"A pattern with her. The men in her life running off."
"Running off or driven off."
"So what's the plan? Where're we going in such a hurry?"
"You're going down with us, see where the control room is, get oriented, then you're heading back up to the Starlight Room. Sit at your assigned table. Eat supper, keep your eyes open. I wouldn't put it past this guy to show up, try something right out in the open. Make a big splash. I'll stay with Murphy, see what he's got in mind about catching the guy."
"Supper? You want me to eat supper at a time like this?"
"Yeah. And keep an eye out for the girl. Monica. You see her again, take her into custody."
"Custody?"
"You know what I mean. Detain her. Don't let her sneak off. Okay? We need to talk to her. Showing up at a time like this, it's weird. Gotta be connected."
"When do I get my gun?"
"There aren't any firearms. We're naked."
"You're joking. No guns on the ship?"
"Sampson doesn't like guns. He's forbidden them."
"Even his security staff?"
"That's right. No guns."
"Maybe we can dig up a harpoon somewhere."
"Just eat supper, be normal. If he shows up, don't try anything unless somebody's in danger. Follow him if you can. But stay clear, no confrontations unless it's unavoidable. I'll try to meet you back at your cabin at eight, eight-thirty. We'll see where we stand then."
"How about two-ways? Hand radios. Some way to stay in touch."
"It'd be better if you just tried to blend in, Thorn. Be a passenger. Nothing to give you away. You'll be more useful that way than walking around with a radio squawking on your belt."
Blue ear protectors hung on a rack outside the engine room. They put them on and Sugar led Thorn on a quick inspection tour down the greasy grates between the huge turbines. Even with the ear guards on, the room was painfully loud. Thorn could feel the vibration of the enormous engines like small fists pummeling his flesh.
Sugarman pointed up at a length of cord knotted to a steel overhead beam. It was yellow nylon and it hung beside a video camera mounted on the wall. The cord had been sawed off a foot below the knot. Sugar made a choking sign with one hand. Where Dorfman was hanged.
Small Asian men in blue overalls and yellow hardhats cruised up and down the ramps carrying tools and buckets and dragging hoses behind them. The endless maintenance of engines that never rested.
Outside they hung the mufflers back on the rack and Sugarman led Thorn to the rudder room. The walls and stationary equipment had been painted a serene sky blue. It was a small space with oversized levers and pumps and oil pressure tanks that ran the two giant rudders.
"The steering system is operated by oil hydraulics," Sugarman said. "Oil-filled lines under pressure."
"And that?"
Thorn motioned at a large wheel mounted on the wall above the hydraulic valves. It was twice as large as a car's steering wheel and was backed by a sprocket that was looped with the largest bicycle chain Thorn had ever seen. Links the size of golf balls. The second sprocket was hidden below the floor.
"Manual steering," Sugarman said. "A throwback to the old tramp steamers. Sampson wanted it installed. It's the nautical equivalent to lake pipes on a hotrod, more show than function. Something only another seafaring buff would appreciate. Apparently Sampson's a nut on nautical lore."
"You know this ship pretty damn well," Thorn said.
"I've been spending a lot of time here, yeah."
After a quick tour of the sterile control room, Sugarman led Thorn back to the stairwell and told him to go on to supper. To keep his eyes open. If Thorn needed him, this is where he'd be.
"Sugar," Thorn said quietly. "He's killed three people we know about, so tell me you're over your goddamn case of self-restraint. If you have to go one-on-one with him, you're not holding back, right?"
"He's my brother," Sugar said. "That hasn't changed."
In profile, Sugarman's face was unbearably worn, beaten down, a man who had haggled with death, struck a bargain and been released. But also a man whose resurrection was only partially successful.
"Well, fuck it," Thorn said. "He's not my brother."
CHAPTER 21
Monica eased inside her cabin. She shut the door soundlessly and stood for a moment, fighting off a shiver of dread. Across the room the heavy curtains were drawn, the cabin dark.
She stepped forward, listening for any sign of him. But the music playing on the PA in the corridor was filtering into the room. A Jimmy Buffett jingle extolling the boozy life. She held her ground, waited for her eyes to catch up to the dim room.
Then another step. And to her right she saw the slim line of light showing at the bathroom door.
What she wanted to do was walk over to the bed and collapse. She was weary beyond belief. Going the whole day without seeing Butler Jack. Then the goddamn public address comes on, Butler into his hustle, playing his word game. She'd barely digested this when the guy Thorn comes out of nowhere, he's in her face making jokes, knows her name. She's hurrying away and the other cruise ship almost collided with them. Butler behind it somehow. She was sure of that.
She looked down at her hands. They were jittering so badly that if she tried to take a swipe at Butler, she'd probably whiff. She edged to the closet, rolled the doors aside, then moved to the bathroom door. Holding still for a moment, she tried to peer through the crack but could see nothing. The room was quiet. To the left just out of view a light burned.
She nudged open the door and stepped back. There was some kind of movement, the flicker of a shadow passing before the light, or maybe just her own reflection. She drew a deep breath. Felt the prickle of hairs erect on her arms.
Monica didn't know if she was brave or not. All her life she'd found a way to dodge even minor squabbles. As Irma Slater she'd been ballsy when she had to be, blown off a few cowboys who'd hit on her. And in her daydreams she'd screamed out brutal curses at her father, even slammed a fist into his nose more than once. But those were fantasies. So she didn't know. Facing danger, she might be valiant, or she might curl up like some worm and sob.
In a crouch, Monica stepped into the bathroom.
It was empty. She swung around and swept the shower curtain aside. Water dotting the tile. She stooped, leaned to the left to let the light shine on the shower floor. A smear of blood on the silver drain.
She forced herself to draw a breath. Felt a cold ribbon of sweat trickle down her ribs. She went back into the cabin, walked across to the heavy green curtains, reached out slowly, brushed them aside. No one. She stepped through them to the balcony.
It was after seven, the ocean empty and dark except for a faint ripple of iridescent purple light at the western horizon. The moon was swollen almost full as it drifted up from the black sea. A half-dozen tattered clouds flew past it. The brightest stars were already showing, the weaker ones kindling into view. The air was silky, touched with something sweet, a wisp of jasmine or someone's subtle perfume from the deck below. A night to bask in.
She turned and went back inside the cabin and made one more careful circuit, checked beneath the bed this time, but the mattress was perched on a solid support. The closet, the drawers, opening them one by one but finding nothing. She drew the spread back, stood looking at the clean, flat sheets as if he had some kind of black magic and could turn into smoke, glide about, flatten himself between the bedsheets.
Monica was losing it. She knew that. Losing it, toes curled over the edge of the cliff. Taking a long look down. Picking her spot.
She went into the bathroom, relieved herself, rinsed her face with cold water, and went back into the cabin. She walked over to Butler's bags, kneeled and snapped them open. The four Samsonite hardsides Butler had brought aboard were almost empty. A couple of changes of clothes, shorts, sandals, tennis shirts, a shaving kit, that was it. Clearly intending to leave the ship with more than he'd come with.
She moved to the duffel and unzipped it.
The main compartment was filled with gauges, fuses, batteries of every size, bundles of multicolored wire, several small circuit boards wrapped in plastic baggies, pliers and the soldering gun she'd seen before, some other tools, several coils of coaxial cable, and a plastic box with a dozen slide-out trays. The trays contained springs and tiny bulbs that might have been transistors, another tray of what looked like microchips, and round flat batteries like Martian coins. A host of other arcane hardware as if Butler had harvested the goodies off dozens of computers. There were also three thick manuals with light blue covers. M.S.
Eclipse
printed in large block letters on each of them. She fanned through them, saw dozens of schematic drawings. Diagrams, lines connecting with other lines, the intricate electric pathways, the plumbing, the fire alarm system, steering mechanisms. She laid the manuals aside.
For the next few minutes she investigated every flap and zippered pocket in the big bag, found some receipts from electrical supply stores, a tight roll of fifty-dollar bills, an accordion holder with a few dozen photos of the starving children. She counted out ten fifties to replace her nest egg and tucked it in her pocket. He owed her that. It was only fair.
She didn't know what else she was looking for. A weapon would be good. Or some clue to his sanity, or evidence she might be able to use against him later. She'd handled the wedge of paper several times, but not till she was rising did it snag her attention. She bent back down and plucked it from the jumble.
The white page was folded into a tight square like a junior high love note. She took it over to the small desk, switched on the lamp, and carefully unlocked the folds, spread it open, flattened out the well-worn creases against the green ink blotter.
It was the list Butler Jack had mentioned, his plan of action. There were small pencil checks beside the first seven numbers.
1. Master tools of trade. Polish manners.
2. Select needy subjects. Tithe.
3. Locate her.
4. Study her.
5. Larcenous cruises. Plant wizardry. Dry dock.
6. Intersect with her. Final dry dock.
7.
Eclipse.
Take control. Dance the dance. Rogue wave.
8. Dispatch passengers.
9.
Juggernaut.
10. Fifty-eight million dollars.
By the time she'd reached number ten, her hands were shaking. But it was the last one that sat her down on the edge of the bed. Took the air from her lungs. He'd scribbled it hastily by hand, barely legible.
11. Sacrifice her.
Blaine Murphy was trying to explain the ship's electrical layout, rattling out a string of numbers and incomprehensible terminology, ignoring Sugarman's pleas to slow down, simplify, until finally Sugar had to clap a hand over the kid's mouth and whisper in his ear to shut the hell up and listen for a goddamn minute.
When he took his hand away, Blaine Murphy's face was bloated with rage, but he kept his mouth shut.
Sugar explained that he and McDaniels were idiots. Idiots, absolute total morons. Okay? No need to try to impress them with his mastery of the subject matter. This wasn't a job interview, a final exam, anything like that. So he should put it in terms a couple of five-year-olds could understand. Murphy nodding. Yes, yes. Sure, all right. I was just excited.
Murphy stepped away, put some space between them, then started over.
Eleven decks. Each deck divided into four fire zones. The point was, if the ship caught fire, the steel doors could be closed to trap the blaze, keep it from spreading, so the worst that could happen was that one-fourth of one deck might burn. But that one-fourth would be cut off from the other three-fourths. By dividing the electrical circuitry into sectors, it made it possible for the ship to have a fairly serious conflagration and still stay operational.
"Conflagration, meaning fire," Murphy said.
Sugarman nodded.
Murphy was being cute, going very slow. Enunciating his words, pausing between sentences, but Sugar didn't interfere. Let him have his fun.
Eleven decks, four fire zones. Eleven times four equals forty-four electrical zones. A circuit breaker for each of them right over there on the wall.
So if Butler Jack tried to use the main PA system again, Blaine would simply work down the panel, one to forty-four. A quick off and on. If the PA turned to dead air for a couple of seconds then they'd know which zone Butler was broadcasting from.
"Show me the zones, a chart, whatever you have. How big is each one?"
"I'll show you, but it's easy enough to picture. Take each deck, everything on it, bow to stern, divide it into four. A, B, C, D. That's how big."
"Fuck," McDaniels said. "It's still a needle in a haystack."
"No, no," Murphy said. "When we know where he is, I'll spring the fire doors, cut off that section. Trap him where he is, so we can search that area for however long it takes."
"What if he's using his own energy source? Batteries, something like that, a transmitter like the one I found, breaking into the circuitry in one place while he's stationed somewhere a good distance away, radioing his message. He could do that from anywhere, his own cabin, a broom closet somewhere on a different deck entirely."
Murphy stepped safely away from Sugarman. He still wasn't over having his mouth covered like that. Probably reminded him of the old days in high school when they used to dunk his head in the toilet. The pug-nosed little know-it-all.
"To be able to speak through the entire ship, he'd need to splice into the main trunk lines. A small hand-held transmitter, battery operated, something like that, it wouldn't have the juice to do it. No, he's got to be right there where he's entering the system. Trust me. Don't worry. This will work."