Stranded (4 page)

Eve picked up a shred of cloth from the lighter’s deck and washed out the blood. The fabric came from a shirt, pink, with some kind of pattern at the edge. She tried not to think about which passenger had worn it, but her mind wouldn’t let it go. The girl barely in her twenties who had searched for the motor’s ignition keys? Or the petite Asian woman who politely asked if she could look under Eve’s seat cushion while everyone else screamed and shoved? Their faces pushed against her soul.

She rubbed at her tears with the back of her hand. Only a short while ago, eleven living, breathing people had occupied the lighter. Now eight of them floated in the ocean, chunks of their bodies left behind in the boat. She used the cloth to wipe away the gore, to soak up the bright red blood and rinse it into the ocean. Twice she vomited. She muffled her sobs so she wouldn’t wake Betty and Crystal.

Where was the
Gateway
, anyway? It had vanished from sight. She kept looking up, waiting for it to return. What was going on? Why had it disappeared?

She sat back and gazed dully at the cloth dripping seawater from her hand. Why clean the boat if she expected the cruise ship to come back? The question puffed at the haze covering her mind.

Because the ship
wouldn’t be back. She blinked, and the mist evaporated.

Because the
Gateway
had abandoned them.

She stood, legs shaking.
No
. The cloth dropped from her hand and plopped onto the deck. This was no accident.

Piece by piece, the puzzle came together. Both lighters had exploded—she remembered the two boats flaring in a mirror image of each other. Their simultaneous explosions precluded coincidence. And the blasts had been more than mere motors blowing up—the detonations had been powerful enough to kill everyone aboard. Her ears still stung from the impact of the shock wave. No, there was only one reason why the cruise ship wasn’t returning. Horror gripped her by the throat.

The explosions had been planned.

She clutched the edge of the lighter. The crew—no wonder there had been so few. A skeleton staff could get by if the passengers were disposed of a few days out. The men had been ignorant of Captain Emilio’s background and character—she didn’t believe they had lied to her about that. Had they known about the captain’s macabre plan? Or would they, too, end up floating in the ocean?

But worst of all, worst of all, was the part she had played. Oh, how she had gloated when Captain Emilio just happened to divulge the very information she sought. Fool! Her death was the motive for the explosions. She was the target.

But why not kill just her? She sank to the deck and covered her face with her hands.

Twenty people dead, and all because of her.

Jake held Ginny to his chest, rocking her, smoothing her hair, kissing her forehead. She couldn’t be dead. Any second now she’d open her eyes, cough up seawater. She’d smile that frail little lopsided grin of hers she used when she was sick and didn’t want him to worry. They still had half a year together. He was going to be there for her just like he’d planned.

He straightened and inhaled deeply. No, their life together was over. He clenched his fists. But their journey wasn’t done. It would end when Captain Emilio sat in the electric chair.

He rose and laid Ginny on the deck floor, positioning her head as far away as possible from the water flowing down the middle. Though no one could possibly have survived the blasts, he should still check on the other lighter. He shielded his eyes from the late afternoon sun to search out the other boat. The rise and fall of the ocean revealed nothing. Perhaps the other boat’s damages had sent it to the bottom of the ocean.

Dorsal fins sliced the water off the bow. He grimaced at what the sharks were feeding on. At least he had a boat. The injured craft wasn’t much better than a crutch in a marathon race, but it beat fighting off sharks.

On one side of the lighter, yellow shreds of life vests plastered the back of a shattered storage compartment. The vests must have been locked inside. He examined a second blasted compartment on the other side. The boat’s sailing equipment and two oars lay secured to the floor. He removed the mast and sail. Both had been damaged by the blast. The mast wouldn’t telescope to its full extent, and the tattered sail wasn’t in any better shape. But they would have to do.

He inserted the base of the mast into the floor bracket in the middle of the boat and slid in the pin to secure it. Shaking out the sail, he attached the rigging to the crippled mast and fastened the bottom two corners to metal eyes on each side of the boat. That done, he lashed an oar to each side of the lighter so the blades protruded into the water to function as dual rudders. They would keep the craft moving in a straight line.

A breeze slapped the nylon cloth, and the lighter leaped forward. Water spurted from the hole at the front of the boat and rushed down the deck and out the larger break at the stern. The damage slowed the progress of the boat, but it was moving. He adjusted the oars so the boat sailed west, toward the Philippines.

Two days, maybe four at the most, and he’d have the law on Captain Emilio’s tail.

Eve crouched against the shadier side of the lighter, her arms wrapped around her knees. Thirty-three years old, a successful federal prosecutor, and here she was whimpering for her mother’s arms around her. She bit back a sob. She never cried. Never. But twenty people . . . twenty people dead because of her ambition. She never should have boarded the
Gateway
.

She mentally slapped herself.
Stop
. No more thinking about it. Not forgetting, just not going over and over it until she dissolved in stomach acid. The past was only good as a springboard for the future. She snuffed in a lungful of air. And Captain Emilio’s face was dead center in that future’s bull’s-eye.

She raised her face to the steady wind skimming over her head and shoulders and filling the nylon sail above her. She knew how to run a motorboat, but not the intricacies of rigging a sail. Her hands had shook so hard anyway, she’d been worthless trying to help Betty do it. All Eve could think about was what if the
Gateway
returned? What if they were looking for her?

Afterwards, Betty had cuddled back up to Crystal. Eve watched as Crystal stirred. Opening her eyes to half-mast, she spotted Eve and stared at her. “You saved us, didn’t you?”

Eve’s stomach tightened. “I think you saved
me
. When you fell overboard, I swam out to you and missed the explosion.”

“What’s your name?”

“Eve—Eva Gray,” she corrected herself. “But most people call me Eve. And you’re Crystal, right?”

Crystal’s blue eyes didn’t waver as she nodded. “You saved us. You came after us, and you brought us back to the boat.”

Eve looked away. Crystal considered her a heroine, but truth was she was the villain. If she hadn’t boarded the
Gateway
, none of this would have happened.

She turned back to Crystal. “It’s hot.” The child’s face lacked color. “How are you feeling? You okay?”

“My stomach hurts. I swallowed a bunch of water and my mouth tastes yucky.”

Betty patted Crystal’s arm. “When it rains, we’ll catch the water and get a drink.”

“Are we going home, Aunty?” Crystal’s chest rose and fell in a choked sob. She clutched Betty’s hand. “I want to go home.”

“We’re going to the Philippine Islands, sweetie, then home. They’re a bit south and mostly west of us. If this wind keeps up, we could make it to the closest island in two days.”

Crystal’s chin quivered. “What’ll we eat? I’m hungry.”

Eve looked with keen interest at Betty. They both knew there was no food aboard.

“Nothing, honey. We’ll just do a bit of fasting until we get there.”

Jake straddled the stream of water coursing down the deck and searched the ocean for signs of the other lighter. Bodies, debris . . . there ought to be something out there. He found himself looking out at the ocean, then back at Ginny. The ocean, then Ginny, until finally he gave up and sank to his knees beside her. Her body slipped further into the middle of the boat, and he lifted her back to the edge of the lighter.

His heart stopped when he saw her feet. Half of her left foot was missing. The blast had ripped off her toes. The bone of her heel lay exposed.

Rage suffused him, booting the numbness shrouding his mind. Ginny wasn’t just dead—she had been murdered! The memory of Captain Emilio’s arm swinging down, giving the signal to blow up the lighters, blazed afresh in Jake’s memory. That man, that lowlife, was responsible! He had made sure Jake realized that. Not only had Captain Emilio murdered every passenger in the two lighters, but he had wanted Jake to suffer through the discovery of Ginny’s death and then drown with her.

His mind reeled. He had been so consumed with finding Ginny and grieving over her that the big picture had slipped past. The atrocity of the event staggered him. Not just Ginny, but twenty-two other people had been slaughtered.

Why? Clearly Captain Emilio had premeditated the mass murder. He had herded the ship’s passengers into the lighters and blown them up, counting on the sea to dispose of their remains. The
Gateway
had made a hasty departure, but surely not to its original destination. The disappearance of the passengers would require an explanation. In fact, neither Captain Emilio nor the ship’s crew could ever show their faces again without being questioned. That meant either defection or new identities. But neither of those required a mass murder.

Then it struck him. The disappearance of the ship meant its owner would collect insurance money. No survivors would be left to testify to the contrary. But Captain Emilio had made a serious mistake.

He hadn’t waited to make sure Jake had drowned.

Eve’s confidence in Betty’s claim to be an experienced sailor wobbled like the fragile lighter on the ocean’s swells. They had been sailing for hours, huddled in a small patch of the sail’s shade. Endless miles of ocean undulated beneath them, behind them, all around them. The sea was an immense monster, and they were caught in its belly. How did Betty know they were going anywhere? How did she know they weren’t going in circles, prisoners of the sea’s vast bowels?

She waited until Crystal’s eyes closed and a soft snore whispered from her lips. “Betty, have you done much sailing on the ocean?”

“No, only lakes. But the principles are the same: catch the wind and set your rudder.”

Eve frowned. “We could sail past dozens of islands and never know it.”

“As long as we’re headed west, we’ll run into them. And if there’s no wind, a ship may spot us.”

“And if there’s no ship?” Eve’s grumpiness seeped into her voice, but she didn’t care. She was hot, hungry, and most of all, thirsty.

Betty shrugged. “Then I guess you hope in God.”

“God?” Eve spat out the name. “What hope was God for all those passengers on the
Gateway
?”

Betty stared dumbly at her.

“And what about us—and this poor child? No food, no water, our skins burned to a crisp. The blast that ended the lives of those people will be a mercy compared to the torment we face.”

“We don’t know that will happen, Eve.”

“We know about a world out there full of misery. Where is this God of hope? Tell me, Betty, how long has happiness ever lasted in your life? How long in Crystal’s? I bet it’s come in pretty short installments, hasn’t it?”

Betty looked down, her shoulders sagging.

When Betty gave no answer, Eve turned her face away and squeezed her eyes shut. She was well acquainted with misery. What was the courtroom, anyway, but a Dumpster filled with damaged and soiled lives that she—like an over-dressed bag lady—sorted through for scraps of justice? And she knew happiness too—it was the court’s constant victim, always stabbed in the back.

She had hoped to move on from prosecutor to judge. Perhaps even a Supreme Court Justice. Reagan’s pledge to appoint a woman to the Court had paved the way. But now Eve’s dream was dashed. Happiness stabbed in the back. If there were a God, she would shake her fist at Him.

“Aunt Betty, look!”

Eve opened her eyes. Crystal’s raised arm, pink from a long day in the sun, poked a finger at the sky. Eve peered over her shoulder, past the billowing sail. A black curtain of rain pounded the waters ahead, and the whitecaps were churning.

The front of the lighter jerked up, then plunged down. Eve clutched the side of the boat as water at the gaping stern splashed deeper into the lighter.

Betty’s promised drink would soon arrive, but at what cost?

Rain awoke Jake. It drummed on the hollow air compartments and splattered onto his face. How could he have fallen asleep? He bolted upright and checked for Ginny’s body. It lay a short distance from him, her hair plastered across her face. He reached out to smooth it away, but stayed his hand. Rigor mortis had set in. A leaded heaviness settled over him, sinking through skin and bone until it stopped and wound itself around his heart.

He shifted to fence in Ginny’s body by placing himself between her and the hole at the stern. If the wind started pitching the boat, he’d remove his life vest to take off his shirt and use it to fasten her down. But at this point, all it would accomplish would be an unnecessary chill for his upper body.

He remembered how Ginny liked to tease him that she could fry eggs on him, as hot as his skin got under the covers at night. Her toes were always cold, and she liked warming them under the soles of his feet as she lay curled against his back.

The memory lifted the weight from his heart. He should get up and take the sail down in case the downpour turned into a storm, but remembering bore a sweetness he didn’t want to chance losing.

Remembering . . . how every morning he made a pot of coffee and brought Ginny a cup. Placed it on the sink, where the aroma soaked into the steam of her shower and she’d call out, “Thank you, Jakey!” The only person to ever call him that ridiculous name. And when he came home in the evening, they’d sit on the back porch after supper and talk about their day and what was happening with the kids. At night he locked the front and back doors, checked on Brett and Dana, and crawled into bed with Ginny. They snuggled a few minutes, never long enough for him. She always slipped out of his embrace into a spread-eagle slumber that took up two-thirds of the bed. She’d sleep through the alarm the next morning, and he’d get up and make a pot of coffee . . .

  The rain lightened to a brisk shower, and Jake roused himself lest he miss out on quenching his thirst. He took off his shirt, soaked it in the rain, and wrung it out several times to remove the salt. Then he saturated the shirt and squeezed the rainwater into his mouth, again and again, until his stomach protested.

Ginny. To think of her now meant to think of her gone from his life forever. Everything that had meant anything to him—their travel plans, a getaway cabin in Montana, his purchase of H&F Design and Construction from his boss—all of these were tied to Ginny, were given life by her presence. Now they were meaningless. Their future together had turned from a yellow brick road to a gaping crater. 

The day dawned hot. By noon it was blazing. The wind that had blown all night and all morning stilled. Betty took down the sail and spread it over the boat to provide shade, but it was stifling underneath.

“Please, Aunt Betty, let me cool off in the water.”

“The salt will only make it worse once you get back out. You’re nice and clean now.”

“I don’t care, I’m hot.”

Crystal jumped in, and Betty made sure the child had a good hold on the back of the boat. Crystal’s legs trailed behind her in a comfortable float, two thin, white sticks winking back at the sun.

Eve slipped in beside Crystal. “Sorry,” she mumbled to Betty. “The way things are going, I’m living for the moment.”

Betty didn’t protest. The rain had energized her, but the new day had beaten back everything she’d gained the evening before. How wonderful to be in charge yesterday, to be the one who knew what to do. She’d added a day to their lives. Maybe two. Maybe enough to get them to an island.

She listened to Eve and Crystal’s chatter. Should she join them? It was warmer than she’d expected under the sail.

“I think Aunty’s sad because Uncle Frank died in January.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“My mom died when I was born. I’m an orphan.”

“When did your dad die?”

“I don’t know. Grandma says Mom didn’t know who he was.”

“So you live with your Aunt Betty?”

“No. With my grandma and grandpa. Aunt Betty and Grandma are sisters. Do you have a sister?”

“No, a brother . . .”

Had she slept? She felt the jostle of the boat as Eve and Crystal climbed back in, heard them gasp when they lifted the sail. The fresh air made her realize she was soaked in sweat.

“Quick! I need water.” Eve’s voice snapped just short of panic. “We need to cool her down.”

Was she that bad off? Crystal stripped off her dripping shirt and shoved it into Eve’s hand before dropping to her knees beside Betty. “Please, Aunty, don’t die! Please, please don’t leave me!”

“It was an oven in there, Betty. Why didn’t you come out?”

The coolness of the water against Betty’s skin made her gasp. “Musta been cookin’, didn’t know it.” The words tangled on her tongue. Her fingers found Crystal’s hand and latched onto it. “’M okay, sweetie. No need t’ cry.”

She swallowed and turned her head to Eve. “Look for land t’day. Maybe t’morrow. Go west, always west.” She licked her lips and tried to swallow again. Her tongue felt fuzzy and two sizes too big for her mouth. She pushed herself to finish her instructions. “No food—can survive weeks.” That was the good news. “No water—maybe three days.” That was the bad news. “Worse with sunburn.”

She sighed and closed her eyes. There now, she could rest. She’d passed on the baton.

Jake awoke and found Ginny gone.

The air in his lungs punched tight gasps out his throat. His heart thumped erratically in his chest. He turned the boat back on its path to find her. Lurching on quaking knees, he sped from bow to stern and back again, zig-zagging from one side of the boat to the other to search the water. She was still in the life vest and would be floating. The thought of her body, forsaken in the sea, tore at him.

Maddeningly, the wind worked against him. He stripped down the sail and dismantled the oars, but the lighter proved unwieldy for one man to row. Locked into position, the pair of oars barely touched his fingertips when he stretched out his arms between them.

No, no, no, it couldn’t be! Disbelief knotted his gut and yanked hard. He had lost her all over again. He glared at the rolling sea until its restless energy mesmerized him. Sapped him. Sucked out his insides until there was nothing. Only a hole, dark and empty.

A gust of wind slapped his face, and the image of Captain Emilio shooting his pistol, its bullet roughing Jake’s cheek, rose in his mind. He drew in a slow breath. That man alone was reason enough to keep going. Numbly, he reassembled the mast and rudder and aimed the boat west again.

At noon the wind died and the boat floated aimlessly. He tore off his life vest and in a fit, slammed it to the deck. All morning, his urgency to reach land had been matched by the steady pressure of wind against sail—as if he and God were teammates, yoked together to bring about swift justice. Now there wasn’t even that. He dove into the water to cool off.

When the wind started up again, he climbed aboard and picked up the vest. His heart stopped at the sight of a crack running down the middle of the floor from bow to stern. He dared not remove the vest again. If the boat split apart and sank, the life vest was his only chance to reach land.

He reoriented the boat westward and positioned himself on the side of the crack holding the mast. The wind was stronger than before, but it failed to cheer him. The pressure against the sail stressed the crack, and he had no idea how long—hours or days—it would be before it split open.

Ginny’s death pounded on his soul like a fist on a hollow-core door. Over and over he asked himself what he could have done differently to prevent it. Over and over he came to the same conclusion: nothing. Everything that had happened had been beyond his control. It was Captain Emilio who had made all the choices, Captain Emilio who had molded the clay of their lives into the shape of hapless victims.

But over and over, another question shoved him against the wall:
We are Your beloved. Where were You?

Eve opened her eyes. Stars overhead, millions of them, sparkled in densely layered eons of light-years. She sat up and sought out the constellation Betty had shown her. It confirmed the wind was still blowing them westward. Gratitude welled within her that the storm had proved nothing more than a rough cloudburst, and that if Betty was right, the Philippines lay within a day’s reach. They were going to make it.

She got to her feet and peered over the billowing sail. If land was out there, it was impossible to tell. The only distinction between black water and black sky was the twinkling stars.

She checked on Betty and Crystal. The child was curled against Betty, probably more for emotional comfort than warmth. Surprising herself, Eve stooped and kissed Crystal on the forehead. At least she had her aunt to love her. And grandparents. More than Eve ever had.

Betty’s pulse clipped at a rapid pace, but was short of racing. After the cloudburst, the sun had steamed all three of them into wilted seaweed. They needed another dose of rain—or better yet, land bursting with streams. She stepped over the sleeping forms and walked to the rear of the boat. The wind whipped her long hair away from her face, and she had to brace herself. Pulling down her shorts and panties, she crouched over the broken stern.

There was a microsecond of realizing she was off-balance, and then the abrupt shock of hitting water. Its coolness surged through her like icy electricity. She clutched her shorts, struggled to tug them over her knees into place and at the same time kick upward to the surface. She churned, bewildered by the darkness. Which way was up?

Blackness pressed in on her. Terror gripped her chest. She could never be alone in the dark, never. The air in her lungs squeezed for release. She had to let it go. Bubble by bubble it bullied its way up her throat and through her lips. Her body went limp. Her consciousness swirled like tub water spiraling down the drain. In one last effort, she clawed at the ocean, willing herself not to breathe in.

Her head broke the surface, and she gasped at the air. Oxygen burned the lining of her throat and lungs like iodine on a raw sore. She choked and wheezed and coughed up seawater until finally she could breathe.

The boat. Where was it? She twisted one way, then the other, until she saw it—a smudge against the stars as it sped away from her.

“Help, Crystal, help! Wake up! Wake up!” She swam after it, stopping only to yell.

She swam until she could swim no more.

Then she shouted until she could shout no more.

The shriek woke Jake. Every hair on his body prickled in icy horror. Ginny! She was out there—alive—screaming for him! He jumped to his feet.

The shriek came again, piercing his ears. Not Ginny, he realized, but the boat. The vessel shuddered as the crack down its middle split open like a zipper. In one final howl of agony, the injured craft burst apart and dumped Jake into the ocean.