Cruise Control

by A. J. Stewart

  Danielle took the baton. “Ma’am, what do you mean he’s gone missing?”

  “I took him back to our cabin and he went to sleep. I was watching TV and fell asleep myself, and when I woke he was gone.”

  “Could he have just gone for a walk?” I asked.

  “You don’t understand. Sometimes Adrian goes wandering and he doesn’t remember where he’s been.”

  “Okay, let’s see what we can do,” I said. “What was your name?”

  “I’m sorry. Denise. Denise Pascal. I’m Adrian’s wife.”

  “All right, Denise, let’s see if we can find him.” I led her over to the bar and pulled out the comms unit that Army had given me. I sent a message to the only number in it other than Lucas’s.

  A moment later the phone rang behind the bar. A bartender picked it up and then glanced at me.

  “You Mr. Jones?”

  I nodded and he handed me the phone.

  “Army?” I said.

  “No, sir. Chief Mahoney has gone back to quarters. This is Emma Porter. We met earlier.”

  “Sure, Porter. Thanks for calling back. I’ve got a passenger here who has lost her husband and he has a history of disappearing and not remembering, if you know what I mean.” I was sure she did. I had no doubt they got plenty of drunks on cruise ships.

  “Yes, sir, I get you.”

  “Any thoughts on tracking him down? Your cameras?”

  “No, there’s nine hundred of them. That’s like a needle in a haystack. But I have a couple of tricks.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “We can see if he has used his ship pass to buy anything. That might shrink our target area.”

  “Good thinking. The passenger’s name is Adrian Pascal. He was a football player.”

  “If you say so, sir. Let’s have a look. Yes, I see him here. He paid for some drinks in the sports bar. Deck four. Do you need assistance?”

  “No, thanks. We’ll check it out, and I’ll let you know.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Thanks, Porter. I’ll let Army know he hires good people.”

  “Happy to help, sir.”

  We took the elevator down to deck four and then used the map to track down the sports bar. It was large, with big-screen televisions, and a lounge area with plush seating around small tables. It looked like a fine place to hang awhile.

  It didn’t take long to find Adrian. He was at the bar, sitting on a beer but staring into thin air. Danielle and I hung back. Denise approached him like a keeper approaches a lion, careful not to spook him, and then she moved in and rubbed his back as she spoke to him. He offered the resigned nod of a man being taken from his beverage, and then he got down from the stool. The bartender made to get his attention, I assumed to pay his tab, and I grabbed his eye and let him know that I would get it.

  I watched Denise walk Adrian away. It looked like a woman helping her grandfather, not her husband.

  “Didn’t he already pay?” I asked the bartender.

  “For the first one.”

  “How many did he have?”

  The bartender shrugged. “In an hour? That’s his second.”

  It was only half-gone. If he was getting drunk he was doing it in slow motion. I realized my ship pass was still in my trouser pocket which was in a laundry somewhere, so Danielle came to my rescue again and slid her card through the reader to pay the remainder of Adrian’s tab.

  We caught up with Denise and I offered Adrian an arm. I reminded him where we had met. He gave me a nod. We got in the elevator and helped them back to their cabin. It wasn’t as nice as our suite but it was fine. No balcony but enough room for a bed and a sitting area and a television. Better than our original cabin. I helped Adrian lie down on the bed and Denise retrieved a bottle of tablets from her bag and gave him one with a sip of water.

  She walked us to the door.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “He’ll be fine. He’ll sleep now. He doesn’t sleep well without the medication.”

  “Are you okay?” I repeated.

  She looked at me like Anastasia had, as if no one ever asked her that.

  “It is what it is.”

  “You want to let him sleep? There’s a coffee shop down here. Grab a decaf with us.”

  “I shouldn’t leave him.”

  “He had his sleeping tablet, right? Just a quick coffee. He can’t go anywhere without us seeing.”

  She shrugged and half nodded and stepped out into the hall. The coffee shop was set up like a Parisian bakery, with al fresco tables overlooking the Champs-Élysées. Only, the Champs-Élysées was painted on the opposite wall. We each got a decaf coffee and sat in the fake outdoors.

  “Thank you for your help,” Denise said.

  “Not a problem. Is Adrian okay?”

  “How do you know him?” she asked.

  “We don’t. We met him and D’Vante at the casino. They told us there were players. Gang of Six.”

  “Yeah. Gang of Six.” She didn’t say it like she was proud of it.

  “What happened to him?” Danielle asked.

  Denise shook her head. “Football happened to him.”

  We said nothing and she continued.

  “We met in college. He was playing and I was in cheer.”

  My surprise must have shown in my face, because Denise nodded.

  “Yeah, we’re the same age. But he looks like my daddy, doesn’t he?”

  I didn’t say anything, despite thinking that and more.

  “He was something. A gentle giant. He was fast and tough on the field, and off it, he was quiet and reserved. He liked to read. You think of this big man and he must be a tough guy, but Adrian wasn’t that at all. First Christmas that he visited my family, he sat under the tree and played dolls with my five-year-old niece. Three hours they played. Three hours. Not once did he look for an excuse to get away. Big tough guy.” She smiled at the memory and Danielle and I looked at each other.

  “College was hard on him, but he got drafted. He got good. Gang of Six. Big, tough offensive line guys. Best of the best.” She sipped at her coffee but didn’t stop talking. She was getting something off her chest. “Then he started not being able to sleep. First after games, and then all the time. But there are pills for that, right? And then he’d forget things. We have two boys of our own. They were his world. He would read to them every night. Hardy Boys, Roald Dahl. Then he would start talking to them at the dinner table and just stop like he’d forgotten what their names were.”

  “We saw some doctors, they said they couldn’t see anything wrong. He was All-Pro. He was too good to let go. So they kept sending him on the field. And then one day, he got chopped on the knee and he was done. I hated myself for thinking it but my prayers were answered. But after he stopped playing, it didn’t get better. He was sort of listless without football. For a time he drank too much, but we got through that. And then he went missing for the first time.” She sighed and made to sip her coffee but didn’t.

  “The sheriff found him about five miles from home sitting by the side of the road. His car was two miles away. He had no idea how he got there. So we go and see another doctor. Only this time, its not a league doctor. He does a CAT scan, all that. They don’t find anything. But clearly there’s something wrong. They gave him meds that turned him into a zombie. One time he sat in a chair in the den for three days. He got up to sleep and then walked right back to the chair. Never said anything. Scared the hell out of me.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Danielle, but it was like water off a duck’s back. Denise looked beyond pity.

  “How long did he play?” I asked.

  “Pro? Seven years. Washed up at twenty-nine.”

  “Was it concussion?”

  Denise shrugged. “Who knows? So you’ve heard of CTE?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy. Too many concussions, right?”

  “Yeah, too many. Now the doctors are saying sure, it’s t
he big concussions, but maybe it’s also the smaller impacts. Every single time his helmet hit something. Another helmet, a body, pads, the ground. All of it. But of course, they can’t say for sure he’s got CTE until he’s dead.”

  “Really?” said Danielle.

  Denise nodded. “They slice open your brain. That’s how they tell you smashed your head into something too many times.”

  “Is it treatable?” Danielle asked.

  Denise shook her head. “You can try and treat the symptoms, the depression, the mood swings. But it doesn’t change the end result.”

  “End result?” I asked.

  “You said you knew the Gang of Six?”

  I nodded.

  “You know how many of them are left?”

  I shook my head.

  “Two. Adrian and D’Vante. D’s not as bad, but he’s headed the same way. I feel for Winnie. She knows what’s coming, but she can’t do a damned thing to stop it. That’s the worst part. Watching the man you love turn into someone you don’t know, and then someone you can’t trust, and then someone you’re afraid of. Some days I just wish it was done with. I know God will have his time with me for that, but I feel it. Gang of Six. One was a drunk driver, hit another car. The second had a brain aneurysm. The third took his own life at the end of a shotgun. And we just lost Clete James.”

  “D’Vante said they were toasting their old teammate.”

  She nodded. “They found Clete hanging from the rafters of his garage. Our boys are toasting their old friend knowing exactly what waits ahead for them.”

  “Isn’t the NFL doing anything?” asked Danielle. “It doesn’t seem right.”

  “What will they do? Stop playing football? Tell everyone to go home, take up checkers? You got billions of dollars at stake. Advertisers, owners, players. They’re all getting rich off it. Sure, the players are the ones paying the price in the end, and the families they leave behind. But they didn’t say no either. They played. Adrian earned more money in seven years of football than he would have earned in sixty years working at a real job. He felt it, the headaches, the pain, the memory loss. He knew. I knew. I could’ve stopped him. But I liked my house and I liked my boys going to good schools. You can blame the NFL. But you can blame the players and the families and the schools who promote lettermen as some kind of heroes. Blame the owners for profiting off it all, and blame the fans who cheer every big hit. Blame us all. We’re all in on it.”

  She took a long drink of her coffee. It was probably cold. Mine was. I didn’t want it anyway. I wanted to help her. I’m sure Danielle did too. And it tore me up. Because I couldn’t. There was not a damned thing either of us could do for her. Adrian was ill beyond repair and she would lose her husband and her boys would lose their father. If they hadn’t already. And nobody could fix it.

  We walked Denise back to her cabin. I asked her the question again.

  “Are you okay?” I wasn’t sure what her baseline was.

  “Thank you both. It takes the load off for a while, talking about it.”

  “Do you have anyone to talk to?” Danielle asked.

  Denise nodded. “I do. There are a lot more of us than you know. A lot more.”

  She opened the door and slipped quietly inside. We walked back to the central lobby and took the stairs. Danielle opened our door and I walked inside. I had almost drowned earlier that evening, but I had less energy now than I had ever known. And I never got my beer. I flopped onto the bed. Danielle crawled up around me and I gripped her tight.

  I whispered, “I love you.”

  She was already asleep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ron always says the gentle rocking of a boat is better than any sleeping pill. I didn’t feel much rocking on the Canaveral Star, but I could vouch for the fact that jumping off a ship and having to get rescued was equally effective. I fell into a deep dark hole of slumber and didn’t wake until the dawn came in through the bedroom porthole. I was still in my tony tracksuit and Danielle was still in her black dress.

  I got out of bed and ditched the tracksuit for my palm-tree-print shirt and khaki shorts. Danielle took a shower and I was looking for her ship pass so I could run down to the Champs-Élysées cafe for some coffee when there was a knock on the door.

  I opened up to find two crew standing in the corridor. One was pushing a cart covered with a white tablecloth.

  “Mr. Jones,” he said. “Chief Mahoney thought you might like some breakfast.”

  I stepped aside and let him in. The smell instantly made me hungry, and I recalled I hadn’t eaten in some time. The crew guy set the cart up as a table and then placed a dining chair on either side.

  The second crew member was carrying a suit bag and one of the cruise line’s sky-blue travel bags.

  “Mr. Jones, your suit. Cleaned and pressed. Unfortunately your jacket was lost, I believe.

  “It was.”

  “Chief Mahoney says feel free to visit the boutique and get fitted for a new tuxedo. Our tailors will have it ready for you this evening.”

  “I’m supposed to wear the penguin suit again?”

  “For the auction.” He then held up the blue travel bag. “Your effects,” he said. “We dried out your wallet and contents. And your ship pass is in here. We didn’t retrieve a phone, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s here in the room.”

  “Very good. If there’s anything else please just let us know.”

  The two crew retreated and I poured the coffee. Danielle came out of the bathroom.

  “What is that smell? Coffee? Bacon?” She stopped when she saw the spread.

  “You arranged this?” she asked.

  “I’d like to take the credit, but no. Army.”

  “Is this the kind of service rich people get all the time?”

  “I don’t think they have to jump overboard for it, but yeah.”

  “We’ve got to get more money, MJ.”

  We sat and drank coffee and ate eggs and bacon and breakfast potatoes. I followed up with a bagel with cream cheese and lox and some Florida OJ. It beat my regular smoothie. After breakfast I ran through the shower and washed the last of the ocean off me. Then I grabbed Army’s comms device and we headed out.

  It was one of those Bahamian days. They were pretty similar to South Florida days. The sky was blue, and a hint of breeze kept the morning pleasant. The water was turquoise and clearer than any I had ever seen before. We were docked at a purpose-built dock that led onto an island. Paradise Cay. It looked like paradise, if you excused the whopping great ship parked by the beach. The dock led to a walkway along the water, like a promenade. Behind the palms that lined the promenade, I could make out buildings in tropical colors. The beach extended out from the other side of the dredged area into the distance. I could see loungers being set up on the sand, and my eye stopped on a tiki bar, complete with palapa shade.

  Lucas was right. It was Disneyland. It wasn’t real. But it was still paradise.

  We stopped on the deck and looked over the dock. A gangway had been set up coming out of what looked like deck two, with a popup shade, like folks used at tailgates. There was a table and computer and a couple of big security-type guys. I figured under the shade, out of my view, was where Army had set up his metal detector.

  I took out the comms device and sent a text to Lucas’s sat phone to check if he had made it. The response came within thirty seconds:

  Gone fishin’ :)

  Lucas was in place. I saw Army step down the gangway and onto the dock to speak with the big guys. Then he moved out into the sun and looked up at his boat and scanned the decks. I waved. He saw me and saluted. He gestured to ask if we were coming down and I gestured that I would watch from where I was. It was a good spot. I could see every face coming off the ship and at a distance that I was actually familiar with seeing Guy X. Plus, I was hidden out of the way. Standing on the dock watching everyone get off might spook Guy X somehow.

  Further down the dock, staff and c
rew were already walking around, streaming out of a different hatch toward the bow of the ship. They appeared to be moving trolleys of food and drinks onto the island. That made sense. It was a small island. There probably wasn’t a brewery hidden back there.

  Passengers had lined up well before eight. It was like watching people get off an aircraft. There was always a mad rush to stand up and another mad rush to get off, and then a mad rush to get down to the baggage claim so they could stand closest to the carousel. Perhaps these folks were the frequent sailors, the ones who knew the best spots, the best lounge chairs, the best places to kick back, and they were ready to get on land and stake their claim.

  On the stroke of eight, Army opened the line and it pulsed rather than surged forward. Everyone wore hats and sunglasses and carried their blue travel bags. It wasn’t going to make identifying Guy X very easy. Bags were checked and people strode through the metal detector and then some speed-walked along the dock while others ambled. The beach began to fill, and other people disappeared behind the palm-lined promenade into the buildings I could see hints of.

  By 10 a.m., the line had become a trickle. Most everyone who was getting off had done so. I hadn’t seen anyone that made me think of Guy X and my back was getting stiff from leaning against the gunwale. Army appeared on the deck.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “You?”

  “We searched every bag and everyone has gone through the metal detector. Nothing.”

  “Is that the only metal detector?” I asked.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “What about the people who got off at the other end?” I pointed down the dock.

  “They were crew.”

  “Right. And somehow Guy X seems to know the inner workings of the ship and its security.”

  “You really think he’s crew?”

  “I think he’s either crew or he’s being helped by crew.”

  Army said nothing. I could see his conflict. He didn’t want to admit that crew could be involved, because that opened up all sorts of liability issues for the cruise line, but he couldn’t dismiss the idea completely because he was a straight shooter. So he said nothing. That was the smart play.