Night Walker (21 page)

The boat rushed on through the darkness, fast enough to pound a little against the light southeasterly chop; speed was a relative thing and twelve knots here could seem as fast as seventy miles per hour on a smooth highway. The voices forward had ceased; when Bonita Decker turned her head slightly to look to starboard, he saw a dark trickle of blood make its way down her cheek. She brushed at this, smearing it, glanced at the back of her hand, and rubbed it clean against her hip. She did not look around again. Henshaw stood over her, occasionally checking the course by the compass, occasionally crouching a little to confirm their position by a glance through the deckhouse windows. A lighted buoy swept past to port and was gone astern.

He did not know when the idea came to him; nor was he aware of having made the decision until his foot crept out to the can by the doorway and drew it gently toward him. It made a scraping sound that seemed to scream for attention but the doctor did not look around at once, and when he did so, it was with the same leisurely, checking-up movement he had used before. Young’s mouth was dry, and his fingers were moist as he reached down into the darkness and found the cap, greasy and slippery to the
touch.
You can’t do it,
he told himself.
You can’t do it. Don’t be a damn fool; she’ll blow sky-high when it hits the cylinders!
Then the doctor moved. It was too late for concealment, and he wrenched, and the cap came off in his hand.

Henshaw had turned and was plunging toward him. “What are you—?”

The sharp gasoline smell was in Young’s nostrils, sickening him; he gave the can a convulsive kick away from him and heard the first burping gurgle as the liquid flooded out over the deckhouse floor. He heard himself shout something unintelligible to the girl at the wheel as he threw himself forward. She put the boat into a tight right turn that added to his momentum at the same time that it threw the doctor back against the settee to port. He landed on top of the older man hard, reaching for the gun.

Henshaw threw him off to the floor and kicked him in the chest. Young felt the pain blaze through him. For a moment he could not move, but he was aware of the doctor starting aft toward the can that had already half emptied itself. The cabin was full of the dizzying odor of gasoline. Young could feel it in his mouth and nose and eyes. He was conscious of the racket of the engine directly below him, and in his mind was a clear picture of at least six spark-plugs firing steadily while the volatile, explosive fuel dripped down through the cracks onto the hot cylinders.

The girl at the wheel cut the switch and the engine stopped. The sudden cessation of sound was like a blow; it was a moment before the lesser boat-and-water noises could make themelves heard. Young crawled to his feet clumsily.

“Red,” he gasped. “Out the forward hatch, over the side, and start swimming. You can make shore from here?”

“Yes, but—”

“Tell them... You know what to tell them. Damn it, get the lead out, sister! Pay no attention to that cap-gun. If he fires it, he’ll blow himself to kingdom come with the rest of us, and that’s no part of his plans.” He felt a little drunk and rather dizzy. He put himself in Henshaw’s way as the doctor came forward. “On your way, Red!” he said over his shoulder.

Behind him he heard the girl disappear into the forward part of the boat. Henshaw feinted with the gun barrel as if to strike at his head, then drove a left smartly into Young’s ribs instead, knowing the weakness there. Young, trying to shield himself, tripped over Elizabeth’s legs and was thrown aside; he grasped the older man’s coat, and the gun came down across his wrist. There were footsteps forward, running, and a splash.

Henshaw stopped in the companionway, listening for a moment; then he turned and cocked the big
revolver in his hand. His face was white and ugly in the dim light.

“Come here, Lieutenant. Start the motor. Head after her.”

Young shook his head. “There’s a gallon of gas in the bilge, Doc. One spark will set it off; and that goes for that gun of yours, too. We stay right here, unless you like to travel in little pieces.”

He felt Elizabeth’s hand on his arm and he glanced down at her and caught the strange fixed expression of her face. She was looking at Henshaw. He followed the direction of her look and saw the gun steadying for the shot; too late, he realized that the older man did not believe in the danger or, perhaps, was too angry to understand what he had been told. Young took a step backward toward the cabin door, drawing the girl with him; he felt her press his arm quickly with some message he did not understand. Then she threw herself forward and in front of him, and the gun discharged, and he thought he saw her body jerk with the impact of the bullet; but the muzzle-flame of the revolver seemed to grow and grow, with a swelling rush of sound that carried him back and up....

The fire seemed to pursue him as he swam. The water came up to strangle him. He fought himself to the surface again. Even while he struggled to keep afloat there was a part of him constantly aware of the leaping flames behind him, waiting for the tanks to go....

A boat’s bow almost ran him down and he had to go under again to keep from being knocked unconscious by a heavy life-ring thrown at him from above. A water-light went off in his face as he surfaced. He grasped at the ring and tried to keep the sputtering light — attached to it by a lanyard — away from him. The boat made another pass at him. It seemed as if all on board were doing their damndest to beat him to death with boathooks. There seemed to be something wrong with his arm, and when they twisted it, he fainted....

He came to consciousness again and saw the little redheaded girl standing by the pilot-house of the boat on the deck of which he was lying. She was wearing a sailor’s pea-jacket that covered her from
the neck to six inches above the knees and gave the impression of being her only garment. She was barefooted and wet, and she looked tired and irritable. Nobody seemed to be paying her much attention, although there were a number of men milling around on deck.

A voice above Young said, “Search him.”

Fingers pulled at his wet clothes.

The same voice said, “As soon as possible, get the doctor to take that tape off him and make sure he hasn’t got anything hidden there. They could have microfilmed it. Has the girl been searched?”

Somebody said it had hardly been necessary.

“Well, have a matron look her over again before she goes ashore.” The speaker leaned over Young. He was a tall man in his thirties, in a light suit and city shoes that seemed out of place on this boat. “What did you say?” he asked.

“I said —” Young had thought he was speaking clearly, but his voice was barely audible. “I said, Henshaw had it on him. In his coat pocket.”

The man said, “What? What did he have?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell us. It was a big secret.”

The man seemed relieved. “You’d better not know, Lieutenant. If you have any ideas, just forget them.”

“I’m fresh out of ideas,” Young whispered. It seemed to him they were making a fuss over a lot of
foolishness. There was nothing in the world small enough to be put into a man’s pocket that was big enough to change the fate of nations or the destiny of the human race. Wars were not started unless they were ready to start; once started they were not won by secrets, but only by people and guts....

He heard himself whisper, “Did you find — anybody else?” She had been scared, he thought; she had been terrified, yet in the end she had saved his life, taking the bullet that was meant for him.

“Just you and Miss Decker,” the tall man said.

Somebody said, “There’s nobody alive on her now. There go the tanks.”

Young saw a yellow light flare into the sky above him, and felt the breath of the concussion. He shivered a little. The tall man swore. “I don’t mind its burning up. If they burned a few more copies, I’d be even happier. But how the hell am I going to be
sure
... Get that boat raised in the morning. See what you can find,” he said to someone standing by. “Well, let’s go home and clear up the mess. The hell with these nautical operations, anyway. Let’s get back to dry land.”

He walked down from the big gray house to the dock. The bluff here was not as steep as it had been at the Wilson place, but it was steep enough to remind him that he was again barely out of bed. It seemed to him
a long time since he had been strong enough to walk down a flight of steps without having to be careful not to stumble; and it was awkward trying to maintain his balance with his right arm in a sling. The girl had brought her boat up the river. It was made fast alongside the dock and she was working in the cockpit. Her red hair was bright in the sun. She was barefooted and wearing only a halter and a pair of faded, paint-splashed jeans that were rolled above her knees. There was an ugly bruise on her right shoulder, fading now into a curious mixture of purple and green; an old bruise that clearly no longer bothered her. Everything that had happened seemed very long ago.

“Hello,” he said.

She looked up, the varnish-brush poised in her hand. “Oh,” she said, “you’re up.”

“Up again, down again,” he said. “Up again.”

“Uniform and everything,” she said. “Gee, pipe the fruit salad.”

“You can get anything at a hock shop these days,” he said. He gestured toward the brush in her hand. “Carry on.”

“I’ll be through in a minute,” she said. “Take those shoes off if you’re coming aboard; don’t mark up my decks.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He worked his feet out of his shoes and stepped down to the shining deck of
the little sloop to watch her. After a while he said, “I’ve been trying to tell Mrs. Parr how much I appreciate her having me here, but she’s a hard person to talk to. Maybe you can put the idea across for me.”

The girl said, “Put your own ideas across, sailor. Anyway, Aunt Molly likes doing things for people she likes, and she likes you. You’re not supposed to thank her, stupid. Just send her a card some time when you happen to think of it. She gets kind of lonely, I think.” After a while, she said, “So you’re leaving?”

“That’s right.”

“Think you’ll get there all right this time?”

He said, “You’re kind of nosy, aren’t you, Red?” She looked up at him quickly and grinned, and he said, “I don’t think I’ll get lost again. I’d damn well better not; I’ve got a reprimand coming as it is.”

She said, “Well —” After a moment, she put the lid on the varnish can, straightened up, wiped her hand on her jeans, and held it out. He took it. She said, “Well, drop around some time when you’re on leave, sailor.”

He held her hand for a moment. Something in her attitude warned him that the invitation had not been a casual one. She had thought it over carefully before she gave it, deciding whether or not, in her opinion, he was worth seeing again.

He released her hand and said, as carefully as she had spoken, “Thanks. I might do that.”

She started to say something else and checked herself; and he knew precisely how she felt. They had nothing to talk about now. The things that had happened were still too close and painful; they could not be discussed, and yet they could not be ignored. It was a good time for ending, and a poor time for beginning; they could do better later with no ghosts between them. He turned away.

As he stepped back up to the dock and bent over to put on his shoes, the sloop’s auxiliary motor started up behind him. The sound startled him a little, but not very much; he finished tying the laces before straightening up to look around. The girl was watching him. He grinned and gave her a salute and walked away up the dock.

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