Trusting Viktor (A Cleo Cooper Mystery) (6 page)

Swinging, slapping, and scratching in the darkness, I knew I was making contact with flesh, but the more I did, the more it seemed to excite the dark, sweaty creature. With my left thigh in one hand and right underarm in the other, he shook me so violently my teeth clacked together. Never in my life had I been so physically overpowered, so totally helpless. I called on another burst of adrenalin, but terror had rendered me helpless. I was all done in.

Wishing now he
had
thrown me overboard, I considered jumping—if I could get away long enough—but it was more than 20 feet to the ocean’s surface. While I’d probably survive the fall, the current was ripping like rush-hour traffic down the length of the ship. More than likely I’d be sucked under the ship and pulled into one of the thrusters.

Still, getting chewed up in the giant propellers seemed far preferable to being some ape’s plaything.

With my last ounce of strength, I kicked out in the dark with my right leg, hoping to connect with his crotch, my plan being to squirm free and jump the second he doubled over in pain.

My foot landed somewhere in the groin area, but the rotten bastard seemed to like it. Panting and whimpering, he clutched my wilting body to him, like Steinbeck’s Lennie hugged his dead puppy, and jammed his paw down the front of my pants. Snaps popped, the zipper busted, and Kong groaned, gave a mighty grunt, and …

I fainted.

SIX

Unintelligible rap music blasted
from the clock radio beside me. I bolted upright, cracked my head—again—on the top bunk, and slapped the Off button. It was seven thirty Wednesday morning. I looked around the room. Bud still wasn’t back. I prayed I’d only had a bad dream …

Yet every muscle in my body screamed in pain. Last night’s horror sprang fully formed into my mind’s eye, like an automated ghoul in a carnival spook house. I darted into the bathroom and gasped at the sight of myself in the mirror.

Sadly, my face and clothes told a sad tale. I had a goose egg on the left side of my forehead at the hair line and my clothes were all but ripped off me, revealing a nasty purple-red bruise on my right shoulder that wrapped around my armpit. There was no snap on my jeans and the zipper was kaput.

I squeezed my eyes shut, but tears popped out anyway and ran down my face. I choked back a sob and, with shaking hands, pulled down my jeans. I had to know.

There was a massive bruise on my left thigh,
but
my white cotton thong was still intact. I checked in with myself and noted that none of the soreness I felt was coming from between my legs. I still didn’t know what had happened or how I’d gotten back here, but it was clear that I’d had an extremely close call.

After cleaning my face and jerkily applying fresh makeup from my purse, I blundered around and found a man’s white undershirt in one of the lockers. It was clean enough and only a few sizes too large, which was a good thing since it would hide where I’d fastened the waist of my jeans with a safety pin from my tote—always be prepared, right? I tied a knot in the undershirt at my left hip as best I could considering how bad my hands were shaking. After swallowing one of my emergency BC powders, I picked up my bag, gently put on my hard hat and dark glasses, and made my way to the steps leading to the helipad.

I knew I should march in indignation up to the helm station, find the captain, and report the assault. The Cleo I
should
have been would. But while admittedly rattled, I could still assess the situation enough to know I was in a very untenable spot. On the one hand, yes, I was a victim, and my retreat left a very bad person loose on board.

On the other hand, what’s done was done. Reporting a near-miss incident that happened four hours ago by an attacker I couldn’t identify didn’t seem the way to go. Plus, the minute I said I was wandering around on a self-guided tour in the wee hours of the night, ship officials would be ready to hang
me
from the yard arm. I’d been breaking the drillship’s safety regulations by running around alone in the dark. At the very least, I’d probably be asked not to come back onboard, thus letting down Bud and our investors.

Overriding everything—and increasing minute by minute since I’d become conscious—was pure murderous rage at whoever had tried to rape me last night. I knew I needed to get somewhere and gain control of myself. In the meantime, a 5-gallon bucket of paint under the stairs leading to the helipad made for a perfect spot to wait for my ride out of sight.

Wincing at the stab of pain that shot through my left thigh as I sat, I promised myself that regardless of how I went about it, I’d have my revenge on the SOB who’d jumped me last night. I’d never been one to look to others to take care of my problems, and I wasn’t about to start now. But I still had my job to think about, so I dragged my thoughts back to things I would normally do before leaving the ship. Only checking in with Elton came to mind; I could do that later via email.

Within a few minutes I heard the distant thumping of the big Sikorsky. I watched it land, the rotors spooling down. No one noticed me as they clanked up the stairs. I waited a few more minutes until exactly 8:00 a.m., then trotted up the stairs, crossed the pad, and hopped in after handing a deckhand my hard hat. There were two seats left. Fortunately they were separated by several rows so I wouldn’t have to worry about Bud noticing my unkempt appearance. Selecting the one closest to the rear, I was careful not to let the headset disturb the hair pulled across my temple and hiding the growing goose egg. Phil Gregson, sitting a few seats over, smiled and nodded as the engines began to rev and the rotors spin faster.

“Wait,” I called to the pilot. “Mr. Cooper isn’t here yet.”

Phil leaned over to me and said something.

“What?” I yelled back.

“I said he’s catching a flight back after lunch. He was playing poker all night with Duncan, me, and a couple of other guys. I think a fifth of Maker’s Mark … or two … might’ve been involved.” Then he winced, rolled his eyes, and rubbed his temples.

“Okay!” I yelled and waved to the pilot. At least I’d caught a break in the nosy ex-husband department.

Later, as I lay on my own bed, I realized I couldn’t remember anything, not even the smallest detail, about the helicopter flight or my drive home. I was pretty sure you’d call that being in shock. I did remember coming straight up to my room and lying down—but little more.

Tulip was with me. Sensing my distress, she scrunched up as close to me as possible and gazed at me with soulful, all-knowing eyes. I rubbed her bony head as I heard the screen door slam shut downstairs.

“Mom!” It was Henri. I checked Mickey Mouse on my wrist and saw that several hours had passed.

Painfully, I slid off the side of the bed and limped to the door. “I’m getting ready to take a shower. Be down in a little while.”

Hot rain from the fancy showerhead streamed over my battered body and I tried to come up with some sound psychological advice to counteract the deep feelings of guilt and betrayal that fought for dominance within me. It had simply never entered my mind that anyone working on a drillship could morph into a violent attacker. At the same time, I felt guilty that I’d put myself—and thus Global and Trans
World—in a vulnerable situation. But, honestly, in my time spent aboard various offshore rigs, I’d been prepared for danger in the form of accidents or from the forces of nature. I had always felt extremely safe with my fellow workers.

Even though crews change every two weeks, there is a sense of camaraderie among the close-knit group, of us against the elements. Everyone looks out for everyone else. It was unheard of, at least by me, for criminal activity to take place offshore.

The confusion in my brain grew thicker, as did the steam in the bathroom. Bits and pieces of the attack flashed before me. I remembered the lights going out, thinking originally of electrical maintenance. Now I wondered if King Kong had flipped a breaker. I remembered the little metal wheel I’d been trying to retrieve. What was it? What happened to it? Did I pull it loose? Why did the attack stop? The sound of those repellently loathsome grunts and groans echoed in my ears. My insides lurched. I dry heaved until my empty stomach was sore, then sat on the warm tile floor, cocooned in steam and warm rain and pondering the biggest question of all:

How had I gotten back to my room?

With my hair artfully arranged and clothes covering my bruises, I went down to the kitchen where Henri was making a tomato sandwich. I’d managed to arrive at a clear plan of action regarding yesterday’s events: compartmentalize.

Learning the identity of my attacker had to come first, before any revenge, of course. Then came the delicious question of how to get that revenge. A lead pipe to his hog-tied, prone body topped my list, though I knew it was unlikely I’d get someone his size in such a position. A more civilized option would have to do. And lastly, I absolutely had to steady myself—witness my embarrassing episode of crying and hurling in the shower—and for that, time was the only cure.

“Want one?” asked Henri, offering her sandwich.

“None for me, thanks.”

“Dad called me and said you aren’t answering your cell. He says to call him.”

I moved to the refrigerator, poured a Coke over crushed ice, and sipped. “Must’ve left my cell in the Jeep. I’ll call him in a little while. Where’s Will?”

“Probably off in my boat again. I swear, Mom, he uses it all the time. I can’t imagine what he’s doing with it. He says he’s fishing, but he’s not.”

“How do you know?”

“Leslie and Juliet saw him the other day when they were out on their paddleboards. They said he had the Bimini top up and was just sitting at the edge of the salt marsh staring into space.”

“Maybe what he wanted was to be alone … to think.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. If he wants to tell us, he will. Right now, best to leave him alone.”

“So you’ve noticed a difference in him too?”

“Well … he may seem a little moody. But, like I said, just leave him alone and let him come to us if he wants to.”

Henri was still processing my nonintervention strategy as I carried my Coke up to my temporary office. There I made arrangements to move up a week a consulting job I’d scheduled in the natural gas fields of Pennsylvania. Now I’d be leaving Thursday—tomorrow.

Three days later on Sunday afternoon, my consulting job completed and recovered from my attack (physically anyway), I was back in Morehead City.

More precisely, I was wading in the breakers on Atlantic Beach, throwing a tennis ball for Tulip and thinking of my upcoming work calendar. Except for an American Association of Petroleum Geologists convention in Houston, where I’d be presenting a
paper, I’d cleared it of all but a few small jobs so I could devote more time to Manteo One. Being asked to back up Elton, the rookie wellsite geologist, would give perfect cover and plenty of extra time to discreetly root out the identity of my attacker. How
hard could it be? I mean, how many apes were onboard
Magellan
?

Bud and I had finally connected while I was in Pennsylvania. He mentioned our trip to the
Magellan
only once, making fun of himself and Dunk—his new BFF name for Duncan Powell—for their all-night poker game excesses. I never spoke of my time there except to answer his questions relating to the briefings I’d had and the observations I’d made.

Elton had dutifully sent daily reports and called a few times regarding routine questions, for which I cut him some slack. One thing I noticed was he didn’t seem to be calming down any. During one of our conversations, I began worrying he was about to hyperventilate and found myself giving him a pep talk. He ended our conversation that day with a let-me-back-in-there-coach attitude, which seem to indicate progress.

Tulip body-surfed in, tennis ball held high, and charged toward me flinging sand and water. She stopped mid-stride when the handsome black Lab from my street swooped down from the dunes, charged across the beach, and intercepted her. I thought Tulip would ignore him as she does all other dogs, but she immediately dropped the ball and took off with the him.

“Hey!” I called as the abandoned tennis ball rolled back into the breakers. “Come back here, Tulip! Here, girl …”

I was interrupted by my cell. “You back yet?” Bud wanted to know.

“Yep. Got in around lunchtime. What’s up?”

“They’ve got that thing installed on the well and they’re at about five thousand feet.”

That thing?
I wondered. “Uh, the blowout preventer?”

“Yeah, that,” Bud said.

“Any problems?”

“Not with the drilling, and no one with the company has said anything to me, but in the last couple of days I’ve seen some rather curious news in the
Carteret News Times
.”

“Yeah? What?” I said, keeping an eye on Tulip and her new buddy romping in the dunes.

“Well, Thursday I read where a corpse washed up on Atlantic Beach. Since the body was fully clothed and not wearing a bathing suit, the first assumption was that it was a fisherman or boater who’d fallen overboard. Then today I read that since no boating mishaps have been reported and no one along the coast has filed a missing person’s report, the police are now wondering if the man could be a worker from the drillship. The article says an investigation is ongoing.”

My heart did a double-clutch. Several different scenarios flashed through my mind, but my memory of what happened after I heard Kong groan was still a complete blank.

“You there?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m just distracted. I’m on the beach with Tulip. She just got herself a boyfriend, a black Lab, and they’ve gone over the dunes where I can’t see them. We’ll talk later.” I clicked off, my I’ll-get-even-with-the-bastard state of mind suddenly a thing of the past. Now I felt anticlimactic. Disappointed even. If the body that washed up was that of my attacker and he’d stupidly fallen overboard in orgasmic bliss, I wouldn’t get the satisfaction of carrying out some tantalizing form of revenge.

Still, if it
was
him, I’d just gotten shed of a task that could potentially have been foolhardy for me. Satisfying probably, but foolhardy nonetheless. And right now, maybe that was best. As I scaled the dunes to find Tulip and the lab, my thoughts turned back to the corpse and how to find out for sure who it was.

I didn’t have to study on the problem for long.

I was in the back yard hosing sand and salt off Tulip when I heard a car pull into the drive. Since neither Henri nor Will appeared to be here and the boat was gone, I put Tulip on the porch and walked around front just in time to see two men exit their car: one buff but chunky, the other his antithesis—lean and wiry. The way they intently checked their surroundings as they climbed from their black sedan reminded me of TV cops. Both wore khakis, knit shirts, and aviator sunglasses. Both looked to be about my age, mid-forties.

“Hi,” I said, with outward nonchalance but inward trepidation. When the cops pull up in your driveway, unless they’re asking for a donation for the policeman’s ball, it’s probably not a good thing.

“Ms. Cleo Cooper?” asked the lean one, stepping forward with outstretched hand.

“Yes,” I said, shaking it.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Alex Pierce of the Atlantic Beach Police Department,” he said. Then turning to his companion, he introduced, “my partner, Detective Billy Myers.”