Lunatics (12 page)

CHAPTER 24

Jeffrey

Even for Horkman,
that had to be some kind of record for assholery. We're in the middle of the ocean, in the middle of a storm, and he
jumps off the fucking
ship
?

Dipshit.

I looked over the railing, but it was dark down there, and I didn't see anything except waves. I yelled “Horkman!” but looking back on it, that was pretty useless.

Meanwhile, Sharisse was screaming like she had fire ants in her woowoo. To be honest, the only person who did anything practical was Mike, who ran to a life preserver, grabbed it, ran back to the rail, and gave it a mighty heave. It would have been impressive, except at the exact moment he heaved, the ship lurched again, and Mike went over the side after the life preserver. The last thing I heard him say was, quote, “FUUUUUUuuuuuuuu . . .”

Sharisse stopped screaming, ran to the rail, looked over, then looked back at me.

“Ohmigod,” she said. “Mike fell overboard!”

“I know!” I said.

She was pointing at the deck. “Look at that!” she said. “Do you know what that is?”

“A deck?” I said.

“Moisture,” she said.

I looked. “Well, yeah,” I said. “I mean we're in a storm, so it's . . .”

“It's negligence!” she said. “This deck is extremely slippery.”

I have to admit I felt a stab of admiration for this woman, who had just seen her husband fall off a ship, probably to his death, and yet somehow had the presence of mind to start planning the lawsuit, possibly before he hit the water.

I looked over the side again, keeping a good grip on the railing. “We should find a crew person,” I said.

“Good idea,” she said. “Start documenting our case.”

That wasn't what I meant, but I let it go. “Maybe we should put on some clothes first,” I said. I was cold, and somehow it didn't seem right to go report three deaths with my schlong waving around.

“Right,” agreed Sharisse. “We want to look businesslike. My cabin's right near here. You can wear some of Mike's clothes.” Apparently she was completely done with grieving over Mike.

We went to her cabin. She found me a pair of shorts, a shirt and some sandals. It was all a little too big, and the shirt had that giant Ralph Lauren horse on it that basically says, when you wear it, “Hi! I'm a douchebag!” But it was okay for an emergency. I kept the hat and shades on, to maintain my disguise.

While Sharisse was dressing, I found the remote control and turned on the TV to check out CNN. The two big headline stories were
NEW YORK TERROR ATTACK
and
SUDDEN HURRICANE GROWS IN ATLANTIC
. So basically there were two big shitstorms in the news, and I was in the middle of both of them.

“Come on,” said Sharisse, all dressed now. She grabbed my hand and pulled me out the door and down the corridor. I realized I still had the TV remote in my hand so I stuck it into a pocket.

“Where, exactly, are we going?” I asked.

“We're going to see the captain,” she said.

“Um, not to piss on your parade, but maybe you noticed we're in a hurricane here.”

“So?”

“So the captain might be a little busy to be talking to passengers.”

Sharisse looked at me like I was a retard and said, “We'll see about that.”

And we did. Never again will I underestimate the persuasive power of a woman with legal training and big tits. She went through the ship's chain of command like a chainsaw through a fruitcake. Fifteen minutes later, we were escorted onto the bridge to meet with the captain. His name was Sven Lutefisk, and he was one of those tall blue-eyed Norwegian-looking dudes who probably shits icicles. He and several other officers were standing in front of a console with a dozen screens showing radar, GPS, and other nautical things. He did not look happy to see us, but he was polite.

“My first officer tells me you have an urgent situation you must discuss with me, and only me, Mrs., ah . . .”

“Fricker,” said Sharisse. “Sharisse Fricker. You may have seen my TV ad.” She stuck out her boobs.

“I cannot say that I have,” said Captain Lutefisk. He looked at me. “And is this Mr. Fricker?”

“No,” said Sharisse and I together.

Lutefisk studied me for a second, frowning, then looked back at Sharisse. “As you can see,” he said, gesturing at the nautical screens, “we are quite busy at the moment, with the weather. So perhaps you can tell me what this urgent matter is.”

“I'll get right to the point,” said Sharisse. “You have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“A serious problem. With your ship.”

“What are you talking about?”

“People have been hurt,” said Sharisse. “And more people could get hurt.”

Lutefisk looked at me again, longer this time, then back at Sharisse. “Are you threatening me?” he said.

“It's not a threat if you can back it up,” said Sharisse. “And I am fully prepared to back it up.”

She was going to keep talking, but just then one of the officers, who'd been staring at me, stepped forward and whispered something to Lutefisk. Now both of them were staring at me. Lutefisk said something Norwegian, and the officer walked briskly to a cabinet against a wall. The other officers formed a circle around Sharisse and me.

“What's going on?” I said, although I was pretty sure I knew. Especially when the guy came back from the cabinet holding a handgun.

“What's going on,” said Lutefisk, “is that we are going to take you into custody, Mr. Jeffrey Peckerman. And you as well, Mrs. Fricker, or whatever your real name is.”

“You're making a big mistake,” said Sharisse. “Do you have any idea what I can do to you?”

“Is that another threat?” said Lutefisk.

“You bet your ass it's a threat,” said Sharisse. “You're going to lose your whole fucking ship, sailor boy.”

Lutefisk's eyes narrowed. He said something to the officers, and they took a step closer. Lutefisk pointed to me. “Empty your pockets,” he said.

I reached into the right front pocket of Mike Fricker's shorts. My hand closed around the TV remote control.

“Slowly,” said Lutefisk.

Slowly, I pulled my hand out of the pocket.

The sailors froze, staring at my hand. The only part of the remote showing was about an inch of the black casing, and the red power button.

Lutefisk said something to the officers, and they took a step back. Their eyes—all, for the record, blue—were locked on the remote.

“Is that what I think it is?” said Lutefisk.

“Well, what the fuck else would it be?” I said. I was wondering what kind of cheap-ass cruise line would make such a big deal about taking a TV remote. You can get those things for ten bucks at Best Buy.

Lutefisk was staring at me. “Where is it?” he said.

“Where is what?”

“The bomb,” he said.

My mouth fell open. I was about to show him that it was a TV remote, but Sharisse put her hand on my arm.

“You think we're going to just
tell
you?” she said.

Lutefisk shifted his attention to her.

“Mrs. . . .”

“Fricker,” she said.

“Mrs. Fricker, there are over two thousand innocent people on this ship.”

“Right,” said Sharisse. “And they're all going to be fine, as long as you do exactly as I say. First, I want that gun.”

Lutefisk hesitated, then said something Norwegian. Reluctantly, the officer handed the gun to Sharisse. She took it, then smiled her moray smile.

“Now,” she said, “let's talk money.”

CHAPTER 25

Philip

The first thought
I had after I jumped off that ship was, I can't believe I jumped off that ship. The next thought I had, upon hitting the water was, I wonder if I'll survive the jump off that ship or will the impact turn me into a floating Rorschach blot? And the third thought I had, upon surfacing intact was, Now what?

I immediately focused on swimming toward where I thought Maria was. I'm a very strong swimmer. In a pool. Or a lake. But until that very moment, I never had the occasion to test that prowess in a choppy sea during a raging storm on a moonless night. Truth be told, it was never even on my “to do” list.

But I'm sure you know that adage about necessity being the mother of invention. Well, as I was feverishly trying to work my way across the Caribbean, it occurred to me that now would be an excellent time for someone to invent a car that rode on top of the water so it could stop, give me a lift to wherever Maria was, and then drive the two of us to the nearest place where a person could actually stand without drowning.

Presuming the possibility of that happening was, at best, a long shot, I continued onward, not even sure at this point that I was heading in the right direction. So I stopped and looked back at the SS
Windsong
,
whose lights were still on. I tried my best to gauge where Maria was standing when she went overboard, then turned around and resumed swimming into the darkness. Exactly two strokes. I swam exactly two strokes before becoming entangled in something that felt like a body. A human body whose arms were flailing about in a losing battle to stay afloat! Was it possible? Dear Lord, I have no idea how I reached her so quickly, but then again, the Lord works in mysterious ways, does he not? And it stood to reason, given that she was a nun, that the Lord would mysteriously work overtime on her behalf.

“Maria!” I shouted. “Hold on to me, honey! I'll save you!”

I'd always wanted to say the words “I'll save you” to a woman. Even as a kid, the fantasy of saving the damsel in distress, whether it be Sir Lancelot swooping down from a white horse and saving Guinevere from a flame-breathing dragon or The Man of Steel himself swooping down from the sky to untie a bound and gagged Lois Lane from the rails seconds before she's crushed by an oncoming train. That's what I wanted to do. I wanted to swoop. And now was my chance.

“I'm swooping, Maria! I'm swooping!”

And swoop I did, as I dove under the water, grabbed her around the waist and, employing a Red Cross method I once saw a lifeguard use on my son Trace after he fell into the deep end of our country club's pool when he tripped while practicing demi-pliés on the high diving board, I scissors-kicked the two of us upward until we broke surface. Her back to me, I reached around and positioned my right arm across her chest and started treading water.

The question now was, where were we going? Obviously the shorter distance was the ocean liner, which was about a hundred yards behind us, still aglow. I could swim toward its lights and then yell for help. Surely someone would hear me. Although it did cross my mind that it was potentially risky for me—that by drawing attention to myself, I increased the chances of being recognized should any of the passengers or crew had been online since we left New York and had seen mine and Peckerman's pictures on CNN.com or any other news source, which was now a very distinct probability.

Still, it was a visible, nearby destination that was safest for Maria. And wasn't that an integral part of the swooping procedure? To put the needs of the swoopee before that of the swooper? Of course it was.

“Don't worry, we'll be back at the ship in no time at all,” I said, as I started my one-armed swim back toward the SS
Windsong
.

“Thank you,” she answered in a gurgling voice that sounded nothing like her. Even allowing for fatigue, the prevailing elements and the trauma of this entire situation, it was deeper than I'd remembered it being. Almost masculine. I was now concerned this was due to water in the lungs, similarly to the way my slightly overweight son Trace, after that lifeguard rescued him, had water in his lungs and his voice sounded deeper and almost masculine. In which case it was advisable, if not necessary, to expel the water.

So I stopped swimming again and, with her back to me, put my arms around her, placed my hands on top of each other in two fists, and pulled them toward me—like in a Heimlich maneuver—and couldn't help but notice, when I moved my hands up and down the front of her body to get a better grip, I didn't feel any breasts but did feel, from what I knew from personal experience, a penis. So after I yelled real loud, I spun her around and found myself looking straight into the face of the lawyer Fricker. The
male
lawyer Fricker.

He said, “At Fricker and Fricker, we may bend the law but we don't break it,” which I recognized as his firm's motto from those hideous television commercials. A shyster to the very end, those were his last words as his eyes rolled back into his head, his entire body went limp and, despite the darkness, I was able to tell that his face was turning bluer than the testicles of a pet shop dachshund when denied access to its mate in the cage next to him.

Now I was scared. Really scared. Whether Fricker died from exposure or from whatever fall he took off that ship, I didn't care. All I knew was I was holding a dead lawyer in the middle of the Caribbean, the SS
Windsong
was now cruising into the distance, making it no longer a real option as a destination. And, unless those fins I saw approaching belonged to a convention of upside-down surfboards, sharks were on their way.

So, hoping like hell that aquatic sharks were attracted to legal ones, I let go of the erstwhile Fricker and started swimming as fast as my arms could propel me. With long overhead strokes that reached as far ahead of me as possible, and legs kicking like two Rockettes on Dexedrine, I moved forward. Fueled by fear-induced adrenaline, I kept going. Non-stop. For how long? One hour? Two hours? Hard to say. All I knew was that I was determined to keep going as long as I humanly could.

God knows how much later, I noticed that once the sea became less choppy and calmer waters were under me, the current was running in the direction I was going. Did that mean I was getting closer to land? That these ripples would eventually build into waves that would crash onto some beach? I had no idea. So I kept my arms churning, as I took nothing for granted. And when I was lifted up by the rising force of water, was that indeed the wave that would carry me ashore? I had no idea. So I kept my arms churning, as I took nothing for granted. And when the wave sent me flying through the air and deposited me on what was definitely land, I kept my arms churning, as I took nothing for granted.

And then after my arms started to really hurt from me just lying there and churning them into the ground, I stopped. And lay there exhausted. And then I fell asleep. For how long? All I knew when I finally awakened, before I even opened my eyes, I was able to tell it was daytime. Still exhausted and aching like I'd never felt before, I lay there with my eyes closed until I heard a voice.

“Philip?”

I opened my eyes and saw Maria.