He looked past the peppermill two or three times before he finally focused on it. It was a large thing, darkly lustrous, like a rook in a giant’s chess set; probably a foot and a half long, it was made of rosewood, and when Manville picked it up it was as heavy as a baseball bat, with most of the weight near the base, where the metal grinding mechanism was fixed.
The peppercorns inside rustled when Manville hefted the thing, and he felt at first that it was too ridiculous to think of defending himself with a peppermill. But it was heavy, and it had the right shape for a club, and there was nothing else in here.
Carrying the peppermill next to his leg, Manville left the serving kitchen and went back through the dining room.
The four men were slowly moving this way, two through the central corridor, checking every door along their route, and one on each side, along the outer decks. Manville would have preferred to tackle the leader, who was older and scrawnier than the other three, but he needed to go after somebody who was alone, and that meant one of the bruisers searching along the deck.
At the aft end of the dining room, glass-windowed doors on both sides led out to the decks. On the starboard side, another door, solid wood, just aft of this one, led to a stairwell going down. The searchers were entering through every doorway they reached, looking inside, then backing out again. Manville stationed himself just inside the dining room door, gripped the peppermill hard, looked through the window, and waited.
Here he came. A big man, he walked with hunched shoulders and with head thrust forward, as though sniffing out his prey. His pistol was in his right hand, and he stepped cautiously, looking over his shoulder often, pausing before entering a doorway, then backing swiftly out again.
The man reached that stairwell door. Manville hung back, looking through the window in the door, seeing only the right side of him, the dark pants and black sweater, the right arm bent, pistol beyond Manville’s range of vision. The man stepped forward, disappearing, and Manville took a deep breath. He’d never done anything like this before, never anything like this. But there was no choice, and the time was now.
He pushed open the door, eased outside, stood with his back to the wall beside the open stairwell door, right arm cocked up across his upper chest, peppermill held up beyond his left ear, and waited for the man to back out to the deck, and from the other side of the ship he heard the scream.
It threw him off. All he could think was: They found her! And it immobilized him for just a second, while the searcher, as startled as he was by the sound of that scream, came lunging out of the doorway, forward rather than backward, pistol right there, and he actually saw Manville before Manville thought to swing the peppermill as hard as he could. It hit the man in the face, at the top of the nose, between the eyes. It knocked him back a step, but it didn’t knock him out. It wasn’t heavy enough, the damn thing wasn’t heavy enough.
And the man still had that pistol. Desperate, Manville swung again, and the heavy base of the peppermill thudded down on the man’s right wrist, and the pistol fell to the deck and went sliding away,
I need that pistol! Manville swung the peppermill with all his might, like a carpenter driving a masonry nail into a brick wall, three hard pounding frantic punches at that face, and then the peppermill cracked diagonally in two, the base and a long triangle of the handle bouncing off the man’s chest to fall at his feet, leaving in Manville’s hand a kind of long jagged wooden dagger.
The man was still on his feet, though goggle-eyed and reeling, hands groping as though for an opponent he couldn’t see. Manville lunged at his face with this new dagger, and the man staggered back, lost his footing, and toppled backward down the steep flight of stairs.
Pistol first. Manville ran to where it still moved on the deck, the polished metal sliding over the polished wood surface with every tremor of the ship. Hurling away the remnant of the peppermill, he snatched up the pistol, then ran back to point it down the stairwell. Only then did he look past the barrel of the gun, to see the man in a twisted heap down there, unconscious or dead.
Kim. Manville hurried back into the dining room and across it and out the door on the other side, and down there to his left, dimly illuminated by the night lights within the ship, he saw the group of them, the three men just now dragging Kim from the launch to the deck while she weakly and uselessly struggled.
Manville was about to run down there, to stop them and save her, when he suddenly realized he didn’t know this pistol he now clenched so hard in his right hand. It was a tool, after all, and you’re supposed to know your tools, and he didn’t know this tool. It would have a safety, he knew that, but was the safety at this moment on or off? He didn’t know.
He stood just out of sight of the people on deck, and studied the thing, a revolver with a bit of bullet showing at the back of each chamber. This small lever here on the side, handy to the right thumb; wouldn’t that be the safety?
The lever moved up and down, and when he first tried the thing it was in the down position. Would the man have done his searching with the safety on or off? There was nothing written on the pistol, no icons, no hint.
I’m an engineer, Manville thought, if I were the one who’d designed this, which way would turn the safety off, which way would turn it on? I would want the more speed when turning it off, would have less reason for speed when switching it on. The quickest simplest motion here is for the thumb to push this lever down, so if I were the engineer on this project I’d design it so the safety was off when the lever was down. The lever’s down.
If I’m wrong, I’ll know it when and if I have to pull the trigger. With luck, I’ll still have time to put my thumb under the lever and push it up. Without luck, I’m dead anyway, because this is nothing I know anything about.
Manville stepped forward onto the deck, the pistol held out in front of him, and moved toward the group, all of them now on deck, clustered around Kim, half-supporting her. The leader was saying, “—down to her cabin,” and of course that’s what they’d want, for Kim to be dead in her cabin, smothered with a pillow.
“Stop!” Manville shouted. “Put your hands up!” They looked at him with astonishment, but without fear. Because they were dragging Kim, none of them had a pistol in his hand, and yet they looked at Manville and he could see they were unafraid of him, unimpressed by him. They know, he thought, they know this is their world, not mine.
It was like meeting a dangerous dog: Don’t show your fear. “Everybody hands up!” he yelled. “Kim, get out of the way! Lean against the rail!”
The tableau they presented to him was this: The leader stood in the middle, one arm around Kim’s waist, holding her up, with the other big man to the right and the smaller man to the left. None of them obeyed him, none put their hands up. The leader didn’t release Kim, but held her even tighter. None of them even seemed worried.
Manville was about fifteen feet from them now, and reluctant to get any closer. He held the pistol out at arm’s length, aimed at the leader’s head, just next to Kim’s, and he called, “I’ll shoot! Let her go!”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” the leader said. He had a raspy scaly voice, like the whispery sound of a lizard moving on a stone wall. “You ever shoot a gun, mister?”
“Yes,” Manville said, and felt immediately calmer, because it was true. “I’m a good shot, as a matter of fact,” he said.
The leader grinned at him. “Ever shoot a man? Not everybody can, you know,”
“I can,” Manville said, but the calm had fled him, because he wasn’t at all sure now that he was telling the truth. He had captured this pistol, they were supposed to obey him, but they didn’t believe he was a threat. They believed he was an amateur, a baby in their hard world. He might interrupt them for a few seconds, but then they’d contemptuously brush him aside and get on with their bloody work.
Yes. The leader turned to the big man, to his left, and said, “Bardo, kill this cocksucker and let’s get on with it.”
It was because Manville was thinking mostly about the safety that he could do it. He wasn’t thinking about the shooting of a human being, he was thinking about time. If I’m wrong about the safety, he thought, I won’t have time for a second chance. That’s why, before Bardo could finish drawing his own pistol out from under his belt, Manville shot him in the chest.
Well. He’d been right about the safety. Good engineering.
They were all amazed, he could see that, and it gave him strength. Pointing the pistol at the leader again, he said, “Let her go.”
This time the leader did, releasing Kim and stepping one pace back, looking now mostly irritated and frustrated, but still not at all afraid. The other man, arms held out from his sides to show he didn’t mean to start any trouble, stood watchful, wary, but also not frightened.
These people are very dangerous, Manville thought. I’ve never dealt with such dangerous people. They’re waiting for me to make one tiny mistake, any tiny mistake, and God knows I’m likely to make a dozen mistakes. Except, no; one mistake is all they’ll give me.
He said, “Kim, get to the side, get out of the way.”
She did, stepping around behind the one he’d shot, who lay now on his back on the deck like a drowning victim who’s just been dragged aboard. She was tottery, but she could walk, she could take care of herself. Looking at Manville past the one he’d shot, she said, her voice shaky and weak, “George? Is he dead?”
“I really don’t care,” he told her, truthfully, and the leader surprised him with a snort of amusement, and Manville knew he didn’t have much time to press this advantage. “Kim,” he said, “get around behind them, get those pistols, hold onto them. Don’t let anybody grab you.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, with a weak smile. “I don’t want to be a shield. I think you’d shoot them right through me.”
That made the leader turn his head to give her an inquisitive look, and to say, “Is that right?”
Manville said, “Now, Kim.”
Kim moved, around behind the leader, who was now studying Manville as though to memorize him, or read him. As Kim put one cautious arm around him to pluck the pistol out from his belt, the leader said to Manville, “You’re some kind of ringer, I think. You’re not what I was told I was gonna find here.”
Oh, yes, I am, Manville thought, but I’m happy if you don’t believe it. And he knew it would be best if he didn’t say anything at all to that. The strong silent type, that’s me.
Kim got both pistols, and went back to lean against the rail. She looked very weak, and not as though she could possibly use those guns now dangling from her hands at her sides, not to save her life.
Manville said to the two men, gesturing at the one he’d shot, “Pick him up.” Not because he needed the man moved anywhere, but because he wanted to keep these last two occupied.
The leader and the other man obediently stepped over to crouch above the one he’d shot, and the leader said, “I think he’s still alive.”
“Pick him up.”
“We oughta get the captain down here,” the leader said, “get my man Bardo some medical attention.”
“Pick him up or I’ll shoot you,” Manville said.
The leader shrugged. “Not the way it was supposed to be,” he commented, and he and the other one picked up the wounded man, the leader at his ankles, the other man at his head.
Following Manville’s orders, they went back down through the ship, the killers first, muttering privately together over their unconscious mate, then Manville, and Kim last.
They made slow progress, because of the weight the two in front were carrying and because of Kim’s weakness and Manville’s fear that if he put any concentration on her, to help her, they’d find some way to take advantage.
He directed them through the ship down to the storage room, where they’d boarded. The outer door stood open there, the moving night sea hissing outside, the two ropes snaking in to the stanchions, their powerful launch nestled snug against Mallory’s side. There, Manville ordered them to put the wounded man down on the metal floor and then to sit next to him. “Take off your shoes,” he told them, and said to Kim, “Throw those pistols into the launch.”
The leader said, “You’re gonna take our boat?”
Manville ignored him. “Kim, get their shoes. Don’t get between me and them. Take the laces out. You two. Face down on the floor.”
The leader said, “I don’t think I can let you do this.”
He’s dangerous, Manville reminded himself, and he meant to kill me, so this is what I’d better do. He pointed the pistol at the leader’s head, just as the leader was putting a hand behind himself to lever up, to stand.
But then the leader looked at Manville’s face, and as Manville was about to squeeze the trigger the leader abruptly dropped back, hands up in front of his face, saying, “All right. All right.” And now, for the first time, a small flicker of fear did show in the man’s eyes.
I would have killed him, Manville thought, astonished at himself, a little disapproving of himself. I was going to kill him, and he saw that.
The two men lay face down on the metal floor, as he’d ordered. He said, “Hands behind your backs. Kim, use the shoelaces, tie each one’s thumbs together. Tie them tight. Use a lot of knots.”
“Not their wrists?”
“No. If you tie their wrists, their hands are still free, and they can untie one another. If you tie their thumbs, they can’t use their hands anymore.” He had no idea how he knew this, or how it had occurred to him, but he knew he was right.
Once Kim was finished, Manville used the other two laces to tie their ankles, then helped Kim into the launch, saying, “I’m sorry, we’re going to have to do the bumpy trip, after all.”
“That’s all right,” she said, “I’m a lot better.”
Manville climbed into the launch and started the engines. Then he went back to the open door to deal with the ropes, and the leader had twisted around, was propped on one elbow, staring at him. Their eyes met. The leader said, “I’d like to run into you again some time.”
“I wouldn’t,” Manville said, and freed the ropes.
TWO
1
Kim had never felt so alone, or so vulnerable. The late morning sun was hot, the day was beautiful, Brisbane reared up all around her like a glass version of the city of Oz, but alone here on this launch on the Brisbane River, tied up to a support at the southern end of the William Jolly Bridge, still she felt cold, with an interior cold the warm sun and the inviting city couldn’t reach.
She was alone in the world. Would George Manville come back? He had saved her life, out there on that ship, he had carried her here, and he had promised he would come back, but would he? Wasn’t it time for him to start taking care of his own life? Hadn’t he made it clear that from here on she was only a burden, an added difficulty when he had his own safety and his own future to worry about?
There had been no conversation at all at first. The nighttime journey in from the Mallory had been slow and bumpy, and had taken all of Manville’s concentration. Not that it had been hard to find the way; Brisbane was a bright pink dome of light against the blackness, just ahead of them to the west. But they were running without lights, in case Curtis’s killers decided to pursue them in one of the Mallory’s launches, and there was no telling what might be anchored or floating in the darkness out ahead. They didn’t want to foul their propellers with some fisherman’s cast-off net or somebody’s lost rope.
This launch was larger and more elaborate than the ones belonging to the ship. It had a proper cabin, with a galley and two proper bunks, one above the other, and Kim spent most of the night on the lower bunk, to ease the soreness as they jolted their way across the bay. Manville had to stay up at the wheel, so there was no conversation between them until, in early morning, she at last climbed out to look at the nearby city sparkling in the fresh sunlight and say, “What do we do first?”
“Hide,” h
e said, “while I try to find somebody who can help.”
Surprised, she said, “Hide? Aren’t we going to the police?”
“To say what?”
“But— They tried to kill us!”
“Who did? Kim, Captain Zhang isn’t going to back up anything we say, and why should he? And without him, who are we? A disgruntled ex-employee and an environment nut. You don’t even have ID, or a passport, or a visa for this country. What are you going to tell the police, and how are you going to prove it? You can’t even prove who you are.”
“But— They can’t, they can’t just do things like that, and get away with it!”
“Of course they can.”
Morning water traffic was coming out of the wide river mouth now, past the harbor cranes and warehouses and fuel storage tanks; commercial fishermen, barges, private sailboats, excursion boats to take the tourists to see the birdlife on St. Helena Island in the bay. Heading inbound against most of that traffic, Manville had to keep his attention on his steering, while Kim sat on the white vinyl-covered bench behind him and watched the city come closer and the day begin, and she wondered, once they got ashore, what they could possibly do.
The Brisbane River, as twisty as a discarded piece of string, meandered through nine miles of switchbacks through the city, flanked by new glass skyscrapers stacked next to colonial-era buildings of stone and brick. Kim felt she must look very strange, with her matted hair and her borrowed grubby sweater and jeans, and these rubber-tire-soled shoes, but there was so much river traffic, and so much going on ashore as well, that she soon decided nobody was paying any attention to them, and she relaxed a bit.
Several high bridges crossed the river, connecting the two halves of the city. Manville passed a number of them, then said, “Isn’t that a railroad station?”
It was, over there to the left. Just visible beyond some sort of park or fairgrounds. She said, “You want to take a train somewhere?”
“No. But they’ll have phones and phone books, and an ATM, and probably whatever else I need. Curtis knows by now that we got away, and I don’t know exactly what he’ll do, but he’ll certainly try to find us and at the same time he’s sure to try to make us look like criminals or crazies or something, just to protect himself. You might be able to get out from under, with that Planetwatch group to help you, but he could pretty well put a stop to my making a living anywhere in the world.”
Forever and a Death Page 9
