Dead in the Water

  “No, really. I think he looks the best since I met you guys.” A pause. “Don’t you?”

  Tears welled in his eyes. “I think I’m … I’m losing it, Donna.” He covered his forehead with his hand and took a shuddering breath. “I … I …”

  “Hey, big John. Hey, big guy,” she soothed, placing her hand over his. She squeezed hard. Harder, as he trembled. “It’s okay. It’s really okay.”

  Matt returned. His eyes were narrowed and full of questions. John averted his gaze, made a show of examining the case with the bottle inside. Donna tweaked Matt’s nose playfully and said, “What’s up?”

  He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Those statue things? Figureheads? I seen a lady who looks just like one of them. Just like it.”

  “Isn’t that neat.”

  Matt held his dinosaur under his chin and rocked back on his heels. “I really did.” His gaze flicked toward his father. John’s shoulders bounced up and down and he put a hand on the case as if to steady himself. Silently weeping, oh, poor, dear man.

  “C’mere,” Donna told Matt. “I want to see that skeleton thing again.” She guided Matt with a hand on his shoulder, urging him along when he started to turn back toward his father. “It’s cool, don’t you think? Do you think it’s real?”

  Matt nodded soberly.

  The lights hit the bones hard, mean. How did they join the tail to the rest? Donna searched for glue, wires, tacks. Nothing. It was a good job.

  Matt jumped backward. “It moved!”

  Donna made claw hands and advanced on him. “Boo!”

  He pointed at it. “It really did!”

  “The ship’s moving,” Donna pointed out. “So it would sway back and forth. Isn’t that right, honey?” She rapped the glass. Matt’s lips parted. “Yoo, hoo,” Donna called. “Hey, Lorelei, I’m talkin’ at ya. You know who the Lorelei is, Matt?” She made come-hither motions with her fingers. “I read about her this morning. She’s a hot German babe who lures ships onto the rocks. She sings to them.” She smacked her hands together. “And they crash.”

  Matt wrinkled up his face. “Not really.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said earnestly, but when she saw he was a little confused she laughed and feinted a tap on his nose. Coloring, he ducked his head and peered at the case through his lashes. He was still thin, still pale, but his cheeks were pink and the rings under his eyes had disappeared. John had nothing to worry about. Or rather, less to worry about.

  They stood in silence for a moment. “You were right,” she said, in case he was still confused. “There’s not really such a thing as a Lorelei.”

  “I know.” There was a defensive edge to his voice.

  “I thought you knew.”

  John approached them. Behind his glasses his eyes were red and puffy, but he’d gotten himself back together. He looked with them at the mermaid skeleton.

  “I wonder where they got that thing.” he said. His nose was stuffy.

  Donna yawned. “P. T. Barnum.”

  The museum attendant hovered a few feet away. Donna said to John, “Shall we go?” To the woman, “Thanks for showing me around. I’ll come back later.”

  “Yes.” The woman smiled brightly and slid behind her desk. Picked up her book.

  “And back she goes, into stasis,” Donna intoned, once they were out of earshot. John wasn’t listening, or else he didn’t think it was funny. He had her hand in a death grip, clearly still upset, but self-possessed. Maybe she would tell him about Glenn, and he would have someone to comfort, take him out of himself. She was feeling better herself, having him to worry about.

  Halfway down the hall, John moved in closer to her. On her other side, Matt did the same. Now just a minute, she thought. Hold on, you’re doing it again. But she said nothing, let John drag her along toward his own destination. Matt trotted beside her, looking good. Real good.

  After a lot of twists and turns, they ended up topside next to the pool, where a lunchtime barbecue was in progress. The ocean shimmered a stunning dark blue as the Pandora breasted it. The sky was clear and bright. A thousand miles. Fog and terror, and now, a haven.

  Beside the pool, stewards manned huge grills and stood sentry at long tables of salads and desserts. The greasy smoke burned Donna’s eyes and she rubbed them hard. Gotta protect the old eyeballs, especially after they’d taken unauthorized leave. A line of passengers waited for burgers and hot dogs, jostling and chatting, some waving in Donna and John’s direction. The celebrity survivors.

  Donna turned to John. “Check out the way they …” She trailed off. His face glowed chalk-white as he stared at a cluster of unlit tiki torches. Beside him, Matt watched his father with a worried frown.

  “You okay?” Donna whispered to John.

  He pushed up his glasses and shook his head.

  “Hey, Matt, can you get your burger yourself?” Donna asked him cheerfully. “We’ll go stake out a table.”

  The boy gazed at her with the same intense expression, begging her to do … what? Bobbing his head, he took his place at the end of the line, behind the fat woman who had gone to pieces over the captain at dinner the first night aboard. Renquist. Reinberg. Reinstedt. Yeah.

  “Oh, hello, little one,” the woman exclaimed. Matt drew back slightly.

  Donna smiled wryly. He was on his own.

  She steered John to a table far away from the other diners and sat him down. On a dais on the opposite side of the pool, a steel drum band played a calypso.

  She scooted next to him. Took his hand again.

  “Talk to me,” she urged.

  He lowered his gaze to their hands. “I’m having a panic attack. Another panic attack,” he amended miserably. “I woke up and I saw how bad he looks, and I guess I lost my mind.” When he looked at her, he tried to smile. His upper lip trembled and she wished she could hold him. But you got tough being a cop, and she knew he’d break down if she did. So she kept her grip on his hand. Made him go on.

  He took a shaky breath. “He might die. I’ve known it, but I’ve never really known it.”

  She frowned and patted the back of his hand. “John, he looks fine. He looks very well.”

  “To you. But you should have seen him when he was … he was …” He looked over his shoulder. “There’s something about those torches. This place. Déjà vu. Or a dream.” He rubbed his temples. “ ‘All we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream.’ ”

  “Kicky.”

  “Poe.” He exhaled. “I’ve been thinking about dreams lately. I … I’m so upset I’m hallucinating. The other night I thought someone was following me or something. I even thought the ship was sinking.” He laughed hollowly. “You know, if you had the same dream I did, it wouldn’t be the same dream.”

  She scratched her arm and waited for him to go on. This conversation didn’t come equipped with a road map.

  “Filters. Our reality filters our … unreality.” He blushed a little. “I could describe everything I’m seeing and feeling and you still wouldn’t … I don’t suppose you’ve done much experimenting with, um, drugs.”

  “Don’t suppose,” she retorted. “Because why?”

  “There really is no such thing as a shared experience. It always comes back to the individual.” He laughed hollowly. “You must think I’m going crazy.”

  “That’s okay. Crazy men are so much more appealing.”

  He smiled. “I think sometimes I imagine people are thinking, ‘Well, if I were in your shoes, if he was my kid …’ ”

  She smiled gently. “John, you’ve been under a terrible strain. Still are.”

  “God, don’t I know it. I’m so damned jumpy.” He made an unconscious, shuddering gesture.

  Donna caught her cheek with her teeth, thought a moment. “Jumpy?”

  “Things don’t feel right to me. Or they aren’t right. I don’t know. I’m just so anxious. Not just with Matt.”

  She shifted, crossed her legs. “You’re not alone there. I’ve been fee
ling jumpy, too. Things haven’t seemed right to me either.”

  His eyes widened. They sat for a moment without speaking.

  “I think it’s from being in the lifeboat,” she said. “You know, it’s hitting us now that we’re safe. It was pretty freaky.” She waited for him to agree.

  “Maybe,” he said slowly. “Or maybe it’s something else.” He leaned his head on his free hand and stared at the table. “I’ve been seeing a shrink, Donna. I obsess. I can’t stop washing my hands sometimes. Or washing his sheets. Things like that.”

  Poor guy. Poor, poor guy. “Well, I don’t obsess. And I’ve been having the willies so bad I can hardly sleep.” She decided not to tell him what Reade had said about the Pandora being haunted. A, because it was bullshit, and B, because she didn’t want to load the dialogue with extraneous ballast.

  Behind them, Matt secured a burger. The Reinstedt woman jabbered on and on, put something on his plate, leaned over, and asked him something. He shook his head.

  “Maybe you’re right,” John said. His gaze lingered on his child. “It’s just the aftershocks of a life-threatening situation.” He hesitated.

  “Or?” Donna said.

  “What was the Morris carrying?” he asked. “The toxic material. Did you ever find out what it was?”

  “Huh?”

  His gaze returned to the tiki torches. “Maybe whatever was on the Morris has, ah, like a hallucinogenic factor.” He considered. “Some kind of chemical toxicity that affects perception.”

  She pulled in her chin and frowned, puzzled. “That’s pretty farfetched.”

  He hunched his shoulders, lay down his arm, and blew a puff of air from his cheeks. “Not as farfetched as you might think, Donna. A lot of the stuff I handle in my lab has frightening side effects.” He let his shoulders go. A buff of shine glistened on his broad forehead. “Everyone talks to you. Has anybody else been feeling strangely?”

  “There’s Ruth,” she said. “But she’s been feeling strangely ever since we pulled out of Long Beach. Remember how she insisted something was in the hall?”

  They looked at each other. “And I found her at her window, just staring into the fog. She said she’d been dreaming.”

  John considered. “Maybe she’s epileptic.”

  “I thought of that. But I’m not. I’m basically a levelheaded cop. And I don’t scare easy, usually, but I’ve been going to pieces whenever I see my own shadow.” She paused. “On this ship. On the Morris, I was fine, strangely enough. Most of the time. There were a couple times, a couple things.”

  A couple words no one spoke, an old lady too small and dead-cold. A dream?

  All we see or seem

  Is but a dream within a dream.

  Shit, what was this, Poetry 101? Dreams and ancient mariners. What a combination. Dreams by ancient mariners, for ancient mariners, of ancient mariners.

  Something chittered up her spine, very like a chill. But why?

  John started to speak, closed his mouth. The way his eyes darted around the table, she knew he was suppressing something he wanted very much to tell her. At length he cleared his throat.

  “I’ll look in on her in a little bit.” It took her a beat to realize he was talking about Ruth.

  “I’ll go with you. After lunch,” Donna suggested.

  He shook his head. “Captain Reade’s invited us up to the bridge again. We’re due to meet at two.” His watch read one-twenty. “After that?”

  Donna shrugged. “Sure.”

  Matt walked up. His plate was heaped with a burger and macaroni salad. No fries; she remembered John telling her Matt hated potatoes in any form. “There’s ice cream, too,” he said happily.

  “You’ll never eat all that in a million years,” John goaded him.

  “Will too.”

  “I’ll bet you five bucks you can’t clean that plate.” John pulled out Matt’s chair. “Deal?”

  “Deal!” Matt set down his food.

  “Well, get ready to fork it over while we go get some food. Ha ha.” John wagged his finger at his son. “And no fair throwing it overboard.”

  “Da-ad! I do not cheat!” Matt said indignantly, shoveling the burger into his mouth.

  “And I hope you don’t welsh on bets, either.” John took Donna’s hand again. “Come on. If we don’t go now, there won’t be any left.”

  They joined the end of the line. “He’s fine,” Donna said.

  “I just hope I lose that bet,” John murmured wistfully.

  Dressed in a violet silk jumpsuit, Elise approached from the shuffleboard side of the pool, held up a hand, and stomped toward them. Donna made a face and muttered, “Here comes trouble.”

  “Have you seen Phil?” Elise demanded as she neared, looping her hair behind her ears.

  Donna put some sweet pickles on her plate. “Nope.”

  Elise slumped, glanced left and right.

  “Is he missing?” Donna asked sweetly.

  “Never mind.” Elise made a funny swooping motion—digging into her purse, Donna realized, fished out a cigarette, and lit it. She hovered around for a few seconds while Donna and John inched forward in the line, adding potato salad and chips to their meals. She inhaled hard, turned her head, and blew out the smoke. Shifted her weight. Scanned the crowd, the deck, glanced up high at the bridge. Looked away quickly, her face strained.

  Donna took this all in while pretending not to notice anything. But it was clear Elise was upset. A nicer person, a softer person, would have felt sorry for her.

  “How long has he been gone?” Donna found herself asking, and gave herself a mental slap. Shut up, bitch, you’re off duty.

  “It’s …” Elise drew on her cigarette again. Her attention shifted to a point past Donna; her eyes widened and she took a step backward. Another.

  “Never mind,” she said again, and walked away.

  Donna looked over her shoulder. Reade stood directly in her line of vision, and he had an odd smile on his face. He was patting his mouth with a handkerchief. He caught Donna’s eye and saluted her with two fingers. She waved back.

  “Your date’s here,” she told John.

  “What?” Donna pointed. “Oh,” he said. He held up his plate and Reade nodded, pointed to the bridge.

  “Yes,” John mouthed. The captain signaled that he’d understood and turned away.

  A steward asked Donna how she liked her meat. “Rare,” she replied. To John: “Do you like him?”

  “Medium well,” John said, then laughed. “Sure. He’s fine. Matt’s totally under his spell. The captain’s ‘radical,’ you know.”

  “So he seems to think,” Donna said. “He himself, I mean. Where’s the ketchup?”

  “At the end of the table, madam.” The steward pointed with his chin.

  “Well, he gets the job done,” John ventured.

  “Some jobs,” she shot back meaningfully. As she expected, John’s face perked up.

  “So, we’ll go see Ruth later?” she pressed. “Maybe we’ll go for a drink after?” Hell, why not? Her dance card was empty, so was his, and they were both adults. She was sure he could handle being the object of a rebound, given the certainty that their shipboard romance would be brief. What the hell, what the hell.

  Oh, hell.

  “That’d be nice.” John’s face reddened. He pushed up his glasses and she wanted to bat his hand away, tell him he looked like a nerd when he did that. There was something so vulnerable about him that she wanted to strap a bulletproof vest on him or something. He and Phil were a pair, weren’t they? On the other end of the macho scale, on the other hand, stood Reade and the sleazy Ramón. She’d take John or Phil over either of them anyday.

  And did guys think about sex this much?

  Need you ask, Officer? Need you really? And were you thinking about sex, or were you proving you don’t care about Glenn?

  “Penny for your thoughts,” John murmured.

  “Oh, no, these are worth a dollar.” She picked up the ke
tchup bottle and turned it upside down. “At least a dollar.”

  “Okay.” He smiled faintly. Not sure how to take her, she supposed. She kind of liked that.

  “I was wondering if Nemo had had her litter yet.”

  John frowned dubiously. “Donna, that was not worth a dollar.”

  She shook the ketchup bottle harder. Nothing came out. “Damn. What’s in here, anyway?”

  The ketchup slid out, thick and chunky and gooey, coiling on top of the seared meat. “That’s more like it.”

  “Donna,” John pressed.

  “Okay, okay.” She handed him the bottle. He set it down. “I was wondering how often guys think about sex, if you want to know the horrible, unvarnished truth.”

  To her delight, he broke into a wolfish grin. “All the time,” he replied. “Every single moment of every single hour.”

  She grinned back at him. “Oh, I see. Then there is such a thing as shared experiences.” She gave her hips a swing as she led the way back to the table.

  I have cast the net, I have played out the fish. The moon is red, and it’s time to harvest this newest catch. She goes first, as I promised. For seeing through my set-pieces, she dies first, and perhaps, worst (as we speak of poetry here, you moderns who are so primal, so terrified):

  After ten minutes of walking, Elise slowed down, turned around fearfully, and scrutinized the faces around her. She was being foolish. Of course Captain Reade wasn’t following her.

  Of course none of … that had happened. She hadn’t snuck off and she hadn’t, they hadn’t …

  Dim memories sprang up and she fought them away before they could take shape. Something about pain, and faces, and a child. And her screaming.

  No …

  She walked along the promenade deck, the one with the thick glass sea wall that protected strollers from salt spray or rain during bad weather. The surface of the water sparkled and danced; as she watched, a gray shadow perhaps five feet long swam beneath the waves, faded. Dolphin? she wondered, as tears welled in her eyes. She stopped and searched the horizon.

  Was she overreacting? No. While she’d been dreaming that she had snuck out of bed for a rendezvous with the captain, Phil had actually done it. But that wasn’t like him. Had she finally pushed him too far?