Trusting Viktor (A Cleo Cooper Mystery) (14 page)

A recording at the charter service told me to call back during business hours, which sent me in search of the list of captains of support vessels. But considering how doubtful it was that any of them would be making a late-night trip unless an emergency part was needed, I detoured to the Jeep to get my gun—again. Tucking it under my T-shirt, I marched back inside, opened the refrigerator, and scooped up another Blue Moon.
Screw a bunch of activists
, I thought.
I am entitled to enjoy the evening in my own home, rented or not
.

I cracked open the beer and sauntered out to the screened-in porch sipping it. There I sat and watched the evening fall, baby nine at my side. About nine o’clock I was just finishing a chicken salad sandwich when I got a call from Duncan Powell.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Nothing good,” came his exasperated reply. “Were you planning to head back out here tomorrow?”

“Actually, I’d thought about coming back out tonight after supper, but I’ve changed my mind.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a long story. But the short version is yes, I’ll be coming back out tomorrow.”

“You might want to rethink that plan. Right after you left, a piece of sticky shale got wedged in the well. We’ve having a hell of a time getting it up. We ran through the standard procedure but weren’t having any luck when Braxton came up with the bright idea of increasing the weight of the mud to somehow break up the blockage and flush it out. Of course, I said a big hell no to that. Company man or not, I couldn’t take the chance of busting the casing—”

“Of course not. It could potentially destroy the well. We’d have to start all over again.”

“Anyway, I thought I’d let you know progress is stopped till we get the mudball out of the hole, so you’d be wasting a trip. Of course, the offer to stay here still stands if you’re uncomfortable with the protestors in town.”

“No, I’ve decided that won’t be necessary,” I said, deciding to keep the whole Molotov cocktail business to myself. No sense piling more onto Powell’s already stressful day. “How long do you think the delay will last?”

“Could be as much as forty-eight hours because, in trying to clear the borehole with the bit, some damage to the kelly spinner occurred. We’ll need a part flown in from Louisiana, and then there’s tripping time in and out of the hole.”

“You told Phil yet?”

“I’m getting ready to right now. I told you first because I know
he’ll need some calming down. Maybe you can get him through
this like you did before.”

“Thanks for your confidence … I think,” I laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. Meantime, you and I will stay in touch.”

“We will,” Powell said, blowing out a frustrated sigh. “We were right there, right before breaking into the reservoir … never fails …”

“Even with this little snag—or mud ball, to be more precise—I have faith in you. We’ll bring in the well before SunCo. And what’s more, it’ll be one for the record books.”

FIFTEEN

It was ten o’clock
when I finished talking to Powell. What a day. A hot shower before bed sure sounded like a good idea.

Afterward, I slipped into a pair of gym shorts and a tank top—my summer sleeping attire—and decided some time spent reading the new Grissom novel might help relax muscles still bunched from the stress of the day. As I pulled open the nightstand drawer to retrieve it, the little doohickey I’d found wedged between the ROV rail and its cage caught my attention. I picked it up and studied it under the reading lamp.

I hadn’t had time to inspect it thoroughly since I’d seen some wheel valves very similar to it on my scuba diving trip with Henri out on the wreck of
U-352
. The fading red paint was chipped in a few places, as though it had seen some wear, but it basically reminded me of the ones I’d seen in the torpedo room. I flipped the valve over—it definitely had a front and back side—and for the first time, I noticed letters stamped on the back.

With my previous tiredness slipping away, I carried the wheel into my study and peered at the letters with a magnifying glass. Though faint with time, they read AG WESER. Booting up my computer, I felt a twang of loneliness for Tulip and my children. I’d been so looking forward to spending the whole summer doing less work and spending time with them when they could spare it.

But now my curiosity had kicked in, and the vast informational riches of the Internet were there to be mined. I Googled
AG Weser.
What I saw made those little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “What the hell?” I said aloud when page after page of links to articles on AG Weser, a major German shipbuilder during World War I and World War II specializing in U-boats, popped up. I clicked on the first one.

What I was learning was both fascinating and addictive. Before I knew it, it was two o’clock Wednesday morning and I was convinced that the wheel valve had come from a German U-boat. What made me so sure? I’d found another site that contained everything you’d ever want to know about U-boats, including old photos of the interiors of the stealthy vessels that wreaked so much havoc during the early days of World War II.

The more I read about them—where each one had patrolled for freighters, warships, or any floating enemy of the Third Reich—the more I wanted to read. Still, needing to get some rest, I finally went to bed.

Five hours later, around eight o’clock Wednesday morning, I was right back in front of the screen. I found out that for the first six months of World War II, the east coast of the United States had been practically undefended. At that point, no wartime protocol existed, such as cutting off lights at night along the coast or managing ship-to-shore radio transmissions. Yet throughout this period, there were sixty-five U-boats on the prowl out there, attacking American and British boats attempting to carry supplies to the Allies fighting in Europe.

The Outer Banks of North Carolina suffered so many enemy attacks that it was nicknamed Torpedo Junction. Four U-boats are sunk off the coast there. Their positions are well known. None of them, however, were anywhere near Manteo One, forty-five miles off Cape Hatteras. Eventually, I’d investigated the possibilities of sixty-one other subs that could possibly be sunk there, but decided, for one reason or another, against every one.

My Internet wanderings, besides burning most of the day, also led me to discover a North Carolina museum I’d never known existed. It was in Hatteras and called the Graveyard of the Atlantic Museum. Spurred on by my natural curiosity, I decided a trip there was definitely in order. North Carolina, with four known U-boat locations, was the state with the most off its coast.

While Hatteras was only about 70 miles from Morehead City as the crow flies, it was, in fact, a four-hour trip—and that was only if you timed the ferries right. It would take two to get there: the Cedar Island Ferry, followed by the Ocracoke Ferry that crosses the Hatteras Inlet. Fortunately, Highway 12, which had been rendered impassible by Hurricane Irene in 2011, was now restored.

I was looking at my calendar, trying to decide how to work in the trip, when I heard Henri calling me below.

I went to the top of the stairs. “What are you doing back here?” I demanded to know.

“I was on my way to Dad’s and swung by here to pick up a few things I forgot the other day. Then I saw your Jeep and decided I’d better make sure you’re okay because you said you were staying on the ship.”

“Yeah, well,” I said testily—having been caught in a lie. “I changed my mind when I couldn’t get a flight out. But you should have called first. That’s why Dr. Bell invented the telephone. You’ve come hours out of your way.”

But even from where I stood, I could see that the anxiety on her face was more than what was called for by a death threat and a Molotov cocktail. Seating myself on the bottom step, I pulled her down beside me.

At first she didn’t say anything, only stared at the floor. My body tensed for a blow; this had to be something bad. Very bad.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?”

She looked at me. God, she was absolutely grief stricken. “Is it Tulip?” I prompted. “Did she get run over or something?”

“No, no. She’s in the back yard.”

I waited for a minute, then patted her on the knee. “Putting off telling bad news won’t make it better, sweetie. Just let me know what it is, then we can deal with it.”

“I know why Will’s been so upset and moody,” she said. Then she clammed up again.

“You gonna tell me?” I prompted. She shook her head in confusion.

“It’s Dad,” she said and hiccupped back a sob.

Icy fingers clasped my heart. “What about him?” I was thinking cancer, a brain tumor, some other horrific diagnosis.

“He’s got a girlfriend … and she’s my age!” A floodgate of tears opened, and Henri collapsed into my lap.

No words would come. I just leaned against her for a few minutes, relieved it wasn’t a medical catastrophe after all. Then I sat up and rubbed her back, trying to soothe her. “Oh now, precious, you’re taking this way too hard. It was bound to happen. It’s the way of the world. You didn’t think your dad would stay single forever, did you?”

Hell, I kind of had.

Henri sat up, indignant. “Mom, she’s
my
age! How creepy is that? Dad’s fifty-two and she’s … she’s barely thirty. He’s old enough to be her
father
. Anyway, it’s wrong, all wrong. He loves
you
. Why is he doing this?”

I steepled my fingers in front of my face for a moment, then asked, “What does this have to do with Will?”

“He’s known for a while and been holding it all inside. Apparently he saw them together right after he got up here from Miami. She’s some hot-shot legislator he met in Raleigh, working on those permits for the offshore well. I didn’t know anything about her until yesterday. I was driving through downtown and I saw Dad’s car over by the legislative building. He was pulling away from the curb, so I picked up my phone to call him, see if he wanted to meet for dinner, and then I saw this blond babe with him. Their body language was pretty obvious. I called Will right away, and he spilled out his guts to me. Mom, he’s really been hurting. He went to Paris and moved in with Dad to try to dissuade him.”

“Where’s Dad now?”

“Still in Raleigh. He told Will he had business there and wouldn’t be back for a few days.”

“Good thing you’re going to be with Will, then,” I said, pulling her to her feet. “He needs you right now. Let him know that this is fine with me, that I’m happy about it, actually. I don’t want your father to live alone for the rest of his life. He needs someone to take care of him.”

“
You
don’t need anyone!”

“I know, but I’m a woman, dear. We can actually take care of ourselves.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

“See?” I said, pointing a finger at her. “What you just said is the reason both you and Will are so broken up about this instead of being happy for Dad: your constant belief in the fairy tale of us getting back together is the real problem.”

“But—”

“And don’t blame me. Lord knows, I’ve tried to make you understand. Just because we aren’t married doesn’t mean we aren’t family, just a different kind of family. Families change, you know? Dad and I will always be friends.”

“But now we’ll have to include
her
!” Henri wailed.

“You said
her
like she’s Cruella de Vil and eats puppies for breakfast. You don’t even know her. If you did, you might like her. At least you’ve got age in common,” I said, going for the easy laugh.

“That’s disgusting!”

“Maybe. But it’s also reality. Now, you’ve got to go. Tulip’s waiting and the afternoon is moving on without me. I’ve got work to do, so scoot.”

She mashed the tears from her eyes with the palms of her hand and wiped her nose with a flick of her wrist. I plucked a tissue from a nearby table and handed it to her.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you too. Call me when you get to Seahaven.”

Back upstairs in my study, I gazed out the window at the Sound, sparkling in the afternoon sun like it had been sprinkled with diamonds, and tried to push back the dark mood that threatened to envelope me. I knew I needed to follow my own advice and forge ahead with my life as Bud had.

I dialed Powell out on the
Magellan
to check on the progress made unplugging the well, then I relayed everything to Phil along with reassurances regarding Powell’s capabilities. With these tasks behind me, I felt free to continue planning my trip to the Graveyard of the Atlantic Museum.

I pulled up the museum’s website again and checked the ferry schedules. No matter which way I calculated it, however, it was going to take over eight hours just to get 70 miles. Too bad Henri’s boat was on the fritz. Will’s tinkering turned out to have worsened the timing problem, causing her to haul it to the Jones Brothers shop out on 70 Highway for repairs. If I had it, I could make the trip in under two hours. I was considering renting a boat, when—who could believe it?—my plans were interrupted yet again. This time by a knock at the door
.

Still wary after yesterday’s events, I sat up on alert. I knew it wasn’t Henri. If she’d forgotten something and come back, she’d have called out to me. I trotted to the bedroom, retrieved the baby nine, and slowly descended the stairs. Then I heard the kitchen door rattle. Crap! I’d forgotten to lock it after Henri left! Holding the gun behind my back, I stepped carefully into the kitchen.

Where I practically collided with Viktor Kozlov.

“Dammit! I just about shot you! Don’t you knock?”

“I did!” he protested.

“Well … give a person time to get to the door. What do you want?” I sounded anything but welcoming.

If he was put off by my foul mood, he didn’t show it. “I’ve come to show you my new boat. One less … conspicuous. Like you wanted,” he explained.

Oh good grief.

“Viktor …” I was so totally exasperated with him I grasped the neck of his T-shirt, pulled his face down to mine, and said, “You don’t pay attention. I didn’t want you to get another boat.” Then I glanced through the window to the dock, did a double-take, and burst out laughing. A 20-foot John boat painted in camo for winter duck hunting floated discreetly at the dock.

“You don’t like it?” He looked disappointed.

“Viktor,” I said, placing my fingers on my temples. “I just don’t know what I have to do to …” And then it hit me: Viktor was no longer a problem, he was a solution. All I had to do was get him to switch the boats back again.

“You know what?” I said, rearranging my expression. “I like it a lot. You’ve done well. But there’s a little problem. Can you still use the Fountain?”

“Absolutely!”

“How about tomorrow? All day?”

“How about tonight?” he said, clasping the front of
my
T-shirt and pulling my face to his. “All night?”

Dim light filtering through the plantation shutters of my bedroom along with the chirps and twitters of a dozen sparrows in the branches of a massive live oak outside my window let me know that Thursday was dawning. Soft breathing from young Viktor Kozlov told me he was catching a few winks before coming back for more. My first thought:
Why not?

As I had told Henri, families change. That’s the nature of a family, isn’t it? Kids grow up and move away. At least half of all parents find new mates. Bud had. It was in the open now. Everyone moves on.

So what if Viktor was so much younger than me? One, I wasn’t going to marry him, just enjoy a little diversion to help me over the hump during this change in my relationship with Bud. And two, I’d be discreet. This little romp wouldn’t last long, I’d see to that, and no one would ever know.

As for my relationship with Bud, I’d always care for him and worry about him. I was worried about him now, about his interview with Detectives Pierce and Myers. As I lay listening to the world wake outside my window, I came to a conclusion. If I didn’t think Bud had anything to do with the death of the Voyager pilot—and I didn’t—the best thing I could do was to move faster in my search for the real killer. You know, in case the police
did
think Bud was involved.

That was assuming, of course, that there
was
a killer, and it hadn’t just been an accident incurred by a drunk would-be rapist. My next move toward that end? Find out how a wheel valve from a U-boat got wedged between the rail on the ROV and its cage. Don’t ask me why I thought it had anything to do with the possible murder—maybe because I’d found it at the site of my attack—I just did. The two were linked in my head. Perhaps closure about one thing would help me find closure on the other. Thinking back to what I’d been doing at the moment of the attack brought a blank. I closed my eyes, envisioned the ROV, concentrated, and then it came to me.