Doc - 19 - Chasing Midnight

by Randy Wayne White

  When my leg was around the stanchion, I grabbed Odus’s wrist with my left hand and said, “Hands off! Remember?” which he didn’t hear because he was still hollering for his brother. Even when I levered his hands apart, he continued to cling to my left side. As if on a trapeze, Odus’s face then swung into view, his mouth wide in a sustained howl, his eyes venomous, and that’s where I hit him with the back of my hand—on the forehead, between the eyes. He screamed a last profanity as he fell, and the only reason I bothered to watch him hit the water was because I feared he would land on Tomlinson.

  He didn’t.

  Seconds later, I was on the foredeck of the yacht, gun in hand, and immediately rolled behind a bow-mounted dinghy to hide from the halogen glare. Because of all the noise Odus had made, I wasn’t surprised when I took a peek to see Geness aiming the rifle at me from inside the steering room. The man was so short, he’d had to settle himself into a captain’s chair to get an elevated view.

  I ducked, not expecting him to fire, but he did. The rifle made a muted TWHAPing sound because of the silencer, and also because Geness had stupidly tried to shoot through the forward window. The Dragos was an oceangoing yacht, which meant all ports were sealed with marine-grade acrylic or tempered glass nearly an inch thick. Even if he’d had me in his sights, the slug would have been knocked askew.

  I crawled to the stern of the dinghy, which was attached to a stainless davit cable, before risking another look. The bullet had blown a hole in the window, but the glass hadn’t shattered. As Geness shucked another round, he was screaming something at me, but his words were indecipherable in the din of wind and rumbling diesels. I was ready to duck once again, even before he shouldered the rifle, but then I stopped and stood my ground. It was because I saw the man’s expression change as he struggled to close the bolt.

  This time, I heard Geness when he bellowed, “Why are you doing this?”

  The twin wasn’t screaming at me. He was yelling at God or the rifle, and I knew why. On some rifles the bolt won’t close when the magazine is empty. It’s a safety feature, particularly on military weapons, that tells the shooter it’s time to reload. In a firefight, no matter how experienced the operator, counting rounds is difficult, often impossible.

  Kahn had overheard the twins say they were low on ammunition. Finally, finally, it was true—or appeared to be.

  But I wasn’t going to bet my life on it or Umeko’s life—if she was still alive. It was too late in the game to take stupid chances. So, cautiously, I began to move toward the port side of the cabin, which rode at an elevated angle because the vessel was listing, my pistol in both hands as I sighted over the barrel.

  Twice, I yell the man’s name—“Geness!”—because I wanted his full attention. If he realized that I, too, would have to fire through a wall of glass, he might go on the offensive instead of sitting there like a madman, pounding at the rifle, oblivious to the reason the bolt wouldn’t close.

  It was too much to hope, though, because Geness was the shrewd one. He was the homicidal one in whose head the monster triplet, Abraham, lived.

  When I was midway along the cabin, where the deck was only a meter wide, the monster reappeared. Geness stared at me a moment, his eyes narrowing as if he finally realized my disadvantage. Then, in a rush, he tossed the rifle aside and lunged for the controls, turning to leer at me as he disengaged the autopilot and spun the wheel hard to port.

  It wasn’t just the torque of the engines that nearly threw me overboard. It was the collective mass of water belowdecks that slammed against the hull and heeled the boat so precariously that when my feet slid under the safety railing the rush of passing salt water tried to wrench me into the sea.

  Geness didn’t expect the boat to respond that way. He couldn’t have anticipated what would happen or he wouldn’t have done it no matter how desperate he was to buck free of me. When the mass of water shifted, the dual propellers, even though spinning in opposition, locked the rudders into a grinding turn. The turn slowed our speed and caused the bow to nosedive when the weight of water then suddenly flooded toward the front of the boat.

  Our sudden dive was like impacting a wall. Once again, I would have been vaulted overboard had my legs and arms not been wrapped around the railing. For long seconds, I held myself there, pleased I’d managed to hang on to the pistol while also dreading Geness’s next turn. If he swung hard to starboard, that would be the end of the Dragos because we would capsize. Probably the end of us, too.

  It didn’t happen.

  When the yacht continued its grinding turn to port, I disentangled myself from the rail and crawled on hands and knees toward the cabin’s aft bulkhead. There, above me, was the stainless handhold that Odus had grabbed earlier before scrambling down the ladder to join Kahn and Trapper. I used it to get to my feet and took a few seconds to steady my breathing. I also scanned the water for Tomlinson in the Boston Whaler.

  No sign of him. A mile away, though, on Big Carlos Pass Bridge, emergency vehicles were already gathering, their lightbars strobing blue and red. Below and to my right was the yacht’s afterdeck. It was an expanse of teak that was end-capped by hydraulics and corrugated metal—a cargo elevator when the sliding deck was retracted. Kazlov had built a yacht that fit the needs of a womanizer who was also a smuggler and black marketeer. His genetically modified sturgeon would be somewhere below that deck; tanks probably secured on metal tracks to facilitate loading. But it was something I couldn’t think about now.

  I took a last look for Tomlinson—still no sign—then made sure the Smith & Wesson’s safety was off before sliding along the bulkhead toward a bank of windows. My eyes locked themselves to the pistol barrel, which scanned the flybridge above, then swung to look inside the lighted cabin.

  Geness was there. He was sitting beneath a bank of instruments, in a detritus of glass and shattered electronics. His head was down, and he was rocking as he clutched his shoulder, which suggested he’d been injured when the bow had impacted.

  I was done making assumptions, though. The deck was bucking as the yacht continued to turn, so my feet gauged the sea’s rhythm while I studied the cabin, looking for a solid place to brace myself once I was inside. When I was ready, I threw open the door, pistol at shoulder level, and charged straight to a mahogany rail that separated the steering room from the salon.

  It wasn’t until I spoke, though, that Geness bothered to look up, his eyes weirdly pearlescent in the muted light, when I yelled, “Where’s the girl? Tell me where she is!”

  In reply, I heard: “Fuck you! Where’s my brother? Tell me how you killed my brother, then maybe we’ll discuss the bitch.”

  It was the whiskey voice of the dead triplet, but I was in no mood to tolerate evasions ascribed to the man’s alter ego. I waited for the boat to lift and yaw, then went up two steps to the helm and kicked the rifle out of his reach.

  As I did, I heard: “‘There are eunuchs born from their mother’s womb, or whose testicles have been crushed! But they may not be admitted to the community of the Lord’—Book of Matthew. I’m talking about my brother, asswipe!”

  I stood over the man, sighting down the barrel at his forehead. “Move! I want to see what’s under you!” He was sitting at an odd angle, maybe shielding something with his thigh. “Do it now.”

  Geness was bleeding from the side of his head, a rivulet of blood that made his face more grotesque when he grinned at me and said, “What are you worried about? A guilty conscience? Here’s what you don’t understand—I hope Exodus is dead. Know why? I’ll tell you—”

  “Shut up!” I yelled, then glanced to make sure we weren’t on a collision course with something, which was the opening Geness was waiting for, apparently. When my eyes strayed, the man rolled and came up with a pistol in his good hand. Loaded or empty, I didn’t know—and it didn’t matter, because I was on him before he could get his finger on the trigger.

  “You’re hurting me! I think my collarbone’s broken… why are you hurt
ing me?”

  The monster was gone and Geness had returned, his voice whiny, frail. It took only seconds to wrestle the weapon away, then turn the man on his stomach, hands behind his back.

  He continued to plead and complain even when I stood, popped the magazine from his pistol—empty—then checked the chamber—also empty. He’d been using a 9mm Ruger, an inexpensive weapon but dependable. Seeing the gun gave me an idea, but it was something I would take care of later. First, I had to get the yacht under control.

  I rushed to the helm, and then slowly… slowly backed both throttles, feeling the hull wallow beneath us as the water we were carrying rolled forward. When the Dragos had settled itself, I shifted the diesels into neutral.

  Overhead were rows of toggle switches and circuit breakers. According to the amperage gauges, the electrical system was down, which meant the emergency generators had taken over—something they hadn’t done while the vessel was moored. Why?

  I thought about it as I worked at the controls, only vaguely aware of Geness’s nonstop babbling. But then I heard:

  “Abraham was going to tell you a secret he’s never told anyone. Ever. Except our mother, of course. I think it’s because you were willing to share your secret with me. Let me sit up, I’ll tell you. My goddamn shoulder’s broken.”

  Even if I hadn’t forgotten my promise, there was no purpose in continuing the deception, so I ignored him and focused on what I was doing. The sooner I got the boat stabilized, the sooner I could go in search of Umeko.

  Now, as I checked the sonar for water depth, the little man was telling me, “I’m not Genesis. Not really. Abraham suffocated me when the triplets were five. Which, of course, you know made his mother feel guilty—because he’d swallowed some of her LSD. That’s why she gave Abraham my name, so his soul would be resurrected. Now will you let me sit up? My fucking shoulder hurts!”

  If the man was trying to manipulate me, it wasn’t going to work. If he was confessing, he was speaking to a person who neither believed nor had an interest.

  In a dunnage cabinet, I found a ten-foot piece of line. I used it to tie his wrists, which I then clove-hitched to his ankles. Only when I was sure the knots were secure did I turn and run to search the lower decks, indifferent to Abraham’s shrieks of pain.

  30

  Finally, I discovered what had happened to Vladimir, Kazlov’s bodyguard. Like a wounded animal returning to its den, he had somehow managed to crawl aboard the Dragos, down the companionway to the crew quarters, then into the little cabin that had been his home.

  The twins had surprised him there.

  Because emergency generators had taken control, the lighting on the lower deck had been automatically dimmed. Even so, I could see that Vladimir had been shot at least four times—once, maybe twice in the head. Not much of a challenge because the Neinabors had taped his hands behind his back, unmoved by the man’s crippled arm.

  If I had felt even a hint of remorse about tying Abraham, I no longer did.

  Shell casings still seesawed on the deck, echoing the movement of the waves, as I noted family photos, a shot of Kazlov and Vladimir grinning at the camera, and a couple of framed military decorations.

  Something else I found, when I lifted the man’s arm, puzzled by all the blood—my Randall knife. The twins had added to their fun by stabbing him. The scabbard I found nearby on the deck.

  I didn’t linger. I hurried out the door, pausing only to retrieve the last pair of surgical gloves from my pocket. Fingerprints on the two semiauto pistols were a concern.

  I dreaded what I expected to find as I went through the vessel, throwing open doors, calling the woman’s name. That’s why I hesitated before checking what I guessed to be the guest quarters. Even though the cabin was near the middle of the vessel, water was already sloshing at my ankles, which made it more difficult to force the door open. Finally, I did, though—and there she was.

  I called, “Umeko! Are you okay?” not expecting the body that lay curled on the floor to move. But the woman did move. As I stood blinking in the doorway, she responded by lifting her head in surprise, then made eager cooing sounds through the tape that covered her mouth.

  I knelt, lifted her onto the bed, and soon she was sitting up, rubbing her wrists, dazed but trying to make sense of it all, saying, “I thought you would be dead. I thought they’d killed everyone but me. And he was going to shoot me! He had a gun to my head—but then the boat hit something, and he ran out the door!”

  She was talking about Abraham or Odus, I couldn’t be sure, and about what had happened after I’d put a rifle round into the yacht’s hull.

  “The explosion—I thought I was dreaming but I wasn’t, was I? You were right about a bomb all along. Lying here, I figured out Sakura must have taken Father’s phone when our people tried to warn us—”

  “We’ll talk later,” I said, trying to calm her, although she was right. Somehow, Lien Bohai’s intel network had found out too late about the twins. Sakura had to have texted the information to Kazlov, her not-so-secret lover, to whom she had recently been sold. That’s why Vladimir—ever loyal—had refused to tell me his boss’s informant.

  I gave Umeko’s shoulder a squeeze and stood. “Stay here. It’ll take you a while to get your balance. I’ll be right back.”

  “No!” The woman grabbed my arm and tried to stand but then sat heavily on the bed. It was only then that I noticed her left eye was swollen almost closed and her lips were bruised.

  I put my hands on her shoulders and felt her body convulse, but she still did not give in. “Sit here for just two minutes. You’ll be safe—I promise. There’s something I’ve got to check.”

  What I wanted to see was the cargo area and the engine room—and not just because I was curious about the fate of Viktor’s sturgeon. What the lunatic Neinabors had failed to consider when they’d decided to “free” the casino’s dolphins was that the yacht would poison Estero Bay if it crashed into the docks and flooded. I didn’t know how many thousands of pounds of fuel the vessel still carried, but I wasn’t going to add to this nightmare by letting the goddamn boat sink.

  When I forced open the engine-room hatch, though, one look told me there was nothing I could do to prevent the vessel from going down. It also forever changed my opinion of Boston Whalers. Ours handled like a truck, but it was unbeatable when it came to sinking larger boats. The hole we had smashed in the side was bigger than I could have guessed and the inflow was overpowering the pumps. Diesel engines can continue to run underwater—for a short time, at a shallow depth. But a floating object cannot support a weight greater than the volume it displaces, and this boat was slowly being forced to the bottom.

  As I jogged toward the cargo area, my brain considered, then discarded, a jumbled list of options. When I stepped into the cargo room, though, my synapses were instantly cleared by what I found inside.

  The twins had been wrong when they’d said the yacht carried a thousand fingerling sturgeon. What Kazlov had brought for Lien to inspect were several hundred specimens, most of the fish a pound or more in weight, from what I saw, which suggested they were mature enough to survive salt water. They were expertly housed in oversized tanks, and in a room outfitted to transport valuable exotics—or a billion dollars’ worth of beluga seed stock. It had everything needed: a Multi-Temp water chiller, what looked like a custom SCADA oxygen monitor, an oxygen cone injection system, plus a Bio-Weave emergency backup that was in operation now.

  Even so, the young sturgeon bobbed to the surface like corks as I sloshed past, snouts breaching the surface as if starved for air—which they certainly were not.

  All of the fish had not survived, of course. Kazlov wouldn’t have expected zero casualities. Sturgeon are jumpers—boaters are injured regularly by leaping mature sturgeon—and several had jumped to their deaths. Their bodies now floated around my ankles as I returned to the watertight hatch. Because I am a stickler for cleanliness in my own lab, my mind shifted automatically to ho
w Kazlov would have sluiced the decks clean, had he lived.

  Near the door to the cargo room was my answer: a raw-water pumping system that fed a fire engine–sized hose. Above the mount that secured the nozzle were two switches that activated the cargo elevator and the retractable deck above me.

  For a moment, I stood there, looking from the switches, to the hose, from the hose, to the switches. For some reason, that unlikely combination dislodged a word from my subconscious: counterintuitive.

  No… it wasn’t a word, it was an avenue of thought. It had to do with any contrary action that produced an unlikely result. To transfer energy to an enemy vehicle, you don’t slow to lessen the impact, you accelerate. When a small boat has flooded, you don’t plug the scupper below the waterline, you open the scupper, then throw the throttle forward and let the propeller suction drain the hull empty.

  In that instant, I knew exactly what I had to do to save the sinking yacht, and maybe even save Viktor Kazlov’s valuable sturgeon.

  First, I figured out how to unlock the safety shield that guarded the switches to the cargo elevator and the retractable deck. After I had pulled both levers, a clattering bell gave a five-second warning and the roof overhead began ratcheting inboard. As it did, I stared upward as the room became a planetarium, revealing a slow universe of stars. Beneath a third switch, a little brass plate read trn/dn/up, so I engaged that lever, too. This time, it sounded like a garbage truck was backing into the area as a four-foot section of transom slid down into the inner hull. Much lower, even another few feet, and the sea would have flooded the area.

  That’s not what I wanted. But not yet.

  Unscrewing the fire hose from its four-inch spigot was more difficult than expected. The brass fitting had corroded, but I found a crowbar. When the hose was free, I spun the valve open so that salt water began jetting into the room at a startling rate. Commercial units can pump four thousand gallons a minute, and Kazlov had equipped his vessel with the best.