White Cargo (4 page)

“Well, if you insist,” Denny replied, rising reluctantly from the helmsman's seat.

“I insist,” Cat laughed.

Denny climbed onto the deck from the cockpit. “I'll just have a look forward, make sure everything's shipshape.”

“Good idea,” Cat said, tossing him a safety harness from a cockpit locker and retrieving one for himself. “Ship's law is nobody goes on deck at night without a harness. I'd prefer it if you wore one even at the helm. It's a nuisance to have to come about and recover bodies from the sea.”

Denny got into the harness, clipped onto a jackstay, and worked his way forward. He spent a good ten minutes there, most of it behind the headsail, where he couldn't be seen. Just enjoying the night, Cat thought.

When Denny had gone below, Cat experienced a tiny moment of regret. It seemed, with the warm Caribbean breeze blowing across his face, that he had reached some sort of peak, that things couldn't get better than this, so they would have to get worse. Then, he remembered that, after the Panama Canal, the South Pacific lay before them, that there would be many more nights as lovely, many more days of tropical sunshine with his wife and daughter as crew and friends. He passed his watch in a haze of bliss.

•   •   •

At a quarter to four the galley light went on, and Cat knew that Katie was awake and brewing her tea. But shortly before four, Denny appeared in the companionway, holding a mug. “I was awake,” he said, “so I thought I'd let Mrs. Catledge sleep. I'd like the watch, if that's okay.”

Cat shrugged. “If you're sure you don't need the rest.” He slid from behind the wheel and relinquished the helm.

“I'd rather pull the watch,” Denny replied. “Sleep well.”

Below, Cat got out of his harness, shucked off his jeans and T-shirt, and crawled into the double berth with Katie. She stirred as he snuggled close. “My watch?” she asked, sleepily.

“Denny's taking it,” Cat said, cupping a breast in his hand.

“Oh, good,” she said, turning toward him. “I get you in the middle of the night, for a change.”

He kissed her, then they made love, gently, slowly, lying facing each other, coming quietly after a few minutes, together, as they usually did. Years of practice, Cat thought. Then he fell asleep.

•   •   •

A change in the motion of the yacht woke him. There was light against the curtains in the after cabin. Cat glanced at the gold-and-steel Rolex wristwatch Katie and Jinx had given him as a launching present: not quite 6
A.M
. Why had the motion changed? Then the yacht, which had been heeled to port, rolled to starboard and seemed to settle. They were hove to; stopped. Then came a muffled, slithering sound and the thumps of footsteps on deck. The mainsail was coming down. Why? Had something broken? A halyard, maybe. The actions on deck seemed to fit that scenario. The main halyard had broken, and Denny had, quite properly, put the boat on the opposite tack, with the headsail backed while he got the mainsail in hand.

Cat rolled out of the berth, naked, got into his jeans, and felt for his Topsiders with his feet. He didn't like to go on deck barefooted; he had once nearly broken a toe, tripping on a deck fitting. He moved slowly, sleepily into
the saloon; there didn't seem to be any great urgency; Denny was not calling for him. He climbed halfway up the companionway ladder and stopped, puzzled. The wheel was locked; Denny was standing on the stern of the boat, looking aft, shielding his eyes from a rising, red ball of a sun.

“What's up, Denny?” Cat called out. “We got a problem?”

Denny turned and looked at him, silhouetted against the rising sun; Cat could not see his face.

“No, no problem,” Denny called back, then turned and looked astern again.

Cat climbed into the cockpit, raising a hand to shade his eyes. “Why are we stopped? What's going on?”

Denny did not reply but continued to stare astern.

Now Cat heard an engine. He started aft toward Denny, staggering a bit with sleep and the gentle rolling of the yacht. He made the stem and climbed up beside Denny, holding on to the backstay for support as the hove-to boat rolled with the swell. “What is it?” he asked again.

“I don't know,” Denny said, dully.

The young man seemed to be breathing rapidly, Cat thought. He looked out astern, the sun hurting his eyes, and, for the first time, saw a white shape that had to be a boat a few hundred yards out, coming toward them. The sound of an engine was distinct now, borne on the light breeze. Cat looked around the cockpit for the binoculars, then remembered that they had been stolen in Santa Marta. He squinted at the boat, trying to judge its shape and size. It seemed to be a sportfisherman, he thought, something on the order of thirty feet. It came on, steadily, toward
Catbird.

“Why did you stop the boat, Denny?” Cat asked again.

The younger man stepped down from the stern and stood in the cockpit, still watching the approaching boat, now only a hundred yards away.

“Nothing's wrong, Mr. Catledge,” Denny said. “Everything's okay.”

Cat was wide awake now, and becoming irritated at the lack of an answer to his question.

“Denny, I asked you why you stopped the boat. Answer me.”

“Uh, there was a problem with the mainsail. I thought it ought to come down.”

It was as Cat had suspected, then. But what about the approaching boat? It was less than fifty yards away, and Cat could clearly make out a man and a woman on the flying bridge. There was a name visible on her bows, too:
Santa Maria.
The boat had slowed markedly, and her skipper was clearly bent on coming alongside. Cat could make out her crew's features now. The woman, who seemed quite young, disappeared below. The man was in his mid-thirties, bearded, and rough-looking. Cat thought that all he needed was an eyepatch, and he'd look like a storybook pirate. Pirate. The word echoed in his head. He turned. “Denny,” he called back, evenly and distinctly, “please go below and hand me up the shotgun. Do it right now.”

“Yessir,” Denny said, immediately, and turned for the companionway ladder.

Cat turned back to the approaching boat, which had stopped perhaps ten yards off his port quarter. “What do you want?” he called to her skipper, who was leaning on the helm staring at Cat, keeping the throttle at idle. The man grinned broadly, exposing some gold teeth, but did not reply. Cat thought he must not speak English. He was
trying to think of something else to say when he heard Denny's footfall behind him. He turned to see the young man approaching, the shotgun in his hands. Katie was right behind him, coming up the ladder.

“What's happening, Cat?” she was calling.

Cat reached out for the shotgun, and to his astonishment saw Denny step back and raise the weapon, pointing it directly at him.

“No fooling around, Denny,” Cat barked, alarmed. “I need that right now.”

Denny did not reply, nor did his expression change.

Cat stepped down from the stern and started toward Denny. He heard Katie call his name, and then a flat, heavy object seemed to strike his chest, propelling him backward. As his head struck the yacht's wheel, a terrible roar filled his head, and he had just time to know that he had been shot before the noise spilled over into his vision, turning everything red, pressing him down, down into a dark place from which he knew he would never rise again. He tried to call out to those above him—Katie! Jinx! But he could only make a rattling noise as his breath left him and he sank into the darkness.

C
AT DREAMED
. H
E DREAMED HEAVY FEET ON DECK, DREAMED
shouts, struggle, screams, strange laughter. Gunshots. In his dream there was light, but he could see nothing. Finally, the sounds went away. He retreated again into dark silence.

There was something cool, then he coughed, strangled, and came awake with the pain. He tried not to breathe; breathing hurt terribly. Then the strangling and coughing came again. There was a salty taste. Was he strangling on his own blood? Then he could see something, a word, sideways. Fuses. He knew that word, had written that word. Sideways. He hadn't written it sideways.

His chest was a garden of pain, and he was swimming in and out of sharp consciousness. The bottom drawer under the chart table was marked “Fuses.” Salt water ran into his mouth, and he spat it out. He could not bear to cough again. Gingerly, he pulled an arm under him and lifted his head up and away from the water. A wave of nausea swept over him, but he kept pushing until his head and shoulder were propped against something and he could rest. He fought to remain conscious and orient himself.
If he could see the drawers under the chart table, he was in the galley, his cheek pressed against the cupboard that supported the sink. There was an inch of water lapping at the bottom of the cupboard. That offended Cat. This boat had never had water over the floorboards, had never leaked a drop.

Where was Katie? Where was Jinx?
The boat rocked gently, was silent; he felt absolutely alone. There was something he must do, he knew, if he could only remember. His eyes wandered over the navigation station a few feet away; their focus softened, then came back. Something orange. That was what he wanted. He struggled to think, then the orange thing came into his vision. Fastened to the cockpit bulkhead, just next to the companionway ladder. EPIRB. That was the word. What did those letters mean? He could never rattle them off, he always had to try hard to remember them.

Never mind. Don't remember. Just get hold of the goddamned thing. He experimented with moving in ways that might not hurt. There weren't any, as it turned out. He would have to move and hurt, too. He struggled until his back was against the cupboard, his knees pulled up. The trouble with moving was that it made him want to breathe, and breathing hurt.

Directly in front of him was the oilskin locker, and a yellow slicker dangled toward him. Why did it dangle toward him? It should hang straight down. The boat was listing forward, down by her bows, that was why. He got hold of the slicker with both hands. He would be able to do this only once, he was sure of that. Slowly, biting off groans, he pulled himself until his feet were under him, legs straight, knees locked. Then, for the first time, he saw the blood on his body. His chest was bright red, and
his jeans soaked dark. Don't think about that. Not now. First, EPIRB. What did those letters mean?

He could nearly reach out and touch it, two, three feet away, uphill. He would have to pull again. He didn't want to pull anymore. He pulled on the slicker until he could rest against the oilskin locker, knees still locked, keeping him erect. He got an arm over the top rung of the companionway ladder and dragged himself sideways. He couldn't hold on with his hands, couldn't make a fist.

Now he could reach the EPIRB. He got a hand on it, but it was fastened into place by a steel band with a quick release clip. His fingers didn't want to undo it. First, the switch. On. He could do that. He did. Now the clip. He pushed a finger under it. Like the pop top on a soft-drink can, he thought. He always had trouble with those. He pushed harder. God, it hurt, but it was almost a relief to have pain somewhere besides his chest. The clip moved, then suddenly released, letting the orange thing fall.

He was astonished that he caught it. He brought it close to his mouth, got the end of the tube thing in his mouth. What was the word? Didn't matter. Pull, or it was all over. He couldn't last much longer, he knew that. He bit the metal and straightened his arm. The chrome tube extended easily. Switch on, tube thing out. That was it. Very carefully, he reached up, over the companionway threshold, and set the EPIRB on the cockpit floor. There, done.

Katie and Jinx.
They must be on deck. Oh, God, he could never make it into the cockpit; no strength left. Still, he must. Just like pulling on the slicker, he had to do it all at once. He did it, and his body vomited, to show its disapproval. He lay on the cockpit floor, in the thick puddle of his last night's dinner, and tried not to pant, because panting hurt so much.

Soon, to his surprise, he was able to push himself into a sitting position. Something hurt his back, and he moved it. The EPIRB. He placed it on a cockpit seat and watched the little red light flash on and off for a while. He had to look on deck for Katie and Jinx, so he managed to get to his knees, facing the companionway. They were not on deck. Gone. Those people had taken them. Why? He sagged back on his heels and gazed stupidly into the cabin.

First, he saw the water, and there was more than an inch of it.
Catbird
was sinking by the bows, and the forepeak was already flooded.

What he saw next he saw only for an instant, less than a second, before he clamped his eyes shut, willing the sight to leave his memory. He turned away and curled into a fetal ball on the cockpit sole, making whimpering noises, trying to erase just that one, brief glimpse of a scene that would haunt him forever. He could not forget. His brain projected the image onto the inside of his eyelids, burned it permanently into place where he could not ignore it. Katie, lying on her back on the port settee, her nightshirt pushed up around her shoulders, her breasts bared. Her head jammed against the forward bulkhead at an odd angle, and her mouth open. Her face streaked with blood from her mouth that streamed in dried clots down the bulkhead until it met the rising water. There was not the slightest hope in his heart that she was not dead.

Jinx, facedown, naked, on the saloon table, her feet toward him, her face, thank God, turned away. The back of her head pulp. Her legs open, blood in her crotch and on the backs of her thighs. On her left buttock, clearly imprinted on skin kept white by bikinis, a large handprint. Not hers, the angle was wrong. Handprint of someone standing behind her. Handprint in her blood.

He stared up at the sky, wanting unconsciousness, but it would not come, not yet. His mind groped for something else to think about, something to blot out what he had seen.