The Revengers (45 page)

“Matt!” There was urgency in Eleanor’s voice.

“Coming,” I called.

“It isn’t turning. It isn’t changing course at all!”

“Coming.”

I pushed the button and the red light went out. I hurried aft and found the big main switch for all the boat’s electricity and turned that off, too, although it was probably a waste of time. She would have had a special, direct circuit run that would not be spotted if somebody had to check out the regular wiring.

“Matt, please!”

I forced my bad leg, throbbing painfully from Serena’s blow—she’d started it bleeding again—to take me up the companionway ladder. I stopped halfway out, shocked at what I saw. I mean, I have after all, as they say, looked death in the eye a few times in my life. I’ve stared into the muzzles of rifles of various calibers, pistols ranging all the way up to .44 and .45 Magnum, and shotguns single and double. I’d always thought that for real menace there was nothing to beat the twin muzzles of a double-barreled large-bore shotgun. But the thing that was bearing down on us was death in the double-king-sized package, blind and remorseless; thirty or forty thousand tons of tanker rumbling toward us across the calm sea, close enough now that we could hear the roar of the bulbous bow splitting the water.

I noticed that the ship was riding high, heading south, empty except for ballast, presumably to pick up a cargo in Aruba or Venezuela.

Slowly, because there was no hurry now—there was obviously nothing to be done—I stepped out into the cockpit and went to stand beside Eleanor at the wheel, putting an arm around her. She felt small and firm and warm and I realized that I was very fond of her.

“I think I got it. Keep your fingers crossed,” I said.

She nodded, staring at the onrushing ship. “But he’s got to see us!” she protested. “What’s the matter with the idiot, is he blind?”

I said, “Hell, he’s doing the ship’s accounts, or writing up the log or something. He doesn’t care. It won’t hurt him a bit.” A slow rage was growing inside me. “Like Giulio said, big bastards think they own the fucking ocean.”

“Should we. . . jump?”

I thought about it and shook my head. “Ride it out on the boat. Hang on tight. Maybe we’ll be washed aside or something. What the hell chance have we got in the water, anyway, way out here over a hundred miles offshore, even if we don’t get sucked into his propeller?”

It was very close now, towering above us.
Jamboree
lay almost still on the glassy ocean, sails slack. It seemed idiotic that there was nothing to do. I had a belated thought of the radio, but if he wasn’t looking it seemed unlikely he’d be listening—and it was too late for him to avoid us anyway. I thought of the shotgun below with one shell left, and the revolver with three. I regretted the Browning with fourteen, but I’d never found that; it must have gone overboard. It would have been a pleasure to at least leave the bastard a few bullet holes to remember us by. But there was no time for that now.

“Matt,” Eleanor said.

“What?”

“You’re a nice guy. I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

“Don’t take a vote on the subject. You’d lose. But I like you, too. In a moment, we’re going to lie down in the bottom of the cockpit and hug that steering wheel post or whatever you call it. . . ."

I stopped.
Jamboree’s
forward hatch was opening. We saw the hands first, and then the bandaged dark head, and the whole girl as she heaved herself out and sat on the edge of the hatch for a moment, staring at the onrushing tanker that was now blotting out a large sector of the northern sky. She scrambled up and ran, limping, for something on the side deck—the boathook. It seemed like a stupid reaction, as if all those tons of metal could be fended off by a lousy little boathook, for God’s sake!

I could see now the way it was going to be. The bow was not going to hit us, not quite, and there was a chance we’d be pushed clear by the great white Niagara of water foaming off the weird-looking bulb they have up there. At least we were lying pretty well, not crosswise, presenting the smallest target possible, facing the immense murder weapon aimed at us. Serena had taken up a position on the forward deck, port side, with the boathook in her hands. . .

Then it was on top of us, and the towering bow went by terrifyingly close. The sides were black and rusty and there was a lot of red bottom paint showing, not in very good condition. The name was
Elmo Trader
. I thought I would undoubtedly remember that name as long as I lived; but under the circumstances, the memory cells might not have the chance to retain it very long. Serena moved.

I saw her step forward as
Jamboree
lifted to the roaring bow wave. She raised the long boathook over her head with both hands, holding it poised and balanced as she watched the ship’s side approach—we were not going to be shoved clear after all, not far enough clear. There were endless miles of ship still to come; and the high wall of steel was coming inexorably closer. Serena braced herself. I could see now what she had in mind. She was not going to fend the monster off. She’d forgotten all about blowing it up. She was simply going to kill it. She was Captain Ahab driving the lance into the back of the great white whale. She was the cave woman fighting beside her mate, plunging

the stone-tipped spear into the heart of the charging mastodon. I saw her arch her body and strike with all her strength, just as
Jamboree
, having rolled wildly away from the ship, rolled back.

The mast swung into the passing wall of steel. The rigging caught on something high up there and was ripped away as if the heavy stainless wire and thick aluminum spars were mere strings and toothpicks. I threw myself down into the bottom of the cockpit well with Eleanor and locked an arm around the steering standard. Rigging wires were still snapping with loud twanging sounds, or ripping their attachment points out of the fiberglass hull. I heard a heavy metal object, tom loose, scream through the air above us with the wavering sound of a ricocheting bullet. Then the whole boat jolted violently as the hull made smashing contact with the ship’s side, scraping and slamming and pounding along the rusty plates. I heard the beat of the great propeller, like a giant heart, gradually getting closer. It went by, an enormous wave threw
Jamboree
on her beam ends, drenched us in the cockpit and it was over, it was past.

I lifted myself cautiously. The ship was pulling away. It showed no signs of stopping. Elmo Trader, Monrovia, was lettered across the receding stern.

“
Elmo Trader
.” I didn’t recognize the voice that spoke. I knew now what had motivated Serena Lorca, and I thought she’d really had hold of a swell idea; but not being a sailor, I’d have to tackle it in a slightly different fashion. “Have fun,
Elmo Trader
of Monrovia,” I whispered. “Enjoy. Until the people start falling dead in the streets.” I swallowed hard. “I’m going to get those bastards, Elly. I’m going to get every last incompetent slob of them. I’m going to take leave and hunt them all down one by one; hell I’ve got a vacation coming. I’m going to start with the grease monkeys and cook’s helpers and work up. By the time I get to the lousy sleepwalking captain he’ll be changing his pants and reaching for the booze every time somebody slams a door. He’ll know it’s coming and I’ll make sure he knows why. . . ."

“Matt.”

I looked at her blankly. “What?”

“Matt, the boat is sinking. We’d better get that life raft over and activate the EPIRB.” When I looked around, coming out of my berserk seizure and remembering something, someone, Eleanor shook her head. “No. She’s gone.”

Late the following day the Coast Guard found us. I was feverish by that time; the hole in my leg was going bad. I remembered that Serena had referred to them contemptuously as the Crap Cops or something, but I was very happy to see the lean white ship with the orange stripe. All that bothered me was what the hell I was going to tell everybody. It turned out that I didn’t have to worry. As they lifted me aboard I found Brent bending over me, giving me the small private signal that indicated that everything was under control. He had a funny patch of bandage in his red hair, I noticed; a souvenir of his airport-parking-lot experience. The strangest thing was that Martha Devine was with him. After looking at me for a moment with an expression I found puzzling—what did she have to feel guilty about, anyway?—she turned quickly to speak to Eleanor, who was being wrapped in a gray blanket.

I couldn’t figure all that; but I didn’t have to. The cleanup troops had arrived.

Giuseppe Velo’s improbable blond companion was wearing a snug blue satin jumpsuit that covered her from neck to wrists, and from neck to ankles, without a wrinkle. It was totally unadorned except for a big gold zipper down the front with a big gold ring on it, and her name embroidered in neat gold script where a breast pocket might have been: Wanda. She led me out onto the penthouse sundeck where the old man lay in one of the long chairs with nothing on but a pair of white shorts. He looked like a scaly brown lizard that had died and dried out in the desert sun. He sat up when she spoke to him and looked at the cane I was using to support part of my weight as I stood there.

“Looks like you didn’t jump fast enough, ha!” he said.

“You should see the other guy, sir,” I said.

“You have something you want me to read?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

I took it out and gave it to him. He snapped his fingers and the girl in the shiny jumpsuit produced a pair of heavy horn-rimmed glasses, which he set on his beaky nose, very carefully. There was silence while he read. I would have liked to sit down, but I wasn’t going to ask any personal favors of Giuseppe Velo. But it had been a bad one after all, considering the relatively minor nature of the wound— they’d had to go in and dig out scraps of this and flakes of that and put drains in. I hadn’t reacted properly to this antibiotic so they’d had to try that one; and after everything going right for a while, everything had gone wrong for a while. Well, you can’t expect Them, assuming that They do exist, to spend all Their time looking after you. Velo looked up at last.

“I’d like a copy of this. When are you planning to break the story?”

I shook my head. “We are not planning to break the story, and we are not passing out copies. This is not a blackmail threat, Mr. Velo. I can tell you in confidence that, for reasons that don’t concern you, this confession will not be used against Lorca, no matter what.”

“Then why waste my time with it?” He smiled thinly. “I see. You want old Seppi to pass the word along.”

I nodded. “I thought you and your associates would like to know what kind of a crazy man you’ve been spending good money on. Ask your friends if they really want to keep propping up a figurehead guy who’ll risk everything by playing games like this behind their backs; and who may not be useful too much longer, anyway.”

Velo said, “We never did find anything wrong with his health. All our sources say he’s made a practically perfect recovery against all expectations, ha!”

I said, “Maybe you didn’t tap the right sources, Mr. Velo.”

The hooded eyes studied me bleakly for a long time; then the skull-head nodded abruptly. “Nobody listens to old Seppi Velo anymore. But I’ll pass the information along, for what it’s worth.”

“Thank you, Mr. Velo.”

“Are you seeing him soon?”

“I have an appointment with Mr. Lorca at four o’clock.” “It should be something to see,” he said, watching me closely. “You’re a goddamned mealymouthed hypocrite, Helm.”

I said, “That’s the best kind to be, Mr. Velo.”

“Get the hell out of here.”

At the door, the girl in satin said, “He likes you. He wouldn’t call you names if he didn’t like you.”

“You just made my day, Wanda,” I said.

A taxi took me to the same Miami hotel as before, and an elevator took me to the floor on which the hospitality suite was located; but I had to walk down the hall to the door all by myself. Well, it was about time I learned how. Outside the door was a neat young man I didn’t know. Inside the door was an older, sloppier man I did know—Burdette, who’d been along on the Great Houseboat Raid in the course of which his colleague Lawson had died at the hands of some dirty blackmailing terrorists. Official version. He showed me no hostility; but no friendship, either. We both knew how Lawson had really died, and you don’t buddy up to a guy who’s killed one of yours, no matter what kind of a slob he happened to be. At the other end of the room, just as if nothing had changed in the time that passed, were Mac and Bennett, the latter with the same cropped head but uneasy, angry eyes.

“I hope you’re feeling better,” Mac said to me.

“It’s good to be up and around,” I said.

“Mr. Bennett wanted to see you. I think he wishes to apologize for a certain misunderstanding.” 

“Misunderstanding,” I said. “Yes, sir.”

Bennett said, “I’m sorry, Helm. It was . . . a mistake. I’m sorry.”

Mac said, “I think Mr. Bennett also wishes to express his appreciation of, and his thanks for, certain services you seem to have rendered him in the course of your latest assignment.”

Bennett said, “Thank you, Helm. I’m very. . . He choked on it, but he got it out. “I’m very grateful.”

Mac said smoothly, “I’m sure Mr. Helm is pleased to have been able to help, and entertains no hard feelings for the unfortunate incident. We won’t take up any more of you time, Bennett.”

We watched him go out, followed by his escort. Mac said softly, “Down, Rover.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Down. Yes, sir.”

“About that ship you wanted located, with the names and addresses of her crew. I hope you have reconsidered that foolishness.”

“Big bastards think they own the fucking ocean,” I said. I grimaced. “Okay, I’m over it. Forget it.”

“Mr. Warren Peterson seems to have gone fishing on a yacht that seems to have gone missing. Very unfortunate for him, and for his friends and family, who have been making inquiries.” Mac studied my face for a moment. “I assume that was necessary, Eric.”

“It seemed so at the time, sir.”