Dead in the Water

  “You and me both.” She paused. “What did you dream about, Ruth?”

  Beneath Donna’s forefinger, the pulse in Ruth’s wrist jumped. “I don’t remember.”

  Not so sure about that. Donna worked the inside of her cheek. Maybe it was too personal to discuss.

  “We’ll get you some coffee.”

  “That would be nice, dear,” Ruth replied. “I’m so … I’m so thirsty.”

  “Yes, you said that. While you were dreaming.”

  “Oh, I don’t remember. The fog just rolled in. I … I thought it was ali …” She trailed off. “I was dreaming.”

  “Yes.” Donna waited a beat, in case she said more. Cripes, maybe sweet little Mrs. Ruth Hamilton had paid a visit to Dr. Feelgood, alias Kevin the Stoner.

  But what about the cold flesh, and the—

  She pushed her thoughts away. “Hold on a second. Let me close your porthole.” Gingerly, she moved Ruth aside and went along the other side of the bed. Good Lord, the cabin was smaller than hers. She could barely wedge herself between the bed and the bulkhead.

  She pressed her hand against the cold surface, feeling for the porthole. Easily found, and just as easily shut.

  Just as she latched it, something smacked against it with a wet, sloshy thwack. Startled, she pulled away, stared at it. Nothing but fog and the yellow glow from the night table.

  “What was that?” Ruth asked querulously.

  “A wave. We got it shut just in time.”

  “I guess so.” Ruth sneezed.

  Or a bird, lost in the fog, poor thing. That’s what it had really sounded like. But no sense telling Ruth that.

  Hi ho. In Hawaii, she was definitely going to tell people she was a secretary.

  If they ever got to friggin’ Hawaii, for God’s sake.

  5

  Arrival

  A face.

  John lay beside his son, who slept peacefully through the foghorn and the slamming and the creaking, and the voices of Ruth and Donna as they talked in the hallway. Kids never ceased to amaze him. They possessed such capacities, such surprises. He should have been a pediatrician.

  Right, his ulcer smirked. Then you could watch not only your own kid sicken and die, but everyone else’s, too.

  He forced the thought away without arguing with it. A face. Damn it, he had seen something on the bridge. He had seen—

  —his own reflection.

  The foghorn blasted, and he jumped, though by now he’d heard it dozens of times. He was surprised there wasn’t any action over in the next cabin, the van Burens. You’d think she’d be bitching about both the fog and the foghorn. He couldn’t imagine they were sleeping through this.

  Then again, he couldn’t imagine Matty was, either. Matty, his real reflection. John saw bits and pieces of his own features—the straight nose, the broad forehead; bits of Gretchen’s—the tender pink mouth, the chin (too narrow now to recognize, but it was hers). And then, the miracle of life: places where the synthesis ended, and something that was neither his nor hers, but Matt’s own—the broad planes of his cheeks, his blue-black hair that really was blue-black, the way they drew it in comic books.

  There were other traits that were Matthew Samuel Fielder originals: his hatred of potatoes, his nervous habit of pulling on the hairs at the nape of his neck.

  His disease.

  If Matt died, not only would little bits and pieces of John and Gretchen die, but something that had never been before, and never would be again.

  John swallowed hard. He watched his boy’s eyelids shift rapidly underneath his lids. REM sleep. His baby was dreaming.

  Of what, little boy? Rocket ships? Avenging turtles? Or chemotherapy, and needles forced into his arms while he lay weeping, “Daddy, no, don’t let them”? Or sitting on the sidelines while the other boys played an impromptu game of basketball across the street at Chucky’s house?

  Asking how likely an amputation was.

  John swallowed hard and stared at his boy. His stomach was drowning in acid that seared the lining, and he put a protective hand over it. Stuck his hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a bottle of Tagamet, popped one into his mouth. It wasn’t good to be morose. Matt picked it up, even when John thought he was hiding it very well. Kids were psychic. Kids were magical.

  Kids were put together with gossamer wire and tissue paper, and even a mild breeze could rip them to shreds.

  John muffled a groan. He ached to put his arms around his son but he didn’t want to awaken him.

  Matt’s eyes flickered. More REM. Lots of REM.

  Dream, my boy. Dream beautiful dreams, my beautiful little man.

  * * *

  “Wait. I want to close my porthole,” Donna said to Ruth. They stood in the hall on the other side of the old lady’s door. During the interlude in her room, the fog in the corridor had tumbled on top of itself to waist height. It stayed bunched together as if it were filling a container whose ends stood parallel with the outer edges of her and John’s doors. New bulk cargo for the Morris, remaining right where it was put. Shifting cargo, Donna had learned, was one of the major causes of freighter accidents.

  “You wait right here and I’ll come get you.”

  “No.” Ruth grabbed Donna’s sleeve. Using the Braille method, they had poked through the cabin’s built-in dresser and the closet, and dressed her in some mismatched clothes and a London Fog raincoat. “Let me come with you.”

  Ruth’s eyes bulged as she gazed pleadingly at Donna. The lady was freaked. What had she been doing, staring out at the fog?

  Donna patted her hands and said, “Fine. We’ll go together.”

  They shuffled down the hall like an elderly couple. Donna found her key in her purse and stuck it in the lock. Paused.

  She didn’t want to go in.

  Say what, Officer? What are you doing, cowering in front of your own door? Are you afraid of a little fog?

  Ridiculous. Absolutely. Nevertheless, she didn’t want to go in there. Her heart beat with a vengeance and a muscle beneath her left eye hopped like a jumping bean.

  Poised beside her, Ruth looked from Donna to the door and back again, like someone mustering the nerve to jump out of a burning building. Poor old dear was cold. The old lady needed to get out of this damp. Feel the fear, and get your butt in gear. Okay, okay, fine.

  Resolutely, Donna turned the lock and pushed open the door.

  They both gasped.

  There was no fog in Donna’s cabin. The overhead light cast a fluorescent pall over the mint-green walls, the brown bedspread, the yellow and green curtain pushed back from the gaping porthole. A mirror over the bureau was sheened with wet, sliding Donna’s reflection down its surface like a shredded roll of aluminum foil. The air was clear, if moist, but there was no fog.

  Donna frowned and turned back to the door, knelt down and checked the threshold. She had seen fog rolling from beneath that door, fast and thick like dry ice in a horror movie.

  “There must have been some kind of air pocket,” she said, improvising. “A suction or something that drew it back out of here.” She shrugged. “Weird, huh?”

  Clasping her coat around her shoulders, Ruth nodded. She said, “Your cabin’s so much bigger than mine.”

  “I know.” Donna walked by the bed and shut the porthole briskly. “I was surprised when I went into your room. I busted my shins on everything.” She made sure the latch was down and locked. “I hope you don’t mind, me coming in like that. I knocked. I was worried about you.”

  “No, no. I’m grateful that you did.” Ruth took a deep breath and checked herself in the mirror. Put a hand to her hair, looked away. “I thought …” She pulled the raincoat more tightly around herself, studied her feet. Raised her chin. Looked into the mirror again.

  “I thought my husband …” Her voice trailed off. If she said anything more, Donna couldn’t hear it. After a few seconds she cleared her throat. “You mentioned something about coffee?”

  Donna nodded
, intrigued but masking it. “And I’ll just bet that old coot’s got something strong and medicinal stashed in those itsy-bitsy cupboards of his.”

  The woman smiled sheepishly, as though relieved Donna wasn’t going to press her.

  “Let’s go, then.” Donna shepherded her out and shut the door. “We’ll have to air out your stuff tomorrow or it might mildew. I think there’s actually a dryer on board, if you can believe that.”

  They moved right, down the hall into the churning fog.

  “It’s hard to believe you’re a lady policeman, dear.” Ruth held on to Donna’s forearm. “Before I got married, I thought about becoming a social worker. You’d make a good one, I think.”

  Donna chuckled. As far as she was concerned, there wasn’t much difference between the two. She said, “Thank you, Ruth. That’s very kind of you to say.”

  “Not to imply that you’re not a good policewoman. I’m sure you are.”

  “Most of the time.”

  They paddled on, Ruth pulling back as if she were afraid she’d stub a toe, maybe stumble. Donna tried to stay a step or two ahead of her so she could guide her. Her own grandmother had fallen, broken a hip, and now she was in a nursing home. Not fun, not at all. Donna’s mom, safe in Albuquerque from all the difficult decisions, told Donna to do with Gramma what she thought was best. So Baby Donna was the one caught the flak over the rest home, and thanks a heap, Mom dearest.

  The fog climbed to their chests, stubbornly remaining within the corridor. Donna wished she’d had the presence of mind to grab her sweater when they’d gone into her cabin.

  “Oh, my Lord!” Ruth cried, leaping against Donna and nearly knocking her over. “There’s something on the floor. Something huge!”

  “Where?” Donna asked. She searched the fog with her eyes. The billows and curls rose and fell back on each other, covering their tracks.

  “It’s over there!” Ruth hurried her as far away as she could from the direction in which she pointed. “It had pincers!”

  “Maybe it’s a crab.” Donna took a step toward it.

  “No! It was … gelatinous. I stepped on it.” She caught her breath. “Don’t you hear it?”

  Donna listened.

  The foghorn blared.

  John Fielder’s door opened and he poked his head out. “What’s wrong?” Behind him, his son called anxiously, “Daddy?”

  “There’s something on the floor,” Ruth said.

  “Oh?” John caught Donna’s eye and quizzed her. She shook her head. “Maybe it’s the cat.” The ship had one, named Nemo, bursting with pregnancy and ready to go at any moment, according to Mr. Saar.

  “No. It was … it had pincers.”

  “A crab?” John asked reasonably.

  “Let’s just keep going,” Donna suggested. “How’s your son?” she asked John.

  The foghorn drowned out John’s reply, and Ruth hurried her down the passage so fast she couldn’t ask him to repeat it.

  “Ruth, I’m sure it was nothing.” The woman was shaking. Her lower lip worked, the way old people’s lips sometimes did.

  “My dream.” She shook Donna’s hand. “There was a creature like that in my dream. It was … hideous. Monstrous.”

  A creature? “Ruth, you said you dreamed about your husband,” Donna ventured, just as they reached the end of the corridor. A metal hatch on the right led to the outside deck, and another stood perpendicular to it, marked “Officers Mess (Passengers Lounge).”

  As Donna waited for Ruth to speak, she opened the hatch and started to walk across the threshold. Her toes connected with the lip that extended from the deck. Hard.

  “Shit!” she muttered. Ruth screamed. Donna reddened. “Sorry. There’s one of those lips here. Step up.”

  “Mr. Diaz told me they’re to prevent … things from washing down the hall if the sea comes in.” Fearfully she glanced in the direction they had come. Where the Squishy Thing lurked. The Creature.

  Donna said nothing, only stepped over the lip. Her toes throbbed.

  Elise and Phil van Buren glanced up from two chairs on either side of the kidney-shaped coffee table. Both of them had been reading. As usual.

  “Evenin’,” Phil said warmly, in his soft Southern accent. His wife said nothing, just put her book facedown on her lap and stared at the two women.

  “We’ve just been through the attack of the killer fog,” Donna said.

  Ruth let go of her and touched her hair, her face. Poor lady. No makeup on, and her hair was pretty wild. Donna thought of her perm, and all the wet, and figured she must be one gigantic frizzball. She hadn’t really seen her reflection in the cabin.

  “It’s something, isn’t it?” Phil ventured, walking past his wife to gaze out one of the four picture windows. Beyond, gray curled and spiraled. “Captain Esposito was in a while ago. He said it should clear up by morning.”

  Elise snorted. She picked up a pack of cigarettes and pulled one out.

  “That man’s an idiot. I can’t believe they let him run a ship.”

  Phil flushed. He came away from the window and crossed to the long, linen-covered table where they took their meals with the ship’s officers.

  “Cha-cha made a pot of coffee. Would you ladies care for some?”

  Donna and Ruth nodded in unison. Donna asked, “Have you seen him?”

  Phil jerked his head in the direction of the side door. “Puttering around. He was talking about his fishing lines.” Lowering his voice, he added, “There’s something very strange about that man.”

  The flare of Elise’s match was like the hiss of a cobra. Her long, perfect nails flashed like stilettos dabbed in blood. Watch it, babe, Donna mentally warned her. If this fog gets any worse, we’ve already decided to sacrifice you to the gods.

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Mrs. Hamilton?” Phil finished pouring the coffee and brought the cups and saucers to the two women. Ruth sank onto the sofa and leaned back her head.

  “I—I was asleep in my room,” she said. “In the fog.” Sipping, she avoided Donna’s eyes. “Donna came and woke me up.”

  “That I did.”

  “There’s something out there,” Ruth went on. Her voice was shrill.

  Donna let the conversation trail away as she knocked on the galley door. There was no answer. It swung open at her touch, and remembering to lift her leg (like a damn dog), she stepped in.

  “Hey, Cha-cha?” she called.

  A faint smell of gas pervaded the cramped space between the door and a locker-size cabinet of stainless-steel compartments whose once-gleaming surfaces had been reduced to a dull sheen. The gas odor grew stronger near a six-burner stove top. A black pot speckled with blue—home on the range—sat on the back right burner, a cobalt flame winking feebly beneath it. Additional compartments hung over a stainless-steel sink; on the other side of the Formica bar containing the sink, a steel refrigerator-freezer hummed and whirred. Pots and pans hung in nets, were belted on hooks on the walls, rode loose on a large wooden sideboard. A half-open closet to the right of the refrigerator yielded a broom, mop, pail, rags. Five cans of Comet—hence the flat, scratched look of the place.

  Donna peered into a drawer. Mouse traps. Rat traps. Sorry she’d looked, she shut it and slung the restraining hook into place.

  “Cha-cha?” She opened an overhead cabinet and rooted past maple syrup and pancake mix, powdered milk, sugar. No booze. He had to keep it someplace. Guy like him, you’d think he’d have bottles stashed everywhere. And she didn’t mean cooking sherry.

  Poor Ruth. She’d been shaking like a leaf. Donna was sure she’d stepped on something harmless. A mislaid mop, one of Matty’s toys. Normal objects became ominous in the dark and the fog. That’s why cops accidentally shot kids who waved squirt guns in their faces.

  But how come there wasn’t any fog in her cabin? Not one little tendril, one wispy wisp? Her porthole was open same as Ruth’s. Suction, bull. She hadn’t bought that one and neither had Ruth.

  She rattl
ed around some more. “Oh, Cha-cha-cha,” she muttered. “Don’t tell me you’re not a boozer.”

  The hatch that led to the outer deck flew open and Kevin sailed in, blond locks flying. He had on a white sweatshirt and blue baggies, no shoes.

  “Oh, hey, hi!” he said, yanking open a drawer beside the stove top. “Come see this!” He hefted a huge knife in his hand and slammed the drawer shut. “We caught a shark or something!” His hair streamed over his shoulders as he doubled back the way he’d come and leaped through the hatch like a gazelle.

  Intrigued, Donna followed him into the wet layers of fog. He melted into them and she walked unsteadily toward the sound of splashes and thrashing and yells of excitement. The containers were singing and droning, the symphony of the damned.

  “Yeah! Yeah!” Cha-cha bellowed. “Yeah, baby!”

  “Guys?” Donna passed her arms in front of her body. “Guys, where are you?”

  The foghorn sounded. The containers droned.

  “Here it comes! Yeah!” Cha-cha shouted.

  A very loud splash.

  “Shit! It bit me!” Kevin yowled. “Shit!”

  Donna walked faster. She could see nothing.

  “Watch it! Watch it!” Cha-cha again, bellowing wildly. “Oh, baby! Help!”

  On reflex, Donna broke into a run, zeroing in on the men as Cha-cha cried, “Baby, baby, baby!” over and over again.

  She saw two round circles of light that rattled in the white and headed for them. Then she collided with Cha-cha, who dropped his flashlight.

  “What’s the matter?” she demanded.

  “Son of a bitch bit me,” Kevin said, gasping.

  His flashlight beamed into his face. She saw his features, all white bones and black angles, the way she and her friends used to frighten each other at slumber parties when they told ghost stories:

  Donna, what happened to your beautiful face?

  Death and decay, it rotted away.

  Donna, what happened to your beautiful legs?

  Death and decay, they rotted away.

  Donna, what happened to your beautiful golden arm?

  YOU’VE GOT IT!