Deadlock (37 page)

Grafalk wasn’t so relaxed now. He drew his legs up and crossed them. “How’d you know that?” he asked sharply.

“Boom Boom saw Mattingly there. He wrote Pierre Bouchard that he’d seen Mattingly under odd circumstances. I thought it must have been up here on the
Brynulf
, but Paige told me Mattingly didn’t go on that expedition. The only other really odd place for my cousin to have seen him was down at the Port. It bothered Boom Boom enough to try to get Bouchard to trace Mattingly,
and he wouldn’t have done that for something trivial … But what I really want to know, Niels, is how long Grafalk Steamship has been losing money?”

He got up with a sudden movement that knocked his brandy glass over. “Who told you that?”

“Niels, you’re like an elephant on a rampage. You’re leaving a trail of broken trees behind you and you think no one else can see them. You didn’t have to tell me Grafalk Steamship was the only thing you really cared about. It was obvious the first day I met you. Then your fury with Bledsoe for deserting you was totally irrational. People leave jobs every day for new jobs or to set up their own businesses. I could see you might feel hurt if you gave Bledsoe his big chance. But, my God! You acted like King Richard when one of his barons broke the oath of fealty. Bledsoe didn’t work for Grafalk Steamship—he worked for you. It was a personal betrayal when he left you.”

Grafalk sat down again. He picked up his glass and poured some more Armagnac; his hand wasn’t quite steady.

“Now you’re a relatively smart man, and you don’t need money. Not personally. There wasn’t any reason for you to get sucked up in Clayton’s scheme for your personal gain. But there was if your steamship company needed help.

“My first day down at the Port I heard your new dispatcher on the phone trying to get orders. He just couldn’t get his bids down low enough. You’re operating this antiquated fleet. When the
Leif Ericsson
ran into the wharf, Martin Bledsoe asked if that was how you were planning on getting rid of your old ships. That was when you needled him about his prison background. He reacted violently, and everyone’s attention was diverted. But you
did
need to get rid of your old ships. Martin hadn’t been able to persuade you to build the thousand-footers, and you were stuck with these unprofitable clunkers.”

He swept the brandy decanter from the table with a violent movement and sent it flying against the starboard wall. It smashed and a shower of glass and Armagnac sprayed my back.

“I never thought they’d be profitable!” he shouted. “They’re too big. There weren’t many ports that could handle them. I was sure they were a passing fad.” He clenched his fists and his face took on an angry, brooding look. “But then I started losing orders and I just couldn’t get them back. And Martin! Goddamn him to hell! I saved him from prison. I gave him his life back. And how did he thank me? By building that damned
Lucella Wieser
and flaunting her under my nose.”

“Why didn’t you just build your own at that point?” I asked irritably.

He bared his teeth at me. “I couldn’t afford to. The steamship company was overleveraged by then. I’d mortgaged a lot of my other holdings and I couldn’t find anyone to lend me that kind of money.

“Then I found Phillips and his pathetic wife and I saw a way at least to get some orders. But last fall your damned cousin started nosing around. I knew if he got onto the truth we were all in trouble, so I sicced Paige on him.”

“I know that part. Spare me a rerun—these sentimental stories make me gag … What made you blow up the
Lucella
?”

“That crack of Martin’s—had I deliberately run the
Ericsson
into the wharf? At first I was wishing I could blow up my whole fleet and collect the insurance. Then I had a better idea. Get rid of the
Lucella
and close the upper lakes to the big ships at the same time. I can’t keep the Poe Lock shut forever. But I’ve got three of those bastards stopped up at Whitefish Bay. They’ll have to trundle tiddlywinks between Thunder Bay and Duluth for the next twelve months and there’s no place big enough for them to dock for the winter up there.”

He laughed crazily. “I can carry a lot of freight this summer. I should be out of the woods by next spring—I’ll be able to start capitalizing some new freighters next year. And Martin should be wiped out by then.”

“I see.” I felt tired and depressed. I couldn’t think of any way to stop him. I hadn’t left a trail of my investigation. I hadn’t even told anyone about the documents taped in my old copies of
Fortune
.

As if reading my thoughts, Grafalk added, “Paige told me you had those invoices Boom Boom threatened Clayton with. Sandy went over there early this morning—no kids with bread knives to get in his way. He had to tear the place up a bit, but he found them. Pity you weren’t there. We wondered where you were.”

The anger had subsided in Grafalk’s face and the look of suppressed excitement returned. “And now, Vic, it’s your turn. I want you to come on deck with me.”

I pulled my utility knife from my back pocket. Grafalk smiled at it tolerantly. “Don’t make it difficult for yourself, Vic. I assure you, we’ll kill you before you go overboard—no unpleasant drowning for you.”

My heart was beating faster, but my hands were calm. I remembered a day many years ago when Boom Boom and I had taken on a gang of South Side bullies. The excitement in Grafalk’s face made him look like one of those twelve-year-old punks.

Grafalk started around the table for me. I let him follow until he was behind it and my back was to the door. I turned and ran down the hall toward the bow, slashing through my shirt sleeve with the knife as I ran. I cut the surface of my arm and blood rolled down it to my hand.

Grafalk had expected me to head for the stairs and I gained a few seconds. In the dining room I whirled and kicked the china cabinet with the Wedgwood in it. Glass shattered across the room and cups and saucers fell from their perches with the rocking of the vessel and crashed to
the floor. I ran behind the table and wiped my bleeding arm on the drapes.

“What are you doing?” Grafalk bellowed.

“Leaving a trail,” I panted. I scraped the knife across the mahogany table and rubbed my blood into the scratches.

Grafalk stood momentarily transfixed as I cut chair fabric. I opened the shattered doors to the china closet and swept the rest of the Wedgwood out, ignoring glass fragments that cut my arm. Grafalk recovered himself and lunged for me. I slid a chair into his path and backed into the galley.

The gas-burning stove stood there and a mad idea seized me. I turned on a burner and a blue flame flared up. As Grafalk came through the door at me I tore a curtain from the porthole and dropped it on the burner. It caught fire immediately. I brandished it in front of me like a torch, whirled it around, and set the other galley curtains on fire.

Grafalk came at me in a diving tackle and I jumped out of the way. He fell, heavily, and I ran with my torch back to the dining room where I set the drapes on fire. Grafalk tore after me with a fire extinguisher. He started spraying at me and the curtains. The chemical stung my lungs and partially blinded me. Holding my shirt over my face, I ran back down the hall and up the stairs to the deck.

Grafalk ran at my heels, spraying the fire extinguisher. “Stop her, Sandy. Stop her!”

The sandy-haired man looked up from the tiller. He grabbed at me and tore a piece from my new shirt. I ran to the back of the boat. It was dark now and the water was black as the
Brynulf cut
through it. Running lights from other boats winked in the distance and I screamed futilely for help.

Grafalk charged onto the deck toward me, his face a maniacal mask, fire extinguisher gripped in front of him. I took a breath and jumped overboard.

The black water was very cold. It washed the chemical from my aching face and I trod water for a few seconds, coughing to clear my lungs. For a minute I panicked, thinking of the depths stretching beneath me, and I took in a mouthful of water. Sputtering, choking, I forced myself to relax, to breathe deeply.

I kicked off my running shoes, then reached into the water and pulled off my socks and shirt. The
Brynulf
, under full sail, was moving at a good clip and had gone some thirty feet past me.

I was alone in the icy water. My toes were numb and the water hurt my face. I might last twenty minutes—not enough to swim to shore. I looked over my shoulder. The yacht started to turn. Firelight flickered through the starboard portholes. A searchlight lit up the water and Grafalk quickly picked me up. I tried not to panic, to breathe naturally.

The boat continued to come toward me. Swimming on my back, I saw Grafalk at the bow, a rifle in his hand. As the
Brynulf
came alongside, I took a breath and dove under the keel. I pushed my way along underneath until I came out the back. The engine wasn’t running—there were no chopping propeller blades to slice me.

Something slapped against my face as I surfaced. One of the ropes used for tying the boat was trailing in the water. I seized it and let the
Brynulf
tow me while Grafalk scanned the water with the searchlight. He turned it toward the stern. His face appeared at the side. The rifle pointed at me. I was too numb to dive.

A blinding flash came, but not from the gun. The galley fuel must have exploded. The shock knocked me loose from the rope and deflected Grafalk’s arm. A bullet grazed the water near me and the yacht moved away. A hatch cover blew off and a small fireball flew at the tiller.

Bit of the yacht broke off and floated past me. I seized a spar and leaned on it, kicking doggedly. My left shoulder ached from the cold.

The
Brynulf
continued to move away from me, her sails still catching the wind while Sandy struggled with them, finally letting them go so they hung limply. The yacht then floated in a little circle about fifteen yards from me, moved by the heat of the fire.

Grafalk appeared next to Sandy. I was close enough to see his shock of bleached white hair. He was arguing with Sandy, grabbing him. They struggled in the flickering light. Sandy wrenched himself free and leaped overboard.

Grafalk shook his arms in fury. Walking to the stern, rifle in hand, he searched the water and found me. He pointed the rifle and stood there for a long minute, sighting me. I was too frozen to dive, too frozen to do anything except move my legs mechanically up and down.

Suddenly he dropped the rifle over the side and raised his right arm in a salute at me. Slowly he walked toward the flaming tiller. Another explosion came, this one jarring my numb arms. It must have stove in the side, for the yacht began to sink.

I thought I saw Wodin, who cares nothing for murder, come for this out-of-time Viking to carry him off in his dragon-ship pyre. As the
Brynulf
went down a sudden
gust tore loose a flaming shard from one of the sails and sent it over my head. It lit up the black fearsome water around me: Wodin was calling me. I clung to my spar, gritting my teeth.

Strange hands pulled me from the water. The spar was locked in my fingers. I was babbling of gods and dragon ships. There was no trace of the
Brynulf
.

We sat on a stone terrace overlooking Lake Michigan. The water, pale blue under a soft summer sky, lapped gently at the sand below us. A green canvas awning protected our faces. The May day was bright and clear, although the air was cool out of the direct light of the sun. I buttoned my green serge jacket up to my chin.

Claire Grafalk inspected the brass and teak trolley. I could see a bottle of Taittinger poking over the side of a silver ice bucket. Some salmon, something that looked like a duck sliced and reassembled, and a salad were the only items I could identify without peering too greedily.

“Thank you, Karen. We can take care of ourselves.” As the stocky maid disappeared up the path toward the house, Mrs. Grafalk deftly uncorked the champagne and poured it into a tulip glass.