Anchor in the Storm

by Sarah Sundin

  “When I am weak, then am I strong.” Adrenaline galloped in her veins. They thought she was completely incapacitated. They didn’t know she could stand up without her prosthesis.

  “That’s all the drugs,” Shorty said. “Now for the cash. Dixon said the key for the cash register is on a key ring hanging in the stockroom.”

  Hank unlocked the stockroom door without looking down at Lillian. “Are you sure we shouldn’t raid the front cash register too?”

  “Right by the window? Idiot. Dixon said get the stuff, knock off the girl, and leave through that side door.”

  Lillian smiled, as invisible to them as her strength in her weakness. They didn’t know what she could do.

  Maybe she could make a break for it. They’d left the door to the prescription area open. She might be able to make it to the side exit in time.

  No, she’d make too much noise, and the exit was locked. They’d shoot her. Then no one would know about Mr. Dixon.

  Hank swore. “I can’t find the—there it is.” Out he came with the key ring.

  The note. Lillian needed to write a note. But all that motion and rustling paper would draw their attention.

  She groaned inside. If only she could call the police. She could imagine twisting her hands over by her hip and dialing 0 for Operator with one finger. There were two phones in the store, one by each cash register. One was too close to her captors, and one was too far away from her. They’d never give her enough time.

  Lillian sagged against the wall. Maybe it was hopeless after all.

  In her head, she could hear Dad singing his favorite hymn while he puttered in the boatyard: “His oath, His covenant, His blood support me in the whelming flood; when all around my soul gives way, He then is all my hope and stay.”

  She was never without hope. Christ was her hope, even now.

  Coins tinkled down into Hank’s sack, and Shorty tossed the bills in on top. “Now the prescriptions. Dixon said get all of them from ’41 and ’42, just to be safe.”

  Safe. Lillian hauled in a deep breath. Lord, asking you to keep me safe seems futile. But please don’t let me die in vain. Let me take down the drug ring.

  Safe. Why wouldn’t the word leave her mind?

  Safe. There was a safe in the stockroom.

  Lillian tilted her head and frowned. Why didn’t Mr. Dixon tell Hank and Shorty to clean out the safe? Wouldn’t thieves do that?

  Unless the safe was empty. Mr. Dixon had spent a lot of time in there, and he’d left with a paper sack—full of cash?

  Thoughts zinged through her head, aligning in perfect order. The stockroom had only one door and no windows. The door locked from the outside, and Hank had left the key in the lock.

  Shorty dumped a stack of prescriptions into the bag. “Dixon told me to burn these tonight. And his instructions too. He wrote our full names on the clipboard just to make sure we burn it. Then me and you skip town.”

  Lillian’s breath came quick and shallow, pumping the adrenaline even faster. She had one chance. Lord, make it count.

  “Don’t forget the safe,” she said.

  “What?” Hank shone the flashlight in her face.

  She turned her head away. “Don’t forget the safe in the stockroom.”

  “It’s not on Dixon’s list,” Shorty said.

  “I’m sure it isn’t. He keeps his life savings in there, doesn’t trust the bank.”

  Hank aimed the beam toward Shorty. “I’ve heard him say that.”

  She let smugness enter her voice. “I guess he doesn’t trust you either.”

  “Hey . . .” The beam came her way again.

  “Any thief with the slightest bit of intelligence would try to crack that safe. And you wouldn’t even have to try. I know the combination.”

  “Yeah,” Hank said. “If this was a robbery, we’d torture the combo out of her.”

  A rumble from Shorty, and he marched over to her. “Don’t you see? She wants to cut a deal. We ain’t cutting a deal. She’s gotta die.”

  “I know that,” Lillian said.

  “Then why would you help? I smell a rat.”

  “Simple.” She sat up tall and glared at Shorty. “He’s my boss. I trusted him, and he ordered you to kill me. Well, I want to hurt him back. The only thing he cares about is money, so how better to hurt him?”

  “Nah.” Shorty swatted the air between them. “We steal from him, and we pay.”

  “You won’t steal. You’ll give it back—for a price.”

  “Like a ransom.” Hank’s voice lit up. “Say, that would work.”

  Lillian lifted one shoulder. “Maybe 10 percent. Enough to hurt him, but not enough to make him hurt you. Sounds fair for making you do his dirty work. I bet he doesn’t pay you enough anyway. And who’s taking all the risk?”

  “We are.” Shorty’s voice ground out like a truck on gravel. “And she’s right. Won’t look like a robbery if we leave the safe alone.”

  “Come on.” Hank headed into the stockroom. “Dixon owes us. That Palonsky kid bled all over my nice new shirt last night.”

  Oh no. Grief welled up. Not Warren Palonsky. The poor man.

  “Hey, sister. No funny business.” Shorty stuck his thumb under Lillian’s chin and tipped her head back hard. “You try anything stupid, and I’ll let Hank there do some carving with that knife of his.”

  Eyes watering, Lillian managed to shake her head. “No. No funny business.” Nothing funny about it at all.

  42

  South of Long Island

  Arch dogged the hatch above him, trapping himself below decks. “Be with me, Lord.”

  After all, how was dying in the engine room any different from dying on the bridge? If he was meant to die tonight, he’d wake up in heaven, and it wouldn’t matter whether he’d entered through drowning, explosion, or fire.

  He climbed down the long ladder into the engine room, the familiar noise overpowering the screaming voice in his head, the familiar vibrations melding into his tremor.

  Jim would be climbing up the ladder on the starboard side. No time for Arch to ask his forgiveness. No time to pass his regrets to Lillian.

  On the upper level, Arch strode along the steel mesh catwalk, ducking around sailors and pipes. He stopped at the gauge board with its wall of gauges and meters. “Damage? Casualties?” he asked the upper-level man.

  “No, sir. But we’re having problems with the reduction gear.”

  “I’ll take a look.” Arch passed the turbine that turned steam into power. Beside the turbine sat the reduction gear, which reduced the power from the turbine to the lower speed required to rotate the propeller shaft.

  For a few minutes, troubleshooting with the machinist’s mates and making mechanical adjustments blunted his anxiety. Changes in course, the rolling deck, and the rumbling guns overhead reminded him of the battle and storm.

  Why had he dreaded the engine and fire rooms? Being blind to the battle and doing good hard work had advantages.

  A loud hollow explosion astern shook the destroyer. Arch and his men braced themselves.

  Depth charges. Captain Buckner must have driven one of the U-boats to dive.

  Another depth charge exploded.

  Something popped, and men shouted.

  Arch whirled around. The pipe leading from the condenser to the deaerating feed tank had snapped, and hot water poured out.

  He jogged over. They couldn’t interrupt the cycle. Steam from the boiler flowed to the turbine and then into the condenser, which converted the steam back to liquid. The deaerating feed tank removed air from the hot water and fed it back into the boiler.

  “Come on! Let’s get this fixed.” Thankful for his leather gloves, Arch lifted a sagging end of pipe, while a machinist’s mate grabbed the other end, both careful to avoid the streaming hot water.

  Another depth charge rattled the ship, but Arch kept his footing. His men wrapped the broken pipe with mounds of insulation and electrical tape, a temporary fix, but it woul
d do.

  “Mr. Vandenberg!” someone shouted from the lower level. “Hull’s leaking!”

  “Get it sealed!” A destroyer’s thin skin and rivets didn’t always stand up to the explosive power of her own depth charges—especially in a storm. He peered through the mesh decking. A fine spray of seawater spurted along a vertical seam. If they didn’t seal it soon, the breach would widen.

  He passed the gauge board. “What’s the news?”

  “One U-boat submerged, either sunk or damaged. The other’s still attacking on the surface, but she’s falling behind.”

  “Tell the bridge the hull’s leaking, no casualties. Send damage control party.” Arch scrambled down the ladder. He had to keep the engines running at flank speed to outrun the U-boat.

  A thin layer of water coated the lower deck. On the starboard side, sailors pressed steel plating over the breach, water spurting around the edges.

  “Where’s the welder?” Arch called.

  “Coming, sir.” The sailor pulled on his leather helmet.

  “Get an—”

  Noise ripped through the hull overhead, crashed into the condenser behind him.

  A shell!

  Arch spun to inspect the damage.

  A chunk of metal zipped toward him.

  He flung up his arm, ducked. Too late. White-hot pain exploded around his left eye.

  He cried out and fell to the deck. Slicing, bulging pain. Right where Jim had slugged him.

  Arch covered his eye with his hand, but the pressure made him cry out again. He sat up to get out of the water, and he opened his eye, but he only saw red.

  “Sir!” The welder lifted his mask and stared down at him.

  Head wounds bled profusely. Everyone knew that. It wasn’t as bad as it looked. Or felt.

  A sailor handed him a rag, and Arch cupped it loosely over the wound. The pain radiated from his cheekbone up to his eyebrow, the whole eye socket throbbing and prickly.

  Regardless, he had a job to do. He got to his feet and gazed around with his good eye. Three other men were bleeding from arms, chests, backs. Shrapnel wounds. “Can you work? Do you need help?”

  All three said they could work.

  A cloud of steam billowed from the top of the condenser. “Shut down the condenser!” Arch called.

  “Already on it, sir.”

  He turned back to the breach in the hull, which ripped higher now, and he beckoned the welder. “We need to fix that on the double.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” The welder lowered his mask.

  Arch pointed to the drenched men holding the patch in place. “Get an extra piece of plating to protect those men from the sparks.”

  Two men grabbed a large sheet of metal and wrestled it into position.

  A new kind of shaking took over Arch’s limbs, and a wave of dizziness made him stumble. But he had work to do.

  The crackling sound of sparks from the welding torch added to the noise of the engine room. All around him, men cranked valves shut.

  With the rag covering the explosive heat around his eye, Arch sloshed through the water to the talker. The dizziness swelled into nausea, and the shaking intensified, numbing his fingers.

  He waved his cold, quaking hand at the talker. “Tell the bridge . . . the shell damaged the condenser. We’re shutting it down. Shut down the forward engine and boilers. Have to do it.”

  The talker’s dark eyes stretched wide. With his gaze fixed on Arch, he repeated the words into the telephone.

  The nausea, the spinning, the pain. Arch bent over and retched, his throat flaming.

  “Sir! You need help.”

  “No, I need to do my job.” The words burned in his throat, and he wiped his mouth with a corner of the rag, but it was already soaked through, bright red. “Head wounds. They bleed.”

  “I—I know, sir.”

  Arch stumbled forward, splashing through the water. “Shut down the engine. Shut it . . . down.”

  His vision darkened, and he braced himself, leaned over, retched again.

  If only he could sleep. His head felt so heavy, so full. This time he’d sleep well. No nightmares of being trapped below decks, because there was nothing to fear.

  His vision went black, his legs gave way, and water washed over him, soothing the pain.

  Nothing to fear at all.

  Boston

  “What’s the combo?” Shorty followed Hank into the stockroom.

  Lillian scooted on her bottom over the threshold. The door opened into the stockroom, and she needed to position herself under the doorknob. And she had to stall the crooks.

  The flashlight swept to her. “The combo?”

  She ducked from the blinding beam. “It’s 40-27-38.”

  “Here. Hold the flashlight.” Hank spun the dial. “Forty . . .”

  Lillian eased herself up to her knees, her heart thumping.

  “Twenty-seven . . . thirty-eight.”

  “No,” Lillian said. “You mixed up the numbers. It’s 40-28-37.”

  Shorty grunted. “Listen, Hank. Open those stupid big ears of yours.”

  Hank grumbled, and the dial spun. He’d have to start all over.

  Lillian planted her right foot on the floor.

  “Forty . . . twenty-eight . . .”

  One more diversion. “Not forty. Fourteen. Please listen.”

  Shorty cussed. “Sounded like forty.”

  “It’s fourteen. With an N.” Lillian centered her weight over her right leg and prayed for balance. If she fell or made too much noise, she’d be dead.

  The dial spun, clicking.

  In one smooth motion, Lillian pitched herself slightly forward and rose to standing.

  “Fourteen . . .”

  She felt tall and conspicuous, but the flashlight illuminated the lock of the safe and two faces intent on cracking it.

  “Twenty-eight . . .”

  Behind her, Lillian groped for the doorknob and wrapped her fingers around it, careful not to bump the dangling keys. “When I am weak, then am I strong.” Lord, please make this work.

  “Thirty . . .”

  Three quick hops, and she yanked the door shut behind her.

  “Hey!” Shorty yelled.

  Gritting her teeth, she sandwiched the key between her thumb and the knuckle of her index finger, and she rotated the key, clicking the lock into place.

  To the phone, the front phone so she’d be closer to the exit if they escaped.

  She hopped to the door, lost her balance, and caught herself on the counter. The jar of marbles rattled—and inspired her.

  Cussing and footsteps sounded from inside the stockroom.

  In the darkness, Lillian found the door to the prescription area and pulled it shut behind her. Out in the main store area, she leaned over the counter and bumped her forehead into the jar of marbles, tipping it over the edge into the prescription area.

  It shattered on the floor, followed by the staccato of hundreds of marbles bounding over the wood.

  Hank and Shorty cried out.

  It did sound a bit like machine-gun fire. Lillian headed for the main entrance.

  More cursing, and they rattled the doorknob.

  She hopped down the aisle, picking up speed as she went, guided by the dim light from the street. More than anything, she wanted to fly out that door to safety, but she wouldn’t. She had to call the police, the sooner the better.

  A loud thump on the door, another, and another. They were trying to break down the door.

  At the front of the store, she found the phone on the counter. With her elbow, she knocked the receiver from the cradle. She wrenched her bound hands as far to the side as she could, dug her index finger into the dial at zero, spun the dial all the way around, and released it.

  Then she leaned over the dropped receiver on the counter.

  “Operator—”

  “Help! Send the police. Dixon’s Drugs on Main Street. Two men with a gun. They plan to kill me. Hurry!”

  A sh
ot rang out.

  Lillian screamed.

  “Ma’am!” the operator yelled.

  “They’re trying to shoot out the lock. Do you have a pen, paper? I need you to take this down.”

  “Y-yes.”

  More thumping and rattling in the back.

  Lillian squelched the urge to run. She had to pass on the message, even if she died. “Write this down. Dixon runs the drug ring. Charles Leary is Scar. Talk to Arch Vandenberg on the Ettinger.”

  The operator repeated back, her voice shaky.

  Another shot, a thump, a crack, a slam of a door against a wall.

  Oh no. They’d gotten out. Her breath raced.

  A scrabbling sound. Two screams, two thumps. Hank and Shorty moaned and cussed. They must have slipped on the marbles. Good.

  “I’m leaving now. Please. Send the police.” Lillian worked her way around the counter. To the door, to the door.

  “The gun,” Hank groaned. “Where’s the gun?”

  “Can’t see.” Shorty cursed the broken flashlight.

  Lillian found the doorknob, but it was stiff. “Lord, help me!”

  “Gotta get that clipboard. It’s got our names on it. Where’d it go?”

  More foul words. “That girl. I’m gonna kill her.”

  She strained her fingers to get a solid grip, and she leaned to the side to get enough rotation on the doorknob. There! It twisted open.

  Outside at last, but hardly free. “Police! Police! They’ve got a gun! Help me!”

  She hopped down Main Street toward City Square, where people might be out this time of night, and she screamed for help.

  A middle-aged gentleman poked his head out of a house, then pulled back in alarm.

  She must look a sight, one-legged, tied up. “Please, sir. Help me. They have a gun. Call the police.”

  “Okay.” He darted inside, his door open, and a middle-aged lady peeked out.

  Lillian hopped closer. “Please, ma’am. Let me in. They’re trying to kill me.”

  She covered her mouth with one hand, then motioned Lillian to her with the other. “Oh no. What did they do to you?”

  Two men came running up Main from City Square. Police officers, guns drawn.

  “Help me!” Lillian tried to wave with her bound hands. “They’re at Dixon’s Drugs. Two men with a gun. There’s a side door as well. Get them.”