The Revengers (34 page)

“Or what’s going to hit you,” I said, watching him. I saw his dark, rather handsome, face close up; he wasn’t going to discuss that subject. To reassure him I went on smoothly, if a bit pedantically, “That’s just a myth, you know. Hell, the old Greeks took homosexuals for granted; and their armies were full of them. At the Battle of Cheroneia, the Thebans had a whole regiment of them. Well, the Macedonians attacked and the Athenians on the left broke and ran, and the center was smashed, but the Sacred Band of Thebes on the right stood firm; they died where they stood, all three hundred of them, each man beside his lover or whatever the hell you call it. Nobody figured it had anything to do with courage back in those days.”

He eyed me suspiciously, obviously wondering what my sexual predilections were. “Sounds like you know a lot about it.”

I grinned. “No, I just read historical novels.” I sniffed. “Smells good, just like food. But maybe she’s not going to kill us outright, she’s just going to starve us to death. . . .” He had me check on Eleanor who said she didn’t want anything to eat, God no! He was pretty cautious about getting me back into the deckhouse, seated at the table; and about watching me while I ate. The food was very good. The cook’s name was Robert and he had a funny French accent. He was a wiry little man with gray hair, as I’ve said. The description fit the man who’d tortured and killed Fred. It seemed likely that he’d taken this seagoing job because his knife work had gotten him into trouble on land; and, while I was grateful for the excellent meal, I thought it would be nice to do something about Robert some day if it wouldn’t interfere with more important duties. . . .

We spent the afternoon resting on our bunks. Toward evening we heard somebody yell, “Sail Ho!” up above. Half an hour later, the door opened and we were ushered aft into the cockpit and helped aboard the single-masted sailboat that lay alongside, rolling heavily in the long Atlantic swells. The name painted large on the flanks of the vessel, racing fashion, was
Jamboree
; Miss Lorca’s fifth sailboat, according to Brent, in the two years since her beautiful young friend had died.

I hoped the present yacht was not scheduled to go the way of the previous four; but it wasn’t much of a hope.

When a sailboat heels to starboard it’s on the port tack, and when it heels to port it’s on the starboard tack, don’t ask me why. It was starboard tack now as we headed out into the Atlantic in a freshening southeasterly breeze. Eleanor and I had the bow stateroom again with a pair of vee-berths very similar to those on the powerboat we’d just left; but there the resemblance ended—except for the constant factor of the bucket. It was a smaller and darker prison without any portlights in the side of the boat, just a transparent hatch above through which we could look up at the two, taut, triangular sails forward, jib and forestaysail, if I remembered my nautical nomenclature correctly. The mainsail, my salty memories told me, was the big one aft, outside our range of easy vision.

Perhaps because of the sailboat’s lesser speed, the motion was not as sharp and jerky as the sportfisherman’s had been; in scientific terms the period of oscillation was longer, and the amplitude was greater. Every so often the whole boat would drop right out from under us coming off a wave and leave us airborne until we caught up with our mattresses again as they were still going down, or met them coming back up. With the hatch closed against the flying spray that lashed the foredeck, it was warm and stuffy in the tilted fifteen degrees to port, give or take ten, and it wasn’t the most comfortable detention cell I’d known; and I’d known a few.

Eleanor held out for about half an hour after we were under way again. Then it hit her again, but her spasms were getting pretty unproductive now. There really wasn’t much for me to get rid of, but it seemed advisable to maintain the useful image of the poor suffering young lady and the patient loyal gentleman looking after her conscientiously, so I made the pilgrimage to the head whenever she gave me an excuse. Giulio had accompanied us to this new boat, complete with Browning 9mm; but we had a fine relationship now, Giulio and I, two big strong men bound together by their noble, and rather patronizing, concern for a little woman’s weakness.

There had been two men sailing
Jamboree
when we boarded her. One of them was now asleep on a bunk tucked away up behind the leeward of the two settees that faced each other across the teak table in the main cabin, preferably known, I believe, as the main saloon—not salon, unless you’re a sissified ad-writer who doesn’t know any better. There was another, similar berth up to windward. Still another bunk, I’d noted as I came below, was located to starboard alongside the galley aft, almost under the main hatch that led to the cockpit. It was a quarter berth, running back alongside the engine under the cockpit seats. You used the head of it for a seat when working at the chart table. Apparently this bunk was reserved for Serena Lorca as skipper and navigator; her shoes and purse were on it. She was now barefoot on deck sailing the boat with the assistance of the second crew member. I gathered that Giulio was not expected to assist in the working of the ship. Strictly a powerboat man with a sideline in muscle, he’d been brought along to function as guard and jailer only.

The head compartment on this boat was in the same location as on
Ser-Jan
, to port just aft of our pie-shaped prison cell in the bow. It was smaller, with no separate shower facilities. A grating and drain in the floor, and a fixture above, indicated that you were expected to keep yourself clean on board by using the whole compartment as your shower stall and to hell with what else got wet in there. The washbasin was even more rudimentary than that on the big sportfisherman; and the principal plumbing device was a slightly smaller version of the same electric toilet, equipped with the same elaborate console, displaying the same green and red lights and push-button controls. Well, at least I wouldn’t have to be checked out on it again; I’d already soloed on that general model. The installation seemed to be brand new. When I mentioned this to Giulio, he made a gesture of disgust.

“Christ, the head that was in there was perfectly good, but she’s an older boat, built before the crapper law went into effect, so Miss Lorca had to rip it all out and spend a couple of grand to make it legal.”

“Yes,” I said, “I can see how she might not want to do anything illegal.”

“Get the hell back in there where you belong,” he snapped, but there was no real anger in his voice.

It was getting quite dark by now but the electric lights in our cell were in functioning order—I’d checked—one over each bunk. I turned mine on. This brought some shouts from the deck and a pounding on the door.

“Switch it off, how the hell can they see to steer with all that light shining up on the headsails?”

“Sorry, lights off.”

I hit the switch again, and lay in the dark listening to the rushing, splashing sounds of the boat going through the water. It seemed unnatural, but kind of pleasant, to be moving along briskly without any motor noise or vibration. Looking up through the transparent plastic hatch, beaded with spray, I could see the sails overhead weakly defined by the colored running lights—apparently, whatever Serena Lorca had in mind, it did not involve illegal invisibility for her boat. The picture was clear: she was avenging her dead lover just as her daddy was avenging the hole in his head. Only the final details of her revenge remained to be explained; and instinct told me she intended to explain them to us before long. The trouble with being a master criminal is that if you’re a good one, and keep your mouth shut as you should, nobody knows how great you are. Most of them can’t stand that forever. They want their genius admired by somebody. I had a strong hunch we’d been elected to admire Miss Lorca’s.

“Matt.” Eleanor’s voice reached me faintly through the noise of the boat’s progress.

“How’s it going down there?” I asked.

She had the secure berth down to leeward, while I was clinging to the precarious one up to windward. There was a canvas contraption I could raise to keep me in place up there, but I preferred not to immobilize myself to that extent.

“Matt!"

There was sudden panic in her voice; I realized she hadn’t heard my response for the boat sounds. I eased myself out of my bunk and, avoiding the everlasting bucket on the floor, got myself sitting on the edge of hers, and found her shoulder in the dark. Her hand found mine, gripped it convulsively for a moment, and released it.

“Oh, God, I’m such a scared and puny thing!” she breathed.

“That’s right,” I said. “And ugly and spoiled. Don’t forget ugly and spoiled.”

“Damn you, Matthew Helm! . . ” I heard her giggle in the dark: “Very well, Dr. Helmstein. Very vel. Ve vill zee shock treatment permit, in moderation. But I’m really kind of a mess, aren’t I? God, I’ve been sick! Do you know that it’s worse throwing up when you haven’t anything to throw? Do I smell too bad?”

“A little sour,” I said judiciously. “Not unbearable.”

“Sorry about that. I mean, if I were really nauseating, you could . . . you could grit your teeth and hold me without being, well, overstimulated by this smelly repulsive creature in your arms.”

From her, it was as much of a plea for comfort and reassurance as I was likely to get. It was also, I realized, a rather brave breakthrough, considering what had been done to her once and how it had left her. Of course, she was drawing a clear line between what would be permissible and what wouldn’t if I did accept her suggestion; but the fact that she could make it at all was an encouraging sign.

I said carefully, “You’d better let me get over on the low side. That way I won’t land on you and squash you when the boat tosses us playfully. . . . Ouch, what the hell was that?”

“I’m sorry, did I get you with my heel?”

I said, “My God, do you still have those spikes on? You’d better fire that male nurse of yours. Let me . . ."

“Never mind.”

“High heels are frowned on, on shipboard, ma’am.”

“To hell with that,” she said. “Did you ever get stomped by a high-heeled lady, Matt? I mean, really perforated? A determined gal can do a lot of damage with her heels in a pinch; so let them think I’m just too damned miserable to know, or care, that I’m in bed with my shoes on.” Later, as we lay side by side, I could feel her fighting it; me, my closeness, trying to maintain a discreet measure of separation between us, but the motion of the boat was against her, settling us as firmly together at the lower side of the slanting bunk as tamped tobacco into a pipe. Gradually I felt her rigid body relax against me. She whispered, “This isn’t very fair to you, is it, Matt? But I’d rather you wouldn’t. . . . I don’t think I can yet. . . . I just need, well, company.”

I won’t claim I wasn’t aware of the small warm body in my arms and didn’t react to it at all. For some perverse reason I found myself remembering another night of gentlemanly frustration I’d endured not too long ago with a different lady, although with separate bedrooms the conditions hadn’t been nearly so intimate. But it didn’t seem advisable to share the memory with my present companion.

I said, “I’ll try to control my raging lust, Miss Brand.”

“Tell me about Martha,” she said.

It took me completely by surprise, although I’d just been thinking of Martha Devine. It’s never safe to discount ESP, particularly when a man and a woman are sharing the same bed, or bunk, even with all their clothes on.

“What about Martha?” I asked.

“What did she want, popping up in Miami like that, unexpectedly?” Eleanor asked. “I mean, it was obvious you weren’t expecting her and neither was her father. You were both very surprised to see her.”

“Hell, I don’t know what she wanted,” I said. “Ask my chief, she’s his daughter.”

“You’re a liar, darling,” she said.

“That’s right,” I said. “I’m a liar.”

There was a little silence. “All right,” she said quietly. “I’m a nosy snoop and it’s none of my goddamned business, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“Do you love her, Matt?”

“Sure,” I said. “Hell, according to you I love fifty percent of the human race. The female fifty percent. Why should poor Martha be the lone exception?”

There was another pause. “Well, all right, tell me what happened on your midnight expedition with the OFS task force.” There was a slight edge to her voice. “If that isn’t classified, too.”

I said, “I’m sorry, but it is. At least, it’s not for publication. If you really want to know, I’ll tell you; but it’ll have to be strictly off the record. Word of honor and all that crap.” After a little, I went on, “As a matter of fact, I’ll probably wind up having to ask you to forget this whole crazy business, sinking ships and all.”

I felt her stiffen against me. “Matt, you’re crazy! I wouldn’t kill a story for the President of the United States!” I said, “Hell, I wouldn’t kill a story for the President of the United States, either. But it’s not the Chief Executive who’s asking you.”

“And . . . and if I don’t, what happens?”

I said, “Go to hell, doll. It was a request. If you want me to, I’ll say please. No coercion, no sanctions. It’s entirely up to you. I merely expressed a wish, okay?”

She was silent for a little; then she said stiffly, “Tell me about your midnight excursion. Off the record.” I told her. When I was through she said, “You’re not a very nice person, are you, Matt?”

“I keep trying,” I said. “Somehow it always seems to go wrong. Sorry.”

She said, “Well, it’s obvious why you’re trying to shut me up. You don’t want the truth about these sinkings to come out because your precious Mr. Bennett has already, by this time, explained them publicly in a very different way, and you don’t want me showing him up for a liar, a murderous liar.” When I didn’t say anything, she asked, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you protecting him? Why not let me write the truth and show him up for the shit he is?”

I said, “Who’s stopping you? All I’m asking is a personal favor, no threats or menaces uttered or implied. Nobody’s stopping you. You’re free to do as you please, assuming that you live long enough to learn the whole truth out here, and get back to write it; and I’ll do my best to see that you do. That’s still my primary job. Bennett is strictly peripheral.”