The Pirate's Daughter (18 page)

Wilson promised solemnly, though he didn't know at the time what he was promising, and a week later his father got on the four forty-five express to another racetrack and his odds gave out and the train went down into the black water and ice of the Potswahnamee.

Now, curled up on a reeking mattress in the bowels of a pirate ship bound for points unknown, Wilson thought about the things his father had said, and he wondered how he would meet his end. Who could say what his father had felt in the last few seconds of life as the baggage flew loose and the passenger cars screamed off the trestle into oblivion? Is it possible to hold on to dignity in such a situation? Most likely the accident had happened too fast for him to feel anything but panic.

But this time, Wilson had time to prepare himself, a day in the dark to construct the artifice that he was not afraid, that life didn't matter so much as how you left it.

The pirate sat at an old wooden table on the quarterdeck of the
Storm Car
, finishing a breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausages, and toast. A bottle of vodka stood half empty at his right hand. A black youth in a clean white jacket, napkin over one arm, hovered
just behind with a glass pitcher of orange juice. The orange juice glowed an intolerable yellow in the bright, hot light of noon. The pirate wore a tattered red bathrobe hanging open over his chest, a pair of green boxer shorts, and green fuzzy slippers.

After the blackness of his prison in the hold, all this color and light gave Wilson a terrible headache.

Wilson and Captain Amundsen sprawled side by side handcuffed on the deck in the sun, waiting for the pirate to finish eating. Crates of ordnance packed in straw and lashed with canvas strapping made black tombstone-shaped shadows on the deck. The pirate ate slowly, reading a copy of the
Financial Times
, folding and refolding the onionskin pages carefully between each bite. Mustapha stood guarding the prisoners, leather quirt in hand, an automatic rifle slung over his scarred black shoulder.

During the day and a half since the attack, the
Storm Car
, with the
Compound Interest
in tow, had sailed to a different patch of sea. Now close off the port bow lay a jungle island. Its green tangle of vegetation straggled down to a rim of white beach, and Wilson could just make out parrots in the trees. In the distance, more islands, the channels between them clogged with reeds and saw grass. The humid air was thick with insects and the rank malarial smell of the tropics.

Then the pirate finished eating and the dishes were cleared away and Cricket and Schlüber came down the companionway and folding chairs were brought up and they joined him at the table. Today, Schlüber wore a pin-striped suit with a red paisley power tie and polished tassel loafers. He flipped open the notebook computer, which made a few noncommittal beeps, and set about fiddling with the thing with the self-important air common to computer people. Cricket seemed clean and rested; her skin showed a healthy glow. She wore a pair of stiff white sailor pants and a short blue naval jacket with gilt epaulets and braiding. Two rows of gold buttons rose over her breasts. She looked like a fresh-faced midshipman just out of the Naval Academy.

The pirate kissed her cheek as she settled beside him. “Morning, honey,” he said.

“You need a shave, Dad,” Cricket said, frowning. “And it's not morning; it's afternoon. And you should have put on some decent clothes. The Articles insist on the solemn nature of the occasion.”

“On my ship I am the Articles,” the pirate growled, rolling his one malevolent eye. But he pulled his bathrobe closed and sat forward. “Listen-up, shipmate,” he said to Captain Amundsen. “Any questions before we begin?”

“Yes, what have you done with Ackerman?” the captain said, his voice a parched croak. “As skipper of the
Compound Interest
, the man was my responsibility. Did you filthy bastards kill him?”

The pirate gave a wan smile. “Don't worry,” he said. “Mr. Ackerman is worth quite a bit of money to us. He's quite comfortable right now. More comfortable than you, in fact. For your information, the black flag is a gesture to tradition, as is the plank you see yonder.” He waved in the direction of two Malay crewmen just now coming down the companionway. They carried a long wooden plank like a diving board, which they fixed into a slot in the starboard gunwale with a chain and iron pegs. Wilson shuddered when he saw this thing. It was painted an uneasy shade of turquoise and extended a good twenty feet off the side of the ship, quivering over the water as the
Storm Car
hawed at anchor in the swells.

“Killing everyone we capture is a waste of good human resources,” the pirate said. “The Brotherhood needs men, especially qualified ones! Mr. Schlüber, let's hear the captain's biography.”

“ ‘Amundsen, Lars Olaf,' ” Schlüber read quickly from the screen. “Born Esbjerg, Denmark, 1945. Naturalized United States citizen. Thirty-six years' active service, Merchant Marine. Fifteen different vessels listed here, including a couple of the big old liners of the United States Line. Second mate USS
Constitution
, 1967; first mate USS
Independence
, '72. Five official commendations for meticulous attention to duty. Navigator's license, Double Star class. Excellent record. We've got a first-rate skipper here.”

The pirate seemed impressed. He put his fingers together and thought for a moment. Then he ordered Captain Amundsen released from his handcuffs. The captain stood, rubbing his wrists. The pirate offered a glass of orange juice. The captain refused, even though he was half dead with thirst.

“Then I'll come to the point,” the pirate said. “The Brotherhood needs good skippers like you. As you can imagine, half our men don't know the difference between a scupper and a sextant, and the other half are bloody drunken savages from some of the worst places on earth. Last year, we nabbed a smallish trawler about two hundred miles off the coast of Patagonia, and I came across one of my men eating the heart of a captured sailor. It was disgusting. Of course, once you're in our service, you're in for life, but I can promise you riches beyond your wildest dreams. Sooner or later, the wealth of the whole world comes through our hands.”

He gave the captain five minutes to decide. When the five minutes ended, Captain Amundsen drew himself up straight and spoke out in a clear voice.

“Satan made a similar offer to Jesus in the desert,” he said. “He was promised the kingdoms of the earth in exchange for his immortal soul. I spit on you as Our Lord spit on Satan,” and with this he cleared his throat and expectorated a wad of green phlegm on the deck.

The pirate sighed. “Mustapha,” he said.

But as Mustapha leveled the automatic rifle, Captain Amundsen raised a hand. “Wait. I'm a man of the sea and, like you, something of a traditionalist. I ask for the plank.”

“Suit yourself,” the pirate shrugged.

The captain buttoned his dress jacket, now soiled and tattered, and turned smartly toward the starboard. When he reached the side, he hesitated a moment, squinting out to sea. Mustapha came up behind and pushed the barrel of his automatic rifle between the captain's shoulder blades.

“That's not necessary,” the captain said in a quiet voice. He
stepped up on the gunwale and out onto the length of turquoise wood. Halfway down, he turned for a moment. The sea sparkled bright at his back; the sun stood at two o'clock. The horizon looked blue as a dream.

“Mr. Wilson,” he called.

Wilson looked up.

“My father still lives in Esbjerg. He's ninety-six. Bishop Ingmar Amundsen. If you survive this nightmare, tell him I died a Christian, and tell him I'm sorry for running away.”

Then the captain turned back and was gone. He simply disappeared into the bright day. This time Wilson didn't even hear the splash. Mustapha stepped quickly over to the railing. Shots were fired, a few quick popping sounds, then silence. Wilson hung his head and said a prayer to the unknown God who permitted such atrocities, a prayer for the soul of a brave man who had just left the world.

At last it was Wilson's turn. The sun was in his eyes. His mouth tasted like ashes. His wrists were cut and bleeding from the plastic handcuffs. His nose was burnt, the sunblock he'd put on days before had long since worn off. He hadn't once looked at Cricket during this ordeal. But now he couldn't help himself, and he raised his eyes from the tombstone shadows of the deck. She stared down at him, her face impassive, her stone green eyes hidden behind black sunglasses.

A perplexed tapping came from Schlüber's fingers as he worked the keys of the notebook computer. “I can't find any record on this fellow,” he said. “Must have signed on after Santa Barbara.”

“Is that true, honey?” the pirate said to Cricket.

“Yes,” Cricket said in a flat voice.

“What's your name, mister?” the pirate said to Wilson.

Wilson rose slowly, pushing off the deck with the knuckles of his cuffed hands, his knees creaking. “Wilson Lander,” he heard himself say. “Seventy-Seven Overlook Avenue, top-floor apartment. You take the Rubicon bus across the river, walk a few blocks down
Grace Street and take a right on Rubicon.…” His voice trailed off.

“What's that?” the pirate said.

“There's nothing in the database,” Schlüber said. “He's not in the Merchant Marine listings. Checking the American Yachting Association …” Wilson heard the machine beep a negative. “Nothing. As far as my records go, he's not official. Not licensed by any authority in the U.S.”

The pirate considered for a moment, frowning. “What are you?” he said to Wilson, “Interpol? CIA?”

“I'm a human being like you,” Wilson said, and he was surprised to find that his voice did not waver. “I was born like you, and will die like you. The world's a mighty strange place. That's all I have to say.” When he had finished speaking, he looked over at Cricket. Her coppery hair wisped in the ocean breeze, and Wilson got a sudden flash of their days in bed in the Azores. Even surrounded by these horrors and with her black heart revealed and ugly as a sore, she looked beautiful.

“Any skills, shipmate?” It was Schlüber's voice, sounding helpful. “Anything the Brotherhood might find useful?”

Wilson shrugged. “I have an undergraduate degree in comparative literature with a minor in ancient anthropology from Ashland College in Beaufort. And most of a master's in archaeology of the Americas from the same institution. I know a good book when I read one. I've been told I'm good with children. And I can date a pre-Columbian potsherd to within a couple of hundred years.”

“Enough,” the pirate said, cutting him short. “We've heard all we need to hear.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson saw the shimmer of the gun barrel, the scarred ridges on Mustapha's dark skin sheening with sweat. He turned his head toward the sea and tried to think about dignity, but fear turned the horizon red, and he felt like he was going to faint.

“Wilson!” It was Cricket's voice, followed by the clattering sound of a chair falling over.

Wilson looked back. Cricket stood at the table, chair collapsed on the deck behind her. She towered over her father like a goddess over a gargoyle. He scratched his head and squinted up at her. “Honey?” he said, surprised.

“This man is my property,” she said. “I'm claiming him now.”

The pirate shot Wilson a dark, furious look; then he reached up and took his daughter harshly by the arm. “Don't go sentimental on me, girl,” he hissed. “Sentiment is dangerous for our kind. And it's against the Articles! A membership in the Brotherhood is not to be granted for personal reasons. We've got no choice but to throw this one to the sharks.”

Cricket pulled her arm away. “No,” she said. “He bears my mark. He is mine. I call your attention to Paragraph twenty-one, Section seven, of the Articles of Brotherhood.” She came quickly around to Wilson and tore open his shirt. “Here is my mark,” she said, and gestured to his shoulder.

There, the brand from the knife, a scraggly pink
C
, showed raw with new skin.

“Schlüber?” the pirate said between his teeth.

The German fiddled with the computer for a long minute. “Got to change databases, sir,” he said. “Wait, here it is. The subsection on spoils, Clause 6 A: ‘Any prize aboard a captured vessel designated or otherwise set aside by a member of the Brotherhood with special mark or signature, prior to capture of said vessel—' ”

“Well?” The pirate hit the table with his fist.

“I'm afraid so, Captain,” Schlüber said. He looked up for a curious beat, registering Wilson for the first time. “Your daughter knows the Articles. This one belongs to her.”

Cricket's sparse cabin aboard the
Storm Car
contained a narrow bunk, a steel sink, a scrap of Aubusson carpet on the floor, and a fan-backed club chair upholstered in red Morocco leather. Wilson sank into this incongruous piece of furniture like a man giving up the ghost. Hot afternoon sun shone a bright oval through the single porthole in the bulkhead.

“Go ahead, judge me,” Cricket said when she had closed the hatch behind them. “But you can never know what my life has been like. The choices I've been forced to make!”

Wilson felt numb. Dumb happiness at being alive.

“Water …” He managed a parched whisper.

For a moment, Cricket looked crestfallen. Her lower lip trembled. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm being inconsiderate. The thought that you probably consider me a monster made me crazy for a few minutes.” She took a coffee cup from somewhere and filled it with brown water from the sink. It tasted rusty, but Wilson didn't care.

“Don't open the hatch for anyone except me,” Cricket said. “Lock it after I'm gone. I'm going to the galley to get you something to eat.”