Death Takes Passage #4

by Sue Henry

  Jensen shook his head.

  The come down gesture was repeated, more emphatically, with a jerk of the assault rifle. Then Carlson turned it toward McKimmey. His meaning was obvious. If Jensen continued to refuse, he would shoot Ray. The barrel swung back toward the stairs, and he beckoned. Come down. Slowly.

  Raising his hands in the air, holding the .45 by its barrel, Jensen complied, slowly, carefully, trying to think. What could he do? He was not about to give up his only protection, though it was useless at the moment. He glanced at McKimmey, then quickly back at Carlson, who was waiting for him with an egotistical, satisfied grin on his face.

  Under cover of the engine’s roar, McKimmey had pulled his legs under him and was deliberately, cautiously rising to his feet.

  To keep Carlson from turning to look at Ray, Alex pretended to stumble, caught himself with a hand on the banister.

  Carlson jerked to attention, grin vanishing.

  Alex resumed his unhurried descent.

  McKimmey made it to an unstable, wobbly standing position, paused, and began, slowly, to hop toward Carlson’s back, speed increasing as he leaned ahead of himself, jumping faster to keep his balance. Carlson never heard him coming. In the last few feet, just as Jensen reached the last step, he launched himself, headfirst at his former assistant engineer, hitting him directly between the shoulder blades, knocking him forward, flailing wildly.

  Carlson fell flat, dropping the assault rifle, which Jensen sprang to kick out of his reach. McKimmey lay on Carlson’s legs. Then he was rolling, trying to get out from under Ray, desperately reaching at the same time to grab and hold the engineer between himself and Jensen. Alex stepped forward, fast, held the muzzle of the .45 just above Carlson’s left ear, and shook his head. The struggle stopped.

  When Jensen released McKimmey from his restrictions, they taped Carlson even more securely and dragged him back behind the port engines. There they taped him solidly to a sewage pump.

  “Thanks,” Ray mouthed. Reaching for a pair of the protective earmuffs, he placed them on Carlson, who scowled.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Jensen yelled in Ray’s ear, pointing to the door. He picked up the AK-47 and started for it.

  McKimmey grabbed his arm and shook his head. “They’re out there,” he said, pointing toward the space between the elevator and the galley.

  Who?

  He shrugged, turned, and gestured for Alex to follow. Beside the engineer’s station, to the rear of the engine compartment, he stopped, pointing upward.

  Following the direction of his gesture, Jensen could see a red square on the ceiling.

  “Escape hatch,” Ray yelled. He pointed at Jensen, himself, then upward. “We go up there.” Then he held a finger to his lips. Quiet. “Galley,” he mouthed. “Into the galley.”

  They dragged the nearby workbench under the hatch and pilled a couple of boxes on it. Climbing to the top of the pile, Ray carefully disengaged the fasteners to the escape hatch and pushed, gently. Nothing. He pushed a little harder. Slowly, it moved, upward, just a crack. He pushed it wider, just enough so that he could look through and ascertain that no one was in the galley. Alex gave him a leg up, handed him the assault rifle, and swiftly followed him through the small opening.

  The hatch opened into a space at the end of a long metal counter on one side of the aisle between stoves, steam tables, and counter space. The galley was empty, though the overhead light was on. Someone had been there, and could be again, at any moment. Another thump of the powerboat against the Spirit. There was the sound of a low voice in the open space by the stairs, between the galley and the long hallway to the forward staterooms.

  McKimmey lowered the escape hatch back into its frame, flush with the rest of the deck, and led Jensen through the door into the darkness of the dining room. There, Jensen caught his shoulder, motioned toward the back bar, and they threaded between the circular center tables until they had reached it.

  Standing together, against a wall where they could see the door to the galley but not be seen by anyone coming through it, they could talk for the first time, if only in whispers.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “I’m not sure. I was down below, finishing up, when the door opened and I found that thing in my face,” he pointed to the AK-47, “and Carlson, with a nasty grin, on the other end of it. One of the guards from the gold room was with him, the one that took the pounding. They hustled me back down the stairs and taped me up like you found me. Then the guard went up and left Carlson to watch me and the engine room. Thanks for the assist.”

  “They say anything to give you a clue what they’re up to?”

  “No, but what’s that guard doing with Carlson? I’m thinking …”

  “Probably the same thing I am. They’re after the gold. What else could it be? I heard a thump—it was a powerboat tying up and bumping against the Spirit. I saw it from the Upper Deck after the sound woke me. Lou Stanley came knocking, scared because her father had disappeared and there were people down by the galley she didn’t know. The door on the port side is open, and someone came aboard from that boat. More than one, I’d guess. You only saw those two?”

  “Yeah. Couldn’t hear anything with the engines running. Just as I started up the stairs, they slowed the speed from the bridge, so I’d guess there’s at least one of them up there, too.”

  “Damn. I know you’re right. How many of them can there be? I knew there was something really wrong when I saw that the fingerprints of those two guards didn’t match the ones the security company has on file for them. Should have confronted them about it last night, not waited for this morning. I might have suspected something like this, if it hadn’t been for the thefts and Morrison’s death. Ether it’s all been a smoke screen, or they got very, very lucky.”

  The door Alex had used earlier to enter the dining room suddenly opened with a whoosh of sound from outside and quickly closed again. The two men flattened themselves against the wall, waiting.

  Jessie and Lou came around the corner into the Parlour. They were carrying a blanket and a pillow each, and one of the plastic bags with the food and water she and Alex had bought in Ketchikan. Lou carried Jessie’s camera bag.

  “Ugh.” Jessie Jumped when Jensen stepped away from the wall into her intended path. She dropped the pillow she was carrying and shoved Lou behind her. She had a flashlight in one hand, from which she threw a beam of light into his eyes like a weapon. Seeing who it was, she turned off the light, released the air she had gasped in, and swore in a whisper.

  “Damn it, Alex, you scared me half to death. Don’t do that.”

  She bent to retrieve the pillow.

  “Sorry. Come over here, out of sight.” He pulled them around to the other side of the bar.

  “Ray.” He motioned the other man to come along.

  There was a small room immediately behind the bar in Soapy’s Parlour. In the floor of it was a trapdoor, larger than the escape hatch, and much more noticeable. He raised it and motioned the other three down. When they had carefully negotiated the steep ladder into the steerage compartment, he followed, closing the door behind him.

  “No lights,” he said, when Kay reached for the switch. “It might show through into the other end of the hold, and we don’t know exactly where they are. This way.”

  Alex led the others around the heavy Red Fox sewage treatment plant and through a space into the storage section of the compartment. Stacked in it were odds and ends of material used, if needed, for repairs on the ship. He pointed to one stack that all but filled one end of the space.

  “There’s a hole behind that, where some plate steel leans against the hull of the ship. It’ll be a good place to hide for the moment.”

  “No,” said Lou, adamantly shaking her head.

  Their attention and light focused on her, and they saw that more than her head was shaking. Her whole body trembled, her eyes were shut tight, and her face was pale. Jessie shut off her flashlight
, and they waited.

  “What’s wrong, Lou?”

  “I can’t,” Lou said, opening her eyes. “It’s too small. I get claustrophobia … panic and pass out sometimes.” Her voice sounded small and frightened in the dark.

  “Oh, dear,” Jessie said, laying a hand on her arm.

  “Yeah. My dad has it, too. I don’t even like elevators. So, I’m sorry, but I can’t go in there.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it. We don’t have to go there. We’ll find somewhere else to keep you safe.”

  “Yes. It’s okay, Lou,” Alex agreed.

  “I wasn’t real happy about being down here and not knowing what’s going on, anyway,” Jessie said. “How about that space behind the bar in the Parlour, at least for now? Is there room?” She indicated the assortment of things they had brought down with them.

  “Yes, and it’ll come in handy. Could be a little cool in there this time of night. But we won’t leave you for very long, unless it’s really necessary.”

  They all worked together to make this happen, climbing back up into the Parlour, where Lou was soon settled behind the bar. Jessie turned to Alex and looked up at him with worried eyes.

  “Look, don’t do anything dumb, trooper,” she said quietly. “I happen to want you back in one piece, please. You took that awful gun away from one of whoever you’re hunting, didn’t you? And that means there are undoubtedly more.”

  She referred to the assault rifle, which McKimmey was carrying.

  “Carlson,” he told her. “We took it from Carlson, who’s now secured with duct tape in the engine room.” Alex gave her a quick hug. “Will you stay here, for the moment, with Lou? I want to move around some, get a better idea what’s going on and who’s in on it.”

  “Sure. But, if anyone comes into the dining room, this place is effectively blocked off.”

  “I know. If that happens, you might have to go back down in the hold to stay out of their way. That be okay, Lou? Just in the open part?”

  “I guess so. I’d rather be here, but, yes, I’ll go. Will you look for my dad?”

  “Yes. I will. Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s okay. Just stuck somewhere.” He hoped it was true and turned his attention to what they would need to expedite their reconnaissance.

  “We’ll need a couple of flashlights,” Jensen told McKimmey.

  “Don’t think so,” Ray answered from above. “It’s getting light out there.”

  It was, Alex could see, light enough to see the surface of the ocean beyond the deck lights of the Spirit. A feeling of foreboding suddenly filled him, and he frowned before he spoke.

  “Yes, it certainly is. Soon we’ll be able to make out just who’s responsible for all this, whatever it is. But if we can see them, they’re also going to be able to see us. We’ve lost our cover, Ray.”

  30

  5:30 A.M.

  Thursday, July 17, 1997

  Spirit of ‘98

  Grenville Channel, inside Passage

  British Columbia, Canada

  “WE’RE IN THE GRENVILLE CHANNEL,” ALEX SAID, SOME what surprised. He had completely forgotten about anything but the ship’s interior, where his attention had been focused. The narrow passage through which they were cruising limited the amount of visible sky, but what he could see had turned a delicate shade of blue-gray.

  Almost as straight as an arrow for forty-five miles, the Grenville Channel was one of the most well known and remembered features of the Inside Passage. Seeming hardly wide enough for two large ships to pass each other, it was, at its narrowest, a fifth of a mile wide, extremely deep, and the mountains that rose on either side for fifteen to thirty-five hundred feet were almost perpendicular. Once into the channel there were no turnoffs except for Lowe Inlet, fourteen miles from the southern end, an anchorage that was a remarkable haven for smaller ships and boats. Large ships and ferries made the entire run, carefully navigating and on watch for others passing through. The dense rock of the tall cliffs could interfere with radio transmission, create a blackout zone. Flood tides entered the channel from both ends of the passage at once, and, in the lower, narrowest parts, could attain two knots on the flood and four knots on the ebb, with interesting but not particularly pleasant consequences to small vessels, which timed their trips through it with care.

  It was light enough so that Alex could see the green of clinging cedar on the sheer stone cliffs they were passing. As they once more looked carefully into the dining room, it was possible to differentiate chairs and tables from the light coming through the large windows on either side.

  The room was still dark and empty, but in the galley beyond, someone was moving, beginning to make breakfast, from the sounds of pots and pans. Who was it? Carla? Did they dare find out? He thought not … not yet.

  “What next?” McKimmey asked.

  Alex shook his head. “I need to know a lot of things fast: how many of them there are, where they are, what they’re doing, and what they’ve got in mind for a whole ship full of passengers who will be getting up in the next hour. We can’t just walk up and ask, so we’ll have to find a way to answer some of those questions without getting caught doing it. Let’s go into that room behind the bar, where our voices won’t carry, and talk it over, make some kind of plan.”

  When they went past, they saw that Lou had gone to sleep, wrapped in one of the blankets. She would be completely invisible to anyone glancing casually into Soapy’s Parlour, protected in the shelter of the bar.

  Jessie joined them, and the three sat cross-legged on the floor. Ray had picked up a basket of pretzels from the top of the bar and brought it in with him. “I’m starving. You?”

  “Yeah.”

  They ate pretzels while they talked, and washed them down with Seven-Up, which Alex retrieved from the cooler. Not much of a breakfast, especially when they could smell bacon and coffee from the galley.

  “They’ve planned it well,” Jensen said. “This channel is one of the few places they wouldn’t have to worry about emergency radio transmission. Though, if they’ve taken over the bridge, as I’m sure they have, there’s not much chance of a message going out anyway, unless Captain Kay can somehow manage to contact another boat in the channel.”

  “That change of speed must have been to allow the powerboat to tie on,” McKimmey said thoughtfully, “and however many of them were on it to come aboard.”

  “The fingerprints that didn’t match make a lot more sense, now,” Alex mused. “Those aren’t the guards that are supposed to be watching the gold. Somewhere along the line they got replaced, and I’m not optimistic about their chances. None of these guys, if they’re anything like Carlson, would let anyone escape who could inform the authorities that there’s a heist planned for a ton of gold.”

  “Is that what they’re trying to do?” Jessie asked, her eyes wide. “That’s a lot of gold.”

  “And a lot of risk.”

  “How can they hope to get away with it? There’s well over a hundred people on this ship.”

  They were quiet, thinking that over.

  “Well,” Ray finally broke the silence, “now we know that Carlson’s been in on this from the beginning. I don’t have to see proof of that. Somehow he, or someone with him, did screw up Steve’s car and put him in the hospital, so he could take his place.”

  “I think you’re right,” Jensen told him. “I’m also sure that at least one other person on this ship has been waiting and planning this. The person who turned Carlson loose from the engine room. There may be more than one.”

  “But who? Passengers? Crew? There’s no way to tell.”

  “Somebody beat up that guard. What for? Whoever it was may actually have been the one who stole those items from the passenger staterooms and killed Morrison, not Carlson. I’m only speculating here, but if someone else was in charge, they’d be pretty mad if something like that wrecked their chance at the gold, right?”

  “Right. How’re we going to deal with the situation? There�
�s only two of us.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Jessie fired back indignantly. “Two?”

  “Sorry. Three. That’s still not enough. Can we get anyone else on our side … and make sure they’re really on it, not one of them?”

  “That’s not a bad idea, Ray,” Jensen agreed. “Where’s Don Sawyer? Can we get to him?”

  “He’s in one of the centennial committee’s staterooms. I’m not sure which one.”

  “Neither am I, except it’s on Three Deck. They’ll have put guards on the company people in the owner’s suite on the Bridge Deck. I’d like to know what’s going on on the bridge. Any way to communicate without their knowing where we’re calling from?”

  “I can call from the engine room, or my quarters, but that’s not possible now. Neither is the intercom in the crew quarters. We can’t get through to them. There’s one in the purser’s office on Two Deck, but it’ll be a risk to reach it.”

  “Everything’s a risk, but we’ve got to do something. Look. It’s six o’clock. Passengers will be getting up, and I’m trying to imagine what they plan to do with them. A hundred people is a lot to control. My best bet would be they’ll hold hostages; the captain and first mate on the bridge, probably everyone in the owner’s suite. But I’ll bet they’ll want the passengers where they can keep them all together. What more efficient way than to just let them come down to breakfast, then not let them leave the dining room? Or they might put them all in the lounge. It’s the only other room large enough to hold them all in one place. They’ll track down the ones who don’t come to breakfast and escort them down to join the others. A passenger list won’t be hard to come by on the bridge.”

  “Some of them will be getting up now,” Ray said. “There’s supposed to be coffee and juice in the lounge before breakfast. If they intend to …”

  He stopped speaking as the lights came on in the dining room and a band of it fell into the half-light of Soapy’s. The clatter of silverware told him he was right about the breakfast plan. No one would set tables that weren’t about to be used.