Through Waters Deep (26 page)

“And the others?” Jim glanced around, saw Mack Gillis, Hank.

Durant turned back, his gaze firm. “Nine men survived from that gun mount. Only one didn't make it. I'm told he was already dead.”

Jim sagged back in relief. They made it. Whatever punishment he received was worth it. Even if only one man had survived, it would have been worth it. For that matter, even if he and every man in that gun mount had perished, it still would have been worth the effort.

“Mr. Avery. Mr. Hadley.” Durant lifted his chin and looked down his nose at them. “I have to write you up for disobeying
my orders, but I'm also putting you in for medals. You were brave, bold, compassionate, and showed the strong independent thought I like to see in officers.”

Jim gathered his blanket tighter and nodded his chattering chin. “Thank you, sir.”

Durant walked away. “Fine officers, indeed.”

Boston

Mary's heart jammed into her throat, choking off her breath and her hope. Above her, the dark scaffolding framed a figure on the wharf.

“Is that our Miss Stirling?” Mr. Fiske asked. “Didn't I warn you to stop poking your nose where it doesn't belong? Didn't I say I'd hate to see you hurt? It's a shame you walked in on Winslow as he was committing sabotage. A shame he had to shoot you before he fell to his death.”

He stretched out his arm, his gun.

Mary pressed hard against the wall, pulling Bauer's body with her.

A shot cracked the air. A bullet blasted past, pinged off the hull beside her.

She screamed and hunkered against the wet granite, sheltering beneath a beam, raising Mr. Bauer's head out of the water. Next to her, Mr. Winslow's eyes were white and wild.

“Go ahead and hide,” Mr. Fiske said. “I can wait. Eventually the water will bring you up to me. Or you'll drown.”

“I can't swim,” Mr. Winslow muttered.

Water soaked her to the chest, and fear and cold seized her
muscles. Why had she stuck her neck out and come down here? Why? Not only had she failed to save Mr. Winslow or Mr. Bauer, but now she'd die too.

A savage sensation knifed through her. Why not just stick her neck out all the way and get it blown off? At least this nightmare would end.

No one was coming to save her. No one even knew she was here.

Except God.

The tremors slowed, the knifing dulled. God knew she was here. God was with her. God could send the FBI or the Marines or a legion of angels. And if he didn't, she'd be home with him in heaven within the hour.

She closed her eyes.
Lord, be with me.
Help me. Show me what
to do. And if you'd like to send the
FBI or the Marines, all three of us would appreciate
it.

The Marines . . .

Mary's eyes eased open. The gunshot. The Marines must have heard it, probably wondered what it was. But now in the silence, they'd return to their evening routine in the barracks, oblivious.

Another gunshot. Or two, or three. That might get their attention.

For once, Mary Stirling needed to put herself on display.

A sense of peace and certainty flooded her faster than the waters filling the dry dock. Waters that rose to her armpits.

“Mr. Winslow?” she said in her lowest voice. “Hold Mr. Bauer, keep his face above water. I'm going to draw his fire, alert the Marines.”

“What? No. It should be me.”

Mary shifted the unconscious man over. “No time for chivalry. Besides, I can swim.”

Mr. Fiske laughed, a hard, mocking sound. “What are you plotting? You can't escape.”

“That's what you think!” Mary yelled. She gulped air, dove beneath the stinging-cold water and swam, scrambling between scaffold beams.

Let Fiske think she was making a break for it, abandoning the two men.

A muffled roar. A flash of light zipped through the water ahead of her. Two bullets down. Four or fewer to go.

Her numb hands found a crossbeam. She tucked her legs beneath her and popped up for a breath.

Another shot. The wood exploded in front of her. She spun her face away. Splinters slashed her cheek.

If only she could make him waste the final three bullets without getting killed. A big breath, and down she went, bumping beams, her skirt sodden and heavy about her thighs.

A shot, and a bullet churned up water beside her.

She fumbled for a beam, but it was underwater now. She'd have to expose herself to breathe. Slowly, silently, she eased toward the wall and surfaced.

The wall edged away from her. The stairs.

What once had been her goal now could mean her death. Fiske could come down the stairs and shoot her point-blank. She plunged underwater and headed back the way she came, her lungs screaming.

Up for air. Her heart thudded in her ears, every muscle shook, her hair fell in clammy streams down her cheeks. Her hat—she'd lost it somewhere.

“Miss Stirling!” Mr. Winslow cried. “He's slipping. I—I can't hold him much longer.”

“What do you care, Winnie?” Fiske called. “He's a Kraut. Thought you hated them.”

“Who are you calling a Kraut?” Another voice rose, angry and male.

Who was that? Mary held her breath.

A shot, a thump, a cry, a thud.

“He's not a Kraut. He's a good man, unlike you. To think I trusted you, looked up to you.”

“Ira Kaplan.” A smile competed with the tremble in Mary's lips. He must have arrived at the Bauer home for dinner and grown as suspicious as Mary had.

Mr. Fiske cried out.

“Take that,” Kaplan shouted. More thumps. “That's for framing Bauer. That's for putting me in jail. That's for the
Atwood
and all the sailors you could've killed. That's for—”

Whatever was happening, it sounded like Kaplan was winning.

Now to help Mr. Winslow. He hugged a beam with one arm and supported Bauer's head with another.

“Hurry, Miss Stirling.”

She worked her way over, her arms and legs no longer feeling the bumps. Her feet couldn't touch the ground, but she propped them on a beam, grabbed another overhead, and lifted Mr. Bauer. Shouldn't the cold alone have awakened him?

“Hands up! Both of you! Now!”

Mary's lungs expanded with joy and hope, cool and fresh. “Agent Sheffield! The FBI's here. Thank you, God. Thank you.”

“It's Fiske,” Kaplan shouted. “He's the saboteur. Not me. He's the one.”

“We know. Get off him so we can lock him up.”

The beam beneath Mary's feet shifted and another groaned. “Agent Sheffield! We're down here.”

“Miss Stirling?”

“Winslow's injured and can't swim, and Bauer's unconscious. We need help and now.”

“You—cuff him. You two—can you swim? How about a rope? This is a stinking shipyard. Where on earth's a rope when you need one?”

Several men ran down the stairs and splashed their way over. Marines.

The FBI, the Marines, and Mr. Kaplan as well. Mary broke out in strange, shaking, loud laughter. She couldn't stop. When God answered a prayer, he answered it abundantly.

Tuesday, November 25, 1941

A podium. An audience. A clatter of photographers and journalists. Why did that frighten Mary more than a flooding dry dock?

In front of that dry dock, Mary sat on a chair to the side of the podium, waiting for the press conference. She clutched Quintessa's gloved hand. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“It's the least I could do.” Quintessa shuddered. “When you didn't come home last night, I panicked, and then the call from the hospital . . . oh, Mary, you could have died.”

“I didn't. God was with us.”

“You were willing to sacrifice your life for those men.” Quintessa's voice dropped low.

“I couldn't let them die.” She had to shake off the attention. “Speaking of sacrifice, you're the one who took a day off work so close to Christmas just to be with me.”

“Mr. Garrett understood. I was overdue. It wasn't a sacrifice.” She bit her lip, and her eyes looked dark, even in the frosty sunshine. “You'd sacrifice anything for me, wouldn't you?”

Mary already had. Although giving up a man who didn't love her hardly qualified as a sacrifice. “Why wouldn't I? You've been such a good friend to me, all my life. I'd do anything for you, but I know you'd do the same for me.”

Quintessa glanced away, the same quiet distance she'd shown the past few weeks, so unlike her.

Mr. Pennington came to the microphone with Agents Sheffield and Hayes, and Rear Adm. William Tarrant, commandant of the Boston Navy Yard.

Mary gripped her purse in her lap.
Please, Lord. Don't let them call me to
the stage.

However, the prayer felt futile. Mary huddled inside her red coat and shivered as Mr. Pennington introduced Agent Sheffield.

The FBI agent went to the microphone, looking as small and pale and rumpled and un-agent-like as ever. “I am pleased to announce that the sabotage case here at Boston Navy Yard is closed. Last night we arrested Mr. Frank Fiske, a leadingman here.”

Flashbulbs popped, and journalists scribbled notes.

“Mr. Fiske has pleaded guilty to multiple charges—placing gasoline in a champagne bottle at a launching ceremony, hiding a bomb on the destroyer USS
Atwood
, planting a crate of bomb-making equipment in the basement of Mr. Weldon Winslow, altering blueprints so as to sabotage ship construction, framing individuals, flooding this dry dock with the intent to destroy two ships under construction, and the attempted murders of Mr. Weldon Winslow, Mr. Heinrich Bauer, and Miss Mary Stirling.”

Hands shot up among the journalists. “Agent Sheffield—”

“Our investigation was long and complex.” The agent plowed ahead with his statement as he had with the investigation. “We are indebted to everyone at the Navy Yard, from the commandant on down, for their complete cooperation and access.”

“What about—”

“We are especially indebted to Miss Mary Stirling.” The agent motioned her up to the podium.

Prayer request denied, but how could she complain after the Lord sent the FBI, the Marines, and Mr. Kaplan too?
Mary stood, her legs still wobbly after last night's ordeal, and she coaxed her feet forward.

Good practice for the Christmas pageant, not even two weeks away. Then she'd be free to escape Boston and the attention and the humiliation of a broken heart. Rejoicing for Jim and Quintessa would be easier from a distance. Why should she torture herself watching them fall in love?

Agent Sheffield put his arm around Mary's shoulder and pulled her behind the podium. “Over the past few months, this little lady has made herself both indispensable and annoying.”

The journalists laughed and snapped pictures.

Mary forced herself to smile. After all, she wasn't up there due to improper pride, putting herself above others. No, this was appropriate pride in a job well done with the Lord's guidance and help.

Agent Sheffield squeezed her shoulder. “Miss Stirling aided us with her keen sense of observation, attention to detail, and even a dose of womanly intuition. Her insight and analysis led her here last night, and her courageous deeds saved the lives of two men. We are indebted to her.”

More applause, more flashbulbs, and as soon as Agent Sheffield released her shoulder to join the applause, Mary gave everyone a gracious nod and returned to her seat.

No nausea. No mortification. No fall. She'd survived.

Quintessa took her arm. “You were wonderful. Hard to believe you're the same girl who faked illness and stayed home from high school graduation so you wouldn't have to cross the stage.”

Mary closed her eyes against the memory. How many good things in life had she missed due to fear?

She set her jaw and opened her eyes. “Never again.”

Saturday, December 6, 1941

Jim strode up Monument Avenue, past dozens of people out for a Saturday stroll. The only outrage he'd heard in Boston was over the American League's Most Valuable Player vote. Joe DiMaggio of the New York Yankees with his 56-game hitting streak had been selected over Ted Williams of the Boston Red Sox with his .406 batting average, and it was wrong, all wrong.

Never mind that in the past two weeks the USS
Atwood
and two more American merchant ships had been sunk. Dozens of men killed in an undeclared war, and no one seemed to care.

He paused in front of Mary's apartment building. The survivors of the
Atwood
had been distributed among the destroyers escorting Convoy ON-39 to Halifax. Back in Boston this morning, they'd been granted thirty-day survivor's leaves while awaiting new assignments. Jim had accompanied Homer Udell to the hospital. The man was morose, but he was stubborn and smart and hardworking. In time, he'd flourish, same as Lillian had.

Lillian now had a job, thanks to Mary's tip. Starting in January, she'd work at Dixon's Drugs here in Charlestown. It would be good to have her here, even better to see her happy.

First things first. Jim had waves to make, first with Quintessa, then with Mary.

His feet thudded up the stairs, and his finger felt like lead on the doorbell.

The door opened. Mary stood there in a deep blue dress, her dark hair loose on her shoulders, her eyes like stars.

“Mary.” Her name tumbled out of his mouth, perfect in its simplicity.

“Oh, Jim.” She clapped her hand to her chest. “You're alive. I heard about the
Atwood
, heard—thank God, you're alive. Arch?”

“He's fine.” All he wanted was to hold her. He needed her, needed her peace and gentleness, and he moved forward to claim her.

But she stepped back and called down the hallway, “Quintessa! He's here. Jim's here.”

A bedroom door flew open, and a blonde bullet aimed for him, wrapped her arms around him. “Thank God, you're all right. I was sick with worry. When I heard . . . and then . . .” Sobs heaved Quintessa's shoulders.

He had no choice but to embrace her. “I'm all right.”

But he wasn't, not with Mary walking away down the hallway. Not now. Not when he needed her most.

“I was beside myself,” Quintessa said. “First what happened with Mary, and then your ship. Too much to bear.”

“Mary?” Over Quintessa's head, he pinned his gaze on Mary. “What happened to you?”

She flapped her hand and stepped back. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing?” Quintessa rolled halfway out of Jim's embrace and wiped her eyes. “You tracked down the saboteur, got
him arrested, saved two men's lives, and were almost killed. I don't call that nothing.”

“What?” Concern for Mary mixed with pride in whatever she'd done, plus a zing of satisfaction that he had an excuse to keep her in the room. “Come on. Like it or not, you're telling me the story. Let's sit down.”

He shrugged off the overcoat over his new dress blues, marched into the living room, and plopped onto the couch. Quintessa snuggled beside him and clutched his arm.

Inside, he groaned. How could he have that long emotional talk when the girl was already a wreck? That would be cruel.

Mary hovered beside the couch, twisting her hands together. If only she were the one snuggled up to him.

Jim pointed to the armchair in the bay window. “You're not getting off the hook. Remember, I was there the day this whole case started. I've heard all about your investigation until recently. Don't you think I want to know how it ended?”

Mary sat, the afternoon sun lighting the edges of her hair. “Don't you think we want to hear how you survived the sinking?”

He chuckled. “Trying to deflect attention from yourself. I know your tricks, young lady. Besides, my father taught me manners. Ladies first.”

Over the next half hour, Jim prodded her with questions, and she revealed the details, relaxing before him, returning to the easy camaraderie of their friendship. He leaned forward, his forearms on his knees, and Quintessa broke her hold on his arm.

All he noticed was Mary. Her feminine gestures, her sweet voice, and her measured words. Her modesty and intelligence and courage. Her care for others and her persistence in the face of opposition. She'd used her gifts as God intended,
her sails hoisted and filled, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

His love for her pressed against the bars of his rib cage, longing to escape, to reach her.

“There. My story is told.” Mary sat back with a satisfied look. “Now it's your turn.”

“Yes, your turn.”

Jim glanced over his shoulder.

Quintessa leaned back against the couch cushion, her arms folded over her stomach, her gaze unswerving. Dissecting him.

She knew he loved Mary, didn't she? Would this make the big talk easier or harder?

“What
is
your story, Jim?” Quintessa's lips bent into a tight smile.

He shrugged. “I can't say much due to censorship. A U-boat torpedoed us. The ship was lost along with fifty-two good men. But Arch and I survived, and we're back.”

“That's all you can say?” Blonde eyebrows lifted.

“And the water was cold. Really cold.”

Mary gasped and sprang to her feet. “Oh goodness, the time. I have to get to the church.”

Jim frowned. “On a Saturday afternoon?”

“The Christmas pageant.”

“That's tonight?” He'd actually made it back in time, but not in a way he ever would have wished for. “I'd better let you ladies get ready.”

“Yes, you'd better.” Quintessa took his arm and hustled him out the door. “Are you coming?”

“Yes. Arch went home to Connecticut for a few days, but I'll see if any of the other men want to come.”

“See you there.” Quintessa shut the door on him.

Yep. She knew he loved Mary, all right.

While the choir sang “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” from up in the gallery, Mary trudged down the aisle of Park Street Church, one hand supporting her pillow belly, the other clinging to Ed Fanarolli's arm, her Joseph.

Hundreds of eyes watched her, burning her like welders' torches.

Her gaze latched onto Jim. He sat on the aisle with Quintessa and several other men in navy blue. A dozen emotions whirled inside her, topped by the intense relief that he'd survived, the release of the burden of worry she'd carried for almost two weeks.

Jim grinned at her, meant to be encouraging, no doubt, but only a piercing reminder of their past friendship and a future that could never be.

Quintessa watched too, her eyes round and cool, as they'd been all afternoon. She was jealous and with good reason. She must have detected Mary's love for Jim. Mary had talked to him for over half an hour. How could she conceal her feelings that long? She'd failed, and now her best friend thought she wanted to steal her boyfriend.

This was why Mary had avoided spending time with the two of them. This was why Mary needed to leave Boston. Now.

“No room at the inn. No room at the inn. But please use my stable.”

While the choir sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” Mary disappeared into the stable, the curtain door dropped, and she wiggled the pillow out from under her robe.

She'd fulfilled her two weeks' notice at the Navy Yard. Mr. Pennington asked her to stay through the launching ceremonies on December 10, but she refused. She'd planned each
detail and delegated each responsibility. Everything would run fine without her.

Tomorrow afternoon, she'd fly home. She still hadn't told anyone but Mr. Pennington about her departure. Quintessa and Yvette would ask too many questions. Mary needed to be honest, but for the sake of peace in the apartment, confessing her love for Jim and her decision to step out of Quintessa's way should wait for the last minute.

After church, she'd make her confession, and then she'd depart on her adventure. She'd decided to splurge on a cab and a ferry to Boston Airport, then her first airplane flight—land, sea, and air. After a few weeks at home for Christmas, she'd start her new life in Michigan. Not an escape, she kept telling herself, but a grand adventure.

The choir hushed, and a light shone above the stable. Ed drew back the curtain, revealing Mary by the manger, and she folded her hands over her heart and gazed adoringly at the baby doll in his swaddling clothes.

The eyes of the congregation ripped into her and sliced through her veneer of confidence.

Up in the gallery, Claudia, Bertha, and Edith sang “Angels We Have Heard on High.” Despite Mrs. Gunderson's coaching, Claudia overpowered the older ladies, trilling and cascading and calling attention to herself.

Was Mary any less proud than Claudia? Her picture in the newspaper after the FBI's press conference? The caption that read “Miss Mary Stirling accepts the adulation of the crowd”? It made her ill.

And the way she'd been so friendly with Jim this afternoon, letting down her guard, telling every element of the story. Wasn't that a form of pride? She'd sought Jim's attention, and she'd taken twisted pleasure in stealing his gaze from Quintessa. Oh, she had. She most definitely had.

Pride, pride, pride.

The song ended, Claudia's voice lifting the last high note for all to admire.

Mary's cue.

Her throat tightened and her stomach roiled, but she scooped the doll from the manger and took slow steps forward on the narrow rickety platform before the entire congregation.

She'd been careful to use the restroom before the performance and to avoid drinking anything all day, but pressure built in her bladder, taunting her.

The musical introduction began.

Mary stood there in her blue robe, baby Jesus in her arms, and her throat clamped shut. She couldn't sing. Not one word.

Her head felt light, her stomach queasy. She swayed to the side and barely caught herself.

The piano paused, played a few chords, and began again. Mary had missed her cue.

Soft murmurs rose from the audience, and a soprano Claudia-like titter sounded from the gallery.

For the first time in her life, she longed for a spotlight, not to focus eyes on her, but to blind her to the faces, all the faces, so concerned and sympathetic and—

And Jim looked straight at her, his expression earnest, and he moved his hands up and down as if hauling on a rope, as if hoisting sails.

Could she? Should she?

Movement by Mrs. Gunderson's music stand caught her eye. The choir director looked pointedly at Mary and opened and shut her hand like a blinking light.

“Let your light so shine before
men, that they may see your good works, and glorify
your Father which is in heaven.”
Not so Mary would be glorified, but God.

She turned back to Jim's encouraging face. If she sang
well, God would be praised through the timeless beauty of the music and lyrics.

If she didn't sing, the pageant would be ruined, and what would people talk about? They'd talk about Mary Stirling! Refusing to sing would be the worst form of pride, choosing self over God, choosing fear over faith.

The musical chords built slowly, surely.

Mary drew a deep breath and a deeper prayer.

“Silent night! holy night!” Her voice came out weak and quavering.

“All is calm, all is bright.” Hesitant, but stronger.

“Round yon virgin mother and Child.” The quiver evened out, and her volume built.

“Holy Infant, so tender and mild.” Mary gazed down at the doll's sweet painted features and stroked the porcelain cheek. “Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace.”

Her voice soared to the high notes and caressed the low notes, with a waver that sounded right, poignant. A peasant girl feeling both the weight and the joy of her gift, her insufficiency to do God's will and her determination to do so despite her weakness, through her weakness.

Mary's vision blurred. She tipped her face to heaven and launched into the second verse, overcome by her own insufficiency, her own determination, the joy of accepting her own weakness and the Lord's strength.

Through her singing, maybe she could help others praise the Lord, and wouldn't that be glorious?

The final verse seemed too short and fleeting to convey the richness of who God was, but her role was complete, and others had songs to sing.

Mary returned to the stable while the shepherds came down the aisle, singing “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night.”

She returned baby Jesus to his manger and arranged his
blanket, her smile heartfelt and genuine. In Michigan, she'd wear her red coat and join a new choir and do her very best on the job. Whatever else God asked her to do, she'd do it without flinching.

Ed gave her a concerned look and a handkerchief. Why?