he appeared to be gaining strength. But her best hope was still to convince them he could not survive on the ship.

"It ain't going to happen, Doc. Better get used to it." She was frantic for Michael and missed him terribly. The three days felt like weeks. She missed him beside her in bed and longed to hear his voice. To live together on the small boat, they had developed habits over the years that insured each other's privacy. Yet his presence, if only a silhouette in the corner of her eye, was a constant she took for granted. Now she felt as if the air had grown thinner.

But she at least had Ronnie—an active presence and a piece of him—while he was desperately alone. Assuming he had repaired the little lagoon canoe, he was far at sea, perhaps as much as a hundred and fifty miles from Pulo Helena. She tried to close her mind to the danger. Every time Ronnie asked how she thought he was, she whispered that he was a splendid sailor, and if anyone could sail a wooden canoe across two hundred and fifty miles of open Pacific it was Michael Stone. Ronnie would nod, bravely, but she knew as well as Sarah that was an enormous if, on an unforgiving ocean. The dispensary contained the ship's meager medical supplies and a single hospital bed. On it lay Ah Lee, his face battered. His eyes were blackened, his lips bloody. His nose looked broken, and one of his teeth had pierced his cheek. When she leaned over him, the boy flinched.

Sarah laid cool fingers' on the back of his hand, and lowered her voice to soothe him. "It'

s all right, Ah Lee. It's only Doctor Stone. I'm going to help you." Angrily, she motioned the captain into the corridor. "Who did this to him?"

"Took a header down the companionway."

"The devil he did. He's been beaten. Who did this—Moss?"

"The sooner you fix him up, the sooner you get back to the kid, Doc." She examined the boy's eyes first. When she shone a light into the left, both pupils constricted simultaneously. Good. He probably hadn't suffered a head trauma. "This will hurt just a moment," she whispered, opening a disposable needle and gently injecting local anesthetic around his nose and the pierced cheek. Ah Lee followed her movements with tears in his eyes. .

She stitched up his cheek, removed a broken tooth, set and taped his nose, and draped surgical gloves filled with crushed ice around his nose and over his eyes. Then she gave him a tetanus shot and penicillin.

"Have someone replace the ice when it melts. I'll look in on him later." She touched Ah Lee's hand good-bye.

The captain was watching from the doorway. "Handled yourself well, Doctor. Lotta class." The captain walked her to the elevator. "I've noticed you Africans know who you are. Problem with our blacks is they don't know and they don't give a damn." This was not the first of the captain's pronouncements. He had found it difficult at first to believe she was what he called a "real doctor," and seemed to admire her powers as something she had acquired in a jungle.

"Have you discussed your racist insights with Mr. Moss?"

"Moss is different."

"You mean you're afraid of him."

The captain seemed unperturbed. "I'm a seaman, Doc. I steer around heavy weather. And no storm lasts forever." A potential ally? She wondered. She smiled. The captain moved a little closer. "You're a good lookin' gal, Doc."

"Thank you, Captain. But as I've told Moss, I am married."

"Well, hell, I'm married too."

Sarah fingered her cross. "I took my vows in church." The captain pressed the elevator button for the bridge deck.

"Moss wants to see you."

He led Sarah through the curtain. Moss was at the helm, hunched over the big OMBO

monitor. "Leave us," he said to the captain.

"No rough stuff," said the captain.

"She'll get what she asks for," said Moss. He rose to his full height and stepped close to Sarah. "Leave us," he repeated, and the captain backed out through the curtain. Sarah heard his footsteps down the stairs. Moss was standing too near her. She backed up. "What do you want?"

"What do I want?" he echoed, mocking her accent. "You think you're better than me, Doctor? You think 'cause your rich African daddy sent you to college you're better than me. You think this white doctor coat makes you white?"

He seized the cloth. Buttons tore loose, exposing her shoulder. He trailed his heavy hand over her shoulder, then under the cloth to her breast. "Black," he said. "Black like me." Sarah stiffened. His touch made her flesh crawl. But he was far too powerful to resist physically. She tried to contain her panic, looked desperately for something to defuse him. She could sense in him a deep bitterness that had the potential to build to uncontrollable rage. Were she a man he would beat her half to death. But against her it would explode in a brutal sexual attack.

"Your friend needs me," she said. "I'm his only hope."

"I don't see him gettin' any better."

She stared down at his hand kneading her flesh—her fear turning to anger—imagining a scalpel with which she would amputate his fingers. The vision was so bright for a second, she thought she saw blood. Then she realized that her white coat was speckled red.

"You're bleeding."

"Cut my knuckle." He made a fist to show her a deep gash. "Gimme a tetanus shot."

"If I were you I'd pray that Ah Lee isn't HIV positive." "Say what?" He backed away.

"You've mingled your blood with his," she answered, and felt a deeply satisfying thrill at the raw fear that flickered in his eyes.

"Where the hell would a Chinese kid get . '." his voice trailed off as the possibilities sank in.

Sarah closed her coat. "Next time you beat up somebody, wear latex gloves." The black man mastered his fear with a cold resolve that Sarah found as frightening as his touch. "I'll keep it in mind. Next time I have to."

"He's just a boy. Why did you hurt him? Are you demonstrating your authority? I'm already aware of your power over me and my child. I'm doing everything I can to care for Mr. Jack. What more do you want?"

"Ah Lee left his post. . . . We don't allow folks desertin' their watch on this ship." He stared down at her. Sarah looked away, praying he wouldn't touch her again.

"You been married long?" he asked, after a moment.

"Twelve years."

"The guy on the island is Ronnie's father?"

"Of course."

"She's near black as we are."

"A mystery of genetics, Mr. Moss. My husband is Ronnie's father. I'd like to get back to Mr. Jack, now." "How'd you end up with a white man?"

"He's not a 'white' man, he's my man."

"Not at the moment he isn't. And you ain't his."

"At the moment," she retorted evenly, "I am Mr. Jack's doctor."

"And that little girl's mother. I got a word of advice

for you, 'Mummy.' Watch your ass if you don't want her face lookin' like Ah Lee's." Sarah felt her will die. He knew about the satellite phone, her mind shrieked. But before she could control her terror, Moss asked, "You a smuggler, Doc?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You on the lam?"

"I don't follow you."

Moss walked to the windscreen and stared down at the Swan. "Carbon fiber mast, Doc. Kinda funny on that old boat. Captain tells me that's totally tech. Says customs radar can'

t spot you. You two runnin' a little dope?" He turned to gauge her reaction. Sarah failed to cover her smile of giddy relief. "I see. No, we are not drug smugglers."

"What you laughing at?"

"My husband salvaged the mast from a wreck. The owners told us we were welcome to it, but they didn't believe we could actually remove it from their boat and step it on ours. You see, it was just the two of us. Ronnie was only five. And the wreck was on a nasty bit of reef."

"How'd you do it?"

"Frankly, I don't know. He wanted it and we got it. He's quite ingenious." Moss had studied the guy through the sniper scope and wasn't impressed: a stocky little graybeard with the skinny legs you saw on sailing folk. Not much bigger than Mr. Jack, though he had some shoulders on him.

"He wanted it for smuggling," said Moss. "Chinese art? Body parts? I hear mainland kidneys are hot this year."

"We're not smugglers, Mr. Moss. We sail our clinic to the outer islands. We set broken bones, examine old people, and give children toothbrushes."

"Hey, I'm not judging you. Maybe you run a little contraband to pay for the hospital."

"No. We have benefactors."

"U.S.?"

"Mostly the Japanese. As you might know, they're very involved in the islands."

"Again . . . Funny, I didn't find any weapons aboard." Sarah bristled. "You have no right to search our home."

"How come no guns?"

"We don't carry guns," Sarah answered.

"I hear boat folks do, these days, what with pirates and all."

"We don't believe in guns."

"Doc!" The captain burst in. "The old man's awake." Moss stayed behind. He'd only get in the way down there. Better to wait till the doctor got him upright. Then he and the old man could claim some time alone. Funny. He had a grandmother who used to drag him to church in a dirty storefront and make him pray. Last night, scared the old man wouldn't make it, he had given it a whirl. Damned if Mr. Jack didn't wake up.

He turned back to the OMBO monitor, put on the headset. Mr. Jack had once said to him—with that grin that promised they could walk through hell and come out brothers—

"You don't know shit about technology, but you know what you like." That was the truth. The ship's computers were magic. Nothing happened aboard that wasn't on tape. All functions were logged, stored, and available for playback. Every rev of the propellers, every hiccup in the compressors, every change of temperature, every course alteration, every word spoken on every deck in the house, every radio signal in, and every radio signal out.

"You don't have to know shit about technology." Mr. Jack had laughed. –You just have to see the opportunity. And you do, Moss." Moss felt his whole body swell with pride at the memory. Mr. Jack had hired a flock of computer nerds who taught him how the machines made magic. But the fact was, he had an instinct how to use them, which was a hell of a lot more important.

He punched up the audio.

A recording he had listened to earlier played again.

.. hope he doesn't hurt himself. You know how clumsy he gets. . . . He'll be fine. . . . Mummy? Do you suppose he might try to fix—"