by Sarah Sundin
“What? I didn’t hear her.”
“She’s wearing slippers.”
Lillian’s heart dragged down. “Oh dear. I play so poorly, she has to escape.”
“Not at all. I think . . . I think she wanted to give us a moment alone.”
His eyes were so blue, a shade that made her think of swimming pools and diving in and never surfacing for air. His firm shoulder pressed closer, and his Adam’s apple dipped to the knot of his tie and back.
What if she did? What if she dove in? Freedom and joy welled up, but then something cold and sickening coiled in her stomach. Not again. She couldn’t let this happen again.
Lillian scooted off the bench. “We should leave.”
“Sit.” His lips twisted back and forth between impatience and compassion.
She crossed her arms. “I’m not a dog.”
He sighed and patted the bench. “Please sit.”
“I’d rather not.”
“You’d rather not open up to me again.”
Her head sagged back, and she groaned. “What’s wrong with me? I’m so coldhearted.”
“I didn’t say that, and I don’t believe it. You’re just . . . independent.”
“Independent.” Lillian sank down to the bench. “I’ve been thinking. My independence is like my prosthesis. I rely on both to get by. Without them, I feel weak. And my stump—it’s ugly. The prosthesis hides it.”
“I doubt—”
“My independence hides my heart. I—I’m not soft and sweet the way women are supposed to be.”
“I like you this way.”
She resumed the song, her cheeks warm. This wasn’t how friends talked. This was more intimate.
Arch added some chords at the bass end. “I haven’t been fair with you.”
“How’s that?”
His fingers spanned the chords, strong but gentle. “I pressure you to open up while I harbor a secret.”
She paused. “A secret?”
“Play or I won’t tell you.”
Lillian returned to the music, watching his face.
His mouth tightened, and his eyelid twitched. “I haven’t told anyone, not even Jim. Well, I did tell a physician once, but I won’t make that mistake again. It could end my career.”
“What?” Her mind bounced between possibilities and memories.
“When the Atwood was torpedoed, the engine room started to flood. When the captain gave the order to abandon ship, we—we couldn’t get a hatch open. We were trapped.”
“Oh no. How awful.”
“We finally opened one, just in time. But ever since, I’ve had trouble sleeping. I get nightmares. My hands . . .” He held up one hand. “See it shake? I’m not cold. I’m never cold. Just telling the story started it up again.”
“Oh, Arch.” A better woman would take that hand and kiss away the trembles. “No wonder the case is so important to you. It’s personal.”
“I know what the men are going through.” He stared at the top of the upright piano, and the cords of his neck stood out. “When general quarters sounds, I don’t know if I can pull myself together. With God’s help, I do my job, but barely. I understand how the men feel, why they want to treat it themselves, why they can’t tell anyone.”
“If the Navy knew . . .”
“I could lose my commission. The Navy is my life. I’ve worked too hard for this, and I can’t go back to what I was. I don’t want to be like that again—superficial, pretentious, manipulative.”
Lillian smiled at the deep, genuine, kind man beside her. “You couldn’t be like that.”
He let out a dark chuckle and played a few chords. “You didn’t know me when I was younger.”
“Well, you could never be like that again. It isn’t in you.”
“You don’t know how tempting it is, the way of life, the way of thinking that takes over. You think you’re sophisticated and cultured and right, and everyone praises you. But you’re wrong. That—” He thumped out a chord. “That is why I never want to be rich again.”
“What about—well, what about when you inherit?”
“I’m selling it all, giving it all away. I don’t want a penny of it.”
What a fascinating man. What character to know himself so well. What strength to avoid the thing that tempted him. What sacrifice to forsake what most people craved.
He gave a firm nod. “There. I’ve shown you my weakness—and it isn’t a good sort of weakness—and the ugliness inside my heart. Now we’re even.”
That cost him, same as telling her stories had cost her. Even more because his story held the power to end his career. How could she tell him how much it meant to her?
She lifted her fingers from the keys, hesitated, then laid her hand on his forearm. “Thank you. Thank you for trusting me.”
Arch glanced at her hand, then covered it with his own. “I suppose we’ve worn out our welcome.”
Lillian spun around. “Oh dear. Poor Mrs. Harrison.”
“I’d like lunch before my watch, so we should leave.”
“Of course.” She stood. “Mrs. Harrison? We’re leaving now.”
“Oh, all right.” Mrs. Harrison shuffled out of the bedroom with a satisfied gleam in her eye. The little matchmaker. “I’ll see you next week, Lillian.”
“Or earlier, I hope.” Lillian picked up her purse from the cabinet by the door.
Arch stopped in front of the cabinet, which displayed framed photographs of Mrs. Harrison’s grandchildren, and he pointed to a photo of a sailor. “Who—who is this?”
“That’s my oldest grandson, Giffy.” She picked up the portrait. “Isn’t he handsome?”
“Oh yes.” Lillian studied the picture. The young man grinned at the camera, his white “Dixie cup” cover at a jaunty angle over dark curls, his lean face confident and mischievous. “You must be proud.”
“I am. He’s the only one who pays me any mind.” She traced the outline of his shoulder in his white uniform with its dark neckerchief. “He’s taking me out to dinner tonight.”
“I’m glad he’s in town. Which ship—”
Arch grabbed her arm above the elbow. Hard.
Lillian glared at him, a retort on her tongue, but the pallor of his face and the intensity of his gaze silenced her. What was going on?
“I’m sorry, ladies. I have to report for duty.” Without releasing his grip, Arch smiled at Mrs. Harrison. “Thank you for having us over. It was an honor to meet you.”
“Likewise, young man. Please visit any time you’re in town.”
He bowed his head to her and steered Lillian out the door.
“Good-bye.” She tried to shake off Arch’s grip as he led her down the stairs, but he wouldn’t let go. “Would—”
“Shh. Not yet.” He propelled her down the stairs.
She pursed her lips and wrestled down panic with logic. Arch would never hurt her, and he wasn’t trying to control her. She trusted him enough to bide her time.
Arch turned up Monument Avenue, still gripping her arm.
“Would you mind telling me what that was about?” She let her voice be chilly.
“In a minute.” He led her up to the square, up the bank of granite steps toward Bunker Hill Monument, and onto the grass. “Giffy is Fish.”
“What?”
“Giffy. I recognized his picture. Gifford Payne. Fish. Our source on board.”
Lillian clapped her hand over her mouth. “Her—her grandson? Oh no. Poor Mrs. Harrison.”
Under a large shade tree, Arch set his hands on her shoulders. “You delivered sedatives to her. The prescription was in her name, right?”
His face swam in her vision, mottled by leaves blocking the sunlight, his pale, pale face. “Are you . . . are you saying—”
“She’s a link between Dixon’s Drugs and the Ettinger. She’s involved somehow.”
Her knees wobbled. “She’s getting the drugs for him? For him to sell? Mrs. Harrison? My Mrs. Harrison?”
&
nbsp; “Maybe she doesn’t know what he’s doing. Maybe he’s using her. He’s a slippery fish, that man, the other reason for his nickname.”
“Oh no.” Her stomach writhed, and she clutched it. “I trusted her.”
“Now, now.” He squeezed her shoulders. “Reserve judgment. We don’t have all the facts.”
“Two hundred tablets a month. She’s the link.”
“One link. Two hundred isn’t enough. At least ten men are involved on my ship, and Fish told Palonsky other ships are involved. Plus, you’ve seen forged prescriptions for other patients. This is only one piece of the puzzle.”
“Oh, Arch. What have we gotten ourselves into?”
“Now, now.” His hands slipped behind her shoulders, as if to draw her close, but he stopped.
A breeze rustled the leaves, scented with spring and green and life, and she wanted to lean on Arch, wanted to trust in someone else’s strength for a change.
She edged half a step closer. With a sigh, he gathered her into his arms, and she rested her cheek on his shoulder and circled her arms around his waist, clutching at the dark blue wool of his jacket. So new, so terrifying, so right.
“We have to keep you safe,” he murmured. “That’s the most important thing.”
So this was how it felt to be cherished. She wanted to savor it, but she shook it off. “No. Solving the case is the most important thing.”
“My brave girl.” He rubbed her back, up and down. “But this is no time for bravery. We need to be cautious. Keep making your log, but don’t take any chances. None.”
She nodded, not feeling brave at all. “What about you?”
“I’ll be careful. But you—keep up your lessons with Mrs. Harrison. Don’t let her know we suspect her. Don’t act as if anything has changed. Can you do that?”
“I—I think so.”
“Whatever you do, don’t tell her Jim and I serve on the Ettinger. What if she told Fish? He mustn’t see the connection.”
“All right.” Lillian gazed across the expanse of Arch’s chest, at his chin before her nose, at the dappled light alternating between dark and bright.
Friends didn’t cling to each other. Friends didn’t call one another “my brave girl.” Friends didn’t murmur and caress and sigh. Not like this.
Lillian backed out of his arms. Why did she suddenly feel chilly and incomplete? And why did he look lonely?
Arch tucked his hands in his pockets. “Ready for lunch?”
Somehow she nodded, although she had no appetite. What had they gotten themselves into indeed?
25
Off the coast of Massachusetts
Tuesday, April 21, 1942
Arch tugged his blanket under his chin, but sleep wouldn’t come. They’d departed Boston at midnight, bound for Halifax, Nova Scotia, to meet a North Atlantic convoy bound for England.
He punched down his pillow. The North Atlantic convoys had full escorts, even though only a few U-boats had attacked that route lately. Meanwhile, the Eastern Sea Frontier boasted the highest number of sunken ships and had the lowest number of escort vessels.
And the Ettinger would be gone for over a month.
Arch flopped onto his back. Lillian had let him hold her, and now he’d be gone for a month. He’d miss his parents’ anniversary party and the opportunity to spirit Lillian away from Boston so they could focus on each other, away from the war and the case.
He loved her. This was nothing like his earlier feelings for Bitsy or Kate or Gloria. This felt genuine. A restlessness built in his arms and chest—a need to hold her again.
No. He flipped onto his stomach. The needs of the nation took precedence over his personal needs. And the nation needed him to get some sleep before the forenoon watch or he’d be useless.
The alarm clanged general quarters.
Arch groaned and rolled out of bed, fully clothed. Then a strange lightness filled his chest. He hadn’t panicked. He was finally licking this. With God’s help, he was licking it.
“What is it this time?” Jim thumped down to the deck.
“Who knows?” Arch slipped on his mackinaw and cover and grabbed his life vest. Other destroyers equipped with radar complained about detecting every little fishing boat and Coast Guard vessel. It would take time to figure out this new technology.
Ted Hayes met them at the top of the ladder inside the bridge superstructure. “We picked up a radar contact. We’ve closed to one thousand yards.”
“Probably a fishing boat.” Arch fastened his life vest. Radar only detected aircraft or surfaced vessels.
“Or an unescorted freighter,” Jim said.
“With a stupid captain.” Emmett Taylor shook his head. All cargo ships had been ordered to put in to port at night, but merchant marines didn’t always take orders well.
Hayes flicked his chin. “Captain thinks it’s a U-boat.”
The junior officers exchanged glances. The odds of contacting a U-boat were infinitesimal.
Arch headed aft on the main deck, following the flow of men and officers to their stations. No moon lit the starry sky, and the Ettinger sliced through the waves.
He passed the torpedo tubes and bumped into a sailor.
“Sorry, sir.” It was Fish. His alarmed expression changed. The eyebrows drifted low, the eyes pierced, the mouth tightened. “Pardon me, Mr. Vandenberg, sir.”
“Carry on.” Arch continued on his way, but a sick feeling filled his gut. Mrs. Harrison had mentioned a dinner date with her grandson. What if she’d mentioned meeting Archer Vandenberg accompanying that pretty pharmacist from Dixon’s Drugs? A dangerous connection.
Arch flung up a prayer for Lillian’s safety, and he met his repair party on the quarterdeck. Most of them. “Where’s Carey?”
“Haven’t seen him.” Tony Vitucci put on his talker’s headphones. “Contact at eight-oh-oh yards, bearing three-two-zero, running at sixteen knots. And zigzagging.”
“Sixteen knots? Zigzagging?” Arch peered to port. Too fast for a merchant ship or fishing boat, but just right for a surfaced U-boat. Whatever it was, it knew it was being pursued.
Chief Boatswain’s Mate Ralph Lynch grabbed the arm of a passing sailor. “Mahoney, you seen Carey?”
“Still sleeping, Chief. I couldn’t rouse him.”
Arch sighed. Why did he have a sneaking feeling Carey had taken a phenobarbital tablet to help him sleep? “I’ll go down. We have a few minutes until we close the distance.”
He strode into the aft superstructure and down the ladder to crew quarters. All the bunks were empty, save one. Arch shook the seaman’s shoulders. “Carey! Hit the deck!”
“Don’ wanna.” He rolled over.
Arch shook harder. “We’re at general quarters. Hit the deck and report for duty on the double.”
Carey sat up, kneaded his eyes with the heels of his hands, and muttered something Arch didn’t want to understand. “Duty. Repair party. Not much fun for a party, if you ask me.”
“On the double, sailor.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He stood up and swayed to the side.
Arch caught his arm. “Or should you report to sick bay?”
Carey turned startled blue eyes to Arch. “No, sir. I’m waking up.”
“Very well.” Arch led the way up to the deck. This was why they had to break the ring. Sedatives might help in the battle of the nerves, but they interfered with the battle against the U-boats. There had to be a better way, but what could it be?
Back on the quarterdeck, Arch found Vitucci. “What’s the word?”
“We’re at three hundred yards, sir, staying off her starboard quarter.”
Smart idea to stay out of range of the stern torpedo tube, if it was a U-boat. But why would a U-boat flee on the surface? The only way a U-boat could escape a destroyer was to dive. Either the waters were too shallow to avoid depth charges or the sub was damaged.
A cry went up to port. “Torpedo!”
Arch braced himself against the searchlight
platform, his heart careening out of control. There! A phosphorescent streak whizzed along the port side, parallel to the Ettinger’s course.
Above him, the searchlight flashed on, the bright beam sweeping the waves until another set of cries rang out.
He’d never seen a U-boat. When the Atwood was attacked, he’d been below decks. Terror and fascination drove him to the lifeline. Locked in the circle of light lay the humped back of a U-boat, Buckner’s great whale, its pale wake racing behind it.
But where was the harpoon? Why wasn’t the Ettinger firing? They were well within range of the guns and torpedoes, if the torpedoes were set for curved fire.
Arch whipped around. The torpedo crew stood at the lifeline, and on the aft superstructure, the machine-gun crew stared at their prey, immobile. “Man your guns!” Arch shouted. “Vitucci, has the captain—”
“Yes, sir!” The talker’s eyes stretched wide. “He ordered every gun to fire at will, torpedoes too. He’s spitting mad.”
With good reason. Arch faced the aft superstructure and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Man your guns! Mahoney! Lubowitz! Captain ordered you to fire at will.”
The seamen stared down at him. “Aye aye, sir.”
Arch spun around. “Fish! Stein! Man the torpedoes. Captain’s orders.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Out on the U-boat, dark figures spilled out of the conning tower aimed for the 88-millimeter deck gun that could sink the Ettinger with a single well-placed shell. “On the double!”
The forward machine gun opened fire, spraying the U-boat’s deck, and dark figures toppled into the sea, but still more appeared, ants from their hive. Too many of them.
The U-boat’s gun flashed. Arch cried out and braced himself. In an instant, the deck below him heaved, and he landed on his hands and knees. “We’re hit.”
Vitucci scrambled to his feet and flipped switches. “Aft fire room took the shell above the waterline.”
The fire room. Below decks.
Arch froze. Not again. Pipes bursting, steam hissing, men slipping, screaming. The hatches clanging shut, dogged into place. Trapped.
Machine guns stuttered all around him. The two forward 5-inch guns fired, shuddering the deck.
“Mr. Vandenberg? Mr. Vandenberg! Sir!”
